Things I Can’t Possibly Understand

Calculus.

Physics.

Mandarin Chinese.

What my exhusband calls “research”.

Oh wait, I actually can understand that… I just know it by a different term: stalking.

He did this once before and was basically pummeled by a judge in court over it. His lawyer lauded his “research” and praised her client for “such dedication” as she ran her thick fingers over the front covers of his THREE 4″ 3-ring binders loaded with every thing I have ever done or said or considered saying on the internet. Yep. He stalked my MySpace blog (back when I had one) and he infiltrated my mom’s message board and created a fake user name specifically to track how much time I spent online (based on an algorithmic formula of words typed divided by the square root of projected time online) and exactly WHAT I was up to online… Because what else is a working single mother going to be doing online?

She’s probably a terrorist, he thought (allegedly). (I’m sure). (Probably).

And he found poetry. And reports on life and how hard it was having to trek in and out of court with an exhusband so full hate-rage. How frustrating it was to get shoved into mediation and then, after hours and hours of discussions and trying to meet in the middle, only to be booted right out of mediation because the exhusband had “changed his mind.”

The judge asked him, “Do you collect stamps?”

He made the classic “him” quizzical look at her. The one that says, “What the fuck are you some kind of ruh-tard?” The one that, when you aren’t expecting it, has the power to make you feel tiny and insignificant and stupid… And he replied, “I beg your pardon?”

The judge continued, “Do you like baseball cards?”

He continued to look at her like she was sitting up behind her tall desk with a trio of chickens balancing on her head, all juggling.

She went on to admonish him for being so caught up in his exwife’s life and completely ignoring his fiance over there, on the front row, supporting him. What an embarrassment.

He actually confessed in an email to me recently — a heated one (like so many of our emails) — that he does this “research” so that he can keep up with our son’s day to day life.

Well, firstaball, I don’t blog daily.

Second…aball… I don’t blog about my son’s day to day life.

And finally, if he was REALLY so interested in his son’s life, do you think he would have given up 50% of his visitation last year when I moved 11 miles closer to him because (and I’m paraphrasing the entire whiny email here) traffic was too hard in the mornings?

I just wish I could have a popup service him when he visits (which is often, y’all.. I’ve got statcounter and it’s pretty clear when there are DOZENS of page loads from his city all from the same ISP, like… DUR) that would say, “Hey, dude… What color shirt did your wife put on today? Do you recall what you ate for lunch today? Do you realize how pathetic it is to stalk your exwife’s personal blog on the internet?” And then, when he tries to click away, it pops up another message, “Are you sure you want to continue living this shell of a life where you aren’t really living at all?”

It would be awesome if it could be a persistent pop-up, like one of those that keeps popping up more popups until your blessed computer wheezes under the pressure and then finally freezes.

That would be awesome.

OR… Another solution: he could just take a look at his life and realize that there is magic in every moment that he is missing while he quietly obsesses over my life…

While I am dancing — spinning circles — in the magic that IS my life.

Life is good. Love is grand. Work is awesome.

Exhusbands can be really lame. Here’s hoping he’ll turn his life around and start living.

It might be hypocritical of me…

… but I don’t really care.

Years and years ago, back when I was first separated, I met a man in a coffee shop. I remember that I was wearing this vintage-style tshirt that said, “Satisfied” in a baseball jersey style kind of way. That shirt was his “in”… Smooth operator. He ended up being the “big time republican” — that’s actually how he would describe himself. We’d be sitting around at a bbq or, really, anywhere, and he’d lean forward, rest his elbows on his thick knees and use the air quotes/bunny ears as he said, “I’m what they call a ‘big time republican’.” Seriously.

I dated a republican. But not just any republican, but a big time one. We all go through dark spaces, right?

I didn’t end up breaking up with him because of his political misgivings. No, it was because of the way that he parented his two year old son.

See, the boy child was only a year old when his father left. I fell into what many single mothers fall into when suddenly thrust into the harsh lonely light of single parenting. I was so afraid of being alone, parenting alone, sleeping alone, paying bills alone, eating meals alone… I was also pretty broken, damaged by the sharp words and slivers of insecurity that my husband had planted in me. I wasn’t pretty. I was fat. I was unlovable. I had been left. I had this BABY — who wants to date a woman with a BABY?? AAAAND a baby-daddy!? I felt undateable… My only touchstone for dating was from pre-baby days where you’d go out and get yo drank on and go dancing and live a life full of debauchery. What was I supposed to do on a date now? Talk? Actually talk? It was terrifying.

So, the easiest option for me when it came to dating was to find someone else that had a kid. LOOK! We have so much in common, other single parent! We’re both parents and… um… Like, we both had kids and stuff. You know. Whatever. It’s really a stupid thing to base your entire love-match search on, but I was young and stupid and insecure.

So, when The Big Time Republican questioned my level of satisfaction that afternoon in the coffee shop, whilst pointing at the screen printing across my tits in that tight purple shirt, I listened. While fumbling through my purse for my phone to save his number, he saw all the baby-crap in my bag and asked if I had a kid. My heart jumped vertical, straight into my throat and I squeaked out a yes, as if it was some kind of secret confession. His face brightened up and I learned about his son.

We dated for about eight months. Most of it was good. Really, he was a fine boyfriend. Attentive, kind to me, thoughtful, tender. It wasn’t until about seven months in when I realized, “I never want to let him parent my son,” and I knew in my gut that it wouldn’t work out. There was one incident where is his son was being all toddler-rage-y and screaming and crying and blah blah blah and he popped him hard on his thigh and hissed, “Stop crying!” I remember feeling my forehead wrinkle as I raised my eyebrows, eyes wide and mouth agape. How can you hit a child and expect him to NOT cry about it? He’s two for crying out loud!

We fought pretty much non-stop for that last month that we were together. It took me a little while to figure out that I was dealing with a deal breaker. After that break-up, my divorce was finalized and I was reborn and renewed and certain that I would never date someone with children again.

Right, I know… It’s totally unfair. “But, Jami… YOU’VE got a kid. How can you impose a stipulation on someone like that when you have a kid yourself?” I get it. I understand that it’s hypocritical. I’m okay with that because, for me, it’s not something I am willing to do… Creating a new family (me, boy child and a new hubs for me) will be hard enough, but the idea of blending a family in that Brady Bunch kind of way is just something that sends panicked shivers up my spine and turns my stomach. It is what it is…

So, for a long time, I dated for me… I dated without the intention of finding a step-father for my son and a husband for me. I dated for fun. For short-lived satisfaction. And it WAS fun, for a while. But like cotton candy, after a while, it makes you sick and your fingers get sticky and you just can’t keep it up.

So I quit dating. I would ebb and flow, back and forth… Dating… Jaded… Not Dating… Renewed… Dating… Blah blah blah.

And then I met Colin. On accident. Sideswiped, really.

Colin never dated a woman with children before. And dating a single mother is hard, guys. I get it. Our schedules are crazy (Read: “Sure, I’d like to go on a date. I am available on Tuesday from 3:15-5:45 and then on Thursday for lunch and then I’m not available again for two weeks.”), our lives are crazy (Read: obsessively controlling exhusbands that stalk you and call it “research”), we’ve got a different set of priorities. It’s hard. And most men can’t hang, no matter how much they love YOU, sometimes they leave because they aren’t ready to be parents. Sometimes they stay and resent your children because they have to share you. I think that, eventually, if a man doesn’t love your children like they were his own, he will leave you or the resentment will cause you to leave him.

I’m just so grateful that Colin didn’t look at me the way I looked at men when I was dating. I’m so glad that he didn’t rule me out because I have a kid… I’m consistently amazed at how he continues to fold himself into the corners of my complicated existence, filling all the chipped corners and cracks like that insulation foam. Patching up my tired and weathered heart. Easing himself into my son’s life as a friend and confidant. He defaults often, ever so modestly, by saying, “I don’t know how to do this!” because he’s unfamiliar with the territory. But watching him, all I can see is the little invisible daddy that has been living dormant inside of him for his whole life finally stretching his little invisible arms and waking up.

My Most Recent WRITE CLUB Performance, For Your Ears

Listen here.

Or on iTunes.

Expect more from me soon. Work is going amazing so, I’m hoping, time will open up for me soon. I have been writing so much lately, I just haven’t plugged it all in to the blog yet.

Soon, very soon.