tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-69148889359492171552024-02-20T01:37:01.103-08:00Frequent Father MilesThe Frequent Fatherhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01872119459142274133noreply@blogger.comBlogger42125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6914888935949217155.post-35401861605114808872020-12-11T17:58:00.004-08:002020-12-11T17:58:39.152-08:0020 Miles Out of Town, Cold Irons Bound<i>"Some things last longer than you think they will</i><div><i>Some kind of things you can never kill</i></div><div><i>It's you and you only I'm thinking about</i></div><div><i>But you can't see in, and it's hard looking out</i></div><div><i>I'm 20 miles out of town, Cold Irons bound."</i></div><div><i><br /></i></div><div><i>Bob Dylan, Cold Irons Bound</i></div><div><i><br /></i></div><div>I'm not going to complain. Not after what the world has had to endure over the course of this year. I'm simply reporting the news. And the news is that, after six years of having custody of my kids, I made the excruciating decision to send them back to Maine and again become a long-distance parent. The choice was entirely my own, and was only made after two months of pandemic-induced lockdown threw all of the tensions and heartbreaks in my home into stark relief. It is not a choice that I ever wanted to make, nor was it one that I ever would have made under normal circumstances. But 2020 has been different, and I had to do the right thing for my kids and, at long last, for myself.</div><div><br /></div><div>Prior to the lockdown my kids were riding high. My son had made the baseball team at his high school after being cut the year before, and was the opening day starting pitcher. My daughter had gotten an amazing group of close friends and was blossoming as a person. Both were getting good grades, and both were more or less at peace with things.</div><div><br /></div><div>The lockdown started with two months left in the school year. After it became apparent that they weren't going back to school anytime soon, the tension began to build . The kids began to struggle with the new reality—they grew more reluctant
to do their schoolwork, became more isolated in their rooms, and got
increasingly combative about everything. There was more yelling and fighting in the home, and I began to wonder if we could ever be OK again. They were set to travel to Maine for six weeks after school let out and I worried about whether or not I could safely let them get on an airplane. I ultimately bought then N95 masks, lectured them about how to stay safe, and let them go.</div><div><br /></div><div>All along, the infection rates were far lower in Maine than they were here in Georgia. I knew that it would remain that way, as the state government was being proactive about enforcing masks and making visitors quarantine upon arrival. As June went on, my son started a job at the local supermarket and my daughter reconnected with some old friends. They were both clearly happy there, they were in a house with less tension, and they were safer. I knew that if they came back things would resume being contentious. I knew that they wouldn't be able to safely go back to school. Most important, I knew that they would be told by their mom that they really shouldn't be coming back to a place where the virus wasn't under control. </div><div><br /></div><div>As each day went by, I found myself thinking more and more that I had to let them stay. Yes, their alcoholic stepfather is still living there and, as far as I know he isn't working, so he's probably drinking heavily. Yes, their mother remains dangerously narcissistic and out of touch with reality. And yes, they would be far away from the lives they've come to know. But my parental instinct told me that it was time to believe in my children, to trust that at ages 16 and 13 that they would be able to navigate things much better now. I called up each of them independently and asked how they would feel about staying in Maine. My son was enthusiastic and said yes with no hesitation. His sister was much more ambivalent but eventually said OK. I told each of them that I loved them very much and no amount of distance would ever change that. </div><div><br /></div><div>That was now nearly six months ago. Since then things have pretty much played out as I expected. They have both been safely going to school in Maine and are doing well in all aspects of life. There have been no incidents at their house. The situation in Georgia has been predictably grim, and I would not have felt safe sending them back to school in person here. Things have been much less tense in my house and, after six years of struggling every day to help them deal with everything, I have been able to regain more control over my own life. I won't say that I'm happy (it's 2020, after all), but I see a path out of my years of anxiety, depression, and hopelessness. As the first vaccines are being distributed and the world (hopefully) begins to recover from this awful year, I am feeling very good about my prospects to finally find balance and contentment in my life. </div><div><br /></div><div>I still believe that I did the right thing in filing for custody many years ago, as they were in a dangerous and unstable situation. But I also see that I made the correct choice in letting my kids go after six years with me. During their time living with me I was able to get them into a better place and to put them each on a better path, but each day they remained in my house only risked damaging my relationship with them. I accept the fact that I did all that I could do to help them while living with me, and I now also accept that I can still play a critical role in their lives from 1,000 miles away.</div><div><br /></div><div>So I am again a long-distance parent, but I'm no longer the "frequent father" that I had to be when they were so much younger. They are each closing in on adulthood and don't really need either of their parents to guide their everyday activities at this point. They also have iPhones and I am able to communicate with them whenever possible without having their mom as a gatekeeper. I did visit them in Maine in the summer, and they came to Georgia for Thanksgiving but, with COVID now at record levels, I don't anticipate seeing either of them in person for many months. But I am at peace with that as well. I know that they love me, and I know that they're aware of how much I love them. </div><div><br /></div><div>The way I look at it is that every parent eventually has to physically let go of their children once they reach a certain age and level of maturity. For most people, that doesn't happen until their children reach adulthood. I've just gotten a head start on it, and I have to say that it's been easier than expected. After more than 10 years of enduring so many hardships just to be a good dad, I am grateful that I am finally able to step back and enjoy the fruits of my labor. </div><div><br /></div><div>I let my kids go, not knowing if they would be OK or if I would be OK. I've begun this new journey, one that has an uncertain destination, but it's been fine so far. I hope the road ahead continues to be smooth, regardless of where it leads me.</div>The Frequent Fatherhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01872119459142274133noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6914888935949217155.post-83256352787194430912018-11-27T08:55:00.000-08:002018-11-27T08:55:15.457-08:00Many More Miles Down the RoadFour years have gone by. At earlier stages of my life, so much happened in a similar amount of time. In four years I went from taking my first steps to starting Kindergarten. In four years I went from being a scrawny 115-pound high school freshman to being a graduate. My entire college experience in the Midwest? Four years. It took exactly four years from me to go from young, single professional living in DC to being the father of a newborn son in Maine. Hell, four years ago, Donald Trump was just another washed up reality TV star.<br />
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I used to feel that four years was a very long time span. Entire stages of my life took place in four-year chunks. And now? I feel like I have spent the past four years living in an alternate reality, where I have been so squarely focused on survival and trying to be the best dad possible, that I have neglected many (most?) of the things that used to give me meaning, including writing. It has gone by way too quickly. My youngest daughter was born in December 2014. She will turn 4 in two weeks. I'm not sure how I let myself go so long without translating my thoughts into words.</div>
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I started keeping a journal 20 years ago--the first entry was on my 25th birthday. I remember feeling like I had speedskated through my young adult years, and that I had let many of my thoughts and memories fade away. Having gone through that stage of life in the time before smartphones and social media, I have very few photos of my 18-25 years. (It's amazing how, not too long ago, people had to ration their taking of photos, because there was a fairly substantial cost involved in buying film and paying for prints--now my kids snap 100 frames in 5 minutes with no qualms whatsoever!) </div>
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Anyhow, I kept a fairly regular journal over the next few years, writing every couple of weeks. This peaked during my trip to Israel at the end of 1999, when I wrote nearly every day on the tour bus. This was the height of my attempt to document and preserve my experiences. </div>
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Back in 2001, the year my life burned down, the purpose of my writing shifted. I spent most of my time that year writing notes to my parents and other family members to try to stop their assault on me. When I moved to Maine at the beginning of 2002, it shifted again, and I spent the next two years writing a novel that was a (lightly) fictionalized version of my life--this more or less replaced my journal. From 2004 to 2009 I continued to write fiction. During this time I produced several short stories and started working on two more novels. Then, in 2010, after my life burned down again, I turned to blogging about my experiences as a long-distance dad. That lasted through 2014, when I gained custody of my kids. In the last paragraph of the last entry I wrote in November 2014, I mused: "I am not sure if I will continue to write about my parenting experiences from here on out, as they really aren't going to be that much different from anyone else's."</div>
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That statement has proven to be both completely true and completely false. It is completely true that I have not continued to write about my parenting experiences (or anything else, which I'll get back to). It is, however, completely false that my parenting experiences haven't been different from the norm. On that point, being the custodial parent of two kids who have a long-distance mom presents a very different set of challenges. I intend to focus at least some of my future writing on this topic. For now, I'll just say that I now know that I should have attempted to get custody of them several years earlier than I did. The longer I let them stay in a toxic situation, the more damage it did to them. They are in Maine right now, visiting their mom for Thanksgiving. I will never be OK with them visiting her, even though I know that they love her and they cherish their time with her. Oh, their drunk stepdad is still in the picture, but that's definitely a story for another day.</div>
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Back to the true part of my prediction, I have allowed the day-to-day reality of my life over the past four years swallow me whole. I have left behind nearly all of the life that I used to live. I have cut myself off from most of the people, places, and things that meant so much to me. I have narrowed the scope of my existence to little more than work, parenting, keeping a home, and sleeping. I have grown very depressed and hopeless and have lost the urge to express myself in any meaningful way. I have occasionally had moments when I thought that I would love to sit down and write again, but I have never mustered the motivation to actually do it. I have continually held on to the idea that I love to write and, moreover, that I <i>need </i>to write. </div>
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For 16 years, as I progressed through multiple stages of my life, writing was the through-line that connected all of those times and places. I started writing as a 25-year old living in a high-rise apartment in DC. Over then next 16 years, I wrote in a multitude of places: my guest room, my office, coffee shops, hotel rooms, airports and even once on a ferry boat. My last entry, four years ago, was written in my basement "man cave" in Virginia. We sold that house in 2016 and moved back to Georgia, to a larger, nicer home that lacks a similar space. In my mental and emotional state, I have not been able to find it within myself to fight for having a space for myself and my thoughts. It has taken until right now, when I am sitting alone in my office on the day before Thanksgiving when everyone else has gone home to finally start writing again. </div>
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It feels wonderful. My thoughts are flowing. My pulse rate is up, though that could just be the coffee. I am going to figure out a way sometime in the next few days to block out a place for myself where I can get back to work. I am a writer. This is what I need to do. I will be back.</div>
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The Frequent Fatherhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01872119459142274133noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6914888935949217155.post-57015732521831908122014-11-02T05:52:00.000-08:002014-11-02T05:52:23.089-08:00100,000 Miles: every new beginning comes from some other beginning's endWe have reached the end of the road. After nearly five years and precisely 100,000 miles, my days as the Frequent Father are done. My beloved children are now living with me, in my home, 500 miles away from their mother's little insane asylum. One might think that this would be the best news imaginable, that I finally got what I wanted, that I've reached my desired destination. But it turns out that there was another road laying beyond the end of the previous road, and the new road is steeper and more treacherous than I could have imagined.<br />
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It all happened on September 11, thirteen years to the day that shattered so many worlds and reshaped my own. I was awoken at 5:00 by my wife, who was six months pregnant and complaining of acute abdominal pain. We feared she may be going into (very) premature labor, so I got dressed and spirited her to the ER. It turned out to be a minor issue resulting from her fibroids, and all was OK. We got home by 9:00 AM and I was able to get some work done, but had to leave at 10:30 for an appointment. Soon after I left the house my wife, still woozy from not sleeping, slipped on our front walk and hit her head on the sidewalk. Fortunately she was OK and didn't have to go back to the ER, but the day was certainly not going well.<br />
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Around noontime I was having lunch with a business associate when my phone rang. The caller ID said it was my wife and, given the sort of day she'd been having, I excused myself to answer the phone and prepared for more bad news. It was quite the opposite: my attorney had received the judge's decision, and the children were awarded to me, effective immediately. And...BOOM...that was the moment when everything changed forever. I raced home after lunch, booked a flight to Boston and a rental car, and readied to leave for Maine early the next morning to retrieve my children. Everything was on track.<br />
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Unfortunately--and predictably--my ex-wife was not about to take this lying down. She obviously received the news around the same time and thus had several hours of a head start on breaking the news to the children. I had made a commitment to not say anything to the kids during the court case, as I didn't want them to be anxious about it, and their mother was certainly not ever going to give them the impression that they might have to move away, so they were blindsided. I will never know exactly what she said to them, but it's clear that she communicated at least the following: 1) Daddy lied to the judge, 2) Daddy is stealing you away from Mommy, and 3) Mommy is going to get you back very soon.<br />
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I got a taste of all of this well-poisoning that evening. I called my ex-wife's house to talk to her about the pickup arrangements the next day. I intended to keep everything perfectly civil and focus on the business at hand, but that was not to be. Instead my son answered the phone and he refused to give it to his mother. He then unleashed a stream of anger and hate at me, full of words and emotions that should never come out of the mouth of a 10-year old. He hung up on me. I called two more times, with the same result. My elation at the news instantly crumbled into guilt. While I knew that I was doing the right thing by getting my kids out of a toxic environment, I realized at that moment just how difficult this change would be for everyone.<br />
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The next day was fraught with fear and stupidity. My ex would not answer her phone, and I was unable to confirm with her exactly how and when the exchange would occur. I had to have my attorney communicate with her attorney and, even then, it wasn't clear how things would go. I worried about a violent scene, so I visited the police department when I got to town to explain the situation to them. An officer told me that he was sympathetic, but that he couldn't show up to escort the kids out--the best he could do was to wait around the corner in case of trouble, which he was kind enough to do.<br />
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The scene was set. I drove up to the house at 2:00 PM on a Friday afternoon. The kids had not been sent to school that day, so their mother had all day to get them riled up with sadness and hatred. My attorney pulled up 100 feet behind me, close enough to the corner that she could see the police officer and signal him if there was any trouble. The kids' bags were sitting on the sidewalk, but there was nobody in sight, and the shades in the house were pulled shut. I didn't quite know what to do. I then caught a glimpse of my beloved children hiding behind a bush and wasn't sure what to make of it. Were they hoping that I wouldn't see them and would drive away without them? Did their mother put them up to this? Were they just being silly?<br />
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I got out of the car and, making sure to not set foot on the property, I called out to them. My daughter peeked out her head and gave a little smile. She trudged over to the car and got in without any objection. My son remained behind the bush and refused to come out. I told him that he needed to come with me, but that he could take a minute if he needed it. After 10 minutes of waiting I was ready to go bang on the door but he eventually came out on his own and got in the car. He remained very angry and wouldn't talk at all during the ride to Boston. My daughter, meanwhile, was as sunny and happy as could be. I had always figured that, if this day ever came, she would be the one who would be crying and screaming. It was a fitting omen for just how unpredictable things have been since that day.<br />
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We are now seven weeks into our new reality. The fact that it has taken me this long to have the time and energy to sit down and write about it is a strong indicator of just how difficult the transition has been. The fact that the judge's order came down a week into the school year was a major contributor to the chaos. I had assumed all along that the decision would be made before Labor Day, so the kids could at least have a fresh start to the school year. Instead, they had the last two weeks of August and the first two weeks of September to start their Fall activities in Maine and start getting into the flow of the school year. And then, suddenly, they were ripped away from their lives and given two days to prepare to start from zero. It was totally unfair to them, and I will always be upset at the judge for dragging his feet for nearly a month before making a decision.<br />
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So the kids did start school here in Virginia on the following Monday, and I moved quickly to get my son on a football team and my daughter in a dance class. They needed to have at least some semblance of continuity to ease the transition, and those activities have definitely kept them occupied. Everything else has not been so easy. My son has continued to express anger at being here, though his resistance has waned in the past couple of weeks. His confusion is being fueled by his mother, who used her phone calls in the first few days to reiterate the three lies she told him before letting him go. This, of course, further upset him and led to oppositional behavior from him that I had never before experienced.<br />
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The bigger issue with my son is the fact that he is 10 years old, has Asperger's Syndrome, and has never received any support or counseling to help him with his special needs, as his mother is opposed to the mental health profession. Not a day has gone by since he's been here that he didn't have at least one angry--if not violent--outburst directed at me, my wife, my daughter, my stepsister, or another neighborhood kid. The outbursts are almost never justified: they are typically over being told to eat something, over someone not sharing with him, or over some perceived "unfairness" that is usually unfounded. I don't blame him for this, as he was made this way, but I am deeply concerned that it is too late to help him, as his bad habits and fatalism have been encouraged for so long. More troubling is that, like his mother, he is so far incapable of admitting that he has made a mistake or a bad decision. There have been times when multiple kids saw him do something wrong and, instead of admitting it, he claimed that they were all lying. We are trying to get extra services for him to help with his Asperger's issues, but that's not likely to begin for another month or two.<br />
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The end result is that the entire household has become captive to my son's explosiveness. My wife and I are always on edge with him. My daughter, who is used to his behaviors, often goes silent and withdraws. This behavior concerns me a great deal, as I behaved the same way as a child when my older brother went off the handle (he was a lot like my son is now). My stepdaughter, who had been an only child for nine years, had gotten resentful and moody, and keeps saying that nobody ever gives her any attention--I don't blame her for feeling that way. We started working with a family counselor soon after my kids arrived, but it will obviously take time for those efforts to bear fruit.<br />
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Meanwhile, my wife isn't getting any less pregnant, and the baby will be born in less than five weeks. We are already struggling to keep up with the practical and emotional aspects of having three kids in the house, and I am flipping out over the prospects of adding a newborn baby to this already volatile mix. We have figured out that we simply cannot have both of us working full-time with four kids, but we also can't afford to lose either person's income. I am actively looking for a higher-paying job, and will hopefully find one before my wife would have to go back to work in March, but there is no guarantee of this happening.<br />
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In brief, life is rough for everyone in our home these days. I try to comfort myself with the thought that, however things may be here, at least my children's lives are not endangered by living with a raging alcoholic stepfather and a delusional mother. <br />
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Things in Maine have actually gotten even worse since my kids left. My ex-mother-in-law's house caught on fire under mysterious circumstances a couple of weeks ago, and I strongly suspect that my ex-wife and her husband orchestrated the fire with the hope of collecting on an insurance settlement. I am thus very happy that my kids aren't living in that environment, but they aren't totally free of it. My ex is actually here in Virginia this weekend (she's a long distance parent now!) and I'm sure she is filling their heads with terrible things. Worse, the kids will be traveling to Maine for both Thanksgiving and Christmas, giving her (and her drunk husband) plenty of time to do their damage. It is terrible for me to say this, but I think the best thing that could happen for my kids would be for their mother to be convicted of arson and insurance fraud and go to jail for a while. They would be free of her influence, and they would learn an important lesson about the consequences of bad behavior.<br />
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The Frequent Father is dead. There will be no more nightly phone calls behind the Iron Curtain. There will be no more sleepless nights wondering what the screaming in the background of my phone call was about. There will be no more expensive travel itineraries booked for the sole purpose of watching my children grow up. There will be no more overnight bus rides, nights spent sleeping in rental cars, or long winter days holed up at the Howard Johnson's. There will be no more stares from people wondering why I lugging a car seat through the airport with no child in tow. If all goes as planned, I will never again set foot in the State of Maine. I know the scenery is beautiful and the lobster is delicious, but I do not need to be reminded of all of the years of pain and sadness that I endured in that place. I think I'll vacation elsewhere from now on.</div>
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Now I'm just plain Daddy, having to do all of the things that any other parent has to do every day to raise children. It isn't exactly normal, as I now have to deal with the long distance parent on the other end of the phone. But, assuming she doesn't go to jail, I have to believe that she will eventually accept reality and move here. When I first met her, she lived 15 minutes away from where I now live, so it's not exactly foreign territory, and she would have no trouble finding a good job here--that's something I never could do in Maine.</div>
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Seven weeks into this new reality it is very hard to imagine things ever settling down. But I feel a lot better knowing that we've all survived the hardest part. The initial shock has worn off, and each passing day makes things a little less strange for everyone. I am not sure if I will continue to write about my parenting experiences from here on out, as they really aren't going to be that much different from anyone else's. It has been a long journey to this point, and I am frankly amazed to have actually gotten to this point in one piece. The road ahead will not be easy, but it will be different. That alone is worth celebrating.</div>
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Long live The Frequent Father.</div>
The Frequent Fatherhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01872119459142274133noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6914888935949217155.post-52969038225016406582014-08-24T12:55:00.000-07:002014-08-24T12:55:32.456-07:0099,000 Miles, headlights pointed at the dawnIt is astounding to me that I haven't posted anything here for more than five months. I guess I have been afraid to sit down and confront my deepest thoughts and emotions, and have contented myself to bury them under a veneer of moodiness and depression. I have avoiding writing because I was fully expecting the next entry I wrote to be the last entry on this blog. The court case was supposed to be done in April. In May. In June. In July. In August. And still...<br />
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It would take several entries to recount all that has happened in the intervening months. I spent two long weekends in Maine, one in late March for my son's 10th birthday, and one in late May for my daughter's dance recital and my son's debut as a starting pitcher in Little League. I then got the kids in late June and had them with me for most of the summer--I only returned them to Maine eight days ago. There were many great times had, and a summer full of angst about what would happen, when it might happen, and what I would even say to my kids to explain things. <br />
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Alas, that is a problem I've still yet to have to face.<br />
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The custody trial is over, it happened six days ago. It was the farce I expected. I went first and told my story. My ex-wife then took the stand and claimed that, well, she just didn't understand what alcohol abuse was, had no idea that alcoholics lie and deceive people about their drinking, and now recognizes that she was naïve and has learned her lesson. She went on to say with a straight face that her husband has now been totally sober for eight months, in spite of ample evidence to the contrary.<br />
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The guardian ad litem (GAL) took the stand and presented his report, which stated very clearly that the drunk guy was still drinking, that my ex wasn't going to keep him away from the kids, and that the kids should come live with me. He added that, in 20 years as a GAL, he had never felt so strongly about his recommendation.<br />
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Then the drunk stepfather actually took the stand. He looked lobotomized, or at least heavily sedated. His hands shook during his testimony. He was incoherent and kept forgetting what he was saying. His behavior screamed DRY DRUNK. Finally, my ex-wife's brother took the stand--he is sick about what his sister is doing to my kids, and he offered his services. He is a drug addict with a checkered past, but he was very convincing in presenting his accounts of the alcohol abuse in her house and her refusal to acknowledge the danger.<br />
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And then, it was 3:30 PM and both sides rested. And the judge said that he wasn't going to render a decision and that he was leaving for a two-week vacation in two days and didn't guarantee that he'd have a decision before he left. The case was specifically added to the August docket as a back-to-school case that needed to be decided before Labor Day. It was heard on August 18. He did not rule before he left for vacation. If he lets it wait until he returns, school will have started and my kids will return to their school in Maine. The arrogance and laziness of this man is simply shocking. How can he just leave us all hanging like this when he knows very well what is at stake?<br />
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Well, my question doesn't matter, because that is exactly what is happening. The judge is on vacation, and won't return until after Labor Day. I've been told that it's possible he will send in his decision while he's away, but he's given no indication of this. I have literally been in shock for the past week about this turn of events. I feel completely confused and empty, and have been scarcely able to go to work, eat a decent meal, or sleep at night since returning from Maine. There isn't even any guarantee that he will render his decision when he returns. My attorney has told me that she has another case with the same judge that has been hanging on for more than a month without a decision. I do not understand how a legal system can exist that allows a judge to avoid doing his job with no repercussions.<br />
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So now I am sitting here alone with my thoughts on a Sunday afternoon. My kids are back in Maine. My stepdaughter is in Atlanta for two weeks with her father, though he's been an useless as ever and she has been bouncing around amongst other family members. My wife is out shopping for school clothes, leaving me in complete isolation and feeling desperate and hopeless. I have been having terrible headaches and stomach problems all day, and feel like just going back to sleep, because consciousness is the worst possible thing for me at this stage.<br />
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I am burned out with my job, and seriously contemplating leaving it, either to find something that pays more so my wife can quit or just up and leaving it to have time to be with my kids if and when they come here for good. I didn't mention that we are expecting a baby in December, which would mean four kids in the house, including an infant. There is no way we can both go on with full-time jobs like we have now, so something is going to have to give. I am not exaggerating a bit when I say that I am at my breaking point. I have used up all my strength just to get this far, and don't feel like I have anything else in reserve for the future. And this is all assuming that the judge rules in my favor and I get my kids.<br />
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And if I don't...well, I'm trying not to think about that, but I already know the answer. We will have no choice but to give up our life in Virginia, such as it is, and go back to Maine. I have the promise of a steady stream of consulting work from a colleague, so I wouldn't have to be in an office all day, and could be a stay-at-home dad with the new baby and my wife can keep her job, as it's a telecommuting situation. With the housing cost difference, we could actually get by up there financially. But I doubt we'd get by in other regards. We both hate it there--we hate the people, the culture, the weather, the lifestyle, you name it. The only thing there is my two wonderful children, but I feel that would take precedence over everything else. I've been away from them for five years, and I am done with this. No more.<br />
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But I have to assume that, in spite of the delay, this ultimately will fall in my direction. The evidence and the GAL's report are squarely on my side. To believe my ex-wife requires believing in a whole bunch of fairy tales and coincidences. My attorney even asked my ex if she knew what Occam's Razor was--she didn't, so it was explained that it is a philosophical principle that, in the absence of a known answer, the simplest explanation should be assumed. In this case, the simplest explanation for all of the incidents and accidents (and hints and allegations) in my ex-wife's home is the presence of a raging alcoholic. I think that sums it up very well.<br />
<br />
So that's where things stand right now. My kids are 500 miles away and, as far as they know, they will be going back to their familiar school routine in nine days. I have every reason to believe that they will be coming here to live very soon, but I have no idea when "very soon" may actually occur. And when that day does come, I have no idea what I'm going to say to them, nor do I have any faith that I will be able to provide what they need, given my fragile emotional and psychological state.<br />
<br />
It is dark right now, so dark that I have a hard time even imagining the dawn coming over the horizon. But all reason and rationality suggest that the sun will be rising at any moment. I somehow need to pull myself together before the dawn comes, if it comes.The Frequent Fatherhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01872119459142274133noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6914888935949217155.post-79998380625383732502014-03-11T12:51:00.003-07:002014-03-11T12:51:51.746-07:0095,000 Miles, getting ever closer to the end of the tunnelThis installment covers one more trip to Maine and one major step towards the end of my Frequent Father days. The trip was my best effort at exercising my visitation rights for my kids' February school break; I technically have the right to have them for the whole week, but due to work, life, and financial constraints, I couldn't retrieve them and bring them home, so it was reduced to me coming to Maine for 3.5 days.<br />
<br />
I was fortunate to find a 2-bedroom condo on the beach for the same price as a Hampton Inn (love Airbnb.com!), so we had a cozy "home" for the visit and I saved a lot of money by buying groceries and preparing meals in the unit. The weather even cooperated well enough--one day in late February was warm enough to go down to the ocean, which afforded the very Maine experience of having a snowball fight on the beach. It was a good time all around.<br />
<br />
The trip would have been just an upbeat footnote in the mostly grim annals of the Frequent Father, but for the semi-miraculous turn of events that began on Thursday afternoon, soon after I arrived in Maine. I had given up on making any progress in my custody case during the trip, and was resigned to having to wait until late March just to have a (stupid, pointless) mediation session and then wait another week for a court-mandated status conference, meaning that the actual final hearing couldn't even be scheduled for another month.<br />
<br />
At the time of my arrival, there was still no word from the guardian ad litem (GAL) as to whether or not he (this GAL is a man, acronym notwithstanding) would be filing a report. Also, there was no word from my attorney as to whether or not she had succeeded in scheduling a private mediation session for the next morning that would still be stupid and pointless, but would at least move things along. I was tired of waiting for answers, so I called up the GAL, and he was very forthcoming with me. I won't specify what he said (I don't know if my ex knows about this blog or not!) but he told me that he wasn't ready to deliver his report just yet, as he was still trying to track down medical information about the drunk stepfather. Then my attorney called back to tell me that she had succeeded in scheduling a mediation for the next morning. Things were looking up.<br />
<br />
The mediation was just as useless as I expected, and my ex (naturally) refused to sit in the same room with me, so the poor mediator had to shuttle back and forth between rooms at her lawyer's office, which wasted time. We settled nothing, but we did "check the box," so we could proceed. Both parties then agreed to file a joint status report, thus allowing us to skip the pre-trial conference and paving the way to getting a trial date and moving forward. It still may not happen until late April or May, but at least we're making progress.<br />
<br />
It's been a long road to get to where I am now, and I'm feeling very optimistic about all this. I'm not thrilled about the upheaval that my kids will need to undergo if they come to live with me, but it's far, far better than the dangerous and toxic environment where they now live. I am certain that someday, when they are grown, they will thank me for getting them out of that environment. Their lives are going to be so much better and happier, and so will mine.<br />
<br />
There will be at least two more trips to Maine: the annual March birthday trip in two weeks and the final hearing. And then...I hope I never have to set foot in that state ever again. Yes, I know it's beautiful and scenic, and the lobster is great, but I've had my fill of Vacationland forever. There will be one lest goddamned tourist for them to hate. I'll find my special place somewhere else.The Frequent Fatherhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01872119459142274133noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6914888935949217155.post-59351507909933276482014-02-09T07:28:00.003-08:002014-03-11T11:58:47.947-07:0094,000 Miles, stuck at the airportSo here we are, well into 2014, five months after the ER visit that set this round of legal action into motion: nothing has changed, and it looks like nothing will change for several more months. The GAL has not issued his report yet, in spite of assurances that he would complete his work by the end of January. He has six more days to deliver, but he could ask for an extension if he feels like it. <br />
<br />
I had been hopeful that he would get his report in, I would get my final court hearing this coming week (before my kids' school vacation), and we'd load up the car and go. I was actually doing pretty well at getting up in the morning, motivating myself to face the day, and being a productive member of society. Then, with no fanfare, a notice arrived in the mail last week stating that there was a "mediation hearing" scheduled for late March and a "pre-trial/status conference" scheduled another week after that.<br />
<br />
That one piece of information knocked me right off course. The judge had ordered back in December that there would be a mediation hearing within 75 days of the appointment of the GAL; that date would come in mid-February. At the time, my attorney assured me that we would be able to bypass mediation and get a final hearing scheduled for that same day. It seemed simple: the GAL will present his report, testify about it, and the judge will make a decision. But now I'm getting a completely different story. Apparently the court can just ignore its own order to delay this for no good reason.<br />
<br />
I asked my attorney to estimate, based on the new scheduling, when I could expect to actually have a final hearing at which custody could be switched, and she wouldn't say, but she didn't dispute my assertion that it wouldn't happen until May. Worse, she denied telling me that the whole thing should have been done this month, and when I challenged her on it, she slipped into lawyer-speak: "well, I'm sorry if you got that impression. I don't recall ever saying anything like that." She is a good lawyer, but she still has a vested interest in stringing this thing out: after all, each hearing is another $1,000 for her. She says she will try to schedule a private mediation with my ex's attorney, but even that will only save a couple of weeks.<br />
<br />
So now, in a best case scenario, it will be sometime in April before any decisions are made. In the meantime, another school year has been lost, and my kids are one year deeper into the abyss that is their mother's world. The isolation, paranoia, narcissism, over-attachment, and tolerance of bad behavior that she displays has had one more year to seep into their souls, making it that much harder to undo the damage. The separation has gone on for another year, leaving me only tied to them by a phone call each night for weeks on end during the long, dark winter. I grudgingly made my arrangements for another long weekend over the President's Day holiday that will be spent holed up in a hotel room in Maine. I had convinced myself that there would never be another weekend like that, and signing up for at least one more is a stab to my heart.<br />
<br />
I had a reminder yesterday of just how long things have gone on like this. I was watching the 2014 Winter Olympics, and remembered the 2010 Vancouver Olympics, when I was hunkered down in a sparsely furnished apartment in Maine without TV service. As a result, I missed the now-legendary U.S.-Canada gold medal hockey game. Now that the 2014 Olympics are underway, it's been a full four-year cycle spent living like this. When it started my son was in Kindergarten and my daughter was just barely two years old. Now he is about to turn 10, and she is well into first grade. So much time has passed, they have grown so much, and I have experienced so little of it. Even if they eventually do come to live with me, I will always feel a deep sense of loss for the years of their childhoods that I did not get to share with them.<br />
<br />
There is a certain feeling that has been coursing through my body each day since the court scheduling notice arrived last week. It is a feeling that I have come to know too well, but can't really explain it. It's a sensation of emptiness and coldness, tightness in the chest, detachment, and confusion. It is not something that I ever felt before moving away from my children, so it's not just depression. I have come to realize that is something far deeper, something that can only come from losing something you love.<br />
<br />
I love my children more than I ever thought I could love anything. I know it is still quite likely that they will be living with me soon, but, until that day comes, I am just left with one day after another to feel the cumulative effects of being separated from them for so long. For now, I don't even know what the GAL will say, when my real day in court will come, or what will be decided. Until all of those things happen I am just going to continue to feel like I do right now. <br />
<br />
It is a terrible way to be living--stumbling through life in a fog and wishing days away just to get out of this darkness. I am 40 years old now and have wished away enough days--days that I won't be getting back. This period of my life has been reduced to simple survival. I don't know how many days or weeks it will take until anything changes, but I am fully aware that I am going to continue to walk around feeling terrible every day until then.<br />
<br />
I don't even want to think about what I will feel if the court does not agree with me and my kids are allowed to stay put. I am not OK with that and probably never would be. I know that it's not a likely outcome at this point, and I am trying not to think about it, but the possibility definitely exists. I have had so few things go my way over the course of my adult life, so I should be used to disappointment. But if ever the time was right for the karma to even out, this is it. I have suffered enough. My kids have been poisoned enough. The world may not be fair, but I'm not asking for fairness. Life has already been so unfair to me--I'm just asking for a little less unfairness.The Frequent Fatherhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01872119459142274133noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6914888935949217155.post-63695049418489605742014-01-12T07:24:00.000-08:002014-01-12T07:24:45.968-08:0094,000 MilesWell, it's 2014, and I'm still waiting for the verdict that will determine my children's future. The court hearing in December began with the judge saying that she wanted to appoint a guardian <em>ad litem</em> (or GAL in legal-speak) to investigate the case, but that she was willing to hear our testimony just for kicks. So I got to take the stand, where I related my story to the court, telling the judge (100% truthfully) that I had only brought this action as a last resort after my ex-wife refused to do anything to protect our kids from the dangerous drunk living in their home. I fielded the predictable accusations from her attorney of being a bully and a meanie, and then asked him if he would be concerned if his child had been sent to the ER. He was speechless.<br />
<br />
My ex, as she will do, proceeded to steal the show. Without any emotion whatsoever she admitted that her husband still consumed alcohol on a regular basis (in direct contradiction to her prior statements and countermotion), but that--get this--was engaging in a NIH-sanctioned practice known as "low-risk drinking."* She did not acknowledge at any time that his drinking was dangerous in any way to our kids. She then talked about how she "lived in fear" of my harassment, namely my "constant threats" of taking her to court. For the record, I haven't threatened to take her to court; rather I have actually taken her to court when she demonstrated that she would never shield our kids from a drunk.<br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: x-small;">*I researched this after the hearing, and low-risk drinking is a regimen aimed at preventing casual drinkers from becoming alcoholics. It consists simply of limiting yourself to no more than four drinks** in a day or 14 in a week.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: x-small;"></span><br />
<span style="font-size: x-small;">**One "drink" is equivalent to eight ounces of regular-strength beer. Her husband favors 40-ounce malt liquor, which is equivalent to six drinks. If he even has one of these in a day, he's over the "low-risk" threshold, and I'm quite certain he has at least 2-3 per day</span>.<br />
<br />
Anyhow, after all of this, the judge did what she said she would do, and appointed a GAL, the same one who had investigated our case three years earlier. The GAL was hired (costing me nearly $3,000) and he traveled to Virginia during Christmas break, so he could observe what life was like in my home for my kids. The GAL's visit couldn't have gone any better. It was a warm sunny day, and my kids were outside playing with the other kids in the neighborhood, looking like happy, well-adjusted kids who would do just fine if they lived here. My mom even came over and make cake pops, so the playing was followed by a stream of neighborhood kids coming into our house to enjoy them.<br />
<br />
More importantly, I had about an hour to drive him around and show him the local area, then drive him to his hotel. During this time he told me candidly that my ex-wife had filed for divorce from her husband, but that he thought that was a stunt, and that she would likely keep him in her life no matter what a legal document would say. He then asked me to tell him what sort of visitation I would want her to have if I had primary residential rights. I told him that I wanted her to be in the kids' lives, as it would be good for them, but that I would want her to go through a parenting class and counseling before she would be granted regular visitation. He nodded and said that seemed fair.<br />
<br />
In short, I came away from his visit believing that he was ready to grant my request. I'm not counting chickens yet, but the questions he asked and the things he said all pointed to him being appalled at my ex's pattern of denial and irresponsibility, and ready to remove the kids from her home.<br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
* * *</div>
<br />
The rest of the visit was as it ever was--a lot of fun in a very small amount of time, followed by a long day of travel and a hasty goodbye. I did not and have not told my kids about what is going on, but I sense that they are aware of what could happen, and they seem to be embracing that my home is their home too. They have each taken ownership of their rooms here and, more importantly, my daughter did not cry even once for her mommy during the visit, which is a first.<br />
<br />
And now all I can do is wait. The GAL is set to complete his report in the next 30 days, and a court hearing will be scheduled immediately thereafter. In theory, my kids could be living here with me by the time Spring begins, but it could also be delayed or--worse yet--the judge could rule that my ex has done enough by removing the drunk and divorcing him, so the kids can stay with her. In any case, it's been a terrible struggle for me to continue to go about my daily business under these conditions, with so much up in the air. <br />
<br />
I have been afraid to sit down at my computer and write about all of these goings, because it's just been easier to not think about it. But, really, it's all I can think about, as nothing matters to me more than my children's safety and well-being. I am hoping that my next entry will herald the end of my Frequent Father days, but I am not letting myself believe that, at least not until the GAL report has been issued. There will be plenty to digest and dissect at that point.The Frequent Fatherhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01872119459142274133noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6914888935949217155.post-77078968593639782882013-11-20T07:54:00.001-08:002013-11-20T07:54:36.064-08:0091,000 MilesAnother 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.<br />
<br />
The custody case.<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
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 <em>ad litem</em> 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.<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
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?The Frequent Fatherhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01872119459142274133noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6914888935949217155.post-91201535949391521212013-11-02T12:20:00.000-07:002013-11-02T12:20:49.713-07:0090,000 MilesI'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.<br />
<br />
My son went to the E.R. 56 days ago.<br />
I hired a P.I. three days later.<br />
The P.I. documented the continuing alcohol abuse in the house within a week.<br />
I hired an attorney and she prepared an emergency custody motion within two days.<br />
It took a week to serve my ex-wife, get her to acknowledge service, and file the motion at the court.<br />
It took more than two weeks just to hear from the court as to whether or not they would grant an emergency hearing.<br />
They granted the hearing, but set it for another three weeks down the road.<br />
The hearing was limited to 90 minutes, and the judge was 15 minutes late, leaving just 75 minutes.<br />
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.<br />
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<br />
They remained in chambers for the rest of the 75 minutes.<br />
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.<br />
The judge set a date for the continuation of the hearing...36 days later.<br />
And....scene.<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
More to come.The Frequent Fatherhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01872119459142274133noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6914888935949217155.post-40270043512937861212013-09-29T19:20:00.001-07:002013-09-29T19:21:08.940-07:0089,000 Miles, approaching the Mixing BowlThree 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.<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
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.<em> </em>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.<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
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. <br />
<br />
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. <br />
<br />
That's really all I ever hoped to be.The Frequent Fatherhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01872119459142274133noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6914888935949217155.post-21852029915573443232013-09-01T18:57:00.000-07:002013-09-01T18:58:44.974-07:0088,000 miles and idling in the drivewayThere 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.<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
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. <br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
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...The Frequent Fatherhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01872119459142274133noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6914888935949217155.post-51800832016486448002013-08-07T04:14:00.000-07:002013-08-07T04:15:12.175-07:0088,000 MilesThis 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.<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
So five weeks it was, but being the Frequent Father, I had to pack everything into that amount of time. The rundown:<br />
Fly to Maine to get kids<br />
Fly to Atlanta for July 4th week with my wife's family, gamely attempt to work while a hired babysitter watches six kids upstairs.<br />
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.<br />
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.<br />
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.<br />
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.<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
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.The Frequent Fatherhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01872119459142274133noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6914888935949217155.post-38632553481722075432013-05-30T20:27:00.001-07:002013-05-30T20:27:46.249-07:0083,050 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.<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
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.The Frequent Fatherhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01872119459142274133noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6914888935949217155.post-68642208930795985832013-05-13T20:13:00.001-07:002013-05-13T21:16:45.386-07:0083,000 MilesI 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. <br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
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?<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
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.The Frequent Fatherhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01872119459142274133noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6914888935949217155.post-63038987283036042452013-02-24T10:10:00.000-08:002013-02-24T10:11:48.500-08:0081,000 MilesI'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.<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
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."<br />
<br />
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:<br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
<em>"I don't wanna meet your friend</em></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<em>And I don't wanna start over again</em></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<em>I just want my life to be the same</em></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<em>Just like it used to be"</em></div>
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
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 <em>had</em> 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.<br />
<br />
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. <br />
<br />
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.The Frequent Fatherhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01872119459142274133noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6914888935949217155.post-49040243599775239862013-01-26T08:41:00.000-08:002013-01-26T08:43:14.995-08:0080,000 MilesI 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. <br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
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. <br />
<br />
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."<br />
<br />
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.The Frequent Fatherhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01872119459142274133noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6914888935949217155.post-8948809675724737042012-08-25T18:24:00.002-07:002012-09-02T06:47:56.842-07:0074,000 Miles, going nowhere fastThe silence has continued, punctuated by a case of vertigo. Last Tuesday I was eating lunch and felt myself becoming more and more dizzy and nauseous as the meal went on. I began to suspect food poisoning, and left the office early to hopefully sleep it off. When I awoke I wasn't nauseous any longer but the dizzyness persisted. I forced myself to go to a work-related meeting, but I couldn't concentrate and felt more and more out of sorts. Again, I figured I would sleep it off and all would be well. On Wednesday morning I forced myself to go to work, but my head was buzzing all morning. I finally went to the urgent care clinic around lunchtime, where I was swiftly diagnosed with vertigo. The doctor's instructions were to drink lots of fluids and move as little as possible until I felt better.<br />
<br />
For the next two days that's just what I did. I stayed home, in a quiet house all by myself, as my wife and stepdaughter were away. I slept a lot. When I did have to get up I moved very slowly. And, of course, I had far too much time to think about my job, my life, my kids, and my future. The more I thought, the worse I felt; the worse I felt, the more I thought, and so on. I forced myself to go to work on Friday morning just to be out of the house, but I was still too dizzy to be of any use, so I left around noon. I got home, took a nap and, mercifully, woke up to find that I was no longer dizzy. And that's when things really took a bad turn. <br />
<br />
In my moment of clarity the silence, loneliness, and isolation, piled on top of my career frustrations, my anger about my situation with my kids, my emptiness at losing my dad, and my general feelings of disappointment with my life, all came crashing down on me. I sat on the couch in the dark and just felt the weight of my circumstances. How in the world could I ever put the pieces of my life back together? Where would I even begin? I just didn't see any possible way forward for myself. Though I didn't contemplate ending my life I did find myself wondering how I could go on living.<br />
<br />
My wife called to talk to me, but I was too upset and angry to carry on a decent conversation with her, and I lashed out at her attempts to try to offer me any suggestions. She told me that I should go to the hospital and check into the ER for an evaluation. I decided to go to sleep and see if one more sunrise would cure my problems. Sadly, it didn't, and I woke up this morning feeling every bit as freaked out as I did last night. I finally decided that I need to find out just how bad off I was, so I drove to the local ER.<br />
<br />
After waiting more than two hours (what if I had actually been suicidal?) I got a chance to talk to a counselor, who went over my options with me and told me that, if I so desired, I could be admitted to a locked psych ward, but that I would be surrounded by low functioning people, many of whom were psychotic, most of whom had tried to kill themselves in recent days, and all of whom (including me) would be monitored 24-7. My other options would be a referral to a partial hospitalization program (PHP), which would consist of several consecutive all-day therapy sessions and an appointment with a psychiatrist, or to just ramp up visits with my current therapist and try to get an appointment with a psychiatrist, which could take a month.<br />
<br />
I spent the rest of the day in a reverie of sorts, not speaking to or seeing other humans, with the exception of a brief phone call to my kids. Sitting around like this made me increasingly more depressed, but I simply lacked the motivation or self-confidence to do anything else. I have lost faith in my ability to be of any good to anybody, which is what brought me to the ER this morning in the first place. I had decided that I was going to proceed with the PHP.<br />
<br />After more consideration I then came to the conclusion that wallowing in my troubles for seven hours a day for several consecutive days with other miserable--and possibly unstable--people is not what I need. I'm instead ramping up my therapy sessions and making a new commitment to staying as busy as possible so I can't get stuck in the morass of bad feelings again. I suppose I've come to grudgingly accept that "fake it till you make it" is the only thing that's going to work for me.The Frequent Fatherhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01872119459142274133noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6914888935949217155.post-26867735483232555152012-08-20T20:25:00.000-07:002012-08-26T05:56:22.381-07:0074,000 MilesMy ex-wife had a running joke in her family that dates back to when her oldest brother, who is now 41 years old, procrastinated on a middle school book report and was forced to write a last minute essay about a work of fiction that was so fictional that it didn't even exist. Amazingly, his act of creative academic malfeasance resulted in him getting an A. Three years later his younger brother wrote a book report about the same phantom novel and also got an A. Another three years on, their little sister followed suit with the same results. The (nonexistent) book in question was called "All is Quiet Now," written by the great (nonexistent) author Estelle Pendleton.<br />
<br />
I think of that moment tonight for a variety of reasons:<br />
<ul>
<li>It's a funny story that can't help but stick with me</li>
<li>It's a reminder that she actually did once have a close relationship with her siblings</li>
<li>It illustrates how far back her ease with telling lies goes</li>
<li>It <em>really</em> illustrates how much she and her family have always believed themselves to be smarter than those around them and thumbed their collective noses at authority</li>
<li>The author's first name was the same as their grandmother's, who recently passed away</li>
<li>It proves that the teachers and schools in their little town have always more than a few books short of a library, both literally and figuratively</li>
<li>Most of all, in my house, all is very, very quiet now.</li>
</ul>
It's been 16 days since I took my kids back to Maine. Though I was sad to drop them off at the end of six great weeks together it somehow didn't feel quite as awful this time as it did every other time before. In the past, the car ride from the airport back to my ex-wife's house (as if she would pick them up!) was always a funeral march, with my soul filling with anger and sadness until the tears inevitably sloshed out of me around the time I had to say goodbye to my kids. This time it was a goodbye party--we joked and laughed all the way. After kissing them each one last time and bidding them farewell I actually felt at peace, and drove off with a clear mind.<br />
<br />
I have to believe that the tighter bond we forged with each other during the summer had at least something to do with the difference in everyone's mood. My kids had been an integral part of my new life and home for an extended period of time, and they both enjoyed it. I got to feel like a real parent, and not just a "frequent father," and felt secure in the knowledge that next summer would be the same way. I wasn't worried about the trip back to Virginia, the two months until I would visit Maine again, or the thousands of miles that I'd be traveling over the next 10.5 months just to maintain a relationship with my kids. All of my anxieties drifted away in that moment, and smiled as I drove off.<br />
<br />
The positive feeling lasted for a few days, as if I had just visited a particularly skilled acupuncturist, and the tingly feling lasted longer than usual. The intervening two weeks have not been quite so kind. I came back to my job, which has quickly become tedious and unfulfilling, and I've been having trouble motivating myself to do much of anything. I took a quick trip to Arizona with my wife, ostensibly for us to have a brief getaway, but really to help my mom and aunt figure out what to do with my 93 year old grandmother, who is rapidly descending into dementia. My ex's phone went out for two days and, since she refused to get a cell phone, I ended up having to call the cops to do a welfare check (they were fine). Finally, my wife and stepdaughter have been in Atlanta for the past 10 days--it was supposed to be my stepdaughter's time with her dad but, to nobody's surprise, the bum has only seen her for one afternoon so far.<br />
<br />
And, thus, all is quiet now. I've been largely alone with my thoughts for 10 days. I work in an office with just one other person and we spend much of our collective day at our respective computers, with little occasion to socialize with each other. I come home to a dark, empty house and have to motivate myself to do more than slump on the couch. In between I have forced myself to stay active and busy by playing soccer, riding my bike, and even going to the movies with a high school friend. All of it has been a largely unsuccessful exercise in not dwelling on my situation and getting on with my life.<br />
<br />
I have determined that the only way I'm going to keep going in the right direction is to find a career path that engages and motivates me. My job is paying the bills, but I come home each night drained and tired, and feeling like I'm just treading water. If my life at home was in good order, any old job would suffice, and I'd find a way to keep going. But I need more--if I don't find some meaning in my work I will undoubtedly fall back into a depression. <br />
<br />
There will be many more miles to travel in the coming months. I am hopeful that I will find my way professionally soon, so that I have the strength and energy that I need to soldier on as the Frequent Father.The Frequent Fatherhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01872119459142274133noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6914888935949217155.post-11429610705215252962012-07-22T19:32:00.001-07:002012-08-26T05:57:14.033-07:0073,000 Miles*<em>*This post's title comes with a disclaimer: I've actually traveled a whole lot more than 1,000 miles since my last post, but I made the executive decision to only count the miles traveled for the express purpose of seeing/retreiving my children from their permanent home in Maine. I ventured north to pick them up in late June and have had them in my possession for the past four weeks.</em><br />
<br />
Foremost among the many realizations I have had over the past month is that, at long last, I have finally embraced the idea that my children would be every bit as content living with me as I would be having them. They have been staying in my new home in Northern Virginia for the past months and they have given absolutely no indication that they are unhappy, miserable, or otherwise homesick for the pathetic excuse of a life that their mother has crafted for them back in Maine.<br />
<br />
I'm not going to lie and claim that everything has been easy or free of stress--instead of just one relatively normal six year old, we've instead got three rambunctious kids, including one with Asperger's Disorder. However, what started out as a frightening proposition has, after a month, turned into a semblance of normalcy. During the week the kids to go day camp and my wife and I each do our jobs. At night we find enough time to play board games, have picnics, or watch movies in the basement, and weekends have been filled with fun times. This weekend alone we had a sleepover with my mom, went to a Washington Nationals game, had a movie night, invited over another family for a playdate, went to the American Indian Museum, and had dinner at a great Cuban restaurant.<br />
<br />
In brief, our makeshift Brady Bunch has become a family, and a small part of me couldn't be happier. I have finally managed to turn the dead-end existence that I had in Maine into a rewarding life in a great city, with a decent job, good friends, a loving wife, and hope for a future. When I still lived with my first wife I had given up on having much of a life for myself, as we were staying in Maine no matter what, and there were few joys in my world apart from time spent with my children. I have come to realize that, no matter how a great a parent a person is, fulfillment from one's children is not, and indeed should never be, enough.<br />
<br />
For the first several years of my kids' lives, I was little more than Daddy to them. There was so little to my life that I wasn't able to show them any more than the part of me that fed them, changed their diapers, drove them places, and cuddled with them. By contrast they saw all there was to see of their mother, who is and always has been a homebody, and so they grew close to her, they pined for her, they sent the message that they could never be away from their beloved Mommy. <br />
<br />
Last year when they spent two weeks with me in my then-home in Atlanta, I never got the feeling that they felt at home, and my daughter in particular frequently whined for Mommy. But not this time. This time, they are seeing more and more of the person that I was before I met their mother, and I feel them growing nearer to me and I to them with each day they spend in my care. I see that they are having a fun and fulfilling experience being here, knowing that each day will bring another exciting adventure. I hear their laughter and feel their hugs and, most importantly, never have to endure them whining for their mother.<br />
<br />
And then, 13 days from now, it will all suddenly come crashing down, and they will go back to the life that they don't even seem to miss.<br />
<br />
I know it's not so simple for them. I have heard both of my kids express in their divergent ways that they wish I could come back and live with Mommy and we could be a family again. Since I didn't live through a divorce as a child I can't possibly understand this, but they apparently can say this without thought of the fact that both of their parents have remarried. They don't take the next leap of logic to see that they would have to say goodbye to their new stepfamilies. In my case, my daughter would have to part ways with her stepsister, with whom she has grown inseparable. But to a small child who has had to endure the unspeakable tragedy of having his or her parents split up, the collateral damage of splitting up two other families to put theirs back together is of no consequence.<br />
<br />
I don't have it in me to tell them that their dream of having me come back to Maine and move back in with Mommy isn't going to happen. I have moved on and, seemingly, moved up. My thoughts of dropping everythng and going back to at least live near them have dissipated; now it's my wife who talks of doing this, as she worries (with good reason) about the effects on her daughter of not living near her beloved stepsister. She talks of us moving there, making a simple court filing, and Presto...I would have joint custody of my kids, and they'd live with us 50% of the time. I tell her that it's not so simple, that doing so would involve a nasty, expensive, and possibly even unsuccessful court battle, a battle that I am in no way capable of fighting right now.<br />
<br />
So the clock ticks on, and in two weeks I will be sitting here on my computer on another Sunday night, pounding out my despair and emptiness into my next entry, pondering the good times that I had with my kids over the preceding six weeks, but lamenting the emptiness of the 46 weeks that follow. I know it's coming, and I'm steeling myself for it by staying up late writing this entry while drinking wine and blasting a long-lost favorite record ("Gish" by the Smashing Pumpkins).<br />
<br />
I'm preparing to have many more nights like this over the next 12 years, if not longer. But I am no longer afraid to let myself daydream about the possibility of my kids living under my roof, whether due to their mother's poor judgment, a future tragedy, or even their own choice at an older age. I love them. They love me. They don't need their mother any more than they need me, and now they know it. If I have to suffer through the rest of their childhoods as the Frequent Father, then I will, but I'm finally ready to embrace the idea of being their primary parent.The Frequent Fatherhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01872119459142274133noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6914888935949217155.post-85865159508237619062012-06-13T15:14:00.001-07:002012-08-26T05:57:45.441-07:0069,000-72,000 Miles<em>I started this post six weeks ago with the odometer at 69,000 miles.</em><br />
<br />
"Mentsch tracht, Gott lacht," said my 93-year old grandmother to me no fewer than five times yesterday. While her short-term memory loss causes her to forget what she just said moments earlier, her mind is still there, and her Old World wisdom survives. The saying translates as "Man plans, God laughs," and she kept repeating it as we sat in Room 4D23 of Shady Grove Hospital while my dying father lay sleeping in bed a few feet away.<br />
<br />
It is the saddest thing I've ever witnessed to see my own father, lying motionless with an IV plug in his arm, oxygen tubes in his nose, a catheter bag hanging from the bedside, and, as of yesterday, a feeding tube in his stomach. I studied him, his eyes opening and closing, and wondered what motivates him to keep breathing. Is he hopeful that all of the tubes will be removed and he will stand up and walk out of the hospital? I hope not, because that's not going to happen. The bacterial infection that sent him to the hospital 10 days ago is gone now, but his body was so weakened by its effects that he can't swallow, sit up, move his arms or legs, or even talk. Even if he does regain his strength, the wasting disease that has already stolen his old age has been advancing and was likely going to kill him off by the end of the year remains, meaning that he'll have to spend many weeks in a rehab center just to re-learn all of the basic motor skills that his body has forgotten.<br />
<br />
Last night, after my mom and grandmother left, I spent a couple of hours alone at the hospital with my dad. He would try to speak, then stop, then close his eyes, then, open them to look at me, then try to speak again, then drift off again, and so forth. Every time his eyes shut I felt myself hoping that they would not again open, that he would not have to go on suffering as a prisoner in his own body.<br />
<br />
<em>That's as far as I got that night. I was exhausted and had to get to sleep to go to work in the morning. I'll pick up the story here.</em><br />
<br />
My dad died two weeks later. The last 14 days of his life passed exactly as I hoped they wouldn't, with him in and out of consciousness, his fever up and down, his breathing uneven, his speech all but nonexistent. I spent endless hours by his bedside, first at Shady Grove Hospital and then, at the very end, after the community hospital had finally thrown up its hands, in the care of the best doctors available at Georgetown University Hospital. He was brave through it all, facing his untimely death at 68 years old with grace and without fear. I won't say any more about it now, as there will have to be a whole post on another day about the complex emotions of saying a long goodbye to a deeply flawed but ultimately decent man with whom I never really developed a true father-son relationship.<br />
<br />
The intervening six weeks have been a time of constant motion, transition, and upheaval that have left me on the first steps along a new path, but unsure of where the path will lead and even less sure of how I will find the strength to continue walking. In that time I have traveled to and from Atlanta twice, once to pack and once to drive the moving truck, and to and from Maine to be present for my daughter's first dance recital. In just ten more days I will travel back to Maine to retrieve my kids for my six-week summer visitation--their first extended time in my world since I left their home three years ago.<br />
<br />
And so I find myself here in a new life, a life I'm just learning how to live. My wife, stepdaughter and I are living in a rented townhouse in Northern Virginia, 20 miles from where I grew up, but a world apart from it. I'm commuting to a mostly meaningless job in which I'm running a small nonprofit agency and drawing a respectable paycheck while knowing fully well that this job is just my audition for another job that won't necessarily be in the same city. I am, as my father pointed out at the end of his life, now the de facto head of the family, since my mother will defer to me and my brother simply doesn't care. So now at 38 I am the breadwinner, the wise man, the head of the household, and the boss, but my children still live 500 miles away, making all of the above somehow feel empty.<br />
<br />
While I am aware that the six weeks I'm about to get with my children will at least temporarily plug the leaks in my psyche, I have no reason to believe that this brief chunk of the year will in any way compensate for all that I have already lost and continue to lose from my decision to live in Maine and have a family with their mother. I know we will do a lot of great things and create a veritable photo album of lasting memories, but they won't call my house their home and they'll talk about their family and mean their mother and her louse of a husband, and they'll go back to Maine and resume the lives that will be waiting there for them. Then for the next 10.5 months the cycle will repeat, and I'll fill up more blog posts with tales of sadness, emptiness, loss, regret, anger, frustration and, on rare occasions, poignancy and humor. Then they'll come back for another six weeks and the whole process will repeat itself for another 12 years and then their childhoods will be over and I will have missed out of them.<br />
<br />
Thinking about the crushing weight of the responsibility of being a father under these circumstances has nudged me ever closer to the point of giving up. I've come to realize that the only times I've been truly happy over the past three years have been when: 1) I'm with my whole family (wife, kids, stepdaughter), or 2) I'm deeply involved in something else so that I don't think about my kids. Since I'm not going to ever get Scenario 1 full-time--barring a tragedy and/or a miracle--I have to exist in Scenario 2 as often as possible in order to soldier on. By that logic, wouldn't my life be better if I just cut ties with my kids and moved on? Sure I'd be upset, but I could treat it like a death, and train myself to live life without them in it. I have all but convinced myself that burying my children would be easier than continuing to be the Frequent Father.<br />
<br />
My wife has told me that she understands why I'm feeling this way but that I love them too much to actually walk away from my children. I don't know if she is right or not, but I also don't know how I'm going to find the strength to keep on living this way for another 13 years. I guess I will just dive into the six weeks that I've got them and then do my best to figure out what it all means after they've gone.The Frequent Fatherhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01872119459142274133noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6914888935949217155.post-13331449996649516352012-04-08T13:35:00.005-07:002012-04-08T14:08:57.239-07:0068,000 MilesMy son turned 8 two weeks ago, and I was there in Maine to be with him, but it's taken me two weeks and more upheaval to be able to sit down and write about it. It was a typically complicated weekend by my standards, as it involved both his birthday and my cousin's wedding in New Jersey the next day. Thus, my miles were on the ground this time--I drove up and back. On the way, my wife and stepdaughter flew up from Atlanta to Manchester on Thursday night, where I picked them up, then we drove on to Maine to collect my kids for half of the weekend. We spent two days in Maine, drove to Connecticut, spent the night there, drove to New Jersey for the wedding on Sunday morning, then I dropped them at Newark Airport and drove back to Maryland.<br /><br />Travel stress aside it was largely a great experience. It was the first time since New Years' that my whole family of choice (me, my kids, wife, stepdaughter) was all together at once, and we had a blast. We went swimming in the hotel pool for the afternoon, and then had dinner at a Japanese hibachi place on Friday night, which was great aside from my 4.5 year old daughter being scared of the flames shooting into the air. On Saturday I did the karate and dance routine for my kids then had a smaller than expected (more on that in a moment) birthday party at Joker's, where the kids got to be kids for a couple of hours. And then it was over, just like that. Poof, and back on the road.<br /><br />The party was the very definition of bittersweet. Back in January I had asked my son to make a list of everyone he wanted to come to the party and then I talked with his mother and told her that I wanted to have one big party for him and that she was welcome to come. She agreed and even said that she would bring the cake. I then made a critical error: I asked her to handle the invitations, as she lives there and would be much more able to distribute them. I'm not exactly sure what happened over the next few weeks, but the end result was that only one of his friends RSVPed and that, a few days before the event, my ex told me that she wasn't coming. I asked her why and she told me that she was doing her own party the day after mine. I've learned my lesson.<br /><br />Now it's been two weeks since I've seen my kids and it will be another two weeks until I see them again, and it's probably been the two worst weeks of my life. My father's illness has gotten worse, and I've become certain that he will be dead soon. Meanwhile, my brother came back with my parents from the wedding so he could be around to help take care of my dad so my mom could fly out to Arizona to retrieve my 93-year old grandmother. It was a very, very long few days with my brother in the house, as he basically won't even talk to me, for reasons that I don't understand. And then my mom returned with my grandmother, who is suffering from short-term memory loss and is nearly blind and deaf, and she wants to die too.<br /><br />By last weekend here was the score: living in a nursing home/hospice, taking care of my invalid father, putting up with my martyr mother, facing a hellacious commute, having no space to myself. My wife did come up for a few days with her daughter and niece for their Spring Break, but it was of little comfort to me. By the time she went back to Atlanta, I had fallen into the deepest depression of my life. I couldn't get out of bed in the morning and only went to work two days last week. I pondered checking myself into a mental hospital but decided against it. I did find a counselor and am again in therapy, and I've resumed taking an antidepressant. But even after all of that the past two days got unbearable. I skipped work on Friday and spent most of the past 48 hours hiding out in the basement watching back episodes of Mad Men on Netflix.<br /><br />Last night I finally decided that I simply needed to get out of there for good. I found a room for rent in a house that's 10 minutes from my office, and I paid for one month and moved in this morning. It's lonely, quiet, and strange here, but at least I'm away from the madness for a while. I don't yet know how long I'm going to stay here, but I've agreed with my wife to at least try this for two weeks to see if it makes it any easier for me to do my job and try to live a decent life. If it's just too much for me then I'm going to quit the job and go back to Atlanta where I'll probably check into some sort of mental health program. If I'm feeling better then we'll rent a place in Virginia and she'll move up in about 6 weeks.<br /><br />It's an unpleasant and frankly scary time for me, and I'm having a hard time saying that I'll even make the most of it. I have spent about 36 hours with my kids in the past two months, and it can't be an accident that I'm feeling the way I am. I wish I could isolate those feelings from all of the job, family, and financial stress that I'm under, as then I could possibly deal with it. I know it's a bit selfish of me to run out on my parents when things are so dire over there, but I feel like I've done all I can do to help them, and if I try to do any more, I'll end up in a mental hospital. People may joke about stuff like that, but it's not funny to me.<br /><br />I have never before seriously contemplated seeking that sort of help, and I'm trying one last, desperate move to avoid it. So here I am in this rented room, a stranger in a strange house, where the smell of death and old age won't haunt me all day, and where I don't have to worry about being stuck in traffic for two hours every afternoon. It's not going to solve my problems, but it has already removed two stresses from my life. I hope it works.The Frequent Fatherhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01872119459142274133noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6914888935949217155.post-47826811548276691492012-03-01T17:14:00.002-08:002012-03-01T17:35:40.157-08:0067,000 MilesI try to be a good example to my kids, as they get plenty of bad examples from their mother. Many months ago, after missing my son's test for his purple belt in karate, I promised him that the next time he tested for a belt I would be there to see it. Well, during my prior visit to Maine, his sensei informed me that the belt test would be taking place in two weeks' time. I freaked out. I mean, I was already here, and had no plane ticket, rental car, or hotel reservation, at surely it would be ungodly expensive to come up that soon. But I wasn't going to miss this--not when I had promised it to my son.<br /><br />Luck was on my side. I had amassed enough real frequent flier miles (frequent father miles aren't redeemable for material rewards) to get a one-way free ticket to Portland, and the other half of the trip was affordable. I got a $15/day rental car and a $45 rate at the Doubletree thanks to William Shatner and his friends at Priceline. So I did get to see the belt test, and I can't express how happy and proud I was to be there in person. Again, living this way makes something that most parents just take for granted into a major accomplishment.<br /><br />Unfortunately for my son, his mother again set a poor example. When I found out that the test was on, I called my ex brother-in-law to tell him, as my ex-wife only occasionally speaks to him, but I knew he wanted to be there. Well, word got around that he knew about it and she was furious at him for committing the cardinal sin of talking to me (i.e., the enemy). So instead of coming to support her son, she once again put her petty personal needs first, and decided to skip the belt test to spite her brother. This all just reinforced for me why I had to be there.<br /><br />The downside of this visit was that it forced me to wait six weeks for my next visit, which is the outer limit of my usual spacing. I already had plans to come back to Maine in late March for my son's 8th birthday--which will be a whole 'nother saga--so after this early February visit, there wasn't going to be time or money for another trip in between. This long stretch of time between visits, which is only halfway done, is, as it usually does, ripping me to shreds. I found myself cruising Craigslist this evening to see what menial, low-paying jobs might be available for me in Maine, actually letting myself consider the possibility of leaving my good paying, professional gig in Virginia for something like that. It's not a good habit.<br /><br />Meanwhile my current wife and I have done four months in our latest chapter of long-distance relationships. Since we got back together 30 months ago, we have lived in the same place for 16 months and lived in different places for 14 months. By the time she moves up to Virginia in two more months it will be evenly split at 16-16. I try to remind myself of this, because we have been fighting quite a bit over the past few weeks. Things are so stressful right now that I am having a hard time picturing a time when everything will calm down, and we'll actually get to unpack our boxes in a home that we will share with each other, her daughter and--at least for the summer--my two kids. I have said some terrible things to her out of frustration and have a rough time controlling my temper. I'm going to Atlanta for the weekend to visit her daughter and her (I guess that makes me the Frequent Stepfather) and am hopeful that actually being in the same house for two days will take some of the pressure out of the balloon.<br /><br />At the end of the month we'll all converge on Maine for the weekend to celebrate my son's birthday together. Three months later the five of us will all be together for the summer in the same place, hopefully enjoying a great few weeks as---dare I say it?--a family. Just writing those words and thinking about how it will be has lowered the pressure gauge a bit. I don't know if having a sustained period of time together in the summer will sustain me better throughout the rest of the year or not, but I have to believe that it might.The Frequent Fatherhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01872119459142274133noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6914888935949217155.post-6947853449432625622012-01-30T17:46:00.000-08:002012-01-30T18:42:01.314-08:0066,000 MilesI'm back from a slightly elongated weekend with my kids in Maine. I got in late Friday night, picked them up from my son's karate class early Saturday morning as usual, and stayed through this morning to attend a conference at his school (more on that later). There was nothing special about the weekend--it's just routine at this point. Here's a rundown of this, a "typical" weekend spent alone with my kids.<br /><br />FRIDAY<br />10:30pm Arrive in Portland<br />11:15pm Arrive at motel<br /><br />SATURDAY<br />8:00am Karate (the boy)<br />9:00am Dunkin' Donuts break<br />10:00am Dance (the girl)<br />11:30am Lunch--hot dogs and fries<br />1:00pm Swim at indoor pool at hotel<br />3:30pm Showers and baths<br />4:00pm Kids jumping on the bed while I try to rest<br />4:30pm Computer games (boy) and Cartoon Network (girl)<br />5:30pm Dinner at Japanese/Chinese restaurant (my son loves sushi!)<br />7:00pm Watch Netflix movie on my computer<br />8:30pm Bedtime<br /><br />SUNDAY<br />6:00am Boy wakes up and goes straight to computer<br />7:00am Girl wakes up and goes straight to TV<br />7:30am Breakfast in hotel<br />8:00am Boy plays with Rubik's Cube, girl makes me a bead necklace<br />9:00am Swim at indoor pool<br />11:00am Showers and baths<br />12:00pm Peanut butter sandwiches and cupcakes at Portland Market House<br />1:30pm Childrens' Museum of Maine (their idea...I was going to take them to the movies)<br />5:00pm Carry sleeping girl up to hotel room, boy reads Super Diaper Baby 2 book<br />6:00pm Take girl back to Mom's house (I wanted a boys' night)<br />6:00pm-6:20pm Girl complains about wanting Mommy, boy tells her that she's on her way there (good for him!)<br />6:20pm I make girl hug me while still in car before she runs off to Mom<br />6:30pm Different Japanese restaurant with boy (he demanded sushi again)<br />7:30pm Semi-successful attempt at serious conversation with boy<br />7:35pm More computer games<br />8:30pm Bedtime<br /><br />MONDAY<br />6:00am Boy wakes up and goes straight to computer<br />6:15am I grudgingly wake up and take a quick shower<br />6:25am Pack up things from around the room<br />6:30am I break the zipper on boy's backpack trying to cram it shut<br />6:31am Boy has meltdown about broken zipper<br />6:32am I try to tell him that it's OK and promise him that I'll buy him a new backpack if I can't fix it<br />6:40am Breakfast in hotel<br />7:05am I manage to fix the zipper well enough for him to use the backpack<br />7:20am Leave to drop boy at school<br />7:45am Drop him at school and resist temptation to hug him in front of other kids<br />7:50am Coffee break<br />8:30am Conference with Vice Principal, Special Ed teachers and his teacher confirming that he doesnt need special ed, just extra accommodations in class for his Asperger's related behavior<br />9:30am Leave school<br />10:00am Return to airport in Portland<br /><br />Some might say that I packed more of the good, quality time that a father should be spending with his children over the course of several weeks into 48 hours, and that I should be proud of myself for being such a devoted father. Perhaps, but my underlying emotion throughout the whole process is a slowly simmering anger at the fact that I have to live like this.<br /><br />I wish I had the luxury to go about my business in my own home while blithely ignoring my children while they go about their business. That just isn't possible when we haven't seen each other for several weeks and then are shoehorned into a hotel room for a weekend. I can't just tell them that I want to read a book or that I've got chores to do. From their perspective, I must be off doing those things (or whatever it is that I do when I'm not with them) all the time, and I came all the way to Maine to see them, so they'll have my full attention during the brief time that I'm there. It's very different from when they've been with me at my approximiations of "home" in Maryland and Georgia, when there is a whole house to occupy and other people in the vicinity. <br /><br />I have to admit that, in spite of my overwhelming and boundless love for my children, it just feels all wrong spending time with them the way that I just did. It's like we went somewhere on vacation, but the only thing we did on vacation was hang around the hotel and go out for dinner. There were no sights to see, no thrills to be had, and no dear friends to visit--just the three of us with a whole weekend to kill in a place that will forever reek of depression and betrayal to me. I long to whisk them away to some other place far away from Maine and give them that sort of experience, but it's just not possible given the many restrictions on my life. <br /><br />And out of this whole experience, there are three images that stick with me the most, all of which just raise my simmering anger up to a rolling boil. First, my daughter, now almost 4.5, said her first words that indicate some feeling about the divorce other than blind acceptance when she told me, "Daddy, I wish you and mommy were still married to each other." The poor kid had just turned two when her mother threw me overboard--she doesn't even remember that I ever lived with her. She had never before expressed anything of this sort, but now that it's out of the bag, it's clear that no child, no matter how young, escapes from divorce fully intact.<br /><br />Second, in my attempt to have a serious conversation with my nearly eight-year old son, he told me with complete earnestness (that's his only mode) "I want to tell someone in Maine that you need a job here so they can hire you and you can come back." It just took that one sentence for me to recognize that, while he no longer complains about me being away like he did two years ago, he would be much happier if he could see me all the time. I can't describe what an awful feeling I got from hearing those words, however sweet his intentions may have been.<br /><br />Finally, there's the image of my ex-wife sitting next to me in the school conference room, looking worn and world-weary, faking her way through acting like a responsible parent in front of a room full of people who are keenly aware that she is a complete psychopath. I have to believe at this point that I will truly never, ever fully get over what I let her do to me. She may be poor, miserable, and devoid of friends or close family relationships, but she still continues to possess the only thing in the world that truly has any value to me: my children.<br /><br />And now I've dumped all of this poison out of me. But I'll be going back for more next month, and countless more times for years to come, because the alternative is just unthinkable. I know that all good parents make sacrifices, but it burns me up that I have to sacrifice so much just to be able to enjoy a typical weekend with my own children.The Frequent Fatherhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01872119459142274133noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6914888935949217155.post-76246842570369836552012-01-21T08:31:00.001-08:002012-01-21T09:05:18.107-08:0065,000 Miles, holding patternI have nothing profound to say right now, but I have to say something, so I'll let Paul Simon say it for me.<br /><br />"And I know a father<br />Who had a son<br />He longed to tell him all the reasons<br />For the things he'd done.<br />He came a long way<br />Just to explain<br />He kissed his boy as he lay sleeping<br />Then he turned around and headed home again.<br />He slip slided.<br />Slip slidin' away.<br />You know the nearer your destination<br />The more you're slip slidin' away."<br /><br />In my course of making sure that I had gotten that lyric correct, I discovered that there was a "missing" verse from one of Mr. Simon's greatest songs, The Boxer. Somehow this fits today:<br /><br />"Now the years are rolling by me<br />They are rockin' evenly<br />I am older than I once was<br />And younger than I'll be and that's not unusual.<br />No it isn't strange<br />After changes upon changes<br />We are more or less the same<br />After changes we are more or less the same."<br /><br />The point is that I'm still me. After all I've been through, I'm still the 15 year old kid went walking in the desert outside of Tucson, Arizona singing Doors songs to myself and dreaming about designing home for myself in the foothills of the Santa Catalina mountains. I still want to spend my Saturdays playing basketball all day long until I drop. I still expect mystery and opportunity around every corner, and know for certain that life will be an adventure once I leave my hometown and never look back. I still want to use my intelligence, energy, and sense of humor to make a fun and rewarding life for myself. I still want to be the best dad ever, laughing and smiling with my children each day.<br /><br />So how is it that I'm sitting here at age 38 in my parents' basement with the two loves of my life, my kids, hundreds of miles away, and my wife hundreds of miles away in the other direction, with a job that, in spite of its promise, is depressing because I know it's my only ticket out of a lifetime of struggles, and no hope of ever having even any semblance at all of the life I wanted? I know that few people truly realize their dreams, but I never thought that I'd this dead end at such a young age, when it has already become clear to me that my joys in this world will be small ones, restricted to isolated moments when I can allow myself to forget about my failures.<br /><br />Will I ever get the chance to explain myself to my children? If I do, will I just kiss them on their foreheads while they're asleep and walk away? Perhaps that's enough for them. Perhaps they really do know how much I love them and how sick I am that my life has become what it is. Perhaps they understand that it was their mother who pushed me out the door and created conditions under which I had no choice but to leave their little town to get my life back in order.<br /><br />Either way, it's little comfort to me. After changes I am more or less the same, and the person that I am at my core is sick and disgusted of this life I'm living and completely at a loss about how to improve it. I'm resuming couseling this week, but I am already certain that the fifth person I'm seeing is going to do any more than the first four did, which is to tell me "wow, that's a tough situation," and "you have to fake it 'til you make it." <br /><br />Cue Mr. Simon:<br /><br />"I know I'm fakin' it<br />I'm not really makin' it<br />This feeling of fakin' it-<br />I still haven't shaken it."The Frequent Fatherhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01872119459142274133noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6914888935949217155.post-68297716490330464492012-01-05T16:59:00.000-08:002012-01-05T17:28:37.938-08:0065,000 Miles (approximately)I'm guessing that it's been 6,000 miles since the last entry, but I've been on so many trips that I don't care to calculate it, so I'm estimating. I drove up to the DC area to move for my job. I went to Long Island for a wedding. I flew up to Maine for a weekend with my kids. I went down to Atlanta for a weekend with my wife. I flew up to Maine to retrieve my kids, brought them back to Maryland and spent a great week after Christmas with them, then returned them and came back home. In between my wife came to DC for the weekend so we could go house hunting. I probably missed a trip or two, but that's why I'm estimating.<br /><br />Meanwhile...<br /><br />I'm working 5 days a week at a job that is a brutal commuting distance from my parents' house (where I'm staying)--it takes 90 minutes each way unless I leave by 6:15am or return by 3:00pm--and I have to attend frequent nighttime and weekend meetings and events for the job.<br /><br />My almost 8 year-old son has been diagnosed with Asperger's disorder and is having uncontrollable fits about not being able to stop wetting the bed.<br /><br />My 4 year-old daughter won't ever talk on the phone to me, although I take some heart in that she won't talk to her mother on the phone when she's with me.<br /><br />My ex-wife got married to the alcoholic bastard who drove drunk with my child in his car.<br /><br />I have seen listings for two good jobs in Maine that would pay well and allow me to be near my kids, but I have not applied. On the one hand I was miserable up there and have no desire to go back. On the other hand I have told my kids a million times that the only reason I left was because I needed to find a job. I feel like a liar and a horrible person for not jumping on these jobs, but I just really don't want to go in reverse like that.<br /><br />My father has been diagnosed with an aggressive terminal illness and probably won't live another year. It's nice to be with my parents, but it's heartbreaking watching him fade away before my eyes. It's also terrible that my mother, who just retired two years ago, is now stuck being the full-time caregiver for him, as he can't dress, shower, go on stairs or even eat without help anymore.<br /><br />I am so tired and overwhelmed by life that I can't even motivate myself to do simple things like read a book, exercise, or make plans with friends. Most nights I just come home from work, eat too much food (my mom loves to overstuff me), collapse on the couch, and maybe talk to my wife on the phone, and then go to bed and do it all again.<br /><br /><br /><div align="center">* * *</div><br />I try to tell myself that much of this is temporary. My wife and stepdaugher are still on course to move here in May, and we've determined that we can afford a nice three-bedroom townhouse in a good school district that will drop my commute to 20 minutes. My kids will be there with us in our new home for 6 weeks next summer. My dad will probably be gone and my mother will get her life back, and will even be able to watch the kids for us. I'm getting my career back on track--my job is going well, and I am certain that it can lead me to better things. My kids are growing up and I won't feel as horrible about going slightly longer stretches without seeing them. Eventually they'll be able to fly on airplanes without me, which will make it far easier to get them to where I am. <br /><br />But I still can't get my need to be with my kids out of my system. Every day they were here last week was a joy for me, albeit a joy tempered by being exhausted. It was particularly great when my wife and stepdaughter came up for three days, which was the first time since August that we had all been together. By day two the girls were wearing their matching princess dresses and calling each other "sis." I'm flying up to see my kids in Maine at the end of the month, and will go again for my son's birthday in March. I may even go in February for a long weekend.<br /><br />The point is, as expensive and difficult as it may be to go there so much, I can't justify not going there. I've got the money now, as I am earning a good salary and saving a lot by living with my parents. I've got the time, as I am mostly bored when I'm here on weekends by myself. And the flights are much shorter and less expensive than they were from Atlanta. I've also gotten over the fear of "what are we going to do?" when I go up there. It's still exhausting being cooped up in a hotel room with them, but they've gotten used to the routine and we always find ways to fill up the time. The best part is that they don't, as they did when I first became The Frequent Father, ask to go back to Mommy's house after a few hours in a hotel. They seem to have gotten used to the idea that this is how things are, and they seem to be OK with it.<br /><br /><div align="center"><br />* * *<br /></div>When I started writing this post 25 minutes ago I felt like crap. Now I feel much better. I know that I have to write more often. It's all about the release.The Frequent Fatherhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01872119459142274133noreply@blogger.com0