When my husband proposed to me a dozen years ago, he said, "You elevate me." I knew it was hyperbole, but it was pretty romantic. (And I said, "Right back at ya.")

"Together we can charm them all," he said, "We'll make our entrances. You'll whisper to me what to say."

And what not to say. That was our little arrangement. And it worked well for 10 years.

Now it's Year 12, and my whispered cues are just annoyances to him. I know we didn't write this anywhere in a pre-nup — hell, we don't have a pre-nup. But wasn't that part of our "deal"?

When did he stop taking my cues?

When did my telling him to switch ties or switch topics become perceived as an attack?

When did he start calling me a control freak?

He's fired me as his stage prompter. Now my job is doing damage control the next day.

It used to be okay when it was just us, and we made love on the kitchen stool when he would sneak home for lunch.

But now we are a family, and I have to defend more than my husband's choice of words, or choice of tie.

Now it's the whole fabric I must defend. It's the franchise. He and I have had a tacit agreement for years: He would glad hand, and I would maintain the franchise.

By that I mean, it was up to me to make sure our kids got haircuts, shook hands with grown-ups, and didn't run in the pool area.

It was my job to make sure everything looked good to the outside world. All he had to do was show up and — literally or figuratively — pat everyone on the head.

Quaint as it seems, it's worked for us, for a decade. But now he complains about the kids' haircuts. He doesn't care if they shake hands or not. He doesn't even know what the pool rules are, let alone have any interest in enforcing them.

I don't have kids, I have pets. And they became another kind of shattered family after my split with Edgar. I thought getting him out of the house was the hard part. But after he was gone, I saw he was right.

I wasn't making enough money to take care of the house and the dogs, cats, birds and fish. I never said anything to him about alimony, but I did ask him for animal support. After all, it was Ed who had brought most of them home.

He said he thought he might be able to kick in something, if he could be sure it would be used for critter care.

I changed the locks the day he was supposed to be out. But he broke in one afternoon and left $30 on the table.

That's been the extent of it, unless you count his telling me to try not to let any of the animals die.

What a sweetheart.

Halfheartedly, I asked around to see if anybody wanted any of my critters. I had hoped to keep them all, but when the filter broke on the fish tank, I got desperate.

The note I left on the pet store bulletin board, "Divorce Forces Adoption," led to my goldfish moving into a beautiful outdoor pond. The same family took in my cockatiels. My finches have become a source of joy at an old folks' home, and another childless woman dotes on my ex-parrots.

Ed's three cats remain, but my roommate is a cat person and has taken them over. I did find a place for one dog, who went to live with my brother in another state. The deal was that she'd be with him temporarily — but indefinitely. They are so happy, I'm concentrating on the indefinite part.

Hard as it was for me to part with my critters, as much as I miss the chirping and squawking, and the bubbles and graceful swimming, I think those who moved out are better off than they were here with me.

So maybe it’s selfish to hold on to my remaining dogs, and I have to admit there are four of them. But enough sacrifice here. 

We've been looking for a place to rent for almost two months, but we're still in the same broke boat, with the same crappy credit we had two years ago when I left.

And just like when I left, and all the long years leading up to it, the weight of financial pressure creates this ongoing competition for resources that exacerbates all of our other problems.

Sam says I'm more stressed about it than he is.

He says it to me and he says it to our therapist, then we walk out of the appointment and he accuses me of wanting more than I actually want, of wanting to keep up with the Joneses, when actually I could not care less about anyone else's lifestyle.

I don't want a McMansion. I just want to get by without struggling.

It's the same old fight.

Not being able to support our family makes him feel inadequate, and I know it's true because when I left because he owned up to it. Admitted the nasty things he said were about being angry with himself, not me.

So I call him on it, and he apologizes. It's an improvement I'm willing to work with.

Our therapist once told me finances are cited as a key factor in 80 percent of divorces. Money is the number-one point of contention in marriages. I'll buy that. There's so much stuff bound up in dollars.

Like they say, money is power. So, of course, there's contention about who spends it and how. That's assuming there's money to be spent.

Those arguments feel luxurious to me. We don't get to fight about whose spending irresponsibly. More likely, I ask Sam to ask his family for a loan; he refuses. Or what we are going to do about child care this fall because we owe Lila's pre-school more than it cost me for a year of college back in the day, and until we pay it down, we can't use their before and after care program.

Sam and I both work hard at jobs we love, but we don't make much money doing it.

OK, so you're asking: Why am I still here?

I think I've got a new answer this week: Monkey Branching. You know, brachiation, swinging from limb to limb. Something gibbons do in the jungle.

It's positively evil, emotionally unhealthy, this notion of keeping one hand on the solid branch of home, family and two cars in the driveway, while reaching the other hand out for some branch that may be out there somewhere.

But that's how I plan to go about searching the suburban jungle — finding something, some new guy, new while clinging to the old.

It's not like no one's ever done this before.

In high school we called it keeping another guy on the "back burner," in case some other relationship turned out not to be on the boil.

Alas, in high school, it was just you and the candidates for prom date. Now anyone on the back burner, or, to mix metaphors, any new branch, is going to have to hold not just my heart but my two children as well.

What sort of man would provide such a strong branch? Who would want to? One thing I do know: I won't be swinging on any new branches without my kids.

I know, I know.

My girlfriends, the talk show psycho-bablers, the self-help books, the marriage counselors, all say, "You have to be on your own before you can find somebody else."

Yeah, but I've been on my own before.

I'm no princess, waiting in her turret for Prince Rescue to come along. I've paid my own rent. Worked in Corporate America (high-profile and six-figures, thank you). Dated bigtime in the Big Bad Apple.

It's just that I've never done it with two beautiful pre-school kids in tow.

Monkey branching? Me? The library-helper-mom? The bake sale mom?

Isn't that sleazy?

I'm somewhat resentful and frustrated by aspects of my parents' marriage and divorce but that hasn't blinded me to the lessons to be learned.

I've learned from my parents' marriage not to let a few rocky patches turn into decades of dissatisfaction. Their betrayals of each other — big and small — and their unhappiness across the years show how easily people can get stuck in terribly unhealthy relationships. So with Rob, I've delved into couples therapy. And if that doesn't work, I'm not going to stay put forever.

I've also learned — and this is a big life lesson — how to muster feelings of compassion toward very difficult people. I can't forgive my father for his betrayals, or forget how he could make his kids feel like unwanted nuisances. But as his Alzheimer's disease rapidly progresses and he becomes further forgetful and confused — and, ironically but most helpfully, increasingly nice and gentle — I can let my resentment go and help him. He didn't take care of me so well, but now the roles have reversed, I don't need to repay his unkindness.

In all the crap life throws at us, divorce and disease are up there among the worst. But it is short-sighted to dwell on their difficult aspects only. Lessons to be learned, silver lining, lemonade from lemon, "challenges" — call them what you will — I'm not letting anything get the best of me.

Though...I'm on duty with my dad for the next few days, so let's just wait and see what I have to say after that.

A year ago when Sam and I began round three of counseling, our therapist recommended we draw up a contract, a kind of pre re-nup agreement, spelling out our needs and expectations.

Said it's a way to protect yourself — not your finances — the self that is YOU from being swallowed whole by enormity of committing to forever as part of a pair. Fear of losing myself in this, or any other, relationship ever again is huge for me.

She said it could be a detailed as, "If I want to go traveling in Asia alone for two years, it will be alright with you."

I never drafted it. Truth is, back when she was giving that advice I still thought I was in counseling to end my marriage, not to consider how best rebuild it.

What a difference a year makes. Closing in on this reunification, here's the rough draft of my Soul Protection Contract:

-I will always have a room within our house that is mine alone to work, think, be, and sometimes sleep in. It will have a locking door.

-We will have each have one "off duty" weekend every month with no responsibility for parenting, housekeeping, or partnering.

-We will have one free day (or night) every week.

-If someone does not use his/her time, that decision does not affect the other's right to do so without guilt.

-If I have the opportunity to travel for work to a place you would like to go, but can't because of your own work, this will be okay with you.

-When I need space for friends or I need to spend nights-on-end holed up in my room to write and think, and I emerge only help with the kids, this will also be okay.

-We will maintain separate banks accounts in addition to our household account.

-If you want to take an extended road trip with the girls during your summer break (Sam is on a school calendar) and I cannot go because of work, this will be okay with me (and with you.)

As is obvious from my previous posts I've had some struggles with dealing with Levi's family. It seems that just as the point came that I was very comfortable and very happy with never having to deal with them again — they barged back into my life making all sorts of demands of me and my time.

I thank you all for your advice and no doubt, I took a lot of it to heart. After writing about how they asked for me to keep their visits with Adrian a secret, and then reading your responses I came to the realization that I just don't have the emotional energy to expel on them.

I called Levi's sister and told her that the whole scene was making me uncomfortable and that I felt that they should deal with Levi, be upfront and honest about their feelings, and then they were more than welcome to see Adrian.

His sister became irate and hung up the phone. Ten minutes later I got this email:

Faith:

I appreciate that there are things you want from us that you have not received. I cannot get an email one day asking when we will see Adrian, giving the dates that you will be away and the next day getting a call that you don't know if you want us to see him.

You are not the only one with big problems and big issues to deal with. If you decide you want us to see Adrian without out any drama, fine. If not, then we will all have to deal with the consequences, most of all Adrian.

When Adrian grows up and wants to know why he has no relationship with his father's family, believe me, you will not be able to put it only on us.

On Sunday, I apparently bribed the 11-year-old daughter of my long-lost, now divorced, male friend from college. You may remember that I recently ran into him in Grand Central Station in New York.

The bribe: Presents to make the kid like me!

It didn't start out seeming like a bribe to like me ... it just turned out that way. This was a great friend I’d lost touch with for 17 years. We were at each other’s weddings; he held my daughter when she was born, but I had never met his two daughters.

Last week he and I went out for an eight-hour, belly-laughing, catch-up dinner. This weekend was his weekend with his girls, and we had very loose tentative plans so that I might meet his daughter. On Sunday, around 5, I was on the endless check-out line at HomeGoods when he called.

He and his younger daughter were nearby. Did I want to join them for a bite?

Absolutely!

If you've ever been to a HomeGoods, you know they ambush you with impulse items while they have you held captive on the checkout line. I decided to buy the little girl a gift. A cute little, hard-cover notepad tied with ribbon.

Perfect!

But wait — maybe she would enjoy some origami to keep her busy at her Dad's house.

Perfect!

But wait — they just played tennis for 15 hours, and the colorful little ped socks with the different designs will probably come in handy, because no divorced Dad has a pair of cute matching ped socks for their little girls handy when they need them.

Perfect!

I couldn't decide so I bought all three. And how cute – I'll buy these manly, cool peds for my friend, so he doesn't feel left out.

When I got to the restaurant, I spotted them sitting together and weaved my way through the tables toward them. I felt a rush of compassion for this lovely, divorced father intently doing his best by his daughter on his weekend with her.

I've blogged about contemplating separation from Rob, but barely discussed how I recently became a child of divorce. After 37 years of marriage, my parents split when a marathon argument revealed the details of my fathers' many affairs...the longest and most significant of which was with my best friend's mother. (What a jerk, right?)

My mother's decision to leave my father did not rock my world at first. I had felt, for many years, she owed it to herself and her kids to get out from under his cloud of darkness. The illogical behavior and unreasonable mood swings grew worse over time. Finally, she was taking action.

The tragedy is this: months after their split, my father's crazy behavior was diagnosed as early-stage Alzheimer's disease.

And just a year later, the disease has ravaged his intellectual capacity and ability to communicate. This once angry man is now a gentle giant in need of my care.

I'll never fault my mother for leaving. But the timing of Dad's diagnosis weighs heavily on her, as if she should have known and stayed to care for him. (Traditionalists might point to marriage vows and agree.)

But I can't spend time helping my mom feel better about herself. My siblings and I have more pressing concerns. My dad, the man who put the anguish and anxiety in my childhood and who betrayed my entire family, now like a child, is a serious responsibility.

Busy people, who surround themselves with four kids, a husband, a wide social circle, a dog, two cats, and countless gerbils, do it because they don't like to be alone. I am one of those people.

My girlfriends, therefore, called me crazy when I told them I was going to go without a date for the next month.

I had no idea it was going to be so hard. Unplugging the phone and suspending the match.com account has not been without ramifications. The first night was horrible.

It reminded me of the first weeks of being separated.

The first thing I did Friday night after work was turn the lights down and turn the radio up. With the scent of candles wafting through the house, I ran a bath and decided to concentrate on "me" time.

Normally the kids would be watching TV in the living room, asking for second helpings of dinner. On nights when the kids are with their Dad, I'd be out for drinks with friends.

Weekends post-divorce, I'd usually be juggling a man, or two.

But not this month. This is solo month and I'm determined to find out what makes me tick.

There is no choice but to succeed. If I can't wrestle some quiet time into my hectic life, then nothing is going to change from the days when I was married.

By 8 o'clock I'd downed two glasses of wine and was feeling weepy. Wine churning around in an empty stomach, and the silence of a childless house, were enough to make me run screaming from the suburbs.

When the divorce was first under way, I'd thought about getting an apartment in the city. My ex told me that he'd make life with the children impossible if I did that, so I'd reneged, a good choice for the kids, but a tough sacrifice for a middle-age woman alone in a house in the middle of August, with nothing but the crickets chirping outside.

It might as well have been Stephen King's Maine.