Muddle

I'm still in the middle of negotiations. They drag at a painfully slow pace. Today, I was sent a copy of an amended order I drafted weeks ago . . . and it is still wrong . . . and it should go out immediately.

Last week was the beginning of A's integration program at her new French school. She had no idea of what was coming, but it felt like a huge transition to me. It was a new stage in our lives, with her moving towards independence. I wasn't the only parent anxiously pacing outside the school doors at the end of the day. At least A was fine with the transition. She didn't cry, she didn't resist, she just wanted me to stay with her a while, which I did, and she was fine when I left. The great thing about A, according to E, is her adaptability.

On Tuesday, however, I had an unfortunate encounter with my awful-ex's new companion, who showed up at the school to pick A up, mistaking the dates of a pre-arranged plan to accomodate A's daycare closure at the end of July. This woman, Z, is entirely hostile towards me, most certainly because of what my ex has said about me, but still, any rational person would maintain a degree of objectivity about an ex-partner. What she did Tuesday was further evidence of her lack of judgement. Seeing me exiting the school with A, she said, "What are you doing here? I was supposed to pick her up."

I was taken aback and first thought that she misunderstood the reminder email I sent to my ex about his drop-off the next day. I stumbled, "No, tomorrow you drop her off and pick her up, if you'd like, but I didn't get an email."

"No. You sent an email weeks ago. I just checked it. We're supposed to pick her up Tuesday and drop her off on Wednesday."

It took me a minute to understand what she was referring to, meanwhile, parents and kids were streaming around us, A was trying to get a peek at her brother in the infant carrier and I was frozen to the spot, thinking I'd made some mistake. Z was furious and her tone was acid.

Finally, I clued in. "No," I explained, "That's the last week of July. Not this week."

She rolled her eyes and huffed, "Fine," then grabbed her baby and left.

A and I were still standing at the school's door. Her teachers and several parents were watching.

A said, "Why was Z picking me up?"

"She made a mistake, honey. She's not picking you up."

"My baby brother was here."

"Yes, he was. But they've gone home. Mommy's here."

"I don't have two mommies."

"I know, baby."

I turned to the teacher and tried to explain, in broken French, what was going on.

He asked me, "Es tu la mere de A?"

"Oui, oui, je suis sa mere. Cette femme est la copain de mon ex-marie," I tried to explain.

"Ah, la belle mere," he said.

I bristled, "Non." She's not pretty or nice, I thought, and she's not A's mother.

I'll have to deal with this type of thing for a long time . . . and that's what is hard to think about. Mostly, I don't think about it, because I can't. Just like I can't bear to think too much about the potential disastorous consequences of this Offer to Settle.