I caught the weather on teevee the other night, a rare thing in my house as the channel usually lands on something involving dinosaurs, Disney characters or (lately) beautiful men dripping wet.  Er, that last one is only for me.

Nothing in the report caught my attention but for the almanac.  The meteorologist lingered over the fact that a few years back, my area had experienced record low temperatures.  Mid-August’s usually sweltering days had given way to highs in the 60s and lows in the 40s; reading the facts and dates brought me vividly back to that year.

My eldest child was on the cusp of entering school.  The little ones hadn’t yet been born.  I was enjoying more free time than I’d had in years, and during the cold streak in question I’d been using the hours after her bedtime to read on the back porch.

Wrapped in a blanket to keep off the cold and armed with tea, I’d take to the porch with a book and a tiny reading light.  It was a lovely retreat, and most days I was at least moderately content to spend a few hours out there reading while my husband worked or played computer games.

But on the chilliest Friday something was different.  Was it hormones?  An extra-hard dose of child-inspired loneliness?  Too long since our last attempt at sex?  I don’t know, but on that Friday night I needed the comfort and warmth of the man who I’d hoped would be my partner forever.  I suggested it to him as he headed off to his work and computer.  “Can we have some time alone this weekend?  Maybe tonight?  Or tomorrow?” I asked, attempting the lowest-pressure sell possible.

“I’m not going to have the time,” he answered.  “I really need to finish that project for work, and I need to organize everyone’s fantasy football picks by Monday.  Maybe early next week?”

And then he scooted off, leaving me with book and tea on the desk.

It was the first of many moments of clarity I experienced over the state of our relationship.  I cried, book and tea forgotten as the idea of an entire weekend without any sort of physical solice from him sunk into my brain.  I cried for over an hour as it grew chilly and dark, and if my neighbors peeked out their windows and wondered whatever was the matter with me I could not have cared any less.

Eventually I fetched my paper journal and wrote for a while, calming down as pen pushed hard against paper.  It wasn’t enough to cure the bitter loneliness, but it was enough to keep me going for a few more days.

Now, several years later, I think I should have known better.  I should have known then.  But finally I figured it out — we both figured it out — and neither one of us will ever have to spend another weekend where we’re together but so painfully far apart.

I’ve been put in charge of a valuable tract of land.  The acreage is made up of streams, waterfalls, meadows, woods and lakes.  There’s hardly a place where one could see anything but a fabulous view, or smell anything but lush vegetation, or feel anything but soft breezes.

Because the land is wonderful, I allow certain people to visit there.  I want to share the experience with them, so from time to time they walk through the meadows or enjoy the other amenities.

Lovely as the land is, there are parts I feel compelled to keep fenced.  I want to keep others out, whether because of safety concerns, or discretion, or whatever.

Really I don’t even need reasons.  Decisions about how to manage this land are on my shoulders; I must make the choices and then bear the consequences.

But there’s a problem.  Some of the people who come to visit cannot keep off the fence.  They spend their time trying to break it down.  They beat their heads up against it.  They push their luck.

I shoo them away and reinforce the fence.  I make it higher and stronger.  I install warning signs, barbed wire, electric current.  And when these people come back, I point out the reinforcements.  “Here is the limit,” I tell them.  “Enjoy what is on that side of the fence, but please don’t come past this boundary.”

They grouse, my visitors do.  They are not happy with the strengthened fence.  But they eventually wander off; I watch them go, hoping that they can enjoy the parts of the land I’ve allowed them to visit.

Sometimes long months go by where my visitors do not challenge the fence.  They quietly peek over it, or maybe they mention in passing how charming is the view.  But they do not waste their time trying to knock down the barrier.

“Perhaps they can be trusted with more,” I think during these times.  “Maybe it’s time to relax a little.”  So I take down the barbed wire.  I consider moving back the fence incrementally.

Seeing an opening, my visitors then charge the new barrier.  They butt up against it so hard that I can barely hold the gate ahead of their barreling charge.  I add new reinforcements, extra electrification, higher boards.  And my visitors complain.

Oh do they ever complain.

My visitors see no reason for the fence.  They seem to believe that I have no right to keep them from the full run of the land.  They claim that fencing even a part of it deprives them of some God-given enjoyment.

They want a vote in administering my land, even though I have more than a little evidence that they not only mismanaged their own land but also have no idea the magnitude of the long-term repercussions from their mismanagement.

In complaining so vehemently, they lose their time on the land.  Instead of exploring the part where they are allowed, they choose to argue at the fence.  They turn their back to the beauty they can have in a quest to have more.

Have you broken the code?  The land represents my life, and the lives of my children.  The headstrong visitors are my parents.  The fence stands for the boundaries I’ve placed on what my parents have access to in our lives.

Despite their many requests, I can’t take down the fence.   Eventually they may tire of trying to defeat it.  They may leave altogether.

That’s the chance I’ll have to take.

It all falls to Sunday evenings.

Bags are readied for school and work the next day. Trash is gathered from the far reaches of the house and set to the curb. The cat litter gets changed. I make certain that laundry, dishes and bills are completed. Children are bathed. I clear the kitchen counters—not that that’s any different from the forty-seven times I clear the kitchen counters every other day.

I do these jobs alone. I do more work than I did when the stb-ex lived here, and yet I do it now with a happy heart. When he was here, I slogged through tasks with resentment gnawing at me. Now, even though I work harder, my heart is lighter.

As I work, I wonder how it is that I can feel so cheerful when Sunday evenings spent with him appeared black before my eyes. There must be some knowledge I lack. If I’d had that knowledge then, I think, I would have been able to moderate my attitude and avoid the rending of my family.

If I could have had this Zen then, I could have held out until the stb-ex grew wiser. Or not. It wouldn’t have mattered if he’d have gotten his act together or not, because I would have had peace either way. More than anything else it was an adjustment in attitude I needed.

But I was never able to make that adjustment. I missed the lesson then, so I continue to search for it now. It is the great mystery that bedevils my mind each Sunday evening as I prepare house and children for the week ahead.

Some day if I’m lucky, perhaps I’ll figure it out. As I wheel the trash to the curb a white hot bolt will reach down and offer the knowledge to my waiting mind.

“Oh,” I’ll think, stopped curiously in the middle of my driveway, trash forgotten behind me. “That’s it. That’s what I was missing. If only I’d known it then.”