A Day at the Races

After many room changes and much waiting and chit chat with Hil’s homeroom teacher, I eventually get to hear all about how wonderful Hil is. It is great fun to learn how buoyant and assertive she is in class. The teachers love her. Lars would be glowing – had he bothered to show up.

I am feeling pretty good when I venture down the street to meet with Mr. Rotelli and some clown who says she is the Director of Pupil Services. I am hoping to be proven wrong about the district’s preparedness to handle bullying in all its shapes and sizes.

And I am happy to be working from home, to be truthful. It is a very productive day when you are not being interrupted constantly or having to handle the calamity du jour, or brainstorming what exactly to say to the hiring manager whose candidate is qualified and capable to do the job but has such annoying personal qualities that if they were ever seated together on a transcontinental flight he’d end up murdering her in her seat before they reached cruising altitude.

I go to the office. I take a seat. I have my file.

He comes in wearing a bad suit and what appears to be a toupee. She is in a mint green polyester something and should have considered a wig. And maybe a little lipstick. They scream of tired old bureaucratic complacency. I am waiting for yellowed index cards to come out so he can read from his notes on this topic.

He’d like to share that superduper up to the minute policy with me. Only he only brought his copy. And there is writing on it.

What? You don’t have a soft copy? How current can it be?

He mentions (laughing) that it has the names of all the people who had it before him. (OK just how old is this thing?)

I ask him to make me a copy. I will review it later. I have bigger things to discuss.

I take them through how I came to be involved. How I had a bullying situation to deal with with Pat and had had to make several trips to the school. How in that process I’d been underwhelmed with their procedures and their organization. I’d smelled smoke. I’d gone looking for fire. And found what amounts to an inferno.

Oh no. No, we have it down.

I start by reviewing the poster. I call it a joke. The lady with the Barber School haircut says it is for compliance purposes.

I ask her when they intend to comply with the statement which reads that me and my kids and a whole pantload of other people will be provided with the policy every year and that communication will have the name and contact information of the Compliance Officer, so I can reach him or her when and if I need to.

They look at each other.

She says, “Umm, well, I, we really don’t do that.”

Precisely as I’d thought. And we are off to the races.

An Audience with the Cheeses

The day of my appointment at school has arrived.

I am always amazed at other people's ideas about accommodation.

I am one of (at most) 4 working mothers in my neighborhood. And as such, I ask for the first appointment of the morning for things like conferences. Or darn close to it. Our school district does not subscribe to the "evening appointment for the convenience of all family configurations including those who are divorced, widowed, employed in inflexible jobs, or any other obstacle that might prevent one from being able to attend a noon appointment for anything." So if not at the beginning of the day, then I have A Big Inconvenience. I work in another state and having to be back at home at school for a meeting between the hours of 8 and 2:30 is about as convenient as the cable company's 4 hour service window. As in not.

So this year, when the meaningless purple one third of a piece of paper notice came home in Hil's backpack inviting me to "pick one of three days and a convenient time" and to list by name the teachers I'd like to meet, I am on it right away. I pick any of the three days (they are the three days preceding the Thanksgiving Holiday, and the kids will have three half days in a row, so the week is pretty much shot in the ass from a productivity standpoint anyway) I ask again for the first time slot available and even offer to come in early if that floats anyone's boat (it does not). And I attempt to name the teachers based on my fading memory from Back To School Night, instead of relying on what Hil calls them. (i.e. My Evil Science Teacher) I return it to the homeroom teacher as instructed the very next day. I don't even check with Lars about his availability. That is just inviting the barbarian to cross the gate.

And the appointment slip is promptly returned that afternoon. And I have been awarded the Booby Prize. The 11:35 am to 11:45 am appointment. Right smack in the middle of the day.

I approach my boss about working from home in the spirit of having something that resembles a productive day. For even if it would not take me an hour to drive back home to the school, and if there were the chance of finding a parking space that isn't a football field away from the school, and if it would not take me even longer to return to the office, it is for sure that my appointment will not commence at 11:35.

Because, as a parent with 9 years in the school district, and 9 years of conferences to base my opinions upon, I know that once the stay-at-home mother who does not have to return to the office to participate in a conference call, or does not have to meet with an employee to discuss the fellow employee who she swears goes out an copies her outfits, or does not have to prepare a budget variance report and submit a very detailed capital request by the end of the day gets the undivided attention of 4 or 5 young respectful teachers for her 10 minute appointment, she will be so enamoured with the adult human contact and the fact that she is being spoken to in full sentences, that she will want to take a deep dive and cover every possible detail of little Johnny or little Susie's academic performance to date, and I will be sitting with my cakes tightly packed into a junior sized writing desk in the dusty linoleum corridor for half an hour while the young teachers try to derail her train of thought.

And knowing this, I know I will want to rush through my 10 allotted minutes to be heaped with laurels for my daughter and be a piss ant besides, knowing that I have commitments that await me and I promised I'd be back and I am nowhere near "back."

And so, I sheepishly approach my old school boss who vehemently opposes the telecommuting thing, and try to make it make sense to him. And when he sort of grunts approval, I joyously thank him and swear to God Himself that I will be on line at 6 am and not stop working even for the time it takes to throw in a load of permanent pressed laundry.

Besides, I have a meeting with the Assistant Superintendent to keep and I will extend the working day for hours to keep that commitment.

Boomerang

You'd think that slamming into his car with a rented U-Haul would have put the finishing touches on my relationship with Lars but it did not, surprisingly enough.

I embarked on an adventure that I thoroughly enjoyed and from which I have abundant memories and enduring friendships, and have been inspired by many of the experiences I had at the time, but never really did eradicate Lars from my life like an unwelcome rodent.

But to be truthful, he did not compare all that unfavorably to a lot of the guys I met. And he wasn't all bad. I wasn't looking for an overhaul. I was looking for some alterations. Minor things that would make a huge difference. Like when you finally wear the right bra.

And what I was really hoping to gain was leverage.

It is hard to make demands when you have fallen into a rut.
It is hard to insist on something when you know and he knows you are going to get in the same bed at night anyway.
It is hard to carry out an ultimatum when you share a home.
It is hard to stick to your guns when you have more to lose than you hope to gain.
And it is hard to recognize the moment when you've caved so often that you've lost any foothold on equal partnership. Unless your the person whose kept the foothold. Then you know you are in the proverbial catbird seat. Untouchable. Judgement-proof. Go-ahead-try-me confident.

A little distance can help a lot with that.

"If you aren't going to come pick me up for our date then we aren't having a date."
"If we don't have plans together I'm making plans with my friends."
"Sorry I can't join you on your vacation to rural Tennessee. I am taking a road trip to The Cape with my girlfriends and that leaves me a little short of time I can spend traveling on trips to completely undesirable places to yawn my way through a week's worth of barbecue, grits, tumbleweeds and inane conversation with your idiot relatives."
"I have things to do at my house this weekend. If you'd like to spend some time together, then I suppose you can pack a bag for once and inconvenience yourself by having to plan ahead for every social possibility."
"I am not interested in that movie. If you'd like to see it, by all means go see it. I am going to make plans with Kate."
"If you are going to speak to me like that, I don't anticipate staying around while you heap on the abuse. You can change your tune or I can take my show on the road. Call me when you can commit to that."

And so, little by little, I gained a some foothold with Lars. Leveled the playing field. Regained a little leverage.

And what was better, Kate and some of the friends I'd met through her absolutely loved him. We laughed. We enjoyed each other. We valued each other.

And when a tragedy struck close to home, and one of our dearest friends was diagnosed with a terminal illness, we took stock in our lives and evaluated what was truly important to us in this life.

And not even a year after having smashed Lars car and ridden off to a new home with the gals, my engagement ring was back on my left hand and would stay there.

Great Things in Small Packages

And I embarked then, on a life I had little enthusiasm or hope for, such was my emotional state. I could count on one hand the things that were going well for me. Hell, I could have gotten away with one thumb. My job was on an upswing. But at 26, who cares? I'd expected nothing less.

But life has a way of surprising us all, doesn't it?

Charlotte and Jack had moved back to town from the sunny south where Jack's career had taken them not long after they'd walked down the aisle. Charlotte was pregnant with their first child and they were temporarily living with (tolerating) my Dad (and brother Joe, no easy feat) while their new house had some work completed (like the removal of germ infested petri dish quality carpeting and the refinishing of the glorious floors they'd discovered beneath.)

In fact, it was Charlotte, once again, who helped me reach the conclusion that I needed to not go through with my marriage. I distinctly remember sitting on my Dad's sofa (while he eavesdropped, no doubt, pretending to be engrossed in a football game) and boo-hooing to Char about feeling dead inside. And she, enormous and wearing some spiffy acid-washed maternity overalls I am sure she has burned any evidence of having owned, had quietly and directly, without any sibling-rivalry fueled condescension, told me that people who are getting married do not feel "dead inside" and instead feel like all is right with the world, like they've found their souls, like their best friend and confidant was out there in the world and had finally found them.

OK, those were definitely not my feelings at the moment. That was for certain.

And now weeks later, after the three act tragic-comedy that was the breakup and move out, I was trying to reassemble a life, and had no flipping idea what it was supposed to look like when I was done.

I told myself I was a lucky person. Had always landed on my feet. I just had to weather the storm. When I'd met with Kate and the roommates at my new house, they had all been single and unattached, and shortly after having moved in, they all had found the loves of their lives. They said the house was good luck, maybe I'd find my soul mate through the magic of 223 Delmont Avenue.

And then, right on time, Charlotte and Jack's new baby came! A boy, just as beautiful as I'd imagined. He was the little swaddled distraction I needed to give me a sense of purpose. And I began to imagine that I could live a life much different than what I'd come to expect, and my heart would survive.

Your Karma Ran Over My Dogma

And then a few weeks later, after much crying and wailing and gnashing of teeth and drama of the highest caliber, I moved in with Kate and Liz, the absentee roommate with the fabulous closetful of clothes to borrow, and by the way, I’d come to realize, fabulous hair.

Lars had had a change of heart toward the end.

And by that I mean, when I’d started to waiver and think maybe I was overreacting, I reminded myself that he never once asked me to reconsider moving out or more importantly, moving on. And then he did, sort of.

One day as I picked over things in the closet that I may or may not want to salvage from my unsalvageable life, he told me he was wondering if we should not go through with moving away from each other. Would I reconsider?

“I signed a lease,” I’d lied. I would live with Kate and the ghost roommate for months before setting pen to paper on a lease. But for reasons I'll never be able to explain, I couldn't just say, "No effin' way, asshole." I had to make it an impossibility that was beyond my control.

And then moving weekend came. I had loads of stuff still to move. From my Dad’s house, from our apartment, and even some new things that I’d bought. Like a bed. I called a U-Haul rental place and rented a truck big enough for it all, yet manageable enough for me to drive.

Lars, in a rare gesture of good will, offered to drive me into the heinous slum neighborhood to the rental place so I would not have to leave my car there to be stripped and sold for parts.

I signed the rental agreement, declined the insurance and picked up a few boxes for good measure. Lars and I headed for our apartment one last time.

And while tooling down the street toward an overpass and a dicey little right hand turn under the elevated train tracks, Lars slowed to let a pedestrian pass, I slammed on the brakes abruptly, and as karma would have it, slammed into the back of his brand spanking new car.

Such are the thanks that you get when you only decide to be a nice guy at the bitter end when you see your life walking out the door and getting into a U-Haul.

Lars hopped out of the car…and I say “hopped” because he was hopping mad. Hopping, Rodney-Dangerfield-wild-eyed, hair flying mad. I sat in the truck and cried. Not only because I’d had my first ever accident and it was with my ex-fiance, but also because not once, as Lars hopped around flailing his arms and stomping his big hobbit feet and gesticulating like a mad man as he surveyed the (minimal) damage to his stupid new car, did he even glance in my direction in a way that questioned whether or not I’d been harmed in any way.

Truth be told, in that moment I’d bumped my chin but bruised my heart. I was right to be leaving. That had become patently clear.

I'mmmmmm, Movin' Out

It isn't as though there weren't signs.

Of course there were.

But signs are odd things. Signs are little things. Little itty bitty indications that something is wrong but in a vacuum don't add up to much. A little disconnect. A little episode. An inkling. A statement.

It is not until you have a whole string of episodes and inklings and other tell tale sound bites that a clear picture emerges.

I almost didn't marry Lars. Have I mentioned that?

We were engaged once and had some pretty rocky moments. I actually went away for the weekend with Estelle once during my engagement to try to decide whether or not I should go through with it.

Again, was this God's way of telling me to think, think, think, think, think, think before making a commitment that isn't easily undone?

I resolved to remain engaged that weekend. And only later did I learn that a college friend Mom and I had run into while away, a guy who I'd liked quite a lot but hadn't met until we were about to graduate, had pulled Estelle aside while I was in the ladies room and told her not to let me go through with it. I had assumed when she'd told me that he had selfish motivations. He really hadn't. As an outside observer, and someone who cared for me, he thought I was headed for a world of trouble. He was right. (Sorry, Ralph, for not taking you seriously.)

Eventually, I did call off my wedding. Took a bath on some of the down payments, cried a whole lot, made a lot of sad phone calls. I had not had the fortitude to just tell Lars "This is a mistake." Instead I had picked a fight over something irrelevant and had used that to springboard into a litany of complaints and issues and other things that indicated to me that we were out of alignment.

By then, we had chosen an apartment in which to begin our life. I was buying dishes and linens and had begun to move things from my childhood home into it. Lars had moved in.

And when I finally picked the fight and chucked the ring at him and screamed and carried on like a loon, I also realized how lost I was. How much in limbo I felt. I could not simply move back in with my Dad and brother like I'd never left. I had to move forward. My sanity depended on it.

I began to get little local papers with For Rent ads in the classifieds, right there next to the yard sale ads, and Wanted To Buy ads, and the Cherry Dining Room Set for sale ads, and the Wedding Dress for Sale, Never Worn, Size 8 ads. I for one just took my dress to be preserved. I was not that hopeless about my marriage prospects. But I did need a place to live, so I scoured the two or three best local weeklies with the most promising neighborhoods listed. I went to see a few affordable efficiencies. No way. I went to see a few above-store one bedrooms I could manage financially. They all seemed so lonely. I began responding to Houses to Share ads and saw some lovely, stately homes that 10 or 11 bikers called home and parked their Harleys in front of. I saw a couple of houses that looked like they might be held together by the crud that had hardened on all of the flat surfaces.

And then there was one last ad. A house to share, walking distance from my train, in a lovely little neighborhood. One of the roommates was getting married and moving away. One of the roommates was practically living with her very successful boyfriend and was never home, but left behind fabulous clothes she didn't mind the roommates wearing. The other roommate was Kate.

Without further discussion with Lars, I told the gals I'd love to share their home and set my sights on enjoying life as a single with a roommate in a three-bedroom twin home with a yard and a washer and dryer in the basement. And I got the big bedroom.

The Origins of Insanity

I think we've already established that my biggest mistake in this life (so far, anyway) was to have children with The World's Biggest Asshole.

That is to say, the mistake was not in having the children, per se, as Hil and Pat are the light of my life and have been since conception. The mistake was in who I chose to procreate with. (I give myself a little break in knowing that it is customary to have children with the person you are married to, so once I went down that road, the choices for fathers was pretty limited.)

Lars was a marginal spouse from the start, but I wasn't totally unhappy. I had great friends and a nice career and interesting things in my life that plugged all the holes and filled in gaps that would normally be fulfilled by a spouse. I don't expect a spouse to cover all the deficits. That is really asking a lot from one person. And if a spouse could be everything, then what would you need other people and interests for? I would think that would be lonely.

Anyway, it wasn't until we had Pat and Hil, in one-two punch succession after months of fertility treatment that I began to notice that things were unraveling.

I have actually voiced the question that wonders if all the fertility problems, and failures to conceive and unsuccessful drug therapies were all God's way of trying to tell me that having children with Lars was not something He specifically endorsed. And that by having Pat and then conceiving Hil 4 months later was a gift. A gift from Him to each other. So they would not have to endure what would eventually happen alone.

Lars is a nut. But he comes by his insanity honestly. His parents were awful. Should have gone to jail for things they did and things they failed to do and things they stood idly by and let happen to their children. His story reads like a Quentin Tarantino movie plot. Outrageous characters. Incredible plot lines. Cringe-worthy horror.

The fact that Lars' parents were substance-abusing self absorbed nutcases is only half the story. Despite the abuse and neglect, Lars and at least one of his siblings went on to be somewhat successful. Appeared to have overcome all of that.

But I have said before, right here in these pages, that nothing brings out your family weirdness like a wedding or a new baby. And that can only be magnified 100 times over when they are your own wedding and baby.

And shortly after Pat was born and Hil came screaming into the world 13 months later, while both little darlings were still in diapers, all the demons that plagued Lars for years and had quieted themselves and gone into hiding for a time, came home to roost.

Only by then, there was a new family in the coop.