Starting over

It's been 9 (frostbite-free) years since I lived in Canada. I’m back, this time with a one-year-old daughter, after finding out that my soon-to-be-ex-husband John was having an affair with his Hobbit-like coworker in New Jersey, but we’ll get to that another time.

I’ve rented an apartment in the same neighborhood I grew up in, and I still go to the same local restaurant where as 20-somethings, my girlfriends and I used to order the cheapest wine on the menu, eat masses of dumplings, and flirt with the guys at surrounding tables. On the first night I went back, I recognized a guy my friend Tanya used to flirt with, despite the fact that he was now bald and wore canary yellow cycling shorts that appeared to be two sizes too small. 

I flew here from Philadelphia two weeks ago, in perfect accept-your-marriage-is-over weather: blustery, windy, dark. John drove me to the airport, which was surreal, to say the least. However, he kindly took the opportunity to remind me that:  

a) His affair was not a "full-blown" affair, and 

b) She had "nothing to do" with our breakup.  

It was only thanks to our daughter Lily being in the car and his being at the wheel that I resisted the urge to pull his nostrils over his head and feed him my shoe. 

 Off I flounced into the airport, painfully aware that I was flying away from the last home John and I will ever share, from what's left of our marriage…and from Target. I checked in, and filled out all my luggage tags with our old address by mistake, and had to resist throwing myself onto the luggage conveyer once I realized it. I considered trying to get an upgrade based on the enormity of the occasion (grieving in economy class just seems wrong), but didn’t trust myself not to cry in front of my fellow passengers. 

I arrived safely in Montreal, along with 91 boxes of belongings. The movers were excellent, and unusually helpful - one of them gave me his number "in case I had any trouble hooking up my VCR…or anything else". Despite the kind offer from lovely Martin, I don't think my VCR will get hooked up anytime soon...nudge, nudge, wink, wink. I should have given the number to my landlady who spent most of moving day standing in my stairwell while the movers tried to get by with their boxes. The guys were convinced that she stood there so that they'd have to rub up against her as they went up and down the stairs. Now there's an idea.  

The next visitor was my mother, who in her infinite wisdom decided that the day I moved in was the perfect occasion to give me two newborn kittens. Her gift has propelled me into an entirely new category of womanhood: Single Mother with Cats. Perfect. Their names are inspired by recent events:  Mor and On. Or perhaps Emotional and Midget. I also like the sound of IHopeHisNostrils and BlowUp. Your suggestions are welcome. 

Two days later, when Lily got home, most of the boxes had been unpacked, and her room was ready and full of familiar toys. “Ooooohhhhh!", she said. Since then, she’s begun teething and has caught onto the fact that this is not the home she remembers, and refuses to let go of her pacifier or her favorite stuffed lamb under any circumstances. She also had nightmares for the first time in her life, which only inspired more rude names for the kittens, names I cannot reprint here. She asks "Wheh Dada?", and I don't know what to say. I know what I want to say, but there's no way she'll make any friends if she goes around shouting "The Bastahd's in Joisey"!  I realize that I'm supposed to be mature about this, but frankly, all I want to do is build voodoo dolls of my ex and his Hobbit, and roll them in kitty litter. I have no doubt that my therapist will be pleased with my progress.

In an effort to keep us both busy and out of the stairwells, I've signed Lily up for music class, Kindergym and a manic playgroup for what seems like 315 kids in a church basement. I've already met some nice women, five of whom came over for wine and cheese last week, and five of whom I've undoubtedly freaked out by telling them what happened to my marriage, so that they are probably going through their husband's credit card statements as I write this.

   My friend Kate brought me one of those joke "Grow your Own Husband" kits that night, so I will not remain single for long, because my new mate has almost reached his peak height of 6” after spending the last 72 hours in a glass of water. He'll probably accuse me of being controlling because I forced him to grow, or tell me he really didn’t want to grow at all, but thought I'd get mad if he had told me so earlier. Or he'll cheat on me with one of Lily's dolls. Unlikely though, as she doesn't own any dolls with excessive body hair and a propensity for tight polyester garments. Miaow. 

Needless to say, I had a few glasses of wine too many that night and remembered only next morning that Lily and I had playgroup, and that I was expected to bring an art project to inspire the kids with. Considered the "Create-Your-Own-Voodoo-Doll" idea, but decided on grabbing dead leaves and shoving them into a plastic shopping bag on the way there, queasy every time I bent down. Strangely enough, my suggestion that the children glue the leaves to paper in the name of art was not a big hit. I managed almost two hours of socializing before spending the musical portion of the playgroup worshipping the toilet bowl in the men's bathroom in the basement of the Baptist church, while my daughter sang "The Wheels on the Bus" with the other kids and their normal mothers. 

So this is the first weekend that my ex will fly in to see his daughter. I need sleep, exercise, and highlights, and he needs to make her smile. Unfortunately, my two good friends have plans this weekend, so don’t be surprised if you find me in a  crowded stairwell somewhere, holding a voodoo doll. 

Next week: Well-Meaning Advice and Other Forms of Torture