Bad Roads and a Blue Bra

My ex-husband got married this weekend. On Sunday. Valentine’s Day.

I had it all planned out.

I’d sing at church, then come back home and get my daughter’s all ready for the wedding, curl their hair, iron their clothes, and then send them off with their dad. Pretty, primped, and in good spirits for this next odd mismatched chapter in our family’s story.

Then my mom would come for a visit. She doesn’t live that far away but far enough in this tundra that she doesn’t like to brave the three hour drive on a regular basis from November to March. But she would come that afternoon. We’d go shopping. I’d be distracted for the six hours my daughters would be away and just enjoy some mother daughter bonding.

It was the perfect plan.

“I’m not coming,” she announces in my ear just twenty minutes before my ex-husband is due to arrive. I drop the curling iron in my hand onto the sink to free my other hand as I arrange the final curls in my little girl’s hair. “The roads are terrible and I’m not risking my life. I’m sorry.”

“But the sun is shining here,” I protest in a desperate attempt to get her to change her mind and salvage my sanity.

The answer is no. She isn’t coming.

Sigh.

My ex-husband arrives. I tell him that although I hope he lives happily ever after, just in case he doesn’t, that someday, someday . . .

If he ends up alone on Valentine’s Day you know what I’m going to do? I’m going to get married. In fact, even if I’m already married, I’m going to get married again.

He just smiles. He’s used to my sarcasm.

I tell him congratulations. And give him a hug.

And then send my girls out the door with him.

Deep breath.

Well? Even though my mom isn’t here I decide to stick to my shopping plan. I am well aware that all my friends are busy so I just go it alone. Twenty minutes later I’m milling around Vicky’s Secret debating between an innocent lacy little number or a leopard print unmentionable. I wander around some more and then I realize the irony.

My first Valentine’s Day without a Valentine since 1998. My ex-husband is getting married.

And I’m standing in a store with hearts everywhere and the word “Love” on half the articles of clothing.

Gawd.

This is like sending an alcoholic to Wine country for the weekend.

What.

Am.

I doing here?

Eventually, I end up back home. With a new blue bra in a bright pink bag.

And have a good cry in my recliner. Then I blow my nose. Get out of the chair. And decide to use my remaining time home alone to be as productive as possible.

So I vacuum my stairs. (There’s something incredibly therapeutic about the methodical and measurable sucking up of lint and cat hair.)

And eventually? My girls come back home. Full of wedding cake and stories of how gross it was when Dad and his new wife kissed during the ceremony.

“It was long and yucky,” they report.

I smile and listen to their retelling. Divorce with children is like that. Little innocent messengers that go back and forth between two worlds, blending the fragments of the family they once had.

And with that.

Valentine’s Day 2010.

Came to a freshly vaccuumed stairs/new blue bra/yucky kissing.

End.