My Divorced Home

People often refer to divorce homes as broken. This has always bothered me, because it makes the way I was raised seem defective. As if because I grew up in two houses, I don’t have a functioning, complete life. The way I’ve grown up is somewhat unconventional, yes, but somehow we’ve made it work. More than that even, I’ve thrived not only despite, but because of my split home. That word, split, is a bit more accurate of a definition of the way I was raised. It’s not exactly what I’m going for either, though. Not broken, not split, but shared equally between two people, two houses, two lives, and one me. My dad’s house is my home base. It’s where I grew up, where I said my first words and took my first steps. Things have changed a lot since

I have no recollection of a time when our toilet wasn’t brown. However, I’m sort of assuming it was a lighter color at one point, judging from the fact that I have never seen a toilet naturally that brown. Mom had been bugging dad since before the divorce to get a new one, but of course, each problem had a temporary fix. It had a crack in the seat years before it quit flushing. We spent months flushing the toilet with a bucket of water. Needless to say, I seldom used that bathroom. I remember walking into the bathroom the day the new one was installed. It practically shined. Noone should ever be as overjoyed about a toilet as I was that day. Aside from the toilet, the only other real major change is the dog hair. Bitterman was bought a few short years after the divorce, and has been wreaking havoc on the floors and furniture ever since. Everything in the house is covered in Bitterman. He is the first thing I smell when I walk in. And the first one to greet me.

Bitterman is my dad’s best friend. He was originally a birthday gift to my sister and I, but I think the real reason we got him was so that dad could have a friend when he’s home alone.

My favorite dad and Bitterman memory is probably dad’s late night training sessions.

“Bitterman, sit.”

He stares back, panting and doe eyed. Oblivious to the fact that he’s been asked to do something.

“Bitterman,

Putting it in the gentlest possible way. Multiple times throughout the course of the season, my mom would give me a look of complete defeat and say simply, “I just don’t know how we’re going to make this work.” We continued to pray everyday for the support that we needed just to get through this Christmas. Forgetting, I think, the reason that we were celebrating. Forgetting exactly what it was we were preparing for. As the day grew closer, I gradually became more excited. Excited for church, excited for decorations, excited for grandma’s cookies. I could tell that mom was still uneasy about it, so I prayed for her peace.

The night before Christmas Eve, mom and I sat in our living room wrapping gifts, the smell of balsam fir and hot chocolate enveloping the room. A few candles flickered and the living room light illuminated as much of our cozy house as it could all by itself. Bing Crosby sang White Christmas to some of his comrades. For the first time in what seemed like a long time I smiled. Really smiled. I looked to my mother, her boxes much better wrapped than my own, and said, “Mom, look. We did it,” then, reevaluating, added, “He did