Well, long distance is turning into medium long distance; I took the job in Northern Virginia and will be moving in less than two weeks. I was going to spent some time this afternoon packing, but I'm instead sitting here writing this entry--my priorities are obvious. So that's good news, right? I'm taking a great job with an impressive sounding title, a much higher salary than I've ever before earned, 25 miles from where I grew up and, yes, 600 miles closer to my children. But my wife isn't coming right away, as she has to sell her house and anyhow she wants her daughter to finish the school year in Georgia and spend the next six months saying goodbye to everyone she knows (she's moved here to go to college 19 years ago and has never left). It's going to be a tiring and expensive few months as I live and work in one city and have to travel back and forth to Maine and Georgia. I'm not looking forward to that.
Even once my new family does join me in Virginia, then what? I'll still be 500 miles away from my kids and I'll have a full-time, high-pressure job with little ability to take random long weekends or week-long trips like I got to do. I'll have the money to see them now, but what about the time? It's got to be one or the other it seems. And my wife? She'll be in a new, strange place far from everything she knows, and is already feeling guilty about taking her daughter away from their extended family (mother, 3 sisters, 7 nieces/nephews, untold numbers of friends).
There's another issue: her ex-husband and his family (mother, stepfather, 2 sisters, son who's a half-brother to my stepdaughter, 4 cousins). I've found myself being so angry over the past two years about my ex-wife replacing me. Even ignoring the particulars of the new man in her house (see about 12 other of my entries for more on him), the fact is that, to my kids, Daddy doesn't live with us and we only see him every couple of months. Now I'm going to be responsible for making a six-year old girl move 600 miles away from her father.
Now I have every reason to be OK with this--her father is just this side of a deadbeat. Even though he has visitation rights every other weekend, he generally only sees her about once every six weeks, and even on the weekends when he does see her, he spends about 4 hours with her and then drops her off at his mother's or sister's house. He's perpetually two months behind on child support, and owes my ex $15,000 in marital debt. He doesn't come to his daughter's soccer games and has only ever set foot in her school one time. He is now married to the woman with whom he had an affair during his marriage to my wife, and she happens to be an illegal alien. He's also willingly cut ties with his 13 year-old daughter from his first marriage because he couldn't afford to pay child support for her. The guy's not exactly father of the year.
In spite of all of this, I can't help but feeling terrible. Yes, he's a poor excuse for a parent, but he's still her dad. How can I sit here and feel so terribly wronged about semi-voluntarily moving away from my kids and then have a clear conscience about taking another man's daughter away from him?
I'm trying very hard to focus on the facts at hand: 1) I need a good career so I can financially support my son, daughter, and stepdaughter. 2) I have failed to find this career path in Maine or Atlanta. 3) I have found a great job that could hold the key to my future in a third place, one that's halfway between the other two. 4) My wife's ex-husband doesn't even really try to be a parent, in spite of living 15 minutes away right now. 5) My wife has chosen to be with me, and understands facts 1-4 very clearly. I know that taking this job is the right thing to do. No matter how hard it will be over the next few months, I have to believe that the long-term benefits will be worthwhile. It certainly will make for some interesting blogging.
Wednesday, October 26, 2011
Monday, October 17, 2011
59,000 Miles
I don't know if I'll ever write a book based on all of these ramblings, but if I do, I have decided on one of two titles. Over the weekend the famed race car driver Dan Wheldon was tragically killed in a 15-car pileup during a race. At the news conference announcing his death, Mr. Wheldon was said to have perished from "unsurvivable injuries." If/when I do write my tome, I will either call it "Survivable Injuries" or "Unsurvivable Injuries". The exact title will, of course, depend on what happens between now and then.
To bring everything up to date, I voyaged to Maine for a long weekend with my kids over Columbus Day which was tough, as it was the first time since leaving town for good that it had been just me, just them, and a hotel room. Every visit since January had either involved me traveling to Maine with my wife and stepdaughter or me picking them up and taking them to another, better place.
This is not to say I didn't have a great time. The weather was an Inconvenient Truth-ly 80+ degrees (October! Maine! 80 degrees! Call Al Gore!) and we had many memorable moments. Maybe someday I will pen the whole narrative of this weekend, but, in journaling about the trip during the plane ride back "home," it seemed like a more cathartic exercise to spill out random thoughts from the weekend gone by:
The last day of Indian Summer
Where I come from and how that place is gone
Feeling rootless, like I'm living in quicksand
Watching my children struggle and being unable to help them
My daughter's scary fascination with TV commercials
Playing superheroes at the school playground
Watching my son go up (and down) the Hi-Jacker ride at the Fryeburg Fair
Seeing my daughter get on the swing and go by herself
The street sign on the way to the fair that read "Pig Street"
Playing "bedbugs" in the hotel room
Swimming at the YMCA
Sitting on a bench at Deering Oaks Park watching the squirrels together
Riding the Tornado ride at the fair all together
Room 112 at the Extended Stay America
Can being 500 miles away be better than 1,100 miles away?
Who would talk to me for an hour anymore?
Teaching my son about football
My daughter blowing raspberries at me then singing "I'm a Little Scarecrow"
My son leaping from one bed to the other in the hotel room
My kids talking about their "step-family" as if were their own
Needing to feel useful and pining for a better job
Reading this list a week later I feel it does a better job of summing up my feelings than would any contrived narrative. My feelings were (and are) scattered, and the time I spend with my kids is best summarized in this manner. There is no arc to the story. There is no recurring theme. There is just a series of highs and lows. Elation in one moment melts into fear and despair. My fragile heart soars 80 feet up to the top of the Hi-Jacker, then shatters upon impact.
I'll see my kids again in a month or so, again alone in a hotel somewhere near Portland, although I can almost guarantee that it won't be 80 degrees any sunny this time (and if it is, I'm really going to give Mr. Gore a call!) Until then I'm left to stew in my own juices about the life I'm living. I'm sitting here at work, having all the time in the world to write this entry as, after more than three months, I still have virtually nothing to do all day long. Meanwhile, I've been offered a job in the Washington DC area, and have only a few days to decide about it. The job could be great, but I've been keeping myself up nights worrying about whether or not that's really close enough to my kids and being if neither here (Maine) or there (Atlanta) is going to allow my marriage to work. But I don't feel like I have any other options, as there are no better opportunities on the horizon anywhere else.
By the time I write my next post I will have decided whether or not to take the job, in the process probably causing more stress than I can handle. My body has, technically, survived the injuries suffered due to my first marriage and its disastrous end, but I'm having a hard time seeing how my spirit will carry on. No matter where I live (Atlanta, DC, Boston, Maine), I will feel like I'm giving up too much and that my life will always fall short of what I wanted it to be. In that regard I suppose I haven't survived my injuries at all. I'm not living the same life that I was living before the crash, but instead feel like a ghost who is inhabiting the same body but somehow unable to feel the same way. But that's the definitation of survival, isn't it? I've been bloodied and battered, but my body still lives and breathes. I guess I've got my title.
To bring everything up to date, I voyaged to Maine for a long weekend with my kids over Columbus Day which was tough, as it was the first time since leaving town for good that it had been just me, just them, and a hotel room. Every visit since January had either involved me traveling to Maine with my wife and stepdaughter or me picking them up and taking them to another, better place.
This is not to say I didn't have a great time. The weather was an Inconvenient Truth-ly 80+ degrees (October! Maine! 80 degrees! Call Al Gore!) and we had many memorable moments. Maybe someday I will pen the whole narrative of this weekend, but, in journaling about the trip during the plane ride back "home," it seemed like a more cathartic exercise to spill out random thoughts from the weekend gone by:
The last day of Indian Summer
Where I come from and how that place is gone
Feeling rootless, like I'm living in quicksand
Watching my children struggle and being unable to help them
My daughter's scary fascination with TV commercials
Playing superheroes at the school playground
Watching my son go up (and down) the Hi-Jacker ride at the Fryeburg Fair
Seeing my daughter get on the swing and go by herself
The street sign on the way to the fair that read "Pig Street"
Playing "bedbugs" in the hotel room
Swimming at the YMCA
Sitting on a bench at Deering Oaks Park watching the squirrels together
Riding the Tornado ride at the fair all together
Room 112 at the Extended Stay America
Can being 500 miles away be better than 1,100 miles away?
Who would talk to me for an hour anymore?
Teaching my son about football
My daughter blowing raspberries at me then singing "I'm a Little Scarecrow"
My son leaping from one bed to the other in the hotel room
My kids talking about their "step-family" as if were their own
Needing to feel useful and pining for a better job
Reading this list a week later I feel it does a better job of summing up my feelings than would any contrived narrative. My feelings were (and are) scattered, and the time I spend with my kids is best summarized in this manner. There is no arc to the story. There is no recurring theme. There is just a series of highs and lows. Elation in one moment melts into fear and despair. My fragile heart soars 80 feet up to the top of the Hi-Jacker, then shatters upon impact.
I'll see my kids again in a month or so, again alone in a hotel somewhere near Portland, although I can almost guarantee that it won't be 80 degrees any sunny this time (and if it is, I'm really going to give Mr. Gore a call!) Until then I'm left to stew in my own juices about the life I'm living. I'm sitting here at work, having all the time in the world to write this entry as, after more than three months, I still have virtually nothing to do all day long. Meanwhile, I've been offered a job in the Washington DC area, and have only a few days to decide about it. The job could be great, but I've been keeping myself up nights worrying about whether or not that's really close enough to my kids and being if neither here (Maine) or there (Atlanta) is going to allow my marriage to work. But I don't feel like I have any other options, as there are no better opportunities on the horizon anywhere else.
By the time I write my next post I will have decided whether or not to take the job, in the process probably causing more stress than I can handle. My body has, technically, survived the injuries suffered due to my first marriage and its disastrous end, but I'm having a hard time seeing how my spirit will carry on. No matter where I live (Atlanta, DC, Boston, Maine), I will feel like I'm giving up too much and that my life will always fall short of what I wanted it to be. In that regard I suppose I haven't survived my injuries at all. I'm not living the same life that I was living before the crash, but instead feel like a ghost who is inhabiting the same body but somehow unable to feel the same way. But that's the definitation of survival, isn't it? I've been bloodied and battered, but my body still lives and breathes. I guess I've got my title.
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