mom’s house, dad’s house
Way too long since my last post — I know, I know. I blame this big, complicated divorce. Also I haven’t been feeling very good, in what seems to be an on-again off-again virus. Begone, stupid virus. At least until my kids bring it back and start it circulating through the house’s population again (kids plus nannies plus housekeeper plus me, which gives your basic little bug all sorts of chances to mutate).
50/50 custody is weird: a regular and overnight switch from the warm rich chaos of multiple small boys to…silence and solitude, reading and writing, social life. It’s like two different lives lived at the same time, or two different countries found in the same place. I don’t think I’ve discovered a way to balance everything, but I’m beginning to suspect that balance, if not impossible, is a little bit overrated*. And as much as I miss the kids when they’re not here, I’m glad and grateful they have a dad still deep in their lives, who takes them to the movies and Disneyland, on weekend trips to Boulder and Jackson Park**.
And I am off to meet Dude (and others) for dinner in Venice, an eccentric, creative neighborhood I’ve visited more times in the past year than in the combined five or six years preceding. I like Venice. At some point I might move to Venice. As much as I love the lush beauty of Bel Air, I expect my ex-husband to settle here permanently, and although that in itself is not a problem — Bel Air ranges for about seventeen miles, and everybody lives behind gates and walls and hedges, or combinations thereof — I don’t know if it’s the best thing for the kids to move between, and grow up inside, two Bel Air private realities. One Bel Air reality might be enough.
* Face it, ‘balance’ is just not that exciting. Has there ever been a perfume named BALANCE? No, perfumes get named things like OBSESSION and TROUBLE and OPIUM — inspired, it seems, by pathologies. (Wait a sec — a quick Google search turned up an Eddie Bauer perfume named BALANCE, so my own spiky, obsessive self stands corrected. Although my point remains. Somewhere. I think.)
*In (cough) a private jet, no less. Ah, when Mommy first takes them on a commercial flight, what an awakening that will be: Mom? Why can’t I run through the aisles and build my Lego castle on the floor? And what are ALL THESE PEOPLE DOING HERE?????