One of the things that pulled my husband and me apart was his fascination and obsession with online video games. These were the games where he could socialize with other people and spend seven or eight hours a night running around in his alternate reality, dueling monsters and hooking up with female avatars. 

When I tried to leave the marriage he decided — on his own — to stop playing video games altogether. He sold his gaming systems and uninstalled all the games off his computer. That was months ago, and although I'm pretty sure he's played some video games at friends' houses, as far as I know, he didn't play any games at home.

The other night we were having a conversation and got on the subject of video games. He said he missed the games and if given a chance he wouldn't play them as vigorously as before. I said that he's an adult, and he needs to make the decision of whether he would ever play again. I told him that he had made the decision to stop altogether, so ultimately it's up to him.

Lo and behold, a couple of days later he's loading video games onto the computer.

I'm terrified. One of the huge steps my husband took in an attempt to earn my trust back was to stop playing video games. Has he turned back to video games since I'm still not all lovey-dovey with him, or does he think that me telling him that he's an adult and can make his own decisions is actually a veiled endorsement of video games?

I'm bracing myself because if he falls back into the old habits of caring more about a stinking video game than he does about his real life then I don't think I can stick around for a second round.

I watched him play for a few minutes today and had to leave the room because I felt like I was going to scream. Or cry. Or both. 

Steps forward in real life tend to make the imp that lives in my brain backpedal frantically. "Run, run!" he yips, waving his arms about, Kermit-like. "It's too much! Ruuuun!"

I've gotten much, much better at shutting him up. He shrills away, but I've learned, mostly, not to pay attention. But when it's a hard week, when I'm feeling overwhelmed, when I'm sad — that's when his voice gets harder to ignore.

This moving thing, for example. It's big. Sure, I was thinking about moving anyway. Sure, it's not all about the boy. But part of it is. Taking this step says we think we're actually going to make it. On my bad days, this is what I worry about: What if we're not? What if the magic and wonderfulness and perfection of what this actually hinges on is the fact that it's long distance?

It didn't help that our cohabitation experiment wasn't a success. That I handled it badly. That he's backtracked since then.

Then there's this month: finalizing the legal documentation of my inability to make a relationship work. Just when I think that I am past this, that I've come to terms, it rears its head and reminds me that I don't have a great track record. 

"What about this?" crows the imp, waving legal papers at me. "Why would you think anything ever works out?"

Normally, I know, deep down, that my fears are largely unjustified. That I'm worrying about something that is so "might be, maybe," that I really shouldn't worry at all. This, though, this feels more real. It feels immediate, and it feels scary, and it's hard to talk myself down.

There's nothing to do, I suppose, but do — imp or no — and see what happens.

Well, it's Thankgiving again, a time when we reflect on all of the things that we have (rather than what we don't have) and remember to be grateful for them. 

This year has changed me in so many ways; molded the clay of my being in ways that I would not have imagined, but now, cannot live without. I've met a lot of amazing people and I've been moved beyond belief by the kindness that these people have shown us. I'd like to take a moment to thank some of those people now. 

To my very best friend Rachel: Thank you for standing by me for all of these years, but especially this year. You are my angel. 

To Adam: Thank you for showing me the way — "my way." 

To all of the wonderful people at Adrian's daycare center: I cannot find the words to express how truly grateful I am to all of you. Putting my son in daycare was a very scary thing for me, as I'm sure it is for most mothers. The support, encouragement, and general help that you've given me is astounding and I am nothing short of exceptionally thankful. The kindness, love and respect that you have shown my son has helped us both to grow. You feel like part of our family now. Thank you, thank you, thank you from both of us. 

To all of the First Wives World readers:  The community of women gathered here are all unique and all equally amazing. Thank you for sharing your experiences with me and thank you for allowing me to share mine. 

To Maureen, FWW editor: Thank you for fixing my punctuation. (You have no idea how much this means to me!)  

To everyone I've dated, even if it ended badly: Thank you for the experience, thank you for your interest and (maybe) thank you for putting up with me. 

I’m as traditional and nostalgic as anyone, and a damn fine cook. But even though l love setting a beautiful table, and making Thanksgiving dinner, my Thanksgivings have been a series of unpleasant experiences. When I think back, this is what I remember:

● I was a child at my grandmother’s house in Minnesota. The uncles hung out in the living room, watching TV. The aunts worked in the overheated kitchen. My mom and dad both came from families of seven, so there were lots of aunts and uncles and cousins, only one of whom went to prison, later, for killing his stepfather. The Thanksgiving meal was served, with all of its strangeness: green and black olives, or that odd cylinder of cranberry. Dinner over, the Canadian Club whiskey would come out so the men could relax. The women cleaned up as my uncles, red-faced and swearing, played poker at the kitchen table. They were loud and scary and we were devout Methodists, who didn’t believe in drinking, smoking, gambling, dancing or going to see movies (except The Ten Commandments). The aunts, armed with leftovers and sleepy children, had to drag the men away. Result: Fear of drunken uncles, fear of drunks.

● I was older, a teenager, and I helped my mother at her grocery store, open seven days a week, 12 hours a day, except for Christmas Day. We closed on Thanksgiving, too, but only between noon and four. Thanksgiving meant racing back and forth between the store and the house, tending the turkey, making sure the house hadn’t burned down. My half-brother, brother, uncle, dad, mom and I would eat around 3. Then we’d race back and open the store, so other people could get ice cream, sugar, pickled herring, coffee, pies, Tampax... whatever it was all those Scandinavians needed for Thanksgiving. Result: Class resentment.

So, like many other people in this world, I am a child who comes from a divorced family. The only difference with me is that I was too young to understand when my parents split up, so I grew up not knowing any different. I thought it was normal. When I found out that someone actually lived with both of their parents, I figured they were of a different species.

As I grew up, I realized that these other people all looked at me that way. Although this seems like its going in a sad direction, I actually love my life and wouldn’t have it any other way. The advantage of not having to actually deal with the divorce part worked out a lot in my favor.

I was just around for the aftermath, which included getting double the amount of presents for Christmas, double the attention, double the love, and getting to live two different lives. When I am with my mom, it's just me and her, which is the fun yet dysfunctional aspect of it.

When I’m with my dad, it’s sort of the average all-American family including two kids, a dog, and a white picket fence — without the picket fence. I have a stepmother who was always good to me, and a younger brother and sister who I like to pretend to fight with just so I get the full stereotypical family experience. (I am a glass-half-full kind of girl, I guess). That’s just a little background check on me.

I am turning 21 years old on Thanksgiving Day. Obviously it will be hard to choose who to spend it with, being that it is also a holiday. Rather than worry, I just handle situations like this, so instead of choosing sides, I will make it sort of a game. I figure I’ll take myself on tour. I will stay with my mom for dinner, then go to one of my Aunt’s house’s, then my other Aunts’ house, and then to see my Father.

Guess what? Like Madonna, I am stumbling, shaking, smashing, and dancing my way through the effects of my divorce. From the interviews I've read, she's not having an easy time of it.

Even though it seems she'll hang onto most of her cool hundreds of millions, someone recently told me that prosperity isn't how much money you have, but how "well off" you feel. Honestly, if that's the case, then I'm rich!

The holidays can be a crazy time. Self-sacrifice and stress can lead to negative emotions, and leave you feeling vulnerable and tired. People like Madonna keep their heads screwed on straight by staying creative and expressive. They always remember to make time for themselves, because if you're not good to yourself, then you won't be good for anyone else.

This month, Madonna's on tour with her band. She says that keeps her from feeling too sorry for herself and all the messy divorce proceedings.

My band's on break this fall, because my keyboard player just had throat surgery and is on vocal rest. So the only tour I'm going to do right now is the one I'm taking with my kids on Thanksgiving.

We're not quite the Partridge Family, and we're not riding on a bus, but the shrink-wrapped, pink Housewives On Prozac-mobile will head north toward New Hampshire tomorrow for a week of family fun. The kids and I will be singing at the top of our lungs all the way.

This is a trip we really look forward to. The only difference is, this year, there is a new man in my life. He's my prize for sitting tight for five long years and not jumping into another full-time relationship, or marriage.

I know I'll catch some grief. What would a family get-together be, without the teasing?

They probably feel I've introduced them to thousands of men through the years. I'm afraid they'll be whispering behind my back: My goodness, here she is with another one!

Thanksgiving week has all the wind knocked out of me. Could just be my reaction to going down, down, down the rabbit hole. The Holidays are here.

Only thing I know is the only thing I want to do is curl up under my big old comforter and sleep. It’s the lack of time that has me feeling so defeated. My kids don’t have school all week and we don’t have childcare, don’t have the money for the extra child care, I should say, so what happens? I don’t have time to work.

We are caught right smack in the center exactly what I feared getting back into this. I have no time to work because we can’t afford to cover the business hours I need so jobs are left unfinished leaving me feeling further defeated and my pay further behind, which adds up to less childcare that we can afford and fewer things completed. It goes on like this until I’m right where I am now.

One big miserable puddle of blah. And I blame it on the marriage, when actually I should blame it on me.

My reasoning, skewed as it may be, is that when we were apart a couple things were absolute: I had several days every week to work because the kids were with Sam and I had to make it work because the alternatives were homelessness and starvatation.

This week, I’m giving thanks for my two beautiful, healthy girls, and the ability I have to back up, reconsider, and try it again. But I'm also questioning how much of my current situation is a self-fulfilling prophecy and why I can't have the structure to make room for work in the same way I did when I was separated.