Me: U coming?
Him: [Phonecall to say “no.” He didn’t get the text that his Thursday pickup was on, per usual. He says he’s got company coming over to “rehearse” their “show.” I use “‘s because the “show” revolves around some performance piece concerning energy or some other radical new-age ideal that his Jesus complex made up that he’ll probably do at a mall food court and “rehearsal” isn’t a valid excuse to not take his kid to Chuck E Cheese, like he said (according to his son). “Rehearsal” isn’t a valid excuse because the man will be at his home, dancing around, and, bonus, it is not a means of monetary gain. If I can make my art (which does bring in some cash, by the way) as well as run a business with a child in tow, so can he. It ends with me hanging up and a long four year old face.]
Me: Just fyi, P- seemed to think you were taking him to Chuck E. Cheese. And my phone still has the sent message in it.
Him: Call me if you’d like to talk about it without hanging up on me.
Me: I don’t guess there’s anything to talk about. We’re all just disappointed we can’t do the things we planned to do, especially when you’re at home the whole night.
Him: Then I guess we don’t. I was considering how much it would distract everyone if he was here, but then you hung up on me, so I guess that’s that.
Me: I know, “work” is always more important to you than your son.
Him: Oh, she’s playing the guilt card! Nice try. Got anything better?
Me: Fact: You have more excuses to not see your son than to see him. The guilt will come when he tells you so himself.
Obviously he turns me into an absolute sniveling junior high snot. I own that. I know every time I hang up on him or engage the argument or text back something ridiculous I am stooping to the lowest level. I know I am not encouraging good behavior back. I can control the remarks and the tone of voice I speak or type in and I just don’t. I totally choose to not really care how mature I’m being or what the backlash will be.
P- calls down the hall to me, “Why are you so sad?!” Turns to Mr. D., “Why is everyone so sad?!” And I’m glad he doesn’t completely get it. And part of me know he does. Part of me knows that part of him knows his dad is a dud.
And perhaps I’m going to try and start doing better. Maybe. The point not being that it will improve the parts where we actually have to speak to one another in front of our (blech) offspring. The point being that speaking well makes me a better person and generally I practice what I preach. And I know I do it, a little, because I’ve never done it before. I’ve never just said the first smartass thing that comes to mind. There’s a little something to get out of my system before I put it back in time out.
Once I discovered his pattern, his I’m-going-to-CREATE-a-situation-that-makes-you-feel-as-bad-as-possible-or-really-puts-you-in-a-bind-so-I-can-have-something-to-save, I started cutting him off before he got into whatever lecture he was going to get into. Which infuriated him. Because his saving isn’t real unless there’s an audience. His saving isn’t real unless he’s had a chance to make you feel so bad you want him to save you.
I’ve always just wanted him to shut up.
Because if the manipulation is that obvious then I’ll be damned if I’m going to keep letting you put that wool hat over my eyes, I’m getting out of here.
There was so little to our relationship before we had a child (that he wanted, a lot, pre-conception) and there was practically nothing after the child.
So I regret Him entirely. I should have known better. Sure, he’s a completely different person now than when I first met him. I was relying on the reflection of his good, decent, rational friends and the throngs of people in M. that followed him. But I should have known better.
And if you read my public blog, you know the kid is fantastically amazing. This blog is not about him.
But now that I am in the throws of a relationship that literally reaches the epitome of my idealistic relationship ideals, and I am serious about that, the epitome in every level of emotional, worldy, intellectually and physically, I want to take my entire dating past and sacrifice it to the gods of stupidity of which I was obviously paying tithe to. I’m more angry that my past has the ability to torture us. That’s not fair to someone who is so good to me.
I’ve thrown my tantrum now. I’m staying home with the sleeping child. Mr. D. is off to the birthday gathering filled with exquisitely interesting and intelligent characters and it sucks I’m missing the conversation around the “cigars, friends and patron at the condo” that literally can’t happen often due to the overseas location of two of them.
I’ll go back to ironing now.