That shrinking feeling

"Tired of lying in the sunshine, staying home to watch the rain.
You are young and life is long, and there is time to kill today.
And then one day you find ten years have got behind you.
No one told you when to run, you missed the starting gun."

-- Time, Pink Floyd



The houses are falling off the market all around me. Now when I'm serious about needing to buy a house, they are disappearing! I sent Joanne a list of 10 or 12 and she wrote back that only three of them were still available. When she called to make appointments to see them, one of those was about to be taken off.

Grrrrr.

Joe has stepped up his assholeness. I didn't know he had all this in him. Tonight I made filet mignon, FILET fucking MIGNON, and he refused to eat it. He ate a bag of chips for dinner instead. Let his arteries clog his way, I say.

He has this strange habit lately of watching the baby cry instead of feeding him. That's charming. He does this ALL the time, except when he knows I need to breastfeed.

The most fun part is when he COMPLETELY ignores me when I'm talking. I know he's hearing me, but he pretends not to. If I told him I was going to key his Miata in the middle of the night, I am confident I'd get no reaction.

I was very angry when I went for my counseling session today. Joe wouldn't let me take the baby to the science center with the kids on Sunday, and instead kept the boy inside to watch hockey. I was equally mad that I didn't stand up to him.

But this counselor is good. I mean, he is goooooooooood. By the time I left there, he had me feeling like I could land Antonio Banderas by merely being in the same room with him.

I got a lot of insight into why Joe is acting the way he is. Perhaps Joe doesn't even know it. For instance, maybe, the reason Joe won't ask me to leave is because he feels guilty. He doesn't want The End to be his fault, so he subconsciously does things to put distance between us, thus driving me away. This may be true, and it's better than my theory: that he's a fucking pussy coward.

And the reason Joe wants me to leave? What 54-year-old wants to live the life of a 33-year-old, cutting grass and changing diapers? He had his mind made up how he was going to live out his days, and it involved association fees and a garage with enough space for his man shit. Not tripping over tricycles or shopping for back-to-school clothes. This, again, beats my theory: that he's an OLD fucking pussy coward.

In all seriousness, the counselor made me see that this shit Joe's got going on is really not about me. It's about him. Maybe it's really true when people say that. He also convinced me that people rarely change, especially 54-year-old fucking pussy cowards, and I apologize if any of those are out there reading this, but if you are, before you get offended and stop reading, let me give you some advice: DO NOT go out and knock up some young thang, thinking you can keep up like you did decades ago. Get a fucking vasectomy already. The world is capable of multiplying without you.

Now, that is not to say I feel like a victim. I did feel like one before my counseling session, but afterward, I felt like I was very lucky. I have a beautiful baby boy, and man, is he a blast. I feel almost guilty when I steal moments with him, knowing I'm depriving the rest of the world of a chance to see his blank stares and bobbing, drooling head. This time around, knowing a little more about what I'm doing makes it more enjoyable and less frightening, and no less fascinating.

And, I'm lucky to recognize my intuition, and smart enough to follow it. No, I won't have that happy little family I was trying so hard to force on us, but at least I can move on and leave open the possibility that I could find that with someone else willing to take on my little brood.

My counselor is very cute. Did I mention that?

Weathermania

It's hard to believe that spring is here. It's been hitting 60 pretty regularly, and I don't mean 60 as in, we wake up with six fresh inches of snow on the ground and by rush hour home it's gray slosh.

I actually went out in my bare feet today to put stuff in and out of the car... something I'm sure, if Joe noticed, is killing him, because he's a strict no-shoes-in-the-house guy, and while I'm not wearing shoes in the house, I'm still tracking in every germ festering in the thawing driveway that is coming to bloom. (In fact, the first time he kicked me out, when I was three months pregnant, I thought about which would hurt him most before I exited: tossing his Waterford collection off the deck, or running around the house in my shoes.)

But I'm sure he didn't notice. He doesn't notice much at all about me these days. He makes dramatic points about not noticing me, like when I scream "pick up that crying baby!" and he takes a long look at me, then turns back to staring at the tube. (You know what would really piss me off, Joe? If you started turning off the light in the kitchen as you left, as if I'm not standing there slaving away, as I do all evening. Guess you haven't thought of that one yet.)

Driving is a rich experience these days. The potholes are ripe as hell.

Spring is springing

I had a GREAT weekend.

Friday night I went out with Aimee and her boyfriend to dinner and then to play darts. I haven't thrown darts in a long time, and I still kicked her ass. I always do.

Aimee asked if she could steal Zoe on Sunday to go to the Carnegie Science Center with her son, Lewis. I asked, "Can I come??"

On Saturday, another friend, Haya, called to ask if SHE could steal Zoe to do something with her daughter, Elsie, on Sunday. "CAN I COME??"

It seems once I became a mother, I became irrelevant. Even when my friends call to invite me somewhere, they are sure to ask, "Is Zoe coming?" As if that is a prerequisite.

We all met at the science center on Sunday, and the time really did fly by. Afterward we all headed to Aimee's mom's house for pizza, and it was a beautiful day out. The kids played in the yard, and before long they were all stripping off clothes. Spring is here!!

Some photos from the science center:













Saturday was a little somber... I joined my dad and my brother at my grandfather's house. Sometime last year, my grandpap had a hip replacement, and my uncle who lives in Florida moved my grandpap there. They are trying to sell his house here, so my dad has been going over there to clean up here and there. I have not been there in I don't know how long... many many years. But I finally made the trek over. It was bittersweet, remembering how I passed a lot of time there as a kid, with my mother, and the smell was the same!

But it was rather horrific too... my grandfather apparently hadn't been taking good care of himself or his home, and after his hip operation he literally got up and left his house as it was. There were greasy pots on the stove, dishes in the dishwasher, an unmade bed, bills piling up. I was shocked, and my dad, who has been going over there to clean for several months, assured me that it had been much worse.

I can't begin to explain how guilty I feel for not knowing how bad the conditions were at his house. And I can't begin to explain how much my stomach was turning as I cleaned the kitchen, with food coating the stovetop (and the walls and the floor and the fucking CEILING) and dirty dishes that had been in the sink for MONTHS.

But we left there feeling good, that we got a lot done as far as getting it a little closer to a sellable condition. We kept finding a lot of neat old things that kept us going. I found an absolutely gorgeous platter and candy dish, and my brother found some old horns and car stuff. There were rolls of coins from Kennywood that my dad said the park gave out when HE was a kid. Lots of old stuff like that. Old baseball gloves, keychains, pencils with REAL LEAD. Eight-track tapes and a steering wheel with a logo even my dad couldn't identify. My grandfather's pilot log book. Really old fly rod reels. Do-it-yourself books from the 1950s.

We won't benefit from any of this monetarily, but there are rich rewards from sifting through this history. And it felt really good to team up and spend time with my dad and my brother.

I gotta write to my grandfather and see how he's doing. My guess is... he feels free.

Turn on the light

"Oh sugar, don’t you cry.
Oh child, wipe the tears from your eyes.
You know I need you to be strong,
And the day is as dark as the night is long.
Feel like trash, you make me feel clean.
I’m in the black, can’t see or be seen."

-- Ultraviolet (Light My Way), U2



Zoe had lunchtime detention today. She seemed kind of blue when I picked her up after work. She's getting kicked around at home and at school.

I feel for the kid. I subconsciously sent her to school with a Lunchable, and I bet her teacher took one look at that and figured I was trying to sabotage all her efforts to get Zoe in line.

Her latest note home (she's averaging one a week now) was for putting her hand in paint and licking it off. Oh joy. I can just see what happened: the art teacher probably saw her sticking her hand in the paint, and shrieked about the paint on her hand, and Zoe's attempt to fix the problem was to get the paint off.... by licking it off.

Usually the notes home are from Zoe's regular teacher, but apparently the art teacher was freaked out enough to send along her own addendum. It was one sentence: "Zoe will not be permitted to paint for the remainder of the year." It could have fit on a sticky note, but the teacher managed to scrawl it so large it took up the majority of a piece of looseleaf. Guess Zoe really pissed her off.

But I mean REALLY, is this the first kid to lick paint off her hands in art class? The school counselor told me Zoe was fine, yet her teachers are sending notes home in two-inch type. Surely they've dealt with worse children. And if they lose their patience at that, I hope Zoe doesn't ever perform one of her favorite acts at school: pulling down her pants and chasing humans around backward with her bare bum.

I get to spend only a couple of hours with Zoe now on weekdays. That time is eaten up by dinner, bath, bedtime. And Jacob. And, of course, Joe doesn't lift a finger during that window of time to help me. I'm at a loss of what I could possibly do to help Zoe, even if I could eke out more time.


I kind of (in a sick little way) enjoy that Zoe is so independent. But I think this has grown a little bit bigger than her having a mind of her own. I keep feeling like a light bulb will go off over my head, or Zoe's, and one of us will just GET IT, like when on her third birthday she just decided since she was three it was time to be potty-trained, and that was suddenly it after a year of effort.

But while the light bulb now flickers from time to time, it ain't staying on.

Stick a fork in me

"Where is my happy ending?"

-- Where Have All the Cowboys Gone, Paula Cole



Joe and I bickered Tuesday morning. I didn't realize at the time that we were bickering. I was lying in bed nursing the baby and I asked him why he went to bed the night before without saying anything. He had headed upstairs early, and a half hour later I found him tucked in bed, snoring.

"I didn't realize I was going to fall asleep," he told me. "I came up to read. Do you have anything else you want to complain about?"

I didn't answer him, because I thought he was joking. But he insisted. "DO YOU?"

Then he stomped off to the bathroom and slammed the door.

I actually giggled.


But it's so sad. The behavior has become so typical of him, and usually it would make me mad, but that morning, it just didn't.


I had a counseling appointment on my way to work. I had set something up to talk about Zoe, why she was acting up so much. After the encounter with Joe that morning, I walked in there feeling rather empowered.

It was a guy counselor, and I have to admit, I've had my fair share of counseling in my life, and I've never felt comfortable with a guy counselor. That morning was no different... it was more like work and less like commiserating. But he did say a few things that made me think, the most notable of them being: What bad things would happen if I left Joe?

I couldn't think of anything off the top of my head. And two days later, I'm still at a loss to come up with anything.

Nothing bad will happen. The world will remain intact if I leave Joe. Amazing!

Driving to work after that meeting, I realized I had talked little about Zoe's specific problems, and a lot about mine and Joe's. And it occurred to me: maybe they're one and the same.

And that kicked up my empowerment meter a few notches.


I had a weak moment today, when I felt like rushing to Joe's office and embracing him and telling him, "We can beat the odds! We love each other! We can make it! Just get some serious counseling and I'll stay with you!"

But I quickly realized that the Joe I was thinking of was the one who used to leave greeting cards in my work mailbox for no reason and who tried to cook for all of us when I was sick. The current Joe won't make eye contact with me at work and would sooner leave me rot in bed if I were sick.


I think I know now how to tell if a relationship has run its course: When one can function well in working and living quarters AS IF THE OTHER PERSON DOESN'T EVEN EXIST.

And it feels like an improvement.

To my dearest

There's not much I can say to Joe that doesn't set him off. Because of that, I just don't talk to him much. Understanding my reality, if I were to fire off a letter to him to feel him out right now, it would probably sound something like this:

_________________

Joe,

Hey, how about steak for dinner tonight? You seem kind of irritable. Is everything OK? We probably need to talk about the house stuff. Are the Pens playing tonight? We can talk about it Wednesday if they are.

xoxo
_________________

But in my fantasy (blog) world, the letter would surely sound something like this:
_________________

Joe,

I am on the cusp of buying a house. With or without you. Are you on board or not? It will make or break my mortgage payment, so you need to open your mouth and actually say the words. Your driving around looking at houses while acting bored isn't giving me any clues.

I know you want a newly constructed house. One that costs over $200,000. I understand you were probably shopping for a woman who would let you reach that goal. But you got me, and then you helped to add a kid to the mix. Get over it. I'd like to actually DO things other than work to pay a mortgage. Things like, I dunno, miniature golf, or even get a cheeseburger from McDonald's once in a while. Maybe I'd even like to buy a magazine from time to time. If that's not too much to ask.

Since you've made it clear that your $180 cell bill and $200 cable bill aren't exactly about to disappear if we get a new house. Why should they? Since you have me to pay them now while you send your money to your adult children.

I'm glad you love your son. I love to watch you goo and gah all over him. But you know what? When he cries, he probably wants picked up. Or put down for a nap. Or rocked and loved. Or fed. You know where the bottles are. Don't assume that every whimper means he wants his mom. Handle it.

I'm glad you love my daughter. Next time she does something you don't like, tell her yourself. You wonder why she has no respect for you? Because you can't stand up to a 5-year-old. It doesn't piss me off that you want to correct her. What pisses me off is when you correct her for stupid shit. Like being a 5-year-old. They do experiment with light switches. It's their nature.

I'm glad you liked your dinner tonight. You probably wouldn't have told me if I didn't ask. That steak... yummy, huh? And you got noodles, fresh asparagus, a tossed salad, bread with olive oil dipping sauce... within a half hour of arriving home. That was enough time for you to read your mail and get into your jammies, right? Because I wouldn't want to race out of work to pick up the kids, feed the baby and get dinner ready too early tomorrow night.

That pot you cleaned after dinner while I put everything away, thanks for that. Glad you fit it in before your Penguins game. It saved me so much time so I could make three lunches for tomorrow and finish the laundry I couldn't knock out last night.

And the fact that you went to bed early -- and without saying anything -- was a bonus. I hope you never take away from me the baby's last feeding, at midnight, because I live for it. I mean, who can resist being dead tired and dealing with a fussy baby?

And this life could be mine forever! I cornered you for a wedding date, and Memorial Day is great. Since Easter didn't work for you. But I know what you're doing... you're trying to surprise me. On Memorial Day, you're going to say July 4. And then on July 4, you're going to say Labor Day. How cute that I have to guess which major holiday you're going to settle on. And it's going to kill you to book shit during a holiday weekend. You're always going that extra mile.

Like when you used to sit on the couch with me and watch TV. When I was pregnant, I appreciated that you gave me that little bit on the end of the couch while you sprawled out and I rubbed your feet. Now I have the whole couch to myself because you hate the slipcover you insisted on getting. But things seem to work out for us like that.

I can't thank you enough for cutting out the sex. What a waste of time that was. And where did it get us? You are so right about that.

I like all these things you don't do for me. What confidence it inspires. I get to balance the traditional -- doing everything your momma did for you when you were a kid -- with the contemporary -- holding down a career too! Please don't think you have to do the same. I can fix the leaky faucets and get my own oil changed. I wouldn't want to burden you. What kind of woman would I be?

But about buying a house... I'm putting my foot down. Since we're putting the mortgage in my name, I have to be somewhat smart about what I can afford since no one else seems to be alarmed about what a stupid mistake I'm about to make. I might eventually realize that the only reason you want such a big house is so that you can find a hiding place to brood and be mad at me at will. And I'm not so keen on financing being kept in the dark for the rest of your life.

I appreciate your insistence, though, on who I should call about insurance and what questions I should ask. I don't know how I'd learn a thing doing this if it weren't for you bossing me around. You are the perfect mentor, helping me to do it all myself, when many like you, who know how to do it, would get frustrated and take over the task. You are the best. At something.

_________________

Ah, that's more like it.

I did a good job

In the elevator when I got to work today, I thought briefly, "Which floor is it???"

I went in my normal way... through the back door and across the empty copy desk. My coworker had rearranged her desk to conveniently block much of the view of mine from the newsroom. I plopped myself down and waited.

My first day back wasn't nearly as thorny as I thought it would be.

I wouldn't go so far as to say I was happy to be there. I wasn't. I was going to miss "The Young and the Restless," and who can be happy about that?

Many people stopped to ask how I was, and I spent a good part of the day socializing. Which isn't my forte, but I went with it. I mean, I came back with short hair and I am 30 pounds lighter than when they last saw me. People are curious.

My first words to my boss: "Where are the fucking donuts?" His first words to me: "I missed you."

And I got way more than I imagined: our lovely HR lady found me an empty office in which to pump. I wasn't at work long before I desperately needed it. Ahhhhhhh.

The only thing missing was my rapport with Joe. We normally email back and forth constantly all day long, and have done so practically since I started working there. It was a little disconcerting not to have that, and a little lonely.

I went through my domestic life aiming to see if I could handle it all myself. I got up early and nursed Jacob before I even got Zoe up. Then it was up with her and to the bus stop. I hopped right in the shower and then got Jacob ready, and I was out the door. Joe spent time with him, but nothing that I couldn't live without.

I picked both kids up after work. The day care women said Jacob was great, didn't cry once. I was happy to learn I hadn't fucked anything up as far as his supplies and labeling everything. I got home and had dinner ready by 6:15. I've spent the evening doing more laundry and cleaning, bathing the children, and even fit in more socializing with friends and family calling to see how my first day went.

It was a hard day, don't get me wrong. Joe once again parked his ass on the couch and watched hockey all night. But I did it all. And I still have a bit of energy left to write about it.



When I got home and hit the garage door opener, I swear Joe was at the door before the garage door was fully open. He took Jacob's carrier and whisked him upstairs and oohed and awwed all over him. "What a big day you had! Oh, I was so worried about you!"

I could tell he was genuinely relieved no one at the day care center that he refused to visit had killed off his only son. "I couldn't have gone with you to drop him off," he told me. "I couldn't leave him there."

As if that makes me some kind of monster for being able to leave my kid there?

"Were you worried about me?" I asked him, thinking he might wonder how my first day went.

"What do you mean?" he asked.

Hmph.

We're still not talking, and he couldn't even put aside our differences for just a little while.

And you know what? I'm not a monster for leaving my kid there. I purposely put on mascara this morning to deter me from being an emotional wreck, and it almost worked.

I just wish someone (like Joe) would say, "You're doing a good job." I didn't think I had it in me, but I did, and I got it done. I just wish someone (like ANYONE) would tell me I can get through this on my own.

Work, work, work

"Take your instinct by the reins.
You're better best to rearrange."

-- Finest Worksong, REM



I have been (kind of) waiting on Joe to initiate talks after our blowout the other day, but nothing. I had (kind of) left it with him, asking him that if he wanted out of all of this, he needed to let me know.

Still nothing.

And today I was using his computer to print out some tax stuff, and I found all kinds of searches he must have done for jobs.

In Florida.



As soon as I saw it, it about knocked the breath out of me. My big plan was to go buy a house and wait for him to come around, after feeling lonely in his house all alone, realizing what a great catch I am, pledging to change because he loved me and couldn't live without me, showing how much he appreciates all the happiness I bring to him. And then we'd live happily ever after with the help of regular, intense therapy.

So much for not being bitter.

Now, I don't know if he's looking for a job. Maybe he's.... looking for a job for someone else? Just curious about the market? After all, he used to live and work there. And he didn't much like it.

But if he is, and I'm not kidding myself too much, it feels like the past year has been one giant huge enormous fraud.

Which I wasn't entirely out of tune with for much of the time. I was just in denial.

He came home from work tonight and watched me make dinner, feed the kids, clear the table, load the dishwasher, clean the kitchen and scrub pans and bottles, do homework, make lunches for tomorrow, pack a day-care bag for Jacob after emblazoning his name on everything, bathe the kids, put them to bed, put them back in bed. He was on the couch watching the Penguins game the ENTIRE TIME. (I know, GO PENS!) So, knowing I'm quite capable of raising these two kids on my own, why does it upset me so much knowing that's a huge possibility?


I'm headed back to work tomorrow. I resisted the urge all day to tell Joe that his baby's nanny was officially off the clock. Because I didn't, I'm now up at midnight with the boy and a bottle while Joe's been asleep for an hour.

But I should be glad I'm going back to work. I'm hearing through the grapevine that a lot of my colleagues in South Florida aren't so lucky to be going in to a job tomorrow. I am thinking of them.