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Avoiding Conversation
Jul. 30th, 2006 09:23 amSo-oo Ben and I scheduled to have a – ahem! – "serious conversation" about the conditions under which he might return to Monterey.
And naturally this morning I'm unable to get him on the phone.
Why am I not surprised?
We've been talking on the phone several times a day for weeks now, inconsequential conversations. He wants to talk about the Middle East, the rain in Ohio, how they almost had to euthanize one of the show donkeys and say, did I know one of this year's New York Times Notable Books is a circus novel? I want to talk about why Brits call Lebanon "The Lebanon" and how aliens mysteriously snatched the van keys off my desk and I had to spend $125 to have them replaced.
"That must have driven you crazy," he says dryly. "Your entire sense of personal control is tied up in knowing exactly where your car keys are at all times."
I could have viewed this as a hostile comment but chose not to.
"Speaking of money," I say, "when are you going to send me some?"
"As soon as we hit a town with a Wal-Mart so I can do a Moneygram," he says vaguely.
I suspect Ben's lying again but I don't know what my options are here. I could go after him legally I suppose but legal takes time plus it's One More Thing to deal with and anyway I suspect ambushing a guy who travels with a circus is an impossible task for even the most stalwart process server.
Ben always mumbles "Love you," before he hangs up the phone. A bizarre little verbal tic, no? I suppose he thinks he does love me, that this is how you treat people you love.
I'd been willing to negotiate some sort of conditions around a return because Robin is coming home in ten days, and frankly I'm worried. Robin is going to need a lot of supervision, and the house is still a big mess – I haven't accomplished nearly as much as I'd planned to when Robin left over a month ago, and of course a 12 year old boy can't be expected to understand that when you get up at 4am every morning to do one job and then switch at 11am to do another, when you get home at 8:30pm after taking the dogs to the beach – again – you don't feel like cleaning the junk out of his room, you feel like collapsing and letting Law and Order wash over you in comforting waves.
The first words out of Robin's mouth will be, "But you promised!"
Still I'd been anxious to the point of nausea over the upcoming conversation with Ben. Even the fact that I was willing to bargain with Ben at all under the circumstances indicates desperation on my part, always a bad negotiating stance. I really don't want Ben back. I want someone who can help me parent Robin.
Robin's got to stop spending so much time playing video games. Robin's got to play soccer this year. Robin's got to do better at school. Robin's got to be normalized. How do I even arrange Saturdays so I can take him to his soccer games?
Somehow, somehow…
And naturally this morning I'm unable to get him on the phone.
Why am I not surprised?
We've been talking on the phone several times a day for weeks now, inconsequential conversations. He wants to talk about the Middle East, the rain in Ohio, how they almost had to euthanize one of the show donkeys and say, did I know one of this year's New York Times Notable Books is a circus novel? I want to talk about why Brits call Lebanon "The Lebanon" and how aliens mysteriously snatched the van keys off my desk and I had to spend $125 to have them replaced.
"That must have driven you crazy," he says dryly. "Your entire sense of personal control is tied up in knowing exactly where your car keys are at all times."
I could have viewed this as a hostile comment but chose not to.
"Speaking of money," I say, "when are you going to send me some?"
"As soon as we hit a town with a Wal-Mart so I can do a Moneygram," he says vaguely.
I suspect Ben's lying again but I don't know what my options are here. I could go after him legally I suppose but legal takes time plus it's One More Thing to deal with and anyway I suspect ambushing a guy who travels with a circus is an impossible task for even the most stalwart process server.
Ben always mumbles "Love you," before he hangs up the phone. A bizarre little verbal tic, no? I suppose he thinks he does love me, that this is how you treat people you love.
I'd been willing to negotiate some sort of conditions around a return because Robin is coming home in ten days, and frankly I'm worried. Robin is going to need a lot of supervision, and the house is still a big mess – I haven't accomplished nearly as much as I'd planned to when Robin left over a month ago, and of course a 12 year old boy can't be expected to understand that when you get up at 4am every morning to do one job and then switch at 11am to do another, when you get home at 8:30pm after taking the dogs to the beach – again – you don't feel like cleaning the junk out of his room, you feel like collapsing and letting Law and Order wash over you in comforting waves.
The first words out of Robin's mouth will be, "But you promised!"
Still I'd been anxious to the point of nausea over the upcoming conversation with Ben. Even the fact that I was willing to bargain with Ben at all under the circumstances indicates desperation on my part, always a bad negotiating stance. I really don't want Ben back. I want someone who can help me parent Robin.
Robin's got to stop spending so much time playing video games. Robin's got to play soccer this year. Robin's got to do better at school. Robin's got to be normalized. How do I even arrange Saturdays so I can take him to his soccer games?
Somehow, somehow…
