“You put me in a very difficult position. You can’t do that –
it’s not fair to you, and it’s not fair to me.”
I’ve been played.
This isn’t the first time that the male species has twisted
me into a lather. I’ve watched phone numbers fall from wallets and I’ve been dumped
unceremoniously before Valentine’s Day. I’ve been told about the body parts
that have been found to be lacking, and, yes, I know, talk too much. I’ve been
bored to tears trying to connect over a hobby I have no remote interest in and
I’ve waited for hours past “I’ll be there at <insert time here>.”
But after all I’ve given up and all the times I’ve been
there waiting when the bottom fell out, I expected more from this particular
specimen.
All year long, I’ve denied the primal instinct that is my
estrogen birthright. Instead of fixing it, I’ve waited patiently, too
patiently, for it to fix itself. Instead of providing direction, I’ve listened
and waited to see what path would be taken. I’ve given free rein to chart the
course, watching to see what he would do and how he would do it.
I’ve been frustrated.
I’ve been angry.
I’ve been hopeful.
I’ve been
exhausted by it all.
He’s reached a point where I am not what he wants or what he
needs and I see how he responds when the same direction, advice and admonitions
are given elsewhere. But when the sticks are no longer clashing and all that’s
left are my quiet tears of frustration, he understands for a small moment in
time everything that I’ve been, everything that I’ve done.
“I’m really sorry, Mom.”
