In my terrifyingly expensive married-with-children existence, I am the partner charged with maintaining the family finances. In other words, not only am I the schmuck whose ‘pleasure’ it is to pay for everything my never-buys-on-sale spouse desires but it is also my sole obligation to pay for my son’s ‘hot mess’ nanny, scarily-devoid-of-nutritional-value groceries, and atrocious imported clothing.
It is also my responsibility to throw vast sums of money at an army of teachers, tutors, instructors, and coaches in hopes of ‘giving my son everything I didn’t have.’ I do all of this on the off chance that a teenage Ethan won’t tell me to go fuck myself after accusing me of being the world’s worst father. Call me crazy, but I don’t think it matters how many fencing lessons I give my kid, he’s still going to tell me to go fuck myself. Call it daddy intuition.
The bills come in, and the money goes out. Like a tidal wave, when the end of the month comes, a tsunami of Nordstrom, Gelson’s, and Verizon bills crash against the lonely shores of my pathetic bank account. I’ve come to accept this as the natural order of things as one might accept old age, senility and eventual death. With every invoice there are the five stages of grief:
1. Denial – “This bill can’t be ours! You spent $800 on candles at Williams Sonoma – how’s that possible?”
2. Anger – “You are coven of financial and emotional vampires trying to suck the life out of me!”
3. Bargaining – “I’ll pay the electric bill this month only if you agree to stop shopping at that ridiculously overpriced Bristol Farms and start shopping at Trader Joes where you belong!”
4. Depression – “Let me get this straight – you want me to cut my monthly Juvederm and Botox injections to every-other month? Why bother living at all?
5. Acceptance – “Leave your bills and get out! I can’t stand the sight of either one of you.”
My husband George has resigned himself to these dramatic performances each month, and like a discerning critic saves his savage reviews for his circle of housewife friends who no doubt encourage him to take Ethan in his Pilates-worked arms and run screaming from the theater.
I am pleased to tell you that one invoice did arrive this month and despite my having to sell a kidney on the black market to pay it – I uncharacteristically and without any kind of reservation sent my check FEDEX. The only people on the planet who do not need to send me late notices, reminders, duplicate invoices nor need to resort to threatening phone calls or collection agencies are the good people at Camp Wakahonick; for they are kind (naive and crazy) enough to take my son Ethan for seven blissful weeks each summer.
(To Be Continued)
In my terrifyingly expensive married-with-children existence, I am the partner charged with maintaining the family finances. In other words, not only am I the schmuck whose ‘pleasure’ it is to pay for everything my never-buys-on-sale spouse desires but it is also my sole obligation to pay for my son’s ‘hot mess’ nanny, scarily-devoid-of-nutritional-value groceries, and atrocious imported clothing.
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