Not So Blonde

Boo Hiss Blah Blah Blah

Christmas was nice. Heh. Christmas is such a letdown from all the build up, I’ve decided. Yes, I’m 36 (will be 37 in 4.5 short months and I’d be more scared by that number if I really gave more of a shit) and I’m now just realizing, Christmas is … okay. And that’s okay!

I think I may think this, in part, because the kid is getting older. Kids keep things fun and fresh and new. I debated not even getting a tree this year, a first, but I got one at the last minute after the teen guilted me into it by asking, “Can I come to your house so we can get a tree?”

Any time the teen says he wants to come to his mom (or dad’s) house and he doesn’t say, “… so I can play (insert game)”, it’s a BOLD FACED LIE.

I don’t blame the kid. As much as I feel for him that his parents aren’t together, the kid WORKS IT. I think it helps that M doesn’t even remember his dad and I together.

Several years ago, M was going thru his baby book and happened on some snapshots of the dad and I dying Easter eggs when M was only a few months old. He looked at the pictures, looked at me, looked back at the pictures and asked, “Mom, what is my dad doing in your house?”

Moral of that story? DIVORCE WHEN THE KIDS ARE YOUNG, THEY WON’T REMEMBER SHIT BUT TWICE AS MANY PRESENTS.

Speaking of divorce - nice segue - I think Bymoron the ex and the new wife might be headed in that direction themselves. Now, it’s just a feeling I get but I thought it odd the last couple of meetings at the teen’s school, step-mom has been noticeably absent.

I never did give step-mom benefit of the doubt that she may have finally realized her presence was not needed, didn’t help the situation nor was she wanted there… I always thought it was due to something going on between she and Bymoron.

And now, quickly following that, the dad and she don’t spend Christmas together.

I questioned the dad about it the day after Christmas, like, why was he all hot to come pick up the kid again when he just spent the majority of the holiday with him? Could it be, oh, maybe that the kid let it slip to R and I that his step-mom was out of town … over the holidays?

Don’t get me wrong, if you can’t spend the holidays together, you can’t. I GET THAT. The fact that R and I were able to be together is due to an act of some sort of Kris Kringle f’ing miracle (his Chief allowing his unit some time off while he’s still stateside). Fine. Some people in similar situations are NOT as lucky.

But we’re not talking about people in extraordinary circumstances. We’re talking about 2 people who barely spend any time apart and now all of a sudden they’re not spending CHRISTMAS together? On purpose?

I realize I might sound contradictory after I said in the beginning of the post that Christmas isn’t all that, that it’s sort of a let-down, I know. But I don’t know many couples that WILLINGLY spend the holidays apart. Do you?!

The dad’s explanation was, “Well we’ve been together a while and we’ve been getting on each others nerves and especially during Christmas, you know the feeling.”

Yeah. No, I don’t.

I love when people tell you some off-the-wall shit and expect you to follow along. And you’re left sitting there thinking, “Yeah. I’ve never felt that, sorry.”

I wasn’t even going to talk about this. I mean, who cares? It’s mildly amusing in the course of life but it doesn’t alter my existence any, really.

What I was going to talk about, but am avoiding, is the fact that R’s and my visit really wasn’t a dream come true. Maybe we should spend Christmas apart…

KIDDING.

No, honestly, now is one of those times that I have to remind myself: Every moment together is not a fairy tale.

I get it, I understand it, but yet there I am when R goes to leave, clinging to him and crying like it’s the last time I’ll ever see him again.

I know he doesn’t want that. It’s the last thing I want to do and it’s been a while since I’ve done it but, yet, there I am… doing it anyway.

I blubbered, “You seemed so stressed… is it me? Did I do something to make you mad?”

That is when he starts to melt a bit, his cool resolve begins to crumble and he says, “It’s not you. I’m not mad at you.” And I cry more because the moments to prove to me its not me are waning. He’ll be gone soon and all I’ll have to console me are those parting words, “It’s not you…”

I got the best email forward years ago. Just because I said that I liked an email forward YEARS ago should not give you the impression I like email forwards, I don’t, so don’t send them. Unless you are in possession of this one, because, BLASTED! I never got it again.

This particular forward talked about a man and a woman sitting in a car about to say goodbye outside an airport, I believe, and the woman’s perspective was questioning the relationship while trying to read the man’s expression.

The male’s portion is told from his side and unbeknownest to his girlfriend, he was silently stressing out about his car. HIS CAR. The girl is freaking about THEM and the the man is thinking about HIS CAR.

He’s looking at the check engine light on the dash with furrowed brow thinking - wtf - I just took this car in and now the light’s on!!

The email goes on and on from the girl’s point of view, growing more and more hysterical and finally culminates in the girl bursting out that they need to break up, she can tell the man isn’t happy and the dude is sitting there like: WTF happened here? I was just worried about my car…

That’s R and I. Only, R has a lot more to worry about than his car. I need to chill. The man loves me. I just wish he were here to tell me.

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Let’s get the embarrassing part out of the way first…

We’ll move to the “mortifying” portion in a bit.

I cried.

In the Principal’s office.

In Dr. (Very Professional) D’s office.

Rest assured, M was not in the room when I made a spectacle of myself, so there’s that. Let me also say, I didn’t blubber but I did let a few tears fall where they may…

M’s dad was running late so Dr. D and I had about 10 minutes alone. He was sweet, handed me tissue, told me not to blame myself, said it’s not the end of the road for M and the program.

I could go on and on about it, in fact, I did. But I’ll just save that particular post in my drafts and give you the highlights.

There is nothing worse than seeing your kid upset and there’s not shit you can do about it. That was pretty much the gist of the whole meeting.

The mature part of me should probably not share this, but, the bitchy part will… since I suspect it was a big reason why Mrs. Baby Phat Einstein didn’t show her face at this particular conference.

The one and only reason why M can’t continue with the program is due to his continued failing grade in Algebra II. Math sucks. Except for you smartie pants out there that math comes easy to you, I know you’re out there! You lucky ducks!

Apparently, Mrs. BPE is one of those mathematical geniuses-amongst-us. She has never failed to mention this fact in every previous meeting we’ve had so the last time the dad and I talked on the phone I asked some pointed questions.

“Does (your wife) sit down with M and tutor him in math?”
“Did the friend you said you knew, the mathematician, come by like you said he would and help M with his math homework?”
“Do you get up early in order to get M to school before 7am so he can attend the tutoring sessions offered by his instructor?”

No, no and no. I’d stay away, too, if I were her. Don’t come if you’re just going to talk. Talk is cheap.

Another highlight: Dr. D asked if M pulled back from his classes once he knew he’d have to be withdrawn from the program and M said no, he told Dr. D it made him work harder.

Normally, I never speak for M when he and Dr. D are speaking directly to each other but this time, I did.

I thought it important for Dr. D to know M attended a Biology tutoring session in preparation for his final, a session that started at 8am this past Saturday and lasted all day. I don’t know about you but that’s about the last thing I’d want to do with my time. On a Saturday. At age 14. Or, 36.

Dr. D was visibly taken aback by this and said, “Wow. That shows a true depth of character, M.”

Cue my heart thumping out of my chest with pride: *thump thump thump*

Dr. D went on some more about how M was easily the most improved amongst all of the students in the program, but a step back is necessary for his education, for college, and for his future.

We get it. Thanks for playing.

Not to sound flippant but it’s hard. Honestly, I don’t care what M does. He could take regular classes, he could take AP classes, he could take French (a desire he mentioned and was promptly shot down by his dad), he could pick up violin, ballet. I DON’T CARE. If my son is happy, I’m happy. End of story.

Now to the mortifying part. Other than the dad, once again, talked more about himself than he did M in Dr. D’s office. Here we are, AGAIN, wasting Dr. D’s valuable time listening to Bymoron speak at length of his misbegotten baseball career. Much ado about nothing. Other than a multitude of base on balls.

After Dr. D’s session, we moved to M’s guidance counselor’s office to reassign his classes for the upcoming semester.

This is when it became real for M, and I could tell he was getting more upset. His eyes got the cast of wanting to cry, but he stayed strong and we got through it.

Bridget asked M what his favorite class was in Univ HS and M said Creative Writing. Sadly, not offered in the regular HS curriculum. Piss.

Dr. D popped his head in and asked how it was going and I appreciated it. I could tell he cares. I know he wants to see M back in the program his Sophomore year.

Bridget suggested that M may be a good candidate to be a writer for the school paper, despite the fact that Freshman are rarely allowed to participate.

Bridget asked M if it was something he’d truly be interested in. If so, she’d go to bat for him since his circumstances are a bit different than normal and she wanted to give him something to be excited about.

M completely perked up but I still asked if he was serious about it enough to have Bridget lobby on his behalf. He said yes, that he thought he’d enjoy it. I mentioned that Uncle Jay was on his own HS and college newspapers and he’d be a great source of help and information. My brother Jay is a brilliant writer, if I do say so myself.

This is when… wait for it…

The dad couldn’t take that we spoke of anyone’s abilities without interjecting something about himself so he piped up with:

“I write screenplays. I’m a screenwriter.”

Kill me now. Let the ground swallow me up, and let the world forget I ever thought this man was worthy enough to date, much less marry. STOP IT RIGHT NOW.

After we got M’s classes squared away M, his dad and I walked to our cars and M went home with his dad. Not before I hugged him, said I was proud of him, told him I’d support him with everything he was willing to work for and we’d get through it. We will get through it.

On the way home, I stopped for a Happy Meal, washed my kid-sized cheeseburger down with a glass of wine and watched Real Housewives of OC. Just another day in the life.