EMO MOM

Emo is my new favorite word. For those of you not as hip in the teen vernacular as I, emo is short for emotional. In its broadest sense, it refers to kids who cut themselves, wear dark eyeliner, get stoned, dress a certain way. There are emo kids, emo bands, emo clothes. For my purposes, I just like to think of emo as being overly emotional.

When my teenage son has a fit about one thing or another, usually because I buy orange juice with pulp, Cheese Nips instead of Cheez-Its, or some other unforgivable transgression, I now tell him to stop being so emo. Of course, that makes him more emo--I’m not using the word appropriately, I’m an idiot, etc.

This past year catapulted me into the realm of emo. Of course, absent the cutting, Hot Topic clothes, Fall Out Boy. I got divorced, sold my house, and moved into a rental. My dog died and I couldn’t leave my house for a week. I was attacked by a dog and a month later scratched my cornea. I ran for public office and was by far the frontrunner then lost. My teen son called me a crazy bitch. My ex husband found his soul mate on match.com and now wants to marry her. I really have no measurable life aside from volunteer work I do with an ocd intensity. My anxiety is often mistaken for high energy

Marriage wasn’t all bad—except for the pesky husband part. And the extended abstinence—well, at least on my part. But I had a nice house, no real monetary concerns, two (relatively) nice boys, golden retriever, SUV, authentic Louis Vuitton “handbag.” Even now, after a protracted and vituperative divorce, I am financially sound or—to paraphrase my ex husband—taking all his money.

I live in an affluent area with a relatively low divorce rate. The same percentage of people hate each other, but there are major financial motives to stay together: huge mortgages, multiple cars, the ability to have the working dad/stay at home mom lifestyle. The golden (platinum) handcuffs. My town is a community where divorced people are not exactly shunned, but don’t quite fit in.

Fortunately, I’m so accustomed to being alone so it’s no shock to me. Going places alone doesn’t make me emo at all. I am always the random guest—invited for Thanksgiving and Christmas, hitching rides to school events with friends and their husbands, all that sort of thing. I’m fortunate to have many caring friends who are my family.

Nothing made me more emo than telling the kids about the impending divorce. I had to persuade my mother to come from Richmond. (The prior time she came, it was when my dog was put to sleep so now my kids are beginning to view her visits with some trepidation.)

Anyway, I had a Percocet left over from my $30,000 worth of dental work (ex’s calculation) so I took that prior to the big revelation. I was woozy and totally emo so my husband had to do the dirty work.

In his usual sensitive and caring manner it was thus that my children were told: “Your mom and I are splitting up and I’m moving out of the house.” A deafening silence ensued—or maybe I just blacked out.

Of course, being bright children , neither was surprised, although my younger son, 10, did shed a few tears. After the requisite shrink-approved reassurances—that the kids had nothing to worry about, that we’d stay in the house (that promise lasted a few weeks anyway), and a bunch of other bullshit, husband left to watch TV.

My older son’s questions went in this order. Will I have to leave Prep (his private school)? Will we have to move? And, will we have to go back to dial-up Internet? (This question was most plaintively asked).

My favorite was when they asked me if I was going to start going out clubbing. As if!!! Hadn’t I suffered enough? They later informed me it was ok for Jeff to go clubbing but not for me. Which is a good thing considering he was off clubbing throughout our marriage.

So, after eighteen years, he moves out. This brings about something any divorced custodial parent dreads:

Night Out with Divorced Dad

Granted, I don’t have little children who cling to me and wail as their father drags them out the door. But don’t underestimate the tenacity of older children. Following is an example of a typical child transfer.

Dad calls asking Mom to have the kids ready by 7:30. The call often comes in around 6:45.

Mom obediently asks the kids to get ready—Daddy is coming at 7:30.

Kids sit on Xbox, computer or TV, ignoring Mom as usual.

Dad arrives at 7:20—ten minutes early.

Dad enthusiastically announces his arrival--sporting an expectant smile, “Hey boys, I’m here.”

Announcement is met with same stony silence as Mom’s repetitive requests for kids to get ready.

Teen boy, “Why is he here early?”

Mom, “Just get ready.”

Dad, “Get off Xbox, Son.”

Teen, “Just a sec. It’s early—mom said we were leaving at 7:30.” (Mom is surprised kids listen after all.)

Dad to younger boy, “Turn off the show and let’s go.”

Boy, “My show’s not over.”

Mom, “Come on guys, just get going.”

Silence save for the rapid fire gunning in Xbox and the giggly sounds of Spongebob.

Dad, pacing and increasingly agitated, to Mom “I told you to have them ready when I got here.”

Mom, “Well, they don’t listen to me.”

Dad in accelerating volume, “Boys, come on. “

Teen, “Just a freaking sec.”

Dad, “Just a sec! That’s all you say. Now get off that goddamned Xbox or you’ll be grounded for life.

Teen hears that about a dozen times a day so it has no meaning.

Dad to Boy: “Go put on shoes.” Boy goes in search of shoes.

Dad, “Now get off that f-ing Xbox or I’ll take the damn thing out and run over it with my car.”

Teen hears this at least several times per week so doesn’t have much impact.

Mom walks up and unplugs Xbox

Previously mesmerized Teen springs to life, “What the hell? I was right in the middle of a battle. I hate you. You’re such a total bitch!”

Dad to Mom, “You shouldn’t let him talk that way.”

Mom to Dad, “Like I want him to talk that way you idiot.”

Dad to Boy, “You still don’t have your shoes.”

Boy, eyes on Spongebob which he’s turned back on, “Can’t find them.”

Mom, “You just had them on ten minutes ago.”

Teen to Dad, “Why do you have to come over. I’m not going anywhere with you.”

Dad, “F this, don’t even know why I come here.” Exits then re-enters, no expectant smile this time.

Boy is still barefoot.

Dad, “Where are your f-ing shoes?” Opens closet. “No wonder—you can’t find them, you can’t find anything in this house.”

Mom, “Just shut up. It is better than when you were here with all your junk.”

Dad to Teen: “If you don’t get your ass in the car right now you’ll be sorry.” Grabs Xbox. “I’m taking this goddamned thing with me. Now come on.”

Mom scurries to help Boy find a matching pair of shoes. Finally puts on sandals in mid December.

Boy goes out the door.

Teen stands up sulking, “I hate you.” Walks toward door and mutters under breath, “asshole.”

Dad, fuming and storming in entryway, “I heard that. How can your mother let you talk to me that way? Now get your goddamned ass in the car.”

Teen skulks toward door, “You both suck.” Door slams.

Emo Mom takes a Valium and sits down to watch anything that happens to be on TV.