CHAOS & COPARENTING: Not for the Faint of Heart
Some memories stay with you, much like a cornered mouse sticks to a glue trap; there’s just no shaking them. Not a terribly appealing visual, but in this case… all too accurate. A litany of experiences over the years inspired that mouse trap analogy, but one specific example, even if exceptionally trivial, comes instantly to mind. It occurred on a random Saturday afternoon at the Tabby Lane house on Sea Island. A.J. had been invited to a birthday party at the new Bowling Alley & Amusement Center in Brunswick; Emily and I were going to drop him off, then go see a movie at the nearby movie theater before returning to collect him at the time specified on the invitation. The bowling complex was owned by the parents of the same young girl whose birthday was being celebrated, and whose father also happened to be a prominent area physician. None of that fluff lends much to the memory analogy, other than to point out there was a certain protocol in the South about “appearances.” The birthday girl’s family observed those customs, as did ours. Standards, tradition, and proper manners applied… families dressed for Church and social engagements etc… as such, young girls wore dresses and bows in their hair, and young boys wore collared shirts, pressed shorts or pants, and appropriate footwear… a.k.a. NO flip flops. The casual sloppiness so pervasive in other areas didn’t fly in that little corner of Southeast Georgia. With that in mind, as we readied ourselves to leave the house, A.J. walked towards the door wearing a navy Polo shirt tucked into khaki shorts with a brown, woven leather belt and navy Nike tennis shoes, but was stopped by Al who was sitting in his spot in the large sunken den adjacent to the kitchen and back door hallway. Al beckoned to A.J., saying “have fun,” but then after noting the pouty expression on our son’s face, added “what’s wrong?” “Mom’s making me tuck my shirt in and wear this belt to Alicia’s party.” Al didn’t hesitate for even an instant before telling A.J., “oh don’t worry; just wear it until your mom drops you off and as soon as she leaves take off the belt and untuck your shirt. No big deal.” I didn’t say anything in the moment, partly because I was ticked off by Al’s glib attitude but also because I didn’t believe in undermining my husband in front of our kids. So much for fair play. Was it really no big deal? Was I just being petty to find Al’s response disrespectful and not terribly helpful in the parenting department? Maybe, but a lifetime worth of little jabs, coupled with more than a few hefty “knock out punches” can weigh pretty heavy on a person. Plus, at the time there was no such thing as a trend or shirt company entitled “Untuck It.”
Before going any further and if you’ve never read “DearEasyDiaries” before, I don’t want to mislead you, so let me be clear… despite a snippet within this post’s title, I have not “co-parented” for years and even more pointedly, maybe NEVER did?
If you get the feeling that this post seems even the least little bit repetitive, stay with me please? I promise this is going somewhere, even it takes one to two parts to reach the destination.
I’M NOT SURE THERE COULD BE ANY MORE ACCURATE EXPRESSION REGARDING MY EXPERIENCES THAN THIS PARTICULAR SENTIMENT?”
In hindsight and with full disclosure, Al and I never really co-parented. Even from the first news of my pregnancy, which Al initially disavowed before pressuring me to abort, and subsequently backtracking to beg for another chance, he was a parent of convenience. I suppose you could liken his style of parenting to those semi-religious types (myself included from time to time) who pick from a smorgasbord of faith-abiding tenets and choose which ones to follow and which to discard. The reality of that premise was something I didn’t grasp right away. Regardless, experience revealed that aside from his haughty authoritarianism if or when confronted by a confused housekeeper, some random and unpleasant teacher, school administrator, an inept waiter or emergency room doctor, Al never engaged in the day to day raising of our children. Make no mistake, Al loved to parade around with his two beautifully turned out and well-mannered tots when there was an audience present for whom Al might perform, but otherwise, I never really comprehended until recently that I was essentially a single parent from day one.
As the kids got older, were no longer in car seats, and were of an age which proved useful to Al, like cleaning up his construction trailer office, unrolling and rolling back up the hundreds of architectural drawings Al might have been working on at any given time, or traipsing after Al and his buddy Morry, furiously scribbling notes while the two men scoured every last inch of various furniture and rug depots, including Highpoint in North Carolina and Mansour in Los Angeles, then Al was cool to have them around, especially Emily, as she was five years older than A.J. and super eager to please. She was an old-soul and to quote Al, “a non-pain in the ass.” High praise from a father who had even higher expectations. Around the same time the aforementioned Birthday party occurred, we were also exploring resources to help A.J. deal with the variety of learning differences with which he struggled. After identifying a well-qualified and revered educational Psychologist, A.J. underwent a battery of clinical tests to determine a precise diagnosis. Based on nothing more than a whim, Al demanded that Emily be tested as well. When the psychologist performing the tests revealed our daughter’s I.Q. score to us, Al was silent. Later, with A.J. off playing and not in a vicinity to overhear any sensitive conversation, Al sat Emily down and said the following, “okay, now that it’s been confirmed you’re not some dummy, I never want to see another report card that has anything below an “A,” period. No A-minuses, no B-pluses; nothing below an “A” will be tolerated.” Personally, I didn’t care for Al’s approach. I always encouraged our kids to do their best, but no-one can be 100% all the time; that’s just not realistic. Plus, in a day and age when kids were experimenting with drugs, sex, and social media at much younger ages, I didn’t want to set either of our kids up for failure by applying too much pressure. However, contrary to Al’s standard “hands off” approach to our kid’s raising, this instance was dealt with differently and when he put his foot down, so to speak… it was another one of those non-negotiables we were expected to accept. “Easily pleased” was not a descriptor anyone would ever use alongside Al’s name, but then to be fair, “slow study” was surely a term that might have been linked to mine.
The years between the scenario I just described to the ones which follow were many, not necessarily listed in sequence but all chock full of examples of my knack for overlooking or being impervious to the chaos surrounding me. Not something to boast about and I’m not, but still the truth is what it is… chaos and crazy making is not conducive to, but actually threatens effective coparenting.
After a fairly-rapid and conflicted (huge understatement) courtship, followed by the birth of our first child, Al and I lived between Rancho Santa Fe, California, and assorted locales on the north shore of New York’s Long Island. Whoops. See, already I’m moving at breakneck speed, but that was the deal; that was how I, mistakenly, learned to navigate a tenuous relationship. Al made it clear several months into seeing each other that if I hoped to sustain a relationship with him, I shouldn’t hope or think my career would last or that it was even important. Relying on the information Al relayed during our first several weeks together as well as his proclamations about “wanting a second chance at having a family, being a good husband and loving me as much as it was possible for him to love anyone,” I took him at his word… Mistake #1. There’s a part of that previous sentence which proves exactly how naïve I can be, as well as illustrating just how much therapy I probably needed, but also provides a very personal meaning to the expression, “stop trying to love the red flags out of someone.”
Al lived life on his terms and a cross-country lifestyle was just one of those non-negotiable terms. It was an integral part of his career, which by all accounts was a big one. My (at the time) successful but fledgling real estate business seemed silly right about then, dwarfed by the grandeur of Al’s life and his offering me the opportunity to be in it. So too, I took the gift of having a child as the blessing it felt like and with the serious attention it warranted. My life’s dream of being a mother was about to be realized, and I was incredibly grateful.
Looking back, I believe what I really needed was a good swift kick in the behind. No, not about the mom component of the equation, but regarding my lack of judgement or any reliable knowledge about the person with whom I was choosing to make this giant leap of faith. Why didn’t I examine my obvious inability to question the whiplash speed at which the process was occurring. Maybe I was content believing that this man was legitimate? After all, he spoke so openly and seemingly sincere about future aspirations of building a life and family together, why shouldn’t I have believed him? It never crossed my mind that I was merely a convenient target for someone like Al. It escaped my understanding back then that I was the mouse stuck to the trap, in a scenario which was engineered by an exceptional salesman, maybe even a psychopath, who held the power to compartmentalize each aspect of his life, projecting emotional connectivity only when absolutely necessary, but not because he really felt it?
I WAS SO FAR OUT OF MY DEPTH, IT’S NO WONDER I LOST SIGHT OF ANY RATIONAL THOUGHT AND SPENT DECADES DEFENDING AND STICKING BY SOMEONE WHO HAD NO CAPACITY FOR HONEST & CONSISTENT RECIPROCATION.
Regardless of my naïve and willing participation, any “co-parenting” which we might have engaged in over the years required strict observance to a non-negotiable set of parameters. A few of those edicts included the following: never was a car seat to be placed in any of Al’s personal vehicles (think Porsches, Ferraris, and a Bentley or two), nor would he drive the kids anywhere by himself if either still required a car seat. Additionally, Al didn’t do middle of the night feedings or interaction with the children for any reason, ever. Al didn’t do diapers; Al didn’t do sickness, and Al didn’t do the (m)any cross-county airplane jaunts with the kids until he purchased a Lear Jet, which meant I was solely responsible for the succession of well over three-dozen, cross-country, 19-hour travel days over a period of six years when the kids were young. Al didn’t do the kid’s drop-off or award ceremonies at school, and Al didn’t “babysit” period, even if the child or children in question were his own. That singular issue dictated that anytime I might be away from home, unless the kids were at school or with my mom, I hired a “babysitter,” paid for from my monthly allowance. In all fairness, there were a few times, when Al found the humanity to rise, but those instances were utterly unpredictable and not to be counted on. With complete transparency (and now much embarrassment) those stipulations didn’t create any great angst for me at the beginning; all I ever wanted to be in life was a wife and mom. From day one, I believed I had a pretty decent handle on the type of marriage I signed up for… it was an old-school, very traditional example of the institution. And while my very unprogressive attitude may earn me the title of an unevolved dinosaur, with a measure of utter disdain, even disgust thrown in the mix by folks who haven’t walked in my shoes, I’m okay with it. I, mistakenly, was convinced that I knew “the deal,” but then I was also young and optimistic at the time. Plus, there was some incredibly naïve part of me that believed our arrangement provided for a marriage which represented a true partnership… each of us bringing significant value to the union. I could not have been any more wrong or misguided.
With that bit of back history disclosed, I can also state that I found many of Al’s odd proclivities and certain male friendships distasteful, but then I was also simultaneously enabling his crippled emotional capacity, or lack thereof. Dysfunction much? There was absolutely nothing normal about our marriage. In fact, it was nothing if not a complete conundrum. In my defense, I was rarely in a position, or confident enough, to challenge Al’s authority; a 22-year age difference can do that. When our daughter was the ripe old age of four, and we found ourselves spending a rainy weekend at our oceanfront Cambria home playing Monopoly, I’ll never forget his delight in teaching Emily what I considered a somewhat ruthless lesson about “playing the game like a killer with the goal being to win at all costs.” My mom happened to be travelling with us that weekend, and when she asked me later how I could watch that interaction and remain so calm, I remember answering that Al’s calculating nature and aptitude with business was just who he was and that he didn’t like to be questioned. The last bit of that explanation was a constant throughout our years together, as well as on the very rare occasion when Al and I jointly dealt with decisions regarding our children. For example, when three-year old A.J. split his chin open for the second time in two years by falling on our Roblar home’s slick Limestone floors, Al would not allow me to take him for emergent medical care and instead, insisted that his bandaging of the gaping, open wound would suffice, saying “he’s a boy, it’s no big deal.” However, the next morning when I managed to leave the house with A.J. and got him to the pediatrician, I was quickly told by the attending doctor that A.J.’s wound, with “tissue” oozing from his torn flesh, was one that required stitches immediately following the fall… NOT the day after. His assessment while difficult to hear, supported my initial instincts, but certainly did not help A.J. nor his chin. Five hours, one plastic surgeon, and a sobbing, but stitched-up child later, I returned home to a very angry husband who accused me of undermining his authority. I thought those were tough times; they were mild compared to what was ahead.
When I reflect on that part of my past, it’s fair to say I’m humiliated by the blind type of “puppy dog like” devotion I exhibited. But youth and my Irish hard-headedness didn’t mix well, and I wanted so badly to be a mom. I allowed myself to rationalize the circumstances, thinking I could singlehandedly make our relationship work. I was willing to sacrifice almost anything to keep the man, with whom I exchanged marriage vows and was also my children’s father. I don’t regret the decision because two amazing human beings are the result. Plus, my commitment afforded me the opportunity to raise our children myself, as a full-time mother, a gift I never took for granted. But, the guy, the get, the keeping… that part and the life that went with it was both lonely and difficult. For several years I convinced myself it worked well enough. On numerous occasions I woke up to find betrayals I could not have expected, but illuminated how truly flawed our marriage was. Nevertheless, I kept my head down and remained committed to the life we built, determined to keep it all going, despite any personal burden or neglect I may have felt.
I’m sorry… that last statement may take some people by surprise if they knew us, particularly if they happen to recall the “dog and pony show” that was much of our marriage. As it turns out, I inherited my mother’s knack for portraying a “picture perfect family” when the reality was anything but.
The absent husband and father part of our family equation was like a scale, always shifting up, then down and back up again ad nauseum, but finally after enough years it lost its sting. I became accustomed to the marriage we had, and while it was far from perfect, doubtless in part due to my own weakness, I accepted that mine was the life I initially wanted and had signed up for, no matter how flawed. That commitment meant something, to me. Plus, there was always the silver-lining which made everything worthwhile… our children. Those two humans will remain a treasure always, and my love for them, unfathomably fierce.
PARENTING IS HARD WORK, BUT FOR ME, IT WAS ALSO THE GREATEST HONOR AND PRIVILEGE OF MY LIFE.
“SUGARBOO” AND THEIR FRAME ABOVE, WITH THE QUOTE FROM HELEN STEINER RICE, CAPTURE EVERYTHING I FELT AND CONTINUE TO FEEL ABOUT MOTHERHOOD.
Regardless of the level of love involved, all relationships can be tricky, especially when they hold the power to destroy you. While I may not have always proven the ideal mom, and my kids absolutely endured more than their fair share of suffering, coupled with the pain of a reality they neither asked for nor deserved, NOTHING could or will ever change my love for those two.
Parenting was something I loved doing and used to consider myself reasonably good at, ultimately a day arrived when my confidence was shattered. My instincts and actions were questioned constantly, and I felt myself drowning in a sea of second-guessing, harassment, character attacks, and the type of mind f**ks that no-one should ever experience. It was only then when I innately understood, there was nothing left to salvage in either the marriage or relationship I had worked so diligently to sustain for 18 years.
That’s when the divorce and co-parenting came into play and also when life got exponentially more f***ed up. Chaos and a measure of fear had always existed in my years with Al, but the legal process of untangling the knot which had become our life, transformed the fear into something resembling terror. Regardless of how many people are doing it, or what stories people tell themselves to rationalize the act, divorce sucks. Maybe you’ve grown apart, maybe you were never really meant to be together in the first place, maybe the sex sucks, maybe someone has an insatiable appetite for something or someone new all the time, or maybe it’s just too damn-much hard work? Whatever the “why,” if you have kids, I guarantee they suffer the most and bear the brunt of our choices no matter their age. On that point, I’m awfully sure my own two kids, as well as hundreds, maybe thousands of others, would back me up.
IF I COULD DRAW AN INCH & A HALF LONG ARROW FROM THE RIGHT SIDE OF THE VAN SHOWN IN THIS PICTURE DIRECTLY OVER TO THE RIGHT, IT WOULD LAND ON THE EXACT LOCATION WHERE THE KIDS AND MY FIRST OF THREE RENTAL HOMES IN TWO YEARS FOLLOWING THE DIVORCE SAT… “NESTLED” BETWEEN THE 101 FREEWAY AND SANTA BARBARA TRAIN TRACKS.
WHEN I FIRST SAW THIS PHOTO ON INSTAGRAM, I WAS STUNNED BY THE TRUCK’S COINCIDENTAL LOCATION, BUT THE MESSAGE ON THE VAN COULDN’T HAVE BEEN MORE FITTING OR TIMELY.
Once our year-long divorce process was ended with an abrupt mediation and Settlement Agreement, I breathed a huge sigh of relief eager to move forward. While the agreement we negotiated outlined a joint custody arrangement, there was also a provision which legally granted me ultimate decision-making power regarding the kids. Nonetheless, I still observed the practice (learned the hard way during our year of separation) and documented any and all interaction between Al and myself, or Al and the kids, as well as continuing to inform Al of all activities which involved our children. The painstaking efforts Al exacted during the divorce to wreak havoc on all aspects of my parenting were slightly reduced following the formal dissolution, and for about a year he seemed to have little to no interest whatsoever in the lives of our kids. Al’s focus was, instead, redirected towards the financial settlement we had agreed upon, and his attention was aimed solely towards unravelling our MSA. Initially, I was relieved to be free and believed life would eventually normalize as lawyers and the courts could mandate his adherence to our agreement, allowing me to move on with our lives and once again parent our kids in the way which had been the norm for the past 18 years. That never happened; the courts and lawyers were incapable of controlling Al or his crazy making. The result was like walking a tightrope for nine years, until all the remaining legal and financial entanglements of our union were officially finished. Talk about being unprepared for what I got myself into!
Egads, as odd as it may sound, how was I was STILL disillusioned by the stories from our past.
I remembered the discussions Al and I had years before when discussing his divorce from wife #1, and how he swore up and down that he was so careful to abide by all the rules of their dissolution and respected the role his older girl’s mother had always played in their lives. It wasn’t until maybe three months following our own divorce, when several disturbing instances occurred prompting different recollections, which as Steve (the shrink) would say I must have “stuffed.” I remembered the annual visit the local Sheriff used to make each Christmas Eve to our hilltop Roblar home, with lawsuit service documents mandating Al’s acquiescence to his court-ordered obligation to pay Patty’s health insurance… until death. Somehow, I conveniently (or not) had forgotten about that matter during our own negotiations. More memories popped to mind as I recalled that Al’s own girls were much older at the time of his first divorce; the eldest was already finished with college and the younger of the two was either away at boarding school or entering college by that time. There was little to no parallel between his first divorce and our own split; no co-parenting issues nor disputes to be likened, or were there? I really hadn’t a clue, because Al was like a vault, only dropping crumbs he wanted to be picked up. I forgot that years earlier, when Emily was a baby, and we were splitting time between New York and California, Al refused to invite, much less include his adult daughters in our wedding, no matter how I pleaded. That memory was juxtaposed with my recollections of Al and wife #1 driving for hours together on multiple incidents in the middle of the night through the town of Huntington on Long Island, desperately searching for the daughter who had gotten temporarily caught up with drugs. Then there was the time I flew to Schenectady, New York, alone, leaving our four-year old daughter with my own Mom, so as to help one of Al’s older girls pack up her apartment following the death of her then fiancé. Why did I do that? I recall feeling dismay and outrage that neither of her own parents nor her adult sister would help. Maybe I was “co-parenting” then, even if the subject “child” was but a month younger than me and not my own? Lastly, how could I forget all the times Al belittled and degraded wife #1 as “nothing more than damaged goods?” I probably never anticipated that the same description might be applied to me someday. Clearly, there was a disconnect between what I hoped our life together would be like versus what reality proved was the case.
It wasn’t like being a stepmother to two adult daughters was something I asked for or expected, but it’s what I got. I truly tried to do more than just get along. I aspired to be welcoming and inclusive. While one made it reasonably easy, eventually becoming like my own family, the other took every opportunity to display her complete and utter disdain for me, noting frequently “how she missed her Daddy’s last girlfriend.” So how was it that I forgot about all the mocking Al did in front of our two kids and other members of my family about the same daughter (allegedly his favorite but also the unpleasant one) who he referred to as the “perennial student,” when she confided in him that “she was seeing seahorses in her fecal matter?” Now come on Missy, surely that’s not a statement easily forgotten, particularly when spoken by a person studying to be a psychologist? At some point, shouldn’t I have had alarm bells going off continuously in my mind and investigated more thoroughly the man who I had so quickly welcomed into my life and heart? Yeah, that would’ve been wise, but wise I wasn’t… at the time.
Perhaps I developed a system of coping methods to deal with the perennial chaos that seemed to permeate our lives. That would make sense, right? After all, I was raised with chaos; why shouldn’t that feel normal? Normal or not, it would have made far better sense had I followed the counsel of my father’s ex law partner. After one meeting with Al and I to draft a prenuptial agreement (just two weeks before our impending nuptials) Roger told me in confidence… “Missy, take your daughter and get as far away from this guy as possible. Serve him with a big fat Paternity Suit, but go; do not stay with him. He’s no good.”
Hard-headed me; I didn’t listen, and with my glass half-full lens in mind, it’s a good thing I didn’t; otherwise, my son wouldn’t be here on this planet today. It’s that same son, who years later returned home after having a rare lunch with Al (along with one of A.J.’s high-school buddies included as a buffer) to relay that (the friend) Chance’s eyes practically popped out of his head when Al stood up mid-lunch to threaten the waiter saying… “I’m going to take this fork and stab you in the neck if you don’t immediately replace this order of “bastardized Pasta, with a plate of al-denté Pasta as I ordered.” Instances such as that weren’t all that uncommon. That somewhere along the way I grew immune to such events is a frightening concept to contemplate. How on earth did I stay with that man as long as I did, and why did I cover for him for all those years?
As I write this, I’m reminded of another story which my then husband created. Following our return from a European trip with some friends from Sea Island, Al explained in vivid detail over dinner one evening with several extended family members, how tedious the trip had been, and that he had devised a theory to “off” the other wife if she had been his with relatively little fuss and none of the expense a divorce necessitates. He literally gloated as he relayed what would have been his plan. On that occasion I felt a flash of fear, recalling the fate of one of Al’s ex-girlfriends, Lorraine, and her bloodied end. How did I get so attached to such a person?
TRUTH.
I sat there at our long, rectangular, pine dinner table, listening while Al detailed how to get away with “offing a wife.” Was he kidding; was it just another one of his dark tales designed to entertain and hold captive the group of people seated for dinner? The answer must be yes, as I’m still here writing this, but at the time it was an uncomfortable conundrum. He was so earnest in the recounting of his “brainstorm,” I squirmed while trying to believe it was all nothing more than a sick joke.
Al’s “offing story” went like this… “You’ve got this pain in the ass wife, who never shuts up and drives you crazy, but you’ve also got kids and you’re prominent in the community, and what are you going to do? You hardly want to give her half of everything in a divorce? So, one day you’re both outside in the garden; she’s fussing with her Azaleas, and you begin to argue about where to put the new containers of plants you just brought home. She wants them over there and you don’t really give a crap where they go, you just want her to shut up. Then, in the heat of the moment and because you happen to be the one holding a shovel, you whirl around and BAM, the shovel hits her square in the temple before she drops to the ground. You dial 911, but not before you’ve determined she’s really a goner. Next, you feign tremendous grief while you “explain” what happened to the paramedics and the police. The incident is reported as involuntary manslaughter, and you’re out on probation in a year… well worth every minute of the jail time” concluded Al, proudly. Did I actually just retell that story? Yes, I did, and now I’m more concerned than ever about my past judgement or lack thereof. Moments of clarity like this are tough to reconcile, as I’m staring at words and actions that occurred in real time. You can’t just make this shit up, which makes the concept of co-parenting with such a person even tougher to consider. Thank heaven that’s all behind me now. Even more so, how grateful I am that it wasn’t on my radar at the beginning.
During the infancy of our first child, Al was insistent that we hire a nanny. “Mizz, there are too many occasions when we travel and need to go places without a child present; either you hire someone, or I will.” Regardless of my protests that I wanted to be a mother in every sense of the word and care for our daughter myself, together with my assurances that a housekeeper or babysitter would suffice when necessary, Al refused to take no for an answer though, so hire a sweet little nanny I did. The first time Al met Ava, she had already been working for us about a week, but Al had been travelling so he missed the interview and start date. We were sitting at the breakfast table overlooking the expansive patio, outdoor kitchen, and pool beyond in Rancho Santa Fe, and I was giving Emily her bottle when Ava walked out from the back bedroom ready to start the day. I greeted Ava and introduced her to Al, who promptly stood up, gave Ava a cursory “once over” visual examination before looking at me, then back at Ava saying, “why are you wearing a party dress; is that what you plan to work in all day?” Ava was silent, and while she spoke a bit of English, she was by no means fluent. Still, it wasn’t rocket science to understand she was being berated by her new boss, and Ava’s face had fear stamped all over it. I intervened and explained that we hadn’t really discussed wardrobe and Ava was doing a good job; both Emily and I liked her. Turning my way, Al directed his next statement to me. “I don’t care whether you like her, she’s here to work.” He then looked back Ava’s way and wagging his hand vigorously, said “go take off those ridiculous high heels and dress; a suitable uniform and shoes will be provided later today. In the meantime, just go.” I can still see his hand dismissing her, but by some divine twist of fate, Ava couldn’t understand all of Al’s words, so she didn’t bolt on the spot, and the nanny I did not initially want, would later become an ally, or at least other adult company in the months ahead.
SWEET AVA REALLY WAS HELPFUL (FINGERNAILS ASIDE) BUT SHE DIDN’T LIKE THE CONSTANT TRAVEL & EMOTIONAL UPHEAVAL, SO HER TENURE WAS FAIRLY SHORT-LIVED.
Ava was more resilient than I would have been in her circumstance and managed to stay with us for about nine months. However, two excruciatingly hot Summer months in New York, which included a ten-day stint in Lusby, Maryland, a veritable hell hole at the time, took their toll. Al and two consultants played golf, devising a plan of how to steer the future of Al’s property, Chesapeake Hills Golf Club forward, while Ava and I spent our days walking around Lusby with Emily in her stroller. Al had the car and there wasn’t much, if anything of interest, within walking distance of our hotel so with the exception of one frozen yogurt spot, other entertainment options were non-existent. Thank heavens for air-conditioned hotel rooms, cable tv, magazines and books. It was upon our return to Laurel Hollow and the “barn/house” on Northern Boulevard when Ava quietly told me one morning after Al left for the office that she was homesick and wanted to leave. I didn’t blame her; so did I. With Ava gone, Al said he would take charge of hiring the next nanny. Once again, a nanny was interviewed and hired, with no regard for any input or the numerous protests from me. Catherine was a large, stern, Jamaican woman who emanated the scent of Listerine upon entering a room. I was more than a little intimidated by her, and Emily just flat disliked her. She cried anytime Catherine attempted to pick her up which needless to say, makes “nannying” difficult. The Northern Boulevard house was small, with not much living space, but at least we were back in civilization complete with a G Wagon, which was all mine to use. We went everywhere within a three-state radius, filling the days, learning the area, sightseeing, shopping, and I wasn’t about to leave my not quite, year-old daughter behind with a total stranger that neither of us really took to, so the concluding weeks of that Summer became known as the “Emily and Missy take New York show.” If you’ve surmised already that the Catherine situation didn’t last long, you’re correct. Late one morning, I gathered up Emily along with my very well-stocked Gucci diaper bag that Viv, my older Sister, and Emily’s Godmother, gifted me as a baby present and told Catherine that we were going to meet a friend of mine from my Katie Gibbs days and the year in Boston. We were planning to meet in the city for tea at Bergdorfs and a long-awaited chance to catch up. Before walking out the door, I asked Catherine if she might do a load of Emily’s clothes in the wash and vacuum the house in our absence. When we returned later that evening after a glorious time in the city, it was close to 7:00 p.m., but neither Catherine nor Al were anywhere to be found. I called Al’s office, and his secretary, Sandy, put me through to his line. Al was in a meeting and said he didn’t have time to chat, so be quick with what I needed. I simply asked if he knew where Catherine was, to which he replied, “yes, she quit; she wasn’t hired to be a housekeeper and was offended by your request earlier. We’ll talk about it later.” Then he hung up. I can remember thinking what a shame it was that such a lovely day was surely about to be replaced with a fight, or worse… the silent treatment.
GO AHEAD, LET THAT REALLY SINK IN, AND IF YOU KNOW ONE, FOLLOW ROGER, THE ATTORNEY’S ADVICE AND… RUN.
Despite the glamorous facade, cross-country lifestyle, and the rest of the trappings of Al’s world, most of my days when we were on the East Coast were lonely ones. My one-year old daughter and I spent our days wandering and exploring, while Al worked and played tennis. We ate dinners out when Al got home in time, often dining with Al’s tennis club pro and his wife, but otherwise, it was a pretty isolating experience. We weren’t yet married despite Al’s frequent promises, and it had already been almost two years since his proposal which included the enormous diamond ring garnishing my left hand. I was frustrated, feeling weak, vulnerable, and ready to move on with life. How long was I supposed to wait, while Al struggled with some internal debate about whether he was really, really, ready, to pull the trigger and get married?
Later that evening, when Al walked in, about two hours after we hung up from the phone call regarding Catherine, I was waiting in the living room for him, ready to talk. Emily was asleep and I forced myself to take the opportunity to reach a resolution. He started off aggressively and defensively, until he recognized I wasn’t going to be placated this time. For once, I managed to harness all my resolve and there were no tears nor any pleading on my part. I was as matter of fact as possible when I said, “this is enough; I’m done with this game, all your stalling, and the manipulation complete with nannies I don’t want. I’m happy and proud to be a mother, and I don’t need you to marry me to be a good parent. I’ve booked a flight for tomorrow, and Emily and I are going home. At least in California, I have family and a support system. There was silence, until Al finally spoke, saying only “I’ve got meetings all day tomorrow.” I rose from the chair where I sat, returned upstairs, and crawled into bed. Emily continued to sleep in her crib at the far end of our bedroom, and I knew Al would be downstairs glued to whatever sport was on TV for the next few hours. The next morning Al awoke, showered, and left the house without a word. I don’t know if he thought I was only bluffing, or if that was his way of ending whatever bizarre performance it was that we were perpetuating? I never did learn what he was thinking that night; “sharing feelings was overrated,” as I often heard. Regardless of what Al may have thought, we did indeed leave the next day. I arranged for a Carey Car to pick us up from the house in Laurel Hollow around noon, and Emily and I were back in California by midnight.
Here's the thing though… I have (or had) this nasty habit of not being able to sustain anger. It’s maddening at times, and as I’m sure you’ve surmised, that instance wound up being one of those times. We didn’t return to Al’s house, but I did get my job at Plaza Properties back, knowing Emily and I could stay with my Mom, at least until I figured out a new plan. Despite my best efforts to remain absolute, Al eventually wormed his way back in to our lives, and a few months later I caved again, but this time a wedding followed. Some part of me must have thought after all the enumerable delays combined with the back and forth, exhausting, emotional drama, that when Al finally said, “I do,” it would stick.
Years later, back in Georgia, with a marriage license, two kids, and a very BIG life, including six furnished homes across the country, a Lear Jet, a fleet of automobiles and many, many other glamorous perks etc… it was at that moment listening to my husband tell our son to “just untuck his shirt when I left the party,” when I realized, Al and I could hardly be considered co-parents. In the years since, when I’ve (often) been questioned about our discord, or why my “ex” and I can’t be in the same room even for “the kid’s sake,” by any number of judgmental minds, I find myself asking if I was ever “in the same room with Al,” so to speak? I never had a team member in the parenting department… and just maybe my kids were better off for that?
Stay tuned for Pt. 2…