I got an email yesterday from Zoë’s grandmother, her dad’s mom.
I’m happy, because it was communicative and positive and didn’t continue the year and a half of negative behaviour we’ve both engaged in. I’m happy because she asked to spend some time with Zoë, one-on-one during the next week and that’s all that I wanted from her – for her to arrange time with me that the two of them could hang out. I’m happy because it looks like Zoë will get to see her twice this week and that will make Zoë really happy.
I’m torn, because she asked for a weekend-long visit as well – one during which Zoë’s dad would be there. One during which I have no control over monitoring his drinking or pot use. One during which Zoë’s grandmother is confident that he will abstain from drinking or smoking, because apparently in the past month, she says he’s changed.
I told her that even though it was in direct opposition to his visitation rules, in the past year he’s stayed here and still drank and smoked. But apparently, he’s changed and wouldn’t risk his visitation, she thinks. She says she would hold him accountable.
She doesn’t know that three weekends ago, while he watched her on a Saturday night while I went out with friends, he drank more than a six-pack. She doesn’t seem to know that he’s a different person when he’s not around her and that he hasn’t made one step needed to have overnight visits, including lying to be about sobriety.
She doesn’t know how much I want these overnights to take place, but I think, on some level, that she understands why my gut says no. She left an alcoholic with her two sons (their father) and thinks he cleaned up his act because he had to. From what I’ve heard, it didn’t, but her ruler has far more give than mine.
I want to say that it can happen, if she’s solely responsible for Zoë. I want her to agree that if the Ex chooses to drink and smoke, then she will tell him to leave, or call me, or pull the plug on the visit.
I can’t trust that she would do that – rat out her own son, knowing that he’s in danger of losing his visitation if she does.
I can’t assume that her view of the greater good will match my own – that Zoë grow up seeing her dad sporadically, rather than regularly, hungover or drinking. I can’t look at the potential of a weekend visit as more than an opportunity for everything to go badly, while I also get a weekend off.
I want that weekend off. God. I want it. And I feel so selfish for it.
I just don’t know what to do.
I got pretty scared when the princess sickness invaded her brain. I admit it, I even tried to banish it a little – me, the mom hell-bent on not moulding her away from her own person, since she is so very much her own person.
The pink was just too much, so I found myself shopping with her, holding up a few options that didn’t include that dreaded colour. Or flowers. No more fucking florals. If she had to wear a dress, then it was going to be a cool dress, I figured. But she wanted what she wanted, so within a year, her closet was mainly comprised of carnation, fuchsia, rose, magenta, lavender and cerise; and roses, carnations, daisies and violets.
Gag me.
I stopped trying. I’d take her shopping and say, “tell me what you want from this rack. Then this one. Then this one.” She’d ask why and I’d say they were in her size and on sale, so she had free reign and that was all the permission she needed to go crazy.
It’s not like it happened many times – the kid barely grows – but the times it did, I was a little scarred, picturing my future of spa sleepover parties, giggling and fur-fringed toss-pillows on a pink bed canopied by lavender tulle.
Gulp.
The last time we shopped, she caused my heart to pitter-patter as she lovingly selected hooded tshirts with vector-type graphics, short-sleeved hoodies reminiscent of surf-chic and some pretty fly dark rinse jeans with kick ass butterflies embroidered on the ass. Then, we bought shoes. Two pairs, one too big and one just right, both Chucks (except they’re really Airwalks). The currents are black high-tops; the too-big-box got some pink Disney Princesses.
You can’t win them all.
Point is, she was coming around – the pinnacle, I thought, being when we went to a skate shop to find some clothes for me and her dad, and she picked out a deck she really liked, then threw a diva-like tantrum about not getting to bring a board home.
Now that’s a tantrum I can get behind.
There’s been a new revolution. While princesses, dresses and dreams of fairy wings might still be horrendously abundant, there’s a new favourite in the Zoeyjane household.
Freaking School of Rock.
I rented it last week for our Friday night date night (which was delayed due to a certain diva’s lack of ability to hold her shit together), and we finally got to watch it on Saturday night.
Into it is an understatement. The kid? Knows how to rock. In fact, the kid needs to rock.
The maracas, a microphone, a saxaflute, all came out while she sang, shrieked, did that really low voice that I think is supposed to be kind of metal. Oh, and there were some sort of movements that I think she considers dancing.
Seems like she’s making a full recovery from princess sickness.
