Today, The Ex emailed that he wanted to talk. I texted back, asking what about.
Hours later, he passive aggressively answered. Again, I asked what it was about.
I knew as soon as I had read the first words of the three-sentence email that we would be going down one of two roads: One, he would tell me that he’d come to a realization, that he’d been acting like a dickhead and that he was sorry; two, he’d be mad and it would be about money, or time off, or something else that historically has only ever lead to fights.
I wasn’t willing to take the bait, because I’m over it.
I was right. It was about money. How he’s making less now (that’s what quitting two jobs in a month’ll do to ya in this climate), so he can’t afford to pay the child support that we still have to renegotiate about – that I’ve been asking him to make an appointment for since June – and that he was trying to pick up extra work, but that would be happening on the weekends.
Instead of taking the money bait, or bringing up (for the third time in as many weeks) that I’m waiting on him for us to resettle our money issues, I asked him if it meant that he needed less visits, then. He was…nonplussed.
Flash forward a few hours and he’s suddenly going through a crisis because his friend was hurt during the day at work, doing the same type of work that he does, and he’s seen his life pass in front of his eyes while also being concerned for his friend’s life, livelihood and, well…girlfriend (who has apparently freaked the fuck out). He needs me. To talk to him, to calm him down, to assure him (I think) that if he had a pallet of 500 lbs of stone fall on him, I would freak the fuck out and rush to his side.
I asked him why he was calling me. I made it clear that he should be there for his friends and should be talking to someone that he always considered a friend. Like, someone he hasn’t given the silent treatment to for the past two weeks. I polished that message up bright and shiny, without a trace of scorn, anger or hurt, by uttering you can’t not talk to me for two weeks because I’ve said something that wounded your pride and then when you need someone to talk to, or you have a good day, or you decide you’re over it, or you love me, call me up.You’ve been doing this for more than a year, now.
He agreed. We hung up.
Now to most of you, this might’ve been the most boring post, ever, except for yesterday’s. But if you know me, you know that this. was. huge.
The ex. I’ve always – even when I’ve been a heinous bitch – been there for him. Somehow, if he called, I was already waiting to take care of him. And the thing is, it’s like, he’s spent all of this time making sure that no one gets to hear his internal monologue and I’m the only one that does, so I’m always the go-to. And I’m always there, waiting to save him, redo his resume, give him the kick in the ass.
But, you know? I’m over it. And maybe, just maybe, that four-minute conversation I had with him established it. To him. Because I? Am tired of wasting energy on people that just take more and more of it. No longer is it my job to sit around, waiting to catch him as he falls or bust his balls into some sort of respectable shape.
I think the first order of business is to start advertising that I’m looking for a new gig.
I stopped reading to Zoë over a year ago.
I mean, there’s the rare occasion when she brings me a single book and asks me to read it, and I will, but for the most part, the concept of storytime’s gone out the window. It’s not for the usual reasons you might assume of me: not enough hours in the day, unwillingness to get off of twitter, too many other important things to do, good-fashioned bad parenting.
It’s because this kid is obsessed with books. Has been for about two and a half of her three and a quarter years. There was no way that storytime could ever end without tears, frustration and anger from her, as I refused the 6th, 9th, 12th book. Storytime before bed? Laughable exercise in self-torture.
This is the kid that can go into her bedroom and disappear for two hours, if I let her. When I go to check up on her, she’s “reading” to her stuffed animals and there’s at least 20 books strewn about.
Zoë is, quite simply, a literary fiend. Excited by talking, reading, seeing stories. I have no doubt that she will grow up to be the same kind of bibliophilist that I am since she’s already a collector – one thing I’m proud to have started with the tradition of buying her a(t least one) book every month since the mother’s day before she was born. All this is to explain why most nights, she falls asleep like this:
What shocked me a few weeks ago is the knowledge that she’s making great strides I hadn’t been aware of.
Just a little while ago, she couldn’t count, or recognize letters. The concept of her knowing the alphabet outside of a song – that was still sung improperly – was a far-off daydream, but when I tried to work with her on it, we’d both end up frustrated. Like so many things with her, I dropped it because I figured that later, when she was older, I would know that she was ready. Like me, if she’s not into it, it ain’t happening.
I haven’t picked it up since.
She’s been going to preschool for less than two months now, twice a week. She doesn’t get full days, she doesn’t get hard-core tutoring, there’s what I imagine to be all of 10 minutes to devote to anything alphabetical between child-led activities consisting of playing outside, snack time, blocks, puzzles, crafts, opening and closing circle time.
Somehow, my daughter, much like OhMommy’s, has come to surprise me and make me proud. Maybe like how my father must have felt when I brought my first scrap of exercise paper to him, glowing with pride that I’d written words, all by myself (all swear words, for the unnecessary record).
When I discovered a few weeks ago that Zoë knew how to spell her name, I was pretty awed. She’s been able to recognize her name since before her birthday, which already felt kind of awesome inside of me, but now, she can recite the letters, in order, and take her little Word Whammer magnets and put them in order to spell it. Go, awesome three year old!
But then, I realized that since she’s recognized a few other words for a while, why not see what she knew about those bad boys? And I quizzed the kid. Sort of.
Yesterday, in the medium of Word Whammer magnet, she could spell four words. Two of them after sounding them out. I didn’t help her except to ask her which letters made the sounds in the words, saying them slowly for her.
I was reading already when I started kindergarten. I figured that Zoë’s ability to be behind in most things fine-motor-skill associated would affect her reading promise, especially with the whole lack of reading to her thing. But there’s this: My kid can’t draw a straight line longer than half an inch,and therefore cannot write letters; discern grey, brown and black from each other all the time; knows four shapes and only four shapes; and still can’t count past 16 very reliably.
But my kid can: Spell Zoë, Mama, Cat & Dog, after explaining to me that “cat is a ’symonym’ for kitty” and “dawg is a symonym for a gwown up puppy”. And I thought she never listened to me.
I don’t know if I really ever have been this proud of anything. Which, if you know me at all, is the feelings-avoidance way of saying, “Wow. I get to be her mom and that’s awesome.”
