Mediation

Although I can’t say I’m fond of them as a group; a number of my closest friends are attorneys. (Either that, or artists—but that’s another blog)

Molly, my then best friend in the “hood”, my day-to-day confidant, my partner in parenting toddlers, had practiced law for ten years prior to our kinship. Now, along with me, she spent everyday in the trenches of toddler-hood. Her husband, an attorney as well, kept long work hours in his attempt to make “partner”. Mine did the same in his attempt to escape his own life. Nearly every single day of my 35th (and her 34th) year we stood shoulder to shoulder. We kept each other sane in the midst of daily smothering. Oops, I mean mothering.

We never got to know one another’s husbands.

Molly’s house became our haven. Her big, sunny “great” room facing the backside of a golf course held everything we needed in any given day. Just off the small kitchen, the warm, green carpeted den contained an oversized plaid comfy couch, plenty of toys, a TV, and a coffee-drinking, snack-holding maple dining table.

Together, in that room, we dissected every nook and cranny of my floundering relationship while the kids played, snacked, and watched TV (OK, so what—my marriage was falling apart—don’t judge). Smart, kind, sympathetic, empathetic Molly listened, encouraged, discouraged, laughed--whatever seemed to be needed at the moment.

At times, I grilled her about the legal aspects of divorce. Oddly, she recommended Mediation. “What’s that all about?” I questioned. “Well, I have a friend from law school who practices Mediation instead of divorce. It works best when people aren’t acrimonious (lawyer word) and want to try to keep everything as sane as possible while splitting up” Although I didn’t want divorce, I did want sanity. When Greg and I ultimately separated, I asked if he’d be willing to go to Mediation. I wanted a legal separation so I would make sure my kids would be provided for financially. It’s something I couldn’t believe I even had to worry about—but then I never thought I’d be on the brink of divorce--so everything became a huge question mark. He reluctantly agreed.

We made an appointment with Rebeccah, the mediator. For the next two hours, we hashed out how our new lives would be structured. Our plan was simple, but unique.

• He would pay me two-thirds of his salary every month. (After all, we were three; he was one). He agreed.
• I would have the kids every day, Monday through Friday in my rented house in Philadelphia. He would rent a place in
NYC (where he worked), but come to Philly by train every Saturday morning—be there by 8:30 am. Check.
• I would then leave my house at 8:32am and he would take over parenting for the following 32 hours. He had his own room on the third floor—he did not sleep in my room. That was off-limits. Check.
• Every Saturday night, I would sleep over at my sister’s, my cousin’s or my friend’s—depending on my mood, or theirs. Check.
• Every Sunday afternoon at 4:30, I would return to the house and he would get back on the train to head back to NYC for another work-week.
• Every Sunday afternoon at 4:32 the kids would start balling and telling me how much they missed their dad and didn’t want him to leave. Double check.

Our lives unfolded under this new arrangement. Bumpy and strange at first, months went by with minimal words exchanged between two people who had lived together, made love together, screamed at one another, cried with one another, had babies together, and taken vows "til death".

Gradually, however, a weight began to lift. If this was my life—okay then—at least it was a life where I was in charge.

Sanity turned out to be a good choice.