Naomi Dunne's blog

What is it about child support that turns normal, intelligent women into psychopaths? I've done it. Every divorced woman I know has done it. We go from completely rational to hysterical in the span of less than ten seconds.

In Canada, except for in the most extenuating circumstances, child support amounts are determined by pre-existing tables based on the number of children and the income of the non-custodial parent. No consideration is given to the income of the custodial parent, which always made me uncomfortable.

I made a lot more than my husband did, and I felt weird taking his money. That didn't mean I wasn't going to get all up in arms when his $117 came on a Thursday instead of a Wednesday.

I know in many other countries, child support amounts are determined by the mood of the judge on the day the decision was made. Maybe we feel cheated. Maybe we feel entitled. Quite possibly, we feel powerless. Probably, we don't like being reminded that in some way, we are dependent on this man until our children turn eighteen.

Child support is such an ugly business. It turns the raising of a child into a mercenary matter and not a family one. It's necessary but it's tragic, and for now, it's the only system we have.  read more »

I freely admit that this is not my own story. It's my nanny's story, but it's so good that I couldn't help but pass it along.

Linda had been married for about 10 years, suffering from numerous health problems and their resulting fertility issues. She lived in a place where the services of a fertility specialist were not free like they are in Canada, so Linda and her husband had to save up for a long time to see a doctor. They both worked extra hours and picked up occasional second jobs to pay for the privilege of maybe getting pregnant.

After eight months of trying, they decided to give the whole thing a break for a while to give Linda's body the chance to recuperate. One day, Linda's fertility specialist called her in for an appointment on her own. Without a clue what could possibly require a solo visit, Linda dutifully went along.

When she arrived, she noticed the doctor was pregnant. When she congratulated her on her pregnancy, there was an awkward silence. It turned out the baby was Linda's husband's. The doctor didn't like being the bearer of bad news, but Linda's husband would be leaving her and marrying the doctor instead.

By the time Linda got home, her husband's things were gone.  read more »

If you have an ex and children, you've dealt with it: The Switch.

If your ex isn't a total deadbeat, he's going to spend some time with the children you had together, and you're going to have to see him. You're going to have to talk to him. You're going to have to be nice to him.

There's no good way to drop off your kids with your ex, unless maybe your kids are so young they don't know you were ever together, let alone that you're now divorced. It's not fun for them and it's not fun for either of you.

Someone should create a service. Maybe some kind woman who didn't quite finish her social worker degree could pull up in her standard issue silver Honda Civic and cheerfully transport your children for deposit into the possession of the man you once shared a bed with, and now can no longer share niceties with.

She can take care of the "how's work?" conversations and the "I'll get you that child support check as soon as I can" conversations and maybe even the "how's it going with that tramp you left me for?" conversations, too.  read more »

There comes a time in every divorced Woman's life when she has to start dating again.

Sometimes it's because she wants to. Sometimes it's because she's sick of the "When are you going to start dating again?" questions. Soon enough, though, it happens to all of us.

There is the soul-destroying outfit selection process. There is the requisite discussion with our girlfriends about how much the dating world has changed since we were dating The Ex.

There is the selective memory loss about the actual amount of pain involved in getting a bikini wax. All of these are standard, normal, and compulsory.

We go on our date. We share a carafe of overpriced wine. We say witty things. Those of us who have hair make sure to toss it in a mysterious and alluring fashion. Everything goes well, and then it happens. We end up having The Talk.

The Talk is the conversation you have when you disclose that you have been married before. Sometimes The Talk involves the confession that you are actually still legally married. It's uncomfortable. It's full of weird pauses. It says with definition that you're probably not a virgin.

I was lucky with The Talk. I told the man who is now my partner that I'd been married before and he replied, "Well, I didn't think you had your son with a stranger!" This is rare and to be appreciated.  read more »

Have you noticed that every divorced woman you know cut her hair when she separated from her husband? It’s practically an epidemic.

Okay, maybe that’s not entirely true, but divorced women tend to always make some major change to their appearance. Sometimes they dye their hair. Sometimes they lose 80 pounds. Sometimes they start dressing better. Sometimes they start dressing worse.

What is it about the divorce process that causes such radical changes? Is it the alleviation of depression? Is it the arrival of depression? Were our husbands so oppressive that we really, truly couldn’t be ourselves?

I think it’s because we can’t comprehend the level of change we’re going through without making some kind of physical statement. Our psyche needs a physical representation of our internal metamorphosis because just thinking about it isn’t enough. I think it’s like when people experience a spiritual conversion. There’s nothing inherently more spiritual about moving to an ashram in India, but people need to make the change. They need to feel like an active participant in the process.  read more »

My father has been married five times, and in common-law marriages twice. My mother has been married twice, and in more common-law marriages than I can count on two hands.

My mother's first husband has married no fewer than seven women, and that's just the ones that we know of. Every single child born to one of these marriages has been divorced at least once.

Like everything else that seems to run in families, I have to wonder if this predilection towards failed marriages is due to nature or nurture. Is my inability to hold a marriage together as genetic as my green eyes and thick waist? Or is it just that I wouldn't know a marital role model if I fell over one?

Sometimes I wonder if it's a good idea for me to marry again. I wonder if I'm qualified for the position of wife. I see the marital problems of the people around me and my first suggestion is that they shouldn't be married to each other. In my defense, I judiciously keep this suggestion to myself.

I see the fighting and the passive aggression and the nagging and I think, "Is this what you signed up for?"

My partner and I have been dating for four years now, and we have only fought once. I think that we will be happy over the long haul, but I wonder if we can do it. His parents have been married since dinosaurs walked the earth, so I know he can.

It's me I worry about.  read more »

In my past life, I was Joseph Stalin. I know this because I'm suffering the karmic effects.

Michael is eight. He's funny. He's artistic. And he has every single quality I can't stand in my soon-to-be-ex.

Consider a recent example. Michael called me from his father's to tell me about his weekend. They went goose hunting. I won't describe in detail the level of moral opposition I hold for this practice, but suffice it to say, I'm not a fan.

"Me and Daddy? We shot two geese yesterday!" Great.

"And Mummy? Me and Daddy got really mad at the first one cause we had to shoot it three times and then shake it around by the neck until it died." What do you say to this? "That's nice, honey. Can you pass me that box of wine over there?"

He is stubborn. Despite the clothes I buy him from Gap Kids, he wears unfashionably narrow jeans because he doesn't like cargo pants. He steadfastly refuses to read Lemony Snicket because "everybody reads that." When he gets himself a drink, he uses a sippy cup because he knows it annoys me, and he finds that funny.

Each of these exact situations came up when I was with my ex. In his case, it was regular Gap, Stephen King, and beer steins, respectively.

Either my ex is teaching him how to annoy me or these traits are actually genetic. I don't know which one upsets me more.

As I write this, it is Thanksgiving Day in Canada. My family is recovering from turkey and wine, watching 90210 reruns, and I have a few moments of calm. I suppose, seeing as it's Thanksgiving and all, I should take a few minutes to reflect on what I'm thankful for.

Of course I'm thankful for my partner, for my smart and healthy sons, for my health and my fantastic job. I'm thankful for my partner's family who have welcomed me as one of their own, albeit in their own good time. For some reason, though, today I'm grateful for my ex.

I'm thankful that he gave me the opportunity to get the big mistakes out of the way while I was still young enough to recover. I'm thankful that I was able to get all of my jealous crap, my controlling crap, my resentful crap out of my system before I met my current partner. I'm thankful that despite the indescribable levels of drama and mayhem, he has stayed my friend.

I'm thankful for the amazing father he's become. People are always so sympathetic when they hear I divorced so young — I tell people I'm divorced because it's easier than explaining — but they don't realize what a blessing it's been. I tell them that my ex is a great guy and a great father, just not the right husband for me.

If anyone needs a great ex-husband, he'll get my reference anytime.

After much ado, Michael was baptized on Sunday. There was a great turnout — the best in the small town's short history. People came from across from the country to see my little boy participate in the biggest spiritual event of his life.

The spiritual is always balanced by the practical, though, and there were practical matters to be attended to. Apparently, some genius thought it would be a good idea to let eight year old Michael dress himself that morning. Quick Reader's Digest scoop on Mormon baptisms: they're done by full immersion, and you have to wear white. All white.

It seems Michael decided to celebrate this momentous occasion in Spiderman underwear. Spiderman underwear is not white. Not even a little bit.

My ex was sent out in search of white underwear. When he returned — confident and conspiratorial — he passed the Wal-Mart bag to his father like he was taking part in a drug deal.

It turns out that in the years since my ex left the church, he forgot how specific the Mormon's can be about the all-white rule. He forgot about the translucent robes. He figured all white with a blue stripe on the waistband would be okay. He figured wrong.  read more »

When I’m stressed, I buy sheets. Some women like purses or shoes or jackets. I like linens.

My son’s nanny likes hair color. She was just dumped by her first post-divorce boyfriend. Apparently, he thought she was overreacting when she asked him not to help her babysit with four beers in him.

A few days ago, she came over sporting beautiful chestnut brown hair. When I complimented her on it (and she really does look so much better as a brunette than she did as a blonde) she just shrugged and said, “Like my mama used to say: If you can’t change your life, change your hair.”

Since I have a buzz cut, I can’t experience that particular type of catharsis. Substitute “bedding” for “hair,” though, and I echo her sentiments completely.

My son is getting baptized on Sunday. I will spend the day with my ex and his family at a church I no longer attend, sitting through a rite of passage I no longer support. I will smile as my little boy — so serious — is immersed in the waters of baptism and takes his first step on the road his parents long ago abandoned.  read more »