Studies have shown that it’s the ongoing hostilities between divorcing parents that really emotionally damages and traumatizes children. So how do you protect your children’s emotional well-being if divorce matters are in the Red Zone, the two of you aren’t speaking, and you can’t even stand being in the same building as him?
You may know you should smile and talk civilly and put on airs for the sake of the kids. But the truth is sometimes that’s a lot easier said than done — especially when every cell in your body goes to fire at the sight of him. Do you wonder/worry if your kids see through your facade?
As someone who has stood in these shoes, here are a few strategies I’ve implemented to safeguard my children’s well-being. And please, if anyone else has any other helpful pointers, please outline them in the comments below.
I’ve seen it happen on too many occasions to count: ex-partners making demands of their former spouses instead of treating them as the ‘favors’ they truly are. Is their attitude in part caused by ignorance of the law and parenting? Perhaps. Could their demands, in part, be a control tactic? That’s possible too; an attitude of “entitlement” follows many of those who pay child and spousal support.
Nonetheless, ignorance is not an excuse. Nor should controlling behavior be enabled. You teach your ex how to treat you, just as you did during your marriage. With that in mind, here are two real-life scenarios where exes demanded something of their ex-wives. But instead of caving out of guilt / fear, both women consulted a mediator…and their exes were given a wrist-slapping.
Case 1: Paul suddenly decided his ex-wife should drive the kids to his house for evening visits. He demanded this of her, saying it was just as much her responsibility as his; and why should he be the only having to deal with rush-hour traffic?
Many months ago, during a deep conversation with my Good Man — a handsome, young widower who continues to restore my faith in men — we began talking about "sacrifices" and "choices." Or rather, I was rambling on about how I think women make sacrifices when they become wives and mothers — when he cut me off. “Do you really think of the decisions you’ve made as being sacrifices?” he asked. “Cause when I look back on the timeline of my life, I think I made choices...not sacrifices.”
His words left me feeling somewhat foolish. For he was right — the word "sacrifice" had an air of helplessness and regret about it. It was shrouded in a self-pitying "if only..." I thus decided to refrain from using that word again in that context.
But this past weekend, a situation with a married girlfriend had me speaking it again. As a part-time working mother of three young children, she’d been offered her "dream job": we’re talking big money, challenge, clout, and recognition for all her many years of study and work. But what did she do?
Even when I was married, I sometimes worried that I wasn’t doing "enough" for my kids: Should they be involved in more activities or less? Am I too strict or not strict enough? Am I doing, saying, showing my kids enough of whatever they need to feel loved and special? We only get one shot at raising our kids, after all.
Now that I’m a single mom, these old worries have doubled. Logistics, time, and energy are my regular enemies. How can I be at three different soccer fields at the same time? How do I carve the precious one-on-one time each child needs and deserves? And on top of that, I hear time and time again that no matter how hard I try to do the jobs of two parents, I’ll never properly do the dad job simply cause I’m not male.
I worry that sometimes my kids cry when I’m not watching. I worry that some days they feel unloved or not special enough. I worry they’re more confused about my divorce than they let on — that damage done will reappear in therapy twenty years from now as they sit across from a psychologist.
I haven’t brought up Ex and his Next for a while, and for good reason. What with J graduating cum laude from college (not that I’m bragging) and actually landing a job in this market (okay, so I’m bragging), L off to her junior year in college and K finally emerging from her year-long funk, we grownups have been on our best behavior for the girls’ sake: each of us pretending to tolerate the other.
Then the Evil Stepsister (ES) reared her head and all hell broke loose just as she left for fashion school.
ES had left her Ugg boots behind. K coveted and took them, then compounded her “crime” by lying to her dad and step about it. Not nice, but hardly a capitol offense. From the ensuing hoopla, you would have thought that she had taken a kidney, not a pair of last season’s footwear.
Sue is the primary caregiver of her two children. Her ex, Brian, is a part-time dad who pays child support and takes the kids every second weekend and one evening/week.
When they first got separated, Brian was very concerned about his limited access to the kids; he wanted them as much as possible. He also requested the ‘right of first refusal’ — that is, if Sue ever needed a babysitter, she would be required to call him first.
Six months into the divorce. Things have started to change. Not once has Brian acted on his right of first refusal. And he’s often late or changing his scheduled time with the kids. Sue hears about “important work commitments” and “bad traffic” and “a sudden business trip out of town.” She accommodates him — after all, life happens and plans sometimes have to be broken. Moreover, she feels a bit indebted to him — he’s paying her child and spousal support after all…
I’m racing through campus. I’m late and I have no idea where the building is, let alone the lecture hall. Have I even made it to class this semester? Good Lord, is the final today? In this nightmare, I usually wake up around this point, in a sweat, totally disoriented.
But this is no dream. I’m participating in freshman orientation, New York style, where parents actually get to stay in real dorm rooms, eat cafeteria style and stumble around campus while their hapless progeny have a separate but equal experience.
I want to be a team player, I really do. But at the end of the day, looking over my monastic room, the lonely twin bed with its 17-thread count sheets on a non-pillowtop mattress, I suddenly want to weep. There is a sign on my bathroom door explaining that “no means no.” A suicide hotline number is prominently displayed by the wall phone.
