Whiplash. Again.

No matter how many times I tell myself that I'm not going to fall for it, that I'm not going to engage, inevitably I do. I get my heart broken and my stomach punched and my throat constricted and my hopes let down. Way down.

This is time number who-knows-what that the father of my child says something is going to happen a certain way and then changes his mind at the last effing minute. The past several times have had to do with whether or not A is finally going to move back home. He is. He's not. He is. He's not.

There are many days when I hit complete okayness with him not being home. I don't WANT him here, I think. Finally, some time to myself, I think. It's so much more serene without that boy here, I think. But THEN - the idea that he might move home creeps in and I soften and I can't wait, and I fool myself into thinking that by not physically preparing for him to be home I am also not emotionally preparing for him to come home. But I'm wrong. I am always preparing to have him come home. It's where he belongs. (Even though I know that I don't get to decide that. That, in fact, mother does not always know best)

I miss him. He is an extension of my being and I want him home. I want him to want to be home.

And I abhor R for bing so flighty and self-centered and self-serving. And completely oblivious.