He said yes.

If someone would have told me a year ago that all it would take to settle the details of my divorce was wielding a giant sword and clanking around in a metal boob thing, then for the love of Red Sonja, I would have pulled those things out of the costume box eons ago.

We met, the Almost Ex and I. We sat in Starbucks, just across from the table where we sat last October and I meant to confront him but instead asked gingerly about all the things I'd found hidden out in the open, all of the events that quickly led to us being no longer. I was purposely calm those months ago, purposely calm as we huddled over a financial spreadsheet I created to measure what bills had been paid and what is now owed.

I glanced to the left as he made his way down the page with his finger and eyes, noting the empty table and remembering that awful meeting.

Things are different now. That's what I thought to myself. There are no questions about being done, just when. There is no doubt about grasping happiness, just about how to keep holding on to the happiness I now have.

It hasn't been easy. That's what I thought next. But it wasn't easy being married either, especially in those final months.

I would have liked him to make a proposal to me, to take the lead in the financial negotiations we are trying to settle without attorneys, to be the one to reject or agree, to hold that power. I knew he would not. He is not equipt for such an exchange. Instead, I made an offer. I've done all the work up until this point -- it was all there in little boxes tapped out in Excel -- so how could I expect it to go differently this time around?

This is what I want most and I think this is what is best for both of us. That's what I told him and that's what I asked him to agree to as I sipped my Calm tea, feeling it seep into my shaking insides.

He was more defensive than at our last meeting. But then, the apologies were already out of his mouth and the conversation was now centered on money. And money makes this man crazy.

My own proposal was for less than I am owed, but I don't care. I am done giving myself a hard time about how I am choosing to get out. I am doing what I have to do to get out.

He agreed to think about it and then we turned the talk to Lil E. We discussed schedules and events and even offered to help each other out since we each have an event that lands in the middle of our weekends with the boy. I was a little stunned as I spoke, even though I spoke measured and soft. This meeting was what I'd hoped would be possible but never dreamed would.

Then I said something off-handed and he laughed loudly and it reminded me of what we used to be. Later, Lulu asked me what I thought of that in terms of this whole damn thing with him.

I thought, "Once upon a time." That's what I told her. Once upon a time. Period. That's the entirety of the sentence. About that, I feel neutral. I feel fine. I feel relieved.

He'd think about my proposal, consider the numbers and financial statements and get back to me. That's how we left it after talking about how to get Lil E off the damn pacifier and how amazing his new preschool teacher is.

I walked away and the nerves built, the adrenaline rush, the Calm dissipated. Would this work? Could we finish this? Would he agree? Will I ever get out?

I sat with it. I distracted myself by taking Lil E to Target and agreeing to buy a Batman toy and gloves and other things we don't really need. I waited.

I think that will be best. That's what the Almost Ex told me today, nodding and standing up from buckling our son into his carseat.

You agree? To the offer? That's how sure I needed to be.

He said yes.

With that one little word, the one that made this once great love a legal arrangement, I think it might all really be over.

Yes made us married, yes will get us divorced.

There is lots of paperwork and another progress hearing and there will be more meetings. But today, the answer is yes, and I am as giddy as I was to slide that diamond on my finger seven years ago.

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We're with you on this: Write to Marry Day

The world I want my son to live in is a place where he can marry anyone he loves that much.

At one point, he was smitten with the lovely Claire who held his hand down the aisle as the flower girl to his ring bearer. Yesterday, he told me no matter how much the cute, curly-haired redhead with the infectious smile hugs him,  he is definitely done with girls and most likely will marry a boy so they can play bad guys and Batman and chase away the girls all day.  He's four. Next week, he will want to marry the dog from Martha Speaks. Regardless...and really, it is all regardless...I love the definitiveness in his voice. That gives me hope.

Whoever he grows up to be, whatever life he grows into, I want the choice of who stands beside him in front of a justice of the peace and God and his friends and our families to be his choice. And because I am getting divorced and he now has two homes and a preschooler's sensibility of what and who the ideal partner is, and because we go to a great church and quietly but still call ourselves Christian, I pray for this for him.

And for all of us.

Today, I am writing for Write to Marry Day, in support of every single person who once was a hopeful child and still carries that hope of marrying their same-sex partner.

I am not trying to get married and I am not voting on this issue. I am not a Californian. What I am is proud to join hundreds of other bloggers who believe in marriage equality and stand against California's Proposition 8. I'm with you, my friends.

Lil E and his band of merry betrothals and I are with you.

If you're not hearing what I have say, trust BadKitty. No really, she meows it soooo much better than I ever could.

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And so the divorce becomes a quest

After my request to please do everything in our power to get this divorce done already, things with the Almost Ex have been quieter, calmer, steadier going. I am experienced enough to know this will probably not last forever and just wise enough to appreciate every civil conversation that floats between us at the front door of my apartment.

Tonight, we meet to go over the financial part of our separation. It is our attempt to avoid a trial, it is my hope to blow the last seed from the stem of this marriage.

I told my grrrl Lulu today that I was feeling anxious and she stopped me before I could get anymore of that vulnerable vocabulary out of my mouth.

"No, Jessica," she said firmly into the phone from across the country. "You are on a quest. There's no room or need for anxiousness. The universe -- or God or the goddesses or whatever -- will not just give you what is yours. You will be given what you are capable of handling. It is sad to say, but you are good at this now. Use your talents. Pull out your breastplate and shield and sword and ass-kicking boots, if you need to because you are on the quest of your life."

I cried when she said it but I also smiled to imagine myself with all my armor of calmness and centeredness and support of a thousand grrrlfriends and family members and friends I've never met in person.

That word -- quest. It stuck with me. It wouldn't leave me all day. I get that this is one part of a big life, one hash-mark on the timeline. The quest isn't just about being done with the money or even done with the divorce. It isn't about moving past the year mark or into another month. It is the quest to keep on. The sand is pretty thick now and there may be crazies lurking in the shadows, Lulu says I can take them (and take it), and that feels empowering to hear.

Who the hell wants to be skilled in the art of divorce? Or even in negotiating with someone they once loved but now is a completely different person? No one.

But if I am -- and yes, I am getting better at this all the time -- then I am going to make it my quest. And with my tough-talking, loving, amazing, breast-plated women friends around me, I am going with all the BeDazzled goddess gear I can find.

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