It's Over When It's Over.

I found out today.  I am divorced.

Not a shocker, I know.  My (now) ex-husband and I separated over a year ago.  We submitted ourselves to three excruciating days of mediation seven months ago.  We (and by "we," I mean the royal "we" -- our lawyers) finalized and stamped the necessary reams of paperwork a few weeks back.

Then, the way it works (at least here in NC), you can send everything to a judge.  You don't have to show up in court.  Bizarre to think that marriage, which begins with so much fanfare and publicity and adulation, can, after 23 years, end with nothing more than the quiet scratching of a 79-cent Bic pen by a grown man wearing a robe.   A week or so later, you get a notice in the mail.  The end.

Better, of course, than pointing fingers, pulling hair and gnashing teeth in a courtroom.  But still.

Frankly, I'm not sure how to feel.  My friends don't know what to say either.  "Congratulations" doesn't sound right.  Ending a marriage -- particularly one that includes two amazing, beautiful, articulate children -- is hardly the occasion for a party.  Even if that party includes sangria.

But my friends and family know that, after enduring and supporting me these past many months, "I'm sorry" isn't appropriate either.

Maybe the one thing I most want to hear is, "I'm still here."  True, the need is no longer urgent.  The kids and I have adjusted and acclimated and agree that we're much better now than we ever could've imagined a year ago.  We have routines.  We have friends.  We have fun.

As one similarly divorced friend put it, "It's OK.  Just different."

Still, our emotions seem to have the flickering consistency of a candle on a windowsill.  But how much of that is this and how much of that is that?  After all, we're all hormonal in this household.  The kids, in their pubescent ways.  And me, in my, well, hormonal way.  It's just life as we know it.

This week, as I awaited the news, has been unexpectedly difficult.  I've not been my best self.  Fortunately, there were few opportunities for me to act on the emotions I was trying to wrestle.  Had circumstances been presented differently, I could've been that mom -- you know, the one who is told by the ump to leave the baseball game for bad behavior or the one who backends the other mom in the carpool line.  Lucky for me, I made it through.  I don't know how I could've explained jailtime to my kids.

And although I'd never want to go through it again, I learned a lot this past year.  I honestly never realized how many remarkable friends I have -- or how strong and supportive and intuitive they are.  I'm somewhat embarrassed that it took a crisis for me to recognize their depth and perceptiveness.

I learned that my kids are more fragile and vulnerable than you'd ever imagine.  And they learned that they are more resilient and resourceful and capable than anyone ever knew.

I learned a couple of new words, "malaka" and "skatouli" -- both very handy when you need to express yourself explosively, without offending bystanders (as long as those bystanders are not Greek).

And I learned, not necessarily proudly, that I can drink an entire bottle of wine on my own in a single evening.  No problem.  (Or no problem that Advil can't help solve.)

In the end, though, we're OK.

There's no recipe tonight.  The kids are with their dad, and after the revelations of the day, I'm craving something I learned to make when I was eight years old -- tuna salad.  Lots of lemon, lots of pickle and chopped celery, some minced onion, barely any mayo, and absolutely no boiled eggs.  Don't forget the salt.

I also put a bottle of champagne in the fridge.   Not that I'm celebrating the divorce.  I'm celebrating that I'm still here.  And doing just fine.

And if you're reading this, then I thank you.  I couldn't have done it without you.

xxx ooo

"What Do You Do All Day?"

I'm a stay-at-home mom.

It happened haphazardly.  Fourteen years ago, when Son was born, we quickly realized that someone would have to stay home and tend to him.  (Like most first-time parents, we considered our child to be unusually advanced, but would he be able to change his own diaper at six weeks? Iffy.)  Since I was self-employed at the time -- and therefore available and cheap -- I was as likely a candidate as anyone.  Indeed, when you consider that I'm roundly-acknowledged to be a wee bit of a control freak,  I may have been the only candidate.

When Darling Daughter was born two years later -- and refused to be held by anyone other than, well, me -- the "self-employed" facade came crashing down.  In no time at all, I was 0% bringing home the bacon and 100% frying it up in the pan.

Well-meaning friends would sometimes ask, "When are you going back to work?" but when it became plain I had no immediate intention of turning a bedroom into an office, much less returning to a world of artlessly-written job reviews, mind-numbing meetings, and incomprehensible healthcare plans served with a cup of burnt coffee, they'd then ask, "What do you do all day?"

The brave ones still do.

The honest answer?  I do what has to be done.  I wish it included eating bonbons and lifting my feet as the "help" runs the vacuum.  Instead, a huge chunk of my day is spent in the car -- chauffeuring, eating, doing homework, running errands, getting to doctors' appointment and after school activities, and commiserating with the kids about their day.  During soccer and baseball seasons, our all-but-abandoned house functions more like an over-priced closet than a home.  It is simply the place where we stash our clothes and Christmas decorations and dishes.  As the car floormats attest, most of the "real" living and dining is done in our Honda Pilot.

I also volunteer at the kids' school a lot -- as in, "a lot" more than the kids would like.  Bummer for them, but I enjoy it.  Eighth graders -- so cool and charming -- are quick to greet me, only slightly averting their eyes to ensure I understand my place.  Sixth graders aren't able to fake it.  They all but shield their eyes and moonwalk backward to avoid having to say, "Hello, Ms. Wiles."

Now that the kids are older and so preoccupied, a return to the workforce wouldn't be out of the question -- except when you consider that the current N.C. unemployment rate is about 11%.   My time will come.  So for now -- I'm sticking with my bonbon-less life.  I'll keep doing whatever has to be done and enjoy this gift of spending time with the kids and their friends.  Every now and again, I'll throw a party to celebrate the many blessings in my life.  And when I do, I'll be serving this amazing sangria.  Cheers.

Sangria

Although you can mix this up on the day of your party, it's even better if you give the fruit and spices a couple of days -- even a week -- to macerate in the rum.

5 lemons, sliced into thin rounds

5 limes, sliced into thin rounds

5 oranges, sliced into thin rounds

5 peppercorns

1 stick cinnamon

5 whole, dried allspice berries

5 whole, dried cloves

5 cups spiced rum

2 1/2 cups sugar

5 (750 milliliter) bottles dry red wine, chilled

5 cups orange juice, chilled

In a very large pitcher, combine sliced rounds of three lemons, limes and oranges (reserving remaining fruit for when sangria is served), spices, rum and sugar.  Stir and mash until sugar is dissolved.  Chill for at least two hours, or even better, up to a week.

When ready to serve, crush fruit lightly, and strain into punch bowl or serving canister.  Add fruit that had been set aside.  Stir in wine and orange juice.  Serve over ice, garnished with a lime wedge.

Note:  Leftover sangria keeps well, chilled, for about a week.

The Price Of Putting Your Kids Out The Car? Solitude.

OK. Someone has to say it.  A mom put her bickering kids out of the car and told them to walk the rest of the way home?  (Complete news story.)  

Big deal.

(Notice I didn't say, "BFD."  Not because I don't feel that way, but because my kids may read this.)

Err --- what I meant to say was:  Scandalous!  Ghastly!  Appalling!

Puh-leeze.  Cheese and rice, people!  Every mom can relate to how she was feeling, and if you haven't done what she did, I bet you know someone who has.  (Don't ask.  I'm not giving up my peeps.  They inspire these blogs!)

There are only two reasons I haven't shoved my own kids out the Honda Pilot backhatch.

One, my kids don't usually bicker in the car.  They save it for the dinner table, church, or (my personal favorite) when we have guests.  Their best performances are reserved for family members we see only a few times a year.

Two, I never thought of it.  Dang.

Here's my real question, though.  As she spent the night in jail (you betcha she was incarcerated!), how did the mom feel?  Badly?  Duh.  Guilty?  Sure.  Humiliated?  You bet.

Yeah, she was wrong.  She lost it.  She over-reacted.  Her kids were hurt.

Plus, joining the penal system meant making a a few sacrifices, including that reprehensible mugshot, a glow-in-the-dark jumpsuit, and those matching, intertwined plastic bracelets.  On the upside, though, her lucky family's now got a go-to story every Thanksgiving for their rest of their lives.

Still, for her night in the big house, I hope that mom reveled.  What a brilliant plan!  She needed time away from her kids.  She needed peace and quiet.  She needed to be able to go to the bathroom on her own.  Ick.  That last one may have come off the table in this deal, but overall, she got most of what she wanted, right?  Great success!

In the end, I am confident that they all -- every one of them -- will be OK.  Truly.  I once heard of a dad who put his rambunctious kids out of the car on the INTERSTATE, telling them to run to the next exit, where he would be waiting.  They were fine.  And are still laughing.

Of course, mom probably should make a little special something upon her return home -- just to fast-track everyone's road to recovery (and minimize the number of future therapist appointments).  I'd recommend these crazy good chocolate toffee treats.  Just as with their mom, you're not exactly sure what's going on inside.  But it's all comes together in a surprising way.

Chocolate Toffee Cookies

1 sleeve saltine crackers

2 sticks butter (not margarine)

1 cup brown sugar, firmly packed

1 12-ounce bag of good chocolate chips

1 cup chopped toasted pecans

Preheat oven to 350.  Line a rimmed cookie sheet (11 x 15) with foil, and spray with nonstick spray.  Place saltines, in a single layer, in the pan, covering the entire pan.  You may need a few extra to fill in all the spaces.  Now, heat butter and brown sugar in a small saucepan.  Bring to a boil and continue boiling three minutes, stirring occasionally.  Pour mixture (carefully) over crackers and spread to edges.  Bake for 20 minutes.

Remove pan from oven and immediately sprinkle with chocolate chips.  When chips soften from heat, spread to edges with spatula and sprinkle with pecans.  Chill for at least 30 minutes, then break into bite-size pieces.  No one will ever guess that crackers are the base of this treat!