Another 1,000 miles have been added to the frequentfatherometer, and it seemed like just another routine three-day weekend. My wife and stepdaughter came along this time, so it was five of us crammed into a hotel room, enjoying the free buffet, the indoor pool, running around on the beach in spite of the cold weather, and even a jaunt down to Boston for the afternoon. It was, as always, wonderful to have some time with my kids, but sad to say goodbye to them for a while. The difference this time was the thing in the air, the thing we can't discuss, the specter that is haunting everyone.
The custody case.
It's been 2.5 weeks since the prior hearing, and it will be another 2.5 weeks until the next (and hopefully final) one. I have hit new lows emotionally and mentally during this period, often unable to work, think, speak, or be around other people. My nightly phone calls with my kids have been a burden, as I am so depressed I can barely converse with them. In short, I am paralyzed by the way things are, and am absolutely frightened at the prospect of being told "no thanks" by the judge.
I am trying my best not to think about that potential outcome, but I can't. I know it is very possible that the court will conclude that removing the alcoholic from the home will take care of the problem, and then give my ex one more chance to prove that she can be a responsible parent. It's equally possible that the judge will conclude that she needs to know more about me and my lifestyle before transferring custody, which would mean appointing a guardian ad litem who would then spend several months and several thousand dollars investigating my life. That may be the worst outcome of all: more waiting and more money that I don't have.
Being back in Maine for three days was harder than ever. First off, I hate November in Maine--the trees are barren, the sun goes down before 5:00, and the permanent midnight of the Maine winter is beginning to set in. Second, I felt myself feeling like telling my kids what I was doing and why I was doing it, but I know that I can't put them in the middle of this. Finally, and most importantly, I found myself looking around, knowing in my heart that, if the judge says they have to stay where they are, I will have no choice but to come back to this place, where everything reminds me of failure, of the nine years of my life that I wasted there, of the stupid decisions that led me there.
In 16 days I will be back in the courtroom again. I get three hours to prove to this judge that my kids need to be with me. Those three hours will, for better or worse, permanently alter the course of my life and my kids' lives. As much as I want that day to come, I dread it as well. Either way, it is going to be a momentous day, one that will replay in my mind for the rest of my life. I am in no way ready for it, but really, how could I be?
Showing posts with label visitation. Show all posts
Showing posts with label visitation. Show all posts
Wednesday, November 20, 2013
Wednesday, August 7, 2013
88,000 Miles
This summer put a lot of miles on the frequentfatherometer, which I'll get to. I only got five weeks this year, not by choice, but due to my ex-wife's unique combination of dishonesty and inflexibility. The divorce judgment grants me visitation "beginning one week after the end of the school year and ending on the first Saturday in August." Last year that was six weeks. I wasn't so lucky this year.
This year, the school calendar showed that school would end on a Wednesday in June, so I asked if I could get them on the following Sunday, but my ex refused, saying "that's not a week...you can wait until the following Wednesday." Of course she knows that I can't come to get them in the middle of the week, so I made plans to get them 10 days later, on the ensuing Saturday. Well imagine my surprise when, three weeks before the school year ends, my son tells me on the phone that school would be ending two days early, on a Monday, as there were two fewer snow days than expected (global warming again?) I then asked my ex if I could get them on the following Sunday, since that was six days after school ended, and she breezily refused, saying I could come on Monday. Well, I suppose I could have done that, but I am new at my job and can't just blow off days, so I gritted my teeth and kept to the plan.
So five weeks it was, but being the Frequent Father, I had to pack everything into that amount of time. The rundown:
Fly to Maine to get kids
Fly to Atlanta for July 4th week with my wife's family, gamely attempt to work while a hired babysitter watches six kids upstairs.
Drive back to Virginia, put the kids in day camp for three weeks, try to work, but leave early every day so as to not miss out on any fun with the kids. Go swimming nearly every night, and take lots of fun field trips on weekends.
Fly to Orlando for a week at Disney World, the first time my kids have been there, and hopefully fill them with a desire to see the real world, the one beyond their mother's bubble.
Fly back to Maine, arriving at their mother's house at midnight, because she didn't want to pick them up at the airport, citing her fear of driving at night.
Take the first flight home in the morning after three hours of sleep, and feel jet-lagged in spite of never leaving Eastern Daylight Time.
And then...what? My credit card bill just came, with the tab for all of this fun now coming due. I consider it the price of getting on with my life. If I had stayed in Maine, I'd be making half (or less) of what I'm making in Virginia. I have calculated that the Frequent Father lifestyle costs roughly one-third of the difference, leaving me the rest to have a nice home for my kids--as opposed to the two-room divorce apartment I had in Maine--and to save for their future. The financial side is under control.
It's everything else that has me up early in the morning to spill more virtual ink. I worry about the world of insulation and isolation that my ex has constructed around my children, a world in which they go to third-world schools that can't give them what they need, never go more than five miles from home, never have playdates, never have excitement, and never get to see anything new. I worry about my ex's psychotic quest to breastfeed my daughter until she hits puberty (made far worse by the fact that she obviously pumped every day over the past five weeks to keep the flow going...that's just unfathomable). Most of all, I worry about the stinking drunk SOB who still lives with them, and what he's going to do someday when he's in a bad mood.
As for me, the odometer keeps rising, but I'm not sure if I'm getting anywhere. On paper, I should be content. Four years ago I was stuck in a backward small town with a dead-end career, few friends, and a bad marriage to a controlling tyrant. Now I am living in a big city, with a great job, a nice home, a bright future, and married to my long-lost love. Two and a half years ago, in the depths of my depression, I made a list of things I want to change in my life before turning 40. Well, I turn 40 this coming weekend, and it turns out that I've accomplished most of those changes. But so long as my kids live 500 miles away under the iron fist of their demented mother, I'll always struggle to move forward. No matter how many miles I travel in the right direction, this way of life will always cause me to spin my wheels.
Nevertheless, I guess another year of Frequent Father adventures awaits. As with each year before, I will hope and pray that this is the last year of living this way, that next year my kids will be unpacking their suitcases and decorating their rooms in Daddy's house, getting ready for the school year. I know it's not healthy to have such thoughts, but I can't help it. Well, there's no point to it anyhow, so all I can do is prepare myself for the long year and the thousands of miles ahead.
This year, the school calendar showed that school would end on a Wednesday in June, so I asked if I could get them on the following Sunday, but my ex refused, saying "that's not a week...you can wait until the following Wednesday." Of course she knows that I can't come to get them in the middle of the week, so I made plans to get them 10 days later, on the ensuing Saturday. Well imagine my surprise when, three weeks before the school year ends, my son tells me on the phone that school would be ending two days early, on a Monday, as there were two fewer snow days than expected (global warming again?) I then asked my ex if I could get them on the following Sunday, since that was six days after school ended, and she breezily refused, saying I could come on Monday. Well, I suppose I could have done that, but I am new at my job and can't just blow off days, so I gritted my teeth and kept to the plan.
So five weeks it was, but being the Frequent Father, I had to pack everything into that amount of time. The rundown:
Fly to Maine to get kids
Fly to Atlanta for July 4th week with my wife's family, gamely attempt to work while a hired babysitter watches six kids upstairs.
Drive back to Virginia, put the kids in day camp for three weeks, try to work, but leave early every day so as to not miss out on any fun with the kids. Go swimming nearly every night, and take lots of fun field trips on weekends.
Fly to Orlando for a week at Disney World, the first time my kids have been there, and hopefully fill them with a desire to see the real world, the one beyond their mother's bubble.
Fly back to Maine, arriving at their mother's house at midnight, because she didn't want to pick them up at the airport, citing her fear of driving at night.
Take the first flight home in the morning after three hours of sleep, and feel jet-lagged in spite of never leaving Eastern Daylight Time.
And then...what? My credit card bill just came, with the tab for all of this fun now coming due. I consider it the price of getting on with my life. If I had stayed in Maine, I'd be making half (or less) of what I'm making in Virginia. I have calculated that the Frequent Father lifestyle costs roughly one-third of the difference, leaving me the rest to have a nice home for my kids--as opposed to the two-room divorce apartment I had in Maine--and to save for their future. The financial side is under control.
It's everything else that has me up early in the morning to spill more virtual ink. I worry about the world of insulation and isolation that my ex has constructed around my children, a world in which they go to third-world schools that can't give them what they need, never go more than five miles from home, never have playdates, never have excitement, and never get to see anything new. I worry about my ex's psychotic quest to breastfeed my daughter until she hits puberty (made far worse by the fact that she obviously pumped every day over the past five weeks to keep the flow going...that's just unfathomable). Most of all, I worry about the stinking drunk SOB who still lives with them, and what he's going to do someday when he's in a bad mood.
As for me, the odometer keeps rising, but I'm not sure if I'm getting anywhere. On paper, I should be content. Four years ago I was stuck in a backward small town with a dead-end career, few friends, and a bad marriage to a controlling tyrant. Now I am living in a big city, with a great job, a nice home, a bright future, and married to my long-lost love. Two and a half years ago, in the depths of my depression, I made a list of things I want to change in my life before turning 40. Well, I turn 40 this coming weekend, and it turns out that I've accomplished most of those changes. But so long as my kids live 500 miles away under the iron fist of their demented mother, I'll always struggle to move forward. No matter how many miles I travel in the right direction, this way of life will always cause me to spin my wheels.
Nevertheless, I guess another year of Frequent Father adventures awaits. As with each year before, I will hope and pray that this is the last year of living this way, that next year my kids will be unpacking their suitcases and decorating their rooms in Daddy's house, getting ready for the school year. I know it's not healthy to have such thoughts, but I can't help it. Well, there's no point to it anyhow, so all I can do is prepare myself for the long year and the thousands of miles ahead.
Saturday, January 26, 2013
80,000 Miles
I have sat down at my computer so many times over the past four months with the intention of writing my next blog post but it has (quite obviously) never happened. In the meantime there was a long weekend in Maine, Thanksgiving in Atlanta, and New Years' in Virginia, totalling 6,000 FFMs, an awful lot of money spent, and a treasure trove of good times and sweet memories.
Now that I am entering the fourth year of being a non-custodial parent I am finally starting to pick up on the rhythms of life that the visitation schedule forces upon me. The summer is great, of course, with the kids basically living with me for an extended period. The fall is not too bad, as the memories of the summer are still fresh, and the gap between longer visits is relatively short. But, come January, with winter weather all around and the next long visitation nearly six months away, the mood drops instantly.
From now until school gets out in late June, I will have four weekend visits to Maine, each of which has taken on its own tradition. February will be a long weekend for Presidents' Day spent mostly at the indoor pool at the Howard Johnson's. March is the shared birthday weekend for my son and my wife, and we will go to the Japanese hibachi place for dinner and have a fun getaway party--this time at an indoor waterpark in New Hampshire. Late April is a springtime weekend, with a lot of time spent at playgrounds. Early June is a beach weekend spent at the Ocean House in Old Orchard Beach and always involving going to the rides at Palace Playland.
In between those good times are gaps of four to six weeks when I become just a voice at the other end of the phone to my kids. I have maintained my commitment to my son to call every single night. My ex-wife has made it clear that she doesn't like that I call every single night--she sent me an email saying that it takes away from her "fun time" with the kids, and she has flat out told the kids that she wishes I didn't call so much. It's just more evidence of her selfishness, her lack of understanding of my connection to our kids, and her absolute disregard for how badmouthing me might affect the kids.
While the distance and separation aren't quite as hard in year 4 as in years 1, 2, or 3, there are times that it feels overwhelming, particularly when my kids are having a hard time and I can't be there for them. My son has had ongoing conflicts with a couple of kids at his aftercare, which is basically a function of his Asperger's-related inability to regulate his emotions and impulses. I have pushed for three years to have him see a counselor who can work with him, but my ex hasn't agreed. I have been working through his school to try to get them to provide him with such services but they have used every excuse and dodge known to man to avoid this responsibility. Last week, I finally got the school to consent to set him up with a counselor from a local nonprofit social services agency, but his mother is again resisting. She apparently thinks (incorrectly) that this agency only works with juvenile delinquents and she (incorrectly) fears that he is going to be taken out of school and sent to some sort of detention center.
I will still never understand what exactly goes on in her head that tells her that our son's obvious emotional issues do not exist. I know she is herself mentally ill, but for godsakes, aren't there parental instincts that take over at some point? I am confident that I can successfully work with the school and get her (under threat of court action perhaps) to consent to getting our child the help he so clearly needs.
Meanwhile, in Frequent Father land, I have at long last gotten the great job I have been chasing for more than 10 years. I am now working as a researcher for a major public university, doing really fun work and earning a good salary. I have still not gotten my arms around the fact that, for the first time since before I married my first wife, I don't have to fret over my career or my professional future. It is, in a way, a similar feeling to what I experienced after my divorce. When you spend year after year in an unpleasant situation, you develop both a hard shell and the defensive mechanisms needed to keep the shell intact.
I have mostly overcome my personal Stockholm Syndrome, thanks in large part to the love and support of my second wife. We've been married for nearly three years now, but I feel like I was a ghost for most of that time, either physically living away from her or being so preoccupied with my personal and professional demons that I didn't pay much attention to her. For all of this time I have kept my head down, operating under the creed: "when you're going through hell, keep going."
Well now, I suppose, I am no longer going through hell. I have crawled my way out of the sewer pipe and am standing in the sunlight on the other end. I no longer need to look straight ahead and imagine a future that will have to be better than the unpleasant present. As much as it's possible as a long distance parent, I have reached the other side. I have a great job, a great marriage, a happy home, a stepdaugher who calls me "Daddy" more often than not, and, yes, two kids who love and need me no matter where I live. I'll be going to see them in two weeks, and then again and again and again. Before I know it summer will be here and my kids will be in my home for six weeks, thus beginning another annual cycle.
Now that I am entering the fourth year of being a non-custodial parent I am finally starting to pick up on the rhythms of life that the visitation schedule forces upon me. The summer is great, of course, with the kids basically living with me for an extended period. The fall is not too bad, as the memories of the summer are still fresh, and the gap between longer visits is relatively short. But, come January, with winter weather all around and the next long visitation nearly six months away, the mood drops instantly.
From now until school gets out in late June, I will have four weekend visits to Maine, each of which has taken on its own tradition. February will be a long weekend for Presidents' Day spent mostly at the indoor pool at the Howard Johnson's. March is the shared birthday weekend for my son and my wife, and we will go to the Japanese hibachi place for dinner and have a fun getaway party--this time at an indoor waterpark in New Hampshire. Late April is a springtime weekend, with a lot of time spent at playgrounds. Early June is a beach weekend spent at the Ocean House in Old Orchard Beach and always involving going to the rides at Palace Playland.
In between those good times are gaps of four to six weeks when I become just a voice at the other end of the phone to my kids. I have maintained my commitment to my son to call every single night. My ex-wife has made it clear that she doesn't like that I call every single night--she sent me an email saying that it takes away from her "fun time" with the kids, and she has flat out told the kids that she wishes I didn't call so much. It's just more evidence of her selfishness, her lack of understanding of my connection to our kids, and her absolute disregard for how badmouthing me might affect the kids.
While the distance and separation aren't quite as hard in year 4 as in years 1, 2, or 3, there are times that it feels overwhelming, particularly when my kids are having a hard time and I can't be there for them. My son has had ongoing conflicts with a couple of kids at his aftercare, which is basically a function of his Asperger's-related inability to regulate his emotions and impulses. I have pushed for three years to have him see a counselor who can work with him, but my ex hasn't agreed. I have been working through his school to try to get them to provide him with such services but they have used every excuse and dodge known to man to avoid this responsibility. Last week, I finally got the school to consent to set him up with a counselor from a local nonprofit social services agency, but his mother is again resisting. She apparently thinks (incorrectly) that this agency only works with juvenile delinquents and she (incorrectly) fears that he is going to be taken out of school and sent to some sort of detention center.
I will still never understand what exactly goes on in her head that tells her that our son's obvious emotional issues do not exist. I know she is herself mentally ill, but for godsakes, aren't there parental instincts that take over at some point? I am confident that I can successfully work with the school and get her (under threat of court action perhaps) to consent to getting our child the help he so clearly needs.
Meanwhile, in Frequent Father land, I have at long last gotten the great job I have been chasing for more than 10 years. I am now working as a researcher for a major public university, doing really fun work and earning a good salary. I have still not gotten my arms around the fact that, for the first time since before I married my first wife, I don't have to fret over my career or my professional future. It is, in a way, a similar feeling to what I experienced after my divorce. When you spend year after year in an unpleasant situation, you develop both a hard shell and the defensive mechanisms needed to keep the shell intact.
I have mostly overcome my personal Stockholm Syndrome, thanks in large part to the love and support of my second wife. We've been married for nearly three years now, but I feel like I was a ghost for most of that time, either physically living away from her or being so preoccupied with my personal and professional demons that I didn't pay much attention to her. For all of this time I have kept my head down, operating under the creed: "when you're going through hell, keep going."
Well now, I suppose, I am no longer going through hell. I have crawled my way out of the sewer pipe and am standing in the sunlight on the other end. I no longer need to look straight ahead and imagine a future that will have to be better than the unpleasant present. As much as it's possible as a long distance parent, I have reached the other side. I have a great job, a great marriage, a happy home, a stepdaugher who calls me "Daddy" more often than not, and, yes, two kids who love and need me no matter where I live. I'll be going to see them in two weeks, and then again and again and again. Before I know it summer will be here and my kids will be in my home for six weeks, thus beginning another annual cycle.
Monday, October 17, 2011
59,000 Miles
I don't know if I'll ever write a book based on all of these ramblings, but if I do, I have decided on one of two titles. Over the weekend the famed race car driver Dan Wheldon was tragically killed in a 15-car pileup during a race. At the news conference announcing his death, Mr. Wheldon was said to have perished from "unsurvivable injuries." If/when I do write my tome, I will either call it "Survivable Injuries" or "Unsurvivable Injuries". The exact title will, of course, depend on what happens between now and then.
To bring everything up to date, I voyaged to Maine for a long weekend with my kids over Columbus Day which was tough, as it was the first time since leaving town for good that it had been just me, just them, and a hotel room. Every visit since January had either involved me traveling to Maine with my wife and stepdaughter or me picking them up and taking them to another, better place.
This is not to say I didn't have a great time. The weather was an Inconvenient Truth-ly 80+ degrees (October! Maine! 80 degrees! Call Al Gore!) and we had many memorable moments. Maybe someday I will pen the whole narrative of this weekend, but, in journaling about the trip during the plane ride back "home," it seemed like a more cathartic exercise to spill out random thoughts from the weekend gone by:
The last day of Indian Summer
Where I come from and how that place is gone
Feeling rootless, like I'm living in quicksand
Watching my children struggle and being unable to help them
My daughter's scary fascination with TV commercials
Playing superheroes at the school playground
Watching my son go up (and down) the Hi-Jacker ride at the Fryeburg Fair
Seeing my daughter get on the swing and go by herself
The street sign on the way to the fair that read "Pig Street"
Playing "bedbugs" in the hotel room
Swimming at the YMCA
Sitting on a bench at Deering Oaks Park watching the squirrels together
Riding the Tornado ride at the fair all together
Room 112 at the Extended Stay America
Can being 500 miles away be better than 1,100 miles away?
Who would talk to me for an hour anymore?
Teaching my son about football
My daughter blowing raspberries at me then singing "I'm a Little Scarecrow"
My son leaping from one bed to the other in the hotel room
My kids talking about their "step-family" as if were their own
Needing to feel useful and pining for a better job
Reading this list a week later I feel it does a better job of summing up my feelings than would any contrived narrative. My feelings were (and are) scattered, and the time I spend with my kids is best summarized in this manner. There is no arc to the story. There is no recurring theme. There is just a series of highs and lows. Elation in one moment melts into fear and despair. My fragile heart soars 80 feet up to the top of the Hi-Jacker, then shatters upon impact.
I'll see my kids again in a month or so, again alone in a hotel somewhere near Portland, although I can almost guarantee that it won't be 80 degrees any sunny this time (and if it is, I'm really going to give Mr. Gore a call!) Until then I'm left to stew in my own juices about the life I'm living. I'm sitting here at work, having all the time in the world to write this entry as, after more than three months, I still have virtually nothing to do all day long. Meanwhile, I've been offered a job in the Washington DC area, and have only a few days to decide about it. The job could be great, but I've been keeping myself up nights worrying about whether or not that's really close enough to my kids and being if neither here (Maine) or there (Atlanta) is going to allow my marriage to work. But I don't feel like I have any other options, as there are no better opportunities on the horizon anywhere else.
By the time I write my next post I will have decided whether or not to take the job, in the process probably causing more stress than I can handle. My body has, technically, survived the injuries suffered due to my first marriage and its disastrous end, but I'm having a hard time seeing how my spirit will carry on. No matter where I live (Atlanta, DC, Boston, Maine), I will feel like I'm giving up too much and that my life will always fall short of what I wanted it to be. In that regard I suppose I haven't survived my injuries at all. I'm not living the same life that I was living before the crash, but instead feel like a ghost who is inhabiting the same body but somehow unable to feel the same way. But that's the definitation of survival, isn't it? I've been bloodied and battered, but my body still lives and breathes. I guess I've got my title.
To bring everything up to date, I voyaged to Maine for a long weekend with my kids over Columbus Day which was tough, as it was the first time since leaving town for good that it had been just me, just them, and a hotel room. Every visit since January had either involved me traveling to Maine with my wife and stepdaughter or me picking them up and taking them to another, better place.
This is not to say I didn't have a great time. The weather was an Inconvenient Truth-ly 80+ degrees (October! Maine! 80 degrees! Call Al Gore!) and we had many memorable moments. Maybe someday I will pen the whole narrative of this weekend, but, in journaling about the trip during the plane ride back "home," it seemed like a more cathartic exercise to spill out random thoughts from the weekend gone by:
The last day of Indian Summer
Where I come from and how that place is gone
Feeling rootless, like I'm living in quicksand
Watching my children struggle and being unable to help them
My daughter's scary fascination with TV commercials
Playing superheroes at the school playground
Watching my son go up (and down) the Hi-Jacker ride at the Fryeburg Fair
Seeing my daughter get on the swing and go by herself
The street sign on the way to the fair that read "Pig Street"
Playing "bedbugs" in the hotel room
Swimming at the YMCA
Sitting on a bench at Deering Oaks Park watching the squirrels together
Riding the Tornado ride at the fair all together
Room 112 at the Extended Stay America
Can being 500 miles away be better than 1,100 miles away?
Who would talk to me for an hour anymore?
Teaching my son about football
My daughter blowing raspberries at me then singing "I'm a Little Scarecrow"
My son leaping from one bed to the other in the hotel room
My kids talking about their "step-family" as if were their own
Needing to feel useful and pining for a better job
Reading this list a week later I feel it does a better job of summing up my feelings than would any contrived narrative. My feelings were (and are) scattered, and the time I spend with my kids is best summarized in this manner. There is no arc to the story. There is no recurring theme. There is just a series of highs and lows. Elation in one moment melts into fear and despair. My fragile heart soars 80 feet up to the top of the Hi-Jacker, then shatters upon impact.
I'll see my kids again in a month or so, again alone in a hotel somewhere near Portland, although I can almost guarantee that it won't be 80 degrees any sunny this time (and if it is, I'm really going to give Mr. Gore a call!) Until then I'm left to stew in my own juices about the life I'm living. I'm sitting here at work, having all the time in the world to write this entry as, after more than three months, I still have virtually nothing to do all day long. Meanwhile, I've been offered a job in the Washington DC area, and have only a few days to decide about it. The job could be great, but I've been keeping myself up nights worrying about whether or not that's really close enough to my kids and being if neither here (Maine) or there (Atlanta) is going to allow my marriage to work. But I don't feel like I have any other options, as there are no better opportunities on the horizon anywhere else.
By the time I write my next post I will have decided whether or not to take the job, in the process probably causing more stress than I can handle. My body has, technically, survived the injuries suffered due to my first marriage and its disastrous end, but I'm having a hard time seeing how my spirit will carry on. No matter where I live (Atlanta, DC, Boston, Maine), I will feel like I'm giving up too much and that my life will always fall short of what I wanted it to be. In that regard I suppose I haven't survived my injuries at all. I'm not living the same life that I was living before the crash, but instead feel like a ghost who is inhabiting the same body but somehow unable to feel the same way. But that's the definitation of survival, isn't it? I've been bloodied and battered, but my body still lives and breathes. I guess I've got my title.
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