Two Years

I'm sure there will come a time when this day will pass and I'll hardly notice the date. I'm sure there will be a time when I have to sit and think and count on my fingers and try to remember if it was the 23rd or the 26th. 

It's not that time yet.

It's been two years since Chad and I decided to divorce. Last year, I wrote of all the things I'd accomplished during that first year. Big things, little things, strides towards independence. 

This year, I've realized something interesting.

After the first year, and all the inherent "firsts" associated with that year, it's all just...life. Normal, ordinary life.

It's amazing how quickly a person can adjust to a new normal and equally amazing how quickly a person can't remember or imagine the old version.

A couple months ago, we went to Sarah's house for Supper Club. The kids and I got out of the car. I juggled my dish  and a bottle of wine while Joseph unbuckled Elizabeth's seat. They ran across her yard and up to her front door. I swung my purse over my shoulder while they knocked and had a sudden realization.

Two years ago, the idea of preparing a gourmet dish, loading up the kids, and attending a group dinner alone seemed overwhelming. I was accustomed to an extra pair of hands to wrangle children, an extra pair of hands to carry a heavy Dutch oven, an extra pair of eyes to make sure little feet didn't find their way into the street.

Now, it's second nature. I'm comfortable being alone at gatherings. I'm comfortable taking the kids hiking or out to ice cream or to the movies. I'm comfortable making big purchases without consultation. I'm comfortable being alone on the couch in the evenings and watching TV. I'm comfortable eating dinner, just the three of us. It doesn't feel as though someone is missing. It doesn't feel as if we're a chair missing a leg. We're a tripod and we're steady.

I feel Chad and I slipping apart, our lives once joined, now separate. I remind myself that while we're on different paths, we'll always be there for our kids and, I hope, we'll always be friends. But I can't imagine living with him any longer. I don't know him the way I used to. I don't know his plans, his goals, his interests. And he doesn't know mine.

Perhaps that's the most difficult part of an amicable divorce. For so long our plans were entwined. What he did impacted me and what I did impacted him. Now, we still care about each other, but it's different. It's the care of old friends and while I want him to be happy and he wants the same for me, how we achieve that goal is no longer linked.

It's a weird feeling. 

So I look at the calendar and expect some sort of lightening strike moment, some sort of milestone to mark the day that sent me tumbling into a sea of chaos and pain. Then I remember...milestones mark the big moments. The rest of life is pebbles.