Why we won’t
Welcome to the first-ever blog post uploaded from this apartment since I moved here over two years ago! I resisted forever, wary that Internet access would distract me from my other (analog) writing. But I have two blogs now, and now that I’m working free-lance there could be a lot more in the works. So as I write this, the cable guy has exactly 84 minutes to get here and hook me up.
And speaking of hooking up (segue!), since this blog started, a lot of people have asked us if it might be a stepping stone toward our reconciliation. These people include Mike Huckabee, who, in one of my life’s more surreal moments, sang us a few improvised lyrics of “Blogging My Way Back to You.” Given the tenor of our posts so far, I can see how readers could think that opening up our lives like this might be a way to help us get back together.
I don’t think that’s going to happen.
There’s no use distilling years of therapy into a few paragraphs, but—at the risk of speaking for both of us—since the breakup, we’ve discovered a lot about ourselves and each other. We’ve analyzed why we wanted to marry, and I’ve come to realize that those perceptions and motivations just don’t exist anymore. So knowing her and me as I do now, getting together seems like trying to cram the butterfly back into the chrysalis. Besides, we met in 1996. So technically, each cell in our bodies has died and regenerated twice over since then.
I think Moxie and I are better friends than she does. Perhaps that’s a gender thing, because women tend to connect on a deeper level than men do. I still like her well enough, in the sense that I want good things for her—mostly because a happy mama makes for happier kids. But I’m not in love with her anymore, and that ship has sunk.
I don’t say that lightly, because not being in love with the mother of my kids is a drag. Ever since I was a young adult, I had visualized a specific event in my head. It was to attend my youngest kid’s college graduation, look over at my wife, my life partner, plant a big kiss on her and say, “We did it.” We stayed together, we weathered the storms, and we did all we could to raise emotionally stable kids who can function in the adult world.
I spent a long time mourning what I perceived was the loss of that, but when you think about it, it’s still sort of partially possible. All that’s really missing is the kiss, the most expendable pigment in the painting.
I was thinking about all this on Sunday, when Moxie and I sat at this table and filled out the mega-reams of paperwork for the kids’ new school year. We’re collaborators now. We’re Lennon and McCartney, navigating a partnership that will be sometimes friendly, sometimes feudly, and hoping that, after 16 more years or so, our kids will be a pair of Sergeant Peppers. And that’ll do.