October 8, 2004 | At least he pays child support

True to his word, my ex delivered the goods this evening. We were all quite amused; and for a moment–as the kids and I giggled and flipped through the dozen or so poses he’d put the puppy through on the copier–I had a sudden glimpse of the man he used to be, and the family we once were.

Then I realized my wistful moment was a byproduct of stuffed animal porn. That helped to put the nostalgia in perspective.

October 2, 2004 | At least he pays child support

(Or, And now for something completely different.)

The ex took the kids to swim lessons today, and when he brought them back he helped me take out the air conditioners. Then we went through a ton of stuff in the basement and he crammed his car full with a load of boxes. (Yes, he moved out over a year and a half ago. Speed is not one of his attributes.) He even disposed of a dead mouse for me (another one).

He was helpful, and polite, and downright normal. It’s a little disconcerting, but I’ll take it.

Wonders never cease.

September 24, 2004 | At least he pays child support

So, um, where was everybody last night? I cannot believe that my jovial party invitation didn’t yield more takers. Go figure.

As always, my true love Kira was on hand. This is why she is my true love. And while I was happy to wallow, I find that hard to do when Kira is around. She brings out the best in me. If by the best, you mean the penchant for heartlessly having fun at someone else’s expense, of course.

[We have some conversation about my daughter, and my frustration therein.]
genericmir: And I wish the ex would DIE.
genericmir: I’m going to hell.
kiwords: LOL
genericmir: LOL
genericmir: You should SEE his profile on Match.
genericmir: He sounds like Prince Charming.
kiwords: I was telling someone today, I don’t want to HURT my ex, I just wish he’d DIE. See?
genericmir: I totally get that.
[Then, a bit of discussion about the recent excitement in Kira’s world.]
genericmir: I was seriously tempted to post the ex’s entire personal ad.
genericmir: But I stopped myself.
kiwords: OH, you know we’re DYING to see it!
genericmir: He sounds like a FINE catch, lemme tell ya.
genericmir: I have never heard so much bragging and embellishment in my entire life.
kiwords: I BET! If only you could insert in his bio “PS I am a big huge LIAR.”
[multiple snarky comments from me unsuitable for a family blog deleted]
kiwords: Oh dear. His bio interspersed with your clarification…ROFL
genericmir: LOL
genericmir: Wouldn’t THAT be a treat.
genericmir: heehee
kiwords: Except posting his ad would up the chances of him finding your site.
genericmir: exactly
genericmir: So you wanna see what he wrote? Cuz I am DYING to share it with someone.
genericmir: heehee
kiwords: OH I DO I DO!
kiwords: PPPPPPLLEASE?
[Text of ad deleted, but Kira’s comments while I share it with her are priceless. Imagine these interspersed into the cutting and pasting of a looooong text.]
kiwords: Ok, I would hate him.
genericmir: heh
kiwords: It seems like he might HURT himself, what with the way he READS and IS INCREDIBLY ACTIVE, all at the same time.
kiwords: Wow.
kiwords: Oh the RESTRAINT!
kiwords: ROFL
kiwords: I cannot BELIEVE you were able to NOT POST THIS!
kiwords: Ick! Ick Ick Ick!
genericmir: Get this: Appearance best feature: Calves
genericmir: CALVES!
genericmir: I love a man with some juicy CALVES!
kiwords: Ok, I just spit on my monitor. ARE YOU HAPPY?
genericmir: BWAHAHAHAHAHAHA!!!!!!!!!
genericmir: VERY!
genericmir: THis is cheering me up IMMENSELY.
kiwords: I saw this GUY the other day? And WOW, he had HOT CALVES! I was ALL WET over his CALVES!
genericmir: LOLOL
kiwords: I got the BEST CALVES OF 2004 CALENDAR the other day! WHOOOEEE!
genericmir: Oh… baby… yeah… that’s it… oh my gooooooood… your CALVES… are soooo… CALVISH!
kiwords: I just loooooove the way they…um…curve…right there from the BACK of your knee to…um your ANKLE! FLEX, BABY!
genericmir: I can’t believe I’m touching your CALVES… I can hardly breathe… is it good for yooooouuuuuu???
kiwords: And there’s this PATCH here? Where the HAIR IS RUBBED OFF! WOW, How….BRISTLY!
kiwords: ps we are going to hell.
genericmir: I notice your calves lead down to your freakishly tiny feet… oh wait, NO I DON’T… because I AM MESMERIZED BY YOUR CALVES!
kiwords: Where we shall laugh and still have better company than we did when married.
genericmir: Sounds good.
[Still later, after we compose ourselves, and make fun of his picture.]
kiwords: That entry would turn me right off. I mean, he probably doesn’t realize this, but it screams “CONTROLLING, COLD, EGO MANIAC”

Have I mentioned that I heart Kira so very, very much?

September 23, 2004 | At least he pays child support

I fear that I can blog no more, for there is no way to top the information divulged in my last post. That was the pinnacle of my comedy career (and, technically, I didn’t even have to write the funny part!). I should just stop now, because what would be a logical follow-on to that??

Nothing.

Oh, except maybe selected excerpts from his entire profile? Yeah, that might be good. Also the part where his lower age bracket for women is thirteen years younger than himself (ikky! ikky!), but still, no. I’ve had my fun at his expense.

What I will share is this: there’s a very good reason why I was content to lash out at him, yesterday, and enjoy stirring up a few laughs at his expense. Nay, as long as I’m going to do this, I’ll do it right. There is a reason, probably not even a good one. My willingness to post what I did was a direct result of huge amounts of frustration and anger.

I have often spoken of how my ex bridles at the slightest hint that he is anything less than a stellar father 110% of the time. To hear him tell it, he’s raising these kids single-handedly, rather than swooping in a couple of times a week to feed them chocolate chip pancakes for dinner. That’s annoying. But I’m used to that. What is infuriating to me is how–in crisis times when I really could use some assistance–it is always all about him and never about the kids. So, when I really need some support? I invariably find myself faced with an additional fire to put out, rather than anything akin to helpfulness.

Last night when the ex called to talk to the kids, I got on the phone with him to explain what had happened with Chickadee. I pointed out that this was the second time in less than a month that she had pretended to be sick to get out of school. I was asking for input on whom to call first, her teacher or her therapist, when he heard her wailing in the background.

Ex: Why is she crying? Is she okay?
Me: She’s fine. She’s crying because I told her we’re not going to Family Information Night, because she’s “sick” and needs to go to bed early.
Ex: Family Information Night? What’s that? Why wasn’t I informed??
Me: Ummm, it’s kind of like a fair, with stuff for the kids, and then booths for the parents about the PTA and stuff.
Ex: You should have let me know! What if I wanted to participate? You’re supposed to keep me informed!
Me: Um, Ex? It’s Wednesday night. Don’t you work late on Wednesdays? Would you have been able to come to this?
Ex: No, but that’s not the point–
Me: And do you have a deep interest in the Junior League, the Newcomer’s Club, or Scouts?
Ex: The point is that I am supposed to have the option to participate in everything!
Me: No, the point is that none of us are going and you are making a big deal out of nothing.

He then asked to speak to his children. No further input on how to handle this brewing situation with Chickadee was given.

Welcome to divorced parenting. I’ll be your host. As the custodial parent, you can expect to tend to all the crap that is part and parcel of child-rearing, be the enforcer, the day-to-day provider, and the magical solver of all problems, while your ex-spouse complains about missing face time at a school event he never would’ve given a second thought to while you were still married.

Allow me a moment to indulge my petulant inner child: It’s not fair.

Last night, I lay down in bed with Chickadee and tried to pry from her anything that might be bothering her. I told her I love her, over and over (she needs so much reassurance these days), but that it’s not okay to pretend to be sick to get out of school. I told her she can tell me anything but we have to be truthful with one another to get problems fixed. Today, I play phone tag with the teacher and the therapist. I chat with a friend who also has a high-maintenance child and compare notes. The teacher calls and has no idea what the problem might be, but for not the first time I wonder if this very old-school teacher is a good match for my very complicated daughter. My heart is heavy with the knowledge that my child is crying out for help that I don’t know how to give.

Last night, the ex got off the phone with me and called his mother to complain about me. Can you believe how she just leaves me out of these things, he probably said. Who does she think she is! I’m a very involved father! This morning, he went to work with donuts on his mind. Tra la la.

It’s not fair.

September 22, 2004 | At least he pays child support

So I was chatting with my dear Jilbur this fine evening, and she asked me for my zip code. I gave it, along with a snarky comment about how she must be sending me a sympathy card (it’s been that kind of a day). Nope, no card. What she offered, instead, was a link to Match.com profiles for available men in my area.

Now that, dear readers, would’ve been scary enough. Some of those pictures reminded me that I am indeed a stranger in a strange land. Heh. But the ultimate horror was not to present itself until later, as I continued to page through with a mixture of fear and fascination.

I wondered; how can you really know someone from the information they choose to present to you on a dating website? These men could be animals. They could be killers, rapists, WWF fans, taxidermists! How would you know? How would it be possible for someone like me–a skeptic, at best; a pessimist, at worst–to bridge the gap of disbelief and allow that not only are there good, available men out there, but they are advertising themselves this way? Perhaps I am being a snob, I told myself. Perhaps I should at least allow for the possibility.

Whatever infinitesimal chance at open-mindedness I’d had was erased by a single profile. The gentleman in question sounded fabulous. Great education, varied interests, funny, and a father to boot (waxing smitten on his kids, no less). He claimed to love a multitude of romantic activities that I haven’t had the pleasure of since long before my marriage. He sounded to good to be true, really. Because he is.

Yes, the ex has a profile on Match. Given his penchant for science fiction, I guess the majesty and extent of his truth-bending shouldn’t surprise me. The clincher? In the same sentence where he claims to be a very devoted father, he gets the kids’ ages wrong.

P.S. Adding a clarification: I neglected to share that a couple of weeks ago the ex claimed that he and the MOB have decided to “just be friends for now,” which I of course took to mean she dumped him. But I was sitting on this info because I wasn’t sure it was true. According to Match he’s been active in the last day, so I guess she’s history.

September 18, 2004 | At least he pays child support

I’m rich! I’m rich! The ex came to pick the kids up for swimming lessons, this morning, and brought me the child support check. Only three days late.

Let’s go blow it all on fast living and shiny things! Or, you know, the mortgage. Either way. I’m flexible.

My ex has never missed a child support payment. Neither has he ever once paid me on time. It’s a charming little tribute to his passive aggressive tendencies. I always get the money, but I always have to remind him.

Have I mentioned that I’m really, really looking forward to being gainfully employed again?

September 7, 2004 | At least he pays child support

Okay, I’m over the whole Tragic Biking Accident thing, now. Thank you for your comments. Special thanks to my Dad for reminding me about the incident where my finger was slammed in a car door upon our arrival at a cast party. Yep, I did the silent scream in a Friendly’s parking lot, and won a trip to the ER, and lived to tell the tale. (Parents know the silent scream; the longer it lasts, the greater the chance of serious injury.) That hurt like hell; but in looking back, now, all I really think about is wanting a Fribble. Mmmmmm… Fribbles.

So I’m okay, as are the kids. Monkey did his usual fussing this morning over… ummm… everything, and he was quite surly until I managed to stuff a couple of pop-tarts into him, but then he was fine. All of which is SOP for mornings around here.

Onward and upward. I haven’t bitched about my ex for a while. He continues to reach greater heights of dumbfuckery, and I just can’t keep it all to myself anymore. It wouldn’t be fair.

Mr. Very Involved Father proposed a schedule of visitation–early in the divorce proceedings–which more or less had the children going back and forth every day. This was typical of his pattern; he wants what he wants, and as the children are prized possessions rather than sentient beings with their own schedules and needs, they should be available for his use as he sees fit. Hang on… my eyes rolled so far up in my head, just then, that they got stuck. Ow. Okay, better now.

Anyhoo, we managed to negotiate down to every other weekend and one dinner and one afternoon a week. I’d been unsure about that afternoon thing. It was fine while Chickadee had half-day kindergarten and Monkey was in preschool, but what about once “real” school started? “Don’t worry about it,” my lawyer whispered confidently, “that’ll just go away once school starts.”

Well now school has started, and Mr. Very Involved Father has already told me more than once that “that time will have to come from somewhere else.” I don’t think he appreciated me laughing at him, either, but I couldn’t help it. I mean, as much as I’d love to have that watch from “The Girl, The Gold Watch and Everything,” at the present time I don’t know of a way to manufacture more hours. When I pointed out that it wasn’t like I had extra time with her, that we were both experiencing a decrease in time due to school, he continued to grumble.

Keep in mind here, too, that he lives about half an hour away, in traffic. It’s not like the kids can just skip down the street to see him. Transportation in this scenario is a significant time suck.

So, there we were, school about to start, the ex all miffed (probably in his mind, I had purposely manufactured the school schedule to try to rob him of his precious time on account of I am the Devil’s Henchwoman), and me hoping that the visitation thing will somehow–mercifully–resolve on its own. School started last Wednesday and Thursday is usually his afternoon with them. Imagine my surprise on Tuesday when he informed me–with shuffling of feet and darting of eyes–that he had a business trip this week, and would have to miss Thursday’s visit. Would that be okay?

I was stunned. Yeah, that’d be fine. First week of school is going to be hairy, this works out better, actually. Oh, good, he said. And he was probably going to visit an old friend on his way back, so he’d be back Sunday, maybe Monday. Oooookay.

Here’s where my brain tapped me on the shoulder and whispered, “Something’s fishy.”

Traditionally, because I have so much more time with the kids than he does, if he’s not being a total pain in my ass, I allow him to have the kids on Monday holidays when he’s off work. Mr. Very Involved Father had just given up his Thursday afternoon and the potential of an entire day on Monday. Hmmm.

Know what? He’s been at his current job for a year and a half, and has never once had to travel. Not once.

Mr. Very Involved Father calls to talk to the children every single night that he’s not with them. Although he has just a cell phone (no regular phone) and is therefore, theoretically, always reachable, he does the calling. He has a knack for calling just as we sit down to dinner or at otherwise inconvenient times. But he insists on being the one to call us, rather than vice versa. From Thursday through Sunday, he consistently called just minutes before the kids were going to bed, wanting to know if he could call back later. Um, no. The kids are going to bed, talk to them now. “Oh, what time are they going to bed?” he would ask.

If you have known me for five minutes then you know that I am a loving but very strict parent. It was one of the greatest strife-builders in our marriage. He believes in parenting through Fun and Stuff, and I believe in being consistent. The children go to bed at 7:30. They’ve been going to bed at 7:30 for years. I did not change their bedtime. I am not somehow unpredictable in this way. I allowed some flexibility over the summer, then two weeks before school resumed I went back to Regular Bedtime. This is not news. And yet there he was, calling again and again, to say he was in the middle of something (dinner, headed to a movie, etc.) and could they maybe just stay up a while to wait for his call?

Ex? The earth’s axis called. It wanted me to let you know you don’t make it spin.

Yesterday, he didn’t even call. Now, normally–given his bizarre control needs over the whole phone call thing–if he doesn’t call before bed, too bad so sad for him. The kids don’t notice and they go to bed. But yesterday Chickadee mastered her bike! And she wanted to tell Daddy. So we called–fifteen minutes before bed–and he wanted to know if he could call us back. Shoot, there go my eyes again….

So they talked for a few minutes, and then I got on the phone to remind him that we’d need to discuss transportation for the next day (today), as it’s dinner night and usually I deliver the kids to him at 4:00. Well, Chickadee often doesn’t get off the bus until 4:00, so clearly something would need to change. The ex told me he’d have his dinner with his friends and then call me on his way back home.

He didn’t call last night, or today. As I sit here, it’s 1:00 and I still haven’t heard from him.

I will give you three guesses as to where he went on his extended weekend.

Now let’s be clear: I don’t begrudge him going to spend some time with his honey. But I hate being lied to, and for someone who claims to be a Very Involved Father he certainly gave up his visitation in a hurry, dontcha think? Which brings us to the reason that he lied. He is constantly angling for more time with the kids, and wouldn’t it look bad if I was able to bring up that he sacrificed his time for a booty call? Oh my, yes.

I cannot wait until the kids are old enough to draw their own conclusions.

August 11, 2004 | At least he pays child support

And let’s just get it out of the way up front: I know this makes me look shallow and bitter and hag-like. I’m okay with that. It’s too good not to share.

On the heels of a perfectly pleasant chat with The Ex Who Continues To Boggle My Mind, I have new information on his MOB (Mail Order Bride). He allowed as how it was probably natural and normal that I had some questions about the lady in his life, and I should go ahead and ask. So I did.

Hold on to your hats, folks.

Everything you never wanted to know about the ex and his MOB:

They met through some people he works with. Well that’s nice. It’s good to meet people, and know people who can help you do that.

She is in grad school, and looking to transfer somewhere local. Fair enough, you say. Innocuous, even. Wait. Grad school. Hmmm. Isn’t school for those… a bit younger? Why yes!

She is 23 years old. Have I mentioned? The ex is 36. THIRTY. SIX. And not a “ladies man” by any stretch of the imagination… so… WTF??

She has been married and divorced once already! That was the comforting information offered in defense of why it’s okay that she’s only 23. She’s mature, you see. If you’ve been married and divorced by 23, that makes you all grown up. Understand? Me neither.

She’s from Russia. As in (he didn’t say this but I am fairly certain), not a citizen of this country. But he’s sure her feelings are genuine, despite his mother’s concern that he’s being used. Oh. Okay. If I were a nice person I’d figure out a way to offer her a no-strings-attached Green Card just to see, but I’m not, so let’s just enjoy this drama as it unfolds for our amusement.

She is 23 years old. In case you may have missed the math, he is thirteen years her senior. Old enough (technically) to be her father. And–oh yeah–let’s take a quick inventory. A 36-year-old physicist, who never dated prior to marrying at age 26, who is paying half his take-home pay in child support, whose picture appears next to the definition of “wallflower” in Webster’s, and believes the entire world has wronged him. What a catch! I can see where she couldn’t resist his charms.

This is not his first relationship. This I found surprising. But whatever. The first one, didn’t work out because the girl was “too young” for him. She was 22. *cue sound of my jaw hitting the pavement*

She is afraid that I think she’s a mail-order bride. Huh. I wonder why she thinks that? This is a perfectly plausible, natural situation. Really. Excuse me a minute… no, I’m okay, just choking on a little something I think….

She is 23 years old. Gah. Gah! Gaaaahhhhhhhhhh!!!!!!!!!

My life has turned into a predictable yet surreal schlock novel. When do we get to the chapter where my life resumes so I don’t have to sit around obsessing over this weirdness because the alternative is to consider all the problems in my own life?

August 1, 2004 | At least he pays child support

I know that I tend towards the melancholy, soul-searching, where-is-my-life-going sorts of stuff on Sunday night, but that is not what I have for you tonight. Nope. Tonight my ex was kind enough to switch the channel from “vague discontent” to “is it really possible that a person could be so smart and yet so lacking in common sense.” Be sure to thank him for his (unwitting) efforts when you next see him. Which, for most of you, will be never (and thank your stars for that as well), and for those of you who might happen to run into him, don’t bother, because I doubt you could get a word in edgewise, anyway.

My ex has plenty to say. Oh yes. First, he wants to tell you that he is “a very involved father.” He used that phrase this evening no less than three times. I may have physical custody but he does “just as much” for and with the children as I do. Uh huh. I registered our daughter for camp; I paid for camp; I took her to the pediatrician for a physical; I submitted the health forms; I took her on no less than three shopping trips for the various gear she requires; then went shopping two additional times without her for her dang shoes; labelled all of her gear; packed her backpack; and in the morning will pack her a lunch and take her to camp. But he wanted me to understand that this was a joint venture. Because he gave me some sperm six years ago, I think. Ooooookay.

Next, we have been tossing around the idea of starting Chickadee in piano lessons. This has somehow turned into I am not fulfilling my obligations as a good mother because she is not already in lessons, and when I pointed out that I am trying to figure out the whole job thing and what my schedule is going to be before I make another time commitment, he suggested I leave it to him to handle, during his visitation time. Which led to my pointing out that visitation will change once school starts, because right now he gets the kids at 1:00 one day a week. And before I knew it, he was gesticulating wildly about how I can’t just cheat him out of those hours of visitation, they’ll have to be made up elsewhere. And as I stood there looking at him like he had two heads–no, that’s not right, more like he was going to sprout a second set of arms, ala Stitch–I found myself telling him that while he seems to believe my primary goal in life is to keep him from his children, my priority lies in letting them be kids. Well, he was having none of that silliness. I make them go to bed far too early for his liking (he wants to keep them later, since he’s not the one who has to get them up for school), and he could handle the piano lessons (leaving me to travel to his town any time he’s away on business or late for visitation; oh yeah, bringing that up really ticked him off), and I was just being difficult.

Don’t get me wrong. As much as he irritates the living crap out of me, I appreciate that my children’s father does love them and want to be a part of their lives. And he does the best that he can, I guess. But this constant insistence that all things be equal is making me batty. It rather reminds me of being married. You know; it’s like being told–after I stayed up all night breastfeeding and changing diapers and then spending the day with a colicky infant and screaming toddler and he came home from work and played with them for half an hour before bed–that we were equal parenting partners. Um, no. We weren’t then and we aren’t now.

I fail to understand why acknowledging that I bear the majority of the parenting duties threatens him to the point where he becomes agitated if I do not agree to his delusional assertions that he does exactly as much as I do. I know this, of course. Usually I try to just nod and agree rather than argue. It’s pointless to argue. Nonetheless, I just don’t get it.

Want to hear the scariest part of this? Somehow we resolved this little scuffle; we agreed to disagree, or deal with it another time… I don’t really even know… and I remembered that I’d wanted to tell him that the kids had gotten into a big discussion about how Daddy should get married again and have more babies! (Yes, they really did. Mostly Chickadee saying she wanted a little sister, but Monkey was brought on board when he figured out this would mean he could have a shot at being a big brother.) I was curious to see what he would say. Keep in mind that this is a man who bemoans his financial situation at every possible juncture; there’s never a moment’s hesitation in telling you how poor and badly off he is. His reaction to the kids’ discussion?

“I really miss having kids in the house all the time. I probably will have a couple more if I can.”

Because children are replaceable, dontcha know. And they’re a must-have accessory in all the finest homes. Hunter Douglas blinds, real oak floors, and oh yeah, a couple of smallish people to run around.

I mean, okay, whatever floats his boat. I don’t begrudge him having more kids. People do that all the time. But his reasoning scares the bejeezus out of me. And don’t even get me started on what sort of impact that would have on our kids, and on one very sensitive little girl in particular. Right now, all he offers them is Fun Daddy with the toys and the fun activities. If Fun Daddy has other kids, other financial obligations, and a wife who is (rightfully) going to want him to spend most of his time with her and their kids? My kids are going to tire of him, and quickly.

But at least we can all agree that when that happens, it will somehow be my fault. Ah, the many rewards of motherhood.

July 24, 2004 | At least he pays child support

So the kids and I had a fabulous day; we met up with friends and ran some errands at the mall with the merry-go-round. That meant an errand, a ride on the carousel, an errand, ice cream, a couple of errands, a ride on the carousel, and then home again. Not a bad way to spend a day for the six-and-under set. Then we had dinner at our friends’ house, came home, had showers, and headed to bed.

I am not one to bill myself as the world’s greatest mom. I mean, I get the job done. Some days better than others. On certain issues I could use a lot of work. On other issues I may be slightly ahead of the curve. Who knows. As all my fellow parents know, the kids didn’t exactly come with a manual so we’re all muddling through as best we can.

Anyway. Chickadee copped an attitude with me for most of the day. At six, this is not unusual, but it felt… different. I wondered. I decided I was reading too much into things or perhaps projecting. Until my friend leaned over after a particularly mouthy exchange and whispered, “Somebody’s angry about Daddy’s new girlfriend.” Well, it was imagining until she said it. Crap. Ooooookay. I figured I’d tackle it at bedtime, if we made it through until then without me harming her.

As she got herself settled under the covers tonight I lay down on the bed beside her and asked her if there was anything she wanted to talk about. “Nooooooo.” Oh, okay then. I was just wondering if you felt okay about meeting Daddy’s friend today.

Immediate tears. Oy.

“I think Daddy likes his new girlfriend more than he likes me!” I could hear the tender music swelling in the background, I tell you. It was so corny I would’ve laughed except that it was real and my heart was bending under my little girl’s crying.

Then I realized… here I was embarking on this discussion on a night when Daddy forgot the bedtime phone call. Because his “friend” is here. We’ve been apart for about a year and a half and he’s forgotten to call a grand total of three times. Great. I said a quick and silent prayer that she hadn’t noticed the missed call. (And maybe added in a few curses towards the forgetful father….)

So I did The Right Thing. I kissed her and hugged her and told her how she and her brother are the whole world to her father and me, and how I know that no one will ever be more important to us than them, but that adults need other adults and what makes Daddy happy should make us happy too. I praised my stepmom and pointed out how happy it makes me that she makes my dad happy, and how great it is to have another person in my life to love. I even conceded (in my best conspiratorial tone) that I hadn’t known quite what to think of her when we first met, that of course I didn’t love her immediately because we needed time to get to know each other.

I did everything I could think of to act like this was a really exciting thing. And when her sobs finally turned to yawns I reminded her that she can always talk to me, and always talk to Daddy (unless he forgets to call; bastard) (no, I didn’t say that), and that we will always help her feel better.

I feel like I ran a marathon. And I have no idea if I did the right thing, or if she really feels any better. At least if this was made-for-television I’d have a commercial break to review the script.