It's Not My Party & I'll Cry If I Want To

"Noooooo!" Bubba howled, streaking across Mr. Excitement's mother's living room in nothing but his Spiderman underwear.

"Come on," I pleaded, "You'll have fun at NK's party."

"Noooooo!" he howled, making a dash in the other direction.

I reached out and grabbed him about the stomach with my legs. I wrestled a T-shirt over his head before he slipped away.

"There will be cake and maybe ice cream..." I enticed.

"NOOOOO!" he wailed, running across the room again, disappearing into the room Mr. Excitement's mother had set up as a play room for him.

"Why does he have to go?" Mr. Excitement's mother, Nonnie, asked.

It was a good question.

"I told Mr. Perfect I'd let him go." I answered.

That wasn't the whole story. I'd called two days before to talk to Bubba. I called everyday at exactly 6:00 when he wasn't with me. This time before handing the phone over, my ex-husband had said "We need to talk."

That was one of my least favorite phrases, ranking right up there with "You need screws put in your legs" and "We need to drill that tooth."

He'd announced that his new girlfriend, whom I affectionately call Doppelganger due to her eerie resemblance of me, was throwing a birthday party for her son, the New Kid (NK). It conveniently fell on my weekend. I had been planning on returning to my home in Historyville, 3 hours away from Metropolis where just about everyone involved in my little soap opera life lives. I wasn't planning on returning until the end of my visit with Bubba.
Still, I decided to make the reasonable suggestion that we swap weekends.
He'd get Bubba this weekend, I'd take Bubba the next.