Another 1,000 miles have been added to the frequentfatherometer, and it seemed like just another routine three-day weekend. My wife and stepdaughter came along this time, so it was five of us crammed into a hotel room, enjoying the free buffet, the indoor pool, running around on the beach in spite of the cold weather, and even a jaunt down to Boston for the afternoon. It was, as always, wonderful to have some time with my kids, but sad to say goodbye to them for a while. The difference this time was the thing in the air, the thing we can't discuss, the specter that is haunting everyone.
The custody case.
It's been 2.5 weeks since the prior hearing, and it will be another 2.5 weeks until the next (and hopefully final) one. I have hit new lows emotionally and mentally during this period, often unable to work, think, speak, or be around other people. My nightly phone calls with my kids have been a burden, as I am so depressed I can barely converse with them. In short, I am paralyzed by the way things are, and am absolutely frightened at the prospect of being told "no thanks" by the judge.
I am trying my best not to think about that potential outcome, but I can't. I know it is very possible that the court will conclude that removing the alcoholic from the home will take care of the problem, and then give my ex one more chance to prove that she can be a responsible parent. It's equally possible that the judge will conclude that she needs to know more about me and my lifestyle before transferring custody, which would mean appointing a guardian ad litem who would then spend several months and several thousand dollars investigating my life. That may be the worst outcome of all: more waiting and more money that I don't have.
Being back in Maine for three days was harder than ever. First off, I hate November in Maine--the trees are barren, the sun goes down before 5:00, and the permanent midnight of the Maine winter is beginning to set in. Second, I felt myself feeling like telling my kids what I was doing and why I was doing it, but I know that I can't put them in the middle of this. Finally, and most importantly, I found myself looking around, knowing in my heart that, if the judge says they have to stay where they are, I will have no choice but to come back to this place, where everything reminds me of failure, of the nine years of my life that I wasted there, of the stupid decisions that led me there.
In 16 days I will be back in the courtroom again. I get three hours to prove to this judge that my kids need to be with me. Those three hours will, for better or worse, permanently alter the course of my life and my kids' lives. As much as I want that day to come, I dread it as well. Either way, it is going to be a momentous day, one that will replay in my mind for the rest of my life. I am in no way ready for it, but really, how could I be?
Wednesday, November 20, 2013
Saturday, November 2, 2013
90,000 Miles
I'll get the good news out of the way. I went to court two days ago and the judge ordered the irresponsible drunk stepfather out of the house by 4:00 p.m. the next day. Now he is presumably gone, and my kids will no longer be in danger from his presence. I have shared this news with many people--my wife, my mother, other friends and family members--and they all have told me that this is "great" or "wonderful" or that I should be "happy" about it. Instead, I have really never felt worse in my entire life that I do today. Let's consider.
My son went to the E.R. 56 days ago.
I hired a P.I. three days later.
The P.I. documented the continuing alcohol abuse in the house within a week.
I hired an attorney and she prepared an emergency custody motion within two days.
It took a week to serve my ex-wife, get her to acknowledge service, and file the motion at the court.
It took more than two weeks just to hear from the court as to whether or not they would grant an emergency hearing.
They granted the hearing, but set it for another three weeks down the road.
The hearing was limited to 90 minutes, and the judge was 15 minutes late, leaving just 75 minutes.
The first witness--my ex's neighbor--wasted half the hearing with a bad amnesia act that caused the judge to warn her about perjury, and most of the rest of the time was taken up by the P.I. telling the court what she had actually said to him a few weeks earlier.
The judge concluded that there was no doubt that the stepfather was still abusing alcohol on the property, and asked the attorneys to come to her chambers to discuss how to remove him from the property
They remained in chambers for the rest of the 75 minutes.
When they came out, the judge ordered my ex to obtain a "criminal trespassing order" that bars her own husband from being on her property. The judge also warned her that the court would hold her responsible for making sure that the guy stayed gone.
The judge set a date for the continuation of the hearing...36 days later.
And....scene.
So there it was--my day in court. I spent hundreds of dollars on plane tickets for myself and my wife, a rental car, and meals (we thankfully stayed with a friend for free), thousands of dollars on a P.I. and an attorney, got dressed up, planned what I would say and do, and then all I did was sit there and do nothing, while the above kabuki act played out before my eyes.
Now it's going to be another five weeks of waiting, waiting, waiting, and waiting. My next visit with my kids will pass next weekend (yes, another trip to Maine), another Thanksgiving will go by without them, as my ex gets them for odd-numbered years, and then I'm supposed to get an actual three-hour hearing, at which my children's future will ostensibly be decided. In the meantime I have to wonder whether or not my ex will actually take the court order seriously this time and keep her drunk husband out of the picture. I have no faith that she will do this, so I have told several of her neighbors what has happened and that they need to call me and/or the police if they see him hanging around. I also don't know what she's going to tell the kids--I'm sure she will say something like "Your daddy is mean and made him leave." It wouldn't be the first time.
I got back to Virginia late last night, and slept for 12 hours. I know I should be at least a little bit happy about removing the drunk from my kids' home, and maybe even from seeing my ex in tears afterwards--she finally got a consequence for her bad behavior! But I'm not--I'm just paralyzed with fear, exasperation, and anxiety, and just want to sit in a dark room by myself. The nightmare isn't over and, given the ridiculousness of the family courts in Maine, I still have no faith that anything is really going to change in 35 days.
My ex's attorney will argue that it will be too traumatic to remove the kids from their mother and their community, and that there is no threat to them with the stepfather gone. He will make me out to be the big bad wolf, trying to steal the kids from their loving mother. He will impugn my character and accuse me of stalking and harassing her, and I am going to have to try my best to not scream at him. It's not going to be a lot of fun, and I am already sick to my stomach about it.
Worst of all, I have the next 35 days and nights to ponder what may happen, and think myself sick with the horrible possibilities. I just want to rip off the bandage already--I am tired of slowly tearing at it day after day. I know it's going to be bad, because I really don't feel any better after spending the past hour writing all this. I almost always feel better after writing, but it's just not happening this time.
More to come.
My son went to the E.R. 56 days ago.
I hired a P.I. three days later.
The P.I. documented the continuing alcohol abuse in the house within a week.
I hired an attorney and she prepared an emergency custody motion within two days.
It took a week to serve my ex-wife, get her to acknowledge service, and file the motion at the court.
It took more than two weeks just to hear from the court as to whether or not they would grant an emergency hearing.
They granted the hearing, but set it for another three weeks down the road.
The hearing was limited to 90 minutes, and the judge was 15 minutes late, leaving just 75 minutes.
The first witness--my ex's neighbor--wasted half the hearing with a bad amnesia act that caused the judge to warn her about perjury, and most of the rest of the time was taken up by the P.I. telling the court what she had actually said to him a few weeks earlier.
The judge concluded that there was no doubt that the stepfather was still abusing alcohol on the property, and asked the attorneys to come to her chambers to discuss how to remove him from the property
They remained in chambers for the rest of the 75 minutes.
When they came out, the judge ordered my ex to obtain a "criminal trespassing order" that bars her own husband from being on her property. The judge also warned her that the court would hold her responsible for making sure that the guy stayed gone.
The judge set a date for the continuation of the hearing...36 days later.
And....scene.
So there it was--my day in court. I spent hundreds of dollars on plane tickets for myself and my wife, a rental car, and meals (we thankfully stayed with a friend for free), thousands of dollars on a P.I. and an attorney, got dressed up, planned what I would say and do, and then all I did was sit there and do nothing, while the above kabuki act played out before my eyes.
Now it's going to be another five weeks of waiting, waiting, waiting, and waiting. My next visit with my kids will pass next weekend (yes, another trip to Maine), another Thanksgiving will go by without them, as my ex gets them for odd-numbered years, and then I'm supposed to get an actual three-hour hearing, at which my children's future will ostensibly be decided. In the meantime I have to wonder whether or not my ex will actually take the court order seriously this time and keep her drunk husband out of the picture. I have no faith that she will do this, so I have told several of her neighbors what has happened and that they need to call me and/or the police if they see him hanging around. I also don't know what she's going to tell the kids--I'm sure she will say something like "Your daddy is mean and made him leave." It wouldn't be the first time.
I got back to Virginia late last night, and slept for 12 hours. I know I should be at least a little bit happy about removing the drunk from my kids' home, and maybe even from seeing my ex in tears afterwards--she finally got a consequence for her bad behavior! But I'm not--I'm just paralyzed with fear, exasperation, and anxiety, and just want to sit in a dark room by myself. The nightmare isn't over and, given the ridiculousness of the family courts in Maine, I still have no faith that anything is really going to change in 35 days.
My ex's attorney will argue that it will be too traumatic to remove the kids from their mother and their community, and that there is no threat to them with the stepfather gone. He will make me out to be the big bad wolf, trying to steal the kids from their loving mother. He will impugn my character and accuse me of stalking and harassing her, and I am going to have to try my best to not scream at him. It's not going to be a lot of fun, and I am already sick to my stomach about it.
Worst of all, I have the next 35 days and nights to ponder what may happen, and think myself sick with the horrible possibilities. I just want to rip off the bandage already--I am tired of slowly tearing at it day after day. I know it's going to be bad, because I really don't feel any better after spending the past hour writing all this. I almost always feel better after writing, but it's just not happening this time.
More to come.
Sunday, September 29, 2013
89,000 Miles, approaching the Mixing Bowl
Three Thursdays ago, at about 11:30 p.m., I was awakened by the telephone. I rolled over after the second ring, but couldn't get myself out of bed and over to my dresser to answer the phone before it went to voicemail. As soon as the voicemail notification popped up, I listened to the message. It was from my ex-wife, informing me that she had just returned home from the E.R. with our son, but that he was OK.
She went explain that the whole incident occurred when my son got home from football practice and her (irresponsible drunk) husband tried to help him take off his cleats. It seems that her (irresponsible drunk) husband has a device on his leg called an external fixator--this horrible contraption holds his leg together as a result of his recent (irresponsible drunk) trip to the E.R. resulting from him falling off of a curb and shattering his tibia. Anyhow, when my son's foot popped out of his cleat, his leg swung downward, directly into one of the five-inch long rods protruding from the fixator on the leg of his (irresponsible drunk) stepfather. His leg was impaled an inch deep into this awful thing, and he needed six stitches to repair the laceration.
I called her right back but she didn't answer. I called again in the morning to ask how our son was doing, and, while I was relieved to hear that he was recovering, I was furious about what had happened and that she waited several hours to tell me about it. I asked her if her husband was drunk at the time of the incident and, of course, she denied it and got indignant at me for even asking. She then handed off the phone to my son, and I talked to him. He was upset by the incident, but he stood strong and told me he would be right back on his feet, and so he was. He only missed one football game, and was back on the field the next weekend, when I came up to see him play.
So it would seem that everything turned out OK--my son was hurt, but recovered quickly, and seems to bear no mental scars from the incident. He was very lucky to have not severed an artery or developed an infection--this surely could have been much worse. I thought about the incident a lot for the next day or two. Yes, it was an accident, one that I suppose could have happened to anyone. But the more I thought about it, the more I came to realize that this incident was the direct product of living with an irresponsible drunk. The guy had this contraption on his leg in the first place because he fell while drunk. Furthermore, if a clear-headed adult had something like this on his leg, he would be more careful when helping a kid take off his shoes.
I got angrier and angrier just thinking about it. This was it: the crossroads. This was where I had to decide whether or not I was going to make a stand against my ex-wife's denial and deception and protect my kids not only from their (irresponsible drunk) stepfather, but from their (stupid stupid stupid) mother.
The next day I called my attorney, and asked her point blank, "if I can prove that the guy was drunk during this incident, can I get custody?" She didn't guarantee it, but she said that I would have a very strong case. She referred me to a private investigator, and told me that, if I hired him, he would find out "more than you think he will." The P.I. proved her right--he interviewed a couple of neighbors, who confirmed that the guy still drinks malt liquor all day long, is often verbally abusive towards both my ex and the kids, and often passes out in the garage or on the lawn. He also heard from one neighbor that my ex had come over to her house in tears a few months earlier, telling her that she couldn't control her husband's drinking and that she didn't know what to do.
Game, set, and match. The guy is always drunk, and she clearly knows it. I met with my attorney that Friday, right before picking up my kids for the weekend. Two days later, after dropping them off, I went to her office and signed the custody motion. I missed my flight home and got stuck overnight in Boston, but I wasn't even upset about it, because I knew I was doing the right thing.
I only wish that this newfound inner peace would carry me through the present and the immediate future, but there are too many other things eating away at me. First off, my ex wasted no time dumping this on the kids. The very day she got served, during my nightly phone call, my daughter got on the phone and told me, "I don't like the letter you sent to Mommy." At first I didn't know what she meant, so I asked her, and she answered, "You know, you told her that you want me to come stay with you forever. I don't like that." I kept my composure and told her, "I wish Mommy hadn't told you about that. That's really between Mommy and me." I simply can't believe that she would burden a six year old with this sort of information, but I guess I shouldn't be surprised by anything she does anymore.
Second, my current lifestyle continues to fall well short of being satisfying. I've begun counseling with my wife, and think that the therapist is good, but I still don't think that she is ever going to fully accept that she is in control of her own life. My job is proving to be far less interesting or rewarding than I thought it would be, and I find myself daydreaming about doing something else. I am still having trouble socializing and trying to make or retain friends, as I am consumed by anxiety.
Most of all, I have now put my children's futures, and my own, in the hands of the Maine District Court, the same court that refused my plea to remove the (irresponsible drunk) guy from my kids' lives two years ago. Maybe, in light of the new evidence and my far more ambitious request, I will get what I want this time around, but then I worry about whether or not I actually want it. As much as I love my kids, I worry a great deal about the impact of taking them away from their mother and depositing them into a new life just like that. I know people always say that kids are adaptable, but I can't imagine having your whole world altered like that. I suppose that's why I have resisted doing this for the past four years.
But now it's happening. I am reasonably sure that this will end up with one of two scenarios. If I do get custody, I will retrieve the kids and set about adjusting to a new reality. If I don't, then I have to assume that my kids will be staying in Maine until they grow up, and I will most likely go back there again, as much as I hate it there. After this latest incident, I simply can't imagine staying so far away from them, totally unable to help them or be there to protect them from the dangers in their own home.
Either way, my days as the Frequent Father are most likely nearing their end. Just typing these words makes my heart leap. The emptiness, pain, and emotional trauma that I've experienced over the past four years has pushed me to places I'd never been before, and hope to never go again. I know that many long-distance parents make peace with their situations and embrace the fact that their children will love them no matter what. Knowing that there is an irresponsible drunk in my children's home--and that their mother will never do anything about it--I simply have not, and can not come to that sort of acceptance.
I have now proceeded through the crossroads, but am not yet sure which road I'm on. I can't help but think of the so-called "Mixing Bowl" interchange, just a few miles from my house in Northern Virginia, where three interstate highways and several surface streets all come together. As you approach it, a jumble of layered ramps 10 stories tall lead in all directions, disorienting even those who drive through it every day. I have gotten on a ramp, but I don't really know where it will lead or how long it will take to get there. The only certainty is that, once I come out the other side, I will no longer be the Frequent Father, I'll just be Dad.
That's really all I ever hoped to be.
She went explain that the whole incident occurred when my son got home from football practice and her (irresponsible drunk) husband tried to help him take off his cleats. It seems that her (irresponsible drunk) husband has a device on his leg called an external fixator--this horrible contraption holds his leg together as a result of his recent (irresponsible drunk) trip to the E.R. resulting from him falling off of a curb and shattering his tibia. Anyhow, when my son's foot popped out of his cleat, his leg swung downward, directly into one of the five-inch long rods protruding from the fixator on the leg of his (irresponsible drunk) stepfather. His leg was impaled an inch deep into this awful thing, and he needed six stitches to repair the laceration.
I called her right back but she didn't answer. I called again in the morning to ask how our son was doing, and, while I was relieved to hear that he was recovering, I was furious about what had happened and that she waited several hours to tell me about it. I asked her if her husband was drunk at the time of the incident and, of course, she denied it and got indignant at me for even asking. She then handed off the phone to my son, and I talked to him. He was upset by the incident, but he stood strong and told me he would be right back on his feet, and so he was. He only missed one football game, and was back on the field the next weekend, when I came up to see him play.
So it would seem that everything turned out OK--my son was hurt, but recovered quickly, and seems to bear no mental scars from the incident. He was very lucky to have not severed an artery or developed an infection--this surely could have been much worse. I thought about the incident a lot for the next day or two. Yes, it was an accident, one that I suppose could have happened to anyone. But the more I thought about it, the more I came to realize that this incident was the direct product of living with an irresponsible drunk. The guy had this contraption on his leg in the first place because he fell while drunk. Furthermore, if a clear-headed adult had something like this on his leg, he would be more careful when helping a kid take off his shoes.
I got angrier and angrier just thinking about it. This was it: the crossroads. This was where I had to decide whether or not I was going to make a stand against my ex-wife's denial and deception and protect my kids not only from their (irresponsible drunk) stepfather, but from their (stupid stupid stupid) mother.
The next day I called my attorney, and asked her point blank, "if I can prove that the guy was drunk during this incident, can I get custody?" She didn't guarantee it, but she said that I would have a very strong case. She referred me to a private investigator, and told me that, if I hired him, he would find out "more than you think he will." The P.I. proved her right--he interviewed a couple of neighbors, who confirmed that the guy still drinks malt liquor all day long, is often verbally abusive towards both my ex and the kids, and often passes out in the garage or on the lawn. He also heard from one neighbor that my ex had come over to her house in tears a few months earlier, telling her that she couldn't control her husband's drinking and that she didn't know what to do.
Game, set, and match. The guy is always drunk, and she clearly knows it. I met with my attorney that Friday, right before picking up my kids for the weekend. Two days later, after dropping them off, I went to her office and signed the custody motion. I missed my flight home and got stuck overnight in Boston, but I wasn't even upset about it, because I knew I was doing the right thing.
I only wish that this newfound inner peace would carry me through the present and the immediate future, but there are too many other things eating away at me. First off, my ex wasted no time dumping this on the kids. The very day she got served, during my nightly phone call, my daughter got on the phone and told me, "I don't like the letter you sent to Mommy." At first I didn't know what she meant, so I asked her, and she answered, "You know, you told her that you want me to come stay with you forever. I don't like that." I kept my composure and told her, "I wish Mommy hadn't told you about that. That's really between Mommy and me." I simply can't believe that she would burden a six year old with this sort of information, but I guess I shouldn't be surprised by anything she does anymore.
Second, my current lifestyle continues to fall well short of being satisfying. I've begun counseling with my wife, and think that the therapist is good, but I still don't think that she is ever going to fully accept that she is in control of her own life. My job is proving to be far less interesting or rewarding than I thought it would be, and I find myself daydreaming about doing something else. I am still having trouble socializing and trying to make or retain friends, as I am consumed by anxiety.
Most of all, I have now put my children's futures, and my own, in the hands of the Maine District Court, the same court that refused my plea to remove the (irresponsible drunk) guy from my kids' lives two years ago. Maybe, in light of the new evidence and my far more ambitious request, I will get what I want this time around, but then I worry about whether or not I actually want it. As much as I love my kids, I worry a great deal about the impact of taking them away from their mother and depositing them into a new life just like that. I know people always say that kids are adaptable, but I can't imagine having your whole world altered like that. I suppose that's why I have resisted doing this for the past four years.
But now it's happening. I am reasonably sure that this will end up with one of two scenarios. If I do get custody, I will retrieve the kids and set about adjusting to a new reality. If I don't, then I have to assume that my kids will be staying in Maine until they grow up, and I will most likely go back there again, as much as I hate it there. After this latest incident, I simply can't imagine staying so far away from them, totally unable to help them or be there to protect them from the dangers in their own home.
Either way, my days as the Frequent Father are most likely nearing their end. Just typing these words makes my heart leap. The emptiness, pain, and emotional trauma that I've experienced over the past four years has pushed me to places I'd never been before, and hope to never go again. I know that many long-distance parents make peace with their situations and embrace the fact that their children will love them no matter what. Knowing that there is an irresponsible drunk in my children's home--and that their mother will never do anything about it--I simply have not, and can not come to that sort of acceptance.
I have now proceeded through the crossroads, but am not yet sure which road I'm on. I can't help but think of the so-called "Mixing Bowl" interchange, just a few miles from my house in Northern Virginia, where three interstate highways and several surface streets all come together. As you approach it, a jumble of layered ramps 10 stories tall lead in all directions, disorienting even those who drive through it every day. I have gotten on a ramp, but I don't really know where it will lead or how long it will take to get there. The only certainty is that, once I come out the other side, I will no longer be the Frequent Father, I'll just be Dad.
That's really all I ever hoped to be.
Sunday, September 1, 2013
88,000 miles and idling in the driveway
There haven't been any more frequent father miles added in the past 3+ weeks, but the tickets are already purchased for the next two trips, one in mid-September and one in early November. Six short days spread over two visits--that's all I'm going to get with my kids until Christmas, as this is their mother gets them for Thanksgiving in odd-numbered years. The mere fact that I have already purchased the tickets and made hotel and rental car reservations is a sign of progress. In the past, my anxiety has been such that I haven't been able to commit myself to buying the tickets until it's often too late. The result of my procrastination has typically been that plane tickets get so expensive that I have to do some creative travel gymnastics, like taking overnight buses or trains, or flying back home at 5:45 a.m. on Monday morning. Thankfully there won't be any of those this time around.
As with last August my wife decamped for two weeks in Atlanta with her daughter; they arrive back in Virginia in about two hours. I'm not sure exactly why they need to make this trip. On the surface, it's for my stepdaughter to spend time with her mostly useless father, but all he's able to spare for her is a few hours on Tuesday and Sunday afternoons. Even though my wife has gone as far as to offer him use of our house and car for a few days if he comes to visit here, he has never come up to see his daughter, and I'm sure he never will. When I think of all I do to maintain my relationship with my kids it makes me viscerally angry at the guy for not giving two sheep about his daughter. I guess he'll pay for that when she grows up and hates his guts.
So why is she there if not for that? She says it's so her family can see her daughter, but we were just there for a week two months ago. Then she says it's because her mom and aunt are getting older and sicker, but: 1) they don't seem any different to me; and 2) they could come to visit us here, as they both have all the free time in the world. In truth it's just that, at 39, she still doesn't see herself as a grown-up, because her mother and three older sisters will always treat her as such. She simply can't live her own adult life independent of her family.
She proved that fact in spades during her time away. The first day she was gone, she told me that she had registered a positive pregnancy test. She had already been pregnant twice before since we've been back together, with both ending in miscarriages within 8 weeks. In both instances she had, against my wishes, gone and told her whole family, thus creating expectations. My thinking has always been to not tell anyone until after the first trimester, lest there be an issue. The fact that it had happened twice before, I think, validates my point of view. Anyhow, there it was. She tested positive, I told her not to tell anyone, and she said OK.
A few days later we were talking about it, and she was telling me that she was feeling very tired and nauseous, and was "worried" about what her family would think. I told her that it really wasn't their beeswax, as people are allowed to get sick. I could tell in her voice what was really going on--she had obviously spilled the beans. I asked her about it and she said that, yes, she had told her mother. She then went on to say that she had already told her mother several days earlier, and had lied to me when I had asked her if she had told anyone. Apparently her mother found out before I did; she screamed in the bathroom after testing positive, and her mother asked if she was OK, so she told her the news.
No big deal, right? Her mother inadvertently found out, and that should have been that. But, no, she had to lie to me about where things stood. As I see it, she decided to protect her mother, rather than our marriage. Up until this point I was actually doing OK during my time alone--I was certainly doing better than my two weeks alone last August when I ended up in the ER and almost checked myself into the psych ward. But then, what? My wife had just clearly demonstrated to me that our marriage did not and would never come first to her, that her relationship with her own family would always take precedence.
I have been alone with this thought eating away at me for the past week, and it has sent me back into a depression. Aside from going to work, taking a bike ride with a childhood friend, and my daily phone calls to my kids, I have had no contact with anyone else in the past week. I haven't attempted to make any plans with anyone, and I've mostly just moped around the house. I have spoken very infrequently on the phone to my wife, and have told her that she is on notice--one more lie or betrayal of my trust, and I'll be serving her with divorce papers.
I'm not sure if I mean that or not, but I think I do. I have come to the realization that, for all of my defiance about not wanting to ever go back to Maine, my marriage enables me to go on living away from my kids. Having a house, a wife, a stepdaughter, and an extended family, gives me something to hang on to. During my time alone I have thought a lot about what I would even do if I really did get divorced, and it has become clear that I would have to go back to Maine. If I'm going to be on my own, then why should I pretend that it's OK to be so far from my kids? Part of the reason why we settled on Virginia, as opposed to further north, is that it's an awful lot closer to Atlanta than is Maine.
Oh, and it turned out she wasn't actually pregnant; she had something called a "chemical pregnancy," in which the egg gets fertilized but never implants. When my wife told me this, I asked her, "well, now, don't you feel silly for telling your mother?" She did. I hope her mother didn't start knitting any baby blankets in the intervening week.
So we are going to go see a counselor. I will tell the counselor that I feel like my wife is, and always will be married to her birth family. My wife will tell the counselor that she recognizes that, and that she is going to make some changes. We will get on with our lives, and then the next time her family breathes on her, she will stand at attention, just like always. I know she loves me and part of her wants to truly embrace our marriage, but I just don't think she's capable of drawing real boundaries with her family. At some point I am either going to have to just accept that I love her most of the time, in spite of her shortcomings, or say enough is enough, pack up my life, and start all over again, again.
None of this has much to do with being a long-distance parent, I guess, but it all certainly adds more unwanted stress and drama to my already overstressed and overdramatized existence. At least I am not fixated on my ex-wife for once, which is a good thing. Onward...
As with last August my wife decamped for two weeks in Atlanta with her daughter; they arrive back in Virginia in about two hours. I'm not sure exactly why they need to make this trip. On the surface, it's for my stepdaughter to spend time with her mostly useless father, but all he's able to spare for her is a few hours on Tuesday and Sunday afternoons. Even though my wife has gone as far as to offer him use of our house and car for a few days if he comes to visit here, he has never come up to see his daughter, and I'm sure he never will. When I think of all I do to maintain my relationship with my kids it makes me viscerally angry at the guy for not giving two sheep about his daughter. I guess he'll pay for that when she grows up and hates his guts.
So why is she there if not for that? She says it's so her family can see her daughter, but we were just there for a week two months ago. Then she says it's because her mom and aunt are getting older and sicker, but: 1) they don't seem any different to me; and 2) they could come to visit us here, as they both have all the free time in the world. In truth it's just that, at 39, she still doesn't see herself as a grown-up, because her mother and three older sisters will always treat her as such. She simply can't live her own adult life independent of her family.
She proved that fact in spades during her time away. The first day she was gone, she told me that she had registered a positive pregnancy test. She had already been pregnant twice before since we've been back together, with both ending in miscarriages within 8 weeks. In both instances she had, against my wishes, gone and told her whole family, thus creating expectations. My thinking has always been to not tell anyone until after the first trimester, lest there be an issue. The fact that it had happened twice before, I think, validates my point of view. Anyhow, there it was. She tested positive, I told her not to tell anyone, and she said OK.
A few days later we were talking about it, and she was telling me that she was feeling very tired and nauseous, and was "worried" about what her family would think. I told her that it really wasn't their beeswax, as people are allowed to get sick. I could tell in her voice what was really going on--she had obviously spilled the beans. I asked her about it and she said that, yes, she had told her mother. She then went on to say that she had already told her mother several days earlier, and had lied to me when I had asked her if she had told anyone. Apparently her mother found out before I did; she screamed in the bathroom after testing positive, and her mother asked if she was OK, so she told her the news.
No big deal, right? Her mother inadvertently found out, and that should have been that. But, no, she had to lie to me about where things stood. As I see it, she decided to protect her mother, rather than our marriage. Up until this point I was actually doing OK during my time alone--I was certainly doing better than my two weeks alone last August when I ended up in the ER and almost checked myself into the psych ward. But then, what? My wife had just clearly demonstrated to me that our marriage did not and would never come first to her, that her relationship with her own family would always take precedence.
I have been alone with this thought eating away at me for the past week, and it has sent me back into a depression. Aside from going to work, taking a bike ride with a childhood friend, and my daily phone calls to my kids, I have had no contact with anyone else in the past week. I haven't attempted to make any plans with anyone, and I've mostly just moped around the house. I have spoken very infrequently on the phone to my wife, and have told her that she is on notice--one more lie or betrayal of my trust, and I'll be serving her with divorce papers.
I'm not sure if I mean that or not, but I think I do. I have come to the realization that, for all of my defiance about not wanting to ever go back to Maine, my marriage enables me to go on living away from my kids. Having a house, a wife, a stepdaughter, and an extended family, gives me something to hang on to. During my time alone I have thought a lot about what I would even do if I really did get divorced, and it has become clear that I would have to go back to Maine. If I'm going to be on my own, then why should I pretend that it's OK to be so far from my kids? Part of the reason why we settled on Virginia, as opposed to further north, is that it's an awful lot closer to Atlanta than is Maine.
Oh, and it turned out she wasn't actually pregnant; she had something called a "chemical pregnancy," in which the egg gets fertilized but never implants. When my wife told me this, I asked her, "well, now, don't you feel silly for telling your mother?" She did. I hope her mother didn't start knitting any baby blankets in the intervening week.
So we are going to go see a counselor. I will tell the counselor that I feel like my wife is, and always will be married to her birth family. My wife will tell the counselor that she recognizes that, and that she is going to make some changes. We will get on with our lives, and then the next time her family breathes on her, she will stand at attention, just like always. I know she loves me and part of her wants to truly embrace our marriage, but I just don't think she's capable of drawing real boundaries with her family. At some point I am either going to have to just accept that I love her most of the time, in spite of her shortcomings, or say enough is enough, pack up my life, and start all over again, again.
None of this has much to do with being a long-distance parent, I guess, but it all certainly adds more unwanted stress and drama to my already overstressed and overdramatized existence. At least I am not fixated on my ex-wife for once, which is a good thing. Onward...
Wednesday, August 7, 2013
88,000 Miles
This summer put a lot of miles on the frequentfatherometer, which I'll get to. I only got five weeks this year, not by choice, but due to my ex-wife's unique combination of dishonesty and inflexibility. The divorce judgment grants me visitation "beginning one week after the end of the school year and ending on the first Saturday in August." Last year that was six weeks. I wasn't so lucky this year.
This year, the school calendar showed that school would end on a Wednesday in June, so I asked if I could get them on the following Sunday, but my ex refused, saying "that's not a week...you can wait until the following Wednesday." Of course she knows that I can't come to get them in the middle of the week, so I made plans to get them 10 days later, on the ensuing Saturday. Well imagine my surprise when, three weeks before the school year ends, my son tells me on the phone that school would be ending two days early, on a Monday, as there were two fewer snow days than expected (global warming again?) I then asked my ex if I could get them on the following Sunday, since that was six days after school ended, and she breezily refused, saying I could come on Monday. Well, I suppose I could have done that, but I am new at my job and can't just blow off days, so I gritted my teeth and kept to the plan.
So five weeks it was, but being the Frequent Father, I had to pack everything into that amount of time. The rundown:
Fly to Maine to get kids
Fly to Atlanta for July 4th week with my wife's family, gamely attempt to work while a hired babysitter watches six kids upstairs.
Drive back to Virginia, put the kids in day camp for three weeks, try to work, but leave early every day so as to not miss out on any fun with the kids. Go swimming nearly every night, and take lots of fun field trips on weekends.
Fly to Orlando for a week at Disney World, the first time my kids have been there, and hopefully fill them with a desire to see the real world, the one beyond their mother's bubble.
Fly back to Maine, arriving at their mother's house at midnight, because she didn't want to pick them up at the airport, citing her fear of driving at night.
Take the first flight home in the morning after three hours of sleep, and feel jet-lagged in spite of never leaving Eastern Daylight Time.
And then...what? My credit card bill just came, with the tab for all of this fun now coming due. I consider it the price of getting on with my life. If I had stayed in Maine, I'd be making half (or less) of what I'm making in Virginia. I have calculated that the Frequent Father lifestyle costs roughly one-third of the difference, leaving me the rest to have a nice home for my kids--as opposed to the two-room divorce apartment I had in Maine--and to save for their future. The financial side is under control.
It's everything else that has me up early in the morning to spill more virtual ink. I worry about the world of insulation and isolation that my ex has constructed around my children, a world in which they go to third-world schools that can't give them what they need, never go more than five miles from home, never have playdates, never have excitement, and never get to see anything new. I worry about my ex's psychotic quest to breastfeed my daughter until she hits puberty (made far worse by the fact that she obviously pumped every day over the past five weeks to keep the flow going...that's just unfathomable). Most of all, I worry about the stinking drunk SOB who still lives with them, and what he's going to do someday when he's in a bad mood.
As for me, the odometer keeps rising, but I'm not sure if I'm getting anywhere. On paper, I should be content. Four years ago I was stuck in a backward small town with a dead-end career, few friends, and a bad marriage to a controlling tyrant. Now I am living in a big city, with a great job, a nice home, a bright future, and married to my long-lost love. Two and a half years ago, in the depths of my depression, I made a list of things I want to change in my life before turning 40. Well, I turn 40 this coming weekend, and it turns out that I've accomplished most of those changes. But so long as my kids live 500 miles away under the iron fist of their demented mother, I'll always struggle to move forward. No matter how many miles I travel in the right direction, this way of life will always cause me to spin my wheels.
Nevertheless, I guess another year of Frequent Father adventures awaits. As with each year before, I will hope and pray that this is the last year of living this way, that next year my kids will be unpacking their suitcases and decorating their rooms in Daddy's house, getting ready for the school year. I know it's not healthy to have such thoughts, but I can't help it. Well, there's no point to it anyhow, so all I can do is prepare myself for the long year and the thousands of miles ahead.
This year, the school calendar showed that school would end on a Wednesday in June, so I asked if I could get them on the following Sunday, but my ex refused, saying "that's not a week...you can wait until the following Wednesday." Of course she knows that I can't come to get them in the middle of the week, so I made plans to get them 10 days later, on the ensuing Saturday. Well imagine my surprise when, three weeks before the school year ends, my son tells me on the phone that school would be ending two days early, on a Monday, as there were two fewer snow days than expected (global warming again?) I then asked my ex if I could get them on the following Sunday, since that was six days after school ended, and she breezily refused, saying I could come on Monday. Well, I suppose I could have done that, but I am new at my job and can't just blow off days, so I gritted my teeth and kept to the plan.
So five weeks it was, but being the Frequent Father, I had to pack everything into that amount of time. The rundown:
Fly to Maine to get kids
Fly to Atlanta for July 4th week with my wife's family, gamely attempt to work while a hired babysitter watches six kids upstairs.
Drive back to Virginia, put the kids in day camp for three weeks, try to work, but leave early every day so as to not miss out on any fun with the kids. Go swimming nearly every night, and take lots of fun field trips on weekends.
Fly to Orlando for a week at Disney World, the first time my kids have been there, and hopefully fill them with a desire to see the real world, the one beyond their mother's bubble.
Fly back to Maine, arriving at their mother's house at midnight, because she didn't want to pick them up at the airport, citing her fear of driving at night.
Take the first flight home in the morning after three hours of sleep, and feel jet-lagged in spite of never leaving Eastern Daylight Time.
And then...what? My credit card bill just came, with the tab for all of this fun now coming due. I consider it the price of getting on with my life. If I had stayed in Maine, I'd be making half (or less) of what I'm making in Virginia. I have calculated that the Frequent Father lifestyle costs roughly one-third of the difference, leaving me the rest to have a nice home for my kids--as opposed to the two-room divorce apartment I had in Maine--and to save for their future. The financial side is under control.
It's everything else that has me up early in the morning to spill more virtual ink. I worry about the world of insulation and isolation that my ex has constructed around my children, a world in which they go to third-world schools that can't give them what they need, never go more than five miles from home, never have playdates, never have excitement, and never get to see anything new. I worry about my ex's psychotic quest to breastfeed my daughter until she hits puberty (made far worse by the fact that she obviously pumped every day over the past five weeks to keep the flow going...that's just unfathomable). Most of all, I worry about the stinking drunk SOB who still lives with them, and what he's going to do someday when he's in a bad mood.
As for me, the odometer keeps rising, but I'm not sure if I'm getting anywhere. On paper, I should be content. Four years ago I was stuck in a backward small town with a dead-end career, few friends, and a bad marriage to a controlling tyrant. Now I am living in a big city, with a great job, a nice home, a bright future, and married to my long-lost love. Two and a half years ago, in the depths of my depression, I made a list of things I want to change in my life before turning 40. Well, I turn 40 this coming weekend, and it turns out that I've accomplished most of those changes. But so long as my kids live 500 miles away under the iron fist of their demented mother, I'll always struggle to move forward. No matter how many miles I travel in the right direction, this way of life will always cause me to spin my wheels.
Nevertheless, I guess another year of Frequent Father adventures awaits. As with each year before, I will hope and pray that this is the last year of living this way, that next year my kids will be unpacking their suitcases and decorating their rooms in Daddy's house, getting ready for the school year. I know it's not healthy to have such thoughts, but I can't help it. Well, there's no point to it anyhow, so all I can do is prepare myself for the long year and the thousands of miles ahead.
Thursday, May 30, 2013
83,050 Miles (at the beginning, more by the end)
I am writing this from Amtrak train #66, AKA the redeye train. It left Washington about 45 minutes ago, and we are a few miles north of Baltimore now. I had planned to take advantage of the on-board WiFi to continue my binge-watching of Arrested Development Season 4 (eight down, seven to go), but apparently Amtrak bars users from streaming video sites to conserve bandwidth or some such. It's 11:15 at night, and there are 8 hours and 45 minutes to go before arriving in Boston. I'd like to go to sleep right now, but I need to use my brain for a while, I guess, so here goes.
I've pretty much gotten to and from Maine in every conceivable way. I usually fly, sometimes to Portland, sometimes to Manchester, sometimes to Boston, and even to White Plains, NY once, due to ancillary travel. I've driven. I've taken the Megabus. Now I'm doing the overnight train, which saves a lot of money relative to flying, and eliminates needing a hotel room tonight. We'll see if I actually sleep.
This weekend is, in all likelihood, my daughter's last ever ballet recital. She has, at 5.5 years old, decided that she wants to be a rock star and, as such, has asked for a guitar for her birthday and to stop ballet & tap and instead do hip hop so she can learn the moves. I'll be there smiling and probably crying, which I know is more than many long distance parents get to do. She also has a t-ball game the next morning, followed by a birthday party, and a second ballet performance for which I'll be backstage helping her change.
While the weekend sounds like it's all about her, actually a lot of it is about me getting one-on-one time with my son. We'll have time tomorrow before the recital when my ex is doing the preparations, then more time then next day while my daughter is at her birthday party. The third and final day of the visit will be the only chance to just relax, and it looks like it will be beach weather. Perhaps the cruelest part of my arrangement is that I go to Maine all winter long and then miss the summer, which is the only part worth being there for. This early June trip is the only Maine beach weekend I get.
And then, the summer will be upon us and, at the end of the month, I'll get my kids for an extended period of time. I have so much to say about it, but I'd rather just wait until it's happening before doing that, as I don't want to set the expectations too high. It will just be good to all be together in our new house, which we just bought last week.
Right now I'm getting tired and my shoulder is hurting, so I think I'll stop here. There will be more to say a few miles up the track.
I've pretty much gotten to and from Maine in every conceivable way. I usually fly, sometimes to Portland, sometimes to Manchester, sometimes to Boston, and even to White Plains, NY once, due to ancillary travel. I've driven. I've taken the Megabus. Now I'm doing the overnight train, which saves a lot of money relative to flying, and eliminates needing a hotel room tonight. We'll see if I actually sleep.
This weekend is, in all likelihood, my daughter's last ever ballet recital. She has, at 5.5 years old, decided that she wants to be a rock star and, as such, has asked for a guitar for her birthday and to stop ballet & tap and instead do hip hop so she can learn the moves. I'll be there smiling and probably crying, which I know is more than many long distance parents get to do. She also has a t-ball game the next morning, followed by a birthday party, and a second ballet performance for which I'll be backstage helping her change.
While the weekend sounds like it's all about her, actually a lot of it is about me getting one-on-one time with my son. We'll have time tomorrow before the recital when my ex is doing the preparations, then more time then next day while my daughter is at her birthday party. The third and final day of the visit will be the only chance to just relax, and it looks like it will be beach weather. Perhaps the cruelest part of my arrangement is that I go to Maine all winter long and then miss the summer, which is the only part worth being there for. This early June trip is the only Maine beach weekend I get.
And then, the summer will be upon us and, at the end of the month, I'll get my kids for an extended period of time. I have so much to say about it, but I'd rather just wait until it's happening before doing that, as I don't want to set the expectations too high. It will just be good to all be together in our new house, which we just bought last week.
Right now I'm getting tired and my shoulder is hurting, so I think I'll stop here. There will be more to say a few miles up the track.
Monday, May 13, 2013
83,000 Miles
I have told myself many times that I will never again let a visit with my kids go by without writing about it soon after returning, so as to preserve the memories. I guess I've failed, as I have been to Maine twice since my last entry, and it's been almost three weeks since returning from the second trip. I have been making excuses about having too much going on with my new job, or buying a house, or making plans for the upcoming summer, or my chronic neck pain flaring up, or watching the hockey playoffs.
Well, my last excuse is now out the window, thanks to the Capitals not even mailing in their Game 7 performance--I gave up after two periods when it was 3-0. I didn't even care if they came back or not, as I was just too angry about too many things to keep sitting there. I went to the basement and turned on the Wii, which I really only have for when my son is here, and spent an hour blowing off steam with various Wii Sports games.
With my mind flowing again, here I am at the computer at 11:30 at night when I have to be up at 6:00 am tomorrow to get ready to deliver a speech in front of a room full of people by 8:00 am. But there really isn't much to say. My son turned 9 in March, and my whole family gathered in Maine (me, wife, kids, stepdaughter, and my mom) to celebrate. I came back in late April to see my daughter's T-ball debut, and got a wonderfully sunny, warm couple of days that featured several hours each day at the beach and at various playgrounds. And I'll be going up one more time at the beginning of June for my daughter's dance recital, then returning four weeks later to collect the kids for my summer visitation.
These are the rhythms of the year that I mentioned a few posts back, and it has all played out more or less exactly as expected. Meanwhile everything else marches along apace: money is being earned, prestige is being gained, flowers are in bloom, a house (not a townhouse, an actual house) is under contract, and so forth. It only took one telephone call to flip all of this contentment on its head.
My phone rang at 4:00 this afternoon, just as I was leaving a meeting and heading home. It was my ex-wife, calling to inform me that our daughter had taken a fall on the playground at school and landed headfirst on the asphalt. My ex dashed out of work and right over to the school to collect her. She had a large bump on her head and complained of dizzyness, but a visit to the doctor confirmed that there was no concussion. My daughter got on the phone and told me that she was scared, but was OK now, but there was a sadness in her voice that I had never before heard from this always happy-go-lucky child. I was overcome with an urge to hug her and kiss her on the cheek and tell her that Daddy loved her and was here for her, but, of course, all I could do was tell her those things over the phone. My son got on the phone and I asked him if he would give her a hug and a kiss from me, which he did. He may torment his little sister all the time, but he still loves her.
I suppose I could have walked away from the phone call and said, "oh, well, at least she's OK and she knows that I was thinking of her and that I love her," but I just couldn't do it. Instead, I just turned angry and seethed over the fact that I couldn't even so much as put an arm around my little girl and give her comfort. All of the rationalizing about why I don't live near my kids and how their futures will be so much better because I'm actually earning a decent living suddenly rang 100% hollow. In that moment I felt the very foundations of my new life turn to quicksand.
In the hours that followed, my nerve endings were exposed in a way they haven't been in many months, with every tiny bit of stress or unwelcome information sparking further rage. I retreated to the couch to watch the hockey game, hoping that a Game 7 victory would restore my spirits, but by the end of the second period I had worked myself into the sort of lather that would have caused me to punch a wall a couple of years ago. I found myself snapping at my wife to just leave me alone and not speak to me. I had to turn off the TV and bury any false hopes that my team would stage a miracle comeback. After all, the Caps have been letting me down for 39 years...why would things turn out any different this time?
The intervening hour spent playing Wii, including a therapeutic bowling match against my wife, released some of the pressure. By the time I was done, it didn't matter so much that my fitness age was 55 or that the final score was Rangers 5, Caps 0. After all, it's just silly video games and an equally silly sport played by millionaire mercenaries.
So the anger is gone for now, but the damage remains. I miss my kids, and I will never get over that fact. I just want to be there for them, and I can't be, at least not on my terms. But I've covered this ground before, and lived and relived these scenarios, and I know that I can't just fold up my tents and go back to Maine, back to the life of poverty, despair, and emptiness that I left behind for good two years ago. We are buying a house and putting down roots here. The house is old and needs repairs to shore up the foundation before we can move in, and then it's going to need wholesale upgrades in the years to come to make it the home we want it to be. But that's what we can afford, so that is what we have to do.
I won't force the analogy too much, but I have to step out the quicksand and pour a new foundation to support the facade of my long distance parenthood. My daughter loves me, and I know that for certain. I guess I'll just have to give her extra hugs and kisses when I see her in a couple of weeks.
Well, my last excuse is now out the window, thanks to the Capitals not even mailing in their Game 7 performance--I gave up after two periods when it was 3-0. I didn't even care if they came back or not, as I was just too angry about too many things to keep sitting there. I went to the basement and turned on the Wii, which I really only have for when my son is here, and spent an hour blowing off steam with various Wii Sports games.
With my mind flowing again, here I am at the computer at 11:30 at night when I have to be up at 6:00 am tomorrow to get ready to deliver a speech in front of a room full of people by 8:00 am. But there really isn't much to say. My son turned 9 in March, and my whole family gathered in Maine (me, wife, kids, stepdaughter, and my mom) to celebrate. I came back in late April to see my daughter's T-ball debut, and got a wonderfully sunny, warm couple of days that featured several hours each day at the beach and at various playgrounds. And I'll be going up one more time at the beginning of June for my daughter's dance recital, then returning four weeks later to collect the kids for my summer visitation.
These are the rhythms of the year that I mentioned a few posts back, and it has all played out more or less exactly as expected. Meanwhile everything else marches along apace: money is being earned, prestige is being gained, flowers are in bloom, a house (not a townhouse, an actual house) is under contract, and so forth. It only took one telephone call to flip all of this contentment on its head.
My phone rang at 4:00 this afternoon, just as I was leaving a meeting and heading home. It was my ex-wife, calling to inform me that our daughter had taken a fall on the playground at school and landed headfirst on the asphalt. My ex dashed out of work and right over to the school to collect her. She had a large bump on her head and complained of dizzyness, but a visit to the doctor confirmed that there was no concussion. My daughter got on the phone and told me that she was scared, but was OK now, but there was a sadness in her voice that I had never before heard from this always happy-go-lucky child. I was overcome with an urge to hug her and kiss her on the cheek and tell her that Daddy loved her and was here for her, but, of course, all I could do was tell her those things over the phone. My son got on the phone and I asked him if he would give her a hug and a kiss from me, which he did. He may torment his little sister all the time, but he still loves her.
I suppose I could have walked away from the phone call and said, "oh, well, at least she's OK and she knows that I was thinking of her and that I love her," but I just couldn't do it. Instead, I just turned angry and seethed over the fact that I couldn't even so much as put an arm around my little girl and give her comfort. All of the rationalizing about why I don't live near my kids and how their futures will be so much better because I'm actually earning a decent living suddenly rang 100% hollow. In that moment I felt the very foundations of my new life turn to quicksand.
In the hours that followed, my nerve endings were exposed in a way they haven't been in many months, with every tiny bit of stress or unwelcome information sparking further rage. I retreated to the couch to watch the hockey game, hoping that a Game 7 victory would restore my spirits, but by the end of the second period I had worked myself into the sort of lather that would have caused me to punch a wall a couple of years ago. I found myself snapping at my wife to just leave me alone and not speak to me. I had to turn off the TV and bury any false hopes that my team would stage a miracle comeback. After all, the Caps have been letting me down for 39 years...why would things turn out any different this time?
The intervening hour spent playing Wii, including a therapeutic bowling match against my wife, released some of the pressure. By the time I was done, it didn't matter so much that my fitness age was 55 or that the final score was Rangers 5, Caps 0. After all, it's just silly video games and an equally silly sport played by millionaire mercenaries.
So the anger is gone for now, but the damage remains. I miss my kids, and I will never get over that fact. I just want to be there for them, and I can't be, at least not on my terms. But I've covered this ground before, and lived and relived these scenarios, and I know that I can't just fold up my tents and go back to Maine, back to the life of poverty, despair, and emptiness that I left behind for good two years ago. We are buying a house and putting down roots here. The house is old and needs repairs to shore up the foundation before we can move in, and then it's going to need wholesale upgrades in the years to come to make it the home we want it to be. But that's what we can afford, so that is what we have to do.
I won't force the analogy too much, but I have to step out the quicksand and pour a new foundation to support the facade of my long distance parenthood. My daughter loves me, and I know that for certain. I guess I'll just have to give her extra hugs and kisses when I see her in a couple of weeks.
Sunday, February 24, 2013
81,000 Miles
I'm back from another long weekend in Maine, one that turned out exactly like I thought it would in my last post when I gave a rough sketch of my next four visits to Maine. It was February. It was very cold and windy. We stayed in the Howard Johnson's in South Portland, which due to its age, one-star rating and the season, cost just $53 per night, including breakfast. We spent a lot of time in the indoor pool there, and my daughter finally decided that the floaty vest would, in fact, keep her afloat, so she didn't cling to me all the time. I tried not to spend too much money, but opened up the wallet to go snow tubing one night, to the movies one afternoon, and out to a couple of better-than-fast-food dinners.
In the end, for the cost of about $800 (including airfare, hotel, rental car, all meals and activities), I got to spend three full days of quality time with my kids. I have had people tell me that I probably spend more quality time with them during my visits to Maine then many parents spend with their kids who live in the same house.
So what did we all get out of this? I got three days with my kids with no interruptions. We got to do fun things together, I got to tell them my version of how life, the universe, and everything works. I had to discipline them a handful of times for being somewhere between annoying and disrespectful. As for my kids...I'm not sure. I know they love me, enjoy seeing me, and have fun with me, but I know they'd rather be in their own home, with their toys, books, and games around, and a driveway and backyard to play in, instead of being cooped up in a crappy motel. Even after more than three years, they still haven't fully come to understand why Mommy and Daddy got divorced. My son, who is almost nine now, came right out and said, "I wish you could come back and live with me so I could see you and Mommy all the time."
I wonder what goes through the mind of a kid who says something like that. I understand the eternal wish that Mommy and Daddy would get back together and that all would be as it was before. I always think of the song "Wonderful" by Everclear, which captures life for a boy with divorced parents so painfully well. The most wrenching part is this:
I imagine that my kids have some version of those words in their heads all the time. "Yes, Mommy and Daddy married other people. Yes they both seem happier than when they were together. Yes, I've gotten used to living this way. But I don't like the way things are and just want them to be back together." And I can't blame them for feeling that way--it is only natural.
I know this because I had the opposite sort of feelings in my childhood. My parents were miserable and fought all the time, both with each other and with my older brother. I frequently found myself wishing that they would get divorced so they would stop fighting. As I grew towards adulthood I found myself hating any time that I had to spend with both of them, as they brought out the worst in each other, but I actually sort of enjoyed getting to spend time with each of them individually.
These feelings grew once I went to college, 1,000 miles away from home. My dad was on a business trip not far from where I was in school and he came to town one weekend to hang out with me. He was a different person than usual--happier, more relaxed, and much more fun to be around. We went out to a jazz club one night and had a tremendous time. I couldn't picture him having that sort of enjoyment in my mom's presence. When I moved back to Washington after finishing my education I got a partial season ticket plan for the Capitals and went to a bunch of hockey games with my dad, all of which were fun. And then in the last year of my dad's life, I spent a lot of time alone with him, as I was the only person who could be around to help him so my mom could go out of the house for more than an hour. We had a many chances to hang out and just talk to each other without interference.
Looking back on those times now, I have come to realize that the only times I actually liked being around my dad were when my mom wasn't there. Much the same way, my relationship with my mother has improved greatly in the nine months since my dad's death, as she is no longer preoccupied with taking care of/henpecking him. I now believe that I would have turned out to be a much happier person and had far better relationships with my parents if they had gotten divorced when I was little. I am certain that the fiasco with my first wedding would never have happened, as they would not have put up such a unified front against me.
So what does all of this mean for me as a father? And what does it mean for my kids? They won't know what it would have been like had I stayed, so they will spend the rest of their childhoods pining for an alternate reality in which Mommy and Daddy never got divorced and everything was "wonderful." This is no different from how I spent my childhood (and my adulthood as well) wishing that my parents had gotten divorced, so everything would have been wonderful. Such is human nature: when you don't like what you've got, you yearn for the opposite.
I will never be able to go back in time and to remove the ugly stain of divorce from my childrens' childhoods. By the same token, I cannot cleanse my own childhood of the stench of a bad marriage that should have ended. All I can do is to pass on what I've learned from my own experience and hope that my children benefit from my hard-earned knowledge. If nothing else, I hope they come to realize that they are getting to see a much better version of Daddy than they would have gotten had I stayed with their mother.
I only got to see a small piece of my own father independent of his unhappy marriage. Now that he is gone, I am certain that our relationship would have been far better if he and my mom had split up. I will never know what it would have been like to go over to his apartment for the weekend and have nothing but good times without fighting or tension in the air. I guess I should be happy that my kids do know what that's like, and that they will have few--if any--memories of their parents fighting with each other.
In the end, for the cost of about $800 (including airfare, hotel, rental car, all meals and activities), I got to spend three full days of quality time with my kids. I have had people tell me that I probably spend more quality time with them during my visits to Maine then many parents spend with their kids who live in the same house.
So what did we all get out of this? I got three days with my kids with no interruptions. We got to do fun things together, I got to tell them my version of how life, the universe, and everything works. I had to discipline them a handful of times for being somewhere between annoying and disrespectful. As for my kids...I'm not sure. I know they love me, enjoy seeing me, and have fun with me, but I know they'd rather be in their own home, with their toys, books, and games around, and a driveway and backyard to play in, instead of being cooped up in a crappy motel. Even after more than three years, they still haven't fully come to understand why Mommy and Daddy got divorced. My son, who is almost nine now, came right out and said, "I wish you could come back and live with me so I could see you and Mommy all the time."
I wonder what goes through the mind of a kid who says something like that. I understand the eternal wish that Mommy and Daddy would get back together and that all would be as it was before. I always think of the song "Wonderful" by Everclear, which captures life for a boy with divorced parents so painfully well. The most wrenching part is this:
"I don't wanna meet your friend
And I don't wanna start over again
I just want my life to be the same
Just like it used to be"
I imagine that my kids have some version of those words in their heads all the time. "Yes, Mommy and Daddy married other people. Yes they both seem happier than when they were together. Yes, I've gotten used to living this way. But I don't like the way things are and just want them to be back together." And I can't blame them for feeling that way--it is only natural.
I know this because I had the opposite sort of feelings in my childhood. My parents were miserable and fought all the time, both with each other and with my older brother. I frequently found myself wishing that they would get divorced so they would stop fighting. As I grew towards adulthood I found myself hating any time that I had to spend with both of them, as they brought out the worst in each other, but I actually sort of enjoyed getting to spend time with each of them individually.
These feelings grew once I went to college, 1,000 miles away from home. My dad was on a business trip not far from where I was in school and he came to town one weekend to hang out with me. He was a different person than usual--happier, more relaxed, and much more fun to be around. We went out to a jazz club one night and had a tremendous time. I couldn't picture him having that sort of enjoyment in my mom's presence. When I moved back to Washington after finishing my education I got a partial season ticket plan for the Capitals and went to a bunch of hockey games with my dad, all of which were fun. And then in the last year of my dad's life, I spent a lot of time alone with him, as I was the only person who could be around to help him so my mom could go out of the house for more than an hour. We had a many chances to hang out and just talk to each other without interference.
Looking back on those times now, I have come to realize that the only times I actually liked being around my dad were when my mom wasn't there. Much the same way, my relationship with my mother has improved greatly in the nine months since my dad's death, as she is no longer preoccupied with taking care of/henpecking him. I now believe that I would have turned out to be a much happier person and had far better relationships with my parents if they had gotten divorced when I was little. I am certain that the fiasco with my first wedding would never have happened, as they would not have put up such a unified front against me.
So what does all of this mean for me as a father? And what does it mean for my kids? They won't know what it would have been like had I stayed, so they will spend the rest of their childhoods pining for an alternate reality in which Mommy and Daddy never got divorced and everything was "wonderful." This is no different from how I spent my childhood (and my adulthood as well) wishing that my parents had gotten divorced, so everything would have been wonderful. Such is human nature: when you don't like what you've got, you yearn for the opposite.
I will never be able to go back in time and to remove the ugly stain of divorce from my childrens' childhoods. By the same token, I cannot cleanse my own childhood of the stench of a bad marriage that should have ended. All I can do is to pass on what I've learned from my own experience and hope that my children benefit from my hard-earned knowledge. If nothing else, I hope they come to realize that they are getting to see a much better version of Daddy than they would have gotten had I stayed with their mother.
I only got to see a small piece of my own father independent of his unhappy marriage. Now that he is gone, I am certain that our relationship would have been far better if he and my mom had split up. I will never know what it would have been like to go over to his apartment for the weekend and have nothing but good times without fighting or tension in the air. I guess I should be happy that my kids do know what that's like, and that they will have few--if any--memories of their parents fighting with each other.
Saturday, January 26, 2013
80,000 Miles
I have sat down at my computer so many times over the past four months with the intention of writing my next blog post but it has (quite obviously) never happened. In the meantime there was a long weekend in Maine, Thanksgiving in Atlanta, and New Years' in Virginia, totalling 6,000 FFMs, an awful lot of money spent, and a treasure trove of good times and sweet memories.
Now that I am entering the fourth year of being a non-custodial parent I am finally starting to pick up on the rhythms of life that the visitation schedule forces upon me. The summer is great, of course, with the kids basically living with me for an extended period. The fall is not too bad, as the memories of the summer are still fresh, and the gap between longer visits is relatively short. But, come January, with winter weather all around and the next long visitation nearly six months away, the mood drops instantly.
From now until school gets out in late June, I will have four weekend visits to Maine, each of which has taken on its own tradition. February will be a long weekend for Presidents' Day spent mostly at the indoor pool at the Howard Johnson's. March is the shared birthday weekend for my son and my wife, and we will go to the Japanese hibachi place for dinner and have a fun getaway party--this time at an indoor waterpark in New Hampshire. Late April is a springtime weekend, with a lot of time spent at playgrounds. Early June is a beach weekend spent at the Ocean House in Old Orchard Beach and always involving going to the rides at Palace Playland.
In between those good times are gaps of four to six weeks when I become just a voice at the other end of the phone to my kids. I have maintained my commitment to my son to call every single night. My ex-wife has made it clear that she doesn't like that I call every single night--she sent me an email saying that it takes away from her "fun time" with the kids, and she has flat out told the kids that she wishes I didn't call so much. It's just more evidence of her selfishness, her lack of understanding of my connection to our kids, and her absolute disregard for how badmouthing me might affect the kids.
While the distance and separation aren't quite as hard in year 4 as in years 1, 2, or 3, there are times that it feels overwhelming, particularly when my kids are having a hard time and I can't be there for them. My son has had ongoing conflicts with a couple of kids at his aftercare, which is basically a function of his Asperger's-related inability to regulate his emotions and impulses. I have pushed for three years to have him see a counselor who can work with him, but my ex hasn't agreed. I have been working through his school to try to get them to provide him with such services but they have used every excuse and dodge known to man to avoid this responsibility. Last week, I finally got the school to consent to set him up with a counselor from a local nonprofit social services agency, but his mother is again resisting. She apparently thinks (incorrectly) that this agency only works with juvenile delinquents and she (incorrectly) fears that he is going to be taken out of school and sent to some sort of detention center.
I will still never understand what exactly goes on in her head that tells her that our son's obvious emotional issues do not exist. I know she is herself mentally ill, but for godsakes, aren't there parental instincts that take over at some point? I am confident that I can successfully work with the school and get her (under threat of court action perhaps) to consent to getting our child the help he so clearly needs.
Meanwhile, in Frequent Father land, I have at long last gotten the great job I have been chasing for more than 10 years. I am now working as a researcher for a major public university, doing really fun work and earning a good salary. I have still not gotten my arms around the fact that, for the first time since before I married my first wife, I don't have to fret over my career or my professional future. It is, in a way, a similar feeling to what I experienced after my divorce. When you spend year after year in an unpleasant situation, you develop both a hard shell and the defensive mechanisms needed to keep the shell intact.
I have mostly overcome my personal Stockholm Syndrome, thanks in large part to the love and support of my second wife. We've been married for nearly three years now, but I feel like I was a ghost for most of that time, either physically living away from her or being so preoccupied with my personal and professional demons that I didn't pay much attention to her. For all of this time I have kept my head down, operating under the creed: "when you're going through hell, keep going."
Well now, I suppose, I am no longer going through hell. I have crawled my way out of the sewer pipe and am standing in the sunlight on the other end. I no longer need to look straight ahead and imagine a future that will have to be better than the unpleasant present. As much as it's possible as a long distance parent, I have reached the other side. I have a great job, a great marriage, a happy home, a stepdaugher who calls me "Daddy" more often than not, and, yes, two kids who love and need me no matter where I live. I'll be going to see them in two weeks, and then again and again and again. Before I know it summer will be here and my kids will be in my home for six weeks, thus beginning another annual cycle.
Now that I am entering the fourth year of being a non-custodial parent I am finally starting to pick up on the rhythms of life that the visitation schedule forces upon me. The summer is great, of course, with the kids basically living with me for an extended period. The fall is not too bad, as the memories of the summer are still fresh, and the gap between longer visits is relatively short. But, come January, with winter weather all around and the next long visitation nearly six months away, the mood drops instantly.
From now until school gets out in late June, I will have four weekend visits to Maine, each of which has taken on its own tradition. February will be a long weekend for Presidents' Day spent mostly at the indoor pool at the Howard Johnson's. March is the shared birthday weekend for my son and my wife, and we will go to the Japanese hibachi place for dinner and have a fun getaway party--this time at an indoor waterpark in New Hampshire. Late April is a springtime weekend, with a lot of time spent at playgrounds. Early June is a beach weekend spent at the Ocean House in Old Orchard Beach and always involving going to the rides at Palace Playland.
In between those good times are gaps of four to six weeks when I become just a voice at the other end of the phone to my kids. I have maintained my commitment to my son to call every single night. My ex-wife has made it clear that she doesn't like that I call every single night--she sent me an email saying that it takes away from her "fun time" with the kids, and she has flat out told the kids that she wishes I didn't call so much. It's just more evidence of her selfishness, her lack of understanding of my connection to our kids, and her absolute disregard for how badmouthing me might affect the kids.
While the distance and separation aren't quite as hard in year 4 as in years 1, 2, or 3, there are times that it feels overwhelming, particularly when my kids are having a hard time and I can't be there for them. My son has had ongoing conflicts with a couple of kids at his aftercare, which is basically a function of his Asperger's-related inability to regulate his emotions and impulses. I have pushed for three years to have him see a counselor who can work with him, but my ex hasn't agreed. I have been working through his school to try to get them to provide him with such services but they have used every excuse and dodge known to man to avoid this responsibility. Last week, I finally got the school to consent to set him up with a counselor from a local nonprofit social services agency, but his mother is again resisting. She apparently thinks (incorrectly) that this agency only works with juvenile delinquents and she (incorrectly) fears that he is going to be taken out of school and sent to some sort of detention center.
I will still never understand what exactly goes on in her head that tells her that our son's obvious emotional issues do not exist. I know she is herself mentally ill, but for godsakes, aren't there parental instincts that take over at some point? I am confident that I can successfully work with the school and get her (under threat of court action perhaps) to consent to getting our child the help he so clearly needs.
Meanwhile, in Frequent Father land, I have at long last gotten the great job I have been chasing for more than 10 years. I am now working as a researcher for a major public university, doing really fun work and earning a good salary. I have still not gotten my arms around the fact that, for the first time since before I married my first wife, I don't have to fret over my career or my professional future. It is, in a way, a similar feeling to what I experienced after my divorce. When you spend year after year in an unpleasant situation, you develop both a hard shell and the defensive mechanisms needed to keep the shell intact.
I have mostly overcome my personal Stockholm Syndrome, thanks in large part to the love and support of my second wife. We've been married for nearly three years now, but I feel like I was a ghost for most of that time, either physically living away from her or being so preoccupied with my personal and professional demons that I didn't pay much attention to her. For all of this time I have kept my head down, operating under the creed: "when you're going through hell, keep going."
Well now, I suppose, I am no longer going through hell. I have crawled my way out of the sewer pipe and am standing in the sunlight on the other end. I no longer need to look straight ahead and imagine a future that will have to be better than the unpleasant present. As much as it's possible as a long distance parent, I have reached the other side. I have a great job, a great marriage, a happy home, a stepdaugher who calls me "Daddy" more often than not, and, yes, two kids who love and need me no matter where I live. I'll be going to see them in two weeks, and then again and again and again. Before I know it summer will be here and my kids will be in my home for six weeks, thus beginning another annual cycle.
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