When Co-Parenting Collapses
What happens in 2 Olive Terrace is mostly good, sometimes a bit shit, always messy and noisy (ask my very polite neighbours with older kids) and occasionally (rarely) organised. This blog is intended to be part diary, part confessions of the main carer (a mid-divorce, peri-menopausal woman) of 2 young boys (4 and 7), part Cornish travelogue and mostly just an exercise in getting the day, its thoughts and machinations onto paper. Because I have, of late, felt mortal. And the time to write, the time for the work to begin— is now.
Yesterday was a hellish day. If it had a pronoun — it would be a ‘he’. Or ‘ee’ as my Cornish mother would say. In short, the children’s father would come to pick them up at 9:30 and they would head off into single father parenting bliss, filled with sweets and a 17th-century replica galleon trip in Plymouth with friends. I — me — main carer — the tired one — had a night out booked with friends and neighbours in the local cafe to eat, drink and listen to live music in order to celebrate a friend’s birthday. I was also expected at a clothes swap at 3pm - in fact a friend had already dropped off bags of clothes for me to take for her (they remain inside the front door, contents emptied all over the floor); I had plans to go shopping (Trago Mills and fruit). And sleep. Write. Tidy. Swim in the sea. Cook a big fat lasagne à la Jamie Oliver for the week.
What actually came to pass
Me: “Let’s go! Papi (he’s German, not semi-aristocratic btw) here!”
The Eldest: “I’M NOT GOING. YOU CAN’T MAKE ME. MY BODY MY CHOICE.”
Me (optimistically continuing): “Is there anything you want to take? Have you got everything? {to The Youngest} Where are your socks?
The Youngest: I WANT SOCKS! (screams) (screams more) (and more)
Me: I’ve brought down three pairs! You can go without, it’s fine (screaming continues)
(I have adapted the lyics of U2’s Van Diemen’s Land sung by The Edge Hold me now, oh hold me now into Kill me now, oh kill me now — insert here)
The Eldest: Here they are mummy (hands me wet socks)
Me: Why are they wet?
The Eldest: Because he had them in his mouth. He was sucking them. Anyway it doesn’t matter. WE’RE NOT GOING.
The Youngest: WE’RE NOT GOING.
(conflab with Ex-Husband aka Papi outside car)
(consequence: the children still won’t go. Are having a stand off in the lane. There are tears. Some anger. Many bribes).
Me: What about MacDonald’s pancakes on the way?
The Eldest: You’re just trying to lure us! I’ve told you about this before!
Me: Papi’s got your pocket money!
The Eldest: You’re just trying to trick us! Stop!
Me: (seriously considering the ethics of such bribery but the implications of kids not going is too great). He’s got a Yoyo each in the car!!
And on and on. Papi phoned (he’s not allowed to Whatsapp anymore), we argued, he left.
I ate two fried eggs alone in the kitchen. Drank tea (I drink A LOT of strong tea).
Me (knowing the galleon was in Plymouth): What about I take you to Plymouth and then you can go to the boat?
The Eldest: Fine, after we’ve finished playing
Me: (a small, naive lightness in my chest).
The Eldest (On The Way To Plymouth): But you’re coming in the boat too mummy?
Me: (lightness disappears) No, I don’t have a ticket.
The Eldest: Then I’m NOT going!
The Youngest: We’re NOT going!
Me: (Silent)
We parked outside the galleon. Papi came to the window. The Eldest held on tight to the inside door handle. I briefly got out to look at the sea and breathe in the salt and the call of the gulls, playing on the wind. The kids stayed in. We drove back. Six and a half hours after they should have left, I put on a film, cooked some pasta, my mum came to help with bedtime after I sobbed down the phone, she saw two of the teenage characters in the film kiss and declared Cats and Dogs 2: Paws Unite! unsuitable for a 4 year old and 7 year old.
We ate. Ish. Pasta with red sauce. We went to bed (4 words is very little to describe the process of getting them into bed but I am tired now ;)). My head ached as I stared into the darkness at the Velux windows. I wondered if I was getting a brain tumour like the dad who had recently spilt up from his partner. I scrolled for nothing. Read 2 pages of Women Who Run With Wolves. Had dreams of being with a young handsome dad with dark hair. And wondered how long it would be like this.
