Clunky Transition Days

This has been a good week (for bad writing).

In "man points" I'm up like 50-2. Man points are like "bravery points". One gets "man points" for doing "manly" things. In my case I've successfully fixed a broken trash compactor AND washing machine in the same week. That's a big deal in "man world". Fixing one major appliance is a coup. Fixing two? Unheard of. I need to invent a new adjective to describe it.

I fixed the washing machine using a bobby pin. For real. I'm f'n MacGyver bitches!

I'm definitely basking in the afterglow of successful appliance repair. In the words of the bard, "It's Miller time baby!" Or Captain Morgan time at a minimum.

First clunky transition.

But I'm still a little blue. I suppose the sadness comes and goes. It generally hits me whenever I reflect on what I've lost due to the divorce. My friend Farone told me "getting divorced is like a death in the family". I didn't understand him at the time, but he is right. I'm definitely grieving.

I've said it a hundred times - on the whole I was very happy with my marriage. Now that it's over, all I have left are the memories. And other than the last year, almost every one of them is good. I still have a picture of the Ex and I from my college graduation on my desk at work. Every holiday I think of the good times we spent together. It's very much a grieving process. Its over, I've let go and I certainly don't want her back, but I still miss what I lost.

A lot.

Maybe the sadness will be attenuated by the passage of time. The anger certainly has been. Sure, when I have to live under the same roof as her, she still pushes all my buttons and pisses me off. But on the whole I've pretty much let go of my animosity. If it wasn't for her constantly antagonizing me, I pretty much wouldn't care anymore. Pretty much all I want is to be left alone.

Is the fact that I care less and less every day the reason she tries to push my buttons? Last week I absent-mindedly asked The Boy "Why does mommy leave all the lights on in the house?"

He matter of factly replied "To aggravate you." He even used the word 'aggravate'. I was flabbergasted. How petty is that? And who is the child? It turns out his mother actually instructed him NOT to turn off the lights.

Back to me my favorite topic. Me. And appliance repair.

Second clunky transition.

The trash compactor was easy. The door wouldn't stay closed. It turns out that there is a maximum density for trash compaction and after that, the excess garbage just blocks up the machine and knocks it out of level. Apparently teenagers will continue to force trash into the jaws of the machine at any cost to avoid emptying the container.

I seem to remember doing something similar as a child.

Third clunky transition.

Growing up, my parents had a trash incinerator in the basement. I've never known anyone else who had a personal incinerator. We had to separate our garbage into "rubbish" and "trash". We called the burnable stuff "trash", which would be fed into the incinerator and turned into heat and copious quantities of air pollution. I almost feel sorry for our neighbors who had to smell it. I don't remember clearly, but it can't have resembled a burning cinnamon yule log.

There is no way in hell that the EPA would ever allow one of those smog belching beasts to be installed in a residential basement now, would there? Not to mention the risk of fire.

As a kid, it was my job to take the trash downstairs to feed the beast. The incinerator was made of green steel. It was about the size of a tall end table and had a lid that was about 12 inches square on top and lifted up with a squeaky, groaning, moan. I thought the bag of trash would spontaneously combust as soon as it passed the entrance to the incinerator. I would heave the lid open, toss the bag in and slam the lid back down before the beast pulled me in.

This was usually followed by me running up the basement stairs at top speed before the lid slammed closed.

Fourth clunky transition.

So it's been a good week. But unfortunately for me, Sunday is coming. Sundays are the worst day of the week. It's the day the Ex and I hand off the kids. Depending on the week, it either means the beginning or end of my parenting time. Regardless or whether I'm coming or going, transition days suck. If I'm leaving, it's the loss of my time with the kids. If I'm coming, it's having to live under the same roof as the Ex.

The first day with the kids is always difficult. The transitions are tough on them too - maybe tougher than they are for me. I suppose they need time to adapt to my slightly different parenting style. I'm the heavy. I'm the one who doesn't put up with misbehaving or disrespect. The Ex is the boo boo kisser. I'm the one who holds them accountable for their poor choices. I'm a believer that both styles of parenting are required. The kids need a sympathetic shoulder that will comfort them when things don't go their way. But they also need someone who will tell them to get up and walk it off.

Too much 'boo boo kissing' and they grow up dependent and soft. Too much 'walking it off' and they grow up hard and aloof. I want my kids to be strong and capable, but also sensitive and respectful of other people's feelings. It's a tough line to walk. Especially alone.

I'd say child rearing is the single most difficult challenge related to the divorce. Rewarding, but difficult.

I think the transitions may be tough on The Ex too. Most of the visits from Shelby's Finest generally occur near transition days. She may be feeling some of the same separation anxiety I get when my parenting time ends. Of course, my anxiety occurs at Gary's house and we rarely need to call the cops.

It's also tough having your whole life tossed upside down every seven days. I've been living out of a suitcase for so long, at this point it's starting to feel 'normal'. Even when I'm at home, I find myself folding my laundry and storing it in my duffel. By the time this is over I'm going to be like Crocodile Dundee. He slept on the floor of the Plaza Hotel because he couldn't get comfortable in the bed.

Maybe I'll get a chest of drawers that looks like a suitcase.

I've been trying to keep the kids active. In the summer finding activities for the kids is easy. Now, it's getting more and more difficult due to the weather.

Fifth clunky transition. And probably the worst.

Last week I took the kids ice skating. I've never been ice skating before in my life. I was a little apprehensive to say the least. My 42 year old butt bruises a lot easier than it used to and takes a heck of a lot longer to heal.

But here's the thing - we had a great time. And I'm a pretty decent skater. I can't roller skate or roller blade to save my life, but I get around damn good on ice skates. I don't know that I can say ice skating is inherently different than roller skating, but I can tell you that it is possible to slide sideways on ice skates. If you do that on roller skates, you eat pinewood.

It's very similar to moving around on skis. At least to me.

Both kids had a great time. I got to skate with each of them and they both had fun learning and trying out something new. For those of you that care, The Girl seems to be a little more natural skater than her brother. By the end of the session she was skating by herself.

Big f'n deal. Right?

Well my point (if I have one) is that while I grieve for the old life I lost and the memories associated with it, it's never too late to do new things and make new memories. I can say with almost absolute certainty I will go ice skating again with my kids. And that will be an activity I will always associate with just us. There will be no memories of The Ex. Good or bad.

And that's my point.