I've mentioned before the fact that I know far too many women who are in the process of horrible divorces. [For the record, I don't believe any divorce is magnificent, but I have heard of some amicable ones.] I can't speak to being the spouse going through a horrible divorce. I can speak to being the child of spouses going through such a thing.
It sucked. The only saving grace for me was that, at its worst, I was old enough to escape some of the madness swirling around me by being in the company of friends. I was 15 when it started. The intensity lasted from April of my sophomore year until September of my junior year. There were additional high level tightrope walks of tension for the next few years, but the ultimate worst of it was right then.
These women I know in the midst of it now have children no older than Eldest, who is 12 and in sixth grade, and some have kids as young as preschool age. There is no escape for those kids. None. And I ache for them. And I especially ache for them hearing the accusations being flung, sometimes casually, within their earshot.
Shut the frickin' hell up about the horrible things that bastard has done, is doing and will be doing to you. That bastard is that little boy's father, that little girl's father, that tween's daddy, that emerging teen boy's dad. And they love him. And they love you.
This isn't Diet Coke vs. Diet Pepsi. This isn't chunky vs. smooth. There is no choice to be made. Quit making them feel like there is. Because that's what you're doing, whether or not you say aloud, "Who do you love more?"
I've said as much to them. Albeit, not quite so melodiously. And I'll keep saying it so I can fall asleep at night not recalling all the stuff I shouldn't have heard or known at 15.
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