What a fun hockey game last night…watching my Lighting play my first team, the Pittsburgh Penguins, and getting a phone call from Wolverine right after Pittsburgh scored. He was watching the game because he likes Sidney Crosby (after seeing his picture repeated ad nausuem in my NHL Yearbook). I was snuggled up against Gary’s chest, so I heard Wolverine clearly on the phone: “Is she mad yet?” Both Gary and I laughed because yep, I was yelling at the TV and giving the Lightning a verbal lashing the likes of which they have never heard before. It goes without saying that the Lightning lost 4-1, and that I had plenty to say about it, but I enjoyed talking hockey with Wolverine for a few minutes during the massacre, er, I mean, game.
I end up wondering sometimes why it is so wrong for me to love the kids, and for them to love me. Why isn’t it a good thing, a relief, a bonus, that another person who adores them and cares for them (and protects them) has entered their lives? Why is my existence automatically a wretched thing, and why is my relationship with the kids (and with their father) something to spit on? Divorce is never a carnival ride; I know, because I’ve been there, in another lifetime in a galaxy far, far away. But why make it worse by imagining that everyone is supposed to stand still, not move on, pay homage to a dead past, never change, never be happy again?
My ex-husband is re-married, and I wished him well and meant it. Having lived with the man for a number of years, I was tempted to send a heartfelt sympathy card to his unsuspecting new wife, but I allowed her the luxury of figuring things out for herself and didn’t interfere with their relationship or waste time obsessing over it. Jealousy is an ugly thing, and so many things should be far more important (like enjoying life, allowing the kids to heal, discovering what else fate has in store behind door number 3). I wonder why that is such a rare and difficult stance to take.