Through the fall of 2010, D had become increasingly insistent that Little One should be able to start spending time with Sally. I, in my infinite wisdom, had vilified Sally to the point where I could almost picture her with fangs, horns, and a pitchfork. Almost.
And so yeah, mostly on principle, I was determined to keep that crazy-ass, two-timing, husband-stealing, inappropriate-texting, [gasp] BELLYDANCER away from my kid.
Yeah. Even then, I knew this was going to have to change. But it pissed me off that D kept asking about it. Like, at least once a week, through September, into October. My therapist and I had talked about this extensively.
"What are you trying to do here?" he'd ask.
"Control the situation," I'd reply.
"Why do you feel you need to?" he'd ask.
"Because I can, and I hate what they did to me, and I don't want that woman near my daughter," I'd reply. "I hate the thought of her being near someone who is so wonderful."
"You don't really think she's a threat to Little One, though, right?" he'd say.
"No," I would honestly reply. Try as I might, when pushed, I could eventually find the objectivity.
"There's nothing for you to gain in that conversation with her," he'd say.
"I know," I'd reply, resigned. And then I would sulk for a while, knowing he was right.
But this dialogue - whether with my therapist, or simply in my head - continued to haunt me for weeks. And every once in a while, D would poke at it with that fucking stick, pushing at buttons that I was still hard-pressed to turn off.
And so, one afternoon in October, I just...snapped.
I was dropping off Little One at her dad's for a late afternoon visit, and he asked me once again, nicely enough: "So, I was hoping that you could maybe talk to Sally sometime soon so that she could start spending time with Little One. She really just wants to touch base and make sure you're comfortable with her being around Little One."
I took a deep breath. "You know what, D?" I said, aggressively. "I don't want to meet her. I don't want to look at her. I don't want her near my kid, but it's going to happen whether I like it or not, isn't it? So what's the fucking point of me having this conversation with her?" I stopped and took a deep breath, relishing the startled look in his eyes. "There is nothing for me to gain from that conversation whatsoever," I said. "You two need to figure out the most responsible way to incorporate Sally into Little One's life, and we can talk about that. But I want nothing to do with her."
I think - no, I know - he was shocked. "Well, fine," he said. His startle reflex had popped up and led him quickly to its destination, Defensive Corner. "Whatever."
"Fine," I said. "Just stop asking me about this. Just - whatever. Okay? I'm tired of you asking me, and you're just going to do it anyway. Just do it responsibly, and give it some thought, and we can work it out."
Somehow, he stepped out of Defensive Corner long enough to look at me kindly and - miraculously - get where I was coming from. "Okay," he said. I felt a mild sense of tenderness in that moment, because it seemed like he was understanding the pain that this was causing me. I'm so freaking naive sometimes.
I turned to Little One, who had barely maintained any level of interest in our conversation, thanks to the football that was on D's TV, and gave her a squeeze goodbye. I told D I'd be going to our local mall to get a haircut, and would be back home by 7.
So I left and went and got a haircut. Haircuts were fun those days. Whenever I had a new stylist (which was frequent because I could never seem to plan ahead and get someone I've had before, so I'd take whoever was available), I could regale that new person with the story of the Husband and the Bellydancer. It was usually a hoot, actually, and got me to laugh at it. But it still stung every once in a while.
During this particular haircut, I told the patient stylist the story, and the follow-up: "And now my ex wants this bellydancer to be a part of my Little One's life." "No. WAY. Oh my GAWD that SUCKS!" was the generous reply. Yep. Sting.
With the haircut over, I made my way back home, traveling along the main roads. On that main road back to my house, there's a playground, which I knew D sometimes took Little One to. And sure enough, his truck Loud n Dusty was parked there. My first thought was, warm fuzzies. I'll surprise them, and we can all play together. Won't that be nice.
My second thought was, "Huh, that SUV parked next to Loud n Dusty kind of looks familiar. And it has a bumper sticker that refers to the part of town that Sally lives in. And - you have got to be fucking kidding me."
And so, with the knowledge that D had waited approximately 3 hours to "responsibly bring Sally into Little One's life," I felt that familiar surge of adrenaline course through my chest. I did a u-turn in the middle of the road, and parked in a different lot at that same playground. I girded myself for battle, turned off the ignition, got out of my car, and started to walk towards them.
hoooo booooyyyy!
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