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.

By the time I decided to end things with S, we'd been friends for 20 years, and a couple for nearly three: the first one, blissful; the second, puzzling; the third, what the heck am I still doing?

My decision made, I anguished over how to break things off. My inner demon suggested shooting off an email. Keep in mind, this is a guy who for my birthday, gave me a set of those huge, ugly bed rests with the arms that college kids like. One turquoise velour, the other brown canvas. For my beautifully serene and spare blue-gray bedroom. Because he was never comfortable watching TV there. (Note: These now look lovely in my daughters' dorm rooms.)

But I had to remember that first year too — how he had magically appeared in my life when I needed him the most, how he had eased the pain of Ex's remarriage, how he had so engaged my daughters on all our many vacations, how much I had enjoyed being a part of his family. No, an email simply wouldn't do. As much as I hate hate HATE confrontation, a confrontation it had to be.

So naturally, I stalled. I was busy with travel for work; he was busy traveling for play: golf trips, ski weeks, ski weekends.

And as our every weekend together routine turned into once a month, I sort of figured the relationship might just atrophy on its own into oblivion.

No such luck.

A girl's gotta do what a girl's gotta do. So I told him that while we'd had a good run, I thought that as a couple, we had run out of steam.

"So, we're not steamy?" was his rejoinder.

Sadly, no.

Robert Frost famously wondered if the world would end in fire or ice. I've always loved (and agreed with) the line:

From what I've tasted of desire

I hold with those who favor fire.

No steam, no fire, no more desire.

And this is how our world ended.

The family joke is that if I had stopped at two children, I'd be the most insufferable mother who ever lived. My two oldest daughters have never given me moment's pause — well maybe a few moments — but I saw none of the screaming, slammed doors, sullen withdrawals or general obnoxious teenaged behavior I've heard about (or exhibited myself as a self-absorbed young lass). Never had to set curfews, never had to mete out punishments for missing said curfews. How clueless I was.

But daughter number three — bless her little heart — has given me a run for the money from the very start. Didn't want to be born; we had to induce. Once born, she didn't want to leave my arms — or the house. Where most babies are lulled to sleep in their car seats, K would scream bloody murder the entire time. I remember one wretched ride where I compulsively kept reaching for the radio knob, as if that could turn her volume down.

Now it's just the opposite. At 15 with her first beau, it's all about The Boy, and she can't wait to get into his car. She doesn't want to spend any time with me — and certainly not with my beau and His Boy, four years younger. And I understand her need to be with her guy, her first love, so it's a delicate dance between her legitimate needs and ours.

So I thought she was being particularly magnanimous, when S and his son came over one Saturday afternoon and she agreed to go iceskating with us at a nearby rink. Afterwards, we came home, baked cookies together. When she said she'd like to skip going out to dinner with all of us to meet her guy, I thought it was a reasonable request. But S got a little pissy, which annoyed me, so I sweet talked her into it. We had a lovely dinner, then she went off with The Boy, S and I retreated up to my room for a movie, his son settled with video games downstairs.

I awoke at 3 am with a start. I was sure K was home by now, but something made me check.

Not in her room.

Looking back, L's death was the point where things started to unravel, not just with my love affair with S, but with his family. It was so incremental that I wasn't sure if I was imagining things, perhaps subconsciously sabotaging the relationship because I was afraid of where it might lead. More likely that I didn't want to acknowledge that nagging question mark, simmering at the back of my mind. Which I really should know to trust by now. 

With L gone, I offered to host the first Thanksgiving without her and it went really well...except S and his siblings only invited his mother, not the step mom and dad as had been L's habit. Awkward. The sister stepped up to the plate for the holidays...but was put in the strange position of having to host both Christmas Eve and Day, identical menus, identical guests, but with the mom at one; dad and step mom at the other.

But the real shocker came a few months later at the annual benefit for the organization that L had co-founded, the one where S and I became an item. She was being honored that night for all the work she had done; her son was presenting the award.

And her widowed husband came with a date.

Trying to hide my shock at this, I glanced sideways at B, L's delightful son who I loved as much as my own daughters. "I hate her already," he said flatly, as he prepared for his speech. I looked at S, who shrugged as if to say: time to move on. I sure as hell wasn't ready to move on; obviously her children weren't either.

I love all the get-togethers with S's families — for birthdays, holidays, no reason at all. True, it's a little weird that they plan events where their mom has to make nice with their dad and his new wife, who, truth be told, wrecked the 30-year marriage a couple of decades ago. But I guess the plan is to invite everyone and hope they all act like grownups. Which they usually do.

And my best friend L, who got this whole ball rolling with S and me, is the glue that holds this family together. The dutiful daughter-in-law who can make these gatherings work. Indeed, she was the only one who could pull off maintaining friendships with both Ex and me.

Years ago, when she was diagnosed with a particularly nasty form of breast cancer, she took it like a champ through surgery, through chemo, through relapse. She never complained about losing her hair: "These wigs are nicer than my hair ever was, and easier to care for," she said. When it moved into her liver, she was similarly undeterred. "This is like any other chronic disease, like diabetes," she would say. "I've got it under control."

Which is what she maintained whenever we had one of our girlie lunches that we would grab whenever we could. And she looked great at that last lunch. It had been a busy summer: I was headed to a family reunion in South Carolina; she was off for a similar visit in California. We had had our kids at the same time, so we gossiped about our high-school seniors and their hopes for college, how the older ones were planning careers. How those child-rearing years just flew by.

By the time we returned from our respective trips, the cancer had moved into her brain. Impossibly, she was still upbeat. She planned yet another family gathering, and with her face swollen from her treatments, her body inconceivably thinner, she chatted animatedly about her new doctors, the prognosis, her future.

One thing I can say about my divorce is that it was surprisingly civil. We worked with a mediator and our accountant to work out the financial details, kids visitation issues and the nitty gritty of who got what. Then our individual lawyers looked over the paperwork, blessed our disunion, and we signed on the dotted line. A year later, we were divorced and the whole business cost about $5,000.

Compare that with S, now into year two of his nasty divorce and endless depositions, attorney meetings, court dates. His ex has been playing the delaying game because he is paying all her bills until they reach an agreement. They get close to a settlement, she decides to switch lawyers. Another retainer check (ka-ching), another delay. I can't even begin to imagine the final tab on this divorce.

But then a funny thing happened in the Ex Wars.

After a long term relationship ended, S's ex went back trolling on the Internet where she soon netted a number of potential catches.

One, she decides to meet at a local restaurant. He joins her, they engage in small talk. "I'm a matrimonial lawyer," he said.

"That's funny, I'm going through a divorce right now," she responded.

"What did you say your last name was?" he asked.

When she told him, he abruptly rose and "recused himself" from the date. Seems he was on S's legal team.

Her lawyer immediately made a motion to force S to hire yet another lawyer, which was — thankfully — denied. But the incident did open an interesting can of worms.

One of the sticking factors in coming to an agreement has been her aversion to work. She is much too ill from various ailments, she maintains, to ever again hold even a part time job.

What happens when a Midwestern land-lubber and her daughters take their maiden voyage with a life-long sailor and his son? The best vacation of their lives!

Of course, it could have been a disaster. All of us cooped up on a 47-foot sailboat in the middle of Caribbean for eight days: no TV, no TiVo, very spotty Internet and cell phone service. We'd taken trips together before, but nothing more than a weekend, and always with a full assortment of techno toys to keep the kids occupied. I also worried about seasickness, squabbling, whining and boredom.

Plus there was the issue of different parenting styles: he, more indulgent with just one; me, with three, decidedly less so. And J was four years younger than my youngest and delighted in playing the annoying little brother my girls never had. Oh, this could be really, really bad.

Or really, really great.

I needn't have worried. The kids delighted in their quarters, as cozy as they were, especially the escape hatches in the ceilings that they popped up and down through like prairie dogs the entire trip. We'd occasionally hear some bickering among them, then J shrieking that the girls "are killing me....hee  hee hee!"  At which point, they would dive in the water, swim to shore, build sand castles and then swim back to the boat.

Every day, a different cove or marina to explore. Every day more beautiful than the one before. And every day at 5 o clock, an elaborate cocktail hour. How veddy veddy civilized. The crew would prepare two pitchers of fancy tropical drinks, potent for us, a virgin version for the kids, and delicious complicated hors d'oeuvres. "Oh, Mommy," my youngest asked. "Can we start doing this every night back home?" Ah, she is so to the manner born.  And I am so not.

We were on our third date when S put down his knife and fork, looked at me seriously and told me there was something we had to discuss.

Uh oh. This doesn't sound promising.

Tentatively he asked: "How do you feel about ski lodges?"

Ski lodges? Well, I'm not a skier — no mountains in the Midwest where I grew up — but what's not to like about ski lodges? I like fires, cozy chairs to curl up in and read books, drink hot rum toddies. So sure, I told him. I like them.

Visibly relieved, he went back to his dinner.

Two months into our relationship, he asked me what I thought about sailing. Again, not something I had much experience with. Blue skies, bluer waters, warm breezes, fancy drinks with little umbrellas in them; again, what‘s not to like? So yes, I told him, I like sailing.

He smiled. "Would you and the girls like to join me for a week sailing in the British Virgin Isles next spring?"

Oh dear Lord, I think I love this man.

In my 15 years of marriage, we didn't travel much. Starting our own business and having kids one-two-three were contributing factors, but the reality was that Ex didn't like going outside his comfort level.

He liked to eat the same meals at the same restaurants, go to the same resorts. The one time we went to Japan on a business junket, he wouldn't even venture out of the hotel during free time. So visiting my folks in South Carolina was about the extent of our vacation experiences, where Ex would immediately set up a temporary office so he could work.

There are a gazillion stories in New York, but for some reason mine have a tendency to intersect and overlap. Shortly before I married Ex, the man I had originally moved across country to marry (which is another story in itself) called to congratulate me. And to share some good news. "I'm not sure how you'll take it," he warned.

"If it's good news, I'll take it just fine," I replied.

"Well, I just got a great new job — everything I wanted, more money, good accounts."

And the down side would be...?

"My office is next to Ex's. We'll be working together."

Great. Welcome to The Story of My Life.

Which brings me to my current conundrum. While I didn't need to vet my dates with Ex, he and S had known each other most of their lives, even played in a band together for heaven's sakes. How exactly to broach the subject that we were now dating?

The little devil perched on one shoulder couldn't wait to spread the news. Just weeks before S and I became an official item, I received a disturbing phone call from my church.

Seems Ex and his Next wanted my pastor to officiate their upcoming nuptials...even though neither of them were members of my — or any — church. What's more, they decided the best place to hold the ceremony would be the lovely little chapel down the street from my house, where my daughters annually sang Christmas carols, a place that had meaning for me, my daughters, the family we once were.

"Rise above," my friends told me. "You don't want to spoil his wedding; wait until after to drop the bomb." Okay, okay. I conceded to the little angel on my other shoulder.

Well, at least my intentions were good.

The night of the wedding rehearsal, S and I went out to dinner to avoid any awkward confrontation with Ex picking up and dropping off the girls at my house. I told them to give me a heads up when they were leaving.

When L called, saying she had an extra ticket to a benefit dinner that weekend, of course I said yes. We'd been friends for nearly 20 years and I knew her extended family as well as my own. It would be fun.

We mingled around the silent auction table, bidding on items we didn't need, nibbling on coconut shrimp and baby lamb chops. It wasn't until we sat down at the table to eat that the reason for the extra ticket became clear. L's very cute brother-in-law, S, had just separated from his wife of 12 years and was, apparently, back on the market. And apparently, my date for the night.

Well, well, well.

We had first met at a baby shower 20 years earlier that L and her mother-in-law held for me and my husband. I was hugely pregnant and S, recently returned to the family business after years in San Francisco, was puzzled to find himself at a such an event. (I figured guys have a part in this baby-making business, so they should be at the shower as well.)

Someone even snapped a picture of the two of us standing together — he looking for all the world like the father of my unborn child.

Over the following years we saw each other often at his family events, at ours. And I developed a secret little crush on him — nothing I would act upon, just a fun little "what if" fantasy. But as he was leaving my holiday party one Christmas, he gave me a look and I saw a glimmer of something there.

I remember thinking: I married the wrong one. Oops.

But then he got married, had a son, settled down. We hadn't seen each other in years, until that night.

As we sat at the benefit dinner, chatting easily with his dad and step-mom, sister and brother-in-law, brother and L, I wondered: Could this be possible? After four years of disappointing dating, could it really be this simple to find the right one?