Thursday, March 7
“Taking only the best to the Hawks game is a prerequisite of mine,” Paul texted.
“I think he buys his own shit,” I texted back.
Paul sent a selfie of him holding his hand in front of his face under the caption, “Blocking!!!!!!!!.”
Tom got home from school and the boys and I drove downtown to see the Picasso exhibit at the Art Institute. We ate dinner in Greektown and between flaming saganaki and our entrees, Blake leaned across the table toward Tom and said, “I don’t know how you can stand being with Dad. He’s a disgusting jerk.”
“Mom!” Tom said and looked at me pleadingly.
“Blake, don’t,” I said. “Really. Leave him alone. He needs to spend time with Dad. He’s a lot younger than you.”
“I know. But how can you stand staying with him, sleeping at his house with him pretending like everything’s just fine? How can you go with him this weekend?”
“Mom!” Tom said.
“Blake, leave him alone.”
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