In this edition: our hero fights for justice and then gets yet another unexpected surprise that may change everything.
Let me be straight--I don't like lawyers. I don't care for the way that they create strawmen just to destroy them, I don't like how they can twist words to convict the innocent or exonerate the guilty, I don't like how they can harbor secrets that can lead to justice all in the name of attorney-client privilege and, most of all, I really don't like how they can bill you for six minutes of their time when it took them 15 seconds to read your email. In this case, though, it was all worth it.
So I had my day in court. My attorney told me that he KNEW my ex would show up and burst out in tears after telling the judge what a horrible, horrible person I was and how terribly I was persecuting her. He was right. She painted a picture of me as a vicious monster threatening to steal her children away from her, the poor, innocent mommy. My attorney then got up and proceeded to blow holes in her story like a howitzer pulverizing a home made of balsa wood. He attacked with ferocity, asking "isn't it true that your fiance was arrested for drunk driving?" and "isn't it true that you and your children are living with a known domestic batterer?" Every time she would say, "Well he is innocent," or "That's not exactly right," he would cut her off and say, "Yes or no, ma'am. Is that true or not?" and she would have to admit that it was. The coup de grace came after he got her to admit that her fiance was a longtime alcoholic but that he couldn't have been drunk on the morning of his most recent arrest because she only bought him two beers. That's right, folks, she admitted in court that she bought beer to give to an alcoholic!
Needless to say, after her weepy display of victimhood and my attorney's subsequent bodyslamming, the judge swiftly dismissed her petition to slap me with a protection order. I walked out of the court a little bit lighter in the wallet, but confident that she would never again try to use the justice system to bring me down. Before I left, my attorney said to me, "It's clear that she just doesn't view reality the way the rest of the world does." So true.
That matter now settled, I got to enjoy some more time with my kids, going to the beach several times and generally enjoying the Maine summer. But, alas, it was just me and them, and my wife and her daughter were back in Atlanta. The whole trip I kept wishing that we could all be together.
Well, that brings us to part two of this posting. The very afternoon of my court date, I had a follow-up meeting with a small consulting firm in the Portland area with which I had tried for years to get a job. They had made me an offer months earlier, but the terms were not acceptable, so I dismissed it out of hand. Given my total unemployment and my newfound need to be in Maine for potential legal reasons (custody battles are far easier when you live nearby), this time when they made me an offer, I really seriously considered it.
I went back to Atlanta and talked it over with my wife. Since the job was not certain for the long term, we agreed that, if I took it, she would remain down south for the time being and we'd be in a long-distance relationship all over again. I gave myself a week to make a last-ditch effort to find a job in Atlanta. I called dozens of contacts to follow up on earlier discussions, but nobody had anything for me nor did anyone know of anything for me. So that was that--I needed a job, and I said yes.
And thus begins the next chapter. I start my job in Maine next week, and am about to head up there by myself. I won't need to pile up frequent father miles to see my own kids for now, but I'm still going to need to get on airplanes to see my wife and stepdaughter. I'll also still not be the primary caregiver so, at best, I'll see my kids once a week. It won't be as daunting as it has been, but I suppose that every non-custodial dad has some "frequent father" in him. We'll see how it goes.
Monday, July 26, 2010
Thursday, June 24, 2010
15,400 Miles
I am back in Atlanta again, after two more trips to Maine. The first was over Memorial Day and was nearly terrific--my new wife and her daughter finally came along, and for a few days we felt like a family. The two of us and our three children collectively got to spend good time together, with our daughters becoming instant friends and things generally feeling terrific. There was just one small problem--my daughter didn't much like the fact that, at the end of each day, she had to go back to her mother's house and not get to have a sleepover with her brother and her "new sister."
One night she decided that enough was enough and she wanted to stay over at my house. The decision came while sitting in the driveway at my ex's house. When my daughter said that she wanted to stay with me, I went inside to ask my ex if that was OK, and she reluctantly agreed. So we all went back to my apartment for our sleepover, and all was great. The girls got in their jammies and watched a Dora video together on the bed while my son played in the living room. We were all ready for bed, and I crowded onto the futon with my son to my left and my daughter to my right. She snuggled up against me, put her thumb in her mouth, and prepared to drift off to sleep. But then she sprang up and said, "one more thing," and went and got a toy to bring into bed. And then another "one more thing," and another, and another. Finally, she demanded to go into the bedroom with the girls to see if they were asleep. When she saw that they were still awake, she wanted to stay awake too. I said, "No, it's sleepy time now."
And then all hell broke loose.
My daughter started screaming, "I want Maaaaamaaaa. I want milk," over and over again. For 20 minutes I tried to calm her down, but she never did. Finally, I put her in the car, hoping that she would fall asleep, but she just kept on screaming and screaming, so I decided to head for her mother's house. Upon arriving, I handed her off to my ex, who flashed me a smug smile, and told her that she had two months to get our daughter emotionally prepared for staying at my house overnight, as she was bound by our divorce order to let her stay with me come her third birthday in August. My ex just stared at me as if I had just suggested that she put our daughter to bed with a drink of cyanide. I left in disgust.
During this trip I interviewed for and was offered a job in Rhode Island (2.5 hours from my kids), but had to turn in down, as it was only a short-term job, so my wife and stepdaughter couldn't move with me. Taking it would thus mean working in one place, and then "commuting" to both Maine and Atlanta--it just wasn't feasible.
Two weeks later, after returning to Atlanta, I was checking my email late at night when I got a Skype call from my ex-brother-in-law. He was calling me from Holland, where he was on tour with his theater company, and passed on the urgent news that my ex's fiance had been arrested...again. He had been hired by my ex's mother to do some yard work, but instead of working, he traipsed out to the barn behind her house and proceeded to down 1..2...3...4 full 40-ounce bottles of malt liquor. He was discovered with bottle #5 in hand by my ex's other brother, who told him to leave at once. He called up my ex to pick him up, and she arrived with my daughter in the car. Upon arriving she got out of her car and began screaming at her brother and his girlfriend. During this confrontation, my daughter was screaming “Mommy! Mommy!” from the car. Her brother's girlfriend suggested that she should attend to her crying child, to which my ex responded, “Shut the fuck up, you fat fucking warthog!” She then left the scene, and her brother called the cops, who came and arrested her fiance shortly thereafter for being drunk, in violation of the bail from his earlier arrest for DUI.
I then called the brother in Maine (who had been directly involved) and he further informed me that my ex continues to deny that her in fiance is drinking, in spite of the clear evidence. He also reports that the fiance has not worked since being fired following his DUI arrest in February, and that my ex continues to refuse to find a job. In the meantime, she has been receiving money from her parents, and that he believes that she has sold her food stamp credits in exchange for cash, which is a crime. His last word to me was that his sister was dead to him, and that even their mother no longer wanted to have anything to do with her.
I immediately decided that I needed to go up to Maine and sort things out, so I bought a plane ticket to come up for a whole week, figuring that my employer would understand. Instead, I was told to come back two days earlier than planned, or else, even though there was no work that really needed to get done. I was subsequently asked by my boss to resign, which I did on the spot. No part time job is worth that much.
So there I was, up in Maine for a whole week with my kids. It should have been great, right? Perfect weather, quality time, going to the beach, etc. Unfortunately, with the various clouds hanging over my world, it just didn't feel quite right. My little pseudo-apartment, which lacks TV, internet access, toys, books, and anything resembling a comfortable environment for kids, is simply a stressful place to have kids for day after day. Adding to the confusion was that my parents came up too--on the one hand, it was good to have them around, on the other hand, two more people in the house often created more stress than anything. On top of it, back in Atlanta, my wife was having chest pains and went to the ER one night where she was diagnosed with having a gall bladder issue (that remains unresolved).
In the midst of this, I went to see an expensive but highly recommended attorney to discuss what, if anything, I could do to get my wife and her alcoholic fiance in line before something happened to my kids. He told me flat out that the only way I stood a chance to get primary custody of the kids was to move back to Maine at once, and that even then, it would be a bruising and (naturally) expensive battle.
After meeting with him and realizing that the courts may not be the answer, I decided that it was time to appeal to whatever was left of my ex's conscience. I called her up to see if we could set up a time to meet to talk things over. She refused, and told me that I could say what I wanted over the phone. So I told her flat out that if she didn't rid herself of her fiance, I would have to take her back to court. We got into yet another argument, and she hung up on me. That evening, as I was on my way to drop off my daughter for the night, my ex called me and instructed me to park on the street, not the driveway. When I pulled up in front of my house, her fiance came out of the house, stood 2 feet behind me while I got my daughter out of her car seat, and all but snatched her from my arms when I turned around to face him. He told me to leave at once. I said that I needed to ask my ex something, and he said, "if you go to the door, I'm calling the cops." I told him that I still was co-owner of the house and he couldn't call the cops on me. My ex then came out and told me that she would call the cops, and refused to even answer my simple question regarding when she'd be dropping off my daughter in the morning.
For the last three days of my trip it went on like this--we exchanged the kids without words. I wonder what is going through their minds when they see their mother not even willing to say hello to their father. It can't be good for them.
Then came the final surprise.
Yesterday, as I dropped off the kids for the last time before heading to the airport, I noticed a police car parked down the block, and wondered what was up. After I let the kids out of my car and got back in, the police car pulled up next to me, and the officer asked to talk to me. She then served me with a Protection from Abuse petition that my ex had made--she apparently believes that my repeated entreaties to her to get rid of her drunken criminal of a fiance constitute emotional abuse.
Now my next trip to Maine will center on going to court to defend myself against charges that I am somehow abusing her--no matter that I have never threatened her or anyone else with any sort of violence, no matter that all I have done is to beg her to wake up and see what the rest of the world (especially her own family) sees. I am the one who was put out of his home, replaced by a worthless drunk. I am the one who has been threatened with violence. I am the one who is trying his best to get a job, be a good husband, and most of all, do everything I can to give my kids the lives the deserve. And now I'm the one being treated like the criminal.
One night she decided that enough was enough and she wanted to stay over at my house. The decision came while sitting in the driveway at my ex's house. When my daughter said that she wanted to stay with me, I went inside to ask my ex if that was OK, and she reluctantly agreed. So we all went back to my apartment for our sleepover, and all was great. The girls got in their jammies and watched a Dora video together on the bed while my son played in the living room. We were all ready for bed, and I crowded onto the futon with my son to my left and my daughter to my right. She snuggled up against me, put her thumb in her mouth, and prepared to drift off to sleep. But then she sprang up and said, "one more thing," and went and got a toy to bring into bed. And then another "one more thing," and another, and another. Finally, she demanded to go into the bedroom with the girls to see if they were asleep. When she saw that they were still awake, she wanted to stay awake too. I said, "No, it's sleepy time now."
And then all hell broke loose.
My daughter started screaming, "I want Maaaaamaaaa. I want milk," over and over again. For 20 minutes I tried to calm her down, but she never did. Finally, I put her in the car, hoping that she would fall asleep, but she just kept on screaming and screaming, so I decided to head for her mother's house. Upon arriving, I handed her off to my ex, who flashed me a smug smile, and told her that she had two months to get our daughter emotionally prepared for staying at my house overnight, as she was bound by our divorce order to let her stay with me come her third birthday in August. My ex just stared at me as if I had just suggested that she put our daughter to bed with a drink of cyanide. I left in disgust.
During this trip I interviewed for and was offered a job in Rhode Island (2.5 hours from my kids), but had to turn in down, as it was only a short-term job, so my wife and stepdaughter couldn't move with me. Taking it would thus mean working in one place, and then "commuting" to both Maine and Atlanta--it just wasn't feasible.
Two weeks later, after returning to Atlanta, I was checking my email late at night when I got a Skype call from my ex-brother-in-law. He was calling me from Holland, where he was on tour with his theater company, and passed on the urgent news that my ex's fiance had been arrested...again. He had been hired by my ex's mother to do some yard work, but instead of working, he traipsed out to the barn behind her house and proceeded to down 1..2...3...4 full 40-ounce bottles of malt liquor. He was discovered with bottle #5 in hand by my ex's other brother, who told him to leave at once. He called up my ex to pick him up, and she arrived with my daughter in the car. Upon arriving she got out of her car and began screaming at her brother and his girlfriend. During this confrontation, my daughter was screaming “Mommy! Mommy!” from the car. Her brother's girlfriend suggested that she should attend to her crying child, to which my ex responded, “Shut the fuck up, you fat fucking warthog!” She then left the scene, and her brother called the cops, who came and arrested her fiance shortly thereafter for being drunk, in violation of the bail from his earlier arrest for DUI.
I then called the brother in Maine (who had been directly involved) and he further informed me that my ex continues to deny that her in fiance is drinking, in spite of the clear evidence. He also reports that the fiance has not worked since being fired following his DUI arrest in February, and that my ex continues to refuse to find a job. In the meantime, she has been receiving money from her parents, and that he believes that she has sold her food stamp credits in exchange for cash, which is a crime. His last word to me was that his sister was dead to him, and that even their mother no longer wanted to have anything to do with her.
I immediately decided that I needed to go up to Maine and sort things out, so I bought a plane ticket to come up for a whole week, figuring that my employer would understand. Instead, I was told to come back two days earlier than planned, or else, even though there was no work that really needed to get done. I was subsequently asked by my boss to resign, which I did on the spot. No part time job is worth that much.
So there I was, up in Maine for a whole week with my kids. It should have been great, right? Perfect weather, quality time, going to the beach, etc. Unfortunately, with the various clouds hanging over my world, it just didn't feel quite right. My little pseudo-apartment, which lacks TV, internet access, toys, books, and anything resembling a comfortable environment for kids, is simply a stressful place to have kids for day after day. Adding to the confusion was that my parents came up too--on the one hand, it was good to have them around, on the other hand, two more people in the house often created more stress than anything. On top of it, back in Atlanta, my wife was having chest pains and went to the ER one night where she was diagnosed with having a gall bladder issue (that remains unresolved).
In the midst of this, I went to see an expensive but highly recommended attorney to discuss what, if anything, I could do to get my wife and her alcoholic fiance in line before something happened to my kids. He told me flat out that the only way I stood a chance to get primary custody of the kids was to move back to Maine at once, and that even then, it would be a bruising and (naturally) expensive battle.
After meeting with him and realizing that the courts may not be the answer, I decided that it was time to appeal to whatever was left of my ex's conscience. I called her up to see if we could set up a time to meet to talk things over. She refused, and told me that I could say what I wanted over the phone. So I told her flat out that if she didn't rid herself of her fiance, I would have to take her back to court. We got into yet another argument, and she hung up on me. That evening, as I was on my way to drop off my daughter for the night, my ex called me and instructed me to park on the street, not the driveway. When I pulled up in front of my house, her fiance came out of the house, stood 2 feet behind me while I got my daughter out of her car seat, and all but snatched her from my arms when I turned around to face him. He told me to leave at once. I said that I needed to ask my ex something, and he said, "if you go to the door, I'm calling the cops." I told him that I still was co-owner of the house and he couldn't call the cops on me. My ex then came out and told me that she would call the cops, and refused to even answer my simple question regarding when she'd be dropping off my daughter in the morning.
For the last three days of my trip it went on like this--we exchanged the kids without words. I wonder what is going through their minds when they see their mother not even willing to say hello to their father. It can't be good for them.
Then came the final surprise.
Yesterday, as I dropped off the kids for the last time before heading to the airport, I noticed a police car parked down the block, and wondered what was up. After I let the kids out of my car and got back in, the police car pulled up next to me, and the officer asked to talk to me. She then served me with a Protection from Abuse petition that my ex had made--she apparently believes that my repeated entreaties to her to get rid of her drunken criminal of a fiance constitute emotional abuse.
Now my next trip to Maine will center on going to court to defend myself against charges that I am somehow abusing her--no matter that I have never threatened her or anyone else with any sort of violence, no matter that all I have done is to beg her to wake up and see what the rest of the world (especially her own family) sees. I am the one who was put out of his home, replaced by a worthless drunk. I am the one who has been threatened with violence. I am the one who is trying his best to get a job, be a good husband, and most of all, do everything I can to give my kids the lives the deserve. And now I'm the one being treated like the criminal.
Monday, May 10, 2010
11,000 Miles
I've let three more trips to and from Maine slip away without posting. I don't know if if it's too painful to talk about it, or whether I just don't have anything new to say. The first trip involved my parents flying up to spend a few days with my kids and me around my son's 6th birthday. It was tough, as I still have a somewhat strained relationship with my parents, and the apartment is very small, but it was great to not feel all alone. The second trip was just me, but I stayed for five days, as it was my son's Spring Vacation from school. I made plans with other adults on three of the days, so it was a lot better. This past trip was a whirlwind--24 hours in Maine, then a drive to Boston for a job interview. Yes...it's possible that I may be coming back to live closer to them.
But, yet again, it just can't be that simple.
I had made up my mind after the trip for my son's birthday that, come hell or high water, I'd have to move back to Maine, as I couldn't live with myself being so far from my kids. I re-contacted a firm in Maine that had made me an insult of a job offer (low pay on a weekly rate, with no time commitment), and told them that if they could offer more money and/or a six-month commitment, I'd reconsider. It wouldn't be a great job, but it would be 15 miles from my kids, and that would make up for a lot. Ah, but they couldn't even do that. They called back and said, "take it or leave it." So I left it. I'm not moving back north for a job that could go poof at any time.
Also, as I've been in Atlanta longer and longer, I've seen just how attached my new wife and stepdaughter are to the place. They have so much family and so many friends around, and life is, well, nice for them. I never had such a network of people in Maine, and likely never would. I would always feel guilty about taking them away from their home, and I'd only see my kids every other weekend and on occasional weeknights no matter how close I lived. If I live 1.5 hours away in Boston, at least we'd have a chance at life and careers in a bigger city, and it's a drive, not a flight, up to see my kids.
I don't know if this job is right for me (even if I get it), but I love Boston and always have, and at least have a better feeling about the potential of starting over here instead of in Maine. I suppose if I lived here, I wouldn't be getting on airplans to see my kids, but I'd still be the "frequent father." My trips would be in car, buses, and trains, but remaining in my kids' lives would still require a lot of travel, separation, angst, and feelings of hurt and loss. At least it would be cheaper.
But, yet again, it just can't be that simple.
I had made up my mind after the trip for my son's birthday that, come hell or high water, I'd have to move back to Maine, as I couldn't live with myself being so far from my kids. I re-contacted a firm in Maine that had made me an insult of a job offer (low pay on a weekly rate, with no time commitment), and told them that if they could offer more money and/or a six-month commitment, I'd reconsider. It wouldn't be a great job, but it would be 15 miles from my kids, and that would make up for a lot. Ah, but they couldn't even do that. They called back and said, "take it or leave it." So I left it. I'm not moving back north for a job that could go poof at any time.
Also, as I've been in Atlanta longer and longer, I've seen just how attached my new wife and stepdaughter are to the place. They have so much family and so many friends around, and life is, well, nice for them. I never had such a network of people in Maine, and likely never would. I would always feel guilty about taking them away from their home, and I'd only see my kids every other weekend and on occasional weeknights no matter how close I lived. If I live 1.5 hours away in Boston, at least we'd have a chance at life and careers in a bigger city, and it's a drive, not a flight, up to see my kids.
I don't know if this job is right for me (even if I get it), but I love Boston and always have, and at least have a better feeling about the potential of starting over here instead of in Maine. I suppose if I lived here, I wouldn't be getting on airplans to see my kids, but I'd still be the "frequent father." My trips would be in car, buses, and trains, but remaining in my kids' lives would still require a lot of travel, separation, angst, and feelings of hurt and loss. At least it would be cheaper.
Wednesday, March 3, 2010
2,200 Miles
I'm back from a weekend with my kids at my pseudo-apartment in Maine. It was, as expected, simultaneously fun and exhausting, rewarding and depressing, fulfilling and gut-wrenching, et cetera, et cetera. How to even recount the events?
Flight cancelled due to snowstorm in NYC (flying through Newark). Rerouted to Boston, so had to take bus from Boston to Portland, then taxi to get my car, then drive to get the kids just in time for a party on Friday night. Take the kids to get photographed to be "weather kids" in the local newspaper Saturday, then dinner at a friend's house. Sunday school and a cancelled playdate, so many hours spent in the apartment on a cold winter day trying to keep smiles on their faces.
Then came Monday.
My flight was at 2pm, so I thought about trying to get my daughter for a few hours, but decided instead to drop in at the ex's house to ask her once more what, if anything, I could do to convince her to move to Atlanta. Big mistake. The discussion itself, while unpleasant, wasn't awful. Then I found a court document on the counter regarding her lowlife fiance's domestic assault case against his ex-wife from 2006. I asked her what it was about, and she made excuses for it, just as she had when he assaulted her. Then she insisted that she was 100% happy in her life in Maine (in spite of having virtually no support network) and told me to leave. So I kissed my daughter goodbye and headed for the airport, which should have been the end of the story.
But nothing's ever easy for the Frequent Father.
Two hours later, while waiting for my delayed flight (high winds + Dash 8 prop plane = delays), my cellphone rang, with my ex's home number coming up. I didn't answer--something told me that it was her fiance, not her, placing the call. I let the message come up, then listened to it. Yes, it was the fiance. He said that he came home to find her crying (why would that be the case if she were so happy?) and that I should never again upset her. He went on for three minutes, ordering me to never talk to her "like that" again, and that "you don't know who you're dealing with."
The phone rang again, and I let it go to voicemail. It was psycho fiance again, repeating his threats, this time adding, "you don't know what I'm capable of." Then it rang again. This time I picked up, said calmly, "I'm not talking to you," and hung up. Well now I've got his two messages recorded on my computer for safekeeping.
Upon returning to Atlanta, just for curiosity, I googled his name to see if I could find anything about his criminal past...and I found something far juicier. It seems that, not even two weeks ago, he was nabbed for Operating Under the Influence and possession of illegal drugs.
This is all good and well, but now what? My kids are living in a household with an emotionally unstable mother and a a drunk-driving, wife-beating, ex-husband-threatening, nutcase, while I, the responsible, law-abiding parent, lives 1,100 miles away. However, since nothing bad has actually happened to them yet, I doubt the court will do a damned thing about it.
And so it goes for us stupid fathers who go to work every day to provide for our kids while their mothers stay home to care for them. It's all good and well when it works but, as soon as the stay-at-home mother gets bored of the hard-working dad, she just snaps her fingers, and the court says that the kids need continuity, so she gets the kids and the dad can go fuck himself. If I still lived near them, this whole thing would feel like a knife in my heart. Being so far away just serves to make the knife feel just a bit sharper.
Flight cancelled due to snowstorm in NYC (flying through Newark). Rerouted to Boston, so had to take bus from Boston to Portland, then taxi to get my car, then drive to get the kids just in time for a party on Friday night. Take the kids to get photographed to be "weather kids" in the local newspaper Saturday, then dinner at a friend's house. Sunday school and a cancelled playdate, so many hours spent in the apartment on a cold winter day trying to keep smiles on their faces.
Then came Monday.
My flight was at 2pm, so I thought about trying to get my daughter for a few hours, but decided instead to drop in at the ex's house to ask her once more what, if anything, I could do to convince her to move to Atlanta. Big mistake. The discussion itself, while unpleasant, wasn't awful. Then I found a court document on the counter regarding her lowlife fiance's domestic assault case against his ex-wife from 2006. I asked her what it was about, and she made excuses for it, just as she had when he assaulted her. Then she insisted that she was 100% happy in her life in Maine (in spite of having virtually no support network) and told me to leave. So I kissed my daughter goodbye and headed for the airport, which should have been the end of the story.
But nothing's ever easy for the Frequent Father.
Two hours later, while waiting for my delayed flight (high winds + Dash 8 prop plane = delays), my cellphone rang, with my ex's home number coming up. I didn't answer--something told me that it was her fiance, not her, placing the call. I let the message come up, then listened to it. Yes, it was the fiance. He said that he came home to find her crying (why would that be the case if she were so happy?) and that I should never again upset her. He went on for three minutes, ordering me to never talk to her "like that" again, and that "you don't know who you're dealing with."
The phone rang again, and I let it go to voicemail. It was psycho fiance again, repeating his threats, this time adding, "you don't know what I'm capable of." Then it rang again. This time I picked up, said calmly, "I'm not talking to you," and hung up. Well now I've got his two messages recorded on my computer for safekeeping.
Upon returning to Atlanta, just for curiosity, I googled his name to see if I could find anything about his criminal past...and I found something far juicier. It seems that, not even two weeks ago, he was nabbed for Operating Under the Influence and possession of illegal drugs.
This is all good and well, but now what? My kids are living in a household with an emotionally unstable mother and a a drunk-driving, wife-beating, ex-husband-threatening, nutcase, while I, the responsible, law-abiding parent, lives 1,100 miles away. However, since nothing bad has actually happened to them yet, I doubt the court will do a damned thing about it.
And so it goes for us stupid fathers who go to work every day to provide for our kids while their mothers stay home to care for them. It's all good and well when it works but, as soon as the stay-at-home mother gets bored of the hard-working dad, she just snaps her fingers, and the court says that the kids need continuity, so she gets the kids and the dad can go fuck himself. If I still lived near them, this whole thing would feel like a knife in my heart. Being so far away just serves to make the knife feel just a bit sharper.
Thursday, February 25, 2010
Now Boarding
My bag is packed for the shortest long trip I'll ever have to take. Actually, it's the fourth such trip of the year, and it's still February. I am flying out from my new home in suburban Atlanta to spend three short days with my two young children, ages 5.5 and 2.5, who live with their mother 1,100 miles away in Maine. I've been trying to live this impossible life for two months and am already nearing the breaking point.
On the one hand I can't just not see my children, not when they are so young. On the other hand, the routine is taking its toll on me emotionally, physically, and financially. One day I'm ready to drag my new bride and stepdaughter up to Maine, even though my prospects for employment there are dim, at best. The next day I convince myself that it will be OK if I only see my kids once every 2-3 months. The third day I start to believe that this routine of flying up every odd weekend will be fine. By the fourth day, I just crawl into bed and cry.
If you've read this far, then you won't mind hearing the short version of how I came to exist in this pickle.
Ten years ago, while living in Washington, DC and building a promising career I met and fell in love with a pretty, seemingly innocent, recent arrival from Maine. We got engaged, first to each other, and then in a state of warfare with my entire family, who objected not to the marriage, but to our plans for a modest, small-town wedding. Soon after the wedding (which my entire family boycotted), we decided that we couldn't live in the midst of my meddling relatives in the DC area, so we relocated to her hometown, in spite of the fact that neither one of us had a job there.
For the next seven years I struggled and mostly failed to secure a decent living in Maine, subsisting on out-of-state consulting work and then taking a low-paying and wholly unrewarding job as a local bureaucrat. In the meantime, we welcomed two children into the world, first a son in 2004, and then a daughter in 2007. She became a devoted stay-at-home mom, and I went to great lengths to limit my working hours so as to maximize my time with my kids. It wasn't easy, but it was completely worth it.
Soon after the birth of our daughter, two important things happened: 1) we purchased a two-flat apartment building and moved into the first floor unit, and 2) I got a job with an out of state consulting firm that required me to travel frequently. Everything was finally falling into place--we had a very nice home that was made affordable by the rental unit, and I would finally earn a good salary. Our marriage had grown a bit stale, but maybe these things would improve the situation.
There was just one problem. It turned out that the upstairs tenant, an affable, elderly widow with a severe drinking problem and advancing Alzheimer's, had a 41-year old son who sat in his room all day long watching TV, drinking can after can of Budweiser, and smoking. Well this confirmed bum saw the pretty young stay-at-home mother downstairs struggling with her children all day long while her husband was working (and all night long when I had to travel), and he decided to come down from his room. I don't know when exactly the affair began, but by last April when they went to Florida together for the weekend (ostensibly because he was buying an investment property and needed her home-buying advice), the score was clear to me.
She first kicked me out in May, telling me with utterly no emotion that she LOVED me but was no longer IN LOVE with me. I told her that we should at least try counseling, but she refused, saying that she had given me enough years to work things out. She then told me that her upstairs paramour would be moving in as a "roommate" to help pay the bills, as his mother was moving away to live with his sister in Massachusetts, and he needed a place to live. She insisted that they had no romantic relationship, and that she would sleep in a twin bed in our son's room. Right...
I went to a hotel for a week then out to my boss' bayfront house in Wisconsin where I could both work and decompress for a week. During this time, I began speaking with an old flame from Atlanta who had divorced from her ex-husband when their daughter was two, as I didn't know anyone else who had been through divorce with such young kids. I tried to convince myself that she was just a good shoulder to cry on, but my heart was starting to tell me otherwise.
The day before I was to return to Maine, my wife called to tell me that she missed me and wanted me to come back. I was elated--in spite of our distant marriage, the only thing that mattered was being able to live with my kids again. In the intervening 24 hours, her would-be lover showed up at her door drunk at 2am and demanded to talk to her. She told him to leave, but he grabbed her and dragged her into the hallway. She pushed him away long enough to close and lock the door. She called me in the morning to tell me what had happened, and I convinced her to call the police. They arrested him for assault and she got a restraining order against him.
I moved back into my home, so beginning a wonderful family summer, with lazy evenings in the backyard, weekend afternoons at the beach and trips to amusement parks. My wife and I were getting along OK, though I still tried to convince her that we should go into counseling. I shrugged off her refusals, though, as I was having too much fun with my kids. In the meantime, her would-be boyfriend violated his restraining order twice, once for hanging around outside our house and once for calling and leaving a message, and got arrested two more times. I figured he had gotten the message and wouldn't be coming around again. I was wrong.
It occurred to me that there might be trouble again in mid-summer, when my wife said she was going to the gym, a trip that usually took 60-90 minutes, but didn't return for three hours. I asked her where she was and she replied that she just wanted to do an extra-long workout. This happened again the following weekend, with the same result. On the third weekend she returned from "the gym" smelling of cigarettes--I knew something was fishy.
That night, after the kids were in bed, I confronted her about her "long workouts," and then used that and the cigarette smell to accuse her of seeing her lover. She offered a pitch-perfect repeat of her speech from May, this time adding that the whole summer was a charade. She had dropped the restraining order on her boyfriend in June and had decided to get rid of me once and for all. The only reason I was invited back, it seems, was so she and her boyfriend could get their ducks in a row so she could file for divorce and not risk losing custody of the kids to me.
Tired yet? Oh, it's just getting interesting now!
Within the next seven days: 1) She handed me divorce papers, 2) I moved into a furnished one-bedroom apartment a few miles away, 3) her boyfriend moved in with her and my kids, with no pretense of him being just a roommate, 4) I talked for hours each night with my Atlanta flame and realized that I still had feelings for her, 5) made arrangements with said old flame to fix her hair up pretty and meet her in Atlantic City, 6) found out that I was in danger of being laid off from my job. Even leaving pointless hockey and Bruce Springsteen references aside, it was quite a week.
That weekend in Atlantic City, my life changed again, as the in-person meeting confirmed that the love was strong. But what then? I was in Maine with my two kids, and she was in Georgia with her four-year old daughter. By the time we parted ways, we had agreed that we would marry someday and that we'd move wherever I could find work.
Over the next three months, while my divorce case festered in Maine's clogged court system, I scrounged in desperation for any decent job that would keep me in the area. Even in good times, decent work was hard to find in Maine--in this recession, it was hopeless. I spent as much time as I could with my kids, having them over to my little apartment frequently, and even having my son stay there with me on occasion. It wasn't great, but it was becoming OK.
In December, the divorce was sealed, granting me legal custody to have my children every other weekend, plus holidays and extended summer visits. Yippee. I also agreed to a separation with my boss, as work was getting low and my performance was slipping due to my personal catastrophes. I had no place to go now, other than to go down to Atlanta with my fiancee, so she flew up to Maine just after Christmas and we packed up my apartment. I also had the kids with me most of the week.
The day before we were to leave Maine, I was at my apartment with my kids and my fiancee, when there was a knock at the door. It was my newly-minted ex-wife. She was crying, and asked me to step outside to talk. She looked like she'd been hurt--maybe her boyfriend had hit her? I asked her if he had, but she said no. She then said something like, "I made a terrible mistake in divorcing you. I'm not going to lie to you--I'm not in love with you, but I'm in love with our family. I've been so miserable this week without the kids, and I realized that I missed you too. I feel so guilty that you're leaving town. I don't want you to go."
I replied, "Are you asking me to come back?"
"If you want."
"What about your boyfriend?"
"He can be gone by tonight."
I looked at her for a second. This was it--my last chance to stay with my kids. All I had to do was think of the betrayal that she'd inflicted upon me, and I simply said, "Leave. Go home. I'll bring the kids by later."
Three hours later when I dropped off the kids, she was all smiles. I asked her if she was OK, and she cheerfully answered, "Yep. We talked things out, and he's going to make some changes." The next morning I left Maine behind. Now, two months later, I have started a job (albeit part-time) in Atlanta, but have flown back to Maine every other weekend to see my kids. I have rented another apartment there that I'm only using for two weekends per month, but it beats hotel rooms. I am now remarried to my old/new love, and we are trying to build a new life.
And so the ending seems happy, right? I found a new love, a new job, and I'm working to rebuild my life in a new city. But there is the small matter of the toll this is all taking on me--each month I spent more than $1,000 in rent, airfare, and taxi fare just to have a few days with my kids, not to mention spending a whole day (6 hours, 4 times per month) just to travel back and forth, the emotional strain of knowing that my kids live so very far away, and the thought that they aren't even getting to see my new, happier life. When I see them, it's just me--they aren't going to feel like they're part of my new family at all.
Why have I made all of this public? It's quite simple--I've asked counselors, friends, and total strangers if they know of any books or websites offering any sort of support for people in my situation, but they've all said no. I know there are other fathers out there who, for whatever reason, live far from their kids. I know I'm not the only one dealing with the guilt, anger, sadness, and emptiness that goes along with this lifestyle.
I don't know if my kids will ever understand or appreciate how much I love them, nor do I know if they will understand why I've had to move away from them. Their mother, who cheated on me and willfully destroyed our family, has them most of the time and gets to look like the good guy, while I, who is simply trying to weather the storm, feel like an ass for moving away.
As I fly out tomorrow morning, I'll be earning another 2,200 Frequent Father Miles. This blog will follow me as I continue to accrue them. I may not earn free trips or hotel rooms with these miles, but seeing my kids is the only perk I really need or expect. If you are a fellow traveler, I'd love to hear your stories too.
On the one hand I can't just not see my children, not when they are so young. On the other hand, the routine is taking its toll on me emotionally, physically, and financially. One day I'm ready to drag my new bride and stepdaughter up to Maine, even though my prospects for employment there are dim, at best. The next day I convince myself that it will be OK if I only see my kids once every 2-3 months. The third day I start to believe that this routine of flying up every odd weekend will be fine. By the fourth day, I just crawl into bed and cry.
If you've read this far, then you won't mind hearing the short version of how I came to exist in this pickle.
Ten years ago, while living in Washington, DC and building a promising career I met and fell in love with a pretty, seemingly innocent, recent arrival from Maine. We got engaged, first to each other, and then in a state of warfare with my entire family, who objected not to the marriage, but to our plans for a modest, small-town wedding. Soon after the wedding (which my entire family boycotted), we decided that we couldn't live in the midst of my meddling relatives in the DC area, so we relocated to her hometown, in spite of the fact that neither one of us had a job there.
For the next seven years I struggled and mostly failed to secure a decent living in Maine, subsisting on out-of-state consulting work and then taking a low-paying and wholly unrewarding job as a local bureaucrat. In the meantime, we welcomed two children into the world, first a son in 2004, and then a daughter in 2007. She became a devoted stay-at-home mom, and I went to great lengths to limit my working hours so as to maximize my time with my kids. It wasn't easy, but it was completely worth it.
Soon after the birth of our daughter, two important things happened: 1) we purchased a two-flat apartment building and moved into the first floor unit, and 2) I got a job with an out of state consulting firm that required me to travel frequently. Everything was finally falling into place--we had a very nice home that was made affordable by the rental unit, and I would finally earn a good salary. Our marriage had grown a bit stale, but maybe these things would improve the situation.
There was just one problem. It turned out that the upstairs tenant, an affable, elderly widow with a severe drinking problem and advancing Alzheimer's, had a 41-year old son who sat in his room all day long watching TV, drinking can after can of Budweiser, and smoking. Well this confirmed bum saw the pretty young stay-at-home mother downstairs struggling with her children all day long while her husband was working (and all night long when I had to travel), and he decided to come down from his room. I don't know when exactly the affair began, but by last April when they went to Florida together for the weekend (ostensibly because he was buying an investment property and needed her home-buying advice), the score was clear to me.
She first kicked me out in May, telling me with utterly no emotion that she LOVED me but was no longer IN LOVE with me. I told her that we should at least try counseling, but she refused, saying that she had given me enough years to work things out. She then told me that her upstairs paramour would be moving in as a "roommate" to help pay the bills, as his mother was moving away to live with his sister in Massachusetts, and he needed a place to live. She insisted that they had no romantic relationship, and that she would sleep in a twin bed in our son's room. Right...
I went to a hotel for a week then out to my boss' bayfront house in Wisconsin where I could both work and decompress for a week. During this time, I began speaking with an old flame from Atlanta who had divorced from her ex-husband when their daughter was two, as I didn't know anyone else who had been through divorce with such young kids. I tried to convince myself that she was just a good shoulder to cry on, but my heart was starting to tell me otherwise.
The day before I was to return to Maine, my wife called to tell me that she missed me and wanted me to come back. I was elated--in spite of our distant marriage, the only thing that mattered was being able to live with my kids again. In the intervening 24 hours, her would-be lover showed up at her door drunk at 2am and demanded to talk to her. She told him to leave, but he grabbed her and dragged her into the hallway. She pushed him away long enough to close and lock the door. She called me in the morning to tell me what had happened, and I convinced her to call the police. They arrested him for assault and she got a restraining order against him.
I moved back into my home, so beginning a wonderful family summer, with lazy evenings in the backyard, weekend afternoons at the beach and trips to amusement parks. My wife and I were getting along OK, though I still tried to convince her that we should go into counseling. I shrugged off her refusals, though, as I was having too much fun with my kids. In the meantime, her would-be boyfriend violated his restraining order twice, once for hanging around outside our house and once for calling and leaving a message, and got arrested two more times. I figured he had gotten the message and wouldn't be coming around again. I was wrong.
It occurred to me that there might be trouble again in mid-summer, when my wife said she was going to the gym, a trip that usually took 60-90 minutes, but didn't return for three hours. I asked her where she was and she replied that she just wanted to do an extra-long workout. This happened again the following weekend, with the same result. On the third weekend she returned from "the gym" smelling of cigarettes--I knew something was fishy.
That night, after the kids were in bed, I confronted her about her "long workouts," and then used that and the cigarette smell to accuse her of seeing her lover. She offered a pitch-perfect repeat of her speech from May, this time adding that the whole summer was a charade. She had dropped the restraining order on her boyfriend in June and had decided to get rid of me once and for all. The only reason I was invited back, it seems, was so she and her boyfriend could get their ducks in a row so she could file for divorce and not risk losing custody of the kids to me.
Tired yet? Oh, it's just getting interesting now!
Within the next seven days: 1) She handed me divorce papers, 2) I moved into a furnished one-bedroom apartment a few miles away, 3) her boyfriend moved in with her and my kids, with no pretense of him being just a roommate, 4) I talked for hours each night with my Atlanta flame and realized that I still had feelings for her, 5) made arrangements with said old flame to fix her hair up pretty and meet her in Atlantic City, 6) found out that I was in danger of being laid off from my job. Even leaving pointless hockey and Bruce Springsteen references aside, it was quite a week.
That weekend in Atlantic City, my life changed again, as the in-person meeting confirmed that the love was strong. But what then? I was in Maine with my two kids, and she was in Georgia with her four-year old daughter. By the time we parted ways, we had agreed that we would marry someday and that we'd move wherever I could find work.
Over the next three months, while my divorce case festered in Maine's clogged court system, I scrounged in desperation for any decent job that would keep me in the area. Even in good times, decent work was hard to find in Maine--in this recession, it was hopeless. I spent as much time as I could with my kids, having them over to my little apartment frequently, and even having my son stay there with me on occasion. It wasn't great, but it was becoming OK.
In December, the divorce was sealed, granting me legal custody to have my children every other weekend, plus holidays and extended summer visits. Yippee. I also agreed to a separation with my boss, as work was getting low and my performance was slipping due to my personal catastrophes. I had no place to go now, other than to go down to Atlanta with my fiancee, so she flew up to Maine just after Christmas and we packed up my apartment. I also had the kids with me most of the week.
The day before we were to leave Maine, I was at my apartment with my kids and my fiancee, when there was a knock at the door. It was my newly-minted ex-wife. She was crying, and asked me to step outside to talk. She looked like she'd been hurt--maybe her boyfriend had hit her? I asked her if he had, but she said no. She then said something like, "I made a terrible mistake in divorcing you. I'm not going to lie to you--I'm not in love with you, but I'm in love with our family. I've been so miserable this week without the kids, and I realized that I missed you too. I feel so guilty that you're leaving town. I don't want you to go."
I replied, "Are you asking me to come back?"
"If you want."
"What about your boyfriend?"
"He can be gone by tonight."
I looked at her for a second. This was it--my last chance to stay with my kids. All I had to do was think of the betrayal that she'd inflicted upon me, and I simply said, "Leave. Go home. I'll bring the kids by later."
Three hours later when I dropped off the kids, she was all smiles. I asked her if she was OK, and she cheerfully answered, "Yep. We talked things out, and he's going to make some changes." The next morning I left Maine behind. Now, two months later, I have started a job (albeit part-time) in Atlanta, but have flown back to Maine every other weekend to see my kids. I have rented another apartment there that I'm only using for two weekends per month, but it beats hotel rooms. I am now remarried to my old/new love, and we are trying to build a new life.
And so the ending seems happy, right? I found a new love, a new job, and I'm working to rebuild my life in a new city. But there is the small matter of the toll this is all taking on me--each month I spent more than $1,000 in rent, airfare, and taxi fare just to have a few days with my kids, not to mention spending a whole day (6 hours, 4 times per month) just to travel back and forth, the emotional strain of knowing that my kids live so very far away, and the thought that they aren't even getting to see my new, happier life. When I see them, it's just me--they aren't going to feel like they're part of my new family at all.
Why have I made all of this public? It's quite simple--I've asked counselors, friends, and total strangers if they know of any books or websites offering any sort of support for people in my situation, but they've all said no. I know there are other fathers out there who, for whatever reason, live far from their kids. I know I'm not the only one dealing with the guilt, anger, sadness, and emptiness that goes along with this lifestyle.
I don't know if my kids will ever understand or appreciate how much I love them, nor do I know if they will understand why I've had to move away from them. Their mother, who cheated on me and willfully destroyed our family, has them most of the time and gets to look like the good guy, while I, who is simply trying to weather the storm, feel like an ass for moving away.
As I fly out tomorrow morning, I'll be earning another 2,200 Frequent Father Miles. This blog will follow me as I continue to accrue them. I may not earn free trips or hotel rooms with these miles, but seeing my kids is the only perk I really need or expect. If you are a fellow traveler, I'd love to hear your stories too.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
