The last small piece

My nine-year-old stepson still believes in Santa Claus. Or at least he says he does. I doubt anymore that he actually does. But he says he does, so we go along with it, keeping up the charade, letting him hold onto that last small piece of childhood just a little bit longer.

Things have been difficult with his mother lately. The details are unimportant. It's really the same things it always has been. She is willing to play tit-for-tat in the custody arrangement with my husband, but the moment she is asked to give more for the sake of Aaron, every door is closed and the answer is no even before the question is asked.

A part of me understands. It is hard enough only being present for half of your child's life. I get that. But what we are asking is not for us. We are giving just as much as we are asking to be given. And J.R. is giving it not because it's good for us, but because it's good for Aaron. We are giving because sometimes, as parents, we have to lose so our kids can gain.

This isn't new. I have lost count of the number of times I've ranted in frustration that her son is not her priority. I have lost count of the number of times her son has taken a backseat to her need for vengeance against her son's father. I have stacks of paper, court documents, dripping with lies and venom, making demands without regard for their impact on her child. I have given up hoping that someday, it will be about her son, not about her.

Everyone I know who has survived joint custody tells me that there will come a day that he understands what is happening, that he sees her selfishness for what it is. It's hard to believe sometimes. After all, she is his mother, and it's difficult to believe that any disregard for his benefit will change his relationship with her.

But there are times, small moments, that I think he's starting to see it. Saturday after his baseball game he was going home with her. He was saying his goodbyes to us. He hugged me, like he always does, then looked up at me, just for a moment...a slight shimmer in his eyes that are the precursor to tears, the knowing I could see in his look...then he squeezed me, squeezed me with every inch he could, and walked away.

In that moment, it was all I could do not to break down. To cry and hold him. To tell him that no matter what, his father and I will stand by his side and never ask anything more than the privilege of loving him.

But I think he knows, I think he understands, even though I'm certain he doesn't want to. Because admitting he knows would mean shattering that last small piece of childhood. It would mean letting go of the innocence that has protected him for so long, cracking the shell that has sheltered him from life's harsher truths.

So until he's ready, I'm okay if he wants to believe.