It's Too Late, Baby

An employee came into my office this morning and told me she is leaving her husband. Well, actually she didn't tell me she was leaving her husband. Rather, as she raked her hands through her hair repeatedly (so hard, in fact, I expected to see fist-fulls of hair fall to the floor), she repeated the same words over and over again: "Okay. Okay. Okay. Okay. Um. Okay." That was followed by, "I'm okay. I'm okay. Really, I'm okay." Then, laughter. I wondered if she really was okay but didn't ask. Finally, she was able to actually say the words.

My employees know whenever they come to me about anything, before closing the door of my office behind them, they must precede any conversation with the words, "I'm not quitting." They know all too well after years of conditioning, that if they do not utter this short phrase, they will likely impend heart palpatations upon me and cause me to die, which would be bad for me and messy and uncomfortable for them. So, really, it works out to everyone's benefit.

And, so, after she recited the required password upon entering my office, I felt relieved. For myself, of course; not for her. Selfishly, this automatically takes me off the hook. As long as I don't have to worry about covering for someone else's job or hiring a new employee, I'm a pretty happy camper. Besides the fact that I fucking hate my job, or any job for that matter, but I try to not dwell on that little nugget. Mother fucker.

The decision to leave one's spouse, I realize, is not taken lightly. She assured me that since early on in their marriage she had tried to convince him to seek counseling with her, and he had consistently refused. When I first met her and she spoke of her husband, the first thought that popped into my head was, "they won't last." (Wow, I know. Not very nice or optimistic, but I call 'em like I see 'em.) This is partially because I am psycho, I mean psychic, and partially because of things she said about her husband. "He really needs to go back to school and get his masters. He doesn't make very much money." "He still smokes cigarettes when he's with his friends and tries to hide it from me." "I really don't want to go to a football party. I'd rather go out with my girlfriends." Now, I get the whole football party thing; a sports obsession alone of any kind to me is grounds for divorce.

In all fairness, it was not so much what she said but how she said it. Sure, I talk a lot of smack about my guy, but it's said in a sincere and loving way, for the sake of improving our relationship and letting off some steam. "He's bartending tonight. On fucking MLK day. What the fuck is he thinking? He should be at home with me - it's a fucking holiday, for chrissakes." "No, he's not taking me out. He has band practice on his fucking night off. Fucking bastard." While she has several fundamental problems with their marriage including financial issues, lifestyle choices, and lack of things in common, it is obvious that I simply would like to spend more quality time with my husband. How sweet is that?


So, really, the fact that she was leaving her husband was no shock to me. She is beautiful and young and motivated, and he doesn't seem to have any aspirations to do much of anything. Not that I am one to judge. But I do. Clearly, they are missing the one thing that holds my marriage together; an everlasting bond of unconditional love perpetuated by prolonged periods of absence, mostly due to the fact that we are busy working, taking care of the children, or in brief, fleeting periods, sleeping. The secret to our happy marriage is that we don't spend a whole lot of time together. Therefore, during the time we spend apart, we pine away for each other. When we are together, we look forward to being apart again. It keeps life interesting.

She told me that she had consulted her parents about her decision and they had given her their blessing. She also said her husband had finally consented to counseling, though she felt at this point it was too little, too late. He was simply stating what he thought she wanted to hear, but she was smart enough to not believe him. I can relate to this all too well.


My son, who is almost 7 years old, is a master of negotiating in moments of panic. I find myself falling for his pleas for mercy over and over again. He will promise almost anything when faced with punishment. As his parent, it is my job not to believe him. "Tough Shit" I think they call it. No, "Tough Love". If you push it too far, it's called 'neglect', so you gotta walk a fine line with this.

Yesterday morning, as we were trying to hurriedly get him ready for Sunday school, he announced, "I have a stomache ache!!" I believed him, knowing that he had eaten a second and unnecessary bowl of cereal. I told him to take it easy for a minute and we would see how he felt. The next thing I know, my husband is yelling, "Then I am taking you to the doctor!! Right now!! Dammit." Apparently, my husband had found our son rolling on the floor in the hallway clutching his stomach. No, he was not seriously ill, but he was, in fact, trying to get out of going to Sunday school. It worked. I told him that if he did not feel good, he could stay home. I also told him that if he did not go to Sunday school he could not go to his friend's birthday party later that day. His lips quivered and eyes began to water, "But...that's not fair!" Being the sado-masochistic person that I am, I said that we would discuss it later and left it at that.

Within about fifteen minutes (though too late to make it to Sunday school), he had a miraculous recovery. He proceeded to read and draw, play games and watch T.V., until he noticed the time. "It's three o'clock! Only on more hour until the party!!" "Um, no," I replied. "You can't go to the party. You had a tummy ache." "WHAT?!" he screeched at the very top of his little lungs. His face melted into a pool of watery grimaces, shifting and changing within seconds. "I told you that this morning, when you decided you could not go to Sunday school," I said. "No, you didn't! You did not tell me that!" he screeched. "I did and you need to know that anytime you miss school, you give up any parties or special activities for the day because you need to rest, and if you're not well enough to go to school, you're not well enough to go to a party."


Considering even the tiniest tummy ache, the prospect of pizza, birthday cake, and jumping around for two hours did not seem like a good idea. But really I was trying to make a point. The party was being held at Pump It Up, which is bascially a warehouse that contains a series of what used to be called 'moonwalks', although I believe now the correct technical term is 'jumpy-jump'. If you have never been to one, then you are in for a real treat if you never go to one. Basically, imagine being trapped inside the engine of a 747 with unseen children screaming and crying and blood and teeth flying everywhere. I dare you to walk out without a migraine. "Yeah, but the kids love it!!" people say. I think my children will love it more if their mother does not end up in the nut house. The first time we accompanied my son to one, I vowed we would never go back. We were there the four following weekends for birthday parties. Once I stopped the blood from seeping out of my tear ducts, I felt better about it.

"But I never get to go to Pump It Up!!! They are going to have cake!! They have a goodie bag for me!!!" At this point, my heart broke. How could I withhold such tiny pleasures from my child? Had he really done anything wrong? Wouldn't it be okay to just let him go? Would he be joyous and grateful to have such a wonderful and forgiving mom? Would I be able to quit my job? Will my husband buy me a diamond ring? I knew the answer to all of these questions was 'no', but I was slipping.

"Can't we just let him go? He's fine now." Now, I was the one begging. I knew I was potentailly in for hours and hours of crying and screaming, and that the mommy guilt alone might kill me. "You have got to stand your ground," my husband said. "He is never going to learn if you don't stick to your guns. There has to be a direct consequence for his actions." I stared at my husband, blinking and thinking, until I said, "okay." I didn't know what else to say.


Any good negotiator knows when faced with demands, you say nothing, and this is what I did with my son. For the rest of the afternoon, I listened to my son rant and rave. And the rest of the afternoon, I did nothing. I hugged him and told him I love him, but I did not give in. Eventually, the time of the party came and went and things settled down.


Until later, when my husband decided my son needed some fresh air and wanted to take him to the park. This brought on another knock-down, drag-out fight. "I don't want to go to the park!! I want to stay here!!" he screamed as I dragged him out to the car. As my husband was lifting him into the car, he said, "but I want to give mom a hug!" at which point my husband put him down, and my son dashed right past us back into the house. I chased him back into his bedroom where he was trying to crawl under the bed. I grabbed his ankle and dragged him back out. He grabbed ahold of his miniature piano and would not let go. I yanked his leg, which toppled the piano over with everthing on it. I didn't care. I lifted him up and he immediately became a limp noodle, impossible to hold on to, but I managed to get him down the hallway.


In this moment of truth, he began panicking. "I'll change! I'll do whatever you want!! I promise!! You have to believe me!!" I did not believe him. I had heard it too many times before: empty promises and nothing changes. If I budge, things go back to the way they were before. He needed to learn that no matter what he said to me, this time I would stand my ground.

For the good of both of us, I hugged him tightly and said, "it's too late, baby."