I was having such a fantastic day yesterday. I woke, got in some yoga, meditated, and had some good, fresh eats. I went to the spa with two wonderful women. I was feeling centered and relaxed after a massage and some pampering when my phone rang.
It was my eight-year-old son, and he was sobbing. “I want to come home. Come get me! I just want to come home.” (Heart… breaking…)
I pieced together what had happened. His brother shot him in the eye with a nerf gun. It hurt. A lot.
Here’s the kicker, Readers: “He’s not here.”
After signing a document specifically agreeing: I will not leave the boys unattended in my apartment or elsewhere, and after reaffirming that with a scoffed, “of course not,” Ex did just that. He left my impulsive eleven-year-old Asperger’s son alone with and presumably in charge of his eight-year-old brother.
I asked to speak with his older brother and directed him to go get his father.
“I can’t.” My older son said, “He’s busy.”
“Then take the phone to him.”
I heard the cries of his brother fading as he walked outside and down the long rickety wrought iron stairs that are attached to the building’s brick exterior. I heard the noise of the street and the heavy creak as he opened the office door, then Ex’s voice. He was shooting the breeze with another man about the children. My son whispered, “He’s busy.”
“I don’t care,” I said. “Give him the phone.”
“Hello?” (Ex’s gruff voice.)
I told him that our son was injured in his upstairs apartment and added, “To be clear: If you leave the boys alone again, I will be coming to get them.”
“O-kay,” he said and hung up on me. I called my attorney who advised reporting the incident to the department of human services.
Really? This could not possibly be my life—this is someone else’s white trash nightmare, not mine. Readers, I never, ever, ever thought my life would be like this—that I would have an ex at all, let alone one that I’d have to report to child protective services. This is NOT the happily-ever-after I had in mind.
When I called later to check on the boys, my younger son was feeling better. The boys were playing and seemed okay. I thank my lucky little stars that it wasn’t worse, that no one was seriously injured, and I try to get my zen back on—what else can I do?