T and I mixed it up big time last night. He was pissed about something dumb his ex had done, something that unfortunately involved her defacto co-parent/landlord, and T lost his shit. “He will have NO CONTACT with my children during MY TIME with them,” T thundered.

My response: Meh. What does it matter? Done is done. For better or worse, she’s hitched her wagon to this dude’s star, and it’ll flame out. Or it won’t. Either way, you don’t get a vote in who she partners with. And for the record, I don’t think your ex is that wild about me, either.

T has legitimate reasons to dislike this dude. T also has a brain like a steel trap that has run the variables often enough the determine that if Dude wasn’t in the picture, he’d likely have full custody of his kids, a favorable property settlement, and at least 30 miles between him and his ex.

Instead, she lives 1.5 blocks away with Dude and the kids bounce back and forth between the two houses like pinballs on a 50/50 split. Dude routinely cares for the kids in all manner of ways when they are with their mom, while she … um … does something other than hands-on parenting. (Not being sarcastic; I’m deliberately ignorant about how she spends her time.)

This fries T in ways I can’t really comprehend. My initial response to his rage is to dismiss it under “white male entitlement.” White dudes just expect the world to tilt in their favor, and they seem shocked when it doesn’t.

Yeah, sorry that you didn’t get what you wanted. There’s a support group for that, you know? It’s called EVERYONE, and they meet at the bar.

Secondly, is the widow trump card: Oh, so sorry something terrible happened. When’s the funeral? What do you mean, no one died? Then why the fuck are you so upset? NO ONE IS DEAD.

For the record, people *hate* both of these responses to their anger.

But right now, it’s all I got. Right now, my brain is walking the halls of the fifth floor of the critical care unit of Kimmel Cancer Center, down to the corner room #7. My brain is trying to remember which catheter went into my husband’s body first. I didn’t ask for my brain to slip into the lowest-gear – Disaster Fatigue – but here we seem to be.


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