A Broken Home

Carly took a pie to a party a week or so ago, and she had put it in this really retro cake holder that Walter had given to her, when he was cleaning out his mom's things. She came home excited, telling me how cool everybody thought it was and how they wanted to know where she got it. She said, "I just told them that my mom's boyfriend gave it to me."

Hearing her say that caught me off guard -- hearing my daughter talk about her "mom's boyfriend" is certainly not something I aspired to when I was young. I mean I was going to die married to her father. I mean, that was the plan.

I think Carly saw the weird look on my face, but instead of going "there"  we both laughed as I said, "Oh my god, you come from a broken home."

 As a teacher, hearing a kid talk about his "mom's boyfriend" always brought just a little bit of a cringe. My superior attitude thought that this was just another thing that separated my greatness from their subpar living. I mean if you can't keep your marriage together, how can you possibly love your children and do what's best for them. Right?

Since my own divorce, I've realized that Broken Home is actually an oxymoron (my dad's favorite word). I mean think about it. If we define a home as the place where we feel safe and loved and valued and affirmed, it can never be broken. It doesn't matter whose boyfriend, or dog, or child, or partner, or grandmother, or friend, or cat lives there -- because if those beings are loving one another then its all good.

My house is often a little crazy, filled to the brim with animals and people, the washing machine going non-stop, a ballgame playing on the  tv in the background, the garage door going up and down and the driveway often looking like a used car lot, but, trust me, it is anything but broken. It is filled with acceptance and love and, of course, Grace, and not just the dog kind.