94,000 Miles

Well, it's 2014, and I'm still waiting for the verdict that will determine my children's future.  The court hearing in December began with the judge saying that she wanted to appoint a guardian ad litem (or GAL in legal-speak) to investigate the case, but that she was willing to hear our testimony just for kicks.  So I got to take the stand, where I related my story to the court, telling the judge (100% truthfully) that I had only brought this action as a last resort after my ex-wife refused to do anything to protect our kids from the dangerous drunk living in their home.  I fielded the predictable accusations from her attorney of being a bully and a meanie, and then asked him if he would be concerned if his child had been sent to the ER.  He was speechless.

My ex, as she will do, proceeded to steal the show.  Without any emotion whatsoever she admitted that her husband still consumed alcohol on a regular basis (in direct contradiction to her prior statements and countermotion), but that--get this--was engaging in a NIH-sanctioned practice known as "low-risk drinking."*  She did not acknowledge at any time that his drinking was dangerous in any way to our kids.  She then talked about how she "lived in fear" of my harassment, namely my "constant threats" of taking her to court.  For the record, I haven't threatened to take her to court; rather I have actually taken her to court when she demonstrated that she would never shield our kids from a drunk.

*I researched this after the hearing, and low-risk drinking is a regimen aimed at preventing casual drinkers from becoming alcoholics.  It consists simply of limiting yourself to no more than four drinks** in a day or 14 in a week.

**One "drink" is equivalent to eight ounces of regular-strength beer.  Her husband favors 40-ounce malt liquor, which is equivalent to six drinks.  If he even has one of these in a day, he's over the "low-risk" threshold, and I'm quite certain he has at least 2-3 per day.

Anyhow, after all of this, the judge did what she said she would do, and appointed a GAL, the same one who had investigated our case three years earlier.  The GAL was hired (costing me nearly $3,000) and he traveled to Virginia during Christmas break, so he could observe what life was like in my home for my kids.  The GAL's visit couldn't have gone any better.  It was a warm sunny day, and my kids were outside playing with the other kids in the neighborhood, looking like happy, well-adjusted kids who would do just fine if they lived here.  My mom even came over and make cake pops, so the playing was followed by a stream of neighborhood kids coming into our house to enjoy them.

More importantly, I had about an hour to drive him around and show him the local area, then drive him to his hotel.  During this time he told me candidly that my ex-wife had filed for divorce from her husband, but that he thought that was a stunt, and that she would likely keep him in her life no matter what a legal document would say.  He then asked me to tell him what sort of visitation I would want her to have if I had primary residential rights.  I told him that I wanted her to be in the kids' lives, as it would be good for them, but that I would want her to go through a parenting class and counseling before she would be granted regular visitation.  He nodded and said that seemed fair.

In short, I came away from his visit believing that he was ready to grant my request.  I'm not counting chickens yet, but the questions he asked and the things he said all pointed to him being appalled at my ex's pattern of denial and irresponsibility, and ready to remove the kids from her home.

*        *        *

The rest of the visit was as it ever was--a lot of fun in a very small amount of time, followed by a long day of travel and a hasty goodbye.  I did not and have not told my kids about what is going on, but I sense that they are aware of what could happen, and they seem to be embracing that my home is their home too.  They have each taken ownership of their rooms here and, more importantly, my daughter did not cry even once for her mommy during the visit, which is a first.

And now all I can do is wait.  The GAL is set to complete his report in the next 30 days, and a court hearing will be scheduled immediately thereafter.  In theory, my kids could be living here with me by the time Spring begins, but it could also be delayed or--worse yet--the judge could rule that my ex has done enough by removing the drunk and divorcing him, so the kids can stay with her.  In any case, it's been a terrible struggle for me to continue to go about my daily business under these conditions, with so much up in the air. 

I have been afraid to sit down at my computer and write about all of these goings, because it's just been easier to not think about it.  But, really, it's all I can think about, as nothing matters to me more than my children's safety and well-being.  I am hoping that my next entry will herald the end of my Frequent Father days, but I am not letting myself believe that, at least not until the GAL report has been issued.  There will be plenty to digest and dissect at that point.

91,000 Miles

Another 1,000 miles have been added to the frequentfatherometer, and it seemed like just another routine three-day weekend.  My wife and stepdaughter came along this time, so it was five of us crammed into a hotel room, enjoying the free buffet, the indoor pool, running around on the beach in spite of the cold weather, and even a jaunt down to Boston for the afternoon.  It was, as always, wonderful to have some time with my kids, but sad to say goodbye to them for a while.  The difference this time was the thing in the air, the thing we can't discuss, the specter that is haunting everyone.

The custody case.

It's been 2.5 weeks since the prior hearing, and it will be another 2.5 weeks until the next (and hopefully final) one.  I have hit new lows emotionally and mentally during this period, often unable to work, think, speak, or be around other people.  My nightly phone calls with my kids have been a burden, as I am so depressed I can barely converse with them.  In short, I am paralyzed by the way things are, and am absolutely frightened at the prospect of being told "no thanks" by the judge.

I am trying my best not to think about that potential outcome, but I can't.  I know it is very possible that the court will conclude that removing the alcoholic from the home will take care of the problem, and then give my ex one more chance to prove that she can be a responsible parent.  It's equally possible that the judge will conclude that she needs to know more about me and my lifestyle before transferring custody, which would mean appointing a guardian ad litem who would then spend several months and several thousand dollars investigating my life.  That may be the worst outcome of all: more waiting and more money that I don't have.

Being back in Maine for three days was harder than ever.  First off, I hate November in Maine--the trees are barren, the sun goes down before 5:00, and the permanent midnight of the Maine winter is beginning to set in.  Second, I felt myself feeling like telling my kids what I was doing and why I was doing it, but I know that I can't put them in the middle of this.  Finally, and most importantly, I found myself looking around, knowing in my heart that, if the judge says they have to stay where they are, I will have no choice but to come back to this place, where everything reminds me of failure, of the nine years of my life that I wasted there, of the stupid decisions that led me there.

In 16 days I will be back in the courtroom again.  I get three hours to prove to this judge that my kids need to be with me.  Those three hours will, for better or worse, permanently alter the course of my life and my kids' lives.  As much as I want that day to come, I dread it as well.  Either way, it is going to be a momentous day, one that will replay in my mind for the rest of my life.  I am in no way ready for it, but really, how could I be?

90,000 Miles

I'll get the good news out of the way.  I went to court two days ago and the judge ordered the irresponsible drunk stepfather out of the house by 4:00 p.m. the next day.  Now he is presumably gone, and my kids will no longer be in danger from his presence.  I have shared this news with many people--my wife, my mother, other friends and family members--and they all have told me that this is "great" or "wonderful" or that I should be "happy" about it.  Instead, I have really never felt worse in my entire life that I do today.  Let's consider.

My son went to the E.R. 56 days ago.
I hired a P.I. three days later.
The P.I. documented the continuing alcohol abuse in the house within a week.
I hired an attorney and she prepared an emergency custody motion within two days.
It took a week to serve my ex-wife, get her to acknowledge service, and file the motion at the court.
It took more than two weeks just to hear from the court as to whether or not they would grant an emergency hearing.
They granted the hearing, but set it for another three weeks down the road.
The hearing was limited to 90 minutes, and the judge was 15 minutes late, leaving just 75 minutes.
The first witness--my ex's neighbor--wasted half the hearing with a bad amnesia act that caused the judge to warn her about perjury, and most of the rest of the time was taken up by the P.I. telling the court what she had actually said to him a few weeks earlier.
The judge concluded that there was no doubt that the stepfather was still abusing alcohol on the property, and asked the attorneys to come to her chambers to discuss how to remove him from the property
They remained in chambers for the rest of the 75 minutes.
When they came out, the judge ordered my ex to obtain a "criminal trespassing order" that bars her own husband from being on her property.  The judge also warned her that the court would hold her responsible for making sure that the guy stayed gone.
The judge set a date for the continuation of the hearing...36 days later.
And....scene.

So there it was--my day in court.  I spent hundreds of dollars on plane tickets for myself and my wife, a rental car, and meals (we thankfully stayed with a friend for free), thousands of dollars on a P.I. and an attorney, got dressed up, planned what I would say and do, and then all I did was sit there and do nothing, while the above kabuki act played out before my eyes.

Now it's going to be another five weeks of waiting, waiting, waiting, and waiting.  My next visit with my kids will pass next weekend (yes, another trip to Maine), another Thanksgiving will go by without them, as my ex gets them for odd-numbered years, and then I'm supposed to get an actual three-hour hearing, at which my children's future will ostensibly be decided.  In the meantime I have to wonder whether or not my ex will actually take the court order seriously this time and keep her drunk husband out of the picture.  I have no faith that she will do this, so I have told several of her neighbors what has happened and that they need to call me and/or the police if they see him hanging around.  I also don't know what she's going to tell the kids--I'm sure she will say something like "Your daddy is mean and made him leave."  It wouldn't be the first time.

I got back to Virginia late last night, and slept for 12 hours.  I know I should be at least a little bit happy about removing the drunk from my kids' home, and maybe even from seeing my ex in tears afterwards--she finally got a consequence for her bad behavior!  But I'm not--I'm just paralyzed with fear, exasperation, and anxiety, and just want to sit in a dark room by myself.  The nightmare isn't over and, given the ridiculousness of the family courts in Maine, I still have no faith that anything is really going to change in 35 days.

My ex's attorney will argue that it will be too traumatic to remove the kids from their mother and their community, and that there is no threat to them with the stepfather gone.  He will make me out to be the big bad wolf, trying to steal the kids from their loving mother.  He will impugn my character and accuse me of stalking and harassing her, and I am going to have to try my best to not scream at him.  It's not going to be a lot of fun, and I am already sick to my stomach about it.

Worst of all, I have the next 35 days and nights to ponder what may happen, and think myself sick with the horrible possibilities.  I just want to rip off the bandage already--I am tired of slowly tearing at it day after day.  I know it's going to be bad, because I really don't feel any better after spending the past hour writing all this.  I almost always feel better after writing, but it's just not happening this time.

More to come.

89,000 Miles, approaching the Mixing Bowl

Three Thursdays ago, at about 11:30 p.m., I was awakened by the telephone.  I rolled over after the second ring, but couldn't get myself out of bed and over to my dresser to answer the phone before it went to voicemail.  As soon as the voicemail notification popped up, I listened to the message.  It was from my ex-wife, informing me that she had just returned home from the E.R. with our son, but that he was OK.

She went explain that the whole incident occurred when my son got home from football practice and her (irresponsible drunk) husband tried to help him take off his cleats.  It seems that her (irresponsible drunk) husband has a device on his leg called an external fixator--this horrible contraption holds his leg together as a result of his recent (irresponsible drunk) trip to the E.R. resulting from him falling off of a curb and shattering his tibia.  Anyhow, when my son's foot popped out of his cleat, his leg swung downward, directly into one of the five-inch long rods protruding from the fixator on the leg of his (irresponsible drunk) stepfather.  His leg was impaled an inch deep into this awful thing, and he needed six stitches to repair the laceration.

I called her right back but she didn't answer.  I called again in the morning to ask how our son was doing, and, while I was relieved to hear that he was recovering, I was furious about what had happened and that she waited several hours to tell me about it.  I asked her if her husband was drunk at the time of the incident and, of course, she denied it and got indignant at me for even asking.  She then handed off the phone to my son, and I talked to him.  He was upset by the incident, but he stood strong and told me he would be right back on his feet, and so he was.  He only missed one football game, and was back on the field the next weekend, when I came up to see him play.

So it would seem that everything turned out OK--my son was hurt, but recovered quickly, and seems to bear no mental scars from the incident.  He was very lucky to have not severed an artery or developed an infection--this surely could have been much worse.  I thought about the incident a lot for the next day or two.  Yes, it was an accident, one that I suppose could have happened to anyone.  But the more I thought about it, the more I came to realize that this incident was the direct product of living with an irresponsible drunk.  The guy had this contraption on his leg in the first place because he fell while drunk.  Furthermore, if a clear-headed adult had something like this on his leg, he would be more careful when helping a kid take off his shoes.

I got angrier and angrier just thinking about it.  This was it: the crossroads.  This was where I had to decide whether or not I was going to make a stand against my ex-wife's denial and deception and protect my kids not only from their (irresponsible drunk) stepfather, but from their (stupid stupid stupid) mother.

The next day I called my attorney, and asked her point blank, "if I can prove that the guy was drunk during this incident, can I get custody?"  She didn't guarantee it, but she said that I would have a very strong case.  She referred me to a private investigator, and told me that, if I hired him, he would find out "more than you think he will."  The P.I. proved her right--he interviewed a couple of neighbors, who confirmed that the guy still drinks malt liquor all day long, is often verbally abusive towards both my ex and the kids, and often passes out in the garage or on the lawn.  He also heard from one neighbor that my ex had come over to her house in tears a few months earlier, telling her that she couldn't control her husband's drinking and that she didn't know what to do.

Game, set, and match.  The guy is always drunk, and she clearly knows it.  I met with my attorney that Friday, right before picking up my kids for the weekend.  Two days later, after dropping them off, I went to her office and signed the custody motion.  I missed my flight home and got stuck overnight in Boston, but I wasn't even upset about it, because I knew I was doing the right thing.

I only wish that this newfound inner peace would carry me through the present and the immediate future, but there are too many other things eating away at me.  First off, my ex wasted no time dumping this on the kids.  The very day she got served, during my nightly phone call, my daughter got on the phone and told me, "I don't like the letter you sent to Mommy." At first I didn't know what she meant, so I asked her, and she answered, "You know, you told her that you want me to come stay with you forever.  I don't like that."  I kept my composure and told her, "I wish Mommy hadn't told you about that. That's really between Mommy and me."  I simply can't believe that she would burden a six year old with this sort of information, but I guess I shouldn't be surprised by anything she does anymore.

Second, my current lifestyle continues to fall well short of being satisfying.  I've begun counseling with my wife, and think that the therapist is good, but I still don't think that she is ever going to fully accept that she is in control of her own life.  My job is proving to be far less interesting or rewarding than I thought it would be, and I find myself daydreaming about doing something else.  I am still having trouble socializing and trying to make or retain friends, as I am consumed by anxiety.

Most of all, I have now put my children's futures, and my own, in the hands of the Maine District Court, the same court that refused my plea to remove the (irresponsible drunk) guy from my kids' lives two years ago.  Maybe, in light of the new evidence and my far more ambitious request, I will get what I want this time around, but then I worry about whether or not I actually want it.  As much as I love my kids, I worry a great deal about the impact of taking them away from their mother and depositing them into a new life just like that.  I know people always say that kids are adaptable, but I can't imagine having your whole world altered like that.  I suppose that's why I have resisted doing this for the past four years.

But now it's happening.  I am reasonably sure that this will end up with one of two scenarios.  If I do get custody, I will retrieve the kids and set about adjusting to a new reality.  If I don't, then I have to assume that my kids will be staying in Maine until they grow up, and I will most likely go back there again, as much as I hate it there.  After this latest incident, I simply can't imagine staying so far away from them, totally unable to help them or be there to protect them from the dangers in their own home.

Either way, my days as the Frequent Father are most likely nearing their end.  Just typing these words makes my heart leap.  The emptiness, pain, and emotional trauma that I've experienced over the past four years has pushed me to places I'd never been before, and hope to never go again.  I know that many long-distance parents make peace with their situations and embrace the fact that their children will love them no matter what.  Knowing that there is an irresponsible drunk in my children's home--and that their mother will never do anything about it--I simply have not, and can not come to that sort of acceptance. 

I have now proceeded through the crossroads, but am not yet sure which road I'm on.  I can't help but think of the so-called "Mixing Bowl" interchange, just a few miles from my house in Northern Virginia, where three interstate highways and several surface streets all come together.  As you approach it, a jumble of layered ramps 10 stories tall lead in all directions, disorienting even those who drive through it every day.  I have gotten on a ramp, but I don't really know where it will lead or how long it will take to get there.  The only certainty is that, once I come out the other side, I will no longer be the Frequent Father, I'll just be Dad. 

That's really all I ever hoped to be.

88,000 miles and idling in the driveway

There haven't been any more frequent father miles added in the past 3+ weeks, but the tickets are already purchased for the next two trips, one in mid-September and one in early November.  Six short days spread over two visits--that's all I'm going to get with my kids until Christmas, as this is their mother gets them for Thanksgiving in odd-numbered years. The mere fact that I have already purchased the tickets and made hotel and rental car reservations is a sign of progress.  In the past, my anxiety has been such that I haven't been able to commit myself to buying the tickets until it's often too late.  The result of my procrastination has typically been that plane tickets get so expensive that I have to do some creative travel gymnastics, like taking overnight buses or trains, or flying back home at 5:45 a.m. on Monday morning.  Thankfully there won't be any of those this time around.

As with last August my wife decamped for two weeks in Atlanta with her daughter; they arrive back in Virginia in about two hours.  I'm not sure exactly why they need to make this trip.  On the surface, it's for my stepdaughter to spend time with her mostly useless father, but all he's able to spare for her is a few hours on Tuesday and Sunday afternoons.  Even though my wife has gone as far as to offer him use of our house and car for a few days if he comes to visit here, he has never come up to see his daughter, and I'm sure he never will.  When I think of all I do to maintain my relationship with my kids it makes me viscerally angry at the guy for not giving two sheep about his daughter.  I guess he'll pay for that when she grows up and hates his guts.

So why is she there if not for that?  She says it's so her family can see her daughter, but we were just there for a week two months ago.  Then she says it's because her mom and aunt are getting older and sicker, but: 1) they don't seem any different to me; and 2) they could come to visit us here, as they both have all the free time in the world.  In truth it's just that, at 39, she still doesn't see herself as a grown-up, because her mother and three older sisters will always treat her as such.  She simply can't live her own adult life independent of her family.

She proved that fact in spades during her time away.  The first day she was gone, she told me that she had registered a positive pregnancy test.  She had already been pregnant twice before since we've been back together, with both ending in miscarriages within 8 weeks.  In both instances she had, against my wishes, gone and told her whole family, thus creating expectations.  My thinking has always been to not tell anyone until after the first trimester, lest there be an issue.  The fact that it had happened twice before, I think, validates my point of view.  Anyhow, there it was.  She tested positive, I told her not to tell anyone, and she said OK.

A few days later we were talking about it, and she was telling me that she was feeling very tired and nauseous, and was "worried" about what her family would think.  I told her that it really wasn't their beeswax, as people are allowed to get sick.  I could tell in her voice what was really going on--she had obviously spilled the beans.  I asked her about it and she said that, yes, she had told her mother.  She then went on to say that she had already told her mother several days earlier, and had lied to me when I had asked her if she had told anyone.  Apparently her mother found out before I did; she screamed in the bathroom after testing positive, and her mother asked if she was OK, so she told her the news.

No big deal, right?  Her mother inadvertently found out, and that should have been that.  But, no, she had to lie to me about where things stood.  As I see it, she decided to protect her mother, rather than our marriage.  Up until this point I was actually doing OK during my time alone--I was certainly doing better than my two weeks alone last August when I ended up in the ER and almost checked myself into the psych ward.  But then, what?  My wife had just clearly demonstrated to me that our marriage did not and would never come first to her, that her relationship with her own family would always take precedence.

I have been alone with this thought eating away at me for the past week, and it has sent me back into a depression.  Aside from going to work, taking a bike ride with a childhood friend, and my daily phone calls to my kids, I have had no contact with anyone else in the past week.  I haven't attempted to make any plans with anyone, and I've mostly just moped around the house.  I have spoken very infrequently on the phone to my wife, and have told her that she is on notice--one more lie or betrayal of my trust, and I'll be serving her with divorce papers. 

I'm not sure if I mean that or not, but I think I do.  I have come to the realization that, for all of my defiance about not wanting to ever go back to Maine, my marriage enables me to go on living away from my kids.  Having a house, a wife, a stepdaughter, and an extended family, gives me something to hang on to.  During my time alone I have thought a lot about what I would even do if I really did get divorced, and it has become clear that I would have to go back to Maine.  If I'm going to be on my own, then why should I pretend that it's OK to be so far from my kids?  Part of the reason why we settled on Virginia, as opposed to further north, is that it's an awful lot closer to Atlanta than is Maine.

Oh, and it turned out she wasn't actually pregnant; she had something called a "chemical pregnancy," in which the egg gets fertilized but never implants.  When my wife told me this, I asked her, "well, now, don't you feel silly for telling your mother?"  She did.  I hope her mother didn't start knitting any baby blankets in the intervening week.

So we are going to go see a counselor.  I will tell the counselor that I feel like my wife is, and always will be married to her birth family.  My wife will tell the counselor that she recognizes that, and that she is going to make some changes.  We will get on with our lives, and then the next time her family breathes on her, she will stand at attention, just like always.  I know she loves me and part of her wants to truly embrace our marriage, but I just don't think she's capable of drawing real boundaries with her family.  At some point I am either going to have to just accept that I love her most of the time, in spite of her shortcomings, or say enough is enough, pack up my life, and start all over again, again.

None of this has much to do with being a long-distance parent, I guess, but it all certainly adds more unwanted stress and drama to my already overstressed and overdramatized existence.  At least I am not fixated on my ex-wife for once, which is a good thing.  Onward...

88,000 Miles

This summer put a lot of miles on the frequentfatherometer, which I'll get to.  I only got five weeks this year, not by choice, but due to my ex-wife's unique combination of dishonesty and inflexibility.  The divorce judgment grants me visitation "beginning one week after the end of the school year and ending on the first Saturday in August."  Last year that was six weeks.  I wasn't so lucky this year.

This year, the school calendar showed that school would end on a Wednesday in June, so I asked if I could get them on the following Sunday, but my ex refused, saying "that's not a week...you can wait until the following Wednesday."  Of course she knows that I can't come to get them in the middle of the week, so I made plans to get them 10 days later, on the ensuing Saturday.  Well imagine my surprise when, three weeks before the school year ends, my son tells me on the phone that school would be ending two days early, on a Monday, as there were two fewer snow days than expected (global warming again?)  I then asked my ex if I could get them on the following Sunday, since that was six days after school ended, and she breezily refused, saying I could come on Monday.  Well, I suppose I could have done that, but I am new at my job and can't just blow off days, so I gritted my teeth and kept to the plan.

So five weeks it was, but being the Frequent Father, I had to pack everything into that amount of time.  The rundown:
Fly to Maine to get kids
Fly to Atlanta for July 4th week with my wife's family, gamely attempt to work while a hired babysitter watches six kids upstairs.
Drive back to Virginia, put the kids in day camp for three weeks, try to work, but leave early every day so as to not miss out on any fun with the kids.  Go swimming nearly every night, and take lots of fun field trips on weekends.
Fly to Orlando for a week at Disney World, the first time my kids have been there, and hopefully fill them with a desire to see the real world, the one beyond their mother's bubble.
Fly back to Maine, arriving at their mother's house at midnight, because she didn't want to pick them up at the airport, citing her fear of driving at night.
Take the first flight home in the morning after three hours of sleep, and feel jet-lagged in spite of never leaving Eastern Daylight Time.

And then...what?  My credit card bill just came, with the tab for all of this fun now coming due.  I consider it the price of getting on with my life.  If I had stayed in Maine, I'd be making half (or less) of what I'm making in Virginia.  I have calculated that the Frequent Father lifestyle costs roughly one-third of the difference, leaving me the rest to have a nice home for my kids--as opposed to the two-room divorce apartment I had in Maine--and to save for their future.  The financial side is under control.

It's everything else that has me up early in the morning to spill more virtual ink.  I worry about the world of insulation and isolation that my ex has constructed around my children, a world in which they go to third-world schools that can't give them what they need, never go more than five miles from home, never have playdates, never have excitement, and never get to see anything new.  I worry about my ex's psychotic quest to breastfeed my daughter until she hits puberty (made far worse by the fact that she obviously pumped every day over the past five weeks to keep the flow going...that's just unfathomable).  Most of all, I worry about the stinking drunk SOB who still lives with them, and what he's going to do someday when he's in a bad mood.

As for me, the odometer keeps rising, but I'm not sure if I'm getting anywhere.  On paper, I should be content.  Four years ago I was stuck in a backward small town with a dead-end career, few friends, and a bad marriage to a controlling tyrant.  Now I am living in a big city, with a great job, a nice home, a bright future, and married to my long-lost love.  Two and a half years ago, in the depths of my depression, I made a list of things I want to change in my life before turning 40.  Well, I turn 40 this coming weekend, and it turns out that I've accomplished most of those changes.  But so long as my kids live 500 miles away under the iron fist of their demented mother, I'll always struggle to move forward.  No matter how many miles I travel in the right direction, this way of life will always cause me to spin my wheels.

Nevertheless, I guess another year of Frequent Father adventures awaits.  As with each year before, I will hope and pray that this is the last year of living this way, that next year my kids will be unpacking their suitcases and decorating their rooms in Daddy's house, getting ready for the school year.  I know it's not healthy to have such thoughts, but I can't help it.  Well, there's no point to it anyhow, so all I can do is prepare myself for the long year and the thousands of miles ahead.

83,050 Miles (at the beginning, more by the end)

I am writing this from Amtrak train #66, AKA the redeye train.  It left Washington about 45 minutes ago, and we are a few miles north of Baltimore now.  I had planned to take advantage of the on-board WiFi to continue my binge-watching of Arrested Development Season 4 (eight down, seven to go), but apparently Amtrak bars users from streaming video sites to conserve bandwidth or some such.  It's 11:15 at night, and there are 8 hours and 45 minutes to go before arriving in Boston.  I'd like to go to sleep right now, but I need to use my brain for a while, I guess, so here goes.

I've pretty much gotten to and from Maine in every conceivable way.  I usually fly, sometimes to Portland, sometimes to Manchester, sometimes to Boston, and even to White Plains, NY once, due to ancillary travel.  I've driven.  I've taken the Megabus.  Now I'm doing the overnight train, which saves a lot of money relative to flying, and eliminates needing a hotel room tonight.  We'll see if I actually sleep.

This weekend is, in all likelihood, my daughter's last ever ballet recital.  She has, at 5.5 years old, decided that she wants to be a rock star and, as such, has asked for a guitar for her birthday and to stop ballet & tap and instead do hip hop so she can learn the moves.  I'll be there smiling and probably crying, which I know is more than many long distance parents get to do.  She also has a t-ball game the next morning, followed by a birthday party, and a second ballet performance for which I'll be backstage helping her change.

While the weekend sounds like it's all about her, actually a lot of it is about me getting one-on-one time with my son.  We'll have time tomorrow before the recital when my ex is doing the preparations, then more time then next day while my daughter is at her birthday party.  The third and final day of the visit will be the only chance to just relax, and it looks like it will be beach weather.  Perhaps the cruelest part of my arrangement is that I go to Maine all winter long and then miss the summer, which is the only part worth being there for.  This early June trip is the only Maine beach weekend I get.

And then, the summer will be upon us and, at the end of the month, I'll get my kids for an extended period of time.  I have so much to say about it, but I'd rather just wait until it's happening before doing that, as I don't want to set the expectations too high.  It will just be good to all be together in our new house, which we just bought last week.

Right now I'm getting tired and my shoulder is hurting, so I think I'll stop here.  There will be more to say a few miles up the track.