Fair and Safe

Monday morning, Thing One threw up at school so the secretary called me. Despite Ike's protests that vomiting wasn't that serious, I picked up the eldest monkey, took her home and spent the day with her. What became readily apparent was that she didn't have the flu--no fever or cough--and while her stomach was upset, she kept down soda and popsicles, and eventually a bagel. I could tell something was upsetting her by the way she stayed close all day, wanted to lay with me on the couch and watch me knit. Thing One is 8 the way other people are 21: she owns being that age and rules it with a kind of elementary-school confidence. So the mother need was unusual, though I thought it was likely just something more about the Girl Wars at school.

Then Tuesday night at dinner she broke. "Papa said he was going to marry Sara," she cried. "And that if Sara wants to, they'll adopt a baby."

There are a handful of times when I've been rendered speechless. This was one of them.

Thing One put her head down on her plate--empty because she had refused to eat much for the past two days--and sobbed. "Why does he need another baby?" she asked. "He has us. He has us."

There have been times when Things Two or Three get upset and cry about their dad, the divorce, any of it. And I've told myself that those times are hard because they lack the verbal acuity to voice their feelings. I realize now that isn't true. Watching Thing One grieve--she's the kid who, at 7, cried and said, "I want you to live together again, but I know you can't. And it makes me sad."--is a special kind of pain. I can't tell her everything will be alright because she knows better.

At the dinner table, I scooted my chair next to hers, put my arms around her. I rested my forehead on the back of her neck. At the nape her hair is still baby soft, thin and light and fragile. "I'm sorry," I said. It seemed like the only thing I could say that was true.

"I don't understand," she said. "He moved away from us."

"I know."

"If they adopt a baby, then it will get to see him more than I do. And he'll like it better than us. He won't be able to help it." Thing One's chest heaved when she talked and her body shook.

Right then I wanted to hurt John. I wanted to shake him hard. Look at this, I wanted to tell him. Look. This is what responsibility fucking looks like.

John didn't admit to saying anything at first, though now he says it was all a side comment, nothing important.

Last night, I asked him to switch weekends with me, since I have something going on in late April. He agreed, but noted that I would need to take them two weekends in a row. "Well," I said, "you'll be here Easter, so I'll get a break anyway."

He was quiet.

"Because you and Sara are taking them out, right?" Last year, when we were going through mediation and creating a parenting plan, he had argued to alternate Easters. This was because last year, when I asked if he wanted to come over for Easter, he snapped at me. "I'm an atheist," he said. "Why do I care about Easter?"

It was dig against Jon, who was in seminary. When I made plans for Easter that didn't include him, though, he was angry and then sad. So he wanted to alternate the holiday, argued for it in mediation. And now it's as though he can't remember why.

"I'll be there for a few hours," he said.

"I know. I'm just trying to calculate how I'm going to do this without a break for two weeks."

"Well, I'm not taking them three weekends in a row. That wouldn't be fair."

Fair. The word stuck. Fair. I had just asked him if he could manage to pick them up early that Friday in April, at 5:00 pm. He had sighed, said he'd have to check with his boss to see if he could get off early, but he wasn't sure, and wouldn't know until maybe that week. Fair. The word doesn't carry any meaning with me anymore. Does he want to talk about fair?

Nevermind that he does not pay for their prescriptions or doctors' visits, though he promised to, and Thing One's asthma medication runs $95 a month easy.

Nevermind that he does not help cover their soccer registration fees or uniform costs.

Nevermind that he does not pay child support on time.

Nevermind that he can drop emotional bombs like "I might marry Sara and adopt a baby" and then leave without having to deal with the repercussions.

Nevermind that he never shows up on time for his weekends.

It was then that I realized that 5:00 pm is the time he's supposed to pick them up. That's the agreement. That's in the stupid parenting plan we made. And he's broken it for months now because he gets off work later than that, sometimes as late as 8pm. What's worse is that it has become so regular that I've allowed him to redefine the terms so that 5:00 pm is early. I spend every other Friday driving up to Portland to drop them off, or I hire a sitter so I can go to a reading, and then I drive them up Saturday morning. He drops them off early on Sundays too sometimes. I get 48 hours of child-free time every two weeks, and even that he tries to cut in on. "I appreciate you being so flexible," he says frequently. And I fucking let him get away with all of it.

This is what I do. I wouldn't let my friends get away with this, even my male friends. If Friend R were to ever pull something as crappy as this, I'd box his cute little ears and then I'd be done with him. I never have to worry about this, though. My friends are loyal and good and kind. They take care of me and they take care of me well. But while I wouldn't tolerate such behavior from my friends, the men I'm either romantically involved with, or were, somehow get carte fucking blanche. And part of the reason is that they're sort of emotionally crippled or something. They always seem unaware of what they're doing or what they've done.

Fair.

The Nefarious Poet and I have been trying to repair our friendship, despite what happened at AWP. He said he wanted something "safe and manageable," and I missed him, missed just talking to him, missed that connection, the way he got me, understood me. So we started emailing. But his words stick the way John's do.

Safe? Safe? No one gets safe, NP. Who would want safe? No relationship, not even a simple friendship, is safe, let alone this one. And I don't want safe. It's not worth my goddamn time. And it isn't worth yours either.

Last weekend Tim-Tim told me, over dinner at an Italian place, that pouring anything more, even friendship, into the Nefarious Poet was useless. "He's like a piggy bank with the plug pulled out. Whatever you put in there isn't going to stick."

After NP sent me a photo of an ex-girlfriend making eyes at the camera for him, I began to see Tim-Tim was probably right. Like John, he doesn't know any better. It's fair and safe. Everything fair and safe. Fair and safe. Meanwhile, the balance goes on my account, it's my job to deal with the fallout, to deal with the repercussions, to hold up the illusion of fair and safe for these men. I can't do it anymore. And I don't want to.

*tm

(listening to a playlist which includes the not-oft combined "Irreplaceable," by Beyonce, "Chan Chan," from the Buena Vista Social Club Soundtrack, "Jackson," by Lucinda Williams, "Someone to Pull the Trigger," by Matthew Sweet, and "Black Sheep" by Martin Sexton, among others).

Comments

[Liza]

Oh, fuck. Y'know, having children really does bring you down to the lowest common denominator. You grow up being all smart, and go to the fancy MFA factory being all witty, and at the end of the day you walk around thinking, if not admitting, that "it really is like having your heart outside your body" (gag). It's so true. My situation with the ex is totally different, but I had something kind of similar happen with my oldest, who has been moody and tantrum-prone for a couple of weeks and finally just today broke down and confessed that the school who says the kid is doing just fine and doesn't need any help from an aide or tutor or anything has been MAKING A KINDERGARTENER WITH SENSORY INTEGRATION DYSFUNCTION DO MATH PROBLEMS OUTSIDE AT RECESS INSTEAD OF PLAYING. "I don't want to go back to school after the doctor," the kid sobbed, "I don't want to work outside because the light hurts my eyes and I still can't do the math and I never get to plaaaaaaaay..."
Oh, for christ's sake.
There is just no end. And you seem to be handling it in a much more mature fashion, if it makes you feel any better, because while I did the whole "of course we will fix this, if something is bothering you you just have to TELL me, give Mommy a hug" thing in front of the kid, I still called the school office and told them that if the vice principal didn't call me back about this TODAY I was going to come over there and bring his toupee home strapped to the hood of the minivan. Yes, really. Yes, literally.
It did kind of make me feel better, though. And that is why children (ideally) have mothers, and not just absentee dads with their heads up their arses or vice principals who don't even know their teachers are encouraging delayed children to break regs and skip playtime. Thing One is lucky she has you keeping an eye on things, because sometimes I wonder if anyone besides the mom even notices when they're hurting like that, much less cares or tries to fix it. If all else fails, whip out the crazy. When you've got nothing else to lose in a situation it can be very therapeutic, and sometimes it even works. Or at least makes for a good story.
Love your writing. Love. It.

[Alana]

TM, here is what I know. You're a miracle. Your kids are lucky to have you. Really.

Peace,
A

[nik]

OH TM,
You are the best Terrible in the whole world. There should be a law against people who try to adopt and don't pay their child support on time or in whole. Maybe there is....in OR where all things are fairer and more just.

[Tragically Hip Single Mother]

Heh, whip out the crazy.

My take on this has been blurted into the cell phone ad nauseum, but I'd just like to say a big fat WORD to the words of the ladies, above.

[Marilyn]

This really tugged at me. One of my stepsisters went through a similar situation (and is still going through it). Her ex split and left her with three kids...then remarried someone 20 years younger...and had a baby. And pulls the same kind of "It's all about me" crap. I feel for you AND your kids. Even though we don't know each other in 'real' life, you know I've been reading here awhile...and I have to say that nothing you've ever written about John--even when you were married to him--has made me think he's anything more than a totally self-absorbed d*ck. And as for that NP guy, be careful, babe. Because as Alana said, you're a miracle...and unless he's worthy of one of those, he doesn't deserve anything from you...safe or otherwise. And you know I'm usually not this judgmental in comments...but damn, girl, you deserve the BEST.

[Friend Omega]

"But while I wouldn't tolerate such behavior from my friends, the men I'm either romantically involved with, or were, somehow get carte fucking blanche."

You were men? You never told me.

Also... how upset am I that you never return my phone calls or emails, but you try to pick back up on your pre-relationship relationship with NP?

[Terrible Mother]

See, my not calling you back is just me protecting myself from having to hear about all your screenwriting success. Which always makes me have to say sad things like "when you're famous, you'll take me to a big Hollywood party, right?"