The first time I saw her, she was five years old, and I was seven. I had fallen asleep on the bus after school one day, and when I woke up, the bus driver’s granddaughter was poking me with her finger.

She was impossibly cute, and I told the bus driver that she had a lovely granddaughter.

The next time I saw her, she was 15, and I was 17. I was driving to one of my favorite hang-out spots, and I passed by this gorgeous blonde who was jogging along the side of the road. I whipped the car around at the next intersection, and went back to try to talk to her, but when she saw the car coming, she ran into her house. Fine, be that way. I got places to go anyway.

The next time I saw her, I was 18, and she was married to my best friend. Over dinner at their house one night, we put the pieces together, and that’s when I realized that the cute kindergartner and the hot teenager were one and the same. She was still beautiful, but she was also married, and that’s one line that I just won’t cross. We became friends though, and we enjoyed each other’s company.

They got divorced a year later, and I felt bad for both of them.

The next time I saw her, I was 21, and she was 19. One particular Saturday, I decided to stop by her place, and say hi. She was cleaning her apartment, and getting ready to hitchhike to New Orleans. I didn’t think that was a good idea, so I asked her if she wanted to spend a couple of days with me first, just to hang out and talk. If, after that, she still wanted to go to New Orleans, well, then I’d drive her.

We shared laughter, and we shared secrets. We had a lot of fun together. A year later, our daughter was born. Shortly after that, we got married on a deserted beach at sunset.

We had our share of good times, but more than our share of bad times. The bad times got worse over time. Towards the end, we fought and fought and fought, and never could reach any sort of compromise.

Five years after we were married, we got divorced. We hated each other at that point. We couldn’t even say “good morning” to each other without it turning into a huge argument. For our daughter, and for our own sanity, we had to do the one thing we always swore we would never do. We went our separate ways.

The next five years apart involved a lot of compromise, and a lot of sacrifice. We had to find ways to work together, because we were both committed to being involved parents. Eventually, we learned to accept and trust each other again. We learned to like each other as people, something we never got around to doing before.

I wish I had the specific road map that we used, or the blueprints, or whatever analogy you want to use to show how we got from there to here, because I think it might be helpful for other people. But the truth is, I don’t really know how we did it. We had to do a lot of “agreeing to disagree”, a lot of compromising, and a lot of swallowing our pride. And, we both had to practice forgiveness and tolerance, again, and again, and again.

And so here we are, nearly 30 years after we first met. We’re on good terms. We talk on the phone. We share hopes, and dreams. We celebrate the good times and we comfort each other during the bad times. We laugh about the old times, and plan for our daughter’s future. We have a good working relationship, co-parenting a teenager. We love each other. Not in the way that we used to, but perhaps in the way that we should. We love as friends, as co-parents, as a team.

In short, we have become friends. And even though we know that we can never function as a “couple” again, we still feel like we are family.

Getting divorced sucks, there’s no way around it. And the first few years after a divorce are heart-wrenching and head-spinning ordeals. But sometimes (or maybe every time, if you choose to believe that things always work out for the best) you find that it really was the best thing for everyone. On the other side of the pain and fighting and mistakes and insanity can be something really beautiful, if you let it.

Because “happily ever after” doesn’t always look like the way it sounds.

photo credits: ro gianesi, san_drino, claytron

Necessary Background Points

• Growing up neither I nor my five siblings ever used a pacifier.
• I have four brothers and our parents used a word for our “little guys” that I found particularly embarrassing. I don’t know why.

Fast Forward 20 years
Our chatty, curious first child was taking a bath and discovered his “little guy” indicating to us it was time to give him a word with which to identify it.

Now, my parents called it a “dinkus”. I don’t know why I don’t like that word. But, dangnabbit, my son was not going to use that word.

And why I couldn’t just teach him the proper medical term, “penis”, I don’t know. It’s a part of life, a reality, central to our beings, to have a healthy understanding of our various parts, their proper use, the mystery and joy of learning to embrace our sexuality in a healthy manner.

But, how to start off with a 2 year-old who is looking down at himself in the bathtub?

A word popped into my mind that sounded good: cute, easy to say for the little guy and NOT what I grew up with NOR the “adult”, clinical word.

What word did I choose?

Binky.

Yes, binky.

I had never heard of that particular brand name of pacifier. We had not discovered Rug Rats yet to find out Tommy had a pacifier that he called his binky.

We didn’t discover until three years later, while walking through Walmart, that we had chosen the wrong word. By this time, we had two boys indoctrinated. A young mother and her beautiful little girl were moseying around the toddler toy aisle when I heard her say, “Kimmy, keep that binky in your mouth.”

I didn’t do a double take. My head whipped around in a spasmodic, unconscious reaction to hearing those words and I saw little Kimmy put a pacifier in her mouth.

And as luck would have it, we were headed to pick up some diapers, bibs and other things. That was where I saw my first ever brand-name Binky® pacifier. I pointed it out to my wife. She looked at me in shock then we both busted out laughing.

Then we set about trying to figure out how to teach our little ones to call it something else.

Now, our little boy is going on fourteen years old, has had the sex education classes and he and I have discussed everything that needs to be discussed with a boy over a year into puberty.

He brought up the word “binky” to me the other day, with a little smirk on his face.

I said, “Oh, shut up!” and we both had a good laugh.

The overtones of the word do not have be said. He understands and thinks it is hilarious.

I am still horrified.

Boy Scout’s honor this is true!

photo credits: Babies411, kevygee

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This is an anonymous guest post from someone who needed to express his hurt today. He is not yet able to share his story, but wanted to get this out. If you have time, please lend some support to him by commenting.

Sitting here dumbfounded.
Mean messages of all types
From the girl, the wife, who