All that has transpired among my family this holiday takes longer to digest than even the biggest turkey holiday.

My mother and step-father (still getting used to calling this stranger any sort of father) swept through town town in a fit of self-importance, leaving behing gifts from their recent Mexican holiday.

The dishes were barely dry and it was time for a seven-hour drive to upstate NY where my sister and I removed my father's car from his possession for his own safety (dementia has robbed him of his driving skills). We lied and said we accidentally crashed it but actually put it into storage. 

Holidays...what fun. But who had my back through all the bickering and tears? Rob. Gotta hand it to that guy. He's a good one to have aroun.

Adrian will be two in just a few weeks. It's hard to believe that it's been two whole years already. Sometimes it feels like it was just yesterday that I was that frightened, mess of a woman about to embark on what seemed to be this hopeless, depressing journey of single mom-hood.

Sometimes still, if I'm not careful, it's easy to revert back to that woman — let my fears get the best of me. But for today, I must say, that I am no longer her. 

This journey has transformed me, made me stronger, made me realize that I have potential far beyond what I could have ever imagined. And for that, I am thankful.

However, some of the transformative effects are not so great. This journey has rendered me guarded, cautious, and at times very cynical. Most of the time I am certain that I could never trust a man with my heart ever again. Other times, I have the clarity to know that I want to.

I suppose it's all part of the process of healing — working through the hurt — and when it's done, when I'm fully healed, I'll know and hopefully drop some of the cynicism.

For now, I need it.

Levi's mother emailed to ask what we were doing for Adrian's birthday, and if she could see him again. I told her that I'm taking him to the Dora show in Manhattan, and invited her to come along.

I must admit that it hurts to see her again. Opens the floodgates and all of the memories: hopes, dreams, fantasies of my perfect life with my son and Levi — my perfect family — rush back in. The reality that things are not what they were intended to be can feel like a smack in the face.

But I am trying to have faith, trying to be optimistic that although my life certainly has not gone as planned, it is good. We have a good life, and a wonderful family structure even sans Levi.

Friday morning and I'm giving thanks for Turkey Day with our best friends yesterday. Sam and I have lived a thousand miles or more from our families of origin for the last 14 Thanksgivings.

Getting back to our folks — especially now that it requires four tickets — is a once-every-few-years event. Out in Portland, where most of our closest friends are in the same gravy boat, we've done the traditional feast together sans the annual family drama almost every year.

Sometimes I miss my family, mourn the chance to have my kids hang out with their cousins, but when it comes right down to it, my favorite way to spend the holiday is right here with the extended family we've created.

And this year, our first year back together, it was nice to be on neutral ground. No moms or dads or in-laws for anyone to please. Where our kids may not have blood relatives, but they do have a circle of friends they've known since birth. And the same kind of familial love that goes with it.

Plus, we'll have enough of that next month.

Early morning I'm up before dawn, and up before the kids — trying to be up before them anyway. There bunked-up in the other room and their chatter is all holidays.

Roxie says, "And Hannukah, too, don't forget."

Lila says, "And Christmas is in Hannukah this year."

Then two little voices together: "And Grammy is coming!"

And I may not be excited about this with them, but I'm equally excited for them.

A funny thing happened on this journey from dutiful wife and devoted mom back to myself. Of course, I'll always be a devoted mom — but what surprised me, is what a dutiful ex-wife I've become.

The feelings of anger (on his part) and abandonment (on mine) have finally receded into a distant memory. The sense of competition between households (he with the most toys wins vs Ms Rules and Routines) have dissipated as the girls are now old enough to navigate back and forth: my house during the school week for regular balanced meals and so as not to be tempted by aforementioned toys; his place more on weekends and school breaks. 

We seem to have reached a comfortable détente. I took the girls to visit their older sister at college; he took care of our pets, sitting at my kitchen table, drinking a beer, picking ticks off the dog. Internet access in the house was achingly slow on the girls' wireless computers (nonexistent on my dinosaur Mac); so Ex the techno wizard came over, diagnosed the situation, and fixed it (no charge!). 

Conversely, when Ex explained some of his business woes, in this time of ever growing anxiety, I heard myself saying that I would cover more of the costs-that we could settle up accounts after the economy stabilized. That conversation wouldn't have been possible a year ago. 

Moving beyond simmering resentments is hard (breathe in, breathe out, let go for heaven's sakes), but makes life a whole lot nicer for everyone involved. Even Ex's Next, who had not spoken to me since that little unpleasantness regarding their nuptials, made an unprecedented move. A few weeks ago, she was coming down the driveway while I was picking my daughter up from her dad's house. Usually, she would just slink inside, averting her eyes. But this time, she walked over to say hello, as if nothing had happened.

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.

So here I am, back where I started. As recently as six months ago, I would have laughed loudly at the suggestion that I'd ever find myself living again in the little city where I grew up. But, my script has flipped.

Underemployed in South Florida, and about to be divorced, I began to think it might be good to live someplace I could afford. I'd also have the support of family and friends and be able to provide the same for them.

Still, there's something about going back...

I try to keep in mind what my therapist, the Good Doctor (boy, do I miss her) said when I whined about returning here, as I said, "with my tail between my legs."

"If that's the way you choose to look at it," she said.

I am a little...embarrassed, I guess...not to have returned home in a blaze of glory, or at least in a fancy new car. That's the trouble with expectations. I'd gotten a great start in life and I was supposed to become all that and a bag of chips, as we used to say.

But at least I didn't come back battered and bruised, running from or dragging along my drunken husband. And, I'm not drunk myself.

So I'm available to spend time with my parents and those of my friends who live elsewhere, to visit the old folks in the hospital, to run their errands sometimes, maybe even to take them places in my 11-year-old car.

Which is more important: to look good or to do good?

I vote for the latter, especially since my actions are something I have control over, while I can't control what other people think of my looks. Perhaps after I've made myself useful here for a while, I'll relax a bit about who and where I am.

As for whoever's assessing me, I'll try to remember something I heard once: People who matter don't judge, and people who judge don't matter.  

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.

I finally did it.  I met with Levi's mother yesterday.

Quick recap for those of you that don't know/don't remember: Levi's mother has never seen Adrian. In fact, Levi's mother is the woman that sent me an email just a few days after Adrian was born telling me that I should have given him up for adoption immediately and adding that my son was nothing I should be proud of.

Yeah, I met with her yesterday. It's been a long time coming.

We were to meet in the main lobby of the museum at 11:30. As I walked into the lobby amongst a huge crowd, I spotted her immediately and my heart started racing.

"What am I doing?" I thought. "Why am I putting myself through this?" I turned around, pulled out my cell phone and phoned my very best friend, Rachel, and told her what was going on — by this point I was practically hiding in the bathroom.

"You have nothing to be nervous about, Faith. Just get out there and get it over with, and remember, you are the one doing her a favor," she said. "If anyone should be nervous right now, it should be her."

So finally, I took a deep breath and marched over to her.

It was awkward and filled with that fake niceness that makes me sick to my stomach but I suppose there are worse things...

She told me that Erica, Levi's sister, was also coming but was running late. She told me that she already purchased the tickets so I should just go on in with Adrian and she would meet me in a few minutes. Then she handed me two tickets.

"Thank you," I said and handed a ticket back to her. "Adrian doesn't need a ticket," I told her.

"Why not?" She asked and added that every child aged 2-14 needs a ticket. "Adrians not two yet," I told her.

"He's not?" she asked, surprised.

"Nope," I told her. "He won't be two until December thirteenth."