Fourth and Last...For Now!

Since the ex and Cupcake left a couple of weeks ago for Iraq by way of Texas (I wanted to give him a shirt with a bull’s-eye printed on it as a going away present…AND I hope it's absolutely *blistering* hot and humid there in the Lone Star state for him!), he celebrated the twins’ birthday early, on the last Saturday in June. They had a little family party at his parents’ place, and his mom and dad heated up the pool for the occasion so whoever wanted to could go swimming.

Well, Mychael has grown a lot – and I mean *a lot* - since last summer. About six inches and 20 lbs bigger, to be precise. So, none of her swimming suits from last year fit her. I get home Saturday morning from taking the car to get the tires balanced (woot!) and she meets me at the door.

“Mom,” Mychael says, “I don’t have any swimsuits that fit and Dad is mad at me because now I can’t go swimming at Grandma’s!”

I am immediately torque’d. He has plenty of time to drag them off to Disney World and Park City and Yellowstone and all sorts of other “fun” things the Disneyland Dad and his Cupcake can think up, but he doesn’t have time to get his daughter a freaking swimsuit? So I say to Mychael, “Well, HE is taking you swimming to HIS mom’s house, so why didn’t you tell HIM to buy you one?”

Her response?

“I did, and he got mad at me, and told me to tell you to do it.”

I am not about to put Mykie in the middle of it. I ask a few more questions, and contemplated calling him back and letting the totallity of my wrath rain hellfire down upon him, but Mychael said he was at work and so he couldn’t do it, anyway – he wasn’t even coming to get them until after 5:30 that night because he didn’t think he could get out of the building until then.

So, once again, he weasels out of something and leaves me to clean up the mess (I gotta work on this bitterness thing - it is soooo not becoming!). I can’t let Mykie miss her own birthday swimming party due to lack of a suit, so I pack her and Bretten up and we head out. All the while, I am muttering under my breath about what a tool their father is, and Bretten immediately says to me, “He couldn’t go get it, Mom – he has to work today!” That was a match to the gas leak, right there.

“No,” I say, “he chose to work today!”

Ever the stout little defender, Bretten pipes up and says, “He has 250 guys there and they’re getting ready to go to Iraq so he HAS to be there!”

There was lots more going back-and-forth, but I will spare you the bloody details and skip to where I said, “Bretten, he did, too, choose it. He doesn’t *have* to put the Army before his family. He doesn’t even *have* to be IN the Army. He chooses to. Besides, that only accounts for today. What about the trip to Yellowstone? He knew she didn’t have a bathing suit then – surely he could’ve stopped somewhere on the way there or back, right?”

Stumped, Bretten reverts to yelling. “NEVERMIND!!” she shouts, and stomps off, arms folded across her chest and flaming daggers shooting at me from where her eyes used to be.

Well, it's a few minutes further on into the bathing suit shopping, and I am still kind of steaming. I finally just said, “I am just going to say one more thing on this, and then I’ll let it go: I want you to pay attention to who changed her plans, who came to the rescue here, and who just drops in every once in awhile to play ‘Good Time Charlie.’ And I’d like to know why, when I am not the one who left my family, and I am not the one who chose to put my career ahead of them, why I always end up being treated like the bad guy, like I am the enemy.”

Bretten, who had been muttering under her breath (nothing flattering, I’m sure) said out loud, “I don’t treat you like the enemy.”

Well, if how she treats me means she considers me a friend, I’d hate to see how she really DOES treat an enemy, then!!

I have to say that this was all a couple of weeks ago, and she has been much better since then, for the most part. It is Mychael who is giving me fits lately. I think I will finally have to break down and cart us all off to a divorce support group. I thought we were doing OK on our own, with periodic visits to the headshrinker, but there is just too much "snippiness" going back and forth between them and whoever else they think they can get away with being rude to, including me, on occasion. So I'm guessing there's an awful lot of suppressed anger there, that has to find a more productive, healthy way out.

OK, I'm done bitching. For now. :)