The next day was J.'s birthday. We had promised to meet him and the girls at a restaurant near his home to celebrate once more. (Given the events of the past few days, I didn't care if he wanted a motorcade and fireworks. We would accommodate.) My son was an easy sell - cake and the opportunity to see the NHL playoff game surrounded by 11 different flat screen TVs? Count him in!
My daughter was a harder sell...she was a gal with a budding social profile and there was another Middle School Orientation tonight. We stood in the bathroom, adjusting various things in the mirror and chatting.
"But Mom," she said. "The kids are encouraged to attend with their parents!"
"But, sweetie," I said, mimicking her. "You went last week with your class! This is for kids who don't already have a brother in 6th grade and whose parents don't know the ropes!"
"Derek doesn't have a brother in 6th grade" she said softly. Oh. Social Butterfly wanted to be the tour guide for 5th Grade Class Hottie. Can't say it wasn't a brilliant idea.
But still. "Honey, Derek is really smart and cool and confident. He won't be there with his parents. But I bet that snot-nosed whiner Alice will be."
Mission accomplished. Back to primping.
She looked at me in the mirror and seemed to be admiring my outfit. Had to admit it was quite cute. Tailored pencil skirt with an off-kilter plaid and oversized button closure. Coordinating twin set. Black roach killer pumps. Chunky jewelry. Perfection.
She stepped back and took a full length look and asked, "Mom, is it 50's day in your office?" I may as well have been wearing Mom Jeans. Cropped acid-wash Mom Jeans.
Wore the Laura Petrie outfit anyway and went to work, and immediately afterwards, like a bat out of hell, I raced home, inspected faces and hair and the condition of outfits, jammed the kids and J.'s gifts into the car, and went back out into the Wacky Racers episode that had been the evening's rush hour.
Forty minutes later, we squealed into the parking lot, huffed out of the car and into the cool darkness of the restaurant. I spotted J. from the bar and walked toward the dining room.
And as I drew nearer, my eyes adjusted. I approached the table to find it surrounded by not only J. and his girls, but Endora, Sheila and one of the nieces.
If only I could nod my head and blink and simply vanish.
Wednesday, June 9, 2010
Tuesday, June 8, 2010
Dr. Bombay! Dr. Bombay!
Maybe if Dr. Bombay did not appear, a little Bombay Gin in the lemonade would work!
Deep breaths. Serenity now. Serenity now.
Busy hands, busy hands. The best way to calm yourself. Busy hands. Shred the cabbage for coleslaw.
Maybe this was a good thing. Unless there were disguised family members casing the neighborhood in unmarked cars and watching our every move so they could know when to converge on the house for a home invasion, it was just me and J. and the kids squaring off with Endora. I am sure even she would realize she was outnumbered in any kind of preconceived attack. The chance of "funny bithneth" was minimal.
And since she was the only guest, I could rest assured there was little chance of any real confrontation in front of the kids. No chance of a "So, about that 'fat old hen' comment you made..." interrogations.
And as for my other normal fonts of angst - my tenuous reputation for cooking and cleaning... There was little if any time to perform any last minute White Tornado act, so the house would be As Is. And cooking - half of it was J.'s - his birthday, his favorites.
But still, I wouldn't mind Dr. Bombay being on hand. Perhaps with that reviving gin and lemonade.
We made a (potentially life preserving) decision to eat inside in the A/C and out of the late afternoon sun...which would surely help with the beads of sweat forming on my upper lip and hair line. Pretty.
We sat. And we passed the bowls and platters and condiments. Dinner was underway. I angsted over adolescent breaches of manners. Apologized for cold butter (even though cold beats putrid any day of the week in my book). Regretted the absence of wine. Prayed for dinner to end without incident, and if it could not end without incident, that the incident itself would be swift and decisive. Preferably deadly.
Once the children had scattered in search of scooters and bikes and video games, I was happy to leave J. and his mom to talk while I cleared dishes and made a lengthy production of loading the dishwasher, scrubbing pots and pans until they sparkled, and lovingly storing leftovers. The safety of a familiar task a welcome asylum. Busy hands.
Then as it grew dark, Endora prepared to board the Vroom Broom for home and it became awkward. Even more so because my kitchen is the size of a minivan, and well, so is she. We made no eye contact. I offered her leftovers. She refused. She offered to help in the kitchen. I refused. J. kissed her goodbye. I waved like a dork.
And she was gone.
The checkered flag was waving.
Too soon to call a truce, but a baby step in the right direction.
Deep breaths. Serenity now. Serenity now.
Busy hands, busy hands. The best way to calm yourself. Busy hands. Shred the cabbage for coleslaw.
Maybe this was a good thing. Unless there were disguised family members casing the neighborhood in unmarked cars and watching our every move so they could know when to converge on the house for a home invasion, it was just me and J. and the kids squaring off with Endora. I am sure even she would realize she was outnumbered in any kind of preconceived attack. The chance of "funny bithneth" was minimal.
And since she was the only guest, I could rest assured there was little chance of any real confrontation in front of the kids. No chance of a "So, about that 'fat old hen' comment you made..." interrogations.
And as for my other normal fonts of angst - my tenuous reputation for cooking and cleaning... There was little if any time to perform any last minute White Tornado act, so the house would be As Is. And cooking - half of it was J.'s - his birthday, his favorites.
But still, I wouldn't mind Dr. Bombay being on hand. Perhaps with that reviving gin and lemonade.
We made a (potentially life preserving) decision to eat inside in the A/C and out of the late afternoon sun...which would surely help with the beads of sweat forming on my upper lip and hair line. Pretty.
We sat. And we passed the bowls and platters and condiments. Dinner was underway. I angsted over adolescent breaches of manners. Apologized for cold butter (even though cold beats putrid any day of the week in my book). Regretted the absence of wine. Prayed for dinner to end without incident, and if it could not end without incident, that the incident itself would be swift and decisive. Preferably deadly.
Once the children had scattered in search of scooters and bikes and video games, I was happy to leave J. and his mom to talk while I cleared dishes and made a lengthy production of loading the dishwasher, scrubbing pots and pans until they sparkled, and lovingly storing leftovers. The safety of a familiar task a welcome asylum. Busy hands.
Then as it grew dark, Endora prepared to board the Vroom Broom for home and it became awkward. Even more so because my kitchen is the size of a minivan, and well, so is she. We made no eye contact. I offered her leftovers. She refused. She offered to help in the kitchen. I refused. J. kissed her goodbye. I waved like a dork.
And she was gone.
The checkered flag was waving.
Too soon to call a truce, but a baby step in the right direction.
Monday, June 7, 2010
Becoming Don Knotts
So I faked it. I put on an Oscar-worthy portrayal of a woman completely calm and in control of her faculties while a potentially aggressive predator threatened. I gamely set about being engrossed in and consumed with the task of properly picking up and storing the damn lawn darts. (Which under normal circumstances I would have left right where they were out of hopeful anticipation of another round, and of course, sheer laziness.
I considered chickening out altogether and going in the side door on the opposite side of the house from where J. and his mother sat. Too obvious. (Again, there are enough bad manners citations out there being discussed over Early Bird Specials each week)
So, lawn darts in my hands to steady them, I walked toward the proper door without making eye contact until absolutely necessary. (Those day lillies were sooo interesting!) When I'd gotten near enough, I simply forced a polite smile and said "Can I get either of you something to drink?"
After getting refusals from both of them in unison, I walked through the door, and when I was safely out of veiw, began to breathe again.
So now it was just me and the kids in the house - and I needed to tell them that Mommom was here --- which would surely be met with mixed reviews. Not being my first day as a parent, I controlled the situation by telling each kid casually but privately. It was summer afterall, and the windows were open, so any kind of loud protests by my children would heard the world over.
At one point, J. asked that his tween come out to chat with Mommom. I gave Endora and her granddaughter a wide berth, but noticed through the kitchen curtains that J. had disappeared. I looked around the yard and in the garage before deciding that he'd vanished, and was probably stuffed in Endora's trunk suffocating while I boiled water for corn on the cobb.
So I went to my house phone and dialed his cell, hoping against hope that I'd hear it ringing nearby. It was not. He picked up on the 3rd ring. He was not in Endora's trunk. He was at the hardware store!
Stifling the urge to scream obscenities at him for leaving me alone with the Boogey Man, I inquired as to the urgency of the hardware emergency. His explanation, by the Grace of God, made sense given the recent threats and aggression from Sandy, and he said he'd be home in 5 minutes, could I heat up the grill.
Of course that would require me to walk by Endora several times. Damn him his hardware store crisis.
I walked by the first time. Offered drinks on the way back.
Walked by a second time, this time with matches because the ignition would not spark (natch). Offered that everyone could come inside since it was so hot. (and Endora was wearing pants and a cardigan sweater!)
Went out a third time to put the table cloth on the picnic table and raise the market umbrella.
Walked by a fourth time to check on the grill temperature (Where the hell was J.????????) and bumped into him on the walk. He was smiling.
"We have another guest for dinner," he stated with hopeful expectation about my response.
"Great!" I said with uncertainty and feigned joy. "Glad to have you. Let's eat inside where it's cool."
And I am less likely to faint from all of this.
I considered chickening out altogether and going in the side door on the opposite side of the house from where J. and his mother sat. Too obvious. (Again, there are enough bad manners citations out there being discussed over Early Bird Specials each week)
So, lawn darts in my hands to steady them, I walked toward the proper door without making eye contact until absolutely necessary. (Those day lillies were sooo interesting!) When I'd gotten near enough, I simply forced a polite smile and said "Can I get either of you something to drink?"
After getting refusals from both of them in unison, I walked through the door, and when I was safely out of veiw, began to breathe again.
So now it was just me and the kids in the house - and I needed to tell them that Mommom was here --- which would surely be met with mixed reviews. Not being my first day as a parent, I controlled the situation by telling each kid casually but privately. It was summer afterall, and the windows were open, so any kind of loud protests by my children would heard the world over.
At one point, J. asked that his tween come out to chat with Mommom. I gave Endora and her granddaughter a wide berth, but noticed through the kitchen curtains that J. had disappeared. I looked around the yard and in the garage before deciding that he'd vanished, and was probably stuffed in Endora's trunk suffocating while I boiled water for corn on the cobb.
So I went to my house phone and dialed his cell, hoping against hope that I'd hear it ringing nearby. It was not. He picked up on the 3rd ring. He was not in Endora's trunk. He was at the hardware store!
Stifling the urge to scream obscenities at him for leaving me alone with the Boogey Man, I inquired as to the urgency of the hardware emergency. His explanation, by the Grace of God, made sense given the recent threats and aggression from Sandy, and he said he'd be home in 5 minutes, could I heat up the grill.
Of course that would require me to walk by Endora several times. Damn him his hardware store crisis.
I walked by the first time. Offered drinks on the way back.
Walked by a second time, this time with matches because the ignition would not spark (natch). Offered that everyone could come inside since it was so hot. (and Endora was wearing pants and a cardigan sweater!)
Went out a third time to put the table cloth on the picnic table and raise the market umbrella.
Walked by a fourth time to check on the grill temperature (Where the hell was J.????????) and bumped into him on the walk. He was smiling.
"We have another guest for dinner," he stated with hopeful expectation about my response.
"Great!" I said with uncertainty and feigned joy. "Glad to have you. Let's eat inside where it's cool."
And I am less likely to faint from all of this.
Friday, June 4, 2010
Not So Cool McCool
There was yard game we had as a kid - one that only the parents were allowed to play, that everyone seemed to love to play for hours at every cookout and pool party, even long after they were taken off the market for being too dangerous and causing too many irreversible injuries.
The game was called Jarts. (http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Lawn_darts)It was not unlike Horseshoes in that you tossed an object toward a target some distance away and got points for accuracy. But there was something considerably more exciting about tossing the heavily weighted darts with their brightly colored fins spinning as they flew. They stuck in the ground with a satisfying "thunk" and defiantly held their position. There was no chance they'd get knocked out of the ring or bounced by another jart landing on top. The kids had to stand clear while the grownups played. Since I can tell from the family 8mm films that the game often included cans of Schlitz and my ancient bucket-hat-wearing grandfather, there were still plenty of errant throws and Jarts piercing nearby lawn chairs and charcoal briquette bags. Perhaps the mystique contributed to my love for them. You always covet the forbidden. And at the age of 10, Jarts was about as forbidden a thing I could think of.
That morning I'd gotten the new version of the game for us to play as a distraction. It is called Lawn Darts, but there are no darts. Where there had been heavy steel tipped darts before, now were heavy, bulbous, rubberized balls that bounced around once they hit the ground and were subject to being knocked out of the ring by other rolling and skittering "ball darts."
But the kids never knew the banned-by-the-Consumer-Product-Safety-Commission version, so they were happy to play. I was closing in on 21 in a game against my son when I saw Endora's car casing the neighborhood through my wildly untamed hedges.
And my heart was off to the races. But being points away from victory in a hard fought game with my son allowed me to delay "noticing" for a few minutes and give J. a chance to realize his mother had arrived.
She came a foot or two down the walk and I greeted her from across the yard. I got no response. She went immediately to J. They took a seat on my patio (on benches among the dandelions) and became engrossed in conversation.
My son having edged me in the last toss of the game ran victoriously into the house. And I had my first real pang of awkwardness.
There I was on the lawn, lawn "dart" in hand, J. and his mom oblivious to me, and I had to walk past them to get into the house. I was overcome by the strangest most unfamiliar sensation.
I had no idea what to do.
The game was called Jarts. (http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Lawn_darts)It was not unlike Horseshoes in that you tossed an object toward a target some distance away and got points for accuracy. But there was something considerably more exciting about tossing the heavily weighted darts with their brightly colored fins spinning as they flew. They stuck in the ground with a satisfying "thunk" and defiantly held their position. There was no chance they'd get knocked out of the ring or bounced by another jart landing on top. The kids had to stand clear while the grownups played. Since I can tell from the family 8mm films that the game often included cans of Schlitz and my ancient bucket-hat-wearing grandfather, there were still plenty of errant throws and Jarts piercing nearby lawn chairs and charcoal briquette bags. Perhaps the mystique contributed to my love for them. You always covet the forbidden. And at the age of 10, Jarts was about as forbidden a thing I could think of.
That morning I'd gotten the new version of the game for us to play as a distraction. It is called Lawn Darts, but there are no darts. Where there had been heavy steel tipped darts before, now were heavy, bulbous, rubberized balls that bounced around once they hit the ground and were subject to being knocked out of the ring by other rolling and skittering "ball darts."
But the kids never knew the banned-by-the-Consumer-Product-Safety-Commission version, so they were happy to play. I was closing in on 21 in a game against my son when I saw Endora's car casing the neighborhood through my wildly untamed hedges.
And my heart was off to the races. But being points away from victory in a hard fought game with my son allowed me to delay "noticing" for a few minutes and give J. a chance to realize his mother had arrived.
She came a foot or two down the walk and I greeted her from across the yard. I got no response. She went immediately to J. They took a seat on my patio (on benches among the dandelions) and became engrossed in conversation.
My son having edged me in the last toss of the game ran victoriously into the house. And I had my first real pang of awkwardness.
There I was on the lawn, lawn "dart" in hand, J. and his mom oblivious to me, and I had to walk past them to get into the house. I was overcome by the strangest most unfamiliar sensation.
I had no idea what to do.
Thursday, June 3, 2010
There's Got To Be A Morning After...
The next day I awoke with a crushing sense of panic. What kind of temporary insanity had I been stricken with to have made such an overture? And is there something I can take for it?
Was I ready for this? Were my kids ready for this? I know my house is not ready. (Whose house is mother-in-law ready without notice?)
It was a stinking hot day - with piddling little on-again-off-again showers that left everything just wet enough that I could not mow my lawn (or mow the 8 inch weeds growing through the cracks in my patio for that matter). I also could not get rid of the hedge trimmings I had left in piles to dry before attempting to bag them. In short, my lawn looked like that of the Addams Family.
The house was clean but certainly not neat thanks to the exuberant return of my my kiddos - and their backpacks, projects, hobbies, library books, and frequent wardrobe changes.
My kitchen had been clean, but as I usually do on the weekends that the kids return, I'd started to prepare the week's meals so that every evening did not take on the appearance of a Chinese Fire Drill. And my kitchen looked, well, lived in.
J. was feeling horrible about all of the latest events (the proximity to his birthday was not helping!) and he wanted the company of those he could count on. He decided to spend the day at my house - not just come for dinner. We would shop for the necessary groceries once he got here. At what hour dinner would actually make it to the table was a wild card. This was good news and bad news.
Good news because there was no specific time for Endora to work around and/or avoid. And the chances that she'd stop to see J. on her way to or from her other party were good. At least for him.
Bad news in that when I called Endora back with the non-specific specifics, it would look like I was trying to avoid inviting her to dinner. And weren't there already enough stories about my appalling lack of manners out there on the Blue Hair gossip circuit?
But I called. And got the same cool reaction. My heart quite frankly, was beating in my chest the entire time, but like every seasoned Human Resources professional whose had tons of conversations they'd rather never have started but needed to complete, I very matter of factly, politely and succinctly delivered the message, checked that I'd been clear, and then said goodbye.
And then began breathing into a paper bag.
Was I ready for this? Were my kids ready for this? I know my house is not ready. (Whose house is mother-in-law ready without notice?)
It was a stinking hot day - with piddling little on-again-off-again showers that left everything just wet enough that I could not mow my lawn (or mow the 8 inch weeds growing through the cracks in my patio for that matter). I also could not get rid of the hedge trimmings I had left in piles to dry before attempting to bag them. In short, my lawn looked like that of the Addams Family.
The house was clean but certainly not neat thanks to the exuberant return of my my kiddos - and their backpacks, projects, hobbies, library books, and frequent wardrobe changes.
My kitchen had been clean, but as I usually do on the weekends that the kids return, I'd started to prepare the week's meals so that every evening did not take on the appearance of a Chinese Fire Drill. And my kitchen looked, well, lived in.
J. was feeling horrible about all of the latest events (the proximity to his birthday was not helping!) and he wanted the company of those he could count on. He decided to spend the day at my house - not just come for dinner. We would shop for the necessary groceries once he got here. At what hour dinner would actually make it to the table was a wild card. This was good news and bad news.
Good news because there was no specific time for Endora to work around and/or avoid. And the chances that she'd stop to see J. on her way to or from her other party were good. At least for him.
Bad news in that when I called Endora back with the non-specific specifics, it would look like I was trying to avoid inviting her to dinner. And weren't there already enough stories about my appalling lack of manners out there on the Blue Hair gossip circuit?
But I called. And got the same cool reaction. My heart quite frankly, was beating in my chest the entire time, but like every seasoned Human Resources professional whose had tons of conversations they'd rather never have started but needed to complete, I very matter of factly, politely and succinctly delivered the message, checked that I'd been clear, and then said goodbye.
And then began breathing into a paper bag.
Wednesday, June 2, 2010
Fractured Fairy Tales
Understand that Sandy needed little motivation to rape and pillage. The slightest discrepancy with her version of perfect world order and complete domination would often lead to nuclear meltdowns. J. recalled one particularly explosive, full-throttle hissy fit inspired by his return from grocery shopping and the discovery that he'd purchased the wrong size box of Cheerios and the 50 cent off coupon had not applied (much less doubled! Gasp!)
***Note - Talk about looking a gift horse in the mouth. (And hello a little help here...why do we say that?) I would have gladly paid full price for all 8 bags and a delivery fee for someone to have voluntarily taken on the grocery shopping for me - and in fact, might have had a lovely filet mignon and glass of Merlot waiting at the end of the trip.
But whatever drove Sandy to this madness, however admittedly short the trip, her sycophant family (ahem, AKA "support system") was seated at her (considerable) feet, "There, there Sandy"-ing and "We're all here to help" -ing her until her hormonally imbalanced rage could subside to normal human levels.
And now J. needed his "support system." But what Sandy had done was so reprehensible J. was hesitant to talk to anyone about it. It's hard to admit that you were once married to someone capable of such hatred. Sometimes even your friends don't completely understand. And who wants to make that call? "Hi there! It's J. Sandy's at it again and this time she's publicly humiliated me and discredited me! Wanna grab a beer after work and catch up?"
He'd called his mother, and she was appropriately horrified but still a little distant.
He needed me for sure. And although I have great faith in my abilities, in this case, he needed more than me.
So I took a deep breath.
I picked up my phone.
I called his mother.
The call went immediately to voicemail, natch. But it was not Endora's voice on the message as I'd been accustomed to hearing. And it was not the Squatters squealing in their newly wedded euphoria either.
I was a little out of practice at calling this house since the screaming match, so I hung up without leaving a message and checked the number.
I had in fact dialed properly.
Uh-oh. Damn that caller ID.
I took another deep, cleansing breath and dialed again.
She answered. Coolly.
I steadily greeted Endora and identified myself (omitting the last name). I remarked that I'd intended to have J. and the girls for dinner the next day to celebrate our birthdays, and in light of what's happened, I was sure he'd love to see her. He needed his family around him. Would she like to join us?
She replied, still coolly, that she had a party to attend but would try to come. What time?
I told her I was not clear on the details yet, but would call her again the next day with the time.
We got off the phone without any fanfare or drama...and then I properly exhaled, for the first time in months.
***Note - Talk about looking a gift horse in the mouth. (And hello a little help here...why do we say that?) I would have gladly paid full price for all 8 bags and a delivery fee for someone to have voluntarily taken on the grocery shopping for me - and in fact, might have had a lovely filet mignon and glass of Merlot waiting at the end of the trip.
But whatever drove Sandy to this madness, however admittedly short the trip, her sycophant family (ahem, AKA "support system") was seated at her (considerable) feet, "There, there Sandy"-ing and "We're all here to help" -ing her until her hormonally imbalanced rage could subside to normal human levels.
And now J. needed his "support system." But what Sandy had done was so reprehensible J. was hesitant to talk to anyone about it. It's hard to admit that you were once married to someone capable of such hatred. Sometimes even your friends don't completely understand. And who wants to make that call? "Hi there! It's J. Sandy's at it again and this time she's publicly humiliated me and discredited me! Wanna grab a beer after work and catch up?"
He'd called his mother, and she was appropriately horrified but still a little distant.
He needed me for sure. And although I have great faith in my abilities, in this case, he needed more than me.
So I took a deep breath.
I picked up my phone.
I called his mother.
The call went immediately to voicemail, natch. But it was not Endora's voice on the message as I'd been accustomed to hearing. And it was not the Squatters squealing in their newly wedded euphoria either.
I was a little out of practice at calling this house since the screaming match, so I hung up without leaving a message and checked the number.
I had in fact dialed properly.
Uh-oh. Damn that caller ID.
I took another deep, cleansing breath and dialed again.
She answered. Coolly.
I steadily greeted Endora and identified myself (omitting the last name). I remarked that I'd intended to have J. and the girls for dinner the next day to celebrate our birthdays, and in light of what's happened, I was sure he'd love to see her. He needed his family around him. Would she like to join us?
She replied, still coolly, that she had a party to attend but would try to come. What time?
I told her I was not clear on the details yet, but would call her again the next day with the time.
We got off the phone without any fanfare or drama...and then I properly exhaled, for the first time in months.
Tuesday, June 1, 2010
Love is...
So Sandy had stomped across our world with her big, wide, sturdy feet one more time. She'd broken new ground with this maneuver, however, and we were scrambling to regain our balance.
Our turn to wring our hands. These were uncharted waters for us both. We needed advice. What do you do with someone who justifies breaking all the rules?
When I was a kid, a local dairy had a campaign where their sour cream (for dips and chips before we worried about things like cholesterol) was packaged not in jars or tubs but in juice sized and pint sized glasses. With plastic lids and little cartoons on the side. We collected dozens of them in our house (What was with all the dip?) and they became part of our drinking glass collection - right along side the jelly glasses with Tom and Jerry and Peanuts characters depicted on the side.
The cartoon for the sour cream company was called "Love is..." and bore cute little simple renderings of two young people, one male and one female, in varying stages of courtship, often looking pie-eyed or coyly at one another.
And completely naked.
How odd that seems today. I will spare you the political commentary.
But the point is, the cartoons had cute little pictures and says that finished the sentence "Love is..." (http://www.loveiscomicstrip.com/catalog2.php)
Love is ..the little things.
Love is...being together every step of the way.
Love is...come rain or shine.
Love is...not the wrapping but what's inside.
Perhaps we should start a sour cream container campaign for Sandy's benefit specifically. Let's call it "Love is not..."
Love is not ...blaming your spouse for your inability to be happy about anything and that in spite of a very nice life, you've become a bitter old hag with frown lines. (Bring on the Frownies - www.frownies.com/)
Love is not...using divorce proceedings to exact revenge for your disappointment with how your life has turned out, when really you've just reaped what you've sown.
Love is not...using every available means to ensure your spouse's certain misery for all eternity, just because your are pretty sure that is your fate.
Love is not...being incensed at the fact that your former spouse has found love and happiness when you have failed to have so much as a single second date.
Love is not...using your powerful parental influence over your children to encourage insolence and alienation toward their other parent when all other attempts to destroy him have failed. People like that should be forced to spend a long weekend in a juvenile detention center to witness the power and destruction of bad parenting.
Make no mistake. I am not suggesting that divorced couples should or even can, as a rule, love each other. It is pretty darn hard to even be in the same state most times.
But when all the papers have been signed, time should, as it is said, heal all wounds. And while there may not be love, there once was. Enough to invite children into your life together. And so long as there are children, there is a connection. You to them and them to your former spouse. And the more prosperous, fulfilling and peaceful that former spouse's life, the better your children's lives, for the time they share it. How nice for them to know that Mom or Dad is doing okay --- and they will do okay, too, by some sort of emotional osmosis.
It is safe to assume that we all love our kids. So therefore, all the Love Is Nots are off the table when it comes to the other parent. Period.
If only the sour cream company could make it so.
Our turn to wring our hands. These were uncharted waters for us both. We needed advice. What do you do with someone who justifies breaking all the rules?
When I was a kid, a local dairy had a campaign where their sour cream (for dips and chips before we worried about things like cholesterol) was packaged not in jars or tubs but in juice sized and pint sized glasses. With plastic lids and little cartoons on the side. We collected dozens of them in our house (What was with all the dip?) and they became part of our drinking glass collection - right along side the jelly glasses with Tom and Jerry and Peanuts characters depicted on the side.
The cartoon for the sour cream company was called "Love is..." and bore cute little simple renderings of two young people, one male and one female, in varying stages of courtship, often looking pie-eyed or coyly at one another.
And completely naked.
How odd that seems today. I will spare you the political commentary.
But the point is, the cartoons had cute little pictures and says that finished the sentence "Love is..." (http://www.loveiscomicstrip.com/catalog2.php)
Love is ..the little things.
Love is...being together every step of the way.
Love is...come rain or shine.
Love is...not the wrapping but what's inside.
Perhaps we should start a sour cream container campaign for Sandy's benefit specifically. Let's call it "Love is not..."
Love is not ...blaming your spouse for your inability to be happy about anything and that in spite of a very nice life, you've become a bitter old hag with frown lines. (Bring on the Frownies - www.frownies.com/)
Love is not...using divorce proceedings to exact revenge for your disappointment with how your life has turned out, when really you've just reaped what you've sown.
Love is not...using every available means to ensure your spouse's certain misery for all eternity, just because your are pretty sure that is your fate.
Love is not...being incensed at the fact that your former spouse has found love and happiness when you have failed to have so much as a single second date.
Love is not...using your powerful parental influence over your children to encourage insolence and alienation toward their other parent when all other attempts to destroy him have failed. People like that should be forced to spend a long weekend in a juvenile detention center to witness the power and destruction of bad parenting.
Make no mistake. I am not suggesting that divorced couples should or even can, as a rule, love each other. It is pretty darn hard to even be in the same state most times.
But when all the papers have been signed, time should, as it is said, heal all wounds. And while there may not be love, there once was. Enough to invite children into your life together. And so long as there are children, there is a connection. You to them and them to your former spouse. And the more prosperous, fulfilling and peaceful that former spouse's life, the better your children's lives, for the time they share it. How nice for them to know that Mom or Dad is doing okay --- and they will do okay, too, by some sort of emotional osmosis.
It is safe to assume that we all love our kids. So therefore, all the Love Is Nots are off the table when it comes to the other parent. Period.
If only the sour cream company could make it so.
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