Untamed

My ex-husband has a girlfriend. Months ago, we decided it was time for us to meet. The three of us arranged to have breakfast at a local restaurant. I arrived first, sat on a bench, played with my phone, and waited. Eventually I saw the two of them approaching, and I stood up. She smiled and when we hugged, her hair smelled like a flower I couldn’t identify.

We asked for a table by the water. She and Craig sat down on one side; I sat on the other and placed my purse on the seat next to me. When the waiter came, I ordered hot tea. He delivered it to the table in a little white teapot. I didn’t know what else to talk about, so I talked about the little white teapot.

I said, “Look at this! How cute is this? My own teapot.”

The next week, I opened a box in the mail. Inside there were two little white teapots—from her to me.

When my daughters go to their father’s house, she is there with them, and she braids my daughters’ hair skillfully. I have never known how to braid my daughters’ hair. I’ve tried, but it ends up looking lumpy and pathetic, so we stick to ponytails. Whenever I see a little girl wearing complicated braids, I think: She looks well loved. She looks well mothered. She looks like a little girl whose mother knows what she’s doing. Who once was a teenage girl who knew what she was doing, who had lots of friends in high school, who all sat around and braided each other’s hair and giggled. Who was Golden.

When Craig and his girlfriend drop the kids off at our house, we stand in the foyer together in a little circle and we are kind and awkward. I tell too many jokes and laugh too often and too loudly. We each do the best we can. Sometimes, while we’re standing there, she pulls my girls over, wraps her arms around them, and plays with their hair. When this happens, Abby grabs my hand and squeezes. When Craig and his girlfriend leave, I pull my girls close again. They look well mothered, and they smell like a flower I can’t identify.

The kids, Abby, and I got up early this past Thanksgiving morning, piled into the car, and drove to the Turkey Trot race downtown. On the way, Chase read us a meme that said, “My greatest fear is marrying into a family that runs Turkey Trots on Thanksgiving morning.”

Craig and his girlfriend met us there. As we approached the starting line, Craig and Chase went to the front of the pack; their goal to win. Craig’s girlfriend, my daughters, and I found a place in the back; our goal to finish, maybe. Abby placed herself in the middle, surveying; her goal to make sure everyone achieved their goal.

The race began. We stuck together for a while, then drifted apart. Halfway through the race, I saw Craig’s girlfriend jogging ahead of me. I’ve always thought of “picking up the pace” as something one does metaphorically, but suddenly I felt my feet literally picking up their pace. I began to run instead of jog. I began to run strenuously. I began to run so strenuously that I felt myself sweating and panting. I began sprinting. As I approached Craig’s girlfriend, I weaved to the far left so she wouldn’t see me pass her. Farther along, I saw Tish running alone, but I didn’t slow down; I left her in my dust. My knee started to hurt, but I didn’t slow down for my knee either. I crossed the finish line having beat Craig’s girlfriend. By a long stretch.

Still trying to catch my breath, I grabbed a water and walked back to the finish line to wait for my girls. I scanned the sea of runners finishing and saw Abby, Tish, Amma, and Craig’s girlfriend cross the finish line together. Abby had finished early and gone back, rounded up the troops, made sure they all crossed together. They were giggling, happy, Abby on one side, Craig’s girlfriend on the other, Amma and Tish in the middle. Nobody seemed to notice my absence or my victory.

A few days later, I stood in my driveway and called Craig.

I said, “She tells Tish that she loves her. Don’t you think that’s a little much? She is your girlfriend, not their mother. We all need some boundaries. You need to help her set them. What if she leaves and hurts our kids?”

I am much more afraid that she will stay and love our kids.

We all ate Christmas dinner together this year. I asked Craig to bring the traditional apple pie. He and his girlfriend brought a strawberry dish instead. When Tish asked where the apple pie was, I shrugged and shushed her. After dinner, we took a family picture: all of us and the dog. After we took it, Craig’s girlfriend said, “Okay, now let’s do a crazy one!” Why all the suggestions? We don’t do crazy ones. All three kids agreed that the crazy picture was the best picture. Then we sat down and ate the strawberry dish. All three kids said it was the best Christmas dessert we’d ever had.

The next day, Craig’s girlfriend posted our crazy picture online. She wrote, “Grateful to have found a love that is inviting and kind, witty and nonjudgmental, a no boundaries type of love.”

Someday I’ll ask her how to braid my daughters’ hair.

Someday I’ll learn how to mother with her, with Abby, like a braid.