M-Day

Nope, M-Day isn't Monday. It's an even worse day. Moving Out Day. Not wanting to go home day. Not wanting to talk to the kids about missing furniture day. So yesterday my husband pulled up to the house in a u-Haul with his sister who would be helping him move out pieces of my life. Thankfully that was the only woman to arrive with him. The girlfriend didn't want to see his previous residence I guess. Or maybe she envisioned me jumping out of a closet with a knife and stabbing her. (I actually don’t believe my husband is that much of an asshole to bring his girlfriend to his old neighborhood but I also didn't think he was the kind of person to take a photo of his man parts and send them to various women so I might be thinking of the man that I previously knew.)

I wonder if my husband had a happy skip in his walk to be vacating the home where his children live. He’s, after all, on his course to find happiness so why wouldn't he be joyful about taking another step in that journey? Maybe he had some nostalgia as he walked through the rooms that he used to live in. The rooms that were littered with his children’s things. He didn't take much with him. A dresser, an end table. He texted me (I was at work) if he could have the ‘love’ seat. The ‘love’ seat. The irony kills me. I imagine the kids walking into the living room and seeing the empty space where the love seat was and I want to send some poison along with my response. ‘Yes, you can have the ‘out of love’ seat,’ I wanted to respond, but instead I just said, ‘Fine, take it.’ He took some stuff from the basement, mostly odds and ends. Tired old furniture that we just hadn't had a chance to sell or bring to the dump.

He took the tall toolbox with all of the tools. I have a 2,300 sq ft house and he’s got a 2-bedroom apartment but I guess if you have a penis you get custody of the tools. I dreaded telling the kids all day that they would see that some things were missing when they got home. I picked them up after school and we went to my daughter’s softball game. My husband showed up and my son casually waved and walked by him to play with a friend. Awkwardly I stood on the sidelines keeping score while my husband awkwardly sat in his chair removed from the rest of the crowd. My daughter struck out and had a fit. Refused to go back on the field. My husband tried to reason with her to no avail. Finally after delaying the game for a little while, she slowly crept back onto the field as everyone stared at her and us trying to cajole her to play. Good times.

After the game, my husband walked us back to the car. He kissed the kids goodbye and that was it. Off we went to our separate residences. I dreaded telling the kids that Daddy had officially moved out but I forced myself to do it. What did he take, they asked? I listed a few things. And then I said, ‘If you’re feeling sad or angry or confused about any of this, you can talk to Mommy.’ My daughter said, ‘You’re feeling sad, you’re already crying.’ (Yes, I was.) I said, ‘It’s okay to cry, it’s a big change.’ Then I said again, ‘If you’re feeling sad or angry, I want you to tell Mommy. If you’re thinking about it, I want you to talk to Mommy.’ My son says, ‘I don’t think about it.’ Okay, you’re 6, I’ll give you a pass on any deep thoughts about what it means when your father moves out.

When we got home, the kids thought it was great fun running from room to room, excitedly yelling what was missing. Taking inventory of what was left. A scavenger hunt for children of the divorcing. (The house didn't look much different at all so it was kind of anti-climactic. I was relieved but a little disappointed. Why isn't this harder?) The kids go into the basement and yell out, Daddy took this, Daddy took that. I start to get upset as I hear them talking about Daddy’s guitars being gone. Then I hear my daughter yell, “It looks so much better down here!” God, I love my practical kids.

The only really hard moment was when my daughter remembers that she had made my husband a picture to give to him when he moves out. “I will miss you a lot. I love you,” it said. My heart bleeds a little at lost innocence. My kids seem to be doing fine (unless they are bottling it up inside). Why am I the one struggling here? Because I’m the betrayed spouse? Because my pride is hurt? Because I feel like I’m the one left to figure everything out and be the nurturer to ensure that our children are okay? After thinking about this for a while, I checked my email. My mom had sent me a message asking ‘Has what’s his name moved out yet?’ My mom is a borderline saint and to think of her being so worked up in a tizzy and angrily typing those words almost makes me giggle. I’m thinking about calling my husband Voldemort now. “The One Who Must Not Be Named”.