It was July 4, and it was my first post-divorced Independence Day. [Insert divorce joke here, go ahead.] As such, there was the "who gets Little One" question to consider. While I had spelled out the answer to this precise question in the parenting plan I'd spent months, and thousands of dollars, crafting, D almost never followed it. And that was fine with me - that meant that Little One was almost always with me. That was exactly how I liked it, and really how I needed it.
On this particular holiday, D offered to take Little One in the morning to go swimming at his apartment complex, and then he'd bring her back to my house for her nap. Then, that evening, we'd go - together - to our town's local fireworks display, hoping that Little One could make it to the late 10pm start time.
The first big revelation on this fine holiday came when I went to drop off Little One at D's house that morning. This is exactly how it went down. I know this because I wrote it down word-for-word, laughing and squelching my nausea even as I typed it.
D: "Little One and I were swimming the other day and she was wondering what I had on me. Because I got some more piercings, you know."
Me: [swallow] "Oh?"
D: "Yeah, you know, my nipples. So she was wondering what they were."
Me: [Complete and total poker face intact, showing no emotion or reaction.] "Oh? And what did you tell her?"
D: "I told her they were like earrings, but in a different place."
Me: [At this point, not sure whether I want to guffaw or throw up.] "Ok. Well, gotta go. See you two later."
I said goodbye to Little One, and turned. All I could think was, I need get out the door. Go down the stairs, go around the corner, show no emotion. Show no reaction as I get in my car and swiftly drive away. Then I pulled over and called three people, one of whom said, "No straight man over 40 gets his nipples pierced!!"
Precisely. Happy Independence Day, wheeee!
I had a good time regaling my new crew of friends with this story. My older friends already knew that D had a Prince Albert piercing, and a couple of tattoos, in addition to some ear piercings that (shockingly) had just become used again after years of atrophy. It was like his hard-edged, smoldery, bad-boy rebel was re-emerging...just in the body of a middle-aged man.
Ew.
Later that day, he dropped off Little One, and I made as little eye contact as possible. I really struggled with what to say, and then decided that saying nothing was the best possible option. I knew that what D had told me, and the way in which he'd told me, were both fashioned to get a rise out of me. And so I gave him nothing, and it felt good.
7:00 rolled around, and D came back over to the house to begin our "Family Fourth" outing. (I really just wanted Little One to have a nice evening with the two of us; she'd lately become keenly aware that there were very few times that the three of us were together, and she seemed to be looking for three-time. I wanted to give her that.)
Alas, on this night, it was not going to happen, which leads to big revelation #2 of the day. When D dropped came in, he was being, well, a temperamental douchebag. Critical of Little One and her every attempt to interact with either of us. Snapping at me or her for anything we said. Chewing the inside of his cheek. Pacing.
Knowing this mood of his - but now knowing that I had nothing to do with it, because really, I had no control over this guy, never had - I thought I'd just ignore it and let it pass. (While this was my best coping strategy, I also knew that this was hard for him, because I was no longer doing the "D, what's wrong? What can I do to help? Can I fix it?" routine that I'd become so accustomed to. Nope, this time around, I was letting him do his thing, waiting for him on the other side. But this time, he never got there. So I pushed a little.)
"Little One," I said, "Come say goodbye to Daddy, honey. He's got to go." I looked at D, who was looking at me with an absolutely amazed stare of wonder.
"What?" he said.
"I think Daddy's got to go, Little One," I continued, in the nicest, most regretful voice I could conjure. I looked at D, trying to silently convey the real meaning behind what I was saying.
Miraculously, he got it. And he at least had the grace to look chagrined.
"Mom's right," said D. "I have to go."
Little One looked at both of us. I feared that she might get frustrated about the fireworks, but she simply looked back and forth at both of us, looking kindly at her, and said, "Okay. Bye, Daddy."
He looked as shocked as I felt. Could it be that our three-year-old already knew how to manage him and his moods? Ugh. In that moment, and in many moments before and since, I hated him for that, for being the kind of father whose kid was going to have to "manage" him. What a prick.
But in this moment, Little One was watching carefully. So I escorted D to the door, smiled as he ambled out, still looking shocked. I felt proud of myself for being able to so quickly and covertly subvert his moodiness and its impact on me and my kid. I wished him good-night, then played with Little One until it was her bedtime. When the fireworks started up down the hill, booming and shaking the house, she didn't wake, and I didn't regret my decision to "suggest" that D leave.
No, not at all. Not on any level.
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