July 24, 2004 | At least he pays child support

We have our first Mystery Female update.

Chickadee reports that her name is “Inca.” I’m guessing it may actually be Inga, but who knows. Sounds mail-order-ish to me, either way.

But Chickadee’s hair was neatly combed out and beautifully done up–which is quite a change from the nest of snarls it usually is after swimming–so I’m thinking I can get behind this Inca person.

I also had a nice laugh at the ex’s expense and watched him turn all red because he parked waaaaaaay to the side of my driveway at both pick-up and drop-off, as if that would somehow prevent me from knowing about the Mystery Female in his car. I suggested he bring her in to say hello and he almost choked. Heh. And no, I didn’t even get a glimpse.

Curiouser and curiouser.

At least he pays child support

Two items are rolling around in my brain this rainy morning.

First, Chickadee has her first loose top tooth. She’s lost three bottom teeth, and as soon as I got used to the adorable little gap, two permanent teeth sprung up and she now looks essentially the same as she did before. (When the third tooth decides to make an appearance is when the fun will begin, as her jaw is tiny and the two teeth already grown in have taken the entire spot left by the three vacancies.) Of the three teeth already lost, she lost one in April, one in May, and one in June. She is determined to lose this tooth in July. I fear finding her tying herself to the door or something similar to try to yank it out.

Second, I am trying to be a mature adult. It isn’t working. Because I am a bratty child. I have laid actual money down with several friends on the conviction that if my ex remarries, it will be a mail-order bride type of situation. (He is painfully shy and also has some very old-fashioned ideas about what a woman “should” be.) As he normally takes the kids to Saturday swimming lessons, he conveniently let slip that he was having company this weekend, of the female persuasion. When I offered to cover lessons, he said no, that was fine, because her bus from New York wasn’t getting in until late. Later when I asked if it was someone I knew he said no, it’s someone he’s just met. He’s just met someone who is now taking a bus from New York to stay at his house? The mind boggles. And let’s be clear: it’s not jealousy, it’s more like morbid curiosity. And maybe a wee bit of concern for the girl involved.

Of course, there’s always the chance that this will turn into some fabulous blog fodder….

July 14, 2004 | At least he pays child support

I was rather enjoying a long, dragging, tedious day of being trapped inside by the rain with two small cranky beings. Okay, maybe “enjoy” is the wrong word. But I was managing.

Then the phone rang this afternoon, and the caller ID informed me that it was the ex. In the middle of the day. On a day when he doesn’t see the kids. Uh oh.

I answered with great trepidation. Something wrong? Bone to pick? Laid off unexpectedly? (I’m almost afraid to say that last one out loud, so completely screwed would all of our lives be if that were to happen at this point.)

“I’ve been filled in!” he announced with glee. “Want to hear all the gossip?”

Beat.

‘Nother beat.

OH. No crisis. Phew. Okay, yes, fill me in, but damn you for nearly giving me a heart attack.

I have mentioned before that we made our move to this town during the technology boom, while the ex was a founder at a start-up which paid him piles of money but then subsequently sucked out his mind and soul and after a while, fired him. I could tell you the entire story, but as the overused saying goes, then I’d have to kill you. Suffice it to say that it was a very messy business, both on the career and personal sides, and was–not coincidentally–no small part of what eventuated in our split. Bad Stuff, in short.

Last week the ex mentioned that he’d heard “rumblings” of further problems at The Evil Empire. Today he got the whole scoop and couldn’t wait to dish on the misfortunes of those who’d tossed him out like yesterday’s garbage. “You were the only other person I could think of who would really appreciate this news,” he said. And we discussed it for a bit, pros (what comes around goes around) and cons (we still own quite a bit of stock, and no matter how much fun it would be to watch them fold, we stand to benefit if they don’t), like… friends.

That can ruin a perfectly okay day.

I don’t want to be friends with my ex. Neither do I want to hate him (I worked my butt off to get past that one; my therapist may have a beach house somewhere, now), but this sort of friendly discussion about mutual interests? No. No! I don’t want it. Go away and please return to being an insane yet predictable idiot over there so that I can continue to believe that I had no other choice but to kick you out. Don’t go actually giving me glimpses of the basically good human you used to be, because that makes me feel bad. Shades of grey, in this particular realm, are not appreciated. Let’s go back to the restraining order. Let’s go back to where you see a car in my driveway at night and call me up hollering about what a slut I am. Those things are easy. Those things I know how to process.

This? This is complicated, and wholly unwelcome. And how much of an asshat does that make me, when I know plenty of people who would–in all likelihood–cheerfully give their right arm to have a civil conversation with the father of their child(ren)??

This kind of anger drops into my lap out of nowhere and mocks me with its unashamed lack of logic. Maybe it’s too soon; I don’t know. But a small, tired part of me thinks that it will always continue to taunt me, at the most unexpected times. I always joke about how “there’s just no pleasing me.” It isn’t nearly so funny when it turns out to be true.

June 17, 2004 | At least he pays child support

(Or, “How To Make Something Really Simple Incredibly Complicated.”)

When I was married, packing the kids for a visit to the in-laws meant locating an appropriate piece of luggage and filling it with clothes and some other stuff. It might’ve taken half an hour, tops.

Now that I’m divorced, packing the kids for a visit to the ex-laws means hyperventilating and thinking about it and hyperventilating some more and weighing the options and finally, arriving at the day before the trip with nothing packed.

First Issue: Quality. If I pack their older, “play” clothes, I will be bad-mouthed as the terrible mother who doesn’t dress them properly. If I pack their newer, nicer clothes, they will come back ruined (”Well, Daddy lets us use permanent markers!”). Or not come back at all. Lord knows that Daddy may come through with rice krispie treats and chocolate milk for breakfast, but he didn’t know which clothes belonged to our children when he still lived with them. Now? Anything I pack for Chickadee stands a 50/50 chance of going home with her cousin of the same age unless I charge her with the responsibility of tracking her stuff. Call me crazy, but I don’t think that at 6 she should have to be policing her clothes.

Second Issue: Quantity. My ex’s mother is a laundry addict. So the ex doesn’t ask for many outfits. But as near as I can tell, all laundry is washed at her house in hot water, dried on nuclear heat. Does packing more clothes mean less lost to the laundry? Or merely more items laundered at the House of Hot and ruined? I just don’t know.

Third Issue: Coordination. I know I need to just let go on some things. It should not make me want to climb out of my skin and howl at the moon to know that when I carefully fold matching articles of clothing into cute little packages, the ex can still pluck an orange striped shirt and red plaid pants and pair them up. I have to hope that with the help of the other adults around on this trip, this may not happen. Or that everyone will have the good sense to recognize that if it does, it is not my fault. But, well, everything is my fault as far as this group is concerned, so why not one more thing to obsess on, right?

Fourth Issue: Health and Safety. Theoretically, the ex has his own Epi Pens, sunhats, sunblock, vitamins, medications, etc. But if I pack mine in the suitcase, at least I know these things are making it on the trip. On the other hand, it’s his job to remember this stuff on his own, or figure it out. (After losing Monkey’s Epi Pen just once, I have to say he’s gotten better about these things.)

Fifth Issue: Lovies. Fun Daddy now has more toys at his house than we have here. But if I insist that only items from his place make the trip, there is nothing of everyday there with them. Conversely, if I let them take their “regular” lovies, they may be lost.

Sixth Issue: My babies should not be allowed to spend eight entire days away from me in a discipline-free vacuum amongst people who think I’m pond scum. But what I do or do not pack doesn’t influence that one, I guess. If not for the fact that I will spending a good portion of their absence in the hospital (preferably in a morphine haze), I might have to spend the week having a prolonged we-miss-our-kids pity party with Zoot.

June 7, 2004 | At least he pays child support

During my divorce, just about every item in this house became hotly contested property.

His feeling was, the filing cited “irreconcilable differences,” the law defaults to a 50/50 split in this case, and he was already behind because I was keeping the house. Therefore, he deserved half the items within the house at a bare minimum, and probably more.

My feeling was, I let him leave with both his face and his testicles intact, and he should’ve said thank you. Well, that, and the small matter of his salary being five times mine, while my household would contain three people and his reduced to only one.

And so it went. I cheerfully offered up any items that 1) were his before we married or 2) I didn’t use. I’m generous, that way. Needless to say, he complained–loudly and often–about the inequality of “stuff.” I also learned that I am, bar none, the most selfish human on the planet because I planned to keep the pots and pans I use every day to cook for my family, rather than splitting the set with him–the man who had to be taught to boil water (I wish that was a joke)–so that he could feel better while he took the kids for Happy Meals every single visit. Good times!

Let’s change gears for a minute. I grew up with many, many “advantages” in my life, for which I am very grateful. I grew up in a house with a trash compactor. I grew up in a house with a microwave, when most people didn’t have them. (My children didn’t believe me when I told them that.) I grew up in a house with furniture you weren’t actually supposed to use. Stuff like that. I grew up in a house that had a toaster that pulled out of the wall, then slid back in when you were done with it. I never once thought this was remarkable until I realized that most people’s appliances, you know, just sit there and take up space.

I did not grow up with a toaster oven. That seems odd, now, given all the other stuff we had. But apparently my folks were not toaster oven people. (Please don’t ask me to define toaster oven people.) So yes, I was sheltered… I didn’t really understand what a toaster oven was, or why you might want one.

Fast forward a bit, to a few years ago. Find me standing by an endcap at Target, puzzling over some very expensive toaster ovens which have been marked down to 90% off. For $9.24? 90% off? Well of course I need one! I did the logical thing: I called my friend Marcey on my cell phone.

Me: Hey, it’s me.
Her: Hey. Where are you?
Me: I’m at Target. Hey, do you have a toaster oven?
Her: Yep, why?
Me: Well there’s a whole display here of DeLonghis that are 90% off. I was thinking of getting one.
Her: That’s great, you should definitely get one.
Me: Yeah, that’s what I thought. Only. Ummm. What do you do with a toaster oven?
Her: What?
Me: What do you do with it? I’ve never had a toaster oven.
Her: *peals of laughter* You toast things with it, stupid.
Me: *peeved* Yeah, I know that. But I have a toaster. So why would I need this, too?
Her: *still laughing hard enough to make me feel like an idiot* You can cook things in it… nuggets for the kids, fish sticks, stuff like that. You can make grilled cheese in it. Well, toasted cheese, but same difference… you are joking, right, that you don’t know what to do with it??
Me: KKKKKKK oh, I think the connection is… WHHHHHHH… call ya later.

Hmph.

I bought the toaster oven. I brought it home, and cleared a space for it on the kitchen counter, and spent a while looking back and forth between it and the monster 4-slice bagel-capable toaster that was now looking decidedly grumpy. Oh, well.

The toaster oven and I grew to become close friends. Marcey was right; it was way easier to make grilled cheese in there than to muck around with a pan, and a little batch of nuggets or fish sticks or fries cooked in there much more quickly than in the oven. Sure, I continued to make toast in the toaster, just because it was there. But I was very pleased with my purchase.

Okay. Back to Ye Old Division of Goods. The ex likes him some toast. Or some english muffins. Or any other bready, carb-y substance except bagels, because he is unnatural. Anyway. A 4-slice toaster is–in my reality–a family appliance, but when you don’t cook and have been known to eat a big plate of, well, bread for a meal, a 4-slice toaster makes perfect sense. I magnaminously offered up the toaster for his use.

Here the ex surprised me, with uncharacteristic solicitude. How would I toast things? He wanted to know. What, was I just never going to give the kids toast any more? (I suspect that was his real concern, weird though it was.) I explained that the toaster oven made perfectly fine toast and he was more than welcome to the toaster. Away he (and the toaster) went, and I didn’t give it a second thought.

Several months later, along came Mother’s Day or my birthday or something. I can’t remember which it was. In the interest of good co-parenting, we have a tacit agreement that we will help the kids shop for appropriate holiday gifts for each other. Once they are old enough to shop and pay, themselves, I will do a little dance, but until then, we engage in this niceity for The Sake Of The Children.

While certainly not the chief complaint of my married life–though a problem that bothered me more than I like to admit–was the issue of gift purchasing. Mars and Venus; I get it. Men are different than women. Duh. Okay. But still. I shop ahead; I love to purchase gifts for loved ones; I am excellent at surprises (which is a nice way of saying I’m a great liar); I love to find just the right thing and usually do. And it goes without saying that I manage all of this on a shoestring budget. Then there’s the ex. On Christmas Eve, or the day before my birthday, or the night before Mother’s Day, his face would take on a look of vague constipation. “I have to go out for a while,” he would say. He would be gone forever, then return and shoo me upstairs, where I could listen to the sounds of inept wrapping if I chose to listen in. The next morning? Gifts I had no interest in, or use for… gifts clearly plucked off of holiday displays under signs reading “She’ll Love This!”… and when the credit card bills came, 9 times out of 10 I would discover that my completely useless, thoughtless gift cost way more than a thinking person would spend.

You know where this is headed, right?

Whatever post-toaster Occasion it was rolled around… and the children proudly presented me with… a toaster! Wow! Just what I totally didn’t need! Excellent!

I have a little island-table thingie in the center of my kitchen, and the shelf on the bottom is where that toaster has remained since receipt. I never even opened the box. Occasionally the kids used to ask about it; I would explain that the toaster oven makes toast, and that we’ll open the toaster if we someday find ourselves having some sort of Toast Crisis, but until then we’re saving it. They buy it, though the ex is clearly irked. Then again, he is always irked so it may be unrelated.

Lately, my toaster oven has started toasting unevenly. My bagel comes out burned on one side and still lukewarm on the other. This is probably due to several years accumulation of crumbs and lord knows what else in there, but despite a couple of cleanings and general poking-arounds the problem remains. It still works, and in cooking mode it doesn’t seem to have this issue, but an unevenly toasted bagel is a real problem, you know.

But I can’t. I just can’t! I will not open that toaster. I will never use that toaster. That is the Toaster of Stupidity; the symbol of all that I lost in nine years of marriage to someone who barely knew me and knew he didn’t and just didn’t care. (After multiple arguments over the whole gift thing, I was informed that I was simply ungrateful. I think that was after the year that I was given a stepping-stone craft kit for Mother’s Day and tried to explain that the idea was that he and the kids make me the stone, not that he present me with a complicated gooey craft to make my long days alone with the kids even longer.) It is the Toaster of Cluelessness. Verily, I say unto you, it is a Toaster of Betrayal!!

Black and Decker probably didn’t have that in mind, I know, but what can you do….

So my bagel’s burned a little on the side. That’s okay. And I may be attaching a wee bit too much symbolism to the toaster–maybe–but that’s okay, too. Sometimes a woman’s just gotta take a stand.

June 3, 2004 | At least he pays child support

My dear Chickadee–for a brief period of time–delighted in telling me lies about her time with Daddy, because it frequently (okay; always) evinced a negative reaction and she was looking for some power and control. I thought that phase was finished.

Only today, on our way down to Daddy’s for their weekly afternoon with him, she started telling me that she never rides in a carseat in Daddy’s car anymore, and in fact when they went to the zoo last weekend (a long trip from here, through Boston traffic) they just brought some pillows and blankets and she lay down in the back.

I remained reasonably cool. I reminded her that lying to me is a poor choice, and asked her to reconsider her story and tell me again when she was ready to tell the truth. But the more adamant she became, the more my agitation progressed. Finally I told her the conversation was over; I would ask Daddy when we got there and if I found out she was fibbing she was gonna be in big trouble, missy! We rode in steamy silence while I wondered what had triggered this regression and she fought back tears.

Well, please pass the asshat tiara. Thanks. There is only one thing that makes me angrier that blatant dumbfuckery, and that one thing is blatant dumbfuckery that seems so beyond the realm of possibility that I actually end up disbelieving my child because I can’t believe my ex is that stupid.

The tiara? Yeah, I didn’t believe he’s that stupid. But he is. THAT stupid. And worse, would you like to hear the brilliant excuse he placated me with? Of course you would. He said:

“I forgot.”

Lemme tell you, I felt all better after that. (Whaaaaaaaaaat??)

He forgot what? He forgot that our children are precious cargo and they are much safer in carseats? He forgot that the shoulder strap crosses her little neck in such a way that even a fender-bender could snap her spine? He forgot that you cannot wear a seatbelt while laying down on the seat and that this might be both illegal and a bad idea, say, in major metropolitan traffic????? (”She was wearing the lap belt and just kind of sideways,” he mumbled while studying something of great import on the wall.)

The dicey part is this: legally, Chickadee doesn’t have to be in a booster. It’s recommended, but in our state the law only applies up to 40 pounds (she is 5 pounds past that); after that, it’s merely a recommendation. But according to the Law of Rabidly Protective Mama of Skinny Girl, it’s mandatory, get it?

I am very proud of myself for 1) not making a scene, 2) apologizing to my daughter for not believing her, 3) not raising my voice, and 4) not ripping his head off with my bare hands. And he kept saying that it wouldn’t happen again, he knows it’s not a good idea (that admission makes me feel worse, by the way), so I was approaching normal blood pressure levels and headed back to my car when he said, “You know, I can only take one carseat when we fly to my Mom’s.”

Dumb.F-U-C-K.Er.Y. Let’s assume, for a moment, that this Ivy League educated, doctorate-holding man is really stupid enough to think this is okay. Just assume, for the fun of it. Okay. Now. Even if–after all the preceding discussion–he still thinks this is a dandy way to operate, he would have to have never once MET me to think that now TELLING me this is in any way, shape or form a good idea.

I stopped. I turned. Very quietly, I said, “You need to figure out how to get two carseats there, and use them both. Check one with your baggage. It’s not optional.” Then I said good-bye to my kids and drove back home, wondering how I am going to handle this without putting my innocent child in the middle of yet another power struggle.

June 2, 2004 | At least he pays child support

I know you have been losing sleep ever since I wrote the letter asking for a refund of summer camp deposits for the kids. You have been waiting on pins and needles to know the outcome of this very pressing matter, I know. Well, pace no more! Rest easy. In their infinite wisdom, the association in question has magnaminously decided to refund the overage in the form of a credit on our account.

Errrrr… okay. Of course, “our” account is, in fact, the ex’s account. This means the cost of swim lessons will now be covered for the next several sessions, and I can maybe recoup some of that money from him. As soon as I learn how to squeeze blood from a stone.

But I now have the illusion of having a small victory, there, and at least I don’t have to think about it any more. Too much. Well, there is the small matter of choosing between bringing it up to the ex or stabbing out my own eyeballs, but I can decide that one later.

Mine is a life of ambiguous triumphs.

May 15, 2004 | At least he pays child support

If you get divorced in New Hampshire and you have children under the age of 18, you are required by the state to take a seminar in co-parenting before they will sign off on your divorce. This is a fabulous class filled with wise tidbits about why you shouldn’t call your ex an asshole in front of your kids, and they show little video snippets of “what not to do” wherein actors guild rejects scream at each other while little Johnny sits on the step and cries.

I was awarded primary custody of our two children, and my ex–oops, I mean, my co-parent (positive lingo helps the process, dontchaknow)–has very generous visitation. For any faults he may have, he does love the kids more than life itself, and always wants to maximize his time with them (which is usually a good thing).

This weekend the children are at Daddy’s, but it just so happens that our church is having a girls’ tea this morning. I carefully broached the subject with the ex weeks ago, offering him extra time at another point in exchange for “borrowing” our daughter for a few hours so that we could participate in the tea at church. At 6, this little girl still pretty much lives for any mommy-daughter stuff, and as she’s had a very rough time of it with the divorce (6 going on 16, this one) I thought it important that we go. The ex agreed.

Well, I’m out at a friend’s house last night (I do not socialize on the evenings/weekends when I have the kids unless it’s a family thing, so this is a rare treat), having a good time, when my cell phone rings from my ex at nearly 10:00. I answer the phone with great trepidation and ask if one of the children is sick. No, he says, they’re not sick. But they won’t go to sleep. (Cue overblown “peace-shattering global event” music here.) I bit my tongue, tried not to laugh, and asked him what exactly he wanted me to do about that.

“Well,” he says, “I just wanted to let you know that I just said if she doesn’t go to sleep in the next five minutes, she’s not going to be allowed to go to the tea tomorrow.” Oh, my. What is wrong with this statement? Let me count the ways:

• Our daughter had been threatened with a huge consequence, while our son was “just having trouble settling down.”
• Our daughter has a slight cold and even the ex admitted that perhaps that was part of the problem.
• She is acting up for her father so the punishment is to be less time with her mother.

(I’m not even going to touch the fact that I parent these kids 24/7 without calling him to whine about it, and I certainly wouldn’t be calling anyone on their cell phone at 10:00 at night on a rare free evening unless there was blood or fire involved….)

So, what did I do? I was calm. I suggested he give her some cold medicine. I asked him to call me in the morning to let me know how it all worked out.

This morning I took a deep breath and informed him that he is not to threaten my time with the children in response to misbehavior with him, that he’ll need to find another way to deal with it and if I ever did such a thing (”You kids better knock it off or you’re not going to Daddy’s!”) he’d probably haul me back into court, and that I was very disappointed with how he chose to handle this. Like the gentleman he is, he responded with… complete silence. When pressed with “Do you disagree?” he said that no, he didn’t. He didn’t apologize. (Huge surprise, that.)

We’re going to the tea, by the way.

Okay, I will need to continue dealing with this until the youngest graduates from college… so that’s only… 18 more years… ooooohhhhhh yeah… I think I need to go outside and dig in the dirt for a while… maybe bury myself completely….