Rip The Band-aid Off

Since the very first day, the very first minutes, in fact, PC has been uttering and hinting and bald-faced announcing that the Trollup will have a place in my kids’ lives. Insinuating and building up this big “family” in his head in which I believe he sees the Trollup as the new me, the mom who will take care of all the kids while he continues to be the old him – an alcoholic narcissist who does jackshit.

But anyhow, in the beginning it was almost laughable. In a sort of over my dead body kind of way. The woman you cheated on me with was never going to come near my precious children. Ever.

And then it became a big battle point. And it became a little scary because this was the thing, the thing I had over PC. These are MY kids and you simply cannot start taking them to be with your Trollup. You just can’t.

Except. He can. And he did. And as it wound closer and closer to that, it was advised to me to just let it happen. It was inevitable anyhow…even if I fought and fought soon enough there would have been a passage of enough months that I could no longer say no. And maybe (thought I had no faith in this, justifiably so) giving him this big thing that he wants, to play House with the Trollup, would get him to chill the fuck out.

And so he introduced them (of course, without my knowledge). And you know what? It was fine. I’m not saying this in a everything-is-coming-up-roses kind of way, because it’s not. They are both arrogant, self-serving people. There was no preparation for my kids. Four months from leaving their mother is too soon to introduce a new friend, let alone a girlfriend, let alone a girlfriend you LIVE with, let alone taking them there to spend the weekend. Which is what is happening as I write.

I knew that yesterday, Friday, was going to be a devastating countdown to the moment he pulled up his stupid, impractical car and took away my babies. The moment I’ve been dreading since last winter. The irony is not lost on me, the unfairness; handing over my most precious pieces of life to the woman who slept with my husband and moved him into her house the day that he left our 17 year relationship.

There’s a lot of ways that yesterday could have gone.


Being the planner that I am, I tried desperately to make plans for Friday night, because I had a feeling that being alone was going to result in me on my kitchen floor, drinking wine straight from the box and talking to my dog as though he were human. Again.

And being the twist of fate that always seems to happen, no one was free. Everyone had plans, was out of town, had family emergencies. But.

My sweet neighbor who is equal parts nurturing and badass picked me up. We went to a bar. We saw lots of people we knew. She let me drink and promised she would drive me safely home. There was some beer and some shots of fireball and a little bit of spewing and a lot of laughing. It was commented to me twice, by two different people last night, that they did not know how I was doing this. You’re so calm, my friend Becca said. I’m in awe…

Well I don’t feel calm. But I ripped the Band-Aid off. I let my kids go with PC and the Trollup and I have no shame in saying I hope the weekend is a shitshow for them. I hope the little girls didn’t go to sleep and I hope all the kids were up by 6:30am. I hope for things like bed-wetting and vomit and physical sibling battles. I hope PC is crawling out of his skin being sandwiched in her tiny house with a bunch of kids while I sit here on my mountain, enjoying the lovely view I am going to miss so much, sipping coffee and surviving.

Surviving. Ripped the Band-Aid off, and survived.


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