Sunday afternoons are the day that the kids' dad has visitation with them. He's always off work and comes to see them at his folks' house. (He's not doing well enough to take them to wherever he's living now.)
Here's an interesting nugget of fact: I'm living four houses down from the kids' dad's parents. In a house that they own. In the house that my husband and I and the kids occupied before we left. They are my landlords and back up baby sitters, free of charge. I wouldn't be able to have the job I do without them. And I think I'm working for a good company, so I want to see where this goes. But I hate the fact that they were cool with us living in a shelter for six months and only are renting this place to us now because it became apparent that not only was the kids' dad not going to get custody of them, but that he might also not be allowed to see them much anymore.
So, being that I'm in the unique position of having people who enable and fully support my (redacted) soon to be ex-husband, parts of this will necessarily be redacted because I think it is easy to find this blog and also connect it to me.
So, today is dang Daylight Savings Time. I loathe Daylight Savings Time. I do not need time to play little tricks on me and switch hours and then make me guess for awhile afterwards what the crap time it is based on the light outside or the clocks I may or may not have switched and the ones that switch themselves. Useless. Daylight Savings Time is just useless. I wrote to the president about getting rid of it but I never heard anything back.
Anyhoo, on the Spring Forward Daylight Savings Day, I refuse to do anything. I do not like waking up and finding an hour missing. I don't need to be that rushed. So, I decided to take things easy and not worry even about cleaning up because in the afternoon, I'd be without the kids for several hours while they went to their grandparents to see their dad. We watched some Nick Jr. on DVD and ate popcorn and I uploaded ancient CDs I found in a book in the garage to my computer. It was a nice day.
The kids wanted to go to the park and I would've taken them but usually their dad comes around 12:30 for them. I fed them lunch and after lunch, two of them are ready for naps. But I didn't want to put them down and immediately wake them back up, so I kept them up. We were really just hanging out at the house together. In limbo, waiting for the call that their dad had arrived. I decided that I would vacuum and then fold that dang new mountain of clean laundry while watching a movie. (A grown up movie.) (OK, not that kind of grown up movie.) This sounded to me as indulgent as like...a spa day and then sailing on a yacht with Fabio (who isn't even attractive to me but seems to be a symbol of luxuriousness.) and I was looking forward to it. I was also looking forward to missing the kids and being extra excited when they came back to me. (Instead of mentally strategizing my days around where they'll be and feeling obligated to maximize my accomplishments when they're not around.)
Imagine my surprise when it got to be 1:30 and I hadn't heard from the kids' dad or grandparents. OK, not surprise. It was more like a clenching feeling in my stomach of "Oh, hey, that's how that's going down." Goodbye clean house. Goodbye movie watching. (Well, movies that don't star Dora the Explorer or CGI animation.)
And it pisses me off too, because their dad skipped out on his last visit with them. With no explanation. Didn't even bother to call and say he wasn't coming. It's not like I get that many breaks...because the kids don't go to his house so they have to be watched by their dad whose parents are watching him. This requires a commitment of time and a synchronization of schedules that makes things difficult. Also, their dad is a (redacted) who (redacted) when (redacted).
And, no, it's not that it makes things difficult, it's more that he's just a (redacted) because I know if it was me, every second that I got with my kids, I would be there. I would try to get more. I'd come early and stay late. It is totally alien to me that the other half of these awesome kids' parents doesn't share the same enthusiasm for them.
Or maybe he's just (redacted).
Ugh. Anyway, so Sam calls his grandfather because he's getting antsy about going down there. Also, he really wants to go to the park. He figures if they're not going over there, I will take him and if they are then he can get them to take him. His grandfather doesn't answer. I shrug and decide to plan on having the kids.
Sam goes outside to feed the dog and then comes back to the house to announce that he saved a turtle's life who was being kicked around by the dog. He watched Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles within the past week, so I'm hoping this has something to do with his proclamation. I peer out from the back porch and see a very large turtle shell. (Or tortoise. I have no idea.) I lean over and see the turtle, his head and legs sucked back as far as possible into the shell, glaring at me. I have no idea if this is a box turtle or snapping turtle that is preparing to tear off our fingers. (Although I'm hopeful it's a box turtle since Sam still has all his fingers intact after getting it away from the dog.) (That's another one of those things about being "on the spectrum". In instances where kids would normally run and get their parents, Sam tries to handle things himself. Often ending in disaster. OK, that's dramatic. Often ending in minor injuries and major messes.) We slice some apples for the turtle.
I put the girls down for a nap and go to take a bath. (I kind of thought I'd get to catch a nap while the kids were gone. (Ha! Dreams.) Taking a bath is kind of like that. While I'm in the bath, Sam bursts in and says he wants to keep the turtle as a pet. I remind him that I signed a piece of paper saying that the only pet we'd have at this house was his dog. This was the most unfortunate turn the conversation could have taken.
You see, Sam is an argumentative young thing. When you say something he doesn't like, his mind immediately crafts the highest quality arguments to oppose it. And when his mind was desperately trying to procure permission to keep the turtle for the pet, he remembered something that had (mysteriously! but luckily.) been missing from his memory for months.
His pet fish.
His dad had purchased a pet fish for Sam. I don't know why or when. I was introduced to it at one point when I brought the kids over for a visit. It seemed like a pretty labor-intensive pet for a guy who never once cleaned his showers or toilets in the 18 months he lived without me. (He probably is still currently not cleaning them, but I never have to see that place.) But, miraculously, whenever I'd come by the fish would still be there and it seemed that the necessities for fish care were all around. Some sort of liquid drops. A shaker of food. A net.
But when the kids' dad's folks asked him to move out of the house so the kids and I could move back in...well, I'm not quite sure exactly what happened. I know that he took a couple pieces of furniture and split. And still didn't clean the damn shower or toilets or really anything. And the night we moved back in, I was unpacking dishes in the kitchen and looked up and saw the fish. It kind of broke my heart, even though I don't like fish.
Its bowl was up on the pass-through between the kitchen and the living room, so the whole bowl was illuminated by the living room light. I could see that the water in the bowl was noticeably murky. But there, at the top of the water, was the little beta fish, rolled on its side. Probably trying to get to something that was not filthy, it had died. And, again, I don't care for fish but I burst into tears. The kids' grandfather took the bowl and got rid of it. I don't know what he did with it. He asked me if I wanted the bowl or rocks back and I choked that I wanted to forget that the whole thing had ever happened.
So, for the first couple weeks that we were at the house, my mind spun wildly thinking about what I would do if Sam asked me about his pet fish. If he asked me where it was, I couldn't say I didn't know, because I did know and that would be a lie. And I try to not lie except for when it comes to like...good surprises and such. (Like birthday presents.) But he never ever asked about it. It was like our household was a completely different entity inhabiting this space and the things that existed in it before were forgotten.
But today, while he was trying to reason why he should get to keep a possible snapping turtle hungry for fingers as a pet, he remembered his fish. And he stopped himself, halfway through his sentence. "But I have a-hey, what happened to my fish?"
Unfortunate for (selfish) me, his question wasn't phrased in a way that I could side step it. I took a deep breath for composure's sake. I looked at him. I took another deep breath. I realized that if I kept taking deep breaths that he was going to figure it out anyway and probably be mad at me for making him guess. So, I told him.
"It died."
"When?" he said, concerned.
"Before we moved back in here."
Sam's a smart kid and he knew that if it had died before we took possession of the house that it was probably because his dad had quit taking care of it.
He burst into loud tears, pressing his fists into his eyes. I apologized to him. He yelled that his dad had killed his fish. I told him that I didn't know what had happened to it but that I doubted that his dad had meant to hurt it. But Sam is nine years old and he knows...how his dad is. He sobbed that the last time he'd seen his fish, its water had been really dirty and that his dad had said he'd take care of it.
And just like the visits he's been missing and the stuff he's promised to take him to do...Sam knew he'd been lied to. I was so angry that I had to be the one to put that pain on him...and that I made him vulnerable to a person (his dad!) who would do that to him.
I decided that we were going to have a good day, in spite of everything. I sat with Sam for a long time, letting him talk about his feelings. He asked me about my pets who had died and I told him about them all...and told him about them honestly...including my beloved childhood dog who passed away during a five year period that my father and I didn't speak.
I think it was one of those bittersweet growing up moments. I hope. There's so much damage control for me to do.
This was when the kids' dad's mom started texting me. Apparently, the kids' grandfather had decided to go look for the kids' dad. She said something about him not having a phone (Which is crap, we share a family plan...a bill that he consistently pays two weeks late. It takes quite a man to strong arm the single mom raising his kids into paying his half of the phone bill so her cell phone doesn't get shut off.) I asked her if she knew why he'd missed Tuesday's visit. She said it was between us. I said that it was actually between him and the kids and that they were wondering why he's not coming to see them and that if she knew, she'd be doing them a kindness to clue them in and set a realistic expectation for their relationship with their dad.
No answer.
He never did come.
So, I decided that we were going to plant some seeds outside. Lola slept through the whole thing, but Sam, Abbey and Emma Joan got to get dirty (and then muddy, once they watered the seeds.) We planted tomatoes, green beans, basil, dill, oregano, sage, lavender and strawberries. The kids had a blast and I took lots of pictures. New Baby looked like she liked feeling the breeze between her toes.
After that, we came inside and the kids watched Shrek while I made spaghetti and meatballs (from scratch!) for dinner. (I rock.) The kids' grandmother texted to say that she'd like to bring Abbey's surgery present over for her. I told her to go ahead and come. (Mostly because we were in the middle of eating spaghetti and meatballs and I thought that their triple spaghetti sauce beards would hasten her departure.)
She shows up with a balloon flower for Abbey which, of course, immediately brings Lola to tears because Abbey won't share it. Abbey also got a Dora microphone and some sort of purple haired doll on top of a sparkly purple horse. I haven't told Abbey explicitly that she's having surgery tomorrow. I don't think there's a way to put it to her that won't cause her unnecessary alarm. I just told her that we're going to the doctor tomorrow, just me and her and she can't eat until we leave the doctor. But Sam and Gracie (the daughter of one of the kids' dad's siblings, who the grandparents are raising) start smugly announcing that the only reason Abbey is getting a present is because she is going to have surgery tomorrow. "And it's gonna hurt!"
In order to "make things fair" for the other kids, the kids' grandmother has brought over presents for everyone. She tells me they're bubbles. Neat. My kids like bubbles and it looks like they're in those "no spill" bottles with the easy grip tops. We go outside. I save the turtle from the dog with a mop and a laundry basket (why does the turtle keep going over there????) and when I turn around, I notice that the ground and the children are covered in what looks like paint.
She's brought them colored bubbles. (WHO (redacted) DOES THAT?????!!!!????) She mumbled sheepisly something about how she figures they're washable...cause it's soap...and the kids get busy smearing the solution up to their elbows and chasing eachother with "zombie hands". They make handprints on the fence. Sam writes his name in green bubble solution across the back door. They have it all over their shoes, their clothes, their faces. Lola has started eating it and now has a blue tongue, chin and neck. The kids' grandmother picks up the baby and goes inside to play with her, leaving me with 4 children, dripping with colored soap. As she's going in, I tell my kids that they're all going straight into the bath from the back yard. Gracie asks to come too but the kids' grandmother says no.
Once all of the liquid is finally out of the bubble containers, I make the kids come to the back door. I make them line up their bubble containers and kick off their shoes. I undress Lola and plop her in the tub (the water and bubbles already going). The water immediately turns blue. I notice her fingernails are dyed blue. She starts smearing blue soap on the sides of the tub. (WHO (redacted) GIVES COLORED BUBBLES TO CHILDREN AS A GIFT???) I go back out and get Abbey. I repeat the process with her and plop her in the tub. I start the shower for Sam and instruct him to put the dyed clothes and shoes straight into the washing machine, to dispose of the bubble containers and to get in the shower. He does so.
Now my tub is purple, my shower is green (And hey, my landlord is the person responsible for it. Wonder if I'm getting my deposit back.) So, not only do I get to clean up from the spaghetti mess and the planting seeds mess, I get to clean up from the colored soap mess too. WHO DOES THAT? Thanks a bunch, lady.
After that, I gave Sam and Abbey chores to do and came in here to type this. My eye is twitching. I am so...frustrated. But I'm doing my best. I'm doing my best.
