I wrote, or started to write, two different posts this past week but before I could finish either one my mind suddenly went blank and I realized that it all sounded forced. I have nothing to say.
Well, actually, I have too much to say but most of the things that are happening right now and my very strong feelings about those things will only be discussed with my closest and most trusted friends. It’s very unlike me to keep mum on a topic that is affecting me so strongly. I’m usually so open. Maybe it’s all just too fresh, too raw. Even for me.
Yesterday the power went out for a few hours. Within minutes, it seemed, my house was an oven. I realized I have no candles and one little flashlight and hoped the power would come back on before it got dark. Tristan was not bothered by any of it for even a moment. I made him a cup of juice with ice and we sat on the front porch listening to the approaching thunderstorm and enjoying the storm-breeze. I started to read a book but found myself stopping every minute or so to swat mosquitoes off of me and my oblivious son. It didn’t take long for the heat to drive everyone out of their houses and soon all my neighbors were hanging out in little clusters, dewy skinned and fanning themselves, the neighborhood children darting noisily around them.
Tristan watched the big boys run and tumble and he yelled toddler-speak at them from the porch, but showed no inclination to join them. He sipped his juice and munched on his crackers until the deep, slow headache that had been building in my brain finally burst into a full blown migraine and we had to go back inside so I could lie down. I stripped Tristan down to his diaper and occasionally rubbed us both down with cool water until the power finally came back on, just as it was starting to get dark.
Kostyantyn has been bugging me to let him come stay for a while so he can visit with Tristan. Or, as he wisely put it, so he can cook and clean for me and take care of baby (Tristan is still a baby in his ever-absent eyes).
Being big and pregnant and thoroughly exhausted it’s very tempting to say yes. Then there’s the money he’ll bring with him. God knows I could use some help if I’m ever going to save enough to get my shit out of storage in NYC (the biggest bill hanging over my head). But then, his presence here will be very inconvenient considering I’ve decided that I don’t want to deal with his stupidities anymore. Hell, I know exactly how it’ll go. He’ll behave himself and I’ll watch my temper as much as I’m able until I find myself having the same conversation for the gazillionth time:
“Rach, you think maybe we could try again to be together?”
“Are you on crack?”
“No, I just wanna be with you. I change!”
“My ass, you change.”
“But Rach!”
“Not a chance in hell, Russkie.”
My verbal spitballs roll off of him like water off a duck’s back. He’s thick-headed and living entirely in his own little world, so there’s no need to candy coat things with this one. He’ll just shrug off my rejection and keep quiet on the subject until I’ve calmed down and almost relaxed back into routine and then he’ll drop it on me again. I can handle that, though.
How can I deny a man the right to see his child? And how, OH HOW, can I deny him the privilege of cleaning my dirty dishes? My glorious, crusty dishes? Men everywhere are dying for the chance to take over my domestic duties, practically ripping each other to shreds to get to my kitchen sink. Surely I should let that coveted boon go to the father of my children.
Oy.
In all seriousness, I do feel lucky sometimes that my ex lives over a thousand miles away, but if he genuinely wants to spend time with Tristan… Well, that little boy deserves all the love and attention he can get.
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