Thank Heaven for Little Girls

There is one really good thing that has come out of my divorce.

Well, lots of good things, actually. Like no longer having to crawl into bed with or wake up beside Lars, for starters. Talk about sleeping with the enemy. He has no idea how lucky he is that he didn't ever wake up to the sensation of being strangled with the clock radio chord.

And I own the house. No more artistic interference from Mr. Uncommonly Bad Taste when making decisions about wall covering, or window treatments, or practicality vs. beauty, or what color towels or bed linens to buy. If I'd not continually put my foot down throughout our marriage, my entire house would be brown or burgundy or some other shade that doesn't "show dirt." (How about you don't drag in any dirt, Einstein?)

And I can take liberties with meals. There isn't a strict "must be a green thing" rule ( because carrots and squash have no nutritional value...) and I can use things like blue cheese dressing without a lecture about how it negates the value of the salad (whatever makes you feel better over there, King of the Fast Food Drive-thru) and if I want to read the back of the cereal box at the table, no one is going to take offense at my social gracelessness.

I could go on and on. There must be hundreds of little points of pain that have been relieved over the past few years. The big ones are hard to miss; they transformed my life in lots of expected and unexpected ways. The little nuanced differences come in many forms. Like when you take something for a bad cold, and a few minutes later you notice that it's easier to breathe. I must have experienced at least a thousand of them. A thousand little simplicities that were once such complicated matters. A thousand things not nagged about. A thousand things not to have to consider compromising about because someone else has unreasonable expectations.

And though there are lots of miseries that still persist, like my shared custody arrangement and my galling child support obligation, there is a silver lining to those things, too.

Hil is about to turn thirteen. By all accounts,she should be an eye-rolling, insolent little piss pot for 90% of her waking hours. Getting sneaky. Preferring the solitude of her locked bedroom over any form of activity with me (regardless of how enjoyable it might be). Sassing me. Defying me. Deciding that am stupid, old, decidedly un-hip, and am an limitless font of ridiculous ideas.

But with very few exceptions, I have been spared the typical experience. She is 90% wonderful, and only 10% eye-rolling, insolent, little piss pot. The anti-teenager.

Included in the 10%, which, by the way, is totally manageable, are survivable instances like dress shopping for the 7th grade dance and a Bar Mitzvah and when she wants to put a pink streak in her hair.

Perhaps she is just special. I like to think so. But truthfully, it is probably that our week long absences make us appreciate each other. She wants to spend time with me. Thanks me for what I do. Compares me favorably to her friends' mothers. Does work around the house so that I don't have to forfeit time with her and Pat to get it all done. Heaps compliments upon me for my cooking.

Maybe I am overly optimistic. This may not last forever and probably shouldn't if I want to launch her successfully into a life independent of mine.

But for now, it is a blessing. In a life that has been stripped of precious time together one week at a time, I will consider this God's way of giving a little of it back on the back end. I am forever grateful.