This story showcases my childish behavior, but god, I do feel better for it.
Tuesday night was the kids’ dinner night with their father, Mr. N/A. They did their thing and returned to the house around the appointed time.
I was in my study on the computer, and all three children came into the room together. First was Joey, whose outstretched arms were presenting me with a thick, flattened cardboard box (about 2′ x 3′, I guess). Behind him, my two daughters stood expectantly.
Joey greeted me. “Hi, Mommy! Daddy said to bring you this box and tell you to recycle it.”
“Excuse me???” I bristled.
Joey was oblivious, but the girls had “oh no, she’s gonna blow” looks on their faces. They knew.
“Are you serious?” I asked.
The girls nodded.
I asked Joey to put the box in the front hall by the door, while the girls explained that their father had used the box to protect his leather seats from Joey’s dirty pants.
Now, I should interject here that I labeled these kinds of antics from Mr. N/A a very long time ago as “fuck-you behavior” (a.k.a. FU behavior). Like the time I brought home my brand-spanking-new Yukon Denali XL truck with the kick-ass stereo and heated leather seats, and he got up at the crack of dawn the next morning while I slept and took a drive through the mud to get his coffee. FU behavior.
But I digress…
The thing is, I’m tired of being on the receiving end of FU behavior and just letting it slide for sanity’s sake. How do you set boundaries with assholes? After a few moments of creative thinking and a comment by my daughter, I had my answer.
Last night, I quietly drove to Mr. N/A’s house, dropped off the box on his front porch, and then sent him an email that said simply this:
I took it to the dump.