He's my "ex"

P and I have not been broadcasting our separation to all and sundry. It's not something that is easily dropped into a conversation. It's not news that we're excited to talk about. And sometimes we're just not up for the well intended questioning or concerns that people have.

Up until now I have managed to refer to P by his name or as the father of my children - as in "the boys are with their dad this afternoon". While our separation has been constantly occupying my head, P hadn't yet taken on the title of the "ex". But today I found myself needing to describe P's relationship to someone I had just met and the most appropriate way to explain it was "he's my…ex. We separated just recently."

For some reason using the word "ex" makes it sound a lot more final than "we've separated". Is that because it's a noun and not a verb? Or is separated an adjective?

In some ways it feels like normal. Like P is working his usual long days, or is out of town for several days for work. You see I'm used to dealing with the night time wakings from the kids by myself. To juggling after school commitments, dinner, bath and bed time unassisted. To get them all ready for the day while I'm fortified with coffee, porridge and a little sleep. Answering the boys questions of "is dad home for dinner tonight?" in some ways is just like before - no, he isn't. But instead, now P will not be coming home late from work tonight.

Now there is no one to chat in the morning with about what our days have in store for us.
No one to debrief with at the end of the day, share a glass of wine with, and wish each other good night.
The trivial conversations about housework, after school commitments, reminders about groceries to be bought and bills to be paid.

Instead today there was:
My own fly buys card arriving in the mail.
And the letter confirming how much child support my ex would need to pay me.

Dinner at the New Place

Three days ago I visited P's new home for the first time. I was picking up baby I after seeing my counsellor. It is a lovely older style unit with high tin pressed ceilings, wooden floorboards and flooded in natural light. But furnished like someone who had just moved out of home for the first time - some loaned furniture from a friend that had seen better days, a blow up mattress for a bed, a coffee table made out of a cardboard box. Our boys love the novelty of it all.

Just over a week ago, the thought of seeing him settling in somewhere else would have upset me too much. But, that day at least, I felt fine and calm. I'm sure I won't always feel that way, but something about the lovely afternoon sun on a Friday afternoon, the boys playing happily, and me gradually accepting that I would be strong some days and to enjoy those and get inspired from them, to help me see through the low days.

P invited me to stay for dinner, and we all ate sausages, mash and salad, with plates cradled in laps on the couch, or on the make shift coffee table. And it was sort of like a normal pre-seperation dinner, but not. P didn't make eye contact much that night because he was so tired with the stress of moving and working his usual long days.

There was something liberating about leaving with baby I, knowing I would not be woken up at 5am the next morning by A. And even more liberating when P informed me he would drop the boys off at 10 after tennis so he could go back into work, when I told him I was going to a 10.30 gym class, and could it actually be noon? He paused for a moment, unused to me setting boundaries around my own needs, and quickly agreed.

That night, after I was asleep in bed I opened a beer for the first time in goodness knows how long and allowed myself to just watch some TV without also doing housework at the same time or catching up on emails or working on another task on my separation to do list. And it was kind of nice. And it's the nice moments in painful journeys you need to hold on to, to remind you it will all be ok and that things will head in the right direction.

Hiding the Hurt

Tonight while readying the boys for bed, our eldest boy burst out with resentment at the hours his dad worked. P often worked 12 hour days and at least half of the weekend, which upset our boys long before we separated.

But tonight T railed against the unfairness. The unfairness of having a dad who chose to work long hours. The unfairness of having parents who are now separated.

I understand his pain. He has a right to be angry, especially when he has been such a trooper about the new living arrangements, finding excitement in all that is new about it.

I understand the unfairness of it. We have all been placed in this situation that none of us, except P, wanted.

So tonight I sat on the couch reminding T that his mum and dad loved him very much. Defending P's decision to end our marriage, when it still breaks my heart. Watching T slam the door on me as he runs out of the room. There are times I want to be honest with people. To say that P didn't want to work on our marriage. That it was P who wanted to end the marriage. That P had fallen out of love with me, and in love with someone else. But I don't. I bite my tongue. And tonight I did that again. Because I love my kids.