Read Online Dropped Threads 2 by Carol Shields - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Carol Shields
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if I could only be a better person, a more perfect parent or partner, more compassionate toward Greg’s mother or find the right rotation schedule, everything would work out. I have a whole shelf of books and a file folder two inches thick with articles on the subject of stepparenting that I’m now contemplating turning into a book-art project—stacking them up and gluing them together in the shape of a zero.
The material I read and the courses I took made it clear that I was supposed to be an “adult friend,” not a parent, but how to be the “adult friend” of one child and the parent of his sibling at the same time was something I never figured out. How do you discipline one child but tell the other one he has to wait until one of his real parents is around? How do you cook or do laundry for one child but not the other? Perhaps the adult-friend relationship would have been easier to establish had Greg been older when I came into his life, but this was a child I had taught to print and tie his shoelaces, whose diapers I had changed.
I was not the only one who was having problems with life in the blender, as I tended to think of it. Much of my husband’s anger at his former wife was misdirected at me—he would even call me by her name. There were times when the stress in our home was so high that our daughter could be found cutting the hair off her dolls or holes in her favourite dress. Greg referred to “Mom’s house” and “you guys’ house” never “home,” chewed on his hands and was continually in trouble for acting out at school. Once he drew a self-portrait of a small boy being torn in half.
For many years, I was a willing participant in my partner’s ongoing power struggle with his former wife. I profoundly regret my role as accomplice. It was safer to see her as the cause of all our problems than to look closely at the man I had married. In fact, for many years she functioned quite well as a smokescreen.
One summer when our daughter was seven, my husband was embroiled in yet another expensive legal battle to have Greg live with us, ignoring my pleas to stop playing a game that was no-win for everyone. Emotionally distant at the best of times, he had become increasingly preoccupied and evasive. When I expressed my desire to leave our marriage, he told me I could go if I wanted to, but he wouldn’t let me take our daughter. I knew I didn’t have the financial means to fight for custody, and I knew I couldn’t give her up. I felt trapped and hopeless. One night, on a family holiday at the lake, there was a meteor shower. She woke up and begged me to take her to the dock, away from the lights, so she could see the falling stars. I was frightened I would drown both her and myself.
I tried desperately to stay in the marriage until our daughter finished school, but I was marking time, not living. When I turned forty-five, I realized I couldn’t go on. I decided having a divorced mother would be better for my ten-year-old daughter than having a depressed mother or a dead one. I announced my intention to leave and take her with me. This time my husband didn’t stop me.
She sees her father one night a week, alternate weekends and any other time they choose to get together. As I had predicted, he continues to be a caring and involved father. I made many mistakes, but having a child with this man was not one of them. Leaving him was a wise decision too. I am happier than I had imagined it was possible to be. For the first time in my adult life, I feel a sense of hope.
I didn’t see much of Greg the first two years after I moved out. He lived with his dad one year and his mother the next. He came for dinner occasionally and I received the occasional phone call: “How do you make macaroni and cheese?” “Do you still have my resumé on your computer?” “Would you write me a reference letter? You know me better than anybody. By the way, I need it tomorrow.” During one visit Greg told me, “I
The material I read and the courses I took made it clear that I was supposed to be an “adult friend,” not a parent, but how to be the “adult friend” of one child and the parent of his sibling at the same time was something I never figured out. How do you discipline one child but tell the other one he has to wait until one of his real parents is around? How do you cook or do laundry for one child but not the other? Perhaps the adult-friend relationship would have been easier to establish had Greg been older when I came into his life, but this was a child I had taught to print and tie his shoelaces, whose diapers I had changed.
I was not the only one who was having problems with life in the blender, as I tended to think of it. Much of my husband’s anger at his former wife was misdirected at me—he would even call me by her name. There were times when the stress in our home was so high that our daughter could be found cutting the hair off her dolls or holes in her favourite dress. Greg referred to “Mom’s house” and “you guys’ house” never “home,” chewed on his hands and was continually in trouble for acting out at school. Once he drew a self-portrait of a small boy being torn in half.
For many years, I was a willing participant in my partner’s ongoing power struggle with his former wife. I profoundly regret my role as accomplice. It was safer to see her as the cause of all our problems than to look closely at the man I had married. In fact, for many years she functioned quite well as a smokescreen.
One summer when our daughter was seven, my husband was embroiled in yet another expensive legal battle to have Greg live with us, ignoring my pleas to stop playing a game that was no-win for everyone. Emotionally distant at the best of times, he had become increasingly preoccupied and evasive. When I expressed my desire to leave our marriage, he told me I could go if I wanted to, but he wouldn’t let me take our daughter. I knew I didn’t have the financial means to fight for custody, and I knew I couldn’t give her up. I felt trapped and hopeless. One night, on a family holiday at the lake, there was a meteor shower. She woke up and begged me to take her to the dock, away from the lights, so she could see the falling stars. I was frightened I would drown both her and myself.
I tried desperately to stay in the marriage until our daughter finished school, but I was marking time, not living. When I turned forty-five, I realized I couldn’t go on. I decided having a divorced mother would be better for my ten-year-old daughter than having a depressed mother or a dead one. I announced my intention to leave and take her with me. This time my husband didn’t stop me.
She sees her father one night a week, alternate weekends and any other time they choose to get together. As I had predicted, he continues to be a caring and involved father. I made many mistakes, but having a child with this man was not one of them. Leaving him was a wise decision too. I am happier than I had imagined it was possible to be. For the first time in my adult life, I feel a sense of hope.
I didn’t see much of Greg the first two years after I moved out. He lived with his dad one year and his mother the next. He came for dinner occasionally and I received the occasional phone call: “How do you make macaroni and cheese?” “Do you still have my resumé on your computer?” “Would you write me a reference letter? You know me better than anybody. By the way, I need it tomorrow.” During one visit Greg told me, “I
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