TThe worst thing about getting divorced when you have children is that there is always something in the wrong house. You only realize it five seconds before you need it, and it never ends. It may be the only pen with the correct nib for the task, and no, obviously that other pen with the identical nib will not do because it is the wrong color. Or maybe it’s a charger, without which electricity cannot be connected to any device, or a snake-shaped hair clip that makes sense of the whole outfit. Once, it was a sheet of paper with instructions for a project, which turned out to simply read, “Draw a diagram of the life cycle of a plastic bag,” but only after all the adults in the zip code had converted. themselves from the inside out looking for it. It’s always something tiny, it could be anywhere, unless it’s something huge, and you’re howling around the house, saying, “How can anyone lose a saxophone?”
It’s never about big or small, it’s just about emotions. All the anger, frustration, and sadness a child can feel – this big thing just happened, and life is different and worse now, and they weren’t consulted, and what idiotic thing could a parent decide to do next? – they never seem to say out loud. Instead, they’ll lose their shiny nail polish cap and cry for so long that the next thing you know, you’re going through your ex’s recycling at midnight. The worst moment, which blames me just by writing it, was a lost script for a school play five years ago, resulting in the now 11-year-old being kicked out of The Three Little Pigs. The school was very rigid on this point: I would rather go on stage with two pigs than suffer a performer who could not retain her material.
There is no way to get ahead, because children lose everything, all the time; or isolate yourself from it: you feel bad, because you are right to feel bad, because it is your fault. By “you”, of course, I mean “me”. The other morning, I pedaled so fast to get a school tie in the right place that a speed camera flashed on me. “Say ah!” you are thinking. “Maybe if you want a divorce, you should buy more ties.” We have eight. Somehow, they all ended up at my house. I’m like a tie magnet, my ex a pants magnet, but if you think it works in your favor to be the one with all the things in your house, you’re wrong. There are no winners in the “Where’s my …?” Game.
Take advantage of going back to school after Easter. It is 8.12 a.m. M., Our scheduled dismissal time is 8.15am and my son cannot find his shoes. In about 90 seconds, Mr. Z is trying to convince you to put on a pair of his shoes, which are only one size larger, and no one needs to know (for now) that they were actually inherited by Mr. Z, for whom they were probably handmade in 1935. They are incredibly elegant, in black patent leather with exquisite details, the shoes you would wear to your first dinner after having won a war, flat out. TJ would rather stop going to school, enter adult life without qualifications, and survive on the proceeds of crime, than wear these shoes. I’m truncating myself a bit. It takes her so long to list all the things she would rather do than wear patent leather shoes that it is now 8.19.
My daughter starts crying. She’s incredibly stoic, these days, so bursting into tears is pretty much unheard of. It takes me a while to even make sense of the sound; I’m up, obviously, looking for the shoes, and I fall down, hoping that something terrible has happened, like the rabbit died or she reached in. in a blender.
“I’m going to be late.”
“Oh, don’t worry about it. I’m also going to be late and I’m not worried. “
“We are not the same person.”
She has me there. On paper, I accept that H is his own person, with his own personality. Deep down, I basically think we’re identical, which makes their points of difference (punctuality, hand-eye coordination) completely incomprehensible to me.
His dad has the old shoes and he may meet us on the way, but not the wanted shoes. I point out that you must have them, otherwise I would have them. This sets him off on his annoying business of math, logic, and timing. Good Friday was a holiday, the moon was in Capricorn and the wind speed was 16 mph, so Thursday was the last day for school shoes so they must be in mine. It’s annoying because it’s true: they’re under TJ’s desk, where any idiot could have found them, if he had eyes.
It is 8:23 and we are away from home, at the traffic light. “You are 13 and a half years old!” Exploded. “You have to keep track of your own shoes!” “It’s funny how I’m always 13 when I’m not allowed to do something, and 13 and a half when I should have done something,” he answers calmly. Agh! Another thing about the mathematical-logical calendar. He receives it from his father.
H was on time, by the way. We all arrived on time, with shoes on, and we looked like winners, after all, to the untrained eye.
George is Digismak’s reported cum editor with 13 years of experience in Journalism