We've been looking for a place to rent for almost two months, but we're still in the same broke boat, with the same crappy credit we had two years ago when I left.

And just like when I left, and all the long years leading up to it, the weight of financial pressure creates this ongoing competition for resources that exacerbates all of our other problems.

Sam says I'm more stressed about it than he is.

He says it to me and he says it to our therapist, then we walk out of the appointment and he accuses me of wanting more than I actually want, of wanting to keep up with the Joneses, when actually I could not care less about anyone else's lifestyle.

I don't want a McMansion. I just want to get by without struggling.

It's the same old fight.

Not being able to support our family makes him feel inadequate, and I know it's true because when I left because he owned up to it. Admitted the nasty things he said were about being angry with himself, not me.

So I call him on it, and he apologizes. It's an improvement I'm willing to work with.

Our therapist once told me finances are cited as a key factor in 80 percent of divorces. Money is the number-one point of contention in marriages. I'll buy that. There's so much stuff bound up in dollars.

Like they say, money is power. So, of course, there's contention about who spends it and how. That's assuming there's money to be spent.

Those arguments feel luxurious to me. We don't get to fight about whose spending irresponsibly. More likely, I ask Sam to ask his family for a loan; he refuses. Or what we are going to do about child care this fall because we owe Lila's pre-school more than it cost me for a year of college back in the day, and until we pay it down, we can't use their before and after care program.

Sam and I both work hard at jobs we love, but we don't make much money doing it.

OK, so you're asking: Why am I still here?

I think I've got a new answer this week: Monkey Branching. You know, brachiation, swinging from limb to limb. Something gibbons do in the jungle.

It's positively evil, emotionally unhealthy, this notion of keeping one hand on the solid branch of home, family and two cars in the driveway, while reaching the other hand out for some branch that may be out there somewhere.

But that's how I plan to go about searching the suburban jungle — finding something, some new guy, new while clinging to the old.

It's not like no one's ever done this before.

In high school we called it keeping another guy on the "back burner," in case some other relationship turned out not to be on the boil.

Alas, in high school, it was just you and the candidates for prom date. Now anyone on the back burner, or, to mix metaphors, any new branch, is going to have to hold not just my heart but my two children as well.

What sort of man would provide such a strong branch? Who would want to? One thing I do know: I won't be swinging on any new branches without my kids.

I know, I know.

My girlfriends, the talk show psycho-bablers, the self-help books, the marriage counselors, all say, "You have to be on your own before you can find somebody else."

Yeah, but I've been on my own before.

I'm no princess, waiting in her turret for Prince Rescue to come along. I've paid my own rent. Worked in Corporate America (high-profile and six-figures, thank you). Dated bigtime in the Big Bad Apple.

It's just that I've never done it with two beautiful pre-school kids in tow.

Monkey branching? Me? The library-helper-mom? The bake sale mom?

Isn't that sleazy?

I'm somewhat resentful and frustrated by aspects of my parents' marriage and divorce but that hasn't blinded me to the lessons to be learned.

I've learned from my parents' marriage not to let a few rocky patches turn into decades of dissatisfaction. Their betrayals of each other — big and small — and their unhappiness across the years show how easily people can get stuck in terribly unhealthy relationships. So with Rob, I've delved into couples therapy. And if that doesn't work, I'm not going to stay put forever.

I've also learned — and this is a big life lesson — how to muster feelings of compassion toward very difficult people. I can't forgive my father for his betrayals, or forget how he could make his kids feel like unwanted nuisances. But as his Alzheimer's disease rapidly progresses and he becomes further forgetful and confused — and, ironically but most helpfully, increasingly nice and gentle — I can let my resentment go and help him. He didn't take care of me so well, but now the roles have reversed, I don't need to repay his unkindness.

In all the crap life throws at us, divorce and disease are up there among the worst. But it is short-sighted to dwell on their difficult aspects only. Lessons to be learned, silver lining, lemonade from lemon, "challenges" — call them what you will — I'm not letting anything get the best of me.

Though...I'm on duty with my dad for the next few days, so let's just wait and see what I have to say after that.

A year ago when Sam and I began round three of counseling, our therapist recommended we draw up a contract, a kind of pre re-nup agreement, spelling out our needs and expectations.

Said it's a way to protect yourself — not your finances — the self that is YOU from being swallowed whole by enormity of committing to forever as part of a pair. Fear of losing myself in this, or any other, relationship ever again is huge for me.

She said it could be a detailed as, "If I want to go traveling in Asia alone for two years, it will be alright with you."

I never drafted it. Truth is, back when she was giving that advice I still thought I was in counseling to end my marriage, not to consider how best rebuild it.

What a difference a year makes. Closing in on this reunification, here's the rough draft of my Soul Protection Contract:

-I will always have a room within our house that is mine alone to work, think, be, and sometimes sleep in. It will have a locking door.

-We will have each have one "off duty" weekend every month with no responsibility for parenting, housekeeping, or partnering.

-We will have one free day (or night) every week.

-If someone does not use his/her time, that decision does not affect the other's right to do so without guilt.

-If I have the opportunity to travel for work to a place you would like to go, but can't because of your own work, this will be okay with you.

-When I need space for friends or I need to spend nights-on-end holed up in my room to write and think, and I emerge only help with the kids, this will also be okay.

-We will maintain separate banks accounts in addition to our household account.

-If you want to take an extended road trip with the girls during your summer break (Sam is on a school calendar) and I cannot go because of work, this will be okay with me (and with you.)

I've blogged about contemplating separation from Rob, but barely discussed how I recently became a child of divorce. After 37 years of marriage, my parents split when a marathon argument revealed the details of my fathers' many affairs...the longest and most significant of which was with my best friend's mother. (What a jerk, right?)

My mother's decision to leave my father did not rock my world at first. I had felt, for many years, she owed it to herself and her kids to get out from under his cloud of darkness. The illogical behavior and unreasonable mood swings grew worse over time. Finally, she was taking action.

The tragedy is this: months after their split, my father's crazy behavior was diagnosed as early-stage Alzheimer's disease.

And just a year later, the disease has ravaged his intellectual capacity and ability to communicate. This once angry man is now a gentle giant in need of my care.

I'll never fault my mother for leaving. But the timing of Dad's diagnosis weighs heavily on her, as if she should have known and stayed to care for him. (Traditionalists might point to marriage vows and agree.)

But I can't spend time helping my mom feel better about herself. My siblings and I have more pressing concerns. My dad, the man who put the anguish and anxiety in my childhood and who betrayed my entire family, now like a child, is a serious responsibility.

There are the times, usually carefully chosen, when I feel I have to say something to my husband, even if it hurts. On the way home from a recent dinner party: "Honey, the Carters have been telling us since last fall that their son Justin has his heart set on Brown."

"They are calling in all their chits in hopes of getting the dorky kid in there," he says.

"So when you dis Brown, and say his choice of college doesn't really matter, well sweetie, it kind of brought the dinner party conversation to a dead halt.

"Did you notice? Brown seems very important to them. Maybe next time you could say, 'Brown — great school. Fingers and toes crossed for you!'"

That's when he will jam on the brakes a block from our house and call me elitist. And then he'll get defensive: "I'll say whatever I want to say."

"Honey," I respond, "let's just play the game. Even though the less-than-brilliant Justin will never get into Brown.

"Who are we to burst their bubble?

"This is not rocket science, honey. It's just a social grace. Can't you just play along?"

Things like this are minor irritants, taken one at a time. But if he thinks those things don't add up in a small town, he is mistaken. I point that out — again, because these are the people we have chosen to live among.

The town we picked, the street we claim as ours. With neighbors — flawed like the rest of us. It's our village.

All I am asking for is peace in the village. Where our kids, a few years down the road, will dream big, dream a bit beyond our means.

So I want him to quit embarrassing himself. Actually, to quit embarrassing us.

Rules: Keep it down to two glasses of wine.

Skip the tequila.

We can always get snarky about poor Justin on the ride home.

Since my somewhat, mostly ex-husband Sam and I have agreed to give it another go and started house hunting for a place to put our family back together, I've been crazy-hyper sensitive to anything that feels like old stuff.

A couple weeks ago in counseling I brought up a silly little something that pissed me off. We'd been camping at a weekend music festival with friends, trading off on the mommy and daddy duty.

He stayed at camp one night with the sleeping kids while I stayed out late partying with our friends. I slept in, he did the morning routine. I took afternoon shift while he took a nap. Back and forth the way you do.

Or the way you should do, but we've never been good at it. And yet, there it was, working out just like a dream. Until dinner. He'd been mostly relaxing and I'd been schlepping 35 pounds of sleeping kid over hills and paths for an hour-and-a-half and I wanted a nap and he wanted me to help with dinner and none of this is important.

What matters is this: We were back to the same old always. We didn't communicate, I gave in and got up and got angry. But I didn't say anything. And, I got over it.

That lazy gene that Jill Brooke wrote about in the news section last week? We both have it. I've got it worse, but there's always a push and pull between Sam and me.

It goes like this:

Lila says, "I really bad need to poop."

Sam looks at me. He says, "I've already taken her to the port-o-potty once today."

I say, "Awesome. I've gone three times."

So last week in therapy I did what you do, took that minor thing and took it apart.

He said, "I just don't think it's a big deal. I didn't even know you were mad. You're just looking for old patterns."

When her marriage started to falter, Kara, a 35-year-old Bostonian, hoped her in-laws would provide the glue that might hold everything together. While they had fought the intercultural relationship at the beginning (Kara is of European descent and grew up in the Midwest, and they are Lebanese Christian), marriage changed everything.

“They were totally accepting once we married,” she says.

And they didn’t believe in divorce.

“When I didn’t want my marriage to end,” she says, “I knew my in-laws would be helpful in trying to preserve it.”

Despite their help, Kara and her husband eventually parted. Because of the family culture, and its views on divorce, she knew she would lose contact with most of them forever.

She would especially miss her nieces and nephews — in Lebanon and in the States — and asked her husband to tell them she loved them.

“I knew it would be like I had never been there, part of the family,” she says. “But I had.”

Perhaps that’s what I was feeling up in my husband’s old bedroom last Christmas. Reeling from my father-in-law’s comment about my family and -- by extension -- me, I vowed never to return and, without really thinking, picked up a pencil from the floor and scratched my initials on the soft underside of the desk as if to indicate “I was here.”

It was out of fear of losing the connection she had with her in-laws and their world that Dani, also a 35-year-old Bostonian, stayed in her relationship for too long.

“I used to talk on the phone to [her husband’s] mom, who was so different than me,” she says. “She grew up on a reservation, and I loved the connection to the culture, the people, the geography that I had through her.”

Dani also worried Walter’s family would think poorly of her, because Walter had left his life out West to move to the Northeast to be with her.

You can tell Roxie feels change coming by the crazy way she's been acting.

It started in Arizona last week, but I just chalked it up to the over-tired, over-stimulated chaos of travel. She started having the kind of meltdowns I haven't seen from her since I Sam and split our household in two.

She bit her cousin in the swimming pool at the end of a long day. Biting was her thing for a while, but it's been a couple years since she last bared her teeth.

Her behavior has reverted, though. She's had a rough week. In school Thursday when I was visiting for family day her best friend looked at me and asked, "Why is Roxie acting that way?"

"That way" being out of control, dumping other kids stuff on the floor and laughing.

None of the 16 kindergarteners have seen this side of my baby.

It's been long gone, packed away when we moved.

Thing is, she's super sensitive, she feels every minor shift — and what I think she felt in Phoenix was Daddy wasn't there. Daddy wasn't there and the energy surrounding his absence had little to do with the high cost of tickets.

This kid, I know she could feel my conflict every time I said Sam and I have been scoping out rentals. Would hear the thoughts under my words saying something else.

Saying I don't think we'll be back together by the end of the summer, I think we'll be all the way apart.

This is dragging on too long. For everyone. I need to be all the out or all the way in by the time she starts first grade. Sam needs a direction. He deserves it.

Sometimes I hate myself for keeping everyone in waiting. Sometimes I wish I could close my eyes and make this all disappear. Wake up two years in the future, lessons learned with out having to live through them.

I don't waste much time feeling sorry for myself anymore. Not usually.

That path goes the wrong direction, a downward spiral. Self-pity is the opposite of gratitude and learning gratitude has been a challenge but I'm there. Most days.

Not today. I'm sitting in a big leather chair in my brother's new house, boxes all around, and I don't want to get on a plane and fly back to my life tomorrow. I've been in Arizona a week, which is usually about four days too long, but I think about going home tomorrow. I'm wiping tears with my sleeves. Rubbing my eyelids dry with my forefingers.

Most days I accept my best for what it is. I believe in self acceptance lies the openness to achieve and grow and cultivate gratitude. Know that I'm good enough.

My brother and his partner have an outdoor fireplace that looks like it should be a fountain. It's a long, narrow basin filled with blue glass chunks. The wall behind it is white tile, so you'd think water should cascade down it into the glass. But under the glass, in a layer of sand you don't see, there's a gas pipe. Turn it on, light and flame burns on the glass.

Their dining room chandelier is from Holland. They saw it in a window last winter and had to have it, Googled compulsively until they found it. The soap dispenser by the kitchen sink is motion activated, put your hand under and the gel drips out.

My brother and his partner have offered to pay for all the vision therapy Roxie needs to "train her eyes to keep up with her brain." So her hands can do what her eyes can see.

I'm grateful. I have a list of learning differences that have never been addressed. I'm hopeful in the long run this means Roxie won't spend her life struggling to survive, as I do, because of challenges no one can see.