Letting go. Again.

I find it very difficult not to wonder about the lives my children have that don't include me, especially after 14 years of knowing exactly what they've eaten, worn, the state of their rooms, and, for the most part, the state of their bowels. (What about sleepovers and playdates, you ask? All you moms out there know that one of the pass-off rules of playdates is informing the other mom what you plan on feeding her children and what you fed them.)

My little angels spend eight days a month away from me in a second home with their dad and, apparently, his girlfriend, and it's KILLING me. I have to bite my tongue not to ask what goes on over there -- as if they're making sacrificial offerings of small animals. Last Thursday I asked the baby what he'd had for dinner the night before. It sounded so innocent, like maybe I was just interested in knowing whether any roughage had been ingested. When I heard that the girlfriend had been there to show the ex how to prepare a certain dish and that they'd also made the same thing I made that night? Well, my hair caught fire again. I conjured this image of a happy family that didn't include me --  I'm exiled to another page with a red "x" through my face.

The lesson I am learning is not to ask. It's none of my business. It's practice for when the babies go to college, but it will be easier because their dad's girlfriend won't be there making them dinner.