“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.”