Conflicted Hearts: Grief Lives Here Too

Raven had the littles up, dressed, and out the door by 9 a.m.
 I had to go poke Cowboy awake so he could say goodbye. 
The other parent wanted the littles back by 11 a.m.

I said I hoped they'd leave early today—I did not mean at the crack of dawn. 
I was thinking more like 1 p.m., maybe 2. 
They’d been going back around 3 or 4, which is rough on the cats, who have to be locked up from Friday to Sunday.

Leaving at 9 a.m.? 
That’s ridiculous.

Raven’s new job—new shift—starts next week, so it’ll be months before we see the littles again. 
That made their leaving so early a little heartbreaking, honestly.

With the other parent moving—and she's moving farther away from where we live—and Raven working Friday to Sunday–we've just lost the littles again.

And I know I sound like the world’s biggest hypocrite. 
But I've never said I didn't want to visit with the littles— just that I didn't want to live with them from Friday to Sunday.

I knew that, more than likely, this was our goodbye weekend. 
That's why I tried to make things go peacefully, tried to stay out of the way—because Drei, at least, is afraid of me. 
No, he’s never had a reason to be. That’s entirely on the other parent. 
I tried to give Pappaw all the time he could have with his littles.

I'm not trying to sound all dramatic and oh boo-hoo-hoo. 
The other parent does not like me—that's the truth. 
She’s never liked hearing the littles come home and spend the week talking about Pappaw.
I think she had a hissy fit when Viers’ first words were “Pappaw.” 
I believe she orchestrated the move and Raven’s new job in order to take the littles away from us.
I believe she spent the entire summer not allowing the littles to come down, stuffing their weekends with all the fun things she could in order to put distance between us.

You always hear how hard a divorce is on the couple, but you don't hear about the effects it has on the grandparents.
 If you're lucky, you'll stay friendly with the other parent. You'll always be a part of the children's lives, always be included.
 If you're one of the unlucky ones who had a difficult relationship with the other parent during the marriage, the divorce only worsens things. The children will be used as a weapon—given and withdrawn on the whims of the other parent.

I won’t pretend I’m devastated.
 I’m heartbroken, yes—but there’s relief too. 

I’ve lived with the littles for two years. 
I rearranged my life, my house, to give them a home. 
I’ve put up with tantrums and mess and noise, and no—I didn’t enjoy every single minute of it.

I will enjoy having my house be my house again. 
I will enjoy the quiet.

But I do not want to be shut out of their lives.
 I’m fine with visits. 
I’m fine with the occasional overnight.
 I want to be part of their lives.

We’re blocked on Facebook. 
We’re blocked from messaging or calling the other parent. 
Raven doesn’t share pictures or updates about what the littles are up to.

When I say we’ve lost the littles, I mean we’ve lost the littles—unless something changes.

I’m not a hypocrite. 
I’m not a witch. 
I’m honest. 
And this is complicated. 
And so very messy.

I shed a few tears. Sucked it up. Kept moving.
My relationship with the other parent has always been strained. 
I should have known that at some point, she'd make sure the kids were erased from our lives. 
She did it with her first husband—took Eins from him.

I never said I didn't love the littles—just that living with them was messy in more ways than one.

Cowboy sleepily got off to morning services. 
I don't think he really grasps what Raven moving out actually means.

Badger kept the kitchen up all weekend, and the littles weren't out of the bedroom much, so there wasn't a terrible mess.
 I got what little there was up.

OK, I may have pitched a bit of a fit and told Badger I was getting rid of all her cats. 
I went in, and the backroom was nasty, nasty, nasty. 
I cannot clean. I am not 20 anymore, and my back hurts more days than it doesn't. 
So I pitched a fit—and she went in and cleaned the mess up.

Do I feel bad about it? 
Eh, not really. 
By now, she should know that I’m limited in what I can and can’t do. 
I think she and Cowboy just think I'm lazy. 
Let them have a rubber band shoot off like a jolt of electricity in their back one day, and they'll see what I mean.
 I've been coping with back pain since 1990. 
I was stacking boards as they came off the saw onto pallets, and I still don't know what I did—but man, the pain. The pain. 
I saw a company doctor who ticked me off, and I walked out. 
So I’ve never treated it.
I just deal with it.

Round about here I get sick of writing, but I keep on because I can't remember diddly squat. 
Not that anything incredible happened.

Heron popped up—I think it was about 3:30 a.m. before he got home. 
Working or tom catting, I don't know.

Badger cleaned the cat mess up, took a shower, and retreated to her room. 
I need to call the doctor in the morning. 
I can't keep putting it off—we can't keep running to the ER.

Cowboy came home from church, took a brief nap, and then he and I went down to Food City to get sick week supplies for Badger.

We came home, Cowboy took care of his chickens, and got another nap before evening service.

After evening service, it was the same old same. 

TV. Naps. Nothing.

I expect that the rest of the week will be the same.