Diary of a Writer in Midlife Crisis

Sunday was a beautiful day.

Not just because it was the morning after a very successful surprise party I threw with friends for my husband’s 50th birthday.

Not just because the diet lemonade out of the fountain at Wawa that morning was chilled to perfection.

And not just because it was raining the way I like it best—steady, warm, and lyrical.

Sunday was beautiful because I witnessed, no, participated in something monumental, something I never thought would ever happen in my lifetime. Something I had entirely given up on.

And it happened at the most peculiar of places: the Delaware I-95 rest stop. Also the midway point between our house and C’s house in Maryland, where she lives with her mother “S”—and the pick-up and drop-off point for our visits.

On Sunday, we went to drop C off to S like any other Sunday (barring the 16 Sundays we missed when S wouldn’t allow us to see C for reasons that still baffle us). We had no idea, however, that this Sunday would be special.

On that day, as I imagine it is on all other days, parking at the rest stop was scarce and the traffic chaotic. Mothers changed diapers in the backs of metallic-green minivans, while fathers took their sons inside the small brick building to the bathroom. There, they bought them hot dogs and fruit juice and cheeseburgers at Bob’s Big Boy.

Still, others drove in circles looking for the road back to the highway.

Despite the rain, people were everywhere. Stretching their legs and walking their dogs on the long strips of dirty grass that separated cars, parking spots, and metal trash cans.

It was a slice of life. A scene like any you’d see at any other rest stop across the country, save for what happened to us—well, C, S, and me.

Here it is:

When we pulled up to the rest stop, we found S waiting for us, as usual, in the driver’s seat of her Subaru wagon. As we came to a stop, she climbed out to greet us and retrieve C’s bag from our trunk. And, as usual, C and I went inside to use the facilities.

We always use the facilities, even if we don’t have to go. Even if the 90-minute drive and three sodas between us haven’t yet made it through our small intestines.

Because using the facilities, whether we need to or not, gives us a few more minutes try to get the water out of the automatic faucet. And a paper towel out of the dispenser. A few more minutes together before C goes back to Maryland with her mother.

Usually, when we’re done playing our bathroom games and wiping our hands on each other, we go back outside to the car, where Dan and S are standing in discomfort, waiting.

But not this time. Not on Sunday.

Because it was raining—a glorious relentless pelting that hammered at the ground like a band of spirited musicians—Dan and C’s mom were waiting for us inside, in front of Cinnabon, surrounded by a revolving stage of bakers and travelers and lattes in big white cups with green logos.

Distracted by the sight of vanilla icing, we almost walked right past them. Until S called out.

“Yoo hoo.” She is smiling and waving. I don’t know why, but suddenly I am surprised to see her standing there, with my husband.

“Oh, hey,” I say.

“No sense waiting outside in the rain.”

Dan stands there looking like somebody just shot him.

“There goes my good hair day.” Knowing full well that my hair looked lousy from the moment I woke up.

She points to her ponytail. “I hear ya.”

I ask about her stepmother's surgery. Bev was at my bridal shower and our wedding with S’s father, both once very important to my husband.

“Doing better, got an email from Dad today and they’ve got her up and moving.”

“Great. That's so important.” Although, what do I know? I’m never sure how much aspirin to take.

As S and I talk about Bev and my mother’s shattered elbow and my father’s lung cancer and subsequent depression, and her dad’s disillusion, C finds a place in between us.

Then, she takes her mother’s hand in her left hand and mine in her right. And she starts to swing. Like a see-saw. Mine and C’s hands go up, S and C’s go down. S and C’s go up, mine and C’s go down.

You know what I’m talking about. You’ve probably seen it—or done it—a thousand times yourself. Might be doing it right now. Probably didn’t even notice it.

But I did.

“You should definitely try the Boca Burgers,” I say, referring to C’s recent proclamation that she’s now a vegetarian. Trying to act natural. Like something I never thought would or could happen was—like winning the lotto or squeezing into a pair of size 2 Levi’s.

The ex-wife, the new wife, the child, newly connected by a fleshy a string of lights, like stick figures drawn by a pre-schooler in brown and red crayon. After, that is, too many months of accusations, lawyers' fees, court dates, and heated silences.

“I’ve had Boca burgers before. They’re good.”

I tell S how we gave them to C earlier and how she loved them.

All the while, swing. Swing. Swing. Three hands swinging. C’s, S’s, and mine. I look at C. She’s beaming, like she was just awarded a new American Doll every year for life. I look out the glass door ahead to the parking lot. The rain's dropping like confetti from a freshly whacked pinata.

I am so relieved.

“Dad even ate one,” C says. "And we all know how he LOVES meat." She starts to giggle. It’s contagious.

Swing a ding a ling.

“I used to feed him that stuff all the time,” S says, eyes rolling. “He never knew the difference.”

“I know,” I say. “I do too. And he still doesn’t.” We all laugh again. I think about tofu and the way C's nine-year-old hand feels against my palm. Dan looks a bit like his pants have suddenly dropped to his ankles for no reason. Yet, I feel fine. Not a bit awkward. After all, that was then and this is now.

One woman’s trash is another woman’s treasure. Right?

And by the way? Swing a ling a ling.

After a few more minutes of small talk about the weekend and how I left a part of Dan’s birthday cake that I had saved for S at home, and how we’re looking at camps for C, and what a good girl she is, C wrapped her arms around me and then her father and then her father again, and then me, and then we all waved and smiled as C and S got back into the wagon and I took Dan’s hand and swing a ling a ding and off we went in the Element, back to the house where C leaves her sneakers and the necklace her sister Heidi bought her and the blue rose ring that matches the one I have in white and Heidi has in black, and her sister-dog Winnie, and her turtle statue, and her kids Claritin.

Life is so surprising. I say it all the time, don’t I?
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For those of you who’ve been following the story, well, this story, you’re probably very confused. Probably, the last time we spoke or you read, I was either scorned-wife angry or cover-my-butt unclear. Not sure why we couldn’t see C. Not allowed to talk about it online. Write about my true feelings.

Well, here it is, the answer to the puzzle, the mystery exposed, finally:

See, for some reason, S believed I had been unkind to her daughter, yelling and screaming, inserting myself wrongly into the parental process. That was the problem. At least the way it was laid out in the summons and court orders, in bold print and quotations. In legal-speak.

But that’s all over now. And while the system worked on some level for Cody, humanity and reason worked even better.

Here’s what happened:

I was recounting to my novel group one night about the horrors of being the new wife to an ex-wife who hated you. And for no good or easily identifiable reason.

"But I love C, and I’m so good to her. You’d think she’d be happy about that."

But my writer girls, older, wiser, and far more seasoned in the darker aspects of jealousy, divorce, and the dysfunction of parental separation, laughed at me.

Silly girl.
So naïve.
Idealistic.
Be happy? About what? About the fact that some other woman is married to her husband, even though she didn’t—doesn’t—want him, playing mommy dearest to her daughter.
She hates you.
Of course she does.
But she doesn’t even know me.
So. Has nothing to do with knowing you.
But that doesn’t make any sense.
Silly girl.
My mother would hate you too. She hated my stepmother.
Did you?
No, but so what.
I don’t get it. Why can’t we all just get along. For the child.
It’s her child, not yours.
But I’m not trying to be the child’s mother. I already have a dog, two nieces, and a slow metabolism. I’m tired. I don’t want somebody else’s child.
It doesn’t matter. She doesn’t like it. Or you. And that’s just the way it works. Get over it.
But I don’t want to! Wah! Wah!
Just stay out of her way and don’t cross the line.
I didn’t realize I crossed the line the first time. I don’t even know where the line is.
Well you did. Don’t be so likeable. Back off.
Okay, I will. I don’t understand, but I will. I don’t know when I backed on, but I’m off as of right now.
Smart. Finally.
But I do have to say that if I had a daughter and was in her situation, I’d be grateful to the new wife for being so kind to my child.
Bullshit.
Silly girl.
So naïve.
Idealistic.
You’d hate her.

Now who's turn is it to read?
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The next day, I was walking Winnie in the park, when it hit me. Stop being mad. It hurts too much. Put yourself in her shoes. How would you feel? Really feel? Okay, maybe you wouldn’t hire a lawyer to write all those nasty things, but you might feel jealous. Threatened. Upset that your child enjoyed the company of another woman. Protective.

These are basic human emotions. Visceral. Part of everyone. Don’t fault her for it. De-escalate. Assure her you’re not trying to take her place.

You’re like a fun old aunt, not a replacement mom.

You don’t know what in the Sam hell you’re doing. You’ve never been a stepmother before. You’re a newbie. An amateur. Just being your old idiotic self.

You need "Stepmother for Dummies." A personal consultation. A customized course.

You're an alien. And hey, to C's mom, I know you don’t know me and you have to leave your kid with an alien. But it’s not so bad out here in space. You’d know it if you got to know me. So do it. C’mon. If you do, you’ll see, I couldn’t insert myself into the process of parenting a fly. I’m too clueless.

Too tired.

Too into books and Lifetime Television. Too attached to my border collie.

And really, I just wanted a date.

All I did was fall in love with a man who you happened to toss back into the wading pool. So don’t hate me. I’ll follow your rules. Just tell me what they are. Just be my friend. Let’s all be friends. For C.

Well, okay, and for me. Because it takes too much for me to sustain this anger all day, every day. I have laundry to do. And deadlines.

And so I said it. Took 57 deep breaths as we approached the rest stop after that first visit after that long break and said it. And you know what happened?

Swing a ding a ling.

Until next time.