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.

I just spent a week with the longest-married couple I know, my parents. The last morning I was there, my eyes fell on a pair of photos I've seen a million times, black-and-white shots of each of them when they were in their 20s. Aside from the fact that they were both drop-dead gorgeous, I was struck by their confident smiles.

Clearly there was nothing those two couldn't handle, including 59 years of marriage — and counting.

"I should have left him years ago," my mother said once. "But I didn't think y'all should be without your father."

Now she fears she set a bad example for me. I married a man much like my father, though my dad never drank to excess. And I remember being shocked when I noticed my easygoing brother behaving, with the woman he married (and divorced), much like our father, who never got over being an Army sergeant.

On the other hand, who knows? If they had divorced, maybe I would have been something like one of those confused teen mothers who had a baby in the belief that there would always be someone to love her.

As much as I once looked forward to having kids with Ed, I'm equally grateful now that our family consisted solely of animals. Anyone divorcing with children gets my special prayers.

If the Sondra I am now could advise my mother of 35 years ago, I think I'd tell her that the most important model she could have set for me was to be a happy person.

I married quite late.

I used to say that my mother was married and it didn't look like she was having much fun.

But marry I did, just like Mom, sort of. I realized early on in my separation that I needed to be careful not to divorce my husband just because my mother never divorced hers.

My visit back home reminds me that I should be equally careful not to stay married just because she did.

Let me tell you about how we got our cat. She's a really pretty long haired cat that we obtained from the local animal shelter a few months ago after relentless requests from our older daughter for a family pet.

With everything so up in the air lately with regards to our family situation I was really apprehensive about getting a family pet, but as I said, my daughter was relentless.

It turns out that I'm allergic to cats. I had cats growing up and at some points in my adult years, but something about this cat makes me sneeze and cough as though I was rolling around in oleander bushes (something I really am allergic to).

When it became apparent that I can only spend limited time with this cat before my eyes start watering and my throat starts itching, the chore of brushing the cat's long fur falls on my husband. The kids aren't quite gentle enough yet for this delicate task, and when I do it I feel simply miserable afterwards even when I pop an allergy pill beforehand.

So now let me tell you about how our cat looks nowadays: She walks around with knots all over her fur, occasionally stopping to meow and pick at the lumps of matted fur that have developed on various spots of her body.

"Have you been brushing the cat's fur?" I'll ask my husband.

"I've been too busy," is his reply as he flips through the television channels.

"Will you please brush her out tonight?" I ask.

"Sure," he says, and then goes back to watching TV.

Sometimes he'll brush her, and sometimes he won't. I usually winds up taking the scissors to the tangles in her fur and cutting them out because she's obviously uncomfortable.

That poor cat didn't know what she was getting herself into when she came home with us.