Oh look, a charming image from this weekend's Christmas tree outing. A father and son, enjoying an traditional holiday moment together:
Except, what's missing from this bucolic tableau? (Other than the child's mittens, of course.) Why, it's Mommy. Where is Mommy?
She's behind the camera, as usual, shivering in the snow in a coat that won't zip shut over a 7-months-pregnant belly. She's the one trying to hold the boy's hand to keep it warm, while he yanks it from her grip, shouts NO, and chases his father. She's holding a squirming, tantruming toddler while he screams DADDY, DADDY, DADDY over and over in her ear like a firebell while the beloved, eternally preferred DADDY takes the tree out to the truck. She's sitting in the truck, sniffling back hormonal tears, while her son cries piteously in the backseat about DADDY, DADDY, where is DADDY. She's thinking that in the rolling credits of her family's life, she would be listed somewhere near the bottom. Maybe under "grip", or more accurately, "personal assistant to Young Master". She tearfully announces to DADDY that she's nothing more than a glorified babysitter, a nearly pointless biological accessory that is simply around to do the breeding, and that her own child couldn't care less if she lived or died and she's going to move to a Caribbean island and spend the rest of her days serving watered-down Mai Tais to tipsy businessmen because FUCK IT.
Later, of course, she takes it all back, as her traitorous son clings joyfully to her leg yelling I GOT YOU MOMMY.
Oh, the things we don't put in the holiday cards.