Lost Limbs
Last night, Ben and I drove Bob to the Plaza to be picked up by db for the weekend.
I could sense the shift as soon as I put the ziploc bag on the table by the front door. "What's in there?" he asked. "Your medication," I answered. A shadow crossed his face and his tone carried the slightest, almost undetectable but to the trained ear, hint of dread. "Oh." And I knew.
He's dreading having to hand db the bag.
And that pissed me off.
As soon as the three of us got in the car and headed south, Bob's demeanor changed. Suddenly he was hating on Ben--not in the old-fashioned malicious manner, more in a joking manner, but the intent was clear--I am not supposed to like you. He started laughing at jokes that weren't even jokes but mere bits and pieces of conversation between the adults. He started jabbering in the backseat. He started singing in that nervous sing-song of scared children.
"Mommy, can you pick me up at Winsteads on Monday?"
Of course. Isn't that where we always pick you up?
"Yeah, but I want you to pick me up--not Ben."
And I knew what was behind this--he doesn't give a rat's ass whether Ben picks him up or I do. But db does. And I'm 100% certain Bob gets to hear all about it. Every time.
Sure, sweetie. I'll pick you up Monday night.
"Okay." Again, almost undetectable but to the trained ear, a hint of relief.
And that really pissed me off.
When we got there, Bob looked so uncomfortable as he got out of the car that I hauled my own fat ass out of the passenger seat, walked around, and handed the ziploc bag of medication to db myself. He hesitated for a minute, just to be an asshole, then took the bag and said "thank you." Then he started muttering, "can't travel long distances. Unbelievable."
I wasn't sure I'd heard correctly at first as I turned and walked away, but he insisted on repeating it, a little louder this time, as I rounded our car. You see, when Ben started doing Bob pick-ups and drop-offs, I had explained to db that he was doing it because, being exceptionally pregnant, it has become more difficult for me to travel long distances. (And, indeed, after 16 days of driving back and forth 40 minutes one-way to visit Bob at the hospital while sitting on a massive hemmorhoid, it was difficult for me to travel to the end of the fucking driveway and back.)
No, fucker--what's unbelievable is the fact that you can't keep your fucking mouth shut during a 2-minute exchange of a small child who doesn't need to listen to your bullshit. Because I'm sure Bob heard what he had to say. And I'm sure as soon as they were in the car driving away, Bob got to hear an earful about what a liar his mother is. And I'm sure it made him feel like absolute shit.
And that pissed me off most of all.
Because I grew up with a parent who was chronically unhappy. I grew up thinking if I could just be better, smarter, more agreeable, I could make that parent happy. If I thought just like that parent did, and liked the same things that parent liked, and never disagreed with that parent, I could make that parent smile, and then the world would be okay. But I was never good enough. And I thought some of what that parent believed was crap. And that led to many, many years of feeling like shit. We're over it now, but to think my own child has to endure that kind of bullshit, well, that pisses me off more than anyone could ever imagine. More than words can express.
Which is why I will do whatever I can for the rest of my life to be the parent who may not always agree with him, may not always like the things he says and does, but always, always loves him for being him. Without condition.
***
In happier homemaker news, I channeled my inner Gretchen today, with fantastic results for a change. While removing the Separate Seat portion of my new chair slipcover in the living room for a washing this morning, the damn elastic around the edge busted--leaving me with a floppy soggy piece of fabric that would not have been functional. So I went to That Awful Store I Hate and bought 4 yards of elastic and a good pair of scissors, came home, pulled the Separate Seat cover out of the dryer, cut a small slit in the hem, fed the elastic through, tied it off, and VOILA--good as new. Better, actually, because the elastic I used is much more substantial than the tiny little piece of shit that I fished out of there. Go, me!
I could sense the shift as soon as I put the ziploc bag on the table by the front door. "What's in there?" he asked. "Your medication," I answered. A shadow crossed his face and his tone carried the slightest, almost undetectable but to the trained ear, hint of dread. "Oh." And I knew.
He's dreading having to hand db the bag.
And that pissed me off.
As soon as the three of us got in the car and headed south, Bob's demeanor changed. Suddenly he was hating on Ben--not in the old-fashioned malicious manner, more in a joking manner, but the intent was clear--I am not supposed to like you. He started laughing at jokes that weren't even jokes but mere bits and pieces of conversation between the adults. He started jabbering in the backseat. He started singing in that nervous sing-song of scared children.
"Mommy, can you pick me up at Winsteads on Monday?"
Of course. Isn't that where we always pick you up?
"Yeah, but I want you to pick me up--not Ben."
And I knew what was behind this--he doesn't give a rat's ass whether Ben picks him up or I do. But db does. And I'm 100% certain Bob gets to hear all about it. Every time.
Sure, sweetie. I'll pick you up Monday night.
"Okay." Again, almost undetectable but to the trained ear, a hint of relief.
And that really pissed me off.
When we got there, Bob looked so uncomfortable as he got out of the car that I hauled my own fat ass out of the passenger seat, walked around, and handed the ziploc bag of medication to db myself. He hesitated for a minute, just to be an asshole, then took the bag and said "thank you." Then he started muttering, "can't travel long distances. Unbelievable."
I wasn't sure I'd heard correctly at first as I turned and walked away, but he insisted on repeating it, a little louder this time, as I rounded our car. You see, when Ben started doing Bob pick-ups and drop-offs, I had explained to db that he was doing it because, being exceptionally pregnant, it has become more difficult for me to travel long distances. (And, indeed, after 16 days of driving back and forth 40 minutes one-way to visit Bob at the hospital while sitting on a massive hemmorhoid, it was difficult for me to travel to the end of the fucking driveway and back.)
No, fucker--what's unbelievable is the fact that you can't keep your fucking mouth shut during a 2-minute exchange of a small child who doesn't need to listen to your bullshit. Because I'm sure Bob heard what he had to say. And I'm sure as soon as they were in the car driving away, Bob got to hear an earful about what a liar his mother is. And I'm sure it made him feel like absolute shit.
And that pissed me off most of all.
Because I grew up with a parent who was chronically unhappy. I grew up thinking if I could just be better, smarter, more agreeable, I could make that parent happy. If I thought just like that parent did, and liked the same things that parent liked, and never disagreed with that parent, I could make that parent smile, and then the world would be okay. But I was never good enough. And I thought some of what that parent believed was crap. And that led to many, many years of feeling like shit. We're over it now, but to think my own child has to endure that kind of bullshit, well, that pisses me off more than anyone could ever imagine. More than words can express.
Which is why I will do whatever I can for the rest of my life to be the parent who may not always agree with him, may not always like the things he says and does, but always, always loves him for being him. Without condition.
***
In happier homemaker news, I channeled my inner Gretchen today, with fantastic results for a change. While removing the Separate Seat portion of my new chair slipcover in the living room for a washing this morning, the damn elastic around the edge busted--leaving me with a floppy soggy piece of fabric that would not have been functional. So I went to That Awful Store I Hate and bought 4 yards of elastic and a good pair of scissors, came home, pulled the Separate Seat cover out of the dryer, cut a small slit in the hem, fed the elastic through, tied it off, and VOILA--good as new. Better, actually, because the elastic I used is much more substantial than the tiny little piece of shit that I fished out of there. Go, me!
posted by Mitzi Green at 2:29 PM
2 Comments:
db's an ass, I'm sorry Bob has to deal with that - fact of life, won't go away. My husband has a blanket party planned for my ex husband when my son turns 18.
Continue to be the mom and not the buddy. Bob will respect you all the more when he's old enough to realize things
Head up and here to a baby sooner rather than later!
You are a rock star.
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