Inside Out(44)

It’s a funny thing to say, but I’m very proud of our divorce. I think Bruce was fearful at the beginning that I was going to make our split difficult, that I would express my anger or whatever baggage I had from our marriage by obstructing his access to the kids—that I’d turn to all of those ploys divorcing couples use as weapons. But I didn’t, and neither did he. I had no desire to replicate the destructive way my parents had used my brother and me as pawns. I’d seen what that could do to people, and I knew from the inside how that felt to be entrapped within as a child.

It wasn’t easy at first, but we managed to move the heart of our relationship, the heart of what created our family, into something new that gave the girls a loving, supportive environment with both parents. They were never put in a position of having to choose between us for this holiday or that birthday; we were each able to put our own things aside and share those times with them. I am convinced we would have very different children now if we had handled things more selfishly.

I experienced the most conventional family dynamic I’d ever known in those years. I was the stay-at-home mom whose life revolved entirely around the girls, their schedules, their breaks, their schools, their activities; and Bruce was the one working, the breadwinner. That Bruce was no longer my husband was irrelevant because he was the active father of my children; we felt more connected than we did before the divorce.

Our house in Hailey is a very long ranch, and Rumer’s and Scout’s rooms were down a long corridor at the other end of the house from the master bedroom. The distance was too scary for them in the dark of night when they were little, so the children slept in the master bedroom for many years. We all piled in together—probably not the best thing for a marriage, but very cozy, and, regardless, that’s what we did. After a year or so of continuing that sleeping arrangement when the girls and I were alone in the house, I realized I couldn’t even entertain the thought of spending time with someone else unless I could figure out how to get the girls out of my bedroom. It was just too big of a step for Scout and Rumer to go the whole distance to their rooms, and Tallulah only ever slept with me, so I came up with the idea of creating a “sleeping room” near mine: there were three mattresses on the floor and the bedtime essentials—toothbrushes, books, pajamas, music box—and we used the room only at night. For daytime there was the playroom we’d created when we were doing our big renovation. We’d had an intricate birdhouse on a shelf in the living room, and on a whim, I asked one of the carpenters if he could re-create it as a playhouse. The result was an exact replica with a shingled roof, clapboard walls, and Dutch doors. It was enchanting.

There were all sorts of projects to do on the property, which I finally had time for. We had a little playground near the house and as the girls grew, I added more swings and climbing equipment. Their classmates would often come over en masse to play out there. An offshoot of the Big Wood River runs behind the house, and I had stones laid along the shoreline to prevent erosion. When the river was low, the mud was high, and the girls loved to cover themselves with it. When the water was high, the girls swam and tootled around in an inner tube in our backyard pond. Winter comes early in the mountains, and the girls would skate on the river and carve ice caves right off the deck of the house with their friends.

I made good friends of my own in Hailey, who saw me as a neighbor and fellow mom, and nothing more. Scout’s dearest friend since she was eighteen months old, Sarah Jane, is the daughter of a hysterically funny, no-nonsense, and totally irreverent woman named Sheri—Sheri-O, we call her—who became (and remains) one of my closest confidants and favorite partners in crime. She is a great golfer, and Bruce used to love spending hours with her on the course. Our girls called themselves Hamster Jane and Skunky LaRue.

Hailey really felt like our home.


MY KIDS GAVE me permission to play. When I wasn’t working on the house, I was spending hours putting together American Girl bedroom sets and making forts for stuffed animals. And I had an excuse to shop for toys.

My time to play as a child was very limited, and now I was making up for it with an enthusiasm that verged on obsession. I remember going to the Target in Twin Falls with the girls—Hunter worked some magic so we could stay after hours, and it was amazing being in there on our own; it felt like being at Willy Wonka’s Chocolate Factory. Within seconds we had zeroed in on the toy section.

My eyes locked on the Cabbage Patch dolls. I pulled down three supposedly identical variations—to anyone else, they would have all looked like the same doll. But I started scanning back and forth between them, checking which had the sweetest expression, which one had the eyes at the ideal spacing, looking back and forth and back and forth for . . . what?

What was I looking for?

I didn’t go to a therapist after Bruce and I split. I bought toys. It was an addiction, but it was also a lifeline: in recent years, as I’ve cleared out storerooms stuffed with toys and dolls I accumulated during that time, I could feel the pain they held. I realize now that my obsession with collecting kept me from doing something that could have been much worse. At the time, though, I think I would have told you things were good: Bruce and I were getting along. The girls were thriving. I started dating a martial artist I met after he did a demonstration at Scout’s eighth birthday party; Oliver gave me the chance to rediscover myself as a woman—not as a wife or mother. For once, I had removed all expectations from a romantic relationship.