Sharp Corners

The boys came home yesterday! One week visiting with their father seemed like one Ice Age to me. They drive me nuts, they make a mess, they raise the noise level in the house to ear splitting levels, they bicker, they all chatter incessantly. And I missed the hell out of it all.

I was secretly terrified that the boys would come home and announce they find me boring and confining and want to live with their father. I was afraid they’d prefer living with the "no rules, no structure, anything goes" attitude Wanker has. I was worried that they’d think being with Daddy was so cool and fun that they’d come home and start flinging clothes into their Spiderman backpacks and beg me to let them go live with him. Instead they’ve been showering me with kisses and hugs and continually touching me to see if I’m really here. At dinner last night, Son One watched every bite I took and ate the same things in the same order I did ("You’re eating your beans? Me too! You took a bite of meat? Me too!"). When they first got home I got worried because they were crying as Wanker left. I figured I was in for a night moping and brooding. Not so. No sooner was Wanker down the street than Son One looked me in the eye and said, "Mommy, I’m glad that’s over. That was so boring." Hmm. Later, Son Two told me that "they’ll have to go with Daddy again in 23 days but it won’t be for as long this time and that’s good because we miss you too much."

I could sit here and tell you that I feel bad that they don’t more enjoy their time with Wanker. I could pretend that I don’t care that they seem infinitely happier being home with me than being with him. Why lie? If I tell you the truth and you think I’m a total bitch, then stop reading and don’t come back.

I don’t view visitation vs. living with me as a popularity contest. I don’t think Wanker is a better or worse parent than me. He has things he brings to the table that I can’t offer, just as I do. He’s willing to watch nine hours of "Rugrats" in a row with them while I last about six minutes before I’m begging to be let off the hook (or the couch). He is a little less militant about letting them eat junk food whereas I need counseling if they eat more than one "junk snack" a day. I am more nurturing, more intuitive and more apt to see the bigger picture than he is. So, you see, I realize the boys need their father to be a part of their lives and will never get in the way of that, no matter how much I want to bundle them up and disappear into the Witness Protection Program. But if you think giving them up for a week and not knowing what they’re doing every minute of the day is easy, it ain’t. Are they getting fruits and vegetables? Are they brushing their teeth? Are they getting to bed at a reasonable hour? Knowing the answer to these questions is most likely "no" drives the mother bear instinct in me batty. Now add to that the fear that they would live with him full time, can you see how I would be relieved that it doesn’t appear to be something they want? A week with Daddy is like a week at Disneyworld. It’s hard to compete with that but I like to think I’m mature enough NOT to compete. But here’s the kicker: Wanker has children from a previous marriage and I know first hand how he operates. Competition is a way of life for him. I know the things he’ll do and say to get "an edge" over me because I witnessed it for twelve years and it’s nauseating. My response? Let him try.

My parents divorced when I was two so I have a little working knowledge of how it feels to be a kid in this situation. My father tried everything to undermine my mother while my mother, on the other hand, never said an ill word about him. As an adult, knowing what I know now, she must have bitten her tongue to a bloody pulp to keep from saying anything against the man. Iron will, she has. Doing so, however, gave me the ability to form my own conclusions about him as an adult and know that they aren’t clouded by outside influences. Do I think the boys will grow up to think bad things about their dad? There’s no reason they should because he’s not a bad guy (as fathers go, heh). But they need to decide for themselves how they feel about the time they spend with him without any input from me. If they enjoy it, they shouldn’t feel guilty about it or worry they’re making me feel sad. If they don’t enjoy it, I don’t want it to be because of anything I’ve said. I want them to have crystal clear vision, even at 7, 5 and 4 years of age.

When they’re with Wanker, it’s not him I worry about. It’s the boys. The most heartbreaking words I could ever imagine hearing are, "Mom, I want to live with Dad." Since young children are so easily influenced by "fun" and "excitement," it’s only natural that they’d want to stay where they can find it (ever try to take a kid out of Chuck E. Cheese?) I wondered when they came back if they’d find me overbearing and life with me boring. It’s not about them liking him better, it’s about them liking the life he pretends to live better ("See? When you’re with me, every day is beaches and McDonald’s and Cheetos!") I credit Wanker with not being obnoxious enough to come right out and say such a thing but trust me when I tell you, it exudes from his pores when he has visitation with any of his children, mine or his other ones. It’s hard to hang your hat on the hope that your little children love you enough to want to be with you even though you have to wear all the hats in the family (judge, jury, mother, pseudo-father, friend, nurse, teacher). Whether I didn’t believe enough in myself or enough in their ability to separate wheat from chaff, I don’t know. But I slept like a rock last night for the first time in seven days. My babies were home and they were glad.

I know you’ve lost many nights of sleep while waiting to hear whether I bought a car or just enjoyed having my orifices poked for the sheer fun of it. I thought it best to at least let my sainted mother (as in Patron Saint of Blogwhoring Misguided Children) know the answer before I told the rest of the world. I consider it bad form for her to have to read things here before I’ve had a chance to tell her the minutiae of my life. Well, usually.

So, yes, I’m sporting a brand new 2005 light blue Dodge Grand Caravan. In case you’re not totally clear on what that means, let me spell it out for you: M-I-N-I-V-A-N. I know when it comes right down to it, I had no choice since I have to cart around children, dogs and groceries on a regular basis, to which a cute little two door sports car is hardly conducive. My mother wanted to know what I have against minivans and, surprise, I’ll tell you. Does anything scream middle age louder than a minvan? Okay, well, maybe Sans-a-belt pants but they don’t make those for women. I gave up the last vestiges of my youth when I wrote the dealer the check that check, didn’t I?

The buying process wasn’t too bad, even by my admittedly low expectations. In fact, even the haggling process went pretty smoothly. I could tell this by the fact that the salesman didn’t fall over laughing while clutching his sides in hysteria when we told him our ballpark figure. He barely cracked a smile. Years of practice, I suppose.

So, once we agreed on price, the salesman took us to a little room and told us to "watch TV for a while until the financing guy was ready." We made small talk with another couple in the room until they were taken in to the back room to be disemboweled by "Larry the Low Rate King" or whomever. We waited for, oh, approximately nine and a half hours until it was finally our turn. By now it was around five o’clock on Sunday and, honest to god, the first words out of the financing guy’s mouth were:

Him: "I’ve got football to watch and beer to drink so let’s get you outta here quick, huh?"

Me: "Heyyyyy, Larry….fine by me, man. I’ll just write that down payment check, you give me 0% financing and we’ll be good to go!"

Well, not quite.

But the Gods of the Fixed Interest Rates smiled on me that day (apparently they had football to watch and beer to drink as well) and all that was left to do was sign the paperwork. A guy backed into the room on a forklift and a fresh case of pens and several dozen reams of paper were placed gingerly on the desk. We spent the next hour signing away kidneys and getting carpal tunnel syndrome. I suspect there wasn’t this much paperwork involved in giving the order to invade Iraq.

Once they brought me a cool cloth for my head and a splint for my weary hand, I got my keys and jumped in the minivan. Middle age be damned, I peeled out of the lot, V-6 cranking, and left in a tire-squealing blaze of glory. Okay, not really. J drove home because he knew I’d try that very thing.

Boy, I’m stumped. Voting begins January 1st and I have yet to come up with ways to win via good sportsman like conduct. Some ideas I had and discarded:

• Skywriting – this gets expensive when you figure I have to pay for approximately twenty planes to fly over all major metropolitan cities
• Offering a week’s visitation with Rocco to anyone who votes for me – the cost of replacing everyones chewed up shoes is prohibitive
• Boob shots on the blog if I win – I figure readers will get mad when all I post are pics of Michael Moore and Wolf Blitzer
• Cataloging and linking to every blog in every directory I find on Blogshares, Blogroll and Blog Explosion – I’d only do this if I thought it would actually work

Technically speaking, a "Blogwhore" is someone who will do anything for a link back to  their blog. I prefer to think of it as someone who will do anything to drive traffic to their site. That’s SO me. I’ve taken out ads around the blogosphere so we’ll see if that helps and now I just gotta think of some other ways to garner votes. Not much is beneath me, by the way. If I don’t win, I’m gonna be one unhappy little blogger and my readers will pay. I don’t know if you’re aware of this but I was a firefighter/paramedic when I lived up north. Wanna take a guess how many descriptive ways I have of grossing you out? And I’m very good with adjectives. You’ve been warned.