So yesterday, I missed Victor. A lot. We've been doing this now for 2.5 years, and in some ways, I'm used to it. When Victor's in Finland, I stay busy, and I stay grateful. Victor's happy and fine, he's got a great family over there, what a fabulous opportunity for a unique childhood experience, etc. But then sometimes I just get sad, obviously. Mostly I miss squeezing that little boy body.
Last night, it was Friday night. Joe has the kids this weekend, so there were kids running around the house, kids in the neighborhood. Today is Joe's son's Trey's birthday, so at about 7:45 last night, I drove over to Target to pick up a present and a cake (we're going rollerskating today). I was sitting in the parking lot watching parents with their kids trooping in and out of the store, and I just felt really desolate. It's hard to be around parents and kids (weirdly, I can be around just kids without getting too sad, but add in the parents, and the sadness starts.)
One of my BFF's has been encouraging me for years to blog. This particular friend, (who I think should also blog, but she's having her third baby in October and thinks she won't have time, which, whatever, who has time for this) is my tether to the world of pop culture. Her and Vanity Fair magazine. I like to hear about trendy social developments and pop culture second-hand, through trusted filters. I don't own a television because I prefer to sleep and read, so I ask this friend, if there was one show I should download and watch, which one should it be? (She recommended Mad Men, and I still haven't gotten around to it.) Anyway, she thought I would be good at blogging.
Dad bought me this pump to help me blow it up. It's kind of cheating, but whatever. It looks like a gun, which makes it cool.
I'm not saying I wouldn't take my son 100% of the time if I could. Sometimes I wish his dad was a shitty father so I'd have a reason to think Victor should be with me all the time. Alas, Victor's dad is wonderful, his extended family is involved--latest news from Finland: Victor's grandfather took him orienteering, where they tromp through the woods in rubber boots with a compass and a map on a treasure-hunt of sorts. Like low-tech geo-caching without the prizes. How fun is that.
So I've accepted my place in the ranks of divorced--not single--mothers. There's a difference. Single mothers, to my way of thinking, have their kids most if not all of the time. Dating is complicated, me-time non-existent. Divorced moms with more even custody arrangements, on the other hand, actually get some meaningful adult time away from our kids. So I don't call myself a single mother. I don't have to work that hard. My son's father, as he's always done since the day Victor was born, does half the work. God bless him. Curse him. Bless him. Curse him.
So what do I do with my time when I'm not working two jobs, sleeping, home-owning, going to 12-step meetings, trying to keep up with friends and my boyfriend, and be a somewhat present daughter to my parents, who live in town? I do yoga. Of course. Who doesn't any more? I am one of those chumps the NY Times refers to in its timely piece on the commercialization of yoga, who pays exorbitant monthly fees for spiritual and physical enlightenment. I can afford it when Victor's with his dad--we don't pay each other child support--and I don't need to rush over to any daycare after work these days. So I've been getting my namaste on this spring during Victor's absence, and, yeah, it works. I can do a side-crow now. Need I any more justification than that? Victor will think that's pretty cool when I show it to him. Mom-as-jungle-gym. Love it. Miss that.
http://www.nytimes.com/2010/