Ruminating and reacting

Despite some effort I've done nothing this weekend but obsess on what my friend said to me Friday night. At first I was kind of determined to not let it get me down, to not take it personally and move on, knowing she's my friend and would never intentionally hurt me. I mentioned it to a couple of my friends and my sister and everyone was horrified, in fact more than I had been in the moment, which said to me that this is serious and I shouldn't just let it slip by. I think most of the time things should just be let go - but occasionally you need to call people on their shit. I believe this is one of those times, because it has ramifications for our future. So this morning I sent her this email:

Dear X –

Thanks for having us over Friday night. I’m sure the bowls will be a big hit (well, they already are!).

I’ve been kind of disturbed this weekend about something you said and I think I need to talk about it. When your son asked who Robert’s father was and you told him that he left, was a bad guy, and very irresponsible, it really shocked and hurt me. I know we were both totally caught off guard and didn’t know what to do, and I know you just said the first thing that popped into your head, but why blatantly lie, and go so profoundly negative? I couldn’t then contradict you in front of your son and say, “that’s not true, I went to the doctor to have a baby” or whatever would be appropriate for an eight-year-old. In one sentence you turned this happy single mother by choice with her very much loved and wanted baby into an abandoned mother and her unwanted kid, like we’re some charity case. I don’t so much care about how it makes me look, but the very idea of someone thinking my cherished little baby was some kind of accident or mistake or burden makes my blood boil.

I know you love us and would never ever intentionally hurt us, but I feel very hurt and offended, and I feel you owe me an apology. I also think at some point you should explain to your son the truth about our situation, so we don’t have some ugly scenario someday where he tells my kid “oh yeah, and your dad didn’t even want you,” which to me is too hideous to even think about.

I didn't want to tell her what I really think, which is that her son is the most sullen, miserable looking kid I've ever seen who always makes it very apparent when I visit that I am NOT welcome, that they have a very fractured and sad relationship because of her anger, and that I think she's jealous of the happiness she sees with me and my boy. She went into the relationship with her son with a lot of mixed feelings, which I respected at the time - she was very upset about what the pregnancy did to her body, was very ambivalent about having another one because of this, and had (and has) a lot of anger that 90% of the childcare falls to her since her husband is basically never around because of work. So she does that thing that so many parents do today which is bribing the kid by buying him things, and consequently he's miserable. I think like so many homes that appear happy and ideal from the outside there's a lot of unhappiness, resentment, and anger brewing there. Friday night I couldn't wait to get back to my nice little home, rat poop and incontinent dog and all.

It reminded me a little of this bizarre scenario that happened when I was around seven or eight. My mother left me with neighbors in this big, artsy building we lived in in Boston at the time, probably to go to work in the evening. She left me with them because they had a daughter named Tiffany who was a little older (I'm thinking maybe twelve...?) who she probably thought was a friend of mine but who I was actually really afraid of. Anyway I remember being really uncomfortable there and repeatedly dialing our phone number to see if my mother was home yet, with that sort of panic and urgency only kids get. At some point Tiffany caught me doing this, took the receiver out of my hand, and smacked me across the face. It remains the only time I've ever been hit, and it was absolutely shocking. Suffice it to say eventually I did make it home and I didn't ever stay with them again - I don't think I told my mother or anyone; but I just remember the utter relief and sheer joy of getting out of that hell hole and getting to go home. That's how I felt Friday, after watching my friend drink two glasses of wine and start talking about which celebrities she thinks are "hot", while I sat there still internally processing the fact that she just told her son that my kid is, for lack of a better term, a bastard.