It's so easy to say, I know, but breaking up a marriage is never easy. Even if you're doing it for all the right reasons and you both agree that there is no other solution and it's all gone wronger than wrong, well it's still awful and there's no getting around the fact that you feel like you've let everybody down, it hurts everyone, it's utterly horrible, it's financially ruinous and emotionally devastating.

Because, in the end it doesn't matter who said to what to whom about who and when or if they said it, or who did what to whom because of who and when or if they did it. The fact of the matter is that when you first embarked upon the marriage you thought it was forever, you thought you would be together till you were old, you were so determined to never, never, ever walk in your parents footsteps and repeat the cycle all over again.

Yet still. Still you do.

And it's all just so utterly, awfully sad. All the dividing up of things, the splitting of possesions, the "Your Mum bought us this, so you have it and I'll have that because my Dad bought it"-ness. Pointlessness decision making that you have to go through because somehow, someway you have to divide up the life you spent so long creating and make two new separate lives out of the parts of the old one.

(And I don't even know if it's possible. How do you create two new things out of one old one without someone missing something? Surely there must be a vital, central component which nothing functions without but which someone ends up not having?)

And you accumulate so much stuff along the way.

Torches and old pillowcases and pictures and maps and old suntan lotion and crap saucepans that the handle is broken on so you should have thrown it away long ago, and noticeboards and gardening gloves and watering cans and hold-all's and boxes of spraypaint and never fitted light-fittings and lamps and chairs and...and...drawers and drawers full of odds and sods which no-one particularly used or wanted when you were together, so why the hell would anyone want it now that you are not?

And it's the stupid little things like who gets the shoe cleaning stuff that get me. How do you divide that up? I mean, we both have shoes; we both have black shoes. So we both need it. Maybe we are supposed to get a little knife...(but who gets the knife?)...and cut the polish down the middle really evenly?

And the dog and the cat and the Hoover and the iron and the old tins of paint and the bathroom mirror and the box of useful card and the plants and the Hodder clock. (Oh. No. That's yours because it came via your family.) And the assorted crap mugs and the wedding present glasses, and the cheese grater and the potato peeler and the telly and the stereo, and let's not even get started on the C.D's.

And the clock-radio that has woken you up for the last 6 years.

And the marital bed.

And the framed photograph of you at your wedding that hangs in your bedroom and that you were so confident about and that you treasured so much when you got married that in the back of the frame you hid a letter for your future children to read when you die...

Eeeny, meeny, miny, mo.

Who. Gets. What?

But the totally devastating, unmentionable, impossible, properly heart-breakingly sad bit of dividing things up is this:

How do you divide up a child?

How do you divide up a tiny little boy who is totally innocent, who loves you both equally, and wants more than anything in the world for you to be friends again and for it all to be alright?

How do you divide up a little boy who gets out of the bath and says, "I love you soooo much Mummy," and you say "Well I love you soooo much too." And then he says, "And you love Daddy too, don't you? Say you do? Please, Mummy, please, please, please say you love Daddy?"

How do you deal with that?

And then you have to have this kind of conversation with your tiny little boy on the subject of renting a new house without Daddy in it:

Him: "Mummy, I am not happy about this house moving thing."
Me: "OK, well, why don't you tell me what makes you unhappy?"
Him: "Well, if it's someone elses house will it be full of their toys?"
Me: "No, darling, no of course not. We're borrowing the house because we won't own it, but there won't be anything in it apart from our things. We'll take all your toys and clothes and whatever you want to take. But some of them will stay in Daddy's house here for when you stay here."
Him: "Can I take my Lego? ...And Peter Rabbit?"
Me: "Anything you want. And you'll get a new bed and everything."
Him: "Hurray! Can it be a bunk bed?"

Pause.

Him: " But Daddy won't be there with us?"
Me: "No darling. He'll be here in this house, but you can see him whenever you want. You can ring him up whenever you need him or want to see him. Whenever you like. You can see him as much as you want."
Him: "Oh."



Big pause.



Him: "Mummy I've decided. I've decided I want to stay with you for one week and then Daddy for the next week. But you first."
Me: (Trying really hard not to cry)"That's a really good idea, sweetie. You are clever at making decisions."

Pause.

Me: "It'll be alright you know, in the end. There'll be no more arguing and you won't feel so worried and you'll still see me and Daddy all the time."

Him.
Unconvinced.

"Mmmm."