As night falls, I lie on the floor, in a room doubling for play and learning. Small child, not yet a year, climbs on me. Her near 18 pounds does not weigh as heavily on me as the heavy weight in my heart. Red numbers on a bank statement, a simple mistake. It hovers over me like a dark cloud and a grey storm of ugly hangs in the house.
I thought we were past this. I thought
I was past foolish mistakes leading to negative bank balances. So long has it been since an impulse buy or a forgotten transaction or a math mistake has cost us so dearly. But that's not really what weighs on me.
I thought
we were past
this. Past flaring anger, ugly words and childish meaness. Past fruitless conflicts in times when we need to work as a team. Evidently not.
Instead of serious solutions, only childish remarks that smack of martyristic tendnacies are presented.
I could sell my video games. Yes, actually you could and not a tear would I shed. Hundreds (perhaps thousands) of dollars have been squandered over the years in the name of this hobby. 90% of these games only serve in bringing violence and immorality into our home. I would not be sad to see them go.
I do not say what I am thinking, and just allow the video game comment to clatter uselessly to the floor. We both know it will never happen. It's followed up quickly by another, equally empty psuedo-threat.
Fine then, I'll just sell off all my Legos.Yes, well they would probably bring a good price, those 100+ pounds that are there, in three huge tubs taking up a corner of our bedroom. I might feel a teensy bit more reluctant about those, since they are creative and non-violent. I might feel that if they'd been used at all in the last three months. But since they haven't and since this idea is just one more move in a foolish head game, I remain silent again.
So many things dear to me have I parted with over the years in the name of making ends meet. I have nothing of monetary value left to sacrifice to the angry god of bank fees. And right or wrong, I'm unsympathetic to his reluctance.
I've already beaten myself up about this. If, as I suspect, these remarks are only meant to make me feel guilty, they fail miserably. Just as foolish statements that scream lord-of-the-manor-syndrome fail even more miserably.
I am expected to snap my fingers and fix it, to which I can only say, I tried. I spoke with the bank, solicited some help from family and inventoried items
I could possibly sell. All before I even included not-so-lovable-just-this-minute man-child in on the knowledge that there was a problem. I'm way past guilt.
This is such an old path, worn in well over the years. Fix it, now before Daddy finds out. Cover it up, hide it, manage it. Even lie about it. An ugly truth but often better than a childish tantrum unleashed on us all. I'm weary of this. A long time back I gave up that way of doing things, opting rather to make him face the issues head on in hopes he might man-up and deal with them like he should, like I have to. And for a while it seemed that was happening.
And, I thought we were past all this.
I roll over and the baby climber and I come face to drooly face. Toothy grin hidden behind a Pooh Bear pacifier. She loves her Daddy so much, aware only that he loves her and will comfort her when she is in need and be with her when she is lonely. To her he is a big, cuddly teddy bear.
I wish I were so lucky.