"Going to a junkyard is a sobering experience. There you can see the ultimate destination of almost everything we desired." —Roger Von Oech, A Wack On The Side of the Head

I read this the other day and have since been trying to keep it in mind as Christmas creeps closer and closer and my bank account gets lower and lower. It seems that once you have a child there is so much pressure on you as a parent to perform in many areas, and acquiring "stuff" is a big one.

It was at the mall last night, where I was desperately searching for "stuff" to buy for Adrian, that this quote helped me the most.

Looking at rocket ships, dinosaurs, train sets — all overpriced — and parents stumbling over one another to have them; I thought about all of the toys that Adrian has had since he's been born. Then I thought about where they all ended up: either broken and in the garbage or outdated and donated.

We don't have tons of money, at all. Levi is still not contributing and as Adrian's birthday is so close to Christmas I'm still stuck playing a little bit of catch up from that.

As much as I'd like to, I simply can't afford to have a dozen presents under the tree and besides which, are these monetary, materialistic values the type that I'd like to instill in my son, anyhow? The answer is no.

It took a bit of reasoning with myself but I'm feeling okay with it now. Adrian is getting four presents from me (well, two Santa gets the credit for) and we will spend the rest of the day basking in each other's company — and maybe playing in the snow.

Christmas will be about more than gifts. It will also be about appreciating each other and strengthening the bond of our family.

I wish you all a very happy holiday.

Faith

If we took all the parents whose kids will be going with the other side of the family this holiday and put them all in once place, we'd probably have to ask the NFL to give up half their stadiums for a day. Talk about the perfect dating-after-divorce opportunity!

Seriously...parents who end up alone on a holiday are an awkward lot. If it's you, it's easy to fall into feeling sorry for yourself. Lonely, absurd...all the possible uncomfortable words can apply.

Stop it! The kids have it much worse. They are human ping-pong balls expected to pop back and forth between allegiances seamlessly. They don't want to be doing this, either. Trying to please everybody is a royal pain.

Here are 5 attitude adjusters to get you through if you will be solo without your kids for the holiday:

1. For a very short window you have no responsibility...this will pass quickly use it wisely — it's a gift.

2. You can lay on the couch for absolutely no reason, not make your bed, throw your towels on the floor, leave dishes in the sink — everything you tell them not to do — without guilt. Until they return.

3. You can go wherever you want, with whomever you want, and do whatever you want and not have to be home until they come back.

4. You can hit the road and be an adventurous visitor to people you never have time to catch up with.

5. Kids are telegrams for family gossip — you'll get all the latest dirt about everything and everybody when they return.

Critical reminder: It takes kids a few days once they get home to come back from loyalty to the other side. It's not you...give them a break.

Leave me a comment saying "solo on the on holiday"...and I'll drop you one back...because my kid's going with her dad and I get it.

Email Debbie anytime: [email protected]

My in-laws come for Christmas next week. It's not my holiday, Christmas, and I despise the excess of it, but I'm a sucker for tradition. Also, the tree smells nice.

It matters to me that my girls keep the customs of their grandmothers and their grandmothers and their grandmothers before. That they remain linked, and that they understand all the cultures that made them.

I can share only half, the Jewish rituals passed down through my people. So, I'll make potato latkes and spin the dreidel with them, light the menorah each night and teach them the blessings.

But I'm grateful Sam's parents can visit with their red velvet cake and, hopefully, stories waking up Christmas morning when they were kids. Pass down what I can't.

I bitch about Sam's parents, resent the "stuff" passed on to him and so to me, because it happens this way: what you do not deal with, the problems you don't stand down, they don't disappear, they are passed to the next generation.

Merry Christmas.

There's a present for you. No, for real.

I'm looking at it as a gift this year, an opportunity to better understand why Sam is who he is. To understand why I chose him as my partner, and after leaving him, why I made the same choice again.

Some people say we marry our parents; another perspective is we partner with people who present a chance to work where we need it most. We seek, not only what we know, but what we know will force us to grow.

And we go back until the lesson is learned.

What I've learned: I'm not going to change Sam's family. No matter what I do, no matter what truth I try to shock them with, they will never get real. They will always avoid the uncomfortable and when the small talk plays out, 99 times out of 100 they'll choose silence over depth.

I started dating before my divorce was final. Maybe you did too, so maybe you don't think I'm going to hell.

I don't know if my father thinks that's what will happen, but he certainly wasn't happy about my behavior. Initially, I understood his concern: my new relationship might cause problems as I ended the old one.

But it turns out that Florida, despite its backwardness in many other areas, is remarkably enlightened about divorce. Under Florida law, there are only two reasons to end a marriage: the irretrievable breakdown of the marriage, or the mental incapacity of one of the spouses. Under Florida law, I learned that, as a rule, adultery doesn't enter into the equation.

If, say, I had exhausted the marital assets on trips to Fiji for the boyfriend and me, the court probably would have frowned on that. But since the two alcoholics in my marriage had already exhausted most of their assets, I saw no risk.

I explained this to my father more than once. But now that he's old, his mind isn't so flexible anymore, and he could not, would not, wrap it around the idea that it was okay for my life to go on while I divorced. He glowered a lot and made menacing pronouncements about the earful he would have for me when the time was right (which, thankfully, it never was).

To this day he hasn't met the new man in my life.

One morning at breakfast, shortly after my divorce was final, he asked a simple question. "Sondra, how old are you?"

I looked at him, figuring this was the beginning of the tirade he'd been holding for months. "Forty-eight," I replied.

"Oh," he said. I think he had forgotten.

And then he added, "You'd better be glad you're grown and nobody can tell you what to do any more."

Really? Nobody can? Not even you, Pop?

Wow. I guess Daddy's Little Girl is an adult at last, and all I had to do was get divorced.

Adrian's birthday is on Saturday. I'm going to have a party with my friends and family to celebrate on Sunday, but for his actual birthday I have planned for the two of us to spend a fun filled day together.

I mean really, its just been the two of us on this journey, so it seems right.

We're going to Manhattan to see a Dora the Explorer show — his favorite — and then I plan on taking him around to see some sights; the tree at Rockefeller center, to start with.

I can't tell you how excited I am for this day. Can't really express in words how much it means to me to see my little baby turning two. This has been quite the adventure so far. So many good times turned into wonderful, amazing memories; and I'm certain that there will be so many more to come. 

It's times like these, times when I start to reminiscence on all that has taken place over the last two years — from first foods, to first smiles, to first steps, to first words...all the firsts — that I have a hard time feeling anything but absolute pity for Levi. 

I must admit that there have been times, like where I've worked a 12 hour day, that I have been jealous beyond belief that Levi is seemingly living it up in Los Angeles. Jealous that he can sleep in, or take a shower when he wants to, or see a movie, or go for a walk, or out for dinner, or do any of the things you can do when you don't have any real responsibilities.

But now, when the jealousy comes I simply ask myself, would you trade any of the last two years for that?

The answer, of course, is no. I would never.

I am, simply put, totally ga-ga over my boy and probably more excited than he is for his special day.

Happy Birthday, Adrian!

I was in the sock section of the men's department the other night, perusing the rows of dark knitted things, when I remembered I had no reason to be there.

All through our marriage, I had bought Edgar socks and underwear for Christmas. I'd get him something more interesting, too, but always socks and underwear because he was hell on those. It was like he could wear them out just by looking at them.

This year, I hope someone will buy my ex some socks. I am tempted to get him some, out of habit, and because I'm sure he needs them, but will refrain.

Buying those socks — bags, bundles, three-packs, an occasional single pair — was one of my wifely duties. I found surprising satisfaction in seeing to it that Ed's heels and toes were covered inside his shoes. It was the kind of thing he couldn't be bothered with, and I was good at. Isn't that one of the things marriage is about?

The Good Doctor says I liked being married. I guess she's right. Obviously I'm pretty sentimental about those dang socks. But you know what? A month into it, I seem to like being divorced, too.

I am free to create new holiday traditions for myself and the dogs and cats as well as to revisit some old ones.

The other night I watched Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer with my parents for the first time in many, many moons. (We watched it together the first time it aired many, many, many moons ago.)

The experience was bittersweet, but this is a bittersweet time of year — no matter what the ads and "sounds of the season" insist.

Nothing will be as it was, nor will any of it be perfect.

My days of buying socks and shorts for Ed at Christmas are over. And that's just the way it goes.

I'll find something else to do with my time and effort.

While I'm still spewing gratitude onto the page, I must thank FWW co-founder Debbie Nigro's daughter Alexis for stopping by to share her view of the Thanksgiving Day Tour De Family last week.

Of all the things I've gained from spending hours here at FWW, and there are too many to detail in the space of one post, the thing I most love is the perspective it brings.

The moments when my understanding of myself and of the world is expanded by getting close in on a point of view I have not lived. This is truly a gift.

So thanks, Alexis, on behalf of every parent who has ever agonized about leaving a marriage for fear of how it will impact their small kids. Thanks for reminding us not only that this change does not have to undo them, it can actually be a positive.

It's easy to forget how it's us grown-ups who attach all the baggage, feel all the agony of unmet expectations, in a split. It's our vision of the way things should be that gets torn in half.

Young kids only know what they know. To them, their family and their homes look exactly as they should look. Are exactly as they should be, the only way they ever could be.

My kids split time between two households for two years. One was 20 months old when we separated, the other was four and a half, and guess what? Sure, they like having all of us together in one house, but I'm not sure they like it better than having two places.

They like it differently.

And take note all you parents who are terrified about shattering the only reality your children have ever known; it is possible for you do it without shattering them.

My kids have told me more than once these last few months back together that they miss their old houses. They liked having two houses, two neighborhoods, two sets of friends, two different lives.

I spent yesterday afternoon trotting in and out of stores, picking up an item or two here and there, nothing major dontcha know, until I froze with a little lamp in my hands.

It is normal, of course, to shop at this time of year. It is probably also normal to shop for oneself during the holidays. But all the stuff I bought yesterday was for me, and it's not as though I need any more stuff.

I'm already working hard to find places to put the stuff I already own. So what was I doing?

I looked at the lamp. The price was right and it would fit nicely on my nightstand (right next to the one I already have, I suppose) and it was a cute little thing, decorated with palm trees. Reminded me of home, the one I just moved back from, that is.

So that's what I was doing.

I've mentioned the geographical cure, the belief that changing your place of residence can fix what ails you. Yesterday I faced its cousin, retail therapy. 

I thought I was holding up pretty well, chugging through my first holiday season as a divorcée, newly moved away from the place where I had spent the last 20 years. But if I was seriously thinking about buying a lamp I don't need because it has palm trees on it and doesn't cost very much — and I was — maybe I'm not quite as okay as I thought.

And buying a lamp, or anything else, certainly won't fix it.

I put the lamp down and walked away from it (with a backward glance). I remembered what AA teaches you to do when you don't feel so cheerful, which is to do something for somebody else. Stop thinking about yourself and your little problems.

So I spent some extra time with my elderly parents last night, trying to be especially attentive to them and remembering to be grateful that they're still around. The urge to shop has left me, at least temporarily.

And if it comes back, I'm sure I can find something else to do for my folks, or for someone else. It's that time of year.

My husband and kids are coming upstairs. I'm in the kitchen preparing lunch and it sounds like my husband is having a rough time compelling my daughter up the stairs. He's losing his patience and my daughter is starting to freak out. Suddenly I hear my daughter cry and she runs up the stairs.   

"Daddy hurt me!" she yells, crying and hugging my legs.

Let me make sure you understand something: We don't hit our kids. My husband has never laid a hand on our kids in anger or discipline, so my guess is that he was carrying our son up the stairs and stumbled over our daughter. So the issue here isn't that my husband beats our kids, because he most certainly does not.

No, the issue here is how my husband reacts to this situation. Suddenly he's in front of me, saying, "I didn't hurt her! I didn't hurt her!" He sounds like our three-year-old son. For a brief moment, I have three kids instead of two. This is a common scenario when my husband gets frustrated with our daughter. His reasoning and reaction is temporarily comparable to a preschooler. It's maddening.

I wish he would remain the adult when dealing with our kids. I understand sometimes losing patience and getting frustrated, but my first instinct when my daughter is hurt is to help her to feel better and then deal with the details afterwards.

I'm not going to stand over her and argue whether she's really hurt or not. I'm going to make sure she's okay and then talk about what happened. If I had stumbled over her on the stairs I would apologize profusely instead of expending so much energy making sure everyone around me knew that it wasn't my fault.

In an instance like this where my daughter is hurt and my husband is also seeking my attention, my first priority will always be my daughter.  I don't know if that makes me a bad wife, but my husband is an adult and my daughter is four. Who would you turn your attention to?

I moved again. Second year without Levi and our second move. Man, I'm getting tired of lugging all of this stuff around.

With each move, comes new discoveries. Papers stuffed into desk drawers, Christmas and Birthday cards from happier times, pictures of Levi and I — our various vacations, our wedding, and several goofy ones.

The last time I looked at these things, I couldn't bring myself to throw them out. Who knows why — I guess there's just nothing like torturing yourself when your massively depressed.

But the somewhat remarkable thing is, that this time, they didn't sting as much as they did before. Actually, some of them didn't even phase me. This time I was able to throw most of them out.

I suppose this is yet another sign that I've almost worked all the way through this.

There is one thing, though, one overwhelming piece of furniture that I am quite sick of: the bed.

This bed is a monstrosity, an enormous king-sized monstrosity. I look at it as a testament to everything that I can't stand about Levi.

The over-indulging. The need to have the "best" of everything or rather, the need to have...everything.

I can't stand the damn thing.

My ex-boyfriend, on the other hand, loves that bed. So much so, that after listening to my complaining about it he offered to trade. He has a brand-new queen-sized bed that he's willing to trade for my king.

Awesome.

It wasn't until it was pointed out to me later that I got the irony of the whole thing: Ex-boyfriend inherits ex-husband's bed.