Where's The Love?

Friday was my son's Christmas Program at school, or "Winter Festival" rather. God forbid we call it what it is and risk offending someone, but that's not the point of this blog. As those of you who keep up with my ridiculous status lines already know, I had been dealing with Satan all week. My parents, have always tried to maintain a relationship with him for the good of the kids. That's awful big of them I guess, but it's just a little too warm and fuzzy for my taste, given everything this man has done to me. But seriously, I'm gagging on their good will. The man has tried to put me in jail twice and will try again. I've not been locked up because it's simply an insane hate and anger management issue he has, but eventually may end up doing something slightly outside the court order just to give him a reason and get it over with. Maybe he'll get the taste out of his mouth and be able to move on. I doubt it though. It would likely be addicting and he'd just want to do it again.

Anyway, I went to see my son in his classroom prior to the program to tell him to "Break a leg." He's so very happy to see me, rushes into my arms, and tells me he's missed me. He's definitely the less openly emotional of my two children, and anytime he does something as blatant as this it gives me hope he won't end up like his father. After chit-chatting with him for a moment a couple of his friends accumulate around the doorway. One of them, a boy no less, looks at me and says to my son, "Wow. You're lucky. Your mom is always styling." I smile even bigger. Children are often brutally honest, but in a much less complimentary way; like, "Why is that big green booger on your face?" Demitri gets a proud smile on his face, tells me to sit in the front of the auditorium for his program, I kiss him goodbye, and head out front to meet his grandparents. I find them immediately and we walk to the auditorium together to find a seat.

Upon arrival, the auditorium is filled with people. I spot three seats near the back and plop my purse and camera down. Satan is standing about three rows behind on the last row with his wife. My parents go over to say, "Hello" and sit down by them. I look at my mom and say out loud, "You can't be serious." She moves over to where I'm sitting. A rush of emotion comes over me, and not in a good way. I'm choking back tears. The children begin filing into the auditorium and head towards the stage. I try to make eye contact with my son so he knows where we are. He's gazing through the crowd of proud parents and grandparents looking for a familiar face. Finally, while they're still setting up, I grab my camera, leave my purse sitting by my mother, head to the front of the auditorium, and plop myself down on the floor in front. He sees me and smiles.

As I begin taking pictures of him singing and dancing about I continue to feel overwhelmed with emotion. I'm proud. I'm sad that I'm not always around for him. I'm worried about where his life will go from here with such fucked up parents. More than anything else, I guess I feel love; love in my heart for him and the love that escapes me for my parents. I'm furious, and happy, and sad. Tears roll down my cheek. I continue to smile, wipe them away, and try to pass them off as tears of joy and pride for my son. He doesn't think anything of it. His mom is the toughest, yet the sappiest person he knows.



The program ends and the children begin exiting the auditorium. I remove myself from the floor, walk to the back, and cross the room in front of where my ex, his wife, and my father are standing. I don't make eye contact and don't really care that my eye make-up is smeared and it's apparent I've been crying. For a moment I entertain the idea of approaching Satan's Whore to ask, "Doesn't it bother you that your husband spends so much of his emotional time and energy obsessing about his ex? Maybe it should." I visualize the conversation taking place and lose myself in thought for a moment. I don't act on it. I grab my purse, put my camera down, and head to the bathroom to fix my face before my son see's me close up.

By the time I go back everyone is gone, including my camera. I worry for a moment and then head to my son's classroom. I bump into my parents in the hallway, Mom hands me my camera, and tells me my son is waiting to see me. I mumble something and walk past them with my heart aching and not wanting to cry again.

Following school we go to Girl Scouts, gymnastics, stop quickly to grab a sandwich for dinner, and then head to the Red Rock Review (U of U gymnastics team pre-season exhibition crowd pleaser). After the program they gave out free posters and set the girls up at tables for autographs. We stayed. My parents knew we planned to go.



Once my daughter gets her autographs we hop in the car and head for home. There was a little snow on the ground from the last couple of days … very little. My mom calls my mobile to see if the kids and I are okay. Concern or guilt? I'm not sure. One thing my parents never do is admit fault. If/when they do the "I'm sorry" is conveyed with so much emotion as to make you feel guilty and usually a sarcastic tag line, "I guess I screwed up again." I haven't said anything to them and likely won't unless they bring it up. I feel like saying, "Maybe when Satan is finally successful in putting me in jail you can both go have a celebratory drink with him." I'm hurt. I'm lonely. I feel abandoned in my time of need … again. I decided a long time ago I can either chose to have a relationship with them and accept them as they are or cut off all ties. I can't seem to do that. I love them.