Home Sweet Former Home

I am not going to get into the tear-jerker element of this very fine “Modern Love” piece by Victoria Rosner in this Sunday’s Times, which describes the death of her ex-husband and the impact it had one her toddler (One example: “Now 3, Judah still doesn’t believe in forever and keeps trying to find a work-around for death. “Maybe Daddy is at that hotel where I saw him once? Maybe he’s in California?” He’s frustrated that he can’t see his father, though one night when he was lying in bed I told him he could talk to him whenever he likes. He was quiet for a moment and then called upward, “Daddy, how are you? Is it dark where you are?”).

It was well done, smart without being maudlin, and hit on a topic that most parents, myself included, try to avoid–how do you explain pain and human suffering to your child? The short answer is you can’t, but somehow, they learn it on their own, for better or for worse (story’s end: “Another child approached Judah and asked in a worried voice, “Your daddy died?” Judah nodded.“Does that mean he’s not coming back?”Judah put his hand on the other child’s shoulder. “Yes, but it’s O.K.,” he said. “I’m alive. You’re alive. Want to play?”).

I will, however, get into one minor facet of the article. The father in this case didn’t live with Judah’s mother, and more important, had until he learned he was going to die of cancer, largely abandoned his infant son. When he got sick he asked for permission to travel to New York City to spend time with the boy, and because of the high price of New York hotels, he also asked to stay in the apartment of his ex-wife’s mother.

There’s a little overlap here with my own wondrous divorce. At present, my ex and I are still wending our way through the legal process of severing our blessed union, which means the issue of the marital estate has yet to be resolved. My wife left me, so I have remained in the apartment, for now, at least until she can figure some way to force me out. For reasons I don’t entirely understand, my ex hasn’t come to grips with the idea that she no longer lives in the apartment we bought together. She still has a key, and she uses it liberally. I was out of town on vacation last week, and when I returned, she had cleaned and caulked my tub, replaced JP’s toothbrush, cleaned his sheets, thrown out a six-hundred dollar area rug, and left me a note complaining about my girlfriend’s cat, which she thought was giving him allergies.

This was all done, she said (in an email), for “JP and his well-being…specifically…in areas [of the apartment] that primarily pertains to him. I am trying to set set aside and separate our issues with each other and focus on what’s relevant to JP and his needs. Hence I am  bringing these issues to your attention because I hope you share my  interest in making sure that jerod lives in a clean, safe, and comfortable environment.”

I want my carpet back!