It is times like this when I really do wish for a Bitchy Howler Monkey Bold font. I'd write in red. It would be menacing even if kindly written. Or maybe an I Know What You Did Last Summer font. Something. Anything that would assist the mere words in conveying my enormous disappointment and my patience sputtering to a stall. And that my ability to control my temper is circling the drain. Is it possible to sound shrill in an email?
I send Wally an email and take a practical but decidedly pissy tone. Suggest that he seriously shake a tail feather this week, make appearances in my home early and often and finish the job before Friday. I note that my kids will be home the following week with no babysitter - they will have no reason to leave the house and no ability to leave the property. He will be in their way and they in his. Conjure up the mental image of multiple trips to the refrigerator and interruptions to prepare frozen pizzas. In my teeny tiny square kitchen.
Send. And now I need to get serious about the house.
Get Trinket settled. I am leaving for Scott's house and will be gone until Monday evening. She needs new kitty litter, fresh bowls of food, refilled glasses and bowls of water and a few new toys to distract her.
The kids need to unpack and I need to separate their laundry. They need to separate what stays and what goes to Lars. I hate that they have to do this.
The cooler needs to be emptied and extra stuff that Scott can use (and I will not) needs to be placed in a bag for my drive. And placed by the door so I don't forget it and leave it to turn to penicillin before I return.
I mow the lawn. Yank as much of the effing Morning Glory off of its victims and put in a can and then place it in a sunny spot out back so it can dry before Tuesday so none of my garbage men herniate a disk pulling the can from the curb. I weed whack until the spool of twine conveniently runs out.
Make one last lunch for me and the kids, talk and laugh and soak in their sweetness before I have to kiss each of them one last time before we pile into the car so I can return them to Lars.
I shower. Make myself fabulous, snuggle the cat, give the kids each a smooch and a squeeze. I am barely breathing as I drive to Lars' house.
The kids are excited to see the dogs. They are anxious to show Lars their vacation loot. I mirror their enthusiasm on the outside. I am shriveling on the inside.
I've immersed myself in them this week and now it is over. Clearly they have learned to survive the ever swinging pendulum that is our custody agreement with far more grace than I. After all of these years it is still such a tearing away to have them depart for his house.
I wave and smile brightly. I pull away from the curb as they turn to walk away. They do not ever see my lip begin to quiver.
I have 90 minutes on the road to Scott's. I will surely finish my boo hooing by then and be ready to embrace the other wonderful third of the life I could never have imagined. I am so lucky. Why doesn't it always feel that way?
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