Emailing with Lori is sporadic. She usually replies a few days after receiving a message but rarely unprompted. We keep abreast of what she’s up to by following her blog. She posted a new one today, about parks. I showed it to the boys and we talked about the pictures.
Isaac kicks off at the tea table. ‘I hate macaroni cheese. It looks like sick.’
‘Yeuch! Gross!’ says Finn.
‘It’s that or toast,’ I say, my voice calm, not wanting a battle.
‘Don’t want toast.’
‘You’ll be hungry,’ Nick says.
Isaac sets his jaw, scowls, pushes at the pasta with his spoon, moving it to the very edge of his plate. A quick look at me to see if I’ll stop him. Another jab and the first of his food spills onto the table. I reach over and remove his plate.
‘Isaac,’ Nick shouts, ‘stop messing.’
Isaac jumps down, runs out and upstairs. I’m disappointed in Nick. If he hadn’t risen to the bait…
Nick shoves back his chair, the scrape on the laminate floor shredding my nerves. ‘Leave him,’ I say.
He hesitates.
‘We’ll finish tea. No point in him disrupting it for all of us.’
‘What’s for pudding?’ Finn says.
‘Apple pie,’ I say.
‘Yum. Is Isaac getting any?’
‘Don’t know.’ I jump in before Nick lays down any laws. ‘We’ll see. Are you going to feed Benji?’
Finn nods and starts to move, but I tell him to have his apple pie first.
Nick smiles at Finn but I can still feel the tension in him, almost hear the hum of impatience and irritation just below the surface. I’m getting so tired of his bad mood and resent the fact that I have to mediate between him and Isaac. We’ve always been good at parenting, well, good enough, presenting a united front. I’ll have to tackle him about it. Of course it’s the stress of redundancy that’s behind this but his refusal to talk to me about it makes it worse. Like he’s wallowing in it, savouring it. A martyr.
After another tantrum about toast tasting funny and a crying jag, Isaac is asleep at last. Finn is in bed with his book. He’ll drift off soon enough, and when one of us prises the book from his hands, he won’t wake.
Downstairs Nick is doing a shopping list, checking the fridge and the cupboards.
‘Can we talk?’ I say to him.
He makes a noise, noncommittal.
I sit down and pour myself a glass of wine, emptying the bottle. Nick opens another and refills his glass.
Sitting down, I say, ‘I’m worried about you.’
‘He needs clear boundaries,’ Nick says.
‘I’m not talking about Isaac,’ I say. ‘I’m talking about you. You’re shutting me out.’
