So this is how it usually works:
The kid’s grandmother (my ex’s mom) asks my son what he’d like for Christmas and his birthday (which is just a few days later). He tells her. She goes out and buys it right away, tells him that she’s bought it, wraps it up and makes him wait until Christmas morning to unwrap it.
As a kid, the fun of Christmas for me was wondering what was in those boxes under the tree. I always hated when the surprise of a gift was spoiled for me, and even though I don’t argue with the kid’s arrangement with his grandmother, I just don’t understand it. But, as I said, I don’t say anything about it.
This year, though, it has gone too far. Last night when I got home from work – my first night off in many nights – I was informed by the kid that his grandmother told him she would get him the new Guitar Hero game for his Xbox. No big deal. I was kind of happy actually because it’s somewhere around a hundred bucks and he really wanted it, but I knew I would have to pick up a few extra shifts if I wanted to get it for him. So good for him.
But there was a catch. It seemed she had also told him he could have it early if he wanted. I was slightly irritated by this – the kid has no patience and a lot of this is due to the spoiling he received while living with his dad and grandparents – but I didn’t make a big deal out of it. I just said something about not being disappointed when Christmas came and he didn’t have anything new to open from his grandparents.
I went to my bedroom and started changing out of my work clothes when the kid’s voice came through the door.
“Grandma said she would send you the money if we went out and got it. So can we? Go pick it up?”
I moved beyond irritated. I was pissed.
“No, we can’t,” I said, opening the door to see his pathetic face. “I don’t have the cash.”
“She said she would send you the money for it,” he argued as I walked past him and into the kitchen for a drink.
“I don’t have the money,” I repeated. “If she wants to send you the money to buy it, then I can take you out to pick it up when I have time, but I do not have the cash right now.”
He argued with me for several more minutes about how he knew I had that much (I have him count my tips each night and I try to keep him aware of, if not directly involved in our budget), and that his grandma would reimburse me so I wouldn’t be out anything.
I didn’t give in. For one thing, my ex and his family haven’t always been great about paying me back. They’re very generous with the kid when he’s living with them, but as soon as he’s with me, they seem to forget that he might need or even want anything (yes, there’s a child support arrangement, but that’s a rant – I mean topic – for another time). And I’ve paid up front for many things – airline tickets, shoes, school clothes – for which I was promised cash in return, only to be stiffed and put into a financial bind when the money didn’t come. I’ve learned my lesson and I’m certainly in no position for that to happen again. For another, if his grandmother wants to get him a present, then she should get it for him. She should get it. I’m already annoyed that I have to do the actual shopping, but I find no reason why I should have to do the paying too.
The part of it that really pisses me off is that she knows we’re on a pretty strict budget. She knows I’m working two jobs and that the holidays are coming and that I’m trying to put some money toward going to Iowa over the break, so she should be aware that I’m in no position to go out and purchase the kid’s Christmas present for her. Apparently, she isn’t aware.
So she told the kid he could have something and because I am unwilling/unable to go along, I am the perceived villain, and the kid moped around the apartment all night.
My ex and his family do this stuff to me all the time. One year, the kid wanted an electric scooter for Christmas. I shopped around all fall until I finally found one I could afford. When I discussed it with my ex, he said he didn’t think it was such a good idea. The kid was still fairly young and living with his father at the time, and he didn’t think they were very safe. I disagreed, but we’re in this parenting thing together (like it or not), so I didn’t buy the scooter.
On Christmas morning, the kid was a little disappointed that he didn’t get it, but he liked the other gifts I bought instead and everything was fine. Then for his birthday, his dad and grandma gave him cash and a gift card and took him to the store where they let him buy himself - you guessed it - a scooter. He was so excited about it. He immediately brought it over to my sister’s house, where I was staying, and drove it around the neighborhood. His little face beamed as he showed me the turn signals and the working headlight, and my heart broke a little that I couldn’t be the one to make his holidays so wonderful.
My mom used to complain about my dad doing the same types of things to her, always trying to make her look bad in our eyes, always trying to make her into the bad guy. One day a few years ago, when we finally started opening up to each other about our experiences with depression and the bipolar and therapy, she told me things really changed for her when one therapist told her this: “[dhf’s father] has his white cowboy hat held on with superglue. It’s never coming off his head, so stop trying to knock it off. All you can do is take off your own black hat and refuse to wear it anymore.”
I choked up a little when she told me that. Okay, so we had been drinking and I might have become a blubbering mess (two bipolar women drinking – I gotta tell you, it doesn’t get much more fun than that). I was angry with her over the years for various things – I was a teenager – but I never saw her as the villain, and it hurt to think that that’s how she saw herself for so many years, that that’s how my father made her feel. I told her that. I told her that her hat was always white in my book. And even though I know it didn’t take away the pain she felt for so long, I think it healed her in some ways. And we cried and had a few more beers. Well, I had a few more beers. She went to bed.
I know that it will be a long time before my son can step away and really assess our performances as parents. I know that he may never realize the ways in which his father failed us both, so many times, without remorse. And if he never sees his father without the glow from his gleaming white hat, I don’t really care. But I’m not wearing the black one. I’m not going to be the mustache-twisting villain, and I’m not handing over my gold just so he’ll like me. And maybe someday over a few beers, he'll put the white hat on my head.
Showing posts with label the ex. Show all posts
Showing posts with label the ex. Show all posts
Friday, November 30, 2007
Tuesday, October 16, 2007
Why, yes, Mr. Bundy, I would love to get into your van
After our dinner rush, I stood in the break room talking to a couple of other servers, when one of them stood on a chair and very excitedly started telling me about how her latest crush is going. Because there were other people around, and her crush is one of our co-workers, she was speaking in code. And this was on top of her already shortened and overly enthusiastic speech. When she left the break room, another server shook his head and commented that she was crazy.
She must have heard him as she walked away because later, as we were cleaning up the restaurant, she asked me if I thought she was indeed crazy.
“Yes,” I told her. “But I find that your insanity is one of your most endearing traits.”
And I meant it. I admit, when she first started working, I found her a little off-putting. She is loud. She has an odd laugh. And she laughs a lot. At her own jokes. Which aren’t funny. And aren’t jokes. She’s also nice. Like really nice. Like insanely, over-the-top, unnecessarily polite.
But we’ve worked together a few months now and after many smoke breaks together and a couple of drinks after work, I’ve discovered that I really like her.
She isn’t afraid to say what she thinks or feels. She has a really unique laugh. She laughs at her own unfunny jokes and I find this very charming (probably because I do this too). And she’s nice – would do anything for anybody (except watch your tables while we’re in the middle of a dinner rush).
And several times over the past few weeks, we’ve hung out in her car and smoked and talked before I headed home to the kid. I think I have a new friend.
Anyway, this got me thinking about first impressions. Mostly, how mine turn out never to be right. And by this, I mean I thought Mike Vick was a real sweetheart, right up until he asked if I wanted to meet his dogs.
Some examples of my (wrong) first impressions:
When I was thirteen, a new family moved into the house across the street from us. I was playing football with a group of neighborhood boys (tackle football – I kicked ass) in the church yard across the street, and the new kid emerged from his house and asked if he could join in. He said his name was “Daniel.” He was gangly and awkward and sucked at football. I didn’t like him at all. After his father called him in for dinner, I joined the other boys in making fun of him.
Reality – He turned out to be really, really funny. Also very smart (I think these go hand-in-hand). He liked the same corny movies I did and read the same books. He turned out to be my best friend all through school. He was my date for senior prom. And even though we never dated (and he is madly in love with another friend of mine), my mother still refers to him as the one that got away. Oh, and his name isn’t Daniel, though it’s close.
When I was very young, I thought my father was the greatest person on the planet. He was really smart and really funny and took me to football games. It didn’t bother him that I liked to play with GI Joe (back when he was a full-sized doll and not that puny piece of plastic) rather than Barbie. In fact, he thought it was kind of cool. I thought my mother was kind of boring. She was just, you know, a mom. Like June Cleaver. Except she complained a lot while doing the housework, which I found totally unnecessary (“How in the Hell did you get spaghetti sauce on the ceiling? I told you girls not to eat in your room!”).
Reality – My father is smart and he is funny, but he’s a violent shit-hole. And irresponsible. And did I mention, a shit-hole? My mother could kick June Cleaver’s ass. And probably Ward’s (and not just because he’s dead now), but she would never kick anyone's ass because she's just too cool. I found out after my parents’ divorce that she was just quiet most of the time because my dad was too busy doing all the talking. And telling her to shut up. And I realized that my mom was really smart and really, really funny. Especially when manic. Oh, and she used to wear combat boots. What of it?
My first semester in grad school, I adopted two cats. I planned to adopt one, but when I met Mickey and Annie, they were just too sweet to pass up. Annie was kind and gentle, and her brother, Mickey, came right to the front of the cage and rubbed against my finger, then rolled over on his stomach, and though I couldn’t reach it, I knew he wanted a belly rub. He stole my heart.
Reality – Annie was sick. Her full lethargy surfaced within a year, and she had to be put to sleep. Mickey turned out to be aggressive and standoffish and the first time I rolled Mickey’s upturned belly, I pulled back a shredded hand. When I took him to the vet to be neutered, the vet laughed at me and told me the cat had already been fixed. And that, oh yeah, he was a female*. I changed her name to Mickie.
I worked the closing shift at a convenience store during my first semester of college. I had to restock the coolers and clean out the back room before I could go home each night (early morning), but I could only do this when there were no customers in the store since unattended customers tend to shoplift and/or masturbate in the bathrooms (yes, really). Every night, about an hour before close, this guy would come in and play pinball for about forty-five minutes before finally getting the hint that I had work to do and he needed to move on. I assumed he was just some lonely, creepy dude who loved pinball.
Reality – He was just some lonely, creepy stalker dude who loved pinball. Apparently, I had said something funny to him one time when he stopped in for coffee. He took this as flirting and came back the next night, and the next, and so on, hoping to continue with said flirting. Oblivious, I gritted my teeth each night when he came in because his presence in the store meant I couldn’t get my work done and get the hell out of there. One night, I took my frustration out on a cardboard display stand of Reese’s Peanut Butter Cups, and as I tried to move the stand (by kicking it across the floor), the cardboard collapsed and candy bars spewed forth. The creepy dude helped me clean it up and a conversation ensued. His son now lives in my spare bedroom. And eats all my food.
*The Richmond SPCA sucks. That is all. Dismissed.
She must have heard him as she walked away because later, as we were cleaning up the restaurant, she asked me if I thought she was indeed crazy.
“Yes,” I told her. “But I find that your insanity is one of your most endearing traits.”
And I meant it. I admit, when she first started working, I found her a little off-putting. She is loud. She has an odd laugh. And she laughs a lot. At her own jokes. Which aren’t funny. And aren’t jokes. She’s also nice. Like really nice. Like insanely, over-the-top, unnecessarily polite.
But we’ve worked together a few months now and after many smoke breaks together and a couple of drinks after work, I’ve discovered that I really like her.
She isn’t afraid to say what she thinks or feels. She has a really unique laugh. She laughs at her own unfunny jokes and I find this very charming (probably because I do this too). And she’s nice – would do anything for anybody (except watch your tables while we’re in the middle of a dinner rush).
And several times over the past few weeks, we’ve hung out in her car and smoked and talked before I headed home to the kid. I think I have a new friend.
Anyway, this got me thinking about first impressions. Mostly, how mine turn out never to be right. And by this, I mean I thought Mike Vick was a real sweetheart, right up until he asked if I wanted to meet his dogs.
Some examples of my (wrong) first impressions:
When I was thirteen, a new family moved into the house across the street from us. I was playing football with a group of neighborhood boys (tackle football – I kicked ass) in the church yard across the street, and the new kid emerged from his house and asked if he could join in. He said his name was “Daniel.” He was gangly and awkward and sucked at football. I didn’t like him at all. After his father called him in for dinner, I joined the other boys in making fun of him.
Reality – He turned out to be really, really funny. Also very smart (I think these go hand-in-hand). He liked the same corny movies I did and read the same books. He turned out to be my best friend all through school. He was my date for senior prom. And even though we never dated (and he is madly in love with another friend of mine), my mother still refers to him as the one that got away. Oh, and his name isn’t Daniel, though it’s close.
When I was very young, I thought my father was the greatest person on the planet. He was really smart and really funny and took me to football games. It didn’t bother him that I liked to play with GI Joe (back when he was a full-sized doll and not that puny piece of plastic) rather than Barbie. In fact, he thought it was kind of cool. I thought my mother was kind of boring. She was just, you know, a mom. Like June Cleaver. Except she complained a lot while doing the housework, which I found totally unnecessary (“How in the Hell did you get spaghetti sauce on the ceiling? I told you girls not to eat in your room!”).
Reality – My father is smart and he is funny, but he’s a violent shit-hole. And irresponsible. And did I mention, a shit-hole? My mother could kick June Cleaver’s ass. And probably Ward’s (and not just because he’s dead now), but she would never kick anyone's ass because she's just too cool. I found out after my parents’ divorce that she was just quiet most of the time because my dad was too busy doing all the talking. And telling her to shut up. And I realized that my mom was really smart and really, really funny. Especially when manic. Oh, and she used to wear combat boots. What of it?
My first semester in grad school, I adopted two cats. I planned to adopt one, but when I met Mickey and Annie, they were just too sweet to pass up. Annie was kind and gentle, and her brother, Mickey, came right to the front of the cage and rubbed against my finger, then rolled over on his stomach, and though I couldn’t reach it, I knew he wanted a belly rub. He stole my heart.
Reality – Annie was sick. Her full lethargy surfaced within a year, and she had to be put to sleep. Mickey turned out to be aggressive and standoffish and the first time I rolled Mickey’s upturned belly, I pulled back a shredded hand. When I took him to the vet to be neutered, the vet laughed at me and told me the cat had already been fixed. And that, oh yeah, he was a female*. I changed her name to Mickie.
I worked the closing shift at a convenience store during my first semester of college. I had to restock the coolers and clean out the back room before I could go home each night (early morning), but I could only do this when there were no customers in the store since unattended customers tend to shoplift and/or masturbate in the bathrooms (yes, really). Every night, about an hour before close, this guy would come in and play pinball for about forty-five minutes before finally getting the hint that I had work to do and he needed to move on. I assumed he was just some lonely, creepy dude who loved pinball.
Reality – He was just some lonely, creepy stalker dude who loved pinball. Apparently, I had said something funny to him one time when he stopped in for coffee. He took this as flirting and came back the next night, and the next, and so on, hoping to continue with said flirting. Oblivious, I gritted my teeth each night when he came in because his presence in the store meant I couldn’t get my work done and get the hell out of there. One night, I took my frustration out on a cardboard display stand of Reese’s Peanut Butter Cups, and as I tried to move the stand (by kicking it across the floor), the cardboard collapsed and candy bars spewed forth. The creepy dude helped me clean it up and a conversation ensued. His son now lives in my spare bedroom. And eats all my food.
*The Richmond SPCA sucks. That is all. Dismissed.
Friday, July 20, 2007
He may not be a morning person
The three of you who have are actually suffering through reading this blog (all three previous posts) already know this, but it has been several years since my mother asked me if I was living an alternative lifestyle. But in the unlikely event that anyone else ever ends up reading this garbage, I thought perhaps I should let them in on the origins of the title, so I thought I should post that one. And yes, I wrote in present tense. And yes, I have reasons for that, but I would have to get up on my literary high horse to tell you about them and if you aren’t one of my literary friends you would probably get bored and click on the “next blog” button and end up reading about some cool kid puking in the subway in Manhattan after a night of seven dollar Coronas.
So here in the present day, I am finished with grad school (and by finished I mean, I still have one class to take and a thesis to turn in, but as my thesis and laptop were stolen and I still owe the university for a semester of tuition and can’t register for any new classes and thus will not be able to take classes until I pay that shit off, I am finished), I am working at the university from which I failed to graduate, and I am no longer living with my friend, but still reside in the former seat of the Confederacy. With my son. Who is now fourteen.
Which brings me to the point of today’s post:
I woke this morning at four to put the wunderkind on a 6:45 flight to the Midwest, where his father will be picking him up so they can spend the rest of the summer hanging out in their underwear, eating day-old pizza from cardboard boxes left on the floor, and watching reruns of Viva la Bam and all the R-rated movies the kid’s horrible mother would not let him see while he was here. Despite his father’s promise to me that they will watch no such films.
And upon his return, it will take me another nine months to de-program him, just enough time for him to go back to his father’s again.
But still not my point.
While I was working yesterday, and still while I was doing laundry and getting the kid’s things together to be packed, he was at a theme park with some family friends. Last night was my night off from the restaurant – one of two nights per week I am not working – a night I usually spend napping, hanging out with and feeding the kid, and then going to bed early. It’s an exciting life, I know. But last night, as the kid had to be prepared for his father’s house, I skipped the going to bed early part (I did manage to get a short nap in – ahhh, napping!).
He showed up sometime after nine and immediately launched into a plea to be taken to the mall, and after the mall had definitely closed, to wal-mart in order to purchase a new video game for his long (six hour) trek to see his father. From my son’s lips came phrases such as, “I love you, Mommy” and “You’re the best” said so saccharinely that he could have had naked pancakes and they still would have rotted his teeth. He finally gave up sometime after eleven, and I sent us both to bed, though I didn’t make it there until about midnight.
So, on an entire four hours of sleep, with me having to work until after twelve tonight, I shoved the kid toward the shower, threw his bags in the car and we headed to the airport. For the next thirty minutes, me without nicotine or caffeine because we were running late, this was the conversation:
Kid: Why do we have to leave so early? This is stupid.
Me: Your father bought the ticket. I guess this worked out best. Ask him.
Kid: Why couldn’t I just take the train?
Me: Once again, ask your father.
Kid: I’m going to be on a plane all day. This is bullshit.
Me: Watch your mouth.
Kid: I can’t watch my mouth. That’s just stupid.
Me: I love how pleasant you are in the morning.
Kid: Well maybe if you didn't make me get up so early.
Me: It’s too early to argue. Just don’t speak.
Kid: Your car smells.
Me: Crank the window.
Kid (rolling down the window):It's the outside that smells.
Me: I can't help you there.
Kid: Now I’m going to smell. I can’t even take body spray on the plane.
Me:
Kid: This is stupid. Like I’m going to take down a plane with my can of Axe. Airline people are stupid.
Me:
Kid (once arriving in the parking garage and unloading his bags): Why do I have to bring so much crap? Now I have to carry all this (as I unload and roll his bags down toward the terminal).
Kid (in the terminal, seeing the two people ahead of us in line at the ticket counter; upon being asked to put luggage tags on his skateboard and carry-on bag; upon seeing the line for the security checkpoint; upon being asked to remove his belt before going through the metal detector; and upon having to put his shoes back on after the security checkpoint): Oh my god!
Me (at 6:55; upon lighting my first cigarette of the morning, after handing him over to the airline employee in charge of the unaccompanied minor): Oh . . . my . . . god . . .
So here in the present day, I am finished with grad school (and by finished I mean, I still have one class to take and a thesis to turn in, but as my thesis and laptop were stolen and I still owe the university for a semester of tuition and can’t register for any new classes and thus will not be able to take classes until I pay that shit off, I am finished), I am working at the university from which I failed to graduate, and I am no longer living with my friend, but still reside in the former seat of the Confederacy. With my son. Who is now fourteen.
Which brings me to the point of today’s post:
I woke this morning at four to put the wunderkind on a 6:45 flight to the Midwest, where his father will be picking him up so they can spend the rest of the summer hanging out in their underwear, eating day-old pizza from cardboard boxes left on the floor, and watching reruns of Viva la Bam and all the R-rated movies the kid’s horrible mother would not let him see while he was here. Despite his father’s promise to me that they will watch no such films.
And upon his return, it will take me another nine months to de-program him, just enough time for him to go back to his father’s again.
But still not my point.
While I was working yesterday, and still while I was doing laundry and getting the kid’s things together to be packed, he was at a theme park with some family friends. Last night was my night off from the restaurant – one of two nights per week I am not working – a night I usually spend napping, hanging out with and feeding the kid, and then going to bed early. It’s an exciting life, I know. But last night, as the kid had to be prepared for his father’s house, I skipped the going to bed early part (I did manage to get a short nap in – ahhh, napping!).
He showed up sometime after nine and immediately launched into a plea to be taken to the mall, and after the mall had definitely closed, to wal-mart in order to purchase a new video game for his long (six hour) trek to see his father. From my son’s lips came phrases such as, “I love you, Mommy” and “You’re the best” said so saccharinely that he could have had naked pancakes and they still would have rotted his teeth. He finally gave up sometime after eleven, and I sent us both to bed, though I didn’t make it there until about midnight.
So, on an entire four hours of sleep, with me having to work until after twelve tonight, I shoved the kid toward the shower, threw his bags in the car and we headed to the airport. For the next thirty minutes, me without nicotine or caffeine because we were running late, this was the conversation:
Kid: Why do we have to leave so early? This is stupid.
Me: Your father bought the ticket. I guess this worked out best. Ask him.
Kid: Why couldn’t I just take the train?
Me: Once again, ask your father.
Kid: I’m going to be on a plane all day. This is bullshit.
Me: Watch your mouth.
Kid: I can’t watch my mouth. That’s just stupid.
Me: I love how pleasant you are in the morning.
Kid: Well maybe if you didn't make me get up so early.
Me: It’s too early to argue. Just don’t speak.
Kid: Your car smells.
Me: Crank the window.
Kid (rolling down the window):It's the outside that smells.
Me: I can't help you there.
Kid: Now I’m going to smell. I can’t even take body spray on the plane.
Me:
Kid: This is stupid. Like I’m going to take down a plane with my can of Axe. Airline people are stupid.
Me:
Kid (once arriving in the parking garage and unloading his bags): Why do I have to bring so much crap? Now I have to carry all this (as I unload and roll his bags down toward the terminal).
Kid (in the terminal, seeing the two people ahead of us in line at the ticket counter; upon being asked to put luggage tags on his skateboard and carry-on bag; upon seeing the line for the security checkpoint; upon being asked to remove his belt before going through the metal detector; and upon having to put his shoes back on after the security checkpoint): Oh my god!
Me (at 6:55; upon lighting my first cigarette of the morning, after handing him over to the airline employee in charge of the unaccompanied minor): Oh . . . my . . . god . . .
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