The other evening we’d finally duct-taped both girls into their beds and padlocked their door.  We thought it’d be safe to watch a movie that wasn’t produced/funded/directed by Mickey Mouse, Inc.  Since I hadn’t heard a ‘thunk’ or a ‘MOMMMMAAAAAA’ in at least 15 minutes I thought the coast was clear for making some adult-only popcorn. 

I drizzled a pound of butter on top and ventured to the living room with drinks and napkins. 

Ahhhhhhh, this is living.

During the previews my mom-sonar picked up some small noises on the stairs.  We muted the DVD, listened for a bit, but heard nothing.  We proceeded to watch, eat and drink.  (ahhhhhh)

About 15 minutes later my husband goes into the kitchen for a refill and notices a line of coins on the floor leading from the kitchen to the living room.

“Honey!??!  Did you drop some money on the floor?”

He knows full well I never have a dime to my name.

“No, what are you talking about?”

The movie is paused once again.

I join him and we both follow a line of coins from the living room to the stairs. 

On the stairs there’s a note:

I’ve been counting down the days until my son gets on that plane to Paris for college.  Let’s see…9 days and 14 hours.   I’m not ‘happily’ counting.  It’s something more akin to dread. 

I envy those parents who can drive their kids to college, keep them on the cell phone plan, get them lots of neat stuff to decorate their dorm rooms, and then gripe about the visits home accompanied by 18 loads of laundry. 

In the last two years my son just learned how to pump gas, drive a car and flush the toilet;  Is he really ready to live on his own in a foreign country?? 

Heck, he still says ‘Valen-times’ instead of ‘Valentine’.  He doesn’t know how to separate the darks from the lights.  He has a moldy towel collection that rivals many a junior high gymnasium.

Unfortunately I cannot kvetch loudly enough to stop time.  My little boy is now an adult, even if I’ve fought it with every inch of my being. 

Maybe I’ll start a memorial mildew pile in his honor.

I was putting in a load of the boys’ laundry last Saturday and couldn’t find the black soccer socks that Ryan had worn to practice in the morning. I knew he didn’t have them on his feet anymore because the last I’d seen of him, he’d been wearing flip flops. I really wanted to get those socks into this load of laundry, as they are the easiest of his soccer socks to get on and off and also because socks lying around in secret hiding places to be found weeks later is a large obsessive compulsive pet peeve of mine.

“Ryan?”

No response.

“RYAN!”

Sound of TV coming from den.

“RYAN!!!!”

“WHAT?!”

“Where are your socks?”

“Why do I have to wear socks?”

“No, you don’t have to wear them, I’m just looking for them.”

“Oh. I keep my socks in my drawer.”

Sigh.

“No Ryan. The socks you wore to soccer practice this morning. The black ones. Where are they?”

“I don’t know.”

SIGH.

“Ryan, think. What did you do with your socks after you got home from practice?”

No response.

“RYAN! WHAT DID YOU DO WITH YOUR SOCKS AFTER YOU GOT HOME FROM PRACTICE?”

“I took them off,” is the final response from Professor Obvious as he heads out the door to play.

Never mind.

The kid wasn’t completely unhelpful, however. I was able to locate the sweat drenched items a few minutes later. In the drawer, right where he said they were.

Lovely.

They say that as you have more children you become more immune to the gross realities of parenting.  After a few visits to the hospital, and some kissed boo-boos, us moms are prepped and READY! 

Right?

My first child, being a boy, who inherited my lack-of-grace and his father’s lack-of-fear, should’ve prepped me well.  Oh, he did.  He had a reserved bed in the ER and has a story of scars from head to toe.  (I have a pile of empty hair dye boxes and bottles of wine to show as my scars.)

So, fast-forward to the 3rd child, 13 years younger than her big, injured bro.  She’s lost two teeth so far but thankfully swallowed both of them.  The third ’toof’ came out last weekend.  Oh wait, it didn’t just come out….picture a 5-year-old, hands covered in blood, twisting the tooth round and round and round until her mother, that same mom who held a sobbing son while x-rays were taken, passed out.  Well, I didn’t hit the floor but I tasted copper and saw black spots. 

I hope none of my grandchildren injure themselves.

Life is what you make it.  I have always believed that.  I still believe that.  I’m just not sure what to make of the new direction my life has been forced into.  In just over a year I will reach the golden age of 50.  As little as 5 weeks ago that was a source for excitement for me.  Now… not so much.

In just over a year I shall be dealing with being a single parent and divorcee at the age of 50.

My husband of 25 years is in love with someone else, his childhood sweetheart.  Under normal circumstances that might be considered romantic but these are not normal circumstances.  They are both still married to the spouses they chose after breaking up a quarter of a century ago. They reconnected late last year and realized that they still loved each other.  They have decided to wait until the last of their school aged children have graduated (how considerate!) before getting their divorces.  Then they will be free to live happily ever after.

I think I’m going to puke!

Actually I’ve been very civil about it all, maybe even too civil.  I haven’t requested that my husband vacate the premises and have even let him keep the master bedroom while I’ve moved downstairs to a mattress on the floor.  My future-ex and I actually have a better relationship now than we have had in years.  I could have lived happily ever after like this… except he’s in love with her.  And he has it bad.  It’s the starry eyed, day-dreaming, waiting-for-the-next-text-message-then-pouncing-on-the-cell-phone-to-read-it kind of love, and I wonder… did he ever love me like that, or has he always been in love with her?

I feel like cake.

You know that old saying ‘You can’t have your cake and eat it too.’  Well, that isn’t always true.  All this time I thought I was the only cake in his life.  I let him eat through the frosting, revealing everything underneath… the good, the bad and the ugly.  He’s seen me at my best and my worst.  For 25 years I have followed him and let him take from me what he wanted.

Until now, when I’m just a pile of crumbs on a plate and he’s got his eye on a new cake… elegantly frosted with memories of the past and promises for the future.  He doesn’t know what’s under the frosting, he only knows what she tells him but he doesn’t care.  She represents a time in his life when he was most happy and he wants it back while he’s still young enough to enjoy it.

People remark on how well I am taking this.  They think I am ‘graceful’ in my acceptance.  Not at all.  I just don’t want my kids to get stuck in the middle of an ugly battle that they don’t deserve to be a part of.  I don’t want them to feel they have to choose sides.  This one is between him and I.

I thought my marriage was a fairy tale marriage and he was my Prince Charming… my knight in shining armor.  I thought my life would end ‘happily ever after’.  Now I find myself searching for a genie in a lamp so I can have a wish… I don’t need 3, 1 will do.  And when I find that damn genie there will be two new bullfrogs down at the pond!

In the mean time I’m just plugging along, enjoying the benefits of his guilt.  (He is very generous when he’s feeling guilty.) I’m trying very hard to hate him. I know I should and I have every reason to, but the truth is that I still love the guy.  I always have and probably always will (even when he’s just a fat bull frog catching flies at the pond with his fat amphibious childhood sweetheart).  I’m not too worried about the kids.  My youngest, who is 14, actually seemed relieved when she heard about the pending divorce.  Ironically it was my oldest, my 24 year old son who recently got out of the military after 2 tours in Iraq, who has taken this the hardest.  The others are more interested in what’s for supper than what’s going on between my husband and me, and that’s fine with me.

I just really resent that he’s eaten clear through my frosting and left me with just crumbs to get through the rest of my life while he gets to enjoy ‘her’ frosting which has been solidly intact all these years.  Of course they won’t have children to clean up after.  They won’t have to make financial sacrifices to pay for band uniforms or field trips.  They won’t have to deal with fatigue at the end of the day that leads to endless sexless nights.  That will all be behind them.  Heck, if I didn’t have to deal with all that I’d be one heck of a fully frosted 3 layer cake… complete with roses and candles!

I hope when he finally bites into it he finds that her cake isn’t that great after all… that she’s bland and tasteless or heavy and  maybe too sweet.  Or better yet… moldy!  And perhaps he was better off with me and my crumbs. 

As for me… I’ve lost my taste for cake.  I’m actually enjoying the attention I’m getting from the kids who are busy making plans on how they are going to take care of their mother.  I don’t need help taking care of myself at this point, but it sure is nice to know I’m loved and wanted.  One day the kids will get to take turns changing my Depends, but for now I think I’m going to focus on enjoying being single again.

And I continue my search for Aladdin’s lamp.  I know that genie is out there somewhere, and when I find it, there will be two new bullfrogs at the pond down the way.  I hope they like cake.