Page 56 of The Write Choice

“It’s not a bear,” I say tersely as I shove the sandwich into a reusable silicone bag. I mentally pat myself on the back for doing my part to save the planet like I do every time I use one of these bags.

Brandon looks up at me. “If it’s not a bear, what is it?”

“It’s a marsupial.” I grab a container of strawberry yogurt from the fridge and toss it in the lunch bag along with an ice pack to keep it cold.

“What’s a marsupial?” Mason asks, coming over to inspect his lunch. He’d better not have an issue with it, considering I’ve asked him to help prepare it six times now, and he’s ignored me every time.

“An animal that carries its babies in a pouch on its belly,” I respond.

Brandon frowns, looking at what must be a picture of a koala next to Christine. “Why do people call them ‘koala bears,’ then?”

“Probably because they look like bears? But they shouldn’t because they’re not.” I also grab a bag of baby carrots and a packet of bite-sized cookies and throw them in the lunch bag as well.

“What should they be called, then?” Brandon wants to know.

I look up to scowl at him. I do not have time for this conversation, especially with a grown man who can search for the answer on the internet. I know he’s trying to be helpful by responding to Christine, but if he wanted to actually be helpful, he could jump in on some of the more practical details of the morning rush.

His expression isn’t challenging, though. He genuinely looks curious. I blink a few times, trying to remind myself to calm down. “Just ‘koalas,’ I’m pretty sure.”

He looks back to where Christine is pointing. “That’s a koala, then.” But in the time it took us to have that conversation, she’s sloshed milk from her cereal all over the table and the floor. Brandon sighs deeply and pushes himself to stand. “Next time try getting some of that in your mouth, yeah?”

He walks over to the coffee pot and pours himself a mug. I track him, my mouth agape, as he leans against the counter and takes a sip.

“What?” He asks innocently. He really doesn’t get it.

I can feel my face turning red. This might be the day I lose it and become one of those women on Jenny’s podcast. Maybe I’ll write a book about it.

I grit my teeth. “Oh, I don’t know. You could grab a towel and clean that up before she steps in it and freaks the f—” I catch myself before I let out the rest of the word while the kids are in the room—“out because her socks are wet?”

“Mom. Language,” Mason chides jokingly. I whirl on him, my eyes wide in warning, and he wisely slinks away to the mudroom to hopefully find his backpack and shoes.

Brandon must value his appendages because, by the time I face him again, he has a towel in his hand and is moving toward Christine. I shove the rest of Mason’s lunch in his lunchbox and pour my own mug of coffee. If Brandon can do that for himself in the midst of morning chaos, then so can I.

Somehow, the coffee makes everything that happens in the next thirty minutes slightly more tolerable. Maybe he’s on to something. Maybe everyone who preaches about self-care and putting on your own oxygen mask first are on to something, too. Can simply pouring yourself a cup of coffee while getting your family ready to leave for the day be considered self-care? I don’t know. But what I do know is that, by some miracle, everyone gets out of the house on time with no tears shed, and by the time the house is silent, I’m on my second cup. Maybe I’ll make this a new habit.

There hadn’t been any time to paint over the weekend. Brandon wanted to visit some museums, so we did that. Then, he had to “get some work done.” I’m not sure what kind of work he needed to bring home over the weekend when he stays so late every night, but he seemed kind of distant and distracted even while he was with us, so I didn’t have the heart to argue. I wanted to ask him if he was doing okay, but he disappeared to lock himself in his basement office. I played with the kids until he finally came out for dinner, and then fell into bed, exhausted.

So, as soon as everyone is on their way, I don’t waste any time getting into my studio. My fingers are practically twitching to paint something, but I stare at a blank canvas for a while, not sure where to start. My eyes keep snagging on the pictures of Brandon and the kids lined up against the wall behind the easel, and my mind keeps wandering.

He makes it so hard to focus. When my brain is tired from the merry-go-round of thoughts about him and the kids, it’s difficult to be creative in any way.

I know I shouldn’t complain. I have whole days to myself now. Even the laundry and housework are getting easier as the kids get older and less messy. They can take on some of their own chores, too, which I demand they do despite my mother-in-law’s insistence that little kids shouldn’t have to clean up after themselves. It took me three years to finally break Brandon of the disgusting habit of leaving bits of food and dirty clothes lying around our home, and I refuse to let either of my kids’ partners—should they choose to have them—deal with that, too.

But with physically easier children comes more emotional work. Fighting about chores and schoolwork, talking about our feelings when things get tough, pent-up energy that needs to get out before bed every night. All of that is so much easier with two parents around, and I don’t have that. The days I have to myself mean nothing when the nights are rife with struggle.

I know disappointment is a part of life, and kids need to learn to deal with it in a healthy way. But being sad their father isn’t home in time to tuck them in, or have dinner with them, or hear about their day… That’s different than being sad I said no to a new toy.

Brandon spent so much of my pregnancy with Mason persuading me that he’d be a good father. That he’d be there for us. That he wanted to be there for us. And, for a while, he was. But his parents became more demanding, and around the time Christine was born when they didn’t give him that promotion, he had started slipping away little by little.

At first, I told myself it was temporary. That the kids were too young to remember how often he was gone. But, it kind of stuck. Even after his parents moved out here, Brandon continued to bust his ass for them. The kids just got used to him only being around some mornings and in his office on weekends. They stopped asking when he’d be home. Now, after a few weeks of him being around more often, they’re asking where he is at night, and I don’t know how to tell them he’s chosen work over us again.

If I allowed myself to stop and think about my own emotions for longer than a second, I’d have to admit I’m hurt, too. Because he’s not only choosing work over his kids. He’s choosing work over me. He’s breaking his promises to me. I’ve been down that road before. It happened with my parents, and it’s happening with him. History really does repeat itself.

I sigh heavily, but it does nothing to release the tension building in my shoulders. My coffee is gone, and I haven’t even bothered to reach for a pencil or paintbrush. I swivel on my stool to face the window, hoping some light will perk me up, and I catch the date jar sitting on my desk. We’re set to host the dinner where we pick a date this Friday. I haven’t added anything to it yet. It felt shady and unfair to add date ideas just to mess with Brandon.

But is it?

What’s a little discomfort for one night? He can handle it. It seems so small compared to what I’ve had to deal with. He might even admit it’s fun. Or maybe it’ll help knock us out of this funk. Besides, there are so many other slips of paper in there, the odds are probably low that we’ll pick one of mine, anyway.