My family is crazy. When I think of all the things I've survived, I not only feel lucky, I feel amazingly blessed. I decided a long time ago to take it one day at a time, and I do!

After gliding through the New Hampshire holiday with extended family, kids, and new boyfriend, I got online today and booked Christmas and February break, too. I am not afraid.

Sure, there was drama over Thanksgiving, but what would a family vacation be without some swearing, reminiscing, and rehashing?

My family and I took stabs at each other between the hugs, tears, and promises to always stay in touch. Then we said our goodbyes as if this was our last week on earth. The stock market is going to hell in a hand basket, but I continue to breathe deeply and say to myself over and over, this too shall pass. I reassure myself that I'm still here and body/mind are functioning well, so what the hey?

This time last year, I was embarking on a singles journey north to Maine to begin a dating frenzy. Make a note gals: Maine and Alaska are desperate for attractive, half way intelligent females and, if you are really eager to make a lasting partnership, I recommend you jump right in. You can be a star!

Even though I didn't meet Mr. Right during that trip, I did fortify my mission to be self-reliant and open to whatever the future might hold.

Fast forward to the future and here we are. I stand before you as an eight-year kidney transplant survivor. (Yesterday, December 30th was my transplant anniversary and also, ironically enough, what would have been my 23rd wedding anniversary, if I hadn't been divorced for the last five years.)

Ever wonder about things like that? What are the chances a kidney transplant and a wedding anniversary would end up being on the same day?

Well, I celebrate in style. I celebrate everything in style. The first year after my divorce became final, I toasted with a glass of champagne every night for 365 days.

Adrian will be two in just a few weeks. It's hard to believe that it's been two whole years already. Sometimes it feels like it was just yesterday that I was that frightened, mess of a woman about to embark on what seemed to be this hopeless, depressing journey of single mom-hood.

Sometimes still, if I'm not careful, it's easy to revert back to that woman — let my fears get the best of me. But for today, I must say, that I am no longer her. 

This journey has transformed me, made me stronger, made me realize that I have potential far beyond what I could have ever imagined. And for that, I am thankful.

However, some of the transformative effects are not so great. This journey has rendered me guarded, cautious, and at times very cynical. Most of the time I am certain that I could never trust a man with my heart ever again. Other times, I have the clarity to know that I want to.

I suppose it's all part of the process of healing — working through the hurt — and when it's done, when I'm fully healed, I'll know and hopefully drop some of the cynicism.

For now, I need it.

Levi's mother emailed to ask what we were doing for Adrian's birthday, and if she could see him again. I told her that I'm taking him to the Dora show in Manhattan, and invited her to come along.

I must admit that it hurts to see her again. Opens the floodgates and all of the memories: hopes, dreams, fantasies of my perfect life with my son and Levi — my perfect family — rush back in. The reality that things are not what they were intended to be can feel like a smack in the face.

But I am trying to have faith, trying to be optimistic that although my life certainly has not gone as planned, it is good. We have a good life, and a wonderful family structure even sans Levi.

Steps forward in real life tend to make the imp that lives in my brain backpedal frantically. "Run, run!" he yips, waving his arms about, Kermit-like. "It's too much! Ruuuun!"

I've gotten much, much better at shutting him up. He shrills away, but I've learned, mostly, not to pay attention. But when it's a hard week, when I'm feeling overwhelmed, when I'm sad — that's when his voice gets harder to ignore.

This moving thing, for example. It's big. Sure, I was thinking about moving anyway. Sure, it's not all about the boy. But part of it is. Taking this step says we think we're actually going to make it. On my bad days, this is what I worry about: What if we're not? What if the magic and wonderfulness and perfection of what this actually hinges on is the fact that it's long distance?

It didn't help that our cohabitation experiment wasn't a success. That I handled it badly. That he's backtracked since then.

Then there's this month: finalizing the legal documentation of my inability to make a relationship work. Just when I think that I am past this, that I've come to terms, it rears its head and reminds me that I don't have a great track record. 

"What about this?" crows the imp, waving legal papers at me. "Why would you think anything ever works out?"

Normally, I know, deep down, that my fears are largely unjustified. That I'm worrying about something that is so "might be, maybe," that I really shouldn't worry at all. This, though, this feels more real. It feels immediate, and it feels scary, and it's hard to talk myself down.

There's nothing to do, I suppose, but do — imp or no — and see what happens.

OMG...even my hair follicles are swollen. I am typing this while eating left over sweet potatoes because I just read they can debloat you. I'll get to that in a moment.

First, I just want to announce that the only thing I will strangely be grateful for these next few days is early darkness.

Darkness makes bloated people look more attractive.

Allow me to point out there is a marked post-holiday difference between swollen divorced women and swollen married women.

That being, that married women usually have a matching swollen spouse.

Single divorced women feel swollen alone and have little desire to attempt to get dressed attractively and socialize with the opposite sex.

Bloating for us is a lonely sport.

Post-holiday emotional and physical exhaustion when you wing a holiday without a wingman usually leads at some point to thumbing lazily through women's magazines you've been meaning to read searching for tips to lose weight.

On page 23 of the December issue of First Magazine I found the sweet potato flat-belly connection.

It said, "Each of these tasty tubers contains 950 mg of potassium — nearly twice the amount in a banana.

This electrolyte enhances the kidneys ability to eliminate retained fluids, banishing bloat in as little as 24 hours.

Plus sweet potatoes' betaine clears fatty deposits from the liver, accelerating the organs breakdown of belly fat for fuel."

Okay, if they say so.

I must not have eaten enough of them during Thanksgiving dinner to offset the other 20 dishes.

The ones I am eating now still have baby marshmallows attached.

I am not sure if that's a deal breaker. I'll let you know if I am still unable to get dressed in 24 hours.

Attitude Is Everything!
Debbie

To check in with Debbie or suggest a blog topic, email: dnigro@firstwivesworld.com

A funny thing happened on this journey from dutiful wife and devoted mom back to myself. Of course, I'll always be a devoted mom — but what surprised me, is what a dutiful ex-wife I've become.

The feelings of anger (on his part) and abandonment (on mine) have finally receded into a distant memory. The sense of competition between households (he with the most toys wins vs Ms Rules and Routines) have dissipated as the girls are now old enough to navigate back and forth: my house during the school week for regular balanced meals and so as not to be tempted by aforementioned toys; his place more on weekends and school breaks. 

We seem to have reached a comfortable détente. I took the girls to visit their older sister at college; he took care of our pets, sitting at my kitchen table, drinking a beer, picking ticks off the dog. Internet access in the house was achingly slow on the girls' wireless computers (nonexistent on my dinosaur Mac); so Ex the techno wizard came over, diagnosed the situation, and fixed it (no charge!). 

Conversely, when Ex explained some of his business woes, in this time of ever growing anxiety, I heard myself saying that I would cover more of the costs-that we could settle up accounts after the economy stabilized. That conversation wouldn't have been possible a year ago. 

Moving beyond simmering resentments is hard (breathe in, breathe out, let go for heaven's sakes), but makes life a whole lot nicer for everyone involved. Even Ex's Next, who had not spoken to me since that little unpleasantness regarding their nuptials, made an unprecedented move. A few weeks ago, she was coming down the driveway while I was picking my daughter up from her dad's house. Usually, she would just slink inside, averting her eyes. But this time, she walked over to say hello, as if nothing had happened.

Well, it's Thankgiving again, a time when we reflect on all of the things that we have (rather than what we don't have) and remember to be grateful for them. 

This year has changed me in so many ways; molded the clay of my being in ways that I would not have imagined, but now, cannot live without. I've met a lot of amazing people and I've been moved beyond belief by the kindness that these people have shown us. I'd like to take a moment to thank some of those people now. 

To my very best friend Rachel: Thank you for standing by me for all of these years, but especially this year. You are my angel. 

To Adam: Thank you for showing me the way — "my way." 

To all of the wonderful people at Adrian's daycare center: I cannot find the words to express how truly grateful I am to all of you. Putting my son in daycare was a very scary thing for me, as I'm sure it is for most mothers. The support, encouragement, and general help that you've given me is astounding and I am nothing short of exceptionally thankful. The kindness, love and respect that you have shown my son has helped us both to grow. You feel like part of our family now. Thank you, thank you, thank you from both of us. 

To all of the First Wives World readers:  The community of women gathered here are all unique and all equally amazing. Thank you for sharing your experiences with me and thank you for allowing me to share mine. 

To Maureen, FWW editor: Thank you for fixing my punctuation. (You have no idea how much this means to me!)  

To everyone I've dated, even if it ended badly: Thank you for the experience, thank you for your interest and (maybe) thank you for putting up with me. 

I’m as traditional and nostalgic as anyone, and a damn fine cook. But even though l love setting a beautiful table, and making Thanksgiving dinner, my Thanksgivings have been a series of unpleasant experiences. When I think back, this is what I remember:

● I was a child at my grandmother’s house in Minnesota. The uncles hung out in the living room, watching TV. The aunts worked in the overheated kitchen. My mom and dad both came from families of seven, so there were lots of aunts and uncles and cousins, only one of whom went to prison, later, for killing his stepfather. The Thanksgiving meal was served, with all of its strangeness: green and black olives, or that odd cylinder of cranberry. Dinner over, the Canadian Club whiskey would come out so the men could relax. The women cleaned up as my uncles, red-faced and swearing, played poker at the kitchen table. They were loud and scary and we were devout Methodists, who didn’t believe in drinking, smoking, gambling, dancing or going to see movies (except The Ten Commandments). The aunts, armed with leftovers and sleepy children, had to drag the men away. Result: Fear of drunken uncles, fear of drunks.

● I was older, a teenager, and I helped my mother at her grocery store, open seven days a week, 12 hours a day, except for Christmas Day. We closed on Thanksgiving, too, but only between noon and four. Thanksgiving meant racing back and forth between the store and the house, tending the turkey, making sure the house hadn’t burned down. My half-brother, brother, uncle, dad, mom and I would eat around 3. Then we’d race back and open the store, so other people could get ice cream, sugar, pickled herring, coffee, pies, Tampax... whatever it was all those Scandinavians needed for Thanksgiving. Result: Class resentment.

Having a long distance relationship was great. Before. Had we not lived 3,000 miles away from each other, we wouldn't have made it past a month. I would have cut and run. He would have cut and run. We would have gone too fast — with feelings that strong, that quick — panicked, and fled. The distance forced us to take it slow. The distance did much to quell my panic. The distance kept me from feeling I was giving anything up. 

But now — now it's harder. 

Here's the problem with falling in love again: You get lonely. I like living alone. I like coming home and having a quiet apartment, my cats, my space — but now I find that once I've had a couple days — or, sometimes, a couple hours — of that, I want him here.

I'm not lonely because I don't enjoy my own company, but because I want his. I like knowing what he's done with his day. I want to be able to have a minute with someone who loves me after a difficult day. I want to go to sleep and know that I'll see him when I wake up.

Feeling this way is scary. Because loving someone means you give up being perfectly fine on your own. It means there's someone to miss. It means that you start to count on someone other that yourself.

There are times I don't want to be in that position. There's a lot we give up when we open ourselves up to someone. Sometimes, that's a tough trade.