Читать книгу The Gap Year(s) - Nathy Gaffney - Страница 6

Leo was only three the first time we separated. Andy moved out of our home and into an apartment ten minutes’ drive away. Leo called it ‘the hotel Daddy lives in’, which was a pretty good description. In many ways, our separation during that time felt like a holiday – think of the feeling of relief you get with having a break from the day-to-day grind of life that drags you down.

Although we were physically separated for six months, we decided to reconcile after only two. Under our psychologist’s advice and guidance, we spent the next four months (the remainder of his apartment lease) rebuilding, reframing, and rekindling our marriage. The regular counselling sessions provided a space where we could both be ‘heard’ – something that had been sorely lacking. Our challenge was to see things from each other’s perspective. We got it… we just didn’t accept it, and the sessions imposed a much needed discipline that we then adhered to (funny how spending thousands of dollars somehow makes people sit up and take notice of how they’re behaving).

We worked on our communication styles first. I need to talk things through in the moment; Andy needs to reflect and come back to things. Plus, I was sensitive to his sarcastic British ‘humour’ and took many of the things he said in jest very personally.

We worked on building empathy for one another: we identified our ‘trigger points’, the things that could launch us into a bout of misunderstanding, annoyance, and arguments. One of the big triggers being weekends, and what to do with them.

Anyone who’s had children will know that, with young kids, not having a plan to get them out of the house – and keep them busy, moving, and entertained – can result in bouts of cabin fever accompanied by frayed tempers, tantrums, and emotional meltdowns (and that’s just for the parents!).

I was a planner; Andy was a pantser. We made an effort to plan our weekends so we could avoid the arguments. It didn’t have to be much – a trip to the beach or the park. Playdates or barbeques and picnics with friends – something, anything, to give us a sense of direction and focus rather than blindly approaching that vast 48-hour chasm that weekends can present for the ill-prepared.

In many ways, it was the best of times. We were both consciously present. The fact that we were having weekly visits to a therapist definitely helped. She held us accountable. She gave us permission to call each other’s bullshit, and rather than allowing it to escalate into arguments, we would take the time to pause, breathe, consider the other’s position, and respond with consideration and kindness. I came to understand that because he spent all week out of the house, his ideal weekend included some time at home just to chill out. I, on the other hand, had been home with a toddler, and needed to get out and about in order to create some balance in my life. It sounds so simple when I tap it out on the page in front of me….

Our conscientious work and effort to understand each other more deeply and compassionately paid off. We were happy (well… happier).

Throughout this first separation, Leo seemed untouched by our turbulence and unrest. We were able to shelter him from it, and, from what I can recall, it never made much of a negative impact. It was like we caught the milk a day out of date, but it was at least still palatable. Neither of us picked up on the fact that it was, in fact, past its best…

Not so, the next time around.