Life with Teenagers

Posts Tagged ‘family

capstone

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“Hello Mutha,” the younger teen calls out to me as he spots me walking toward him. He is standing in a circle of friends at the end of the hallway near the blue painted doors to the auditorium. He is wearing his black skinny jeans that sag in the back and a black wrinkled t-shirt with a stain at the bottom. I stifle a frown.

Couldn’t he have dressed a little better for his capstone performance?

Instead I say cheerfully, “Hey, there he is,” and I run my hand through his thick wavy hair. “You nervous?” He doesn’t answer and turns to face his girlfriend who is standing close beside him twirling a piece of her hair around one finger and shifting her hips. I notice that she is wearing her cotton-candy pink short shorts. “I guess this is the dress code,” I say under my breath.

On my way in earlier, I grabbed a black and white copier paper flyer from the wooden podium and scanned its contents.

Great, I left work early and he is the last person on stage tonight. The absolute last one.

A few scattered family members, a couple of grandparents, and mothers holding the hands of toddlers mill about near the temporary gallery walls that have been positioned in front of grey painted cinderblock. They stand stiffly viewing the gouache painted skulls with blood dripping from the orifices, and flat watercolored self portraits of moon-sized blank faces.

Oh look, there’s one of my teen’s 2D projects.

I walk up closer to it and turn my head to the side and earnestly study the technique he used. It’s been a long time since I’ve stepped foot in his high school and that critical voice inside that doesn’t ever let up on me is now jabbering on full force about the subpar artwork hanging on the subpar school walls. Clearly nobody is planning to go to art school from this class.

Oh cut it out, they are only juniors! Don’t you remember your own high school portfolio?

I shush the voice inside. I do remember it. I gave myself only mere weeks before my application needed to be sent in and I rapidly went about the business of drawing everything that was directly around me. I got right to work on creating an oversized charcoal drawing of the corner of my unmade bed. And when that was finished, I grabbed colored pencils and opened the closet to startle all my shoes from whatever they were up to on the floor in the dark. There they were, laces undone, tongues hanging out, caught open mouthed and exposed to daylight. I drew them right then and pronounced it a finished work. The pleasure of hindsight is that I now get to say that I didn’t over think it, and it wasn’t that I waited until the last minute without a thoughtful plan and just got lucky. Not at all. I really do think, hindsight or not, that I purposefully didn’t give the censor inside any time to do the nasty work of chopping me down to size.

“I’m going to go in now for the performances,” I say to the group of teens. They follow behind me but keep a respectable distance and find their places off to the far right side. I squint around in the dark. A half dozen or so people sit in chairs spaced as far away from each other as possible. The room could easily hold a couple hundred. I pick a chair in the middle back row. As I survey the room, I see my ex walking in through the double doors. He is wearing jeans and a black sweater and black boots and looking every bit like a musician or an art student himself, I think. I pull at my Ann Taylor Loft maroon sweater and slump a little lower. I motion for him to sit down, but the wooden chair next to me is missing it’s seat.

“Where’s the J dog?” he asks me as we both move over.

“She will be here about halfway through. She is on the train still,” I say.

The room darkens to a pitch black and the first performance of the night begins. Humorous skits, a long and involved hip hop dance routine, a young girl singing her heart out at the piano. My ex and I perform crude sign language, giving a thumbs up or down or fist bump and catch each other’s wide-open eyes as Taylor Swift-esque song number five turns to six. By the time intermission is over, the auditorium is at least a quarter filled and my partner has since arrived. My teen is on after the Gypsy Blue Band performs a few electrified riffs. My partner sits beside me in my ex’s vacated seat and he is now pacing in the corridor behind us. “God, I’m so nervous,” I whisper to her in the dark.

During intermission, the teen and his growing entourage of supporters stopped to chat with the parents. “Honey, don’t forget to spit out that gum before you get on stage,” I said to him. “You got this, babe,” comforted his girlfriend with her hand on his back. “I’m going to get backstage now and get ready,” he said while walking rapidly away, his girlfriend taking a couple quick steps to catch up, shooting us a nervous glance back.

I grab my partner’s hand now and squeeze it several times in the dark while he is being announced. The audience grows silent while he calmly enters with his bass guitar and a stool to position himself center stage. A stage hand pushes an amp behind him and I let my mind wander a bit as he quietly starts hooking up to the amp. How many times had we listened to the same three pieces of music in the living room? Me, leaning back into the couch with my slippered feet on the coffee table, waiting patiently while he would stop and say, “Hold on” and start again, trying to make it through one flawless pass of his three song medley — a Victor Wooten piece that was supposed to seamlessly morph into a shortened version of Bach’s Cello Suite Number 1 Prelude and end with a piece he wrote himself. Overall, it was an unusual, six-minute long but oddly exciting percussive arrangement for solo bass guitar my teen had simply titled BASSic.

Athletes talk a lot about being “in the zone” and it happens for artists too. I think I finished ten new pieces for my art school portfolio over a period of days when I was clearly in that zone. And if you’ve ever experienced what it feels like, it’s not hard to miss it when it is happening to your kid.

“Wow, he is really doing this,” says my partner. “He is on.” I can feel my body relaxing a bit as the medley is near over. I turn back to look at my ex who is standing in the back to the room perfectly still and straight with his body tensed, his eyes closed, and a slight smile on his face. When the last note is played and my teen finally lifts his head up to survey the crowd, the entourage of friends on the right burst into loud applause and whistles. I can hear his brother’s voice hooting above the dull roar of the clapping.

I still have my own dreams of being in the limelight again, of experiencing the thrill of the printed byline, the book jacket, even the glossy exhibition brochure. And some of this I may very well realize still. But most of it I won’t. And as I get older, the disappointment over what I haven’t done is starting to sting a bit less. Because being a parent means I will have many opportunities to experience moments like this one, when I sit in a darkened auditorium and listen to my kid performing his very own creation and feel firsthand right along with him those sublime seconds of greatness.

And these are the real capstones in my life.

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Written by kmguay

June 9, 2012 at 4:19 pm

a little love

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“You sure you like the tree?” I ask nobody in particular as I set down my plate at the table. The new Christmas tree is adorned with a multitude of white lights and a few ornaments I stole from my ex’s stash. “Come over with your ornament box,” I pleaded to him in my cellphone the day before as I was snapping the three prelit pieces of plastic splendor together in my new living room. “Hey, I watched Charlie Brown’s Christmas with the boys this year and I really enjoyed it,” my ex replied with enthusiasm. I was focused on bending my tree’s wire branches into position. “Uh huh… so I think there are some I want and you’re not using them, right? And come over now if you can, I want your opinion,” I said. I clipped the cellphone shut, plugged in the cord, and stood back to get a better view.

The glow of the tree’s millionth mini light bulb gave it an overall neon look, less like the “faintly-reminiscent-of-snow covered” look it had in the Big Lots store. It was now looking even more fake than I thought.

“Mom, the tree is fine. At least you got a tree. I can’t believe you were thinking of skipping it. You can’t have Christmas without a tree,” says the younger teen walking past me with his plate of food in his hand. Across the table, the tea light candles shimmer in the new mercury glass holders and cast a glow on my partners face as she nods in agreement. It’s dusk outside on a mild December day and the horizon glows pink in the spaces between the pine trees in the far back yard. Two boxwood wreaths in each window, designed to match the ones from the page I tore out of the Olive and Cocoa catalog, hang from a red grosgrain ribbon. A green blinking triangle starts to form in the very corner of my eye, and I try to pretend I don’t really see the artificialness of the tree.

The younger teen plops himself down at the head of the long rectangular table and puts his plate down on the mat just as I’m sliding it into place. This is the room where my partner has traditionally hosted large dinner parties and holidays and the three of us now look slightly lost. We are crowded over at one end of the table, a large plate of italian sausage and white beans before us, the place settings flanked by cloth napkins, and the table center studded with three small flickering candles.

“Do you think you added enough olives to this, mom?” asks the younger teen creating a brown cone-shaped pile on the edge of his plate.

This recipe has olives and capers to give it that salty taste,” I say to him. “You like the rest of it though, right? You are eating the escarole right now.”

“Hey! what about me?” asks the older teen now emerging from the basement and sniffing out the smells of dinner wafting from the kitchen stove.

“Go get yourself a plate,” I say to him. “But I”m not sure you will like it.”

“Mom, can we order the IPad now? I can show you the one I want,” says the younger teen.

“Hey, I left my Christmas list on the table too, did you see it, Mom?” asks the older teen.

“Do you like the tree?” I ask him as he sits at the table beside me.

Without looking up from his plate he says, “It’s great. Nice tree.”

“Should I put it in an envelope and send it to Santa?” ribs my partner directing her fork toward the older teen across the table.”

“Yah? you think you’re funny, huh J dog? And you over there, son, don’t say anything or I’ll hurt you,” he says, looking at his younger brother.

I tune out the flurry of Christmas list conversation and remember my mom’s text message to me as I walked the aisles of the Big Lots store days before. “I can’t believe you are shopping at Big Lots, you have changed.”

And she is right, in a way. A lot has changed this year. It’s been five months since my teens and I moved in to my partner’s house down the street from my old apartment. The house is different, the tree is artificial, and we are ordering high-tech toys from my laptop computer at the dinner table with a credit card and calling it Christmas cheer. But what’s really new is that I don’t know when I’m going to muster up some holiday spirit this year. And maybe it’s ok if I don’t try to fake it. Maybe it will arrive magically over dinner on Christmas day, when we all sit together sharing a meal like this one, and the sun sets in the backyard, the candles start glowing, and we are all suddenly and brilliantly reminded of how grateful we are to have each other. The same as always.

“Yeah that’s better,” I think to myself and look directly at the bright spectacle in the corner. I conjure up images of Charlie Brown and his unadorned real tree in contrast to my spanking new, pre-lit fake one.

It’s not bad at all, really. Maybe it just needs a little love.

Written by kmguay

December 14, 2011 at 11:08 pm

who wants a roll?

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From my family to yours. Happy Thanksgiving

Written by kmguay

November 23, 2009 at 5:54 pm

Posted in family, holiday

Tagged with , ,

mixed medley

with 5 comments


Custom_Frozen_Veggies

2014familyday403

“Is this done mom?” asks my youngest teen standing bent over in front of the oven with his finger poking into the tops of two small chicken pot pies. I look at the clock and notice it’s getting close to 8pm.

“Yes, they’re done. Take them out,” I answer.

“They don’t look done,” he says.

“They’re done,” I say, as I empty boiling water from a pan into the sink and a block of bloated pasta falls into the colander with a thwap.

“What do I do with them?” he asks.

I’m engrossed in the act of trying to pry apart individual raviolis and arrange the white swollen packets on a white plate and present them to the older teen sitting at the table and texting into the cellphone on his lap. On the table are three placemats, a jar of tomato sauce, and a plastic container of grated parmesan cheese.

“Umm, just turn them upside down over the mixed vegetables on those two plates,” I say, motioning to the counter.

“Mom, they already had vegetables in them,” he says, carrying over a plate at a time of mounded broken crust and gelatinous chicken gravy jiggling over a layer of tiny multicolor squares, circles, and triangles.

“I thought we needed more,” I say.

“I’m not eating mine,” says the older teen. He grabs the jar from the table and empties a large amount of blood red sauce onto his plate with a splat.

The table laid out before us is gruesome.

“So your brother says he is quitting the leaders group,” I say to both teens.

“Yeah it’s not his thing, dog,” says the older teen.

“Well then, why don’t you suggest some other clubs he can join as a freshman, dog,” I say back. I look at the younger teen. “Or maybe you are going to need a job. You can’t just skateboard all the time.” The younger teen doesn’t look up and continues stretching the uncooked taffy-like center of his chicken pie crust with his fork.

“He can’t get a job at 15 mom. He’s not old enough,” says the older one between mouthfuls of ravioli.

“But you worked at the Y at 15, remember?” I ask.

Now the younger teen chimes in.

“That’s because he is the best one there, mom,” he says.

“Dude, I’m not that good. I wouldn’t leave my own kid alone with me. I mean, I would, I know what I’m doing, I’m not going to lie, but I still have a lot more to learn from the older counselors,” says the older teen. “And when I get married,” he looks at his brother across the table,”to a woman,” he says, and gives him a long exaggerated stare. “But you can do whatever you want…”

“Hey, why do you always look at me and say stuff like that?” says the younger teen.

“Guys, I think you mean when you get married to whoever you want” I say interrupting.

The older teen has lost his train of thought now and looks at me.

“Mom, you knew you were gay in high school right?” he asks.

“I’m not gay,” I answer.

“Come on mom, you were just holding it back,” he says.

“It’s not that simple, dog,” I say. “I like men. I had you guys with your dad didn’t I?”

“Yeah, but that just makes you bisexual,” he replies.

“Some people know right away, others don’t until they are older. Some people just change their minds. All I’m trying to say is that you have options,” I reply.

“Not if I want to have a family I don’t,” he says while pouring water from the jug into his glass.

The younger teen looks at my plate and motions to his massacred crust on his plate.

“This isn’t done, mom,” he says.

I cut around the gooey center of my own crust and hand him the cooked portions from my plate.

“What do you mean? I say back to the older teen. “Of course you can have a family! Most of the same-sex couples I know are having their own kids.”

“Well adoption,” he says.

“Yes, and lots of other things too. One of my friends had all three of his little girls by using his husband’s sperm, one of his sisters’ eggs, and a surrogate mother who lives in another state to carry the babies to term.” I say.

“So wait,” says the younger teen who stops eating to join in the conversation. “So that means their mother is also their aunt?! That’s weird, mom.”

“Or it’s pretty great,” I say. “Think about it. How lucky for those kids to have so many family members that love them.”

“You have friends that picked how their kids were going to look from a book. That’s not right,” says the older teen again.

“Why not?” I say back. “If you had the option to choose some characteristics ahead of time, you wouldn’t?”

“Yeah, dude, wouldn’t you want your kids to have the best?” asks the younger teen. “Not your ugly face.”

“Hey, cut it out, now guys,” I say.

The room gets quiet for a few minutes.

“I know someone with tendencies towards asbergers,” the older teen says changing the subject.

“Yeah, and what do you have tendencies toward?” I ask back.

“I have tendencies toward ADD mom,” he laughs. “Remember all that testing you put me through?”

“And what do you have tendencies toward,” I say looking at the younger teen. He grows thoughtful and thinks about it a minute.

“I’d have to say I have tendencies toward an authority complex.”

“Ahh,” I say back.

And the room gets quiet again.

“This is a terrible dinner,” I say finally while reaching for some of the overcooked french fries the older teen has added next to his plate as a second course.

“It’s not so bad, mom. You’ve made worse,” he says with a smirk.

“You’re right, dog,” I reply.

But in moments like this one, I have to remind myself just why I bother to make a frantic dinner for all three of us several times a week after 7pm.

Sometimes, the best dinners yield no conversation at all. All of us preoccupied with our meal, silently taking in the smells and textures of expertly prepared food, savoring each bite, and listening only to our thoughts and the sounds of silverware clinking against plates.

And the worst dinners can offer up pure magic, when the bad food forces us all to engage in real conversation with each other at the table. Before we know it an hour has passed, we’ve asked some tough questions, and we’ve brought up a whole assortment of colorful topics that matter, some real food for thought.

A regular mixed medley.

Written by kmguay

October 24, 2009 at 7:40 pm

statistically speaking

with 2 comments


n541933000_820157_846My 16-yr-old and his girlfriend sit side by side at the computer desk. She holds a paperback book in front of her face and he leans in front of her to grab and click around with the mouse on the opposite side. “Facebook isn’t homework,” I say on my way by, passing through the dining room still dragging the vacuum cleaner by the handle behind me. He flips the screen off and opens up a word doc. In the top right hand corner he has typed his name, the date, and the words “statistics paper”.

“I see you have made great progress in the last hour,” I say, pausing to grab the pile of paperwork on the dining table with my free hand.
The screen flips off and on again showcasing the drivers ed website.
“We’ve finished the schedule you wanted me to make,” he says, motioning to the papers on the desk “Take a look, mom.”

“The schedule?” I try not to sound as amazed and tense as I feel. Only days earlier, my girlfriend put her hand on my knee under the table in one of her “easy now” gestures as mom and teen both started to raise their voices. “No drivers ed until I see a detailed schedule of all of your commitments!” was my decree to a scowling overwrought teen sitting in front of a half eaten plate of food.

And then again the next night, I wailed in the darkness of the bedroom “He is overextended, It’s going to be like last year, He won’t finish homework, He will fail out of high school.”
“Shhhhh okay, okay,” she said. “But Kris, you are going to have to help him with this schedule, you know that right? He is going to need your help.”

“Mom, can you look at the schedule?” he asks again and from across the room I start firing questions.
“Did you fit in the three nights I need you home for dinner?
“Yep.”
“How about your leaders meetings?”
“Thursday nights.”
“And your job?”
“Three afternoons from three to six.”
“And is there time for homework?”
“Yep.”
“And what about your girlfriend, did you save some time for her?” His girlfriend gives him a playful nudge on his arm and he smiles back at me.
“Yeah she’s in there too.”

I don’t have a comeback for all this forethought and organization.
“Just get that paper done and I’ll look closely at it later,” I call out from the kitchen now while starting to clear off the cutting board. The front door opens and closes and I hear my girlfriend adressing the teens in the other room. I lean over to search under the cabinet for the metal mixing bowl as she turns the corner ranting about her exasperating day.
“And I get all the way there and I realize that I forgot the cleaning so I have to turn back again. Oh and then!”
I pull out the container of olives from the fridge, the block of parmesan cheese, a lemon, and the container of mesclun greens and start piling them on the counter. She stands directly in front of me for a moment, catching my eyes. “Enough about me, how was your day?”
“My son did his schedule” I whisper.
“What!? Oh my god, that’s great!” she whispers back. “God damn!”
I dump the greens into the bowl and douse them with a squeeze of the lemon and juice runs down my hand and arm.
“Wow! I’m really proud of that boy. Kris, that is great,” she says again handing me a towel.
“I know I know, but…” I say and the “I know buts” start to pour out of my mouth as easily as the olive oil that slides out of the overturned bottle I shake onto the greens.
“Kris,” she says again, “Really, it is great.”

And it IS great. So why am I so skeptical? Why is my first reaction so often a critical doubting one? I’m not like this with his brother.
“That’s because you have no faith in me, mom!” These words have often assaulted me, spraying forth from my oldest son’s mouth in the kitchen while both of us yell back and forth at each other. And he is right. I have a very hard time having faith in him.

He is a lot like his father and not much like his brother. He has his father’s easy loving way, his fast-talking storytelling ease, his humor. They both can light up a room, shine in the spotlight at a party, go out of their way to help a stranger. But I didn’t have any faith in his father either. For reasons I couldn’t even explain at the time, I wanted more from my marriage and I was sure he couldn’t give it to me. I wanted out.

We carry the plates of salad through the dining room and over to the living room couch, passing by the teen who is now rapidly typing away at his paper.
“So why are you writing a paper on statistics anyway?” my girlfriend asks taking a stab at the lettuce on her plate with a fork, “I thought this class was more about numbers and word problems?”

“Mr Fahazad wants us to write about why statistics matter, how they make a difference in the world, how they relate to me, “he says. He rattles off talk of how they are important to coaches, how you rely on them when you check the weather, etc…. and my girlfriend listens and nods in approval back at him while eating her salad. And as they talk, my mind starts to wander. What do I know about statistics that I can add to the conversation except that I am one? A divorced woman who just left another long term relationship only a year ago. I have read the statistics that say that pretty much half of all marriages end in divorce. And if you are foolish enough to even attempt to test fate again and choose to get remarried, according to the statistics, almost 70% of us hopeless humans will file for divorce again.

But in love and parenting, should you follow the statistical evidence? Or should you just follow your heart? What do I really care about what the statistics say when I look over and see my girlfriend patting my slacker teen on the back for his great job of thinking through the assignment and doing the work? No, my odds are on my third and last attempt to find the right partner. And I’d put all my money on my teen’s ability to surprise me despite what appears to be an overwhelming mountain of evidence to the contrary.

Now, just don’t anybody tell Mr. Fahazad.

Written by kmguay

September 16, 2009 at 1:26 am

tuesday night dinner

with 4 comments


dinnerStanding in cold kitchen with coat on, drop commuter bag on table and open refrigerator door. Feel good about the partially defrosted turkey meat on the shelf even as you notice the frostbite on the edges. Continue to thaw in microwave. Pour olive oil in big pan. Shit. Big pan is lounging in sink under grayish sudsy water. Wash pan. Dry with towel. Place on stove. Now remove coat and drape over one arm while pouring olive oil in big pan.

6:40 PM. On way to bedroom to change, still carrying coat, turn house heat on. Change clothes. Return to kitchen. Thank a god that there is red wine still on the counter from the weekend. Pour a glass halfway full. Look at it with dismay. Pour more in again to the top. Spy an onion on top of the microwave next to a lone garlic clove. Consider the ingredient list: Onion. Turkey Meat. Olive Oil. Fresh Oregano, Tomato Sauce. Whole Wheat Spaghetti. Parmesan Cheese. Crusty Bread. Garlic.

Boil the water. Take a big sip of the wine as son number one walks in the kitchen complaining.

"Spaghetti? when will it be ready?" he says.

Try not to notice the disgusted look on his face and say something snide like "Never."

Look at the clock. 6:45. Decide against the onion. Toss a frozen french bread boule in the cold oven. Crank the dial to 450. Listen for son number two and ex-husband making their entrance through the front door.

"Mom, we're home!" they say.

Notice that they've completely ignored your request to stop at Deluxe Tux in the center of town and take an even bigger sip of your wine when the grey shirt and the maroon tie spill out of the Men's Wearhouse bag and onto the table.

"I thought we decided on a simple rented tux for Sat?" you say.

Answer from ex husband, "Well this way he'll have a suit for special occassions."

Answer back from ex-wife "What special occasions? He'll grow out of it before the next occasion. I agreed to pay half of the price of a tux. What did this cost?"

And now it starts.

"You don't need to pay half"he says.

"But what did this cost?"you say.

"Just pay me whatever you were planning to pay me for the tux"he says.

"What did this cost?!"you say.

" 265 dollars"he says.

" 265 dollars!" you say.

Throw frozen turkey meat in pan of smoking olive oil and pulverize with a wooden spoon. Skip the fresh oregano. Toss pasta into boiling water while raising your voice to shrill ex-wife level.

"I'm not paying that and neither are you! We don't have it. And another thing, do we really want to reward him with a 300 dollar suit right now?! you say.

Now brace yourself for the teen to join in.

"MOM! I cant believe you! You are ruining my life!" he says.

Scream back. "Get out of the kitchen and let me be mad at your father right now!" you say.

"It was 265 dollars not 300" ex husband says.

Flash angry look at ex-husband while emptying jarred sauce into turkey meat with a splat. Ignore ex-husband as he leaves the house and the other teen starts to cry at the computer.

"And what's wrong with you now?"you say.

You are fighting with dad and I have a five paragraph essay to write and it was due Monday." says the younger teen.

"But its Tuesday." you say.

"My teacher is a bitch. She is making me do it anyway and there is no point now." he says.

Now lose your mind while brandishing a tomato-sauced wooden spoon in one hand as the sullen teen stops to text his girlfriend.

"SHUT OFF THAT PHONE AND SIT YOUR ASS RIGHT THERE AND DO ALL FIVE PARAGRAPHS! And GIVE ME THE PHONE. GIVE IT TO ME!" GIVE IT TO MEEEEEEEEEE!

Catch whipped cellphone with your free hand before it hits you and slam it on the counter. Look at the clock. 7:00 PM. Lower heat on sauce. Dump overcooked pasta into collander. Toss pasta and sauce together in a mixing bowl and place in the middle of the table. Arrange three plates. Set out forks and one spoon. Place plastic parmesan cheese container on table. Remove crusty bread from oven and try to cut even though its still frozen in center. Say fuck it and cut off one end and apply butter. Leave the frozen splintered bread mess on the cutting board indefinitely. Scream DINNER! and heap a large pile of totally unappetizing pasta onto your plate and don't make eye contact with either one of your spoiled, ungrateful, miserable teenage children. Eat furiously while waiting for your ex-husband to call you from the road.

"Mom, it's dad on the phone" says a teen.

Take another sip of your wine while listening to the phone ring.

"Mom, that's dad calling." he says.

Keep chewing while placing the phone to your ear.

"Uh huh" you say.

"I can"t return it now because I didn't pay with a check." says ex husband.

"How did you pay for it? In blood?” you say.

"I paid with a debit card" he says.

"You can get your money back. Just return it" you say.

"It will only be store credit" he says.

"I think you're wrong, read the receipt to me. You can get your money back." you say.

Drink more wine while you listen to your ex-husband read you the return and exchange terms on the store receipt.

"Ok, I'll return it tomorrow" he says.

"Yeah, I think that is best" you say.

Now notice the teen at the table turning red. Put your hand up in front of his face before he pops a blood vessel.

"Chill out. You'll get a tux for Sat and it will be fine."you say.

Turn your attention back to the phone and twirl more pasta on your fork. Listen to ex-husband say, "I'm an idiot"

Feel bad for him and angry at yourself for losing your temper.

"No you are not, I've done it before. They are good salespeople and the store is overpriced. That's why I don't go there anymore. We'll take care of it tomorrow. Good night." you say.

Place the phone down and survey the kitchen, the two empty chairs now, an empty wine glass, a massacred loaf on the counter, the sound of the tv from the tv-room blaring, the computer keys clicking away.

7:40.

1 hour and 10 minutes later and another Tuesday night dinner is complete.

Written by kmguay

August 22, 2009 at 3:52 pm

Posted in family, teenagers

Tagged with , , , ,