I am writing this from Amtrak train #66, AKA the redeye train. It left Washington about 45 minutes ago, and we are a few miles north of Baltimore now. I had planned to take advantage of the on-board WiFi to continue my binge-watching of Arrested Development Season 4 (eight down, seven to go), but apparently Amtrak bars users from streaming video sites to conserve bandwidth or some such. It's 11:15 at night, and there are 8 hours and 45 minutes to go before arriving in Boston. I'd like to go to sleep right now, but I need to use my brain for a while, I guess, so here goes.
I've pretty much gotten to and from Maine in every conceivable way. I usually fly, sometimes to Portland, sometimes to Manchester, sometimes to Boston, and even to White Plains, NY once, due to ancillary travel. I've driven. I've taken the Megabus. Now I'm doing the overnight train, which saves a lot of money relative to flying, and eliminates needing a hotel room tonight. We'll see if I actually sleep.
This weekend is, in all likelihood, my daughter's last ever ballet recital. She has, at 5.5 years old, decided that she wants to be a rock star and, as such, has asked for a guitar for her birthday and to stop ballet & tap and instead do hip hop so she can learn the moves. I'll be there smiling and probably crying, which I know is more than many long distance parents get to do. She also has a t-ball game the next morning, followed by a birthday party, and a second ballet performance for which I'll be backstage helping her change.
While the weekend sounds like it's all about her, actually a lot of it is about me getting one-on-one time with my son. We'll have time tomorrow before the recital when my ex is doing the preparations, then more time then next day while my daughter is at her birthday party. The third and final day of the visit will be the only chance to just relax, and it looks like it will be beach weather. Perhaps the cruelest part of my arrangement is that I go to Maine all winter long and then miss the summer, which is the only part worth being there for. This early June trip is the only Maine beach weekend I get.
And then, the summer will be upon us and, at the end of the month, I'll get my kids for an extended period of time. I have so much to say about it, but I'd rather just wait until it's happening before doing that, as I don't want to set the expectations too high. It will just be good to all be together in our new house, which we just bought last week.
Right now I'm getting tired and my shoulder is hurting, so I think I'll stop here. There will be more to say a few miles up the track.
Thursday, May 30, 2013
Monday, May 13, 2013
83,000 Miles
I have told myself many times that I will never again let a visit with my kids go by without writing about it soon after returning, so as to preserve the memories. I guess I've failed, as I have been to Maine twice since my last entry, and it's been almost three weeks since returning from the second trip. I have been making excuses about having too much going on with my new job, or buying a house, or making plans for the upcoming summer, or my chronic neck pain flaring up, or watching the hockey playoffs.
Well, my last excuse is now out the window, thanks to the Capitals not even mailing in their Game 7 performance--I gave up after two periods when it was 3-0. I didn't even care if they came back or not, as I was just too angry about too many things to keep sitting there. I went to the basement and turned on the Wii, which I really only have for when my son is here, and spent an hour blowing off steam with various Wii Sports games.
With my mind flowing again, here I am at the computer at 11:30 at night when I have to be up at 6:00 am tomorrow to get ready to deliver a speech in front of a room full of people by 8:00 am. But there really isn't much to say. My son turned 9 in March, and my whole family gathered in Maine (me, wife, kids, stepdaughter, and my mom) to celebrate. I came back in late April to see my daughter's T-ball debut, and got a wonderfully sunny, warm couple of days that featured several hours each day at the beach and at various playgrounds. And I'll be going up one more time at the beginning of June for my daughter's dance recital, then returning four weeks later to collect the kids for my summer visitation.
These are the rhythms of the year that I mentioned a few posts back, and it has all played out more or less exactly as expected. Meanwhile everything else marches along apace: money is being earned, prestige is being gained, flowers are in bloom, a house (not a townhouse, an actual house) is under contract, and so forth. It only took one telephone call to flip all of this contentment on its head.
My phone rang at 4:00 this afternoon, just as I was leaving a meeting and heading home. It was my ex-wife, calling to inform me that our daughter had taken a fall on the playground at school and landed headfirst on the asphalt. My ex dashed out of work and right over to the school to collect her. She had a large bump on her head and complained of dizzyness, but a visit to the doctor confirmed that there was no concussion. My daughter got on the phone and told me that she was scared, but was OK now, but there was a sadness in her voice that I had never before heard from this always happy-go-lucky child. I was overcome with an urge to hug her and kiss her on the cheek and tell her that Daddy loved her and was here for her, but, of course, all I could do was tell her those things over the phone. My son got on the phone and I asked him if he would give her a hug and a kiss from me, which he did. He may torment his little sister all the time, but he still loves her.
I suppose I could have walked away from the phone call and said, "oh, well, at least she's OK and she knows that I was thinking of her and that I love her," but I just couldn't do it. Instead, I just turned angry and seethed over the fact that I couldn't even so much as put an arm around my little girl and give her comfort. All of the rationalizing about why I don't live near my kids and how their futures will be so much better because I'm actually earning a decent living suddenly rang 100% hollow. In that moment I felt the very foundations of my new life turn to quicksand.
In the hours that followed, my nerve endings were exposed in a way they haven't been in many months, with every tiny bit of stress or unwelcome information sparking further rage. I retreated to the couch to watch the hockey game, hoping that a Game 7 victory would restore my spirits, but by the end of the second period I had worked myself into the sort of lather that would have caused me to punch a wall a couple of years ago. I found myself snapping at my wife to just leave me alone and not speak to me. I had to turn off the TV and bury any false hopes that my team would stage a miracle comeback. After all, the Caps have been letting me down for 39 years...why would things turn out any different this time?
The intervening hour spent playing Wii, including a therapeutic bowling match against my wife, released some of the pressure. By the time I was done, it didn't matter so much that my fitness age was 55 or that the final score was Rangers 5, Caps 0. After all, it's just silly video games and an equally silly sport played by millionaire mercenaries.
So the anger is gone for now, but the damage remains. I miss my kids, and I will never get over that fact. I just want to be there for them, and I can't be, at least not on my terms. But I've covered this ground before, and lived and relived these scenarios, and I know that I can't just fold up my tents and go back to Maine, back to the life of poverty, despair, and emptiness that I left behind for good two years ago. We are buying a house and putting down roots here. The house is old and needs repairs to shore up the foundation before we can move in, and then it's going to need wholesale upgrades in the years to come to make it the home we want it to be. But that's what we can afford, so that is what we have to do.
I won't force the analogy too much, but I have to step out the quicksand and pour a new foundation to support the facade of my long distance parenthood. My daughter loves me, and I know that for certain. I guess I'll just have to give her extra hugs and kisses when I see her in a couple of weeks.
Well, my last excuse is now out the window, thanks to the Capitals not even mailing in their Game 7 performance--I gave up after two periods when it was 3-0. I didn't even care if they came back or not, as I was just too angry about too many things to keep sitting there. I went to the basement and turned on the Wii, which I really only have for when my son is here, and spent an hour blowing off steam with various Wii Sports games.
With my mind flowing again, here I am at the computer at 11:30 at night when I have to be up at 6:00 am tomorrow to get ready to deliver a speech in front of a room full of people by 8:00 am. But there really isn't much to say. My son turned 9 in March, and my whole family gathered in Maine (me, wife, kids, stepdaughter, and my mom) to celebrate. I came back in late April to see my daughter's T-ball debut, and got a wonderfully sunny, warm couple of days that featured several hours each day at the beach and at various playgrounds. And I'll be going up one more time at the beginning of June for my daughter's dance recital, then returning four weeks later to collect the kids for my summer visitation.
These are the rhythms of the year that I mentioned a few posts back, and it has all played out more or less exactly as expected. Meanwhile everything else marches along apace: money is being earned, prestige is being gained, flowers are in bloom, a house (not a townhouse, an actual house) is under contract, and so forth. It only took one telephone call to flip all of this contentment on its head.
My phone rang at 4:00 this afternoon, just as I was leaving a meeting and heading home. It was my ex-wife, calling to inform me that our daughter had taken a fall on the playground at school and landed headfirst on the asphalt. My ex dashed out of work and right over to the school to collect her. She had a large bump on her head and complained of dizzyness, but a visit to the doctor confirmed that there was no concussion. My daughter got on the phone and told me that she was scared, but was OK now, but there was a sadness in her voice that I had never before heard from this always happy-go-lucky child. I was overcome with an urge to hug her and kiss her on the cheek and tell her that Daddy loved her and was here for her, but, of course, all I could do was tell her those things over the phone. My son got on the phone and I asked him if he would give her a hug and a kiss from me, which he did. He may torment his little sister all the time, but he still loves her.
I suppose I could have walked away from the phone call and said, "oh, well, at least she's OK and she knows that I was thinking of her and that I love her," but I just couldn't do it. Instead, I just turned angry and seethed over the fact that I couldn't even so much as put an arm around my little girl and give her comfort. All of the rationalizing about why I don't live near my kids and how their futures will be so much better because I'm actually earning a decent living suddenly rang 100% hollow. In that moment I felt the very foundations of my new life turn to quicksand.
In the hours that followed, my nerve endings were exposed in a way they haven't been in many months, with every tiny bit of stress or unwelcome information sparking further rage. I retreated to the couch to watch the hockey game, hoping that a Game 7 victory would restore my spirits, but by the end of the second period I had worked myself into the sort of lather that would have caused me to punch a wall a couple of years ago. I found myself snapping at my wife to just leave me alone and not speak to me. I had to turn off the TV and bury any false hopes that my team would stage a miracle comeback. After all, the Caps have been letting me down for 39 years...why would things turn out any different this time?
The intervening hour spent playing Wii, including a therapeutic bowling match against my wife, released some of the pressure. By the time I was done, it didn't matter so much that my fitness age was 55 or that the final score was Rangers 5, Caps 0. After all, it's just silly video games and an equally silly sport played by millionaire mercenaries.
So the anger is gone for now, but the damage remains. I miss my kids, and I will never get over that fact. I just want to be there for them, and I can't be, at least not on my terms. But I've covered this ground before, and lived and relived these scenarios, and I know that I can't just fold up my tents and go back to Maine, back to the life of poverty, despair, and emptiness that I left behind for good two years ago. We are buying a house and putting down roots here. The house is old and needs repairs to shore up the foundation before we can move in, and then it's going to need wholesale upgrades in the years to come to make it the home we want it to be. But that's what we can afford, so that is what we have to do.
I won't force the analogy too much, but I have to step out the quicksand and pour a new foundation to support the facade of my long distance parenthood. My daughter loves me, and I know that for certain. I guess I'll just have to give her extra hugs and kisses when I see her in a couple of weeks.
Sunday, February 24, 2013
81,000 Miles
I'm back from another long weekend in Maine, one that turned out exactly like I thought it would in my last post when I gave a rough sketch of my next four visits to Maine. It was February. It was very cold and windy. We stayed in the Howard Johnson's in South Portland, which due to its age, one-star rating and the season, cost just $53 per night, including breakfast. We spent a lot of time in the indoor pool there, and my daughter finally decided that the floaty vest would, in fact, keep her afloat, so she didn't cling to me all the time. I tried not to spend too much money, but opened up the wallet to go snow tubing one night, to the movies one afternoon, and out to a couple of better-than-fast-food dinners.
In the end, for the cost of about $800 (including airfare, hotel, rental car, all meals and activities), I got to spend three full days of quality time with my kids. I have had people tell me that I probably spend more quality time with them during my visits to Maine then many parents spend with their kids who live in the same house.
So what did we all get out of this? I got three days with my kids with no interruptions. We got to do fun things together, I got to tell them my version of how life, the universe, and everything works. I had to discipline them a handful of times for being somewhere between annoying and disrespectful. As for my kids...I'm not sure. I know they love me, enjoy seeing me, and have fun with me, but I know they'd rather be in their own home, with their toys, books, and games around, and a driveway and backyard to play in, instead of being cooped up in a crappy motel. Even after more than three years, they still haven't fully come to understand why Mommy and Daddy got divorced. My son, who is almost nine now, came right out and said, "I wish you could come back and live with me so I could see you and Mommy all the time."
I wonder what goes through the mind of a kid who says something like that. I understand the eternal wish that Mommy and Daddy would get back together and that all would be as it was before. I always think of the song "Wonderful" by Everclear, which captures life for a boy with divorced parents so painfully well. The most wrenching part is this:
I imagine that my kids have some version of those words in their heads all the time. "Yes, Mommy and Daddy married other people. Yes they both seem happier than when they were together. Yes, I've gotten used to living this way. But I don't like the way things are and just want them to be back together." And I can't blame them for feeling that way--it is only natural.
I know this because I had the opposite sort of feelings in my childhood. My parents were miserable and fought all the time, both with each other and with my older brother. I frequently found myself wishing that they would get divorced so they would stop fighting. As I grew towards adulthood I found myself hating any time that I had to spend with both of them, as they brought out the worst in each other, but I actually sort of enjoyed getting to spend time with each of them individually.
These feelings grew once I went to college, 1,000 miles away from home. My dad was on a business trip not far from where I was in school and he came to town one weekend to hang out with me. He was a different person than usual--happier, more relaxed, and much more fun to be around. We went out to a jazz club one night and had a tremendous time. I couldn't picture him having that sort of enjoyment in my mom's presence. When I moved back to Washington after finishing my education I got a partial season ticket plan for the Capitals and went to a bunch of hockey games with my dad, all of which were fun. And then in the last year of my dad's life, I spent a lot of time alone with him, as I was the only person who could be around to help him so my mom could go out of the house for more than an hour. We had a many chances to hang out and just talk to each other without interference.
Looking back on those times now, I have come to realize that the only times I actually liked being around my dad were when my mom wasn't there. Much the same way, my relationship with my mother has improved greatly in the nine months since my dad's death, as she is no longer preoccupied with taking care of/henpecking him. I now believe that I would have turned out to be a much happier person and had far better relationships with my parents if they had gotten divorced when I was little. I am certain that the fiasco with my first wedding would never have happened, as they would not have put up such a unified front against me.
So what does all of this mean for me as a father? And what does it mean for my kids? They won't know what it would have been like had I stayed, so they will spend the rest of their childhoods pining for an alternate reality in which Mommy and Daddy never got divorced and everything was "wonderful." This is no different from how I spent my childhood (and my adulthood as well) wishing that my parents had gotten divorced, so everything would have been wonderful. Such is human nature: when you don't like what you've got, you yearn for the opposite.
I will never be able to go back in time and to remove the ugly stain of divorce from my childrens' childhoods. By the same token, I cannot cleanse my own childhood of the stench of a bad marriage that should have ended. All I can do is to pass on what I've learned from my own experience and hope that my children benefit from my hard-earned knowledge. If nothing else, I hope they come to realize that they are getting to see a much better version of Daddy than they would have gotten had I stayed with their mother.
I only got to see a small piece of my own father independent of his unhappy marriage. Now that he is gone, I am certain that our relationship would have been far better if he and my mom had split up. I will never know what it would have been like to go over to his apartment for the weekend and have nothing but good times without fighting or tension in the air. I guess I should be happy that my kids do know what that's like, and that they will have few--if any--memories of their parents fighting with each other.
In the end, for the cost of about $800 (including airfare, hotel, rental car, all meals and activities), I got to spend three full days of quality time with my kids. I have had people tell me that I probably spend more quality time with them during my visits to Maine then many parents spend with their kids who live in the same house.
So what did we all get out of this? I got three days with my kids with no interruptions. We got to do fun things together, I got to tell them my version of how life, the universe, and everything works. I had to discipline them a handful of times for being somewhere between annoying and disrespectful. As for my kids...I'm not sure. I know they love me, enjoy seeing me, and have fun with me, but I know they'd rather be in their own home, with their toys, books, and games around, and a driveway and backyard to play in, instead of being cooped up in a crappy motel. Even after more than three years, they still haven't fully come to understand why Mommy and Daddy got divorced. My son, who is almost nine now, came right out and said, "I wish you could come back and live with me so I could see you and Mommy all the time."
I wonder what goes through the mind of a kid who says something like that. I understand the eternal wish that Mommy and Daddy would get back together and that all would be as it was before. I always think of the song "Wonderful" by Everclear, which captures life for a boy with divorced parents so painfully well. The most wrenching part is this:
"I don't wanna meet your friend
And I don't wanna start over again
I just want my life to be the same
Just like it used to be"
I imagine that my kids have some version of those words in their heads all the time. "Yes, Mommy and Daddy married other people. Yes they both seem happier than when they were together. Yes, I've gotten used to living this way. But I don't like the way things are and just want them to be back together." And I can't blame them for feeling that way--it is only natural.
I know this because I had the opposite sort of feelings in my childhood. My parents were miserable and fought all the time, both with each other and with my older brother. I frequently found myself wishing that they would get divorced so they would stop fighting. As I grew towards adulthood I found myself hating any time that I had to spend with both of them, as they brought out the worst in each other, but I actually sort of enjoyed getting to spend time with each of them individually.
These feelings grew once I went to college, 1,000 miles away from home. My dad was on a business trip not far from where I was in school and he came to town one weekend to hang out with me. He was a different person than usual--happier, more relaxed, and much more fun to be around. We went out to a jazz club one night and had a tremendous time. I couldn't picture him having that sort of enjoyment in my mom's presence. When I moved back to Washington after finishing my education I got a partial season ticket plan for the Capitals and went to a bunch of hockey games with my dad, all of which were fun. And then in the last year of my dad's life, I spent a lot of time alone with him, as I was the only person who could be around to help him so my mom could go out of the house for more than an hour. We had a many chances to hang out and just talk to each other without interference.
Looking back on those times now, I have come to realize that the only times I actually liked being around my dad were when my mom wasn't there. Much the same way, my relationship with my mother has improved greatly in the nine months since my dad's death, as she is no longer preoccupied with taking care of/henpecking him. I now believe that I would have turned out to be a much happier person and had far better relationships with my parents if they had gotten divorced when I was little. I am certain that the fiasco with my first wedding would never have happened, as they would not have put up such a unified front against me.
So what does all of this mean for me as a father? And what does it mean for my kids? They won't know what it would have been like had I stayed, so they will spend the rest of their childhoods pining for an alternate reality in which Mommy and Daddy never got divorced and everything was "wonderful." This is no different from how I spent my childhood (and my adulthood as well) wishing that my parents had gotten divorced, so everything would have been wonderful. Such is human nature: when you don't like what you've got, you yearn for the opposite.
I will never be able to go back in time and to remove the ugly stain of divorce from my childrens' childhoods. By the same token, I cannot cleanse my own childhood of the stench of a bad marriage that should have ended. All I can do is to pass on what I've learned from my own experience and hope that my children benefit from my hard-earned knowledge. If nothing else, I hope they come to realize that they are getting to see a much better version of Daddy than they would have gotten had I stayed with their mother.
I only got to see a small piece of my own father independent of his unhappy marriage. Now that he is gone, I am certain that our relationship would have been far better if he and my mom had split up. I will never know what it would have been like to go over to his apartment for the weekend and have nothing but good times without fighting or tension in the air. I guess I should be happy that my kids do know what that's like, and that they will have few--if any--memories of their parents fighting with each other.
Saturday, January 26, 2013
80,000 Miles
I have sat down at my computer so many times over the past four months with the intention of writing my next blog post but it has (quite obviously) never happened. In the meantime there was a long weekend in Maine, Thanksgiving in Atlanta, and New Years' in Virginia, totalling 6,000 FFMs, an awful lot of money spent, and a treasure trove of good times and sweet memories.
Now that I am entering the fourth year of being a non-custodial parent I am finally starting to pick up on the rhythms of life that the visitation schedule forces upon me. The summer is great, of course, with the kids basically living with me for an extended period. The fall is not too bad, as the memories of the summer are still fresh, and the gap between longer visits is relatively short. But, come January, with winter weather all around and the next long visitation nearly six months away, the mood drops instantly.
From now until school gets out in late June, I will have four weekend visits to Maine, each of which has taken on its own tradition. February will be a long weekend for Presidents' Day spent mostly at the indoor pool at the Howard Johnson's. March is the shared birthday weekend for my son and my wife, and we will go to the Japanese hibachi place for dinner and have a fun getaway party--this time at an indoor waterpark in New Hampshire. Late April is a springtime weekend, with a lot of time spent at playgrounds. Early June is a beach weekend spent at the Ocean House in Old Orchard Beach and always involving going to the rides at Palace Playland.
In between those good times are gaps of four to six weeks when I become just a voice at the other end of the phone to my kids. I have maintained my commitment to my son to call every single night. My ex-wife has made it clear that she doesn't like that I call every single night--she sent me an email saying that it takes away from her "fun time" with the kids, and she has flat out told the kids that she wishes I didn't call so much. It's just more evidence of her selfishness, her lack of understanding of my connection to our kids, and her absolute disregard for how badmouthing me might affect the kids.
While the distance and separation aren't quite as hard in year 4 as in years 1, 2, or 3, there are times that it feels overwhelming, particularly when my kids are having a hard time and I can't be there for them. My son has had ongoing conflicts with a couple of kids at his aftercare, which is basically a function of his Asperger's-related inability to regulate his emotions and impulses. I have pushed for three years to have him see a counselor who can work with him, but my ex hasn't agreed. I have been working through his school to try to get them to provide him with such services but they have used every excuse and dodge known to man to avoid this responsibility. Last week, I finally got the school to consent to set him up with a counselor from a local nonprofit social services agency, but his mother is again resisting. She apparently thinks (incorrectly) that this agency only works with juvenile delinquents and she (incorrectly) fears that he is going to be taken out of school and sent to some sort of detention center.
I will still never understand what exactly goes on in her head that tells her that our son's obvious emotional issues do not exist. I know she is herself mentally ill, but for godsakes, aren't there parental instincts that take over at some point? I am confident that I can successfully work with the school and get her (under threat of court action perhaps) to consent to getting our child the help he so clearly needs.
Meanwhile, in Frequent Father land, I have at long last gotten the great job I have been chasing for more than 10 years. I am now working as a researcher for a major public university, doing really fun work and earning a good salary. I have still not gotten my arms around the fact that, for the first time since before I married my first wife, I don't have to fret over my career or my professional future. It is, in a way, a similar feeling to what I experienced after my divorce. When you spend year after year in an unpleasant situation, you develop both a hard shell and the defensive mechanisms needed to keep the shell intact.
I have mostly overcome my personal Stockholm Syndrome, thanks in large part to the love and support of my second wife. We've been married for nearly three years now, but I feel like I was a ghost for most of that time, either physically living away from her or being so preoccupied with my personal and professional demons that I didn't pay much attention to her. For all of this time I have kept my head down, operating under the creed: "when you're going through hell, keep going."
Well now, I suppose, I am no longer going through hell. I have crawled my way out of the sewer pipe and am standing in the sunlight on the other end. I no longer need to look straight ahead and imagine a future that will have to be better than the unpleasant present. As much as it's possible as a long distance parent, I have reached the other side. I have a great job, a great marriage, a happy home, a stepdaugher who calls me "Daddy" more often than not, and, yes, two kids who love and need me no matter where I live. I'll be going to see them in two weeks, and then again and again and again. Before I know it summer will be here and my kids will be in my home for six weeks, thus beginning another annual cycle.
Now that I am entering the fourth year of being a non-custodial parent I am finally starting to pick up on the rhythms of life that the visitation schedule forces upon me. The summer is great, of course, with the kids basically living with me for an extended period. The fall is not too bad, as the memories of the summer are still fresh, and the gap between longer visits is relatively short. But, come January, with winter weather all around and the next long visitation nearly six months away, the mood drops instantly.
From now until school gets out in late June, I will have four weekend visits to Maine, each of which has taken on its own tradition. February will be a long weekend for Presidents' Day spent mostly at the indoor pool at the Howard Johnson's. March is the shared birthday weekend for my son and my wife, and we will go to the Japanese hibachi place for dinner and have a fun getaway party--this time at an indoor waterpark in New Hampshire. Late April is a springtime weekend, with a lot of time spent at playgrounds. Early June is a beach weekend spent at the Ocean House in Old Orchard Beach and always involving going to the rides at Palace Playland.
In between those good times are gaps of four to six weeks when I become just a voice at the other end of the phone to my kids. I have maintained my commitment to my son to call every single night. My ex-wife has made it clear that she doesn't like that I call every single night--she sent me an email saying that it takes away from her "fun time" with the kids, and she has flat out told the kids that she wishes I didn't call so much. It's just more evidence of her selfishness, her lack of understanding of my connection to our kids, and her absolute disregard for how badmouthing me might affect the kids.
While the distance and separation aren't quite as hard in year 4 as in years 1, 2, or 3, there are times that it feels overwhelming, particularly when my kids are having a hard time and I can't be there for them. My son has had ongoing conflicts with a couple of kids at his aftercare, which is basically a function of his Asperger's-related inability to regulate his emotions and impulses. I have pushed for three years to have him see a counselor who can work with him, but my ex hasn't agreed. I have been working through his school to try to get them to provide him with such services but they have used every excuse and dodge known to man to avoid this responsibility. Last week, I finally got the school to consent to set him up with a counselor from a local nonprofit social services agency, but his mother is again resisting. She apparently thinks (incorrectly) that this agency only works with juvenile delinquents and she (incorrectly) fears that he is going to be taken out of school and sent to some sort of detention center.
I will still never understand what exactly goes on in her head that tells her that our son's obvious emotional issues do not exist. I know she is herself mentally ill, but for godsakes, aren't there parental instincts that take over at some point? I am confident that I can successfully work with the school and get her (under threat of court action perhaps) to consent to getting our child the help he so clearly needs.
Meanwhile, in Frequent Father land, I have at long last gotten the great job I have been chasing for more than 10 years. I am now working as a researcher for a major public university, doing really fun work and earning a good salary. I have still not gotten my arms around the fact that, for the first time since before I married my first wife, I don't have to fret over my career or my professional future. It is, in a way, a similar feeling to what I experienced after my divorce. When you spend year after year in an unpleasant situation, you develop both a hard shell and the defensive mechanisms needed to keep the shell intact.
I have mostly overcome my personal Stockholm Syndrome, thanks in large part to the love and support of my second wife. We've been married for nearly three years now, but I feel like I was a ghost for most of that time, either physically living away from her or being so preoccupied with my personal and professional demons that I didn't pay much attention to her. For all of this time I have kept my head down, operating under the creed: "when you're going through hell, keep going."
Well now, I suppose, I am no longer going through hell. I have crawled my way out of the sewer pipe and am standing in the sunlight on the other end. I no longer need to look straight ahead and imagine a future that will have to be better than the unpleasant present. As much as it's possible as a long distance parent, I have reached the other side. I have a great job, a great marriage, a happy home, a stepdaugher who calls me "Daddy" more often than not, and, yes, two kids who love and need me no matter where I live. I'll be going to see them in two weeks, and then again and again and again. Before I know it summer will be here and my kids will be in my home for six weeks, thus beginning another annual cycle.
Saturday, August 25, 2012
74,000 Miles, going nowhere fast
The 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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
Monday, August 20, 2012
74,000 Miles
My 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.
I think of that moment tonight for a variety of reasons:
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
I think of that moment tonight for a variety of reasons:
- It's a funny story that can't help but stick with me
- It's a reminder that she actually did once have a close relationship with her siblings
- It illustrates how far back her ease with telling lies goes
- It really 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
- The author's first name was the same as their grandmother's, who recently passed away
- 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
- Most of all, in my house, all is very, very quiet now.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
Sunday, July 22, 2012
73,000 Miles*
*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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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).
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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).
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.
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