The Bitch that Breeds and Bites

He said, “I’m sorry those kids decorated the Christmas tree without you.”

He didn’t say
“I’m sorry I don’t care to know you well enough to think you might want to participate in this.”
“I’m sorry I assumed you wouldn’t care.”
“I’m sorry I didn’t think to even communicate this event.”
“I’m sorry I hurt your feelings.”
“I’m sorry I don’t know you.”

I’d like to believe this is what he meant, but can’t be sure, just making light of it. I’m not sure he understands that he was making light of it, denying himself the realness of the folly.

I try to imagine it was a purposeful slight, or that I am just not trying hard enough to understand his unspoken languages, but have given up thinking anything more ripples under the surface. This is painful to think. I am horrible.

I am the tempest that happened to him. A lust so obsessed with consuming him I didn’t check to see if he was fully awake (could’ve I even handled such a mate then). I am the monster that ten years ago ate the man that sheltered her from emotions too big to comprehend, and again the fiend that spit him out. I am the bitch that breeds and bites. So far from loyalty. I am my own wretched reality tv show.

“Mama, we saved the birds for you to hang on the tree. We know they are your favorite.”

Humping

Bugs, Fried in Thailand Was going to let our seven year old continue to think “humping” was putting your butt on someone else’s head, until he announced to our neighbor he’d humped his sister “lots of times.”

He was so embarrassed when I told him that teenagers sometimes referred to mating as “humping” … at least they did in my day… and it occurs to me, the kid probably has no idea what “having sex” means, since we always use the term “mate” (thanks Discovery channel.) With the way kids whisper it to one another, like it’s dirty and gross, if he’s heard it, he probably thinks it’s some kind of icky dessert grown-ups eat in secret, made with bug larva.

Thank You For Being Alive, Mother Fucker

My husband went for a guy’s weekend with his friends, they take a trip together every year. It gets increasingly more complicated for them to get together as they build careers and make families. I mostly give him my blessing, it’s important for men to keep their male friends after they get married. I read a paper about this once, how men drop their friends after marriage but women don’t, anyway, I think it’s important to have a support group outside of your marriage, friendships that don’t depend on so many details…

A few of these trips have been bachelor parties, which of course, is unnerving, but manageable.  I have to trust that as long as my husband plays by the house rules and doesn’t do something he will regret for the rest of his life, these things aren’t anything to worry about.  I did NOT feel this way about bachelor parties when I was pregnant and nursing, back then, they were most definitely off limits. You can blame it on the hormones of pregnancy if you like, but it doesn’t invalidate the way I felt.  That’s the funny thing about marriage, as it matures, as the hormones and feelings work it out, the house rules change, if just a little.

Our calendar says that my husband’s flight home was last night, I remember him telling me he’d be home in time to help take the children to school in the morning, but… he wasn’t. I called his phone but there was no answer. I had to decide between denial, worry, or anger to get me through this morning. I chose the first as my exterior expression while the other two ran through my mind in the background, setting fire to every senario. I rented a car to try delivering both children on-time to their schools (which are across the city from each other, and start within 15 minutes of one another.) This is so much easier when my husband is home, weekday mornings don’t work well without him.

On the way to the car I found a four leaf clover, a common mutation I am told, not that lucky at all, but I held onto it for a while, just in case. I opened the door to the rental car and the alarm went off. The car wouldn’t start. While the rental company tries to fix it, it becomes apparent we’re going to be late for at least one child’s school. We leave the car broken and beeping, I left the four leaf clover in the front seat, it was an accident, I considered retrieving it, but left it, telling myself it meant something to find luck and leave it in a stalled car. One child made it to school on time, one child stayed home with me. The fires of worry and anger in my mind are too mentally exhausting to withstand the bus trip and necessary school office interactions to sign the kid in as tardy. I’ve already pictured every ditch my husband’s body might be found in, there is no way I could walk into that school office alone without the weight of thinking I might always be alone bearing down on me.

After 8 hours of wondering what happened and twice as many connections to his voice mail, Mr. Pierce picks up the phone, relief washes over me. “Where are you?” I ask. “Venice Beach.” he says. “I thought you had a flight home yesterday.” I say. “It’s tonight.” he mumbles. “That’s not what you told me and that’s not what’s on the calendar.” I say. “Well, it’s tonight.” he says. “Thanks for being alive, mother fucker.” I growl in anger before hanging up the phone.

Somewhere in Venice Beach is a man half awake, probably hung over after a long weekend with his best guy friends, the ones he hardly ever gets to see. In his fog he’s probably wondering what he did to deserve such a pleasant 6am wake up call, he’s probably wondering if the house rules changed while he was snoring. But if he’s smart he’ll realize love is an unfeeling bitch at the other end of the telephone line, a really… lucky… bitch.