Sunday, January 19, 2014
Bourgeois Bleak House
If it weren't for Marcello Mastroianni, waiting for me on the leopard skin couch in my mind, you might not hear from me, again. On Friday night, Henry's dreams of playing on his high school baseball team were dashed when he didn't make it. You know he's perfect in every way -- my Henry -- don't you? All the cliches of broken hearts and your children as your heart walking around wouldn't do justice to the baseball broken heart. Parenting is not for the faint of heart is not a crock of shit.The man-child lay on my bed and told me that he had wanted to buy me a beach house when he went pro. I might have murmured something, but I watched his words float up to the ceiling, the beach, the house, the pro, a dream, and I turned away so he wouldn't see my heart fly through a broken window and into the arms of the man laying concrete over the dirt on the side of my house. Saturday was a day to get through, and we did. Today was the day that Oliver and his father were to leave for Switzerland, and Oliver's passport didn't come in the mail on Saturday. We hoped that the old passport and the receipt and tracking number would suffice, but at the airport it didn't, and we made the frenzied decision that The Husband would go to Switzerland to see his very aged mother and Oliver would climb back into the car and come home. We ate Pringles in the car and opened the Swedish Fish and ate them, too. We pulled up into the driveway and walked into the house, joined the baseball-disappointed, and the girl sleeping off seizures (two days now with none!), pulled a nice, black bourgeois cover over the roof and down the sides and here we sit, baseball-travestied, disappointed, medical-marijuanaed and matriarch-heavy.