It's funny. I don't really think about my ex-husband. I mean, I do think about him. He still exists. I still have to see him almost every day because we don't think the kids should have to go without seeing us unless someone is out of town. But I think about him as my kids' ride to school. I think about him as the person who does homework when I'm not there. He's the one I text when the kids are sick because he should be the one I text. Not because he is the first one who comes to mind (Mom, Shannon), but because that's what I'm supposed to do.
I remember when we first got divorced, or even when we separated, there was a long list of movies I just couldn't watch. It didn't matter that I hated a lot of those movies (Cabin Boy), or that he had made me watch them at least 10 million times (Captain Ron), but every time they cropped up on the movie channels, I couldn't change the station fast enough. The same goes for any classic rock/deep tracks/Ozzy Osbourne station on XM, the Foo Fighters, AC/DC, Queens of the Stoneage...the list goes on and on.
But strangely, all of that fades with time. Movies become enjoyable again (Overboard), hair bands sneak their way back into your heart (Poison, Cinderella, and Winger), and you find love again.
But tonight, after eating a very early dinner and writing reports way later than planned, I wandered into the kitchen for a snack. The bag of Sour Patch Watermelon I confiscated from Teague tempted me. I sincerely considered a bowl of Apple Jacks. But ultimately, I noticed a stray bag of tortilla chips (not a staple in my house), sour cream, and shredded sharp cheddar. I decided nachos were the way to go.
After shooing away the dogs and pouring a big ole glass of chicken wine, I arranged the chips in a single layer on the plate, taking care to make sure each chip wasn't covered by its neighbor. I spooned a precise amount of sour cream onto each and every chip. Then I sprinkled on a generous amount of cheese and shoved the plate in the microwave. But somewhere in the middle of this process, I remembered standing in a kitchen somewhere in Florida or maybe even California, and Colin telling me that the key to good nachos was each chip getting equal treatment. I can see him laughing and spooning sour cream onto each individual chip. And then putting precisely the same amount of cheese on each one. It was a science. An art. And though I thought it was silly, it stuck.
But unlike those old memories that used to dredge up pain and despair, I'm glad these little things linger. It makes me happy that one day my kids might see me making nachos and say, "Hey! That's exactly how Daddy does it!"
Thirteen years is a long time to love someone. Especially when it results in the creation of two someones that you love more than you could imagine and beyond any measure of time.
Here's to the silly things. The events you don't even seem to notice. The moments that pass without incident in your kitchen and you never imagine will be relevant. Because those, those are the ones that stick.
