Marshmellow Fluff

The first time I told my mom I was engaged she responded, “To who?”  

I was 18, he was 30 –  we dated for 3 months.  One trip to Hawaii later, I returned home with a shell ring on my finger and big ideas for the wedding.

We lived in a house on a cul-de-sac where I would scrapbook with the neighbors every Sunday night.  He bought me a golden retriever for Christmas which I named Grommit.  He had his own business, was financially stable and eventually bought  me a pretty wedding ring that I would sometimes turn upside down to hide.   We set the date for our wedding 6 months later only to postpone it 4 months later.  Our engagement lasted for 2 years.

One morning, after he had left for work, I sat at the top of the stairs in our house cradling my Christmas dog crying.  I kissed his wet nose slid my engagement ring off and placed it on the bathroom counter.  And then I left the house for the last time. 

Being engaged to him, especially to someone 12 years my senior, had put me in a frenzied state of trying to finish school so that I could have children right after we got married.  Even though I wasn’t ready to be a mom, he was running out of time to be the  ”young cool dad” that he always envisioned being.  I quit my full time job to become  a full time student, which meant I had given up my independence and stability.  2 weeks shy of my 21st birthday, I had never been so terrified walking out of that house and into the unknown future.

Walking away was difficult – but essential.  I was in love with the idea of love.  I loved knowing I would have someone by my side for the rest of time.  It wasn’t until the wedding grew closer that I finally realized, I wasn’t in love with him, I was in love with the idea of marriage.  While he was a wonderful safe and loving guy, I was far too young to be someones wife.

My parents divorced when I was 1 1/2 years old.  Growing up in a divorced environment, I knew that no matter what mistakes I made, I would do everything in my power to ensure a failed marriage wasn’t one of them.  I realize things happen, and statistically I have a 50% chance of it not working.  I can however do my due diligence before getting married to make sure that the person I am marrying is someone I have no doubts about and have every intention of being with until my last days.  This includes not marrying someone at 18 and after just 3 months of dating.

Sadly, far too many people get married too young, too soon or too quickly.  I watched Jon and Kate last night and found no joy spying on their crumbling marriage.  The episode was drenched in sadness and each of them had the same cold hard stare that people who are going through a separation adorn.

Watching the episode last night I realized  for the first time that divorce is much harder on the parents than it is the children.  As a child I had no idea what I was missing.  I thought every normal child shuttled from each parents house every other weekend.  I thought all daughters dreaded alone time with their fathers.  To me it was normal and like most all other children I adjusted my world view accordingly.  For the parents though it means missed first steps, shared or missed holidays, not being there for the first lost tooth.  It means not being there to watch your children grow from day to day.  It means missing the little moments in between the “every other weekends.”

It drives me crazy when people stay married “for the children”.  I respect my mom much more for being strong enough to walk away from a situation she was unhappy in, even though it meant struggling to find her way.  And although she didn’t do it gracefully she did it with strength and courage.  That to me is far more admirable than someone who stays in a loveless marriage “for the children.”  To me that seems more an excuse than it does a reason.

I tell my friends who are going through a divorce that the best thing they can do is to never speak negatively about their ex-spouse to their children.  I have vivid memories of my father talking harshly about how much he hated my mom (I am generously paraphrasing here) only to have him say to me how much I remind her of him.  To a child, hating their mother or father, is the same as hating them.  

In 13 years, I am a long way from the girl that returned from Hawaii with a puka shell ring.  Sometimes that part of my life seems so distant I almost wonder if it happened at all.  And although I am thankful that it ended in a breakup and not a divorce–I do sometimes wonder just how my golden retriever is doing.