Tonight, my nine-year-old called her father and I out for fighting in front of her brother and her, again: sadly, although we’d kept our discontent so well hidden from them (or so we thought) before our divorce that she seemed genuinely blindsided by the news that we were splitting up, it’s been harder to contain our frustrations with each other lately. “How come,” she started in at bedtime, “every time you drop us off at Daddy’s or he drops us off here you guys, you know…have a fight?”
I heaved a big sigh. “That, my sweet girl, is a good question.” Not one to be satisfied with the deflections that used to work when she was younger and which, thankfully, still work on her brother, she stared at me pointedly until I launched into the kindest explanation I could come up with at the end of a long day. I had just driven back from a wonderfully relaxing and equally hilarious escapade with some friends, sitting in six hours of traffic so that I could be sure to make it home early enough for their father to drop them off at my house before heading into the city for another week of grueling work. I knew the weeks were long and arduous, and I knew he wanted to take the last train into the city that evening. I also knew that if I were in the same position as he, I’d be staring at the clock wondering where he was and anxious about missing my train because he was late–which he, invariably and inevitably, would be, and throwing excuses about traffic and the stop he made to pick up something (maybe for me; probably for his girlfriend and possibly the kids) from some obscure store somewhere along the way and how that stop took longer than expected and it wasn’t his fault and he really did leave “on time” so why was I so angry? I’d had half a mind to enjoy my morning, to leave “on time” (yet knowing full well the four and a half hour drive would likely take much, much longer the later I left) and to shower him with apologies and excuses when I showed up late.
Instead, I did the right thing, and arrived a full hour earlier than he’d expected. Rather than take me up on my offer to feed the kids dinner (in fact, I’d suggested we could all have dinner together, knowing he’d been at the beach all day and would be trying to squeeze every last drop of fun out of the day), he’d taken the kids straight from the beach to eat at a friend’s house and then squealed into my driveway at 7:15, ushering the kids, dog, and their various paraphernalia out of the car so that he could jump back into the car and speed home to change, grab his things, and run for the train. As he dumped backpacks and shoes in my front hallway, I noticed our son’s backpack, small and deflated, on the floor.
“Where’s all the stuff that was in his backpack?” I asked. “And his helmet?” I added, a sinking feeling in the pit of my stomach.
“I forgot his helmet, but there was nothing in his backpack,” my ex answered, turning for the door, “except a couple of toys, a sweatshirt, and all that winter gear I put away.”
“All that winter gear, and his helmet, are for when they go ice skating at camp,” I replied. “He needs it for tomorrow.”
“I’ve got to go, or I’m going to miss my train,” my ex shot back. “I’ll leave it on my porch and you can pick it up in the morning.”
I won’t bore you with the details of the fight that ensued, or the onslaught of text messages that continued for the next two hours. Suffice it to say, this has happened before. To be fair, I have also forgotten things and have had to drop them off later, annoyed but accepting the fact that I had fucked up. Forgetting things is a new wrinkle for us post-divorce: the kids forget things; we forget things; somebody is always wanting something that is at the other parent’s house. I thought we’d gotten used to the idea that “swinging by Daddy’s house” or “stopping by Mom’s house” was just something we had to subconsciously plan for, but I had forgotten: my ex doesn’t “plan for” anything. And somehow, he continues to make his lack of planning my problem. He didn’t know the winter gear was for camp; he didn’t have time to correct his mistake; I needed to have some compassion for him; he was busting his ass to be the best he can be but all I ever did was complain he missed a spot.
So when my daughter asked me why we always fight, I tried to explain that sometimes when people get mad at themselves for making mistakes, it’s easier to take them out on other people, particularly those we feel most comfortable with, like family members. She understood this concept easily, relating it to when she gets angry at her little brother because she’s frustrated about something at school or that happened with one of her friends. I talked with her for a little while about why this kind of displacement was unproductive; how it wasn’t fair for her relationship with her brother or to herself to avoid dealing with the root of her frustration or any other emotions. I tried to explain to her, as best I could for a nine-year-old (albeit a perceptive one) to understand, why maintaining boundaries is important. “It’s better to figure out how to deal with the problem,” I told her, “than to distract yourself by causing other problems.” After tucking her in, I chuckled wryly. Even if her father and I couldn’t seem to figure that one out for ourselves, I hope my children will at least learn from our mistakes.
(mostly) full disclosure 