Chocolate milk and orange juice.

We're at a theme park in Atlanta on Saturday, riding the rollercoasters. My seven year old is thoroughly done with the big ones, and so am I. My eldest is off with her friends. My seven year old sees a face painter and before you know it, she is getting turned into a "pink kitty" for a mere $20. My boyfriends' face says he does and he doesn't understand why I would pay $20 for some park employee to smear communal makeup all over my daughters' face, when I could more than likely buy some decent quality face paint to take home for $5 at Walmart. But he doesn't say anything. He just watches. His hands go in his pocket. He adjust his sight to something further away in the distance. And I hand over the $20 to the makeup artist and then marvel at how much my youngest does indeed look like a pink kitten. I tell her she is the most beautiful thing I have ever seen. Not a word is ever said about him thinking it is a waste of money, because he doesn't operate like that. Firstly it is my money, it is my daughter, and then when it comes to childhood, he is aware and supportive of the fact that memories are made up of silly actions like that day at the park. The $20 is inconsequential.

My seven year old was sick this week and the school nurse phoned, she said she hadn't seen her in a long time, possibly since the time she was in Kindergarten. She is now in second grade. I was thinking about why she would have to go and see the nurse so many times when she was in kindergarten. I wanted to know the significance of that time. My girls have both been really healthy. We don't get the flu and we've had strep a handful of times.  But they have both lived through some pretty hairy and scary times, times you would never intentionally push on your kids: In kindergarten her dad and I were divorced. I remember I would get blue slips of paper in her backpack during that time saying she had been to the nurse for a cough drop. I remember feeling appreciative of all of the ancillary people during that time who had helped her, been kind to her and her sister, during the time when her home had become a war zone.

Realizing this yesterday about the fact that the nurse hadn't seen her since kindergarten, I said to my seven year old, "do you know that you used to visit the nurse a lot when you were in Kindergarten because that is when mommy and daddy got divorced". And she said to me "no mommy, you got divorced in pre-K". So I didn't argue the time line then because I was driving and I wasn't sure. She then went on to tell me "but that is okay, because mommy, you and daddy were like chocolate milk and orange juice. You can love chocolate milk on itself and you can love orange juice on itself but its not so good if you mix it together.".

verbatim.

verbatim the words that the counseling session for divorced parents taught us to explain to our children that it is okay for the children to love each parent and to not be ashamed or to feel bad for choosing to love one parent or another.

verbatim the words that I came home and filled their heads with when I told them their daddy was going away.

verbatim the phrases that I told them, that they must have repeated to themselves, when they couldn't sleep or their worries kept them up at night.

So she said to me "I cant remember before I was three. That was too long ago. But I remember you and daddy used to fight all the time." (that I didn't remember, I thought our household was peaceful?)... And then she said "But that was a long time ago.". So I asked her, how about now, how is your house now? And she said "its fine now".

Sitting here this morning, I figure out the time line, back in 2014, when I filed for divorce, she was indeed in pre-k.

As a divorced parent you live with knowing you caused your children the greatest hurt. But you cannot parent from guilt. You have to somehow still be the authority that they need, the tough guy, the one who insists on certain standards, the one who sets the tone for the household to thrive.

But you still have to be the softy, the one who is the maker of dreams come true... The person who overpays for face painting. Some days I am more one thing than another. But they're watching everything that I do. Every action and every phrase becomes a part of who they are, how they interpret the world. Verbatim.