Part of me is a lot more content with this situation. I am far less stressed out about the goings on in Jerry's life. I have allowed myself to detach myself from him. If he's homeless, oh well. He loses his job again? Sucks for him. It's no longer my problem. He is an adult that lives a life completely separate from my own. Mondays are the exception to this. Mondays are the days that Jerry signed up to take Xaiden. Mondays are the days my life comes into contact with this frustrating man.
_
I sat in my idling van, allowing your never-ending string of complaints to fall upon my indifferent ears. You wail about the hours you have to work; you've been scheduled to work on Halloween. I am gripping the steering wheel, more than ready to back out the drive and go home. You continue on, though.
"Everyone with kids is scheduled to work! All these young college kids have the day off, but those of us with families have to work all fucking day." Your jaw muscle twitches in genuine irritation. I know you didn't request it off. You never have requested holidays off. You merely expect your employers to understand you would prefer to not work every single holiday. Though I have explained the issues with that several times over, the logic has refused to sink in.
"You work all day on Halloween? How many people are scheduled?" I realize I'm falling into the trap. Asking questions only ever leads to more complaints. I am curious as to what "all fucking day" currently means to you, though.
"I work from eight in the morning until four."
"You're working twenty hours?!?"
"Four in the evening." I should have known better. Working until four in the evening completely negates many of your complaints. Most kids don't even don their costumes until after four. I'm now entirely convinced your boss was actually trying to help you out by scheduling you in the morning. I myself had expected to be working in the morning on Halloween. I was grateful that my evening would be free. I was far more grateful to find I was not scheduled.
"That sucks." I mutter while trying to physically portray my urge to leave. I square my shoulders and refuse eye contact. I really don't give a shit that you have to work. You should be ecstatic you finally found a job after so many months of searching. We both know how much my opinion matters to you, though. I will continue to keep my mouth shut on the issue.
"If you would like to go out with us, let me know." This evokes a string of half-assed excuses. At least you continue to fill my expectations for you; lies, excuses, evasion, and complaints.
You finally slide out the side of the van, say your goodbye, and slam the sliding door into place. Our son's wails accost my ears as you trudge your way back up to the house you're currently residing in. I am completely baffled that Xaiden inherently knows you are his father. Maybe those first few months when we all lived together made a difference. Perhaps infants have a sort of imprinting mechanism. You certainly aren't around him enough now. Sometimes I'm confused as to whether or not you're his father.
As I drive home, I realize something. It will never change. I feel as if I've just released a gush of breath I've been holding for months. While part of me knew, the epiphany leaves me slightly dizzy. You will never be able to take him for more than a day or two at a time. How could you? You will always work weird hours or have multiple jobs. I don't think you'll ever have a reliable car or a home to yourself. While I'm a bit vexed, I'm handling this realization better than I would have expected. I'm not anxious or angry. I'm a bit sad, and perhaps slightly overwhelmed. Nothing has changed for me, though. I've been living well, and happily, up to this point. Though I occasionally feel as if my busy schedule is suffocating me, I can handle it. I'll just keep doing it without you.
Halloween comes and goes amidst the blurred activities of an excessively busy week. Several days pass before you are scheduled to watch Xaiden again. You mention your desire to receive Halloween photos. I absently nod and return my attention to the text message I was composing. Sometimes I hate that you linger around the van attempting to chat for so long when I pick Xaiden up. More words fall from your lips in these eight irritating minutes than in the last three months of our relationship. I cannot imagine myself not being ruffled by this.
"See you next Monday!" I chime sweetly as you begin to meander into a new topic. Xaiden cries again after you back out of my van. It still bewilders me. So odd that he just knows.
Another seven days blur together and I am back in that damn driveway again.
"You haven't sent me pictures yet." You're whining again. No wonder I was so fucking depressed. Who the hell can tolerate such a devoted pessimist on an everyday basis?
"Sorry." I'm not sorry. Telling him won't help, though. I want to explain to him that the few pictures that I took before we went trick-or-treating can be found on Facebook. I also want to shake him and scream in his face. In my head, I tell him how I really feel.
"You want pictures? Maybe next year you should come out with us. Maybe, if you want so many god damn pictures all the time, you should put in some effort. I am not here to record your years of fatherhood for you. You're so full of excuses! What were they this time? You worked until four? We didn't go out until five. You had to spend time with your oldest son? It is perfectly acceptable to have two of your children in your presence at the same time. Neither of them will shrivel up and die because your attention is divided. At least you would have been there!"
I would never do that. I tried to force my point of view upon you before. You respond like a teenager. You just become more obstinate which causes the situation to worsen. Instead, I tell you I'll send them.
It may be spiteful of me, and I'm probably setting a terrible example. I really don't think you've earned the right to see the photos, though. Perhaps if you had at least sent me a text inquiring about how our evening went. You never ask, and you never will. I am the one putting effort into these special moments. They are my moments. I have nourished and choreographed them. I do not want to share the joy that is solely mine. I do not want you sharing the pictures I took as if they were your own. That is not fair to me. It is most certainly not fair to our son.
You're never getting those photos.
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