We told the kids this morning. Sitting in the big bed together. They seemed nervous and giggly, not knowing what to expect, but understanding that we obviously had something big we were trying to say.
Neither one of us could even get started. Where do you fucking start?
"Can I stay with Mommy?" he asked. She'll be all alone. Maybe one of the dogs should stay with her, he suggested. She'll be lonely without us.
And I was just so crushed. Like my insides were seared with acid. And I was so proud. Of his loyalty. Of his compassion. Of his sense of family and love and caring.
And then we go into the hows and whys of it, the trying to explain that we would all be happier one day, that we really were trying to make the best decision for all of us, that we were trying to think about what was right, what was best...and all they could say was that, obviously, Mama, this wasn't the best decision, this didn't feel right, and no one was happy, so how did this make sense to anyone?
And how do you argue with that?
And how do you argue with that?
I was sitting right next to her, arm against arm, trying to put on a united front, trying to show them we were in this together, trying to show them that nothing had changed, but I was just so fucking angry inside, biting my lip, and just so infuriated that I was even having to search for the right words to explain to our children why their family was falling apart. That I was even being put in this position. That this was the only possible solution at this point. That it had to fucking come to this.
I couldn't believe half the things that were coming out of my mouth. How was I going to convince them of any of it?
And as their sobs and heaves began to subside, and they curled up into little balls on our laps, and we rocked them and stroked their hair and scratched their backs, and promised them the earth, moon, and stars, the flood of questions came...
When do we leave? Is it tomorrow? When do we have to start packing? Can we not pack today? Can we spend as much time as we can with Mommy? Why can't we just move next door? Do we still get the rest of our summer break? Are we still going on vacation? Are we going to Adam's pool party? Are we still going to be here for Mommy's birthday? Are we still going to go see Harry Potter on opening day together?
Followed pretty quickly by "Can we just stop talking about it now?"
Such his Mommy's mini-me.
And then this evening, all tuckered out after a long hot day in the pool, she comes up to tell me that he can't sleep and he's upset and that I should probably come down for this.
So I get down to his room and crawl up into his top bunk along with he and Amy, who are already tucked under the blanket and all wrapped arm in arm, and am thinking at least twice that this little bed is soooo not gonna hold us, even despite our break-up pounds lost, when the emotional terrorism begins.
And we spent another half hour or so trying to reassure him that the world still sits on its axis, that it still revolves around the sun. We try to reassert our position from earlier today, try to maintain our parental status, and try to comfort and reassure and support as best as we possibly can.
But I got my fifteenth fucking call/text/email asking if I'm okay and what the plan is, what the plan is, what the plan is. Yes, I get it. There should be a plan. But you know what, there's not. There's fucking not, and I don't really know what else to say to say about that except to say fuck off.
There is no plan. Don't you get that? This...THIS...this is not the plan. The plan does not include separating from the woman I thought I'd spend the rest of my dying days with. The plan does not involve walking away from the person I've loved, and worshipped, and adored, for every last moment of the last 11 1/2 years. The plan does not involve two households, shared custody, visitation, and extended family.
I don't know what this is. I don't. I don't have any idea where this fits in. But let me just assure you, in case there was any question, that this, people, this is NOT the fucking plan!!!