I told him that my boyfriend and the girls are getting along so well, that they adore my boyfriend, that Luna wants him to move in with us, and Freya calls him “da da” of her own volition. His rant changed to basically him giving up legal rights. There’s an angle I never expected him to play–him signing them over to me without contesting just so he won’t owe a dime each month. If he did that, I wouldn’t keep him from seeing them, but he seems to think that we would drop off the face of the earth, that I would want that. Yes, with the way he’s been acting lately, it seems desirable, but I know Luna would be heartbroken if she never saw him again. She’d heal in time, but I’d worry that she’d internally blame me or herself for his permanent absence.
I can’t really worry about those things though. I have to focus on finishing my graduate school program. I have to work hard at my retail job and convince them that I am capable of doing great things so maybe I’ll be up for promotions in the future in case this higher education thing doesn’t pan out. I have to continue sending off writing samples and resumes and whoring myself out to small potatoes writing, editing, web design, and SEO jobs so maybe I’ll get my size 91/2 W foot in the proverbial door somewhere. I have to keep trying to get into a PhD program somewhere while simultaneously kissing ass and licking boots at various colleges and universities that may potentially hire me fresh out of my MA program. I have to keep waking up early every day and keep getting my babies off to school. I have to make sure that dishes and laundry are caught up and rescue My Little Ponies from the latrine. I have to hold fussy kids in the middle of the night and get a few less sleep hours because someone had a nightmare. I have to do all of the things I would have done anyway, because it’s my job as their mother.
I can’t expect the boyfriend to step in and magically fix everything, but I love the fact that he wants to try. Someday I won’t have to choose between toilet paper and eggs. At least I’ve become a decent enough couponer that my kids are fed and the little one’s diapered and we all have wet wipies for our bums. I just wish there were a wet wipie big enough to clean up the act on that bum I used to proudly call my husband. I wish that I hadn’t wasted eight years writing love songs for the wrong person, and since it’d be wrong to recycle them I’ll have to spend the next eighty years writing new ones for the true love of my life.