Last night after we had my son's birthday supper at a pizza place, my ex, the bio-dad, and I shared a really, really good hug and I said, "Well, that was some day, thirty-two years ago, wasn't it?"
And he allowed as how it had been. "It had its stressful moments," he said.
"Yeah. Longest day of my life," I said. "But we got 'er done."
He laughed. "Yep. We did. We got 'er done."
And then I said, "Do you remember how I had that stupid Martin Mull song stuck in my head the entire 28 hours?"
And we both laughed and recited together, "I've slept with thousands of girls, please be one of them./I remember all of their names and I don't make fun of them."
Which were the lyrics to that song, so incredibly inappropriate to have had in my head while in labor. I remember thinking what an IDIOT Martin Mull was and being tormented, thinking to myself that if anyone knew how horribly painful the end-results of sex could be, they would never, ever joke about sex. Ever. Again.
Or even have it, which I was definitely planning never to do.
And which I planned never to do again during each of my labors.
All four.
Sigh.
But it was just so sweet last night, that hug, that shared memory and I am so grateful that he and I have the sort of relationship now where we can have those moments because there's no one else in the world who shares those same exact memories with me.
And having that person to hug and share with, all these years later after all the Sturm und Drang and bitterness and anger of separation and divorce and custody and child support issues is just...well, a damn blessing.
Work that shit out, folks. Work it out. And not just for your kids, even though that's the best reason to do it, but for yourself because when you do you're left with a sort of joy that no amount of self-satisfied, smug righteous indignation could ever leave you with.
I promise.
