You’re supposed to be out there being cooler than me

and having crazy adventures and making gazpacho and still loving The Cure. We shared “the most delicious tomato” we’d ever had in our lives, then we drove and drove and drove to get to the girl you swore looked just like Sharon Stone when she had her make-up done right. You’re supposed to be out there for me to Google and happily find and surprise you with an invite to Chicago, so we can hug and exclaim, “It’s been so long!” We’re supposed to exchange wild stories about where we’ve been over these many years while my husband cooks dinner. You’re supposed to say, “I can’t believe you two got married!” We’re supposed to drink too much wine after we play with the baby and put him to bed. I’m supposed to pull out a copy of the high school art magazine that published the poem I wrote you so long ago while you say, “No way you still have that?” and I complain about the typo, “It’s supposed to say regal, not real!” and say, “They should have used a picture of you.”  We’re supposed to go out to Boystown and tear the place up. We’re supposed to laugh and laugh and laugh. And I can hardly fathom the supposed to’s you should be having right now with so many other people.

Of course you still are out there, just in a much different way then I imagined. This is my tribute to you.

I am feeling so strange/Dear Charles (mash-up)

I am feeling so strange. Bean needs a crib. He is almost 9 months old and we are getting him a crib for the first time. Why? Because apparently, he doesn’t need to co-sleep anymore.

Bean successfully crawled for the first time the other day, and suddenly he is sleeping through the night, unassisted, in his pack and play. Up until now, he was in the bassinet by our bed, then at 5 months, the pack and play for the first part of the night and the rest with me on the futon in his room starting at 11pm or so. All this time, whether he slept alone or co-slept, he was up between 4-10 times in a 10 hour period. Suddenly, he sleeps. These past four nights, he has not woken to be held, to have me shhhhhh and pat him, to make me bring him to bed so he can beat the crap out of me and nurse in his sleep all night long.

I am relieved, yet alarmed. I know there are so many more “Mom, I’m fine, I’ve got it” moments to come. I am shocked by the suddenness of this one.

So now he needs a crib, one with a proper mattress. A crib so he can more safely sleep, alone, all night, in his own room. I’m speechless. I thought we would co-sleep for years. I lovingly griped about it and was secretly pleased to be so required for his security, even though I sometimes felt I was having the life sucked out of me.

Wow. A crib.

Let’s do a letter.

Dear Charles,

Do you remember me, your imaginary friend, the one with the bad sinuses and a strong dislike of people and mushy Chinese food? We’re old by now, at least you are anyway.  I’m not really sure who we are to each other anymore, but I think it may have something to do with remorse, and maybe one of those parallel worlds you created while turning in circles.

So are you stuck inside a Florida nightmare or did you blow your head off, too? Me? The Navajos are still being taught by New Jerseyites, so I’ve decided to tune on and turn out. I’m gonna shave my head and shove daisies up my nose, dance to the be-bop-kabbalah of Kerouac’s vision and worship Buddha’s brother while I ponder dripping water in its wordless serenity. Blam, blup, slam, plink. Yep, here I am, in all my paranoid glory, and I remember when I felt that because of you, my life didn’t really depend on me. As long as I was with you tragedies passed and I didn’t mind.

Just don’t forget me on your tour of the century; we’ll hide in the dressing room eating e-z cheese and saltines…and if I’m dead (a homeboy said) I’ll still get to you.

P.S. Sometimes I really miss your motorcycle.

I’ll never send this…wait, yes I will

I have just finally realized that I have been waiting for an apology from a man who has no recollection of ever doing anything wrong to me. No recollection of violence, cruel words, of leaving me behind. I’ll never send this, because there really is no point, so I am offering it up to the interweb. Then at least it is out there somewhere, and outside of me.

I did send it after all, actually a much better version of it, and would you like to know what made me change my mind? He said that he was tired of being treated like crap by my sister and me. Isn’t that a hoot? The man talks in circles and makes others feel like they are the ones who have the problem, and he is a victim. This type of manipulation is elevated to an art form by an alcoholic. Make the people around you feel like they are crazy, like they know nothing, like they are histrionic, like they are harming you, and do it by alternating treacly condescension with thunderous indignation.

I just can ‘t take anymore fair-weather phone parenting punctuated with viscious commentary and questions under a guise of concern. I didn’t want Bean to be in the middle of things, to be used by my father as another reason to act victimized (you won’t let me see my grandson, yadda yadda). I should have removed this man from my life so long ago,  but how do you break up with your father? If you do so, do you go to his funeral when he dies? I’m not kidding. What is the acoa protocol here?

——————————————

You think everything is about money, don’t you? Don’t tell me to send you the bill, that’s not the point. We have financial goals to meet and I cannot have this over my head for another 9 years, or even 30 more days, while you consult your legal aid.

You sure have forgotten a whole lot of things haven’t you? Like when we were children, you often acted like you hated us for breathing your air? Then things like this adjudication you put me into when you tried to get out of paying my emergency hospital bill while I was in college. Remember, you attempted to get the billing dept to cash a check you had written ”payment in full” on, instead of simply arranging payments or calling them to get the debt reduced? Everyone remembers this but you! I was a teacher intern (no pay), working and going to school all day and evening, and the only jobs available late at night to young girls where the money is quick enough to say, stave off the judgement for her father trying to scam a hospital billing department in her name, involve doing what? hmm, let me think…I wish that I could so conveniently forget.

You are in deep denial of who you were and how you treated us throughout our lives. No wonder you don’t understand why I get angy or cry so easily when we talk. You truly have no recollection of what you were like. I feel sorry for you. You have missed out on so many things, but you have told yourself that it is because there is something wrong with us, as evidenced by our extremely mixed feelings toward you.

I only tried so hard to connect with you in the last year because I was pregnant, and I thought it would be a real tragedy if you didn’t know your grandson. I was rewarded in my effort with your rudeness when I would call after my doctor’s appts with updates, being ignored for an entire trimester because of you being “busy at work” while you lied about leaving many messages (where? with whom?), and then being told that I looked like a bus when I sent you photos of me. The clincher was when you asked me if I “felt like less of a woman” after I had to have an emergency c-section. Besides, me thinking it would be a real tragedy if you didn’t know your grandson isn’t keeping you up at night, since he is over 6 months old and you haven’t made the two hour flight to see him, after telling me you would in Jan, then in March, then when? Still no plans, not even for quick weekend. Toys and checks are just easier.

Scratch the surface with an incident like today’s and all this rage comes pouring out. It really is a whole lot of effort to try to have a relationship with your daughters, isn’t it? I guess we were just born this way.

From me to me, before my wedding.

Married? You can’t be getting married. How can you be getting married? Wait, okay, are you having one of those commitment ceremony things with that girl with the nose ring that you met at the bookstore? Wait a minute, don’t tell me, DON’T TELL ME. You are going to marry a man. A MAN? What are you thinking? Is he at least at veterinarian or something? What? A Sous Chef? What the hell does that even mean? He cooks under? Under what?! Yeah, that’s useful, I hear they keep horrendous hours and are all alcoholics. Is that why you picked him? So you never have to actually see him during waking hours and you can drink as much as you want without him taking you to AA?

What happened to the vision you had, the one where you said you saw your future? “I see myself living with a woman in a house, I am painting a canvas and she is smiling”. That is what you said, that is WHAT YOU SAID. Marrying an alcoholic chef who cooks with enough butter and cream to kill a goat does not sound like a way to get to the painting and the smiling woman. What about Jewish girls and their bobbed brown curls and fantastic noses? What about soccer chicks? What about your art projects? What about your writing? You won’t be able to do any of those, you know, and you won’t ever be able to do the girls because you’ll be married and you won’t be able to do the projects because he’ll be wanting to have sex with you all the time. They’re like that, you know. It’s relentless with men. They all add up to one big distraction, and not much beyond that. Sure they can be cute and yes they can be sexy and amusing at times, but to MARRY one? You must be kidding me. Why can’t you just enjoy him from a distance?

All I can say is, you better be doing this to have a kid or great health insurance or something, because if it is for lifelong companionship with a like-minded being, you are barking up the wrong damn tree. You’re in the wrong forest. Hey, but if you want to end up like frikkin’ Fred and Ethel, that’s your business. Just don’t send me any of those damn Christmas cards with a picture of you and him and the dogs in front of your gas fireplace. I’ll puke, I swear I will, and then I’ll call you up and tell you about it after I am done.

You cannot tell me that he gets you. He might think he gets you, but you know and I know that he can’t possibly REALLY get you. I mean, c’mon. Why can’t you just have him get you pregnant? Do you really think an ex-husband sounds like a fun person to have in your life? Honestly.

What on earth is that thing on the hanger over there… oh my God you are going to do the big dress thing. The kind with all the floofey crap? Sweet Jesus, don’t tell me you are wearing white. The sky will crack open. Jesusmaryandjoseph. You cannot be serious.