THIS COULD BE DIFFICULT
But I have to get this out of me.
In the course of yesterdays activity my son came by to pick up some furniture. His bitchin' El Camino is a dead horse so he enlisted the help of his lifelong friend and roommate, his girlfriend and his mom, who had the truck that would facilitate the transport of a futon and misc. other stuff to his place.
My son called and told me they were on their way, after an hour or so I bailed to the store to get dinner and stuff so I could meet my goal of parking my ass in front of the TV for the Sopranos and Deadwood at 9 o'clock sharp. As is the way of the world, they arrived 5 minutes after I left.
I was a short time at the grocery and got back home in time to see them. When I pulled up Ann and my ex were talking by the front door.The "kids" were milling about in the house and yard. Kyle helped me bring in the groceries and I set about visiting with him, his girlfriend and his roommate in the mode of ignoring the ex.
I couldn't be that rude and even though a year or more has passed since we have shared a greeting I said hello, it was then I noticed how old she looked...worn down.
She was slurring her words and unsteady on her feet. My first thought was has she had a stroke? I soon ascertained that she was shitfaced drunk. This is weird because my ex wife has been, to my knowledge, born again pious and doing the 12 step tango for years and years and years.
A bit of background: My son had some problems a few years back involving a variety of substances. Me, being the polar opposite of a 12 stepper, was assigned blame for his problems even though our time together was limited and even though I was a rock and roll party guy I tried to be a good father. There was a great deal of energy invested by my ex and her family to make me the bad guy, and for awhile it worked.
Until I got involved in the group therapy (always segregated from the "custodial" family) and it became clear that despite my "alternative" lifestyle I was the least of my son's problems.
So here we are, in my front yard having as conversation about how fucked up my ex was and what to do about it. My son was uncomfortable and I think maybe a little bit embarrassed but forthright with me about the situation at hand and his feelings about it. He took care of his mom and made sure she got home ok.
This whole episode fucked with me on a number of levels.
I was angry that my son was put in the position of having to babysit his mom. But I was glad he was there to hold her up and make sure she was safe. An awesome responsibility he rose up to with apparent ease...he loves his moms. And that's a good thing.
It was occurring to me that things I suspected that were wrong about the family he grew up in were true, and contributed to his overly extended trip over fools hill.
Could it possibly be my ex is an even bigger fuck up than she and hers tried to make me out to be all these years?
Years of internal conflict, wondering who was the beast?
Did it matter?
NO.
Why?
Because of that box of pictures I found last week...in that box were pictures of me and my ex that reminded me of what we had before it spoiled, reminded me of how much she meant to me, how much I loved her and she loved me.
Enough to bring a child into the world...our child.
A child who, despite everything, has his moms back and mine.
And it occurred to me that he is the real victim here(if there is a definitive victim) and has somehow managed to have:
A friend he can depend on.
A girl he loves and she loves him ( it's obvious).
The heart to love both his mom and his dad no matter how stupid they acted alone and against each other.
I wish there was something I could do to help her...she still has a place in my heart in spite of my best efforts to dispel her from it.
We have not reached the end of the road yet. A road I thought had dead-ended so long ago.

( Please be advised that this is the only time I will ever write about such personal things )
And you can be sure that this disclaimer is flexible.
It really is after all, about family.
Right?