Torn
It was, all things considered, the perfect plan.
When I arrived at TB's, the Rentals greeted me with squeals and hugs. We ran to the market and shopped for pizza and cake ingredients. The Rentals helped me make the cake, blow up balloons and color a banner for their dad.
We started making pizzas a few hours later. The kids were tickled to do their own. TB even seemed to enjoy family involvement with dinner. His daughter chose sauce and pepperoni (she's allergic to dairy things) and his son wanted nothing more than the perfect cheese pizza, proud of his own creation.
Dinner was wonderful. We started holding hands around the table during grace. Both kids love to say the prayer and it is often the most adorable moment of the day. His son loves doing Highs, Lows and Thanks and will be the first to yell "HALT!" and start us off with our daily lows. His daughter caught me off guard when she said her high was when I arrived and "squeezed her soooo tight!" making me feel both joy for how loved she feels, and concern that the love is coming from me. 
The Rentals and I retrieved the cake from its hidden location, lit candles and sang as we presented it to a closed-eyed TB. Three breaths of air helped blow out the candles. Three smiles looked up at me while I took pictures. Three of a family and one behind the lens were tickled with the celebration.
And then, in a split second it was over. Their mom showed up significantly early. Parked at the curb in her car, unwilling, unable in the midst of the battle to come to the door, she waited. In an instant, in a heartbreaking moment, we whisked the kids out of the clothes their dad bought them and back into the now clean clothes they had arrived in. His daughter became quiet, head down she walked down the driveway to where her mom waited in the street. His son cried. Not ready to leave, with no transition, no warning, he wanted to stay. He wanted cake. He wanted to celebrate longer. He wanted his dad. We tried. We reassured. We hugged, we promised. We soothed. We tried to create a transition for children so young in a fraction of the time required.
TB took them out the door, gave last minute hugs and kisses and promised we would save cake for their return on Monday. No words were exchanged between he and his ex wife. She was taking pictures of his car, the house, him to use in some threatening manner later.
I sat in the house out of sight. On a chair at the now vacant table. Where plates were sitting empty at each chair. Where fruit punch remained in his son's glass. Where a cake sat, candles only moments ago removed, uneaten, uncut. I stood and began picking up the clothes we had quickly changed them out of. Clothes that would never return back if sent with them. Her beautiful dress. His shirt, his shorts, his spiderman mask. The lion I gave her, the one she named Aslan, was on the couch. I picked it up, all of it, and I carried it reluctantly into their rooms. I tucked Aslan into bed. I folded their clothes, her dress, and I put them away. TB had returned into the house solemn, silent. He was in the kitchen, putting dinner things away. Trying to keep himself together.
I was standing in his son's doorway when it overtook me. I had never experienced a moment so traumatic in my own divorce. I had never been witness to such a painful transition with such fragile children. I had not felt such heartache in years. I stood, in an empty, silent, doorway and I sobbed. He found me there and put his arms around me. I was embarrassed. These weren't even my children. It wasn't my divorce. I was only an outsider. But the pain was tangible. The emptiness, the shock, the heartache was as real to me as any.
The perfect birthday celebration, this perfect family of three had been torn in two. And standing there as witness, so had my heart.
When I arrived at TB's, the Rentals greeted me with squeals and hugs. We ran to the market and shopped for pizza and cake ingredients. The Rentals helped me make the cake, blow up balloons and color a banner for their dad.
We started making pizzas a few hours later. The kids were tickled to do their own. TB even seemed to enjoy family involvement with dinner. His daughter chose sauce and pepperoni (she's allergic to dairy things) and his son wanted nothing more than the perfect cheese pizza, proud of his own creation.
Dinner was wonderful. We started holding hands around the table during grace. Both kids love to say the prayer and it is often the most adorable moment of the day. His son loves doing Highs, Lows and Thanks and will be the first to yell "HALT!" and start us off with our daily lows. His daughter caught me off guard when she said her high was when I arrived and "squeezed her soooo tight!" making me feel both joy for how loved she feels, and concern that the love is coming from me. 
We had promised the Rentals that we would have cake and TB would open gifts after dinner, before their mom came to pick them up. The last bite of pizza was barely swallowed when the kids scurried off to the couch to help their dad open the gifts I brought. They each knew which gift was "from them" and were eager for him to open it. All the gifts were enjoyed by all.
The Rentals and I retrieved the cake from its hidden location, lit candles and sang as we presented it to a closed-eyed TB. Three breaths of air helped blow out the candles. Three smiles looked up at me while I took pictures. Three of a family and one behind the lens were tickled with the celebration.
And then, in a split second it was over. Their mom showed up significantly early. Parked at the curb in her car, unwilling, unable in the midst of the battle to come to the door, she waited. In an instant, in a heartbreaking moment, we whisked the kids out of the clothes their dad bought them and back into the now clean clothes they had arrived in. His daughter became quiet, head down she walked down the driveway to where her mom waited in the street. His son cried. Not ready to leave, with no transition, no warning, he wanted to stay. He wanted cake. He wanted to celebrate longer. He wanted his dad. We tried. We reassured. We hugged, we promised. We soothed. We tried to create a transition for children so young in a fraction of the time required.
TB took them out the door, gave last minute hugs and kisses and promised we would save cake for their return on Monday. No words were exchanged between he and his ex wife. She was taking pictures of his car, the house, him to use in some threatening manner later.
I sat in the house out of sight. On a chair at the now vacant table. Where plates were sitting empty at each chair. Where fruit punch remained in his son's glass. Where a cake sat, candles only moments ago removed, uneaten, uncut. I stood and began picking up the clothes we had quickly changed them out of. Clothes that would never return back if sent with them. Her beautiful dress. His shirt, his shorts, his spiderman mask. The lion I gave her, the one she named Aslan, was on the couch. I picked it up, all of it, and I carried it reluctantly into their rooms. I tucked Aslan into bed. I folded their clothes, her dress, and I put them away. TB had returned into the house solemn, silent. He was in the kitchen, putting dinner things away. Trying to keep himself together.
I was standing in his son's doorway when it overtook me. I had never experienced a moment so traumatic in my own divorce. I had never been witness to such a painful transition with such fragile children. I had not felt such heartache in years. I stood, in an empty, silent, doorway and I sobbed. He found me there and put his arms around me. I was embarrassed. These weren't even my children. It wasn't my divorce. I was only an outsider. But the pain was tangible. The emptiness, the shock, the heartache was as real to me as any.
The perfect birthday celebration, this perfect family of three had been torn in two. And standing there as witness, so had my heart.
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