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Abstract

cook, and had sex with his student.I called the police, finalized the divorce, survived, remarried, and had three more kids. As one does. In the long months after his release, I battled him in custody court (and mostly lost — thanks, Arizona), balked at his dating life (Yeah, he had one. Thanks, humanity), and slowly— very slowly —forgave him.That part sat in the crockpot for a while — give or take 8 years. I met his probation officer. Signed off on supervised visitation. Pet his dog. Let my (our) son sleep over there. Texted him memes. Brought up a funny old memory. Liked his second wife.It was challenging. My past lives have nothing on me — except that one where I was married for six years to a guy who had to register as a sex offender before (our) son could walk. Those kinds of past lives rear their cringe-worthy heads in Google searches, really awkward conversations with teacher-friends, and, of course, every other weekend and holidays.But, a near-decade later and we were figuring it out. We were really getting quite sufficient at rough-hewn, organic co-parenting. We were doing the damn thing.And then, last December, my (our) son went to my ex’s place for the second half of winter break — and brought home COVID-19. To all of us.He got covid! I got covid! My other three children got covid! It was like an episode of The Oprah Winfrey Show — in hell.At that point, our clan had spent the better part of a year homeschooling, exercising to YouTube, gardening, working remotely, avoiding Facebook, waiting for the vaccine, and grievin

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g the loss of so many and so much. We’d kept our hands busy and our tests negative. Until then.My ex? Him and his new wife (who didn’t get it) took 10 days off and then returned to work.Us? Not quite similar. We went down as slow motion dominoes: one falling three-to-five-days after another. Quarantining in a family of six is a two month ordeal.Powers that be, listen: I’m thankful. Thankful that no one got very sick. Thankful that, after six weeks of nervously waiting, my sense of smell made an almost-full return. Maybe even thankful for the antibodies that my too-young-to-be-vaccinated children developed as a result.But there is also this other not so thankful and very tired part of me. And that lady wants an apology.An “I’m sorry that my lack of accountability continues to affect your life” would work. If I’m being greedy, “My bad; I apologize that you continually have to wade through my messes even though you keep trying to escape” would really do the trick.Don’t worry, I’m not holding my breath. I’m just keeping on, keeping on. Except here. Here, I hope it’s ok to ask the universe a couple favors. There’s an unknown vastness behind this screen, and I’m typing up a prayer.If it’s not too much to ask, could you keep holding the ceiling up and the ground in place? I’m not asking for you to stop him from making mistakes, or even for his consequences to stop spilling over and scalding my life, my (our) son’s life, my family. I’m just asking that we be allowed to keep on keeping on. To keep riding it out, carrying through, and fully recovering.</article></body>

My Ex-Husband Gave Me Covid

And he owes me an apology

My oldest spends the afternoon of Christmas Day until the morning of New Years Eve with my first husband.

Who, you know, also happens to be his biological father.

He calls him Dad now, and that sometimes gets messy, as he also calls my second husband Dad.

My son is a hip kid, but his two dads are not in love. They do, however, make excellent small talk.

I know I am not unique as a thirty-something navigating the divorced-and-remarried seas. I’m not alone with my co-parenting blues. Ahoy there, fellow divorcees. Were you cheated on? Emotionally manipulated? Financially duped? I see you. And I’m here for you. But I’m also terribly competitive.

I see your gaslit past and raise you multiple felony counts, 40 months in prison, lifetime probation, and a revoked teaching license.

For him. FFS. For me, it was three and 1/2 years of single motherhood. In other words, a small lifetime of frozen fish sticks, working overtime, and hating men.

My ex taught high school English, played class-D league soccer, was a terrible cook, and had sex with his student.

I called the police, finalized the divorce, survived, remarried, and had three more kids. As one does. In the long months after his release, I battled him in custody court (and mostly lost — thanks, Arizona), balked at his dating life (Yeah, he had one. Thanks, humanity), and slowly

— very slowly —

forgave him.

That part sat in the crockpot for a while — give or take 8 years. I met his probation officer. Signed off on supervised visitation. Pet his dog. Let my (our) son sleep over there. Texted him memes. Brought up a funny old memory. Liked his second wife.

It was challenging. My past lives have nothing on me — except that one where I was married for six years to a guy who had to register as a sex offender before (our) son could walk. Those kinds of past lives rear their cringe-worthy heads in Google searches, really awkward conversations with teacher-friends, and, of course, every other weekend and holidays.

But, a near-decade later and we were figuring it out. We were really getting quite sufficient at rough-hewn, organic co-parenting. We were doing the damn thing.

And then, last December, my (our) son went to my ex’s place for the second half of winter break — and brought home COVID-19. To all of us.

He got covid! I got covid! My other three children got covid! It was like an episode of The Oprah Winfrey Show — in hell.

At that point, our clan had spent the better part of a year homeschooling, exercising to YouTube, gardening, working remotely, avoiding Facebook, waiting for the vaccine, and grieving the loss of so many and so much. We’d kept our hands busy and our tests negative. Until then.

My ex? Him and his new wife (who didn’t get it) took 10 days off and then returned to work.

Us? Not quite similar. We went down as slow motion dominoes: one falling three-to-five-days after another. Quarantining in a family of six is a two month ordeal.

Powers that be, listen: I’m thankful. Thankful that no one got very sick. Thankful that, after six weeks of nervously waiting, my sense of smell made an almost-full return. Maybe even thankful for the antibodies that my too-young-to-be-vaccinated children developed as a result.

But there is also this other not so thankful and very tired part of me. And that lady wants an apology.

An “I’m sorry that my lack of accountability continues to affect your life” would work. If I’m being greedy, “My bad; I apologize that you continually have to wade through my messes even though you keep trying to escape” would really do the trick.

Don’t worry, I’m not holding my breath. I’m just keeping on, keeping on. Except here. Here, I hope it’s ok to ask the universe a couple favors. There’s an unknown vastness behind this screen, and I’m typing up a prayer.

If it’s not too much to ask, could you keep holding the ceiling up and the ground in place? I’m not asking for you to stop him from making mistakes, or even for his consequences to stop spilling over and scalding my life, my (our) son’s life, my family. I’m just asking that we be allowed to keep on keeping on. To keep riding it out, carrying through, and fully recovering.