I don’t know why I haven’t been writing about this more often. I mean, why keep it all locked in when I have the perfect outlet with which to vent my ever-growing frustration with this forever alliance with the worst thing that ever happened to me? For the past year and a half, the Swine has done seemingly everything in his power to make me feel like and appear to be a horrible mother, an unreasonable person, and a downright bitch. And for what? I still can’t figure out the satisfaction he reaps from this but that he is getting revenge on the woman who could no longer abide his filthy habits (see? another reason why living together before marriage is such a brilliant idea), terrible ideas (oh, now you want to be an architect? since when have you ever looked twice at a building? [it was really just the paycheck]), and lack of pride in appearance (you don’t have to be a GQ model, I wouldn’t have been with him if that was what I was looking for, but the raggy t-shirts and stained shorts that you would have worn to church if not for my interference? Too much to abide. [is it my fault we live in an image-conscious world?]). All right so maybe I can understand why he would hate me just a little – we are so completely different. I wish I could post a picture of him on a Monday morning heading to work and a picture of me – the external dissimilarities are an exact match for our internal variations. I try to understand the twenty-year-old me who met and “fell in love” with that twenty-year-old him, the me that swore I would never think I was too young to get married, that swore I knew what I was getting myself into. That me I don’t like very much, because that me has affected my life in more ways than I ever thought possible. But I like that him much more – much, much, much more – than this him. That him would never have lied and betrayed me like this him did. That him would understand the importance of telling the truth and that you reap what you sow – respect or lack thereof, kindness or lack thereof, honesty, etc.
Some days I am just so taken aback by who he has become and what he has grown to stand for and value – that when I ask him the reason he wants his daughter to go to the alternative school far from where either of us live, his answer is “they have a climbing wall.” How do you not explode in the face of such utter immaturity and stupidity all wrapped up in the form of my poor daughter’s father? How can he not value academics and giving his daughter the best chance to succeed in this world of our? How can he deny her the chance to go to one of the top 20 school districts in the country because of a climbing wall and his girlfriend’s son? Why does mediation have to be the first last resort? Why is he so willing to take me to court if I want to pay for her to go to the daycare near my house, the one she went to before that fate encrusted move to London, the one to which she been begging to return since we moved back to Bellevue? Why doesn’t he put her first ever? Why does he just have to spite me to her detriment? I spent good money to sign her up for swimming lessons, which he said he would take her to if I did so, but out of the three weeks he’s had her for them, he’s taken her once. Explain to me how he thinks he is putting her first. “Oops, I forgot.” Never wonder why I hate that man so much. The greatest challenge of my whole life is not letting my daughter in on that truth, but she asks always why she didn’t get to move to London, she asks always why daddy won’t take her to the lessons. And I have to ask God why I must pretend that man is worth her love. But I know that some day Audrey will know the whole story, and he will have to answer to her as to why he denied her the trip to meet her little brother, why he lied to her continually about the trip and why he is not making a point of taking her to something she loves and enjoys. He says he puts her first. I’m still waiting for the evidence.
Audrey says that they always have to go to his girlfriend’s apartment, which is in the same building, because her daddy’s apartment is way too messy. Audrey says that she runs late for school because her daddy can’t find her shoes in the big mess. Audrey says that being with his feels like one hundred days, and she wishes being with me could last one hundred days. Audrey says that she has a smart, clever mommy and a silly, messy daddy.
I say that Mondays are my favorite and most reviled day. I love Mondays like yesterday. Mondays where I smile all through work, then practically trot through town beaming with anticipation as I walk to pick her up. I hold her close to me as she squeezes me so tightly she may never let go. I grasp her hand in mine and shower her with smiles, as we walk to the bus stop. I beam; as I watch her legs grow week to week toward matching my long, rapid stride. I read the book, currently Secret Garden, on the bus as we travel to Bellevue and she snuggles against me looking for words that she knows among the hundreds on the page. We get home, and she helps me decide what to make for dinner before hurrying to grab her footstool so she can help. We eat and discuss our days. She bathes, and we sing “Summertime” after which she heads to Slumberland, though some Mondays Steve gets home before she falls asleep in which case their reunion is a tear-worthy event marked by cuddles and statements of affection so endearing my heart nearly bursts at the sound of them. And while she sleeps, Steve and I sit contentedly on the couch, happy to have her home at last for the next six days, neither of us wanting to think of the horrid Monday to follow, the one where she returns to the dark side to be surrounded by mess and ignorant thinking for another week.
I hate Mondays and I love Mondays. I hate the Swine but I loved Sam. I must have. I must have.
