Spring is unfolding differently this year than in the past, for me anyway. I'm happy to say that I got to experience two spring times due to visiting Texas for bluebonnet season, and now the trees are finally starting to bloom here in the city. Something inside me feels distinctly different. A shift in the personal paradigm, perhaps, that goes along with maturity.
There's no escaping the fact that I've matured. I can see it in the creases around my mouth.
It's come to my attention that I've reached the end of the Mommy Track. Years ago, when Velvet was little - I have to stop here because in truth, the boy just doesn't seem like Velvet anymore. He seems like Buster again. I wrote a children's book once as an assignment for grad school at Bank Street about my son and his invisible friend, and in that book I called him Buster. They're calling him "Bill" out there in the Wilderness because his first name in real life is William. Buzz Kill's father's name was William, and it was clear to me a few weeks before the baby was born, Vagina Dentata and Buzz Kill wished the baby's name could be William. So his first name is William. I have never once called the child William, but Buzz Kill often does. It was never an issue until he went up to Tree Hugger because Buzz Kill made a big deal about using William on all the correspondence.
The thing is that Buzz Kill goes by his middle name, and so does my dad and so does my sister. My brother also used his middle name until he went to court when he was 12 and changed his name to Smiley. True Story. Although there are times when a form requires you to fill in the blanks a certain way, mostly all you have to do is put the initial as the first name and spell out the middle name and everyone figures it out. Whatever. I'm chalking the whole thing up to general adolescent identity confusion for Velvet since he clearly didn't know his ass from his elbow once he got to college. He'll figure it out sooner or later.
I'm having to sort out my own name issues at that moment. Right after the divorce, I sent papers to the Social Security Administration so I could go back to using my maiden name. They sent a letter asking for one more piece of documentation which I never got around to providing. That was nearly five years ago. The last name has been problematic this school year because the HR office at work can't handle the concept of paperwork and paychecks going out to a name that doesn't match the social security card, so all this stuff has been in my married name again. It's a drag because I've been going to doctors on account of my shoulder, and they're all calling me Mrs. Buzz Kill.
We should be signing the contract selling the apartment this week, and I don't mind being Mrs. Buzz Kill on that bit of paper - but honestly, I'm fucking done being Mrs. Buzz Kill. I still need to be PENolan for internet purposes for personal and professional reasons, but I'm thinking that I'll trot over to the Social Security office on Monday and get my own name back once and for all. The Drivers License too.
But I was talking about The Mommy Track, which following the stream of consciousness we've just experienced, is clearly linked to my Identity. When I decided that I felt like getting pregnant, which was right after I decided that I would rather have a baby than get divorced - I quit my full time job in public relations and went to work in the Afterschool program at the local YMCA. With the exception of the job at Firestarter Academy, I haven't worked full time since because I wanted to be home with my own dang kid. I'll save the whole rationale for that decision for The Menopausal Stoners Guide to Parenting - which I am committed to writing this year - but the point is that now that the kid is twenty years old, my days on the Mommy Track are at an end. Coincidentally, my contract with Buzz Kill is also at an end since we're selling the marital residence and dividing the marital assets once and for all. My alimony runs out in August, and the child support runs out when the child turns 21. The End.
The last thing I want at this juncture is a bunch of doctors calling me Mrs. Buzz Kill - especially if I wind up having to have surgery on this shoulder again. I don't want mail coming to Tricia BuzzKill either, which brings us back to the HR office because of my retirement account and stuff. Mrs Buzz Kill can be packed away forever with miscellaneous documents, and I'll be free to grow again as my own self.
I guess that means that this Easter weekend, me and Jesus are resurrected
Alleluia - bring on the chocolate bunnies
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