The ex files

Picture a cold December Sunday at the mall. It's casual dress all the way. The beat up pair of Express jeans that are so damn comfortable but that are so worn and shiny at the knees it's almost embarassing to be seen in them. The stretched out Old Navy t-shirt with the fraying hem and the greasy child handprints from the pretzel he weaseled out of me. Hat hair. Also picture having been in said mall for a couple of hours that's becoming steadily more crowded. The stroller is tilting over from the newly purchased crap that's hanging off the handles. The hyped up child dashing all over the place. Picture hissing "Brendan, get back to this stroller right now", said child coming over and the stroller falling over as I let go of it. Picture someone leaning over to right the stroller and it's none other than the ex. Not just any ex, but THE ex. The one who became the ex mainly because children were just not on the agenda (well that and the cheating). And this is how we meet up again, with me of course the ever so perfect specimen of happy and organized motherhood, not. Aaaagh!!!!!! We chatted for an awkward minute or two. Finally Brendan couldn't take it and shouted "LET'S GO MOMMY!!!!!!!" My sentiments exactly at that point. Now, I don't really give a shit about what the ex thinks about me or my child. And I'd by far rather have greasy handprints on everything I own than have spent the last 4.5 years differently, but damnit, couldn't I at least have been looking a little more put together? Although shock of shocks I did get a compliment on my new shade of red. Maybe I should have extended an invitation to the ex to come and babysit? (Evil grin inserted here).