We made it to MILs without incident. Unless you count the moment where I just about careened off into a ditch reading the 2 signs that a POed farmer put in his field. Hand painted and huge.Sign #1: Hell is for deadbeat moms
Sign #2: Deadbeat moms get fat off child support
Yeesh. Somebody get screwed or what? And what, exactly, defines a deadbeat mom? He’s clearly mad about having to pay too much child support. For his child, right, or he wouldn’t be paying it. Okay. And he’s paying it to his “deadbeat” wife (who also, apparently, has a Nutty Bar problem since she too has a weight problem). To raise said child. Now, the last I checked, the definition of “Deadbeat Dad” was the dad who didn’t pay child support, job hopped so the state couldn’t collect and is never involved in the raising of the child. So how is this mom a deadbeat exactly? By collecting money that this dude didn’t want to pay? By raising his kid (s)? While he has time to paint and erect 2 giant signs in his cornfield?
Or maybe I’m thinking too much about this.
I packed poorly for the trip. I always do that. The kids are packed to the hilt and I’m not sure I brought a clean bra. I also forgot to pack the Lexapro and the xanax. I said something to MIL about it and she opened up her bottom drawer and said “Oh, honey, take what you need.” It was an arsenal (I wish I was kidding) of meds. Samples, I suppose, from the internist she works for/with. But there were probably 10 weeks worth of Lexapro and I helped myself. The xanax I don’t really need and haven’t needed in a while but it would be nice, in these stressful times, to have it as an option.
When I got to town, I asked stepFIL if I could go and get supper. Oh, no, he says, MIL is picking it up on her way home from work. She comes home with KFC. Perfect. I saddle up the kidlets and let the chicken do the talking. But wait!! She can’t eat “fake” potatoes. So she peels, cooks and mashes potatoes. And makes a bunch of corn. And heats up more biscuits. Oh, and we ate on real plates. If it were me….I’d let the KFC do the cooking and eat on paper plates and save myself the trouble. Because, honestly, they’re kids and I don’t care one bit. I think I’m going to get her an “easy” button for her birthday.
We’re not even going to discuss the doberman.
It’s hard being here. She never mentions him. Ever. And that’s strange to me. But beyond that, which I expected, I was all twitchy coming into town. This is his town. He drove these roads, played in these woods, went to that school, ate at that Sonic, shopped at that store. This isn’t about me or even about us. This place, this highway is all about him. And I remember the first time he brought me here. How we drove and drove around this little town with him pointing out the route that he and his brother walked to school and the movie theater that was his first job and on and on.
It makes me angry. (here we go) I feel like I got dealt a crappy hand. We didn’t get enough time. 7 years was not enough. We were friends for a year, dated for a year and married for 5 1/2. That’s not enough. I want more. I desparately want more history with him. I wish I could have known him in high school or even college. I want more time. And since, logically, I can’t have more future time with him all I can hope for is past time. I have photos, journals, homework papers, yearbooks, clothing, scrapbooks, fraternity garb, nametags and work uniforms. But I still didn’t know him then. I can piece it together and I can wish that we had been friends way back when. But I don’t have it.
And I want it. And now I’m angry. I want to stomp and cry and whine like a tired and hungry toddler. Somebody, please, send me to my room.