The more members of my generation I meet, the more we seem split into halves - that half who grew up with a sense of unlimited security, a perpetual certainty that bad things did not simply happen, worlds didn’t crumble for no reason; and then the children of divorce. The latter encompasses the casualties of that rip in the social fabric, caused by the collective Baby Boomer decision to seek the spoils of the new era combined with the family structure of the ’50s - dual careers, dual incomes, wealth accumulation, the swag of capitalism made more accessible by technology and the expansion of suburban living, all on top of the “rock solid” marriages and family life modelled by their parents.
Of course, as promised utopias are wont to do, it often fell flat, and, according to national statistics, around 50% of our parents’ marriages at some point dissolved, often into carnage-filled blitzkriegs. Screaming matches in the kitchen, banishment from the master bedroom, appalling rows in public places, illicit affairs, all culminating in the final showdown. Call in the omnipresent lawyers, who are more than happy to fan the flames with phrases like “equitable division” and “marital assets.” Year long court battles over houses, vehicles, bank accounts, climate-controlled wine collections, all the trappings of the life that falsely promised happiness. And children? By far the messiest commodity. Custody, visitation, child support- our lives become the perfect battleground to duke it out with your former spouse, the one clearly at fault for the fact that your marriage didn’t turn out like the cover of Life magazine. Divorce proceedings begin, things progress in their downward spiral, and gradually the phrase “split the baby” takes on almost comic literalness. How much does your child cost per month? How will you be sure, as with all things you pay for, to get your money’s worth?
And so we children of divorce bonded together in our fissured confusion - eventually we could pick each other out of a crowded playground, those faces lacking that rosy gleam displayed by our peers with intact families, that guileless reliance on the bottom never dropping from below their feet. While they trot off to idolized weekend excursions and family vacations, we commiserate about endless meetings with Mom’s attorney, newly-hyphenated last names, waking at midnight to telephone screaming showdowns, moving vans pulling up as we leave for school. Only other children of divorce could understand the emotional gouge of weekend visitations, the annoying lack of cable at Dad’s new apartment, the bottomless feeling when Grandma refers to Mom as “That Woman,” the visceral reaction when “You’re acting just like your Mother/Father!” becomes the worst rebuke either parent can utter.
And for us, that soothing layer of warmth surrounding the holidays was peeled like an onion years ago, and the season becomes an annual voyage toward the homes of our various parental units, requiring careful navigation to avoid all floating debris of our messy childhoods. By our twenties, we’re well-versed in the art of deescalating and placating the tempers that never cease to swell, ready to swat down gems like:
“Whatever happened to the every-other-year arrangement? By my calculations, I get you kids on Thanksgiving and Christmas this year.”
“Well Dad, we stopped the hole holiday tradeoff when K and I turned 18 and you weren’t writing checks anymore.”
Or:
“Why does your father always insist on ruining my holidays with my children, we can never just sit and enjoy dessert after the Thanksgiving meal, you’re always running off to his house for pie.”
“Now Mom, we spend the entire day cooking with you, plus having dinner - it’s just dessert, we want to be fair to both of you.”
“Yes well I’m sure SHE will have been baking for the past six days straight, must be nice to have that kind of time.”
“Mom, Dad has been married to M for over 10 years now, can’t we just drop all the animosity- and no one thinks you’re inadequate for not staying home to cook all week.”
Enmity, sarcasm, subtle jabs - the statute of limitation on post-marital bitterness never seems to run. By now we’re all seasoned veterans in this game, playing our self-dictated roles with precision. We all recognize that love is undeniably present, even if we try our hardest to mottle it with the dirt of grudge-scarred animosity. After the holiday rituals are complete and we’ve all returned to our respective comfort zones, we openly miss each other and perhaps even speculate how it would be if the entire unit weren’t so fractured. And then the wonder fades, the moment passes, and we prepare to repeat the entire process at Christmas.