One:
She is doing some dishes and I am sitting on a stool chatting with her, just passing time. We've been friends for 12 years now and there is always something to talk about.
"He's been gone for 7 full days now and I am done! I've never been away from him for that long and I hate it! I feel like just going there and telling him to get in the car and come home!" Her back is to me and she can't see my face. She is laughing at herself and doing dishes and I am sitting there with tears streaming down my face.
She is talking about her son, a boy the same age as mine, a boy I've known for 12 years and whom I tease and chat with easily even now. He is her firstborn, a son she sees everyday except for this year, this 10 days of summer camp. She misses him because out of almost 14 years she has never been away from him for so long. She keeps talking about missing him and I am thinking about all the days I've missed MY son. I think about how I had never been away from MY son before either, and now it's been week after week after week for months and months. I hate her almost, because she can miss her son but yet NOT miss him - because in a couple of days he'll be back in her arms, in her house, in the room she nags him to clean, eating the food she cooks, and their time apart will be nothing more than a hiccup.
She turns off the tap and folds the dishtowel while saying, with an embarrassed laugh, "I mean, really, how can anyone expect a mom to go so long without seeing her kid?!"
You'd be surprised at what people expect a mom to do.
Two:
We are sitting at the dining table chatting over a glass of wine. Her husband is watching tv in the other room and both her sons are in their rooms. It's nice quiet girl time for us. Special time because we have it so rarely. We are talking about her youngest and how he's changing as he moves into puberty and how she has some fears about what is up ahead. He is the same age as my youngest, but with some significant differences that make anticipating normal changes something worth fretting over and discussing.
"I don't know," she says, "it's always something these days and I can't tell if it's supposed to be happening or if it's a symptom of something I have to worry about!" I murmur to her, wordless mutterings of empathy, listening intently. "Like, his sleeping pattern is different now and it's driving me crazy. He has trouble sleeping even with his usual medicine. I guess it's the age, is it like that with Bear too?" She is so worried, stressed, and seeking understanding that she doesn't register what she has said.
My eyes tear up instantly and when I speak, my voice is thick and quivery. "I don't know..." and then she gets it. I mean it really, I don't know.
"I'm sorry, I'm sorry! Oh God, I'm sorry! I didn't mean it, I know I know, it's ok..." and she is holding me and I am sobbing into her chest because the truth is that I don't know - I'm not there to know if my baby is having a hard time sleeping, if she is sad or lonely in the middle of the night, if she is scared or has funny dreams or is too tired. I'm not there, and no one tells me.
Important point about those speechless moments:
She never means any harm. Ever. This is my truest bestest friend who has seen all the parts of my life over the past years and has been instrumental in helping me be with my kids whenever possible. I know she would never deliberately pose such questions and the truth is that I don't want her to NOT pose those questions. I want to speak freely and for HER to speak freely. I want to talk about her missing her son - I know how it is to miss your child. I want to talk about her fears with her other son - I know how it is to fear for your childs future. I don't want her to stop talking about things just because they hurt me.
These moments happen all the time to me with other people. Moments when I find myself having to explain or justify or change the subject even. Moments when I have to bend down and pick up some peice of lint off the floor to disguise my tears, or start coughing to cover up the quiver in my voice. It's easier when they happen with her because I don't have to hide. I don't have to censor or explain - and I hope she never does either.
There are times I'm speechless, yes, but I'm still the mom.
Showing posts with label divorce. Show all posts
Showing posts with label divorce. Show all posts
Friday, November 12
Thursday, November 11
Picking Peices
I drive 70 miles, one way, to see my children. It's about an hour and 20 minutes most of which is a straight shot of interstate.
On a "long" visit, I drive the hour plus long/70 miles, pick them up and drive an hour plus long/70 miles back to my house where we all try to reconnect for the day before we pile into the car for the hour plus long/70 mile ride back to drop them off... and I turn around and drive that long trip all by myself back to my house. On a "regular" visit, it's 280 miles, and over 5 hours of travel time all on ONE DAY just so I can be with my children for 3 hours. "He" won't do half of it - and hasn't been ordered to by the court so I have no choice but to do it on my own. It's been a complete solid year of that now. You do the math.
There have been times when I had to pick between gas money for the trip or gas money to get to and from work for the week.
There have been times when I have packed up every bit of food I could rummage from the cabinets and fridge into a cooler to bring with me so I could feed my children dinner and use cash on hand for tolls and gas.
There have been times I could not go see my children because there wasn't gas in the car or money to buy any.
It's all about picking the right option, and about picking out time and picking over funds on a day to day basis. It's about picking up extra hours at work, picking ramen over rice, picking staying home over driving to the library, picking up scrap paper and lost pennies, picking up discarded soda cans to return, picking the shorter time route or the less distance drive, picking the dollar menu items over the meal deals, and picking quantity over quality which they hate or quality over quantity which I hate: no matter what the experts spout.
It's about picking which lie to buy, which shade of rose to paint on my glasses, which child to please, which way to pose the truth, and which fucking breath to breathe, and which peices of our lives to pick up and hold tight and which ones to let die away forevermore.
It's always about picking. I used to pick up the laundry, pick up the legos, pick up the piles of mail and homework and discarded dishes. I used to pick up children, prescriptions, friends, and birthday cakes. I picked up socks, dog poop, used kleenex, and the newspaper. Now I just pick up peices of memories, peices of life.
I keep this little red pic from my son to remind me that no matter what guitar (or what life force) is being used, and no matter what song (or what note) is being
played, the difference between just grabbing on with your hands or finely picking with a pick is noticeable. It can create a sound that is worth stopping to listen to instead of a sound to ignore.
Picking matters. Picking on a guitar, or picking this over that in life.
And so I pick.
And I hold onto this red plastic pick that my son has created music with so I can remind myself of that one fact.
Picking matters.
Even when the difference is unnoticeable to the untrained, it matters.
On a "long" visit, I drive the hour plus long/70 miles, pick them up and drive an hour plus long/70 miles back to my house where we all try to reconnect for the day before we pile into the car for the hour plus long/70 mile ride back to drop them off... and I turn around and drive that long trip all by myself back to my house. On a "regular" visit, it's 280 miles, and over 5 hours of travel time all on ONE DAY just so I can be with my children for 3 hours. "He" won't do half of it - and hasn't been ordered to by the court so I have no choice but to do it on my own. It's been a complete solid year of that now. You do the math.
On a "regular" visit, the trip is just me driving all the way out there, spending a few hours with the kids for dinner, and then driving back home alone. 114 miles and almost 3 hours of driving all by myself with my thoughts and regrets and grief.
There have been times when I had to pick between gas money for the trip or gas money to get to and from work for the week.
There have been times when I have packed up every bit of food I could rummage from the cabinets and fridge into a cooler to bring with me so I could feed my children dinner and use cash on hand for tolls and gas.
There have been times I could not go see my children because there wasn't gas in the car or money to buy any.
It's all about picking the right option, and about picking out time and picking over funds on a day to day basis. It's about picking up extra hours at work, picking ramen over rice, picking staying home over driving to the library, picking up scrap paper and lost pennies, picking up discarded soda cans to return, picking the shorter time route or the less distance drive, picking the dollar menu items over the meal deals, and picking quantity over quality which they hate or quality over quantity which I hate: no matter what the experts spout.
It's about picking which lie to buy, which shade of rose to paint on my glasses, which child to please, which way to pose the truth, and which fucking breath to breathe, and which peices of our lives to pick up and hold tight and which ones to let die away forevermore.
It's always about picking. I used to pick up the laundry, pick up the legos, pick up the piles of mail and homework and discarded dishes. I used to pick up children, prescriptions, friends, and birthday cakes. I picked up socks, dog poop, used kleenex, and the newspaper. Now I just pick up peices of memories, peices of life.
I keep this little red pic from my son to remind me that no matter what guitar (or what life force) is being used, and no matter what song (or what note) is being
played, the difference between just grabbing on with your hands or finely picking with a pick is noticeable. It can create a sound that is worth stopping to listen to instead of a sound to ignore. Picking matters. Picking on a guitar, or picking this over that in life.
And so I pick.
And I hold onto this red plastic pick that my son has created music with so I can remind myself of that one fact.
Picking matters.
Even when the difference is unnoticeable to the untrained, it matters.
Thursday, November 4
Repetitive Memorization
Remember rote memorization from grade school? Sitting in rows, everyone chanting the times tables outloud, writing each fact ten times in a row, taking timed tests... the way some kids groaned because they already knew it all and how other kids groaned because it seemed like they'd never get it? Now in our later years, our 40's and more, we remember them though, don't we? At least the basic ones that allow us to recall the the others... memorization and repetition was key.
I've lost so much with the passing of time - lost an entire year and a half now of my childrens lives. Lost opportunities, chances, moments of critical bonding, memory making activities, traditions and familiar comforts that I could have shared with my children. But I was shored up in the midst of grief by this: repetitive memorization cements a fact into you.
I had 12 years of repetitve actions with my children and my love will be, IS, cemented into them. I am still the mom even though I'm not the one making their lunches now, not the one folding their clothes and nagging about their shoes in the hall and not the one signing permission slips and helping with homework. The fact of my love still remains.
I've lost so much with the passing of time - lost an entire year and a half now of my childrens lives. Lost opportunities, chances, moments of critical bonding, memory making activities, traditions and familiar comforts that I could have shared with my children. But I was shored up in the midst of grief by this: repetitive memorization cements a fact into you.
I had 12 years of repetitve actions with my children and my love will be, IS, cemented into them. I am still the mom even though I'm not the one making their lunches now, not the one folding their clothes and nagging about their shoes in the hall and not the one signing permission slips and helping with homework. The fact of my love still remains.
Tuesday, September 7
Friday Balancing Act
I've tried over and over for the past hour and 45 minutes. I can't reach them by phone and I am alternately worried, outraged, and annoyed.
Worried: Did they make it home from school ok? Did something happen late last night? Is someone sick? Is everything ok? What if He is sick? I hope He is ok... no, don't go there... What if my son is in trouble at school? Did my daughter have a problem walking home from the bus all by herself? It's been raining, was there some accident?
Outraged: I can't believe it! He got them right after school and took them out and now they'll be late! He's done it before - I'm sure that's what he's done. I've driven 70 miles, it's taken over an hour with the rain and the Friday traffic and now I have to just sit... and wait... and it's one more thing I don't have choice or control or say in. Argh! I hate this whole thing! No, I know, he blocked my number and they can't get my calls. Like before... come ON!!! Aren't we done with this yet? What, did he hide the house phone, take away my son's cell phone? Is this such a joke to him?
Annoyed: Sheesh, they NEVER answer their phone anymore. I'm just "a mom" and my son ignores my calls and texts just like he does to his dad. They never answer the home phone or they can't find it or can't hear it. They were supposed to call me when they got home, this is soooo annoying! Forgetful, air headed, thoughtless teens! They know I'm coming, we just spoke last night and now I've called 5 times and texted twice... watch, they won't even be home or maybe they will but they won't be ready to go... Argh!
But then, as I am getting into my car to drive the half mile to their house from my friends house where I stay when I come to be with them, I try one more time and my son answers. I am short, terse; relieved and with no reason for outrage, I'm just annoyed. My son starts to explain and I cut him off. "I'll be there in two minutes. Be ready to go, OK?" "Yeah mom, we're ready!"
The sight of them coming out the door and down the drive makes my heart feel like it's actually swelling, rising up in my chest, filling up. And at the same time, at the sight of their faces I feel pain so peircing that my eyes well up with tears that burn like acid as I tilt my head back to prevent the spillover. Mustn't let them see me cry. I am the mom, the grownup, the safe stable adult whom THEY can cry in front of.
Our time together is full full full of chatter. Their first few days of school, their classes and teachers and friends and what they've been doing after school and in the evenings and this very day while I was trying to call them.
We eat, we watch tv, we talk. And while I am bitter that I have to impose on my friends hospitality just to have time with my kids, and am simultaneously bound by the limitations of her house and her time, I am oh so grateful that I have a friend so willing to open her house and her heart to three extra people on a Friday night when she is already tired and worn from her own long week.
My son falls asleep on the couch while I play Yahtzee with my daughter. I see his sleeping face morph from the thin cheeked, big nosed, distant eyed teenager into the soft mouthed, sparkly spirited little boy that my heart will always hold. My daughter and I whisper and try to shake our dice as quietly as we can. Her spirit is joyful and radiant as we share this private moment when it is just her and I. I am so unsettled, dissapointed, guilty even, that my son is tired and can't just go to his own room to rest, can't even go home because taking him home means taking them BOTH home and means me getting "in trouble" for not sticking to the committed time of 8pm. I am also elated, fulfilled, and cleansed by sharing this almost intimate time alone with my daughter, time we need, want, are desperate for - this time that is a salve on the wounds we both feel.
There is so much to feel and so little time to feel it in. We have three hours. My emotions are so wide and deep and go from one continent in my heart to another. Balancing that all out to feel the simple joy of mothering my children in the moment takes a heavy dose of denial, a generous amount of not thinking ahead, a foundation seated in not remembering 'before'. Staying present and focused without prejudicing the moment by adding guilt, remorse, and sorrow take effort that leaves me exhausted, drawn, empty.
And I haven't even begun to consider their emotions: those of my sleepy teenage son who has to balance normal behavior with the want and need of a boy for his mom and the guilt associated as he navigates those two huge places in his heart, seasoned with anger and grief; and those of my pre-teen daughter, so needing of me, so genuinely cheerful and open hearted that she'll welcome the attentions of any female in my place, and the guilt she tries to pretend isn't pricking at her sweet spirit, well marinated in confusion and unanswered questions, torn loyalties, and sweet love.
Balancing it all in my heart, tipping the weight of it one way or the other by smile, tone of voice, and the noncommittal even tempered, "mmmm..." until later. Balanced until they are out of the car and through the doors into their own home - the one that is still in my name but I can no longer go inside. Balanced until I am alone and all the work of holding it together comes undone.
I carry always though, the knowledge that my kids do their own unbalancing act. For that fact alone, I am the most full of self loathing.
I am their mom, still, and always. Unbalanced, balanced, and somewhere in-between.
Love, Mia
Worried: Did they make it home from school ok? Did something happen late last night? Is someone sick? Is everything ok? What if He is sick? I hope He is ok... no, don't go there... What if my son is in trouble at school? Did my daughter have a problem walking home from the bus all by herself? It's been raining, was there some accident?
Outraged: I can't believe it! He got them right after school and took them out and now they'll be late! He's done it before - I'm sure that's what he's done. I've driven 70 miles, it's taken over an hour with the rain and the Friday traffic and now I have to just sit... and wait... and it's one more thing I don't have choice or control or say in. Argh! I hate this whole thing! No, I know, he blocked my number and they can't get my calls. Like before... come ON!!! Aren't we done with this yet? What, did he hide the house phone, take away my son's cell phone? Is this such a joke to him?
Annoyed: Sheesh, they NEVER answer their phone anymore. I'm just "a mom" and my son ignores my calls and texts just like he does to his dad. They never answer the home phone or they can't find it or can't hear it. They were supposed to call me when they got home, this is soooo annoying! Forgetful, air headed, thoughtless teens! They know I'm coming, we just spoke last night and now I've called 5 times and texted twice... watch, they won't even be home or maybe they will but they won't be ready to go... Argh!
But then, as I am getting into my car to drive the half mile to their house from my friends house where I stay when I come to be with them, I try one more time and my son answers. I am short, terse; relieved and with no reason for outrage, I'm just annoyed. My son starts to explain and I cut him off. "I'll be there in two minutes. Be ready to go, OK?" "Yeah mom, we're ready!"
The sight of them coming out the door and down the drive makes my heart feel like it's actually swelling, rising up in my chest, filling up. And at the same time, at the sight of their faces I feel pain so peircing that my eyes well up with tears that burn like acid as I tilt my head back to prevent the spillover. Mustn't let them see me cry. I am the mom, the grownup, the safe stable adult whom THEY can cry in front of.
Our time together is full full full of chatter. Their first few days of school, their classes and teachers and friends and what they've been doing after school and in the evenings and this very day while I was trying to call them.
We eat, we watch tv, we talk. And while I am bitter that I have to impose on my friends hospitality just to have time with my kids, and am simultaneously bound by the limitations of her house and her time, I am oh so grateful that I have a friend so willing to open her house and her heart to three extra people on a Friday night when she is already tired and worn from her own long week.
My son falls asleep on the couch while I play Yahtzee with my daughter. I see his sleeping face morph from the thin cheeked, big nosed, distant eyed teenager into the soft mouthed, sparkly spirited little boy that my heart will always hold. My daughter and I whisper and try to shake our dice as quietly as we can. Her spirit is joyful and radiant as we share this private moment when it is just her and I. I am so unsettled, dissapointed, guilty even, that my son is tired and can't just go to his own room to rest, can't even go home because taking him home means taking them BOTH home and means me getting "in trouble" for not sticking to the committed time of 8pm. I am also elated, fulfilled, and cleansed by sharing this almost intimate time alone with my daughter, time we need, want, are desperate for - this time that is a salve on the wounds we both feel.
There is so much to feel and so little time to feel it in. We have three hours. My emotions are so wide and deep and go from one continent in my heart to another. Balancing that all out to feel the simple joy of mothering my children in the moment takes a heavy dose of denial, a generous amount of not thinking ahead, a foundation seated in not remembering 'before'. Staying present and focused without prejudicing the moment by adding guilt, remorse, and sorrow take effort that leaves me exhausted, drawn, empty.
And I haven't even begun to consider their emotions: those of my sleepy teenage son who has to balance normal behavior with the want and need of a boy for his mom and the guilt associated as he navigates those two huge places in his heart, seasoned with anger and grief; and those of my pre-teen daughter, so needing of me, so genuinely cheerful and open hearted that she'll welcome the attentions of any female in my place, and the guilt she tries to pretend isn't pricking at her sweet spirit, well marinated in confusion and unanswered questions, torn loyalties, and sweet love.
Balancing it all in my heart, tipping the weight of it one way or the other by smile, tone of voice, and the noncommittal even tempered, "mmmm..." until later. Balanced until they are out of the car and through the doors into their own home - the one that is still in my name but I can no longer go inside. Balanced until I am alone and all the work of holding it together comes undone.
I carry always though, the knowledge that my kids do their own unbalancing act. For that fact alone, I am the most full of self loathing.
I am their mom, still, and always. Unbalanced, balanced, and somewhere in-between.
Love, Mia
Thursday, September 2
Current Events
While the stories are still unfolding here, so you can understand why my life is the way it is, there are things happening every day that impact my relationship with my kids. Today was another setback. In moments like this I find myself numb and distant, only able to think the same one thought over and over: "Isn't there any one, any where, who can fix this?"
Essentially, more than a year ago now, my husband told the court I was mentally unstable and he feared for our childrens safety. No evidence of harm or innappropriate behavior committed by me: to them or near them or indirectly toward them, just that one verbal statement that he had "serious concerns" and I have been viewed as a threat ever since.
At first, in September and October of last year, I had supervised visits with my kids. They were supervised at my husbands request, by a couple we jointly knew. This couple? I had cared for their children while that mom was in a mental health facility. I had listened to her, pre and post her hospital stay, tell me about screaming at her children, cursing at them, telling them to leave the room before she beat them. She told me how scared her kids were when she told them she felt like hurting herself and that she had to call a friend to help her. This was the woman who my husband asked the courts to assign as a guardian during my visits with my kids.
Initially she was willing, compassionate, and available. Then she wasn't. She had issues of her own, her husband was sick, her kids were struggling, etc. I was able to arrange, legally, for a friend of mine to be listed as an alternate so I could still see my kids. And then the restrictions were lifted, sort of.
In October I had moved into a house in our town with the parents of a girl who used to babysit our kids a very long time ago. We had stayed in touch (the mom and I) and she invited me to stay in the room her daughter, now all grown up and moved out, used to be in. The newest legal changes allowed for me to have my kids overnight and unsupervised, so long as the overnights were at that house, and that address, at my husbands request.
Everything happened relatively quickly and what came to light as I moved in and then the kids came to stay a weekend was that the house was filthy - real actual filth, mold, dust, animal hair, rodent excrement, etc. as well as very poor plumbing resulting in not much hot water available and only one usable bathroom. Additionally both the missus and the mister were entrenched in depression so thick that it hung in the air, a helpless hopeless despair of health issues, insomnia, financial ruin, unemployement: which is the reason I guess for all the filth. And then there was the drinking. Mister was a drinker of the sort that starts in the late afternoon and continues until he passed out in the late late evening but he would always rouse himself to drink more, sit in a bathtub of cold filmy water for hours sipping more alcohol, and then finally go to bed somewhere around 5am. After a couple of boozy inappropriate nighttime run-ins, I knew this would NOT work.
Nice people? yes. Generous to allow me to move in? yes. But it was not a place where I OR my kids would be safe, have a healthy environment, and the ability to settle in or experience some stability.
I moved - in late November of last year... and where I moved was where I could have a sound stable safe clean environment that welcomed my children and provided a foundation for me. Where I moved was where I could find employment, and a future. And where I moved was both where my husband subsequently refused to allow the kids to stay overnight, and was over an hour away. But with no other options I didn't know what else to do.
I felt like I was NEVER going to be able to get my kids on a regular basis and since ending my own existence wasn't a viable option (yeh, been there, tried that!) my next choice was to persevere with gaining a future that held something resembling hope and peace. So in spite of his refusal to let the kids stay with me, I stayed there... or rather here, where I am now.
I gritted my teeth and pushed my grief at bay through minimal visits with my kids in December, January, and February hoping he'd see that I was in a stable secure place, employed in the same job, and that the kids were enjoying our visits and not suffering any harm. I made it to soccer games, school meetings, and provided appropriate holiday treats. And then I petitioned the court to extend my visits at my new residence. March 2010. A year after I'd originally filed for divorce, 9 months since I'd lived with my children, and 4 months since I'd had them overnight with me.
My husband said that thing again, the "serious concerns about mental health" and the judge believed him. No matter my job, my stable housing, my compliance with every other restriction, my childrens health and well being - no evidence to support HIM or his statement, and with no credit for anything I'd done, I was refused.
I was ordered to undergo a mental health evaluation at a court clinic. Our next court date was scheduled for July 2010. A few weeks later I was told that the judge would be out on a county exchange in July so we wouldn't be heard until September. It took until July to get an appointment at the clinic anyway.
What I got was more time lost with my kids: no spring vacation, no summer vacation, no sleepovers or extended vacations. Just alternate Saturdays from 8am to 10pm. No assistance with transportation for the 70 mile drive.
And finally my mental health evaluation and a court date of September 7th, 2010.
My evaluation was initiated and then, of course, that doctor went on vacation and didn't return until this week. That result is that the report on the evaluation, which the judge needs time to review, is not completed yet and so the court clerk was told to postpone and reschedule the Sept. 7 date for a couple weeks out. More time lost with my kids.
I still don't know when the date will be, only that it will be that much longer before I can see my children for any extended time. I don't even know for sure that this "evaluation" and this doctors assessment will be favorable and that I will even be granted the time I want with my kids. But in my heart I was counting on September 7, 2010 as the day I'd be exonerated and finally freed from the burden of this "mentally unstable" label my husband is using.
I try not to dwell in how unfair it's been from the start, on how much injustice has been forced down my throat, and on how much fear drives so many of my choices on a daily basis - anger? maybe anger looks unfounded and irrational so I better not be angry! grief? maybe crying looks over sensitive and irrational and unstable so I better not cry!
I try not to dwell on how, if experience were to be my guide, I maybe should plan on losing custody entirely, on being placed back on supervised visits, on being told I can't be with my children at all, or that we will have to postpone until November, or some other ridiculous date.
But it's hard. It's so hard not to dwell in those places. I keep moving forward one day at a time trying to adjust my expectations. But it's hard.
However hard it is for me? Think how hard it is for my son who started high school the other day, or for my daughter who is right in the middle of really needing a mom for 'girl stuff' right now.
Love, Mia
Essentially, more than a year ago now, my husband told the court I was mentally unstable and he feared for our childrens safety. No evidence of harm or innappropriate behavior committed by me: to them or near them or indirectly toward them, just that one verbal statement that he had "serious concerns" and I have been viewed as a threat ever since.
At first, in September and October of last year, I had supervised visits with my kids. They were supervised at my husbands request, by a couple we jointly knew. This couple? I had cared for their children while that mom was in a mental health facility. I had listened to her, pre and post her hospital stay, tell me about screaming at her children, cursing at them, telling them to leave the room before she beat them. She told me how scared her kids were when she told them she felt like hurting herself and that she had to call a friend to help her. This was the woman who my husband asked the courts to assign as a guardian during my visits with my kids.
Initially she was willing, compassionate, and available. Then she wasn't. She had issues of her own, her husband was sick, her kids were struggling, etc. I was able to arrange, legally, for a friend of mine to be listed as an alternate so I could still see my kids. And then the restrictions were lifted, sort of.
In October I had moved into a house in our town with the parents of a girl who used to babysit our kids a very long time ago. We had stayed in touch (the mom and I) and she invited me to stay in the room her daughter, now all grown up and moved out, used to be in. The newest legal changes allowed for me to have my kids overnight and unsupervised, so long as the overnights were at that house, and that address, at my husbands request.
Everything happened relatively quickly and what came to light as I moved in and then the kids came to stay a weekend was that the house was filthy - real actual filth, mold, dust, animal hair, rodent excrement, etc. as well as very poor plumbing resulting in not much hot water available and only one usable bathroom. Additionally both the missus and the mister were entrenched in depression so thick that it hung in the air, a helpless hopeless despair of health issues, insomnia, financial ruin, unemployement: which is the reason I guess for all the filth. And then there was the drinking. Mister was a drinker of the sort that starts in the late afternoon and continues until he passed out in the late late evening but he would always rouse himself to drink more, sit in a bathtub of cold filmy water for hours sipping more alcohol, and then finally go to bed somewhere around 5am. After a couple of boozy inappropriate nighttime run-ins, I knew this would NOT work.
Nice people? yes. Generous to allow me to move in? yes. But it was not a place where I OR my kids would be safe, have a healthy environment, and the ability to settle in or experience some stability.
I moved - in late November of last year... and where I moved was where I could have a sound stable safe clean environment that welcomed my children and provided a foundation for me. Where I moved was where I could find employment, and a future. And where I moved was both where my husband subsequently refused to allow the kids to stay overnight, and was over an hour away. But with no other options I didn't know what else to do.
I felt like I was NEVER going to be able to get my kids on a regular basis and since ending my own existence wasn't a viable option (yeh, been there, tried that!) my next choice was to persevere with gaining a future that held something resembling hope and peace. So in spite of his refusal to let the kids stay with me, I stayed there... or rather here, where I am now.
I gritted my teeth and pushed my grief at bay through minimal visits with my kids in December, January, and February hoping he'd see that I was in a stable secure place, employed in the same job, and that the kids were enjoying our visits and not suffering any harm. I made it to soccer games, school meetings, and provided appropriate holiday treats. And then I petitioned the court to extend my visits at my new residence. March 2010. A year after I'd originally filed for divorce, 9 months since I'd lived with my children, and 4 months since I'd had them overnight with me.
My husband said that thing again, the "serious concerns about mental health" and the judge believed him. No matter my job, my stable housing, my compliance with every other restriction, my childrens health and well being - no evidence to support HIM or his statement, and with no credit for anything I'd done, I was refused.
I was ordered to undergo a mental health evaluation at a court clinic. Our next court date was scheduled for July 2010. A few weeks later I was told that the judge would be out on a county exchange in July so we wouldn't be heard until September. It took until July to get an appointment at the clinic anyway.
What I got was more time lost with my kids: no spring vacation, no summer vacation, no sleepovers or extended vacations. Just alternate Saturdays from 8am to 10pm. No assistance with transportation for the 70 mile drive.
And finally my mental health evaluation and a court date of September 7th, 2010.
My evaluation was initiated and then, of course, that doctor went on vacation and didn't return until this week. That result is that the report on the evaluation, which the judge needs time to review, is not completed yet and so the court clerk was told to postpone and reschedule the Sept. 7 date for a couple weeks out. More time lost with my kids.
I still don't know when the date will be, only that it will be that much longer before I can see my children for any extended time. I don't even know for sure that this "evaluation" and this doctors assessment will be favorable and that I will even be granted the time I want with my kids. But in my heart I was counting on September 7, 2010 as the day I'd be exonerated and finally freed from the burden of this "mentally unstable" label my husband is using.
I try not to dwell in how unfair it's been from the start, on how much injustice has been forced down my throat, and on how much fear drives so many of my choices on a daily basis - anger? maybe anger looks unfounded and irrational so I better not be angry! grief? maybe crying looks over sensitive and irrational and unstable so I better not cry!
I try not to dwell on how, if experience were to be my guide, I maybe should plan on losing custody entirely, on being placed back on supervised visits, on being told I can't be with my children at all, or that we will have to postpone until November, or some other ridiculous date.
But it's hard. It's so hard not to dwell in those places. I keep moving forward one day at a time trying to adjust my expectations. But it's hard.
However hard it is for me? Think how hard it is for my son who started high school the other day, or for my daughter who is right in the middle of really needing a mom for 'girl stuff' right now.
Love, Mia
Wednesday, August 25
After The First Part (I)
I was in the hospital for just a few days. He came every day and when I was discharged, I went with him, to our home.
The kids didn't know - they'd been with him out of state when I'd sent him the letter saying goodbye and they'd not yet been back when the police and ambulance that he'd sent came to get me. While I was in the hospital I called them every day.
I was only home a day when he and I were fighting, when he was telling me how manipulative I was, how "sick" I was. So I left. I went back to my lonely smelly miniscule apartment.
I spent two weeks going to a group program discussing feelings, boundaries, coping and self soothing techniques. And I went to my job, and back to my empty apartment, and I saw the kids a few times. I was exhausted, broke, and sad. He was controlling and demanding and nothing was different. By now I'd lost almost a full 25 lbs and I looked horrible. I refused anti-depressents because of how they made me feel actually crazy instead of just sad and hopeless.
He said if I didn't take them, and tell him, then I wouldn't be able to have the kids overnight.
It was a few days after our 14th anniversary, which we didn't celebrate obviously, when he again took the kids out of town with no notice, not asking if it was ok, and not allowing me the option for any time with them. He'd already placed our 11 year old in a daycamp instead of letting her be with me, and he'd arranged to take our 13 year old to relatives to stay for a week.
I worked and supported myself, but it wasn't enough. I saw the kids when he said I could, but I had no say in it, wasn't given the chance to actually parent them. If I worked more, I saw the kids less. If I worked less, I couldn't afford to see the kids more. If I was sad and told him, he said I was "sick" and needed help. If I was sad and didn't tell him, he said I wasn't "dealing" and could never be "healthy". I figured, what the hell. Nothing I did was right, there didn't seem to be a way to get ahead, and I was so broke I couldn't pay my bills or buy groceries for myself much less buy gas to visit with my kids. He was taking them away, again, and since he'd told me I was irresponsible and unreliable, I decided I might as well really act that way.
I took a road trip all by myself. I packed my car and got in and started driving. I stopped by the library to load up on audio books, maps, and tourist books. I packed my most important papers all together and brought with me. I didn't know if I'd be coming back. I researched mental health facilities in case I thought I needed one. I drove.
It was lovely. I called the kids every day. He wanted to know what I was doing and where I was but I wouldn't tell him. He was out of state and it didn't matter, nor did he have the right to know. I drove thru the August sun. I went to the beach. I drove through the mountains. I drove and drove and drove. I went camping.
And then I stopped.
And I checked myself into a mental health "retreat" of sorts.
And would you believe that things got even worse after that??
Love, Mia
The kids didn't know - they'd been with him out of state when I'd sent him the letter saying goodbye and they'd not yet been back when the police and ambulance that he'd sent came to get me. While I was in the hospital I called them every day.
I was only home a day when he and I were fighting, when he was telling me how manipulative I was, how "sick" I was. So I left. I went back to my lonely smelly miniscule apartment.
I spent two weeks going to a group program discussing feelings, boundaries, coping and self soothing techniques. And I went to my job, and back to my empty apartment, and I saw the kids a few times. I was exhausted, broke, and sad. He was controlling and demanding and nothing was different. By now I'd lost almost a full 25 lbs and I looked horrible. I refused anti-depressents because of how they made me feel actually crazy instead of just sad and hopeless.
He said if I didn't take them, and tell him, then I wouldn't be able to have the kids overnight.
It was a few days after our 14th anniversary, which we didn't celebrate obviously, when he again took the kids out of town with no notice, not asking if it was ok, and not allowing me the option for any time with them. He'd already placed our 11 year old in a daycamp instead of letting her be with me, and he'd arranged to take our 13 year old to relatives to stay for a week.
I worked and supported myself, but it wasn't enough. I saw the kids when he said I could, but I had no say in it, wasn't given the chance to actually parent them. If I worked more, I saw the kids less. If I worked less, I couldn't afford to see the kids more. If I was sad and told him, he said I was "sick" and needed help. If I was sad and didn't tell him, he said I wasn't "dealing" and could never be "healthy". I figured, what the hell. Nothing I did was right, there didn't seem to be a way to get ahead, and I was so broke I couldn't pay my bills or buy groceries for myself much less buy gas to visit with my kids. He was taking them away, again, and since he'd told me I was irresponsible and unreliable, I decided I might as well really act that way.
I took a road trip all by myself. I packed my car and got in and started driving. I stopped by the library to load up on audio books, maps, and tourist books. I packed my most important papers all together and brought with me. I didn't know if I'd be coming back. I researched mental health facilities in case I thought I needed one. I drove.
It was lovely. I called the kids every day. He wanted to know what I was doing and where I was but I wouldn't tell him. He was out of state and it didn't matter, nor did he have the right to know. I drove thru the August sun. I went to the beach. I drove through the mountains. I drove and drove and drove. I went camping.
And then I stopped.
And I checked myself into a mental health "retreat" of sorts.
And would you believe that things got even worse after that??
Love, Mia
Sunday, August 22
The First Part
In 2009, after well over a year, even longer really, of conflicted and frenzied emotional struggling, as my marriage slowly dissolved away under my feet and I helplessly watched my husband morphing into someone I couldn't recognize, I filed for divorce.
There is more to the story of course - the counseling, the blogging and journaling, the desperate pleas to my pastor and various friends and family (which came only after months of silent shame, fear, confusion, and frantic actions meant to salvage it all) but when it came down to that moment, the one moment when I looked around me and thought, "What do I do NOW?", all I could think of was to file for divorce.
The ensueing 3 months proved that things could always get worse. Well, what had I thought they'd be? Better? No, I don't suppose I believed that things would get better, but I didn't think they'd get worse.
Ultimately, I came to another pivotal moment where I was looking around at the carnage saying, "What do I do NOW?"
I think my biggest mistake (oh and I've made so many) was not looking ahead at what the ripple effect of my individual actions would be. Not looking far enough ahead and seeing only the one moment of chaos and crisis.
*see below, Note 1
A second mistake was in that I was so bewildered by the man my husband had become that any of my automatic expectations about his reactions, fed by past experience, were always wrong. I thought he would be honorable, honest, and do the right thing because that was how he'd always been. I thought he'd be thoughtful and devoted to open minded cooperation, giving benefit of doubt. He was no longer that man though, and that was, and remains so, the hardest thing for me accept, understand and remember.
So I left my house, moved into my own apartment; having decided that I could no longer continue to let my kids slink around in that volatile tense frightening confusing environment; thinking that soon we would finalize everything, that soon my kids, age 11 and 13 then, would be out of school and we'd sell the house and share the parenting from two different homes; thinking that physical separation would ease the palpable tension, thinking that I didn't want to pull my kids from their bedrooms, their pets, their routines and small comforts when there was just a couple of weeks left of school anyway, thinking it would be ok.
I was wrong.
That wrongness? That slap in the face wrongness of it all was shattering. I found myself financially broke - more than you might ever imagine and more than I could explain - with no legal representation and no means to gain any, with a bitter angry vindictive man holding my children hostage from me and asking me to jump through hoops of power plays and control with rules that changed randomly. Things did what they'd come to do: they got worse.
I was told that I wasn't worth anything, that I'd abandoned my children, bailed out, jumped ship. I was told I didn't have any rights. I was threatened with legal and police action if I argued about when I could have the kids or when I had to return them. I so desperately wanted to keep my kids out of the mess, out of the middle, away from the conflict. Desperate enough that I was easily manipulated. When threatened with police intervention if I didn't return my kids to my husband and the house I once lived in at a specific time (no, there was not any court order but I was trying to establish a cooperative flexible non-legal precedent that didn't scar the kids) I returned them because the thought of police showing up and frightening my kids went against everything I was trying for.
*See below: Note 2
Broke, broken down, defeated, harrassed and still under my husbands constant demand and orders in spite of not living together, still trying to meet those demands and orders, overwhelmed by loss and grief (I lost my marraige, my husband, my community, my church family, my life as I knew it, my role as a parent, my home...), tortured by missing my children and by seeing their own grief and confusion and wanting to help them understand while not hurting their love and respect for their daddy, I found myself holding onto that proverbial last straw.
I filed for divorce in March 2009. I moved into my own apartment just 3 months later in mid-June. A few weeks after that, in July '09 my husband told me that he was taking the kids out of state to visit his family (in spite of the week off I'd taken to be with them - a week off I couldn't afford with no vacation time to use) and that he didn't care if I had taken time off because I didn't matter - and then he handed me HIS proposal for our divorce.
His proposal included the following: he would allow me alternate weekend visits from Saturday to Sunday. He would allow me a midweek dinner visit. He would take my name off the mortgage (quit claim deed) in return for him assuming all the debt associated with our joint credit cards and home equity loan (we were, and are, in tremendous debt). I was not to receive alimony, any percentage of retirement, mutual funds etc but would not have to pay child support. I could have a one week vacation in the summer provided I give adequate notice of such by April of each year. I wasn't to have custody, just visitation.
And that last straw fell. I shattered completely. I was so full of shame, so humiliated, so alone, so 'without', and so beaten down emotionally that I couldn't see anything other than what he showed me: unworthy, replaceable, bad, incompetent, unreliable. My kids were better off without me, he was perfectly fine parenting them on his own, after all, I'd left them behind anyway right?
What do I do now?
Back in March, several people gave me advice. People are good at giving advice when they can go home to their own homes and their own husbands and their own children and leave you and your broken life behind. One person said something that was perhaps the most understanding comment I'd ever heard. She said, "I know what I would do Mia, but you aren't ME and I would never expect you to do what I do because it isn't in your heart. You are different and so you have to do things your own way." I loved her for saying that.
She'd said that back then, before March, but by July, she was no longer willing to be a part of my life in a way that supported me like I needed. Like nearly everyone else, she didn't want to "take sides". No one wanted to "get involved; create an uncomfortable situation; make it awkward". People wanted," to stay neutral; just keep it open and light; to stay connected for the kids sake". In theory, I get it. It's all very PC and grown up and reasonable. But in reality, by not defending me against a force I was unable to defend myself against, I was left defenseless and finally defeated. As had been shown to me over the past few months, I knew that if I called someone and asked what to do they would have grimaced sympathetically, hugged me, wiped my tears, patted my hand, prayed for me or with me, felt very bad for me, but nothing else because, you know, they didn't want to take sides.
*See below: Note 3
So there I was - alone and defeated and at yet another moment when I didn't know what to do next. The more I wondered what to do, the more I wondered why I should even do anything at all. And the more I tried to find a reason for doing anything, the more I felt like there wasn't one.
With all that in my head, and my heart, I chose to - and these are difficult, ugly, painful words to write, words that I can't yet say out loud - kill myself. A suicide attempt - I felt so worthless that suicide seemed to be a valid action.
And I am here today to talk about it.
I am here because I Am Still The Mom.
Love,
Mia
*Note 1: I have learned that a crisis will still be a crisis after a nights sleep, and chaos will remain until it's dealt with - no matter the emotions drowning me, no crisis or chaos I faced back then needed an immediate decision - no bleeding, physical danger, or loss of life was at hand. It felt as important maybe, I don't want to devalue the pain and fear, or the intense desire to fix something with just the right action, but I've learned now to sit on things a little more and a little longer, to try and map out the potential results of an action and weigh those all out to see the variations and their potential results.
*Note 2: hindsight - with good solid parenting, when you already have good communication with your kids, it is worth it to allow some legal or police intervention to establish a record. Nonaction based on fear will undermine every effort in the future.
*Note 3: I don't blame any one person or hold them at fault for or responsible for my life as it was at that time: devoid of support, defense, and validation; but the truth is that no one wanted to get involved in a way that backed me up, no one wanted to stand up to my husband and tell him to stop on my behalf, no one wanted to call him out, lift me up, or step outside themselves to speak up for me when I was speechless. And a year later they still don't. One 'friend' told me just today that whenever she sees my husband she wants to hit him, but she smiles instead and just avoids real eye contact if they speak. Another friend, who remains an anchor even now, validated my circumstances back then when she remarked, "When someone abuses you emotionally, they make you think you are crazy - that's what they do, it's how they work. Hold on to what you know." But it's hard to hold on when the only thing you know isn't honored or believed or validated by anyone outside.
There is more to the story of course - the counseling, the blogging and journaling, the desperate pleas to my pastor and various friends and family (which came only after months of silent shame, fear, confusion, and frantic actions meant to salvage it all) but when it came down to that moment, the one moment when I looked around me and thought, "What do I do NOW?", all I could think of was to file for divorce.
The ensueing 3 months proved that things could always get worse. Well, what had I thought they'd be? Better? No, I don't suppose I believed that things would get better, but I didn't think they'd get worse.
Ultimately, I came to another pivotal moment where I was looking around at the carnage saying, "What do I do NOW?"
I think my biggest mistake (oh and I've made so many) was not looking ahead at what the ripple effect of my individual actions would be. Not looking far enough ahead and seeing only the one moment of chaos and crisis.
*see below, Note 1
A second mistake was in that I was so bewildered by the man my husband had become that any of my automatic expectations about his reactions, fed by past experience, were always wrong. I thought he would be honorable, honest, and do the right thing because that was how he'd always been. I thought he'd be thoughtful and devoted to open minded cooperation, giving benefit of doubt. He was no longer that man though, and that was, and remains so, the hardest thing for me accept, understand and remember.
So I left my house, moved into my own apartment; having decided that I could no longer continue to let my kids slink around in that volatile tense frightening confusing environment; thinking that soon we would finalize everything, that soon my kids, age 11 and 13 then, would be out of school and we'd sell the house and share the parenting from two different homes; thinking that physical separation would ease the palpable tension, thinking that I didn't want to pull my kids from their bedrooms, their pets, their routines and small comforts when there was just a couple of weeks left of school anyway, thinking it would be ok.
I was wrong.
That wrongness? That slap in the face wrongness of it all was shattering. I found myself financially broke - more than you might ever imagine and more than I could explain - with no legal representation and no means to gain any, with a bitter angry vindictive man holding my children hostage from me and asking me to jump through hoops of power plays and control with rules that changed randomly. Things did what they'd come to do: they got worse.
I was told that I wasn't worth anything, that I'd abandoned my children, bailed out, jumped ship. I was told I didn't have any rights. I was threatened with legal and police action if I argued about when I could have the kids or when I had to return them. I so desperately wanted to keep my kids out of the mess, out of the middle, away from the conflict. Desperate enough that I was easily manipulated. When threatened with police intervention if I didn't return my kids to my husband and the house I once lived in at a specific time (no, there was not any court order but I was trying to establish a cooperative flexible non-legal precedent that didn't scar the kids) I returned them because the thought of police showing up and frightening my kids went against everything I was trying for.
*See below: Note 2
Broke, broken down, defeated, harrassed and still under my husbands constant demand and orders in spite of not living together, still trying to meet those demands and orders, overwhelmed by loss and grief (I lost my marraige, my husband, my community, my church family, my life as I knew it, my role as a parent, my home...), tortured by missing my children and by seeing their own grief and confusion and wanting to help them understand while not hurting their love and respect for their daddy, I found myself holding onto that proverbial last straw.
I filed for divorce in March 2009. I moved into my own apartment just 3 months later in mid-June. A few weeks after that, in July '09 my husband told me that he was taking the kids out of state to visit his family (in spite of the week off I'd taken to be with them - a week off I couldn't afford with no vacation time to use) and that he didn't care if I had taken time off because I didn't matter - and then he handed me HIS proposal for our divorce.
His proposal included the following: he would allow me alternate weekend visits from Saturday to Sunday. He would allow me a midweek dinner visit. He would take my name off the mortgage (quit claim deed) in return for him assuming all the debt associated with our joint credit cards and home equity loan (we were, and are, in tremendous debt). I was not to receive alimony, any percentage of retirement, mutual funds etc but would not have to pay child support. I could have a one week vacation in the summer provided I give adequate notice of such by April of each year. I wasn't to have custody, just visitation.
And that last straw fell. I shattered completely. I was so full of shame, so humiliated, so alone, so 'without', and so beaten down emotionally that I couldn't see anything other than what he showed me: unworthy, replaceable, bad, incompetent, unreliable. My kids were better off without me, he was perfectly fine parenting them on his own, after all, I'd left them behind anyway right?
What do I do now?
Back in March, several people gave me advice. People are good at giving advice when they can go home to their own homes and their own husbands and their own children and leave you and your broken life behind. One person said something that was perhaps the most understanding comment I'd ever heard. She said, "I know what I would do Mia, but you aren't ME and I would never expect you to do what I do because it isn't in your heart. You are different and so you have to do things your own way." I loved her for saying that.
She'd said that back then, before March, but by July, she was no longer willing to be a part of my life in a way that supported me like I needed. Like nearly everyone else, she didn't want to "take sides". No one wanted to "get involved; create an uncomfortable situation; make it awkward". People wanted," to stay neutral; just keep it open and light; to stay connected for the kids sake". In theory, I get it. It's all very PC and grown up and reasonable. But in reality, by not defending me against a force I was unable to defend myself against, I was left defenseless and finally defeated. As had been shown to me over the past few months, I knew that if I called someone and asked what to do they would have grimaced sympathetically, hugged me, wiped my tears, patted my hand, prayed for me or with me, felt very bad for me, but nothing else because, you know, they didn't want to take sides.
*See below: Note 3
So there I was - alone and defeated and at yet another moment when I didn't know what to do next. The more I wondered what to do, the more I wondered why I should even do anything at all. And the more I tried to find a reason for doing anything, the more I felt like there wasn't one.
With all that in my head, and my heart, I chose to - and these are difficult, ugly, painful words to write, words that I can't yet say out loud - kill myself. A suicide attempt - I felt so worthless that suicide seemed to be a valid action.
And I am here today to talk about it.
I am here because I Am Still The Mom.
Love,
Mia
*Note 1: I have learned that a crisis will still be a crisis after a nights sleep, and chaos will remain until it's dealt with - no matter the emotions drowning me, no crisis or chaos I faced back then needed an immediate decision - no bleeding, physical danger, or loss of life was at hand. It felt as important maybe, I don't want to devalue the pain and fear, or the intense desire to fix something with just the right action, but I've learned now to sit on things a little more and a little longer, to try and map out the potential results of an action and weigh those all out to see the variations and their potential results.
*Note 2: hindsight - with good solid parenting, when you already have good communication with your kids, it is worth it to allow some legal or police intervention to establish a record. Nonaction based on fear will undermine every effort in the future.
*Note 3: I don't blame any one person or hold them at fault for or responsible for my life as it was at that time: devoid of support, defense, and validation; but the truth is that no one wanted to get involved in a way that backed me up, no one wanted to stand up to my husband and tell him to stop on my behalf, no one wanted to call him out, lift me up, or step outside themselves to speak up for me when I was speechless. And a year later they still don't. One 'friend' told me just today that whenever she sees my husband she wants to hit him, but she smiles instead and just avoids real eye contact if they speak. Another friend, who remains an anchor even now, validated my circumstances back then when she remarked, "When someone abuses you emotionally, they make you think you are crazy - that's what they do, it's how they work. Hold on to what you know." But it's hard to hold on when the only thing you know isn't honored or believed or validated by anyone outside.
Saturday, August 7
What A Mom Does
I'm still the mom. I know I am because even if I don't live at home with my kids, I do "mom stuff".
I took the day off work and drove 2 hours all so I could sit at a picnic table and eat a cafeteria style picnic lunch with my kids on their last day of camp. I couldn't just take them home, couldn't pack up their luggage and drive off with them, but I could be there, then, for that. I hugged them hello after their 2 week camp experience. I counted their bruises and inspected their injuries with my mom-evaluation, met their counselors and was introduced to their new friends. I heard the stories, laughed in all the right places even when I wanted to cringe, read the journals they offered up for me to read, and shared a meal with my children. And when their father showed up to take them home from camp, I hugged them, smiled, told them I'd see them soon, and I didn't cry. I wanted to cry, but I didn't because I'm the mom.
I picked the kids up from their fathers later on. They were clean, showered and in fresh clothes. I took them to my friends house where I stay on Friday nights that I see my children - and I fed them fried chicken, ice tea, ice cream. I cut their toenails, their fingernails, cleaned their ears. I shampooed my daughters hair because even though she'd done it already, she sometimes needs help with it and after two weeks of camp she REALLY needed some grownup assistance. I did all that because I'm the mom.
I sat in front of the computer with them and let them show me all the things they want to show me: I smiled through music videos that I didn't like, laughed through cartoon clips that weren't funny, let them tease me for MY ridiculous old fashioned and boring taste in music... and I sat for over an hour without twitching or sighing. I did it because I'm the mom.
I took them back to their fathers because right now he gets to tell me when, how long, how often. But that doesn't make me NOT the mom. I'm still the mom because the very next day I got to pick them up again.
I picked them up and took them back to my friends house again where I fed them breakfast: homemade hot chocolate, bagels and cream cheese, juice. I called and got them both appointments at the urgent care/Saturday clinic at their pediatricians office.
Last time they had physicals in early spring, I didn't know about it until it was over and done with, their father didn't share the information with me. I didn't get to approve of or even ask questions about immunizations they received. Shortly after that, my daughter was taken out to have her ears peirced without my knowledge - a very momndaughter activity that I wasn't even given any notice of. Then three weeks ago when I took her to buy her first real earrings after the initial ones were ready to be changed, I found that both peircings were infected - bloody, leaking pus, hot, swollen, sore. I had the earrings removed, bought swabs and alcohol and taught her to clean them. When I took her home to her father I told him what was happening, gave him the crusted over earrings we'd removed from her ears, gave him the supplies I'd bought, told him he should have her checked by the doctor. Instead he bought her new earrings.
When I saw my kids in the evening for dinner I saw that the peircings were still bloody, leaking, and sore. I saw that a skin condition my daughter has was no longer just an uncomfortable annoyance but was out of control and needing attention. My son had an unidentifiable rash also, which I'd noticed before camp had ever started but was still untreated. So I acted like a mom. I called the doctor and took them in.
I paid the copays. I explained, showed, listened, asked questions, and approved of treatments. Oral antibiotics for the peiring infections, topical medication for the skin condition and a referral to a dermatologist for my daughter, a physician-led lesson in hygiene for my son that he might follow since it isn't a 'mom-thing'. I paid for the prescriptions. I doled out the first dose and applied the first topical layer. I instructed them both in self care. I took them to my house then, finally, where they collapsed in gratitude in front of all the electronic equipment they've missed for the past two weeks of backwoods camping.
It's my only day off - I always take the day off when I have them with me - but I spent my time calling doctors, dragging kids in, paying for medications, and then applying it to reluctant teen/pre-teen bodies.
I miss them so much - I miss out on so much - and hate that I have to argue, order, demand, insist, and give 'the look' on our precious and limited time together but, see, the thing is, I am the mom: and that's what mom's do. So that's what I did.
Now I get to relax a little, and so do they. They are fed, medicated, playing and relaxing, feeling good - and so am I. All too soon I will have to herd them into the car for the hour long drive back to their fathers house. None of us look forward to that but for now, for this moment, all that matters is they are here with me, their mom.
Love,
Mia
I took the day off work and drove 2 hours all so I could sit at a picnic table and eat a cafeteria style picnic lunch with my kids on their last day of camp. I couldn't just take them home, couldn't pack up their luggage and drive off with them, but I could be there, then, for that. I hugged them hello after their 2 week camp experience. I counted their bruises and inspected their injuries with my mom-evaluation, met their counselors and was introduced to their new friends. I heard the stories, laughed in all the right places even when I wanted to cringe, read the journals they offered up for me to read, and shared a meal with my children. And when their father showed up to take them home from camp, I hugged them, smiled, told them I'd see them soon, and I didn't cry. I wanted to cry, but I didn't because I'm the mom.
I picked the kids up from their fathers later on. They were clean, showered and in fresh clothes. I took them to my friends house where I stay on Friday nights that I see my children - and I fed them fried chicken, ice tea, ice cream. I cut their toenails, their fingernails, cleaned their ears. I shampooed my daughters hair because even though she'd done it already, she sometimes needs help with it and after two weeks of camp she REALLY needed some grownup assistance. I did all that because I'm the mom.
I sat in front of the computer with them and let them show me all the things they want to show me: I smiled through music videos that I didn't like, laughed through cartoon clips that weren't funny, let them tease me for MY ridiculous old fashioned and boring taste in music... and I sat for over an hour without twitching or sighing. I did it because I'm the mom.
I took them back to their fathers because right now he gets to tell me when, how long, how often. But that doesn't make me NOT the mom. I'm still the mom because the very next day I got to pick them up again.
I picked them up and took them back to my friends house again where I fed them breakfast: homemade hot chocolate, bagels and cream cheese, juice. I called and got them both appointments at the urgent care/Saturday clinic at their pediatricians office.
Last time they had physicals in early spring, I didn't know about it until it was over and done with, their father didn't share the information with me. I didn't get to approve of or even ask questions about immunizations they received. Shortly after that, my daughter was taken out to have her ears peirced without my knowledge - a very momndaughter activity that I wasn't even given any notice of. Then three weeks ago when I took her to buy her first real earrings after the initial ones were ready to be changed, I found that both peircings were infected - bloody, leaking pus, hot, swollen, sore. I had the earrings removed, bought swabs and alcohol and taught her to clean them. When I took her home to her father I told him what was happening, gave him the crusted over earrings we'd removed from her ears, gave him the supplies I'd bought, told him he should have her checked by the doctor. Instead he bought her new earrings.
When I saw my kids in the evening for dinner I saw that the peircings were still bloody, leaking, and sore. I saw that a skin condition my daughter has was no longer just an uncomfortable annoyance but was out of control and needing attention. My son had an unidentifiable rash also, which I'd noticed before camp had ever started but was still untreated. So I acted like a mom. I called the doctor and took them in.
I paid the copays. I explained, showed, listened, asked questions, and approved of treatments. Oral antibiotics for the peiring infections, topical medication for the skin condition and a referral to a dermatologist for my daughter, a physician-led lesson in hygiene for my son that he might follow since it isn't a 'mom-thing'. I paid for the prescriptions. I doled out the first dose and applied the first topical layer. I instructed them both in self care. I took them to my house then, finally, where they collapsed in gratitude in front of all the electronic equipment they've missed for the past two weeks of backwoods camping.
It's my only day off - I always take the day off when I have them with me - but I spent my time calling doctors, dragging kids in, paying for medications, and then applying it to reluctant teen/pre-teen bodies.
I miss them so much - I miss out on so much - and hate that I have to argue, order, demand, insist, and give 'the look' on our precious and limited time together but, see, the thing is, I am the mom: and that's what mom's do. So that's what I did.
Now I get to relax a little, and so do they. They are fed, medicated, playing and relaxing, feeling good - and so am I. All too soon I will have to herd them into the car for the hour long drive back to their fathers house. None of us look forward to that but for now, for this moment, all that matters is they are here with me, their mom.
Love,
Mia
Wednesday, August 4
Hope Reigns
I met with my attorney today.
He's representing me for free - I don't have a huge amount of faith in him, because nothing has gone my way even remotely in the past year, but it's better than not having an attorney at all (and I've been without one for some of the process so I know). But today felt a little different.
Several months ago he told me that it was highly unlikely that I'd ever be the primary parent again - nor was it likely I'd have a chance at being considered a 'residential' parent even if part time. My absolute frustration at that was a like a thick simmering bitterness always faintly bubbling under the surface; the main feeling around his statement was pure howling grief.
Now, some level of grief is what I've been feeling daily for the past year. It's what has me always afraid of drowning within it. Yet that moment, as I had to sit there calm and composed and accepting, that howling grief became something that fractured the last tenuous hold I had on the will to keep moving forward. Up until then I'd been broken, but I was still the mom. At that point, I was only broken.
Fortunately for me, I have a couple of truly supportive, encouraging, and listening girlfriends who rescued me with their love, their feirceness, and their anger on my behalf. I also have my writing, an adult daughter who came home to stay with me and remind me that I wasn't done being a mom yet, and the sweetest most loving dog who curls himself around my heart every day and loves it back to life.
I picked myself up, only stopping to howl and grieve and fall apart once in a while in private, and moved forward.
Today I met with him again to discuss some recent issues: my ex's ongoing claim that I am mentally unstable and a threat to my children, his continued lack of regard for the "joint custody" status and the way he decides on medications, ear peircing, and camp enrollment for our kids that he fails to inform me of or tells me about with no notice (hey, the kids are leaving in 4 days for two weeks of camp. period. end of discussion.), and to talk about what comes next while we wait for our next court date.
Our discussion wasn't exactly fruitful, but I think something elemental has changed.
Somehow I've moved, in my attorneys veiwpoint, from some charity pro bono case he got suckered into handling by a "can't say no to me octogenarian who made legal history and is a county wide legend" who took pity on me to a real actual client.
Somehow altered in his eyes from some "very likely crazy incompetent parent who I'm forced into defending by stupid unwritten lawyer code of brotherhood" into a mom who is getting totally shafted by a power and control abusing ex and whose kids are at the heart of it and who really really really wants just one person in power on her side.
I'm not sure what it was: was it all the medical records I gathered and forwarded to him? Was it all the letters of reccommendation from my friends, my doctor, and my adult daughter combined that I handed to him? Was it some discussion he had with my ex's attorney off record maybe? I don't know. All I know is that at some point in our conversation, his words went something along the line of this: "it's a ladder we are climbing and we are starting at the bottom rungs. We have to go up just like everyone else, rung by rung, and we move from more liberal time with your kids until you finally are in a place when your kids ARE WITH YOU full time..."
That's all I can hear now, resonating in my heart... "when your kids are with you full time"...
I have potential. I have hope. I am, yes, I am, still the mom.
Love, Mia
He's representing me for free - I don't have a huge amount of faith in him, because nothing has gone my way even remotely in the past year, but it's better than not having an attorney at all (and I've been without one for some of the process so I know). But today felt a little different.
Several months ago he told me that it was highly unlikely that I'd ever be the primary parent again - nor was it likely I'd have a chance at being considered a 'residential' parent even if part time. My absolute frustration at that was a like a thick simmering bitterness always faintly bubbling under the surface; the main feeling around his statement was pure howling grief.
Now, some level of grief is what I've been feeling daily for the past year. It's what has me always afraid of drowning within it. Yet that moment, as I had to sit there calm and composed and accepting, that howling grief became something that fractured the last tenuous hold I had on the will to keep moving forward. Up until then I'd been broken, but I was still the mom. At that point, I was only broken.
Fortunately for me, I have a couple of truly supportive, encouraging, and listening girlfriends who rescued me with their love, their feirceness, and their anger on my behalf. I also have my writing, an adult daughter who came home to stay with me and remind me that I wasn't done being a mom yet, and the sweetest most loving dog who curls himself around my heart every day and loves it back to life.
I picked myself up, only stopping to howl and grieve and fall apart once in a while in private, and moved forward.
Today I met with him again to discuss some recent issues: my ex's ongoing claim that I am mentally unstable and a threat to my children, his continued lack of regard for the "joint custody" status and the way he decides on medications, ear peircing, and camp enrollment for our kids that he fails to inform me of or tells me about with no notice (hey, the kids are leaving in 4 days for two weeks of camp. period. end of discussion.), and to talk about what comes next while we wait for our next court date.
Our discussion wasn't exactly fruitful, but I think something elemental has changed.
Somehow I've moved, in my attorneys veiwpoint, from some charity pro bono case he got suckered into handling by a "can't say no to me octogenarian who made legal history and is a county wide legend" who took pity on me to a real actual client.
Somehow altered in his eyes from some "very likely crazy incompetent parent who I'm forced into defending by stupid unwritten lawyer code of brotherhood" into a mom who is getting totally shafted by a power and control abusing ex and whose kids are at the heart of it and who really really really wants just one person in power on her side.
I'm not sure what it was: was it all the medical records I gathered and forwarded to him? Was it all the letters of reccommendation from my friends, my doctor, and my adult daughter combined that I handed to him? Was it some discussion he had with my ex's attorney off record maybe? I don't know. All I know is that at some point in our conversation, his words went something along the line of this: "it's a ladder we are climbing and we are starting at the bottom rungs. We have to go up just like everyone else, rung by rung, and we move from more liberal time with your kids until you finally are in a place when your kids ARE WITH YOU full time..."
That's all I can hear now, resonating in my heart... "when your kids are with you full time"...
I have potential. I have hope. I am, yes, I am, still the mom.
Love, Mia
Wednesday, July 28
Parent Number One
Recently I took a few days and sorted through boxes of "stuff" I finally pulled from the attic storage room.
When I left my home originally, left my husband, I'd been secretly stashing things for quite awhile - a photo or frame in this box, a keepsake memento of a vacation in another box, a small stash of kids artwork in a file folder I took to work... and when it was finally suddenly time to go I just stuffed randomly as quickly as I could. It's good that I started slow and got the things I did because I haven't been allowed back in since that time.
There are things I missed of course, but I got a good deal of very important treasures. Those treasures have been all mixed up in boxes of varying sorts; rubbermaid containers, diaper boxes, sturdy cardboard boxes that paper comes in, and some office file boxes with lids. I've been needing to sort it for some time. As the first year of being gone, of having my life so changed is coming to a close I decided it was as good a time as any.
I opened all the boxes and began making piles on the floor. Each box was a disorganized mix of papers, photos, old christmas cards, childhood mementos, fragile china figurines from my mother, and even odds and ends of toiletries or music cd's. Once it was all laid out and categorized in a way that makes sense to me, I reboxed them.
This whole process took forever, and truthfully isn't even quite complete, because I kept getting sidetracked by my now teenagers old kindergarden artwork or their third grade "family history" booklets. And of course along with that, I got sidetracked by grief.
I was reading through my 14 year old son's kindergarden "All About Me" notebook. Some of it is in his teachers handwriting, some of it in an unknown 'helper' or 'aid' handwriting, and his own early attempts of scrawled words, and the rest is my own printing. There is a whole page of "family traditions" dictated by him but written out by me. Another page wherein we describe the events of a particular teddy bear that had come home with him for a weekend visit. Lists of his friends, his favorite things, his dreams. So tender, so innocent, and so full of a boy and his mommy working together. Daddy is mentioned of course, but daddy didn't write anywhere in that book. In all the papers for my 14 year old son, and for my 12 year old daughter, there is one constant thing. Report cards for all the years were signed by me. Some progress notes bear both my signature and dads, but always always mine. Both 100% correct papers and the papers full of red check marks bear my signature of acknowledgment. I look over old physicals and copies of enrollment forms, folders of letters from camp, notes from teachers, thank you cards from teams - all focused on "dear Mom" or "dear Mrs. Miaheart" or "To thisgirls Mom".
In all the official paperwork there is a Parent section where you list the parents name and address separate from the childs. There is a Parent Number One and Parent Number Two and then Child sections. In these accumulated papers from 14 years of parenting, the Parent Number One section is always me. The mom, me. In the Parent Number Two section all the papers list daddy's name but just have scrawled "same" for the address and phone. Because that's how it was. I was the primary parent and daddy was there and with us and part of it all but it was ME who was Parent Number One on every form.
This year my kids are away at a camp they've both been to every summer. I'm glad they are there and having fun but I didn't get to sit down and go over the brochure and collectively choose which programs they enrolled in. I didn't get to discuss the varying dates and choose which weeks worked best. I didn't get to scramble for copies of physicals and immunizations and extra socks and a replacement canteen for the one we couldn't find. I just got an email, 4 days before they left, telling me that they were going and when they'd be back. I had to call the camp to confirm the dates, their programs, their cabin assignments... and to see if my name and contact information were accurate on the paperwork.
My name was listed under Parent Number Two. Just my name. The city where I live and an illegible phone number were listed but that's all. I want to say that it was my imagination that the camp secretary was suspicious and cold, because I had been on a first name basis with her these past 4 years, but I don't think I imagined the indifferent offer of "oh, well, if you want us to have your number down I guess I can put it in for you" response she gave when I suggested that she place my correct phone number down in case of emergency. I hope she actually DID put my number down correctly. Even if it is under Parent Number Two, it will take another 14 years to erase the fact that in the beginning I was always the Parent Number One.
And in spite of my new status as Parent Number Two, I'm still the mom.
Love, Mia
When I left my home originally, left my husband, I'd been secretly stashing things for quite awhile - a photo or frame in this box, a keepsake memento of a vacation in another box, a small stash of kids artwork in a file folder I took to work... and when it was finally suddenly time to go I just stuffed randomly as quickly as I could. It's good that I started slow and got the things I did because I haven't been allowed back in since that time.
There are things I missed of course, but I got a good deal of very important treasures. Those treasures have been all mixed up in boxes of varying sorts; rubbermaid containers, diaper boxes, sturdy cardboard boxes that paper comes in, and some office file boxes with lids. I've been needing to sort it for some time. As the first year of being gone, of having my life so changed is coming to a close I decided it was as good a time as any.
I opened all the boxes and began making piles on the floor. Each box was a disorganized mix of papers, photos, old christmas cards, childhood mementos, fragile china figurines from my mother, and even odds and ends of toiletries or music cd's. Once it was all laid out and categorized in a way that makes sense to me, I reboxed them.
This whole process took forever, and truthfully isn't even quite complete, because I kept getting sidetracked by my now teenagers old kindergarden artwork or their third grade "family history" booklets. And of course along with that, I got sidetracked by grief.
I was reading through my 14 year old son's kindergarden "All About Me" notebook. Some of it is in his teachers handwriting, some of it in an unknown 'helper' or 'aid' handwriting, and his own early attempts of scrawled words, and the rest is my own printing. There is a whole page of "family traditions" dictated by him but written out by me. Another page wherein we describe the events of a particular teddy bear that had come home with him for a weekend visit. Lists of his friends, his favorite things, his dreams. So tender, so innocent, and so full of a boy and his mommy working together. Daddy is mentioned of course, but daddy didn't write anywhere in that book. In all the papers for my 14 year old son, and for my 12 year old daughter, there is one constant thing. Report cards for all the years were signed by me. Some progress notes bear both my signature and dads, but always always mine. Both 100% correct papers and the papers full of red check marks bear my signature of acknowledgment. I look over old physicals and copies of enrollment forms, folders of letters from camp, notes from teachers, thank you cards from teams - all focused on "dear Mom" or "dear Mrs. Miaheart" or "To thisgirls Mom".
In all the official paperwork there is a Parent section where you list the parents name and address separate from the childs. There is a Parent Number One and Parent Number Two and then Child sections. In these accumulated papers from 14 years of parenting, the Parent Number One section is always me. The mom, me. In the Parent Number Two section all the papers list daddy's name but just have scrawled "same" for the address and phone. Because that's how it was. I was the primary parent and daddy was there and with us and part of it all but it was ME who was Parent Number One on every form.
This year my kids are away at a camp they've both been to every summer. I'm glad they are there and having fun but I didn't get to sit down and go over the brochure and collectively choose which programs they enrolled in. I didn't get to discuss the varying dates and choose which weeks worked best. I didn't get to scramble for copies of physicals and immunizations and extra socks and a replacement canteen for the one we couldn't find. I just got an email, 4 days before they left, telling me that they were going and when they'd be back. I had to call the camp to confirm the dates, their programs, their cabin assignments... and to see if my name and contact information were accurate on the paperwork.
My name was listed under Parent Number Two. Just my name. The city where I live and an illegible phone number were listed but that's all. I want to say that it was my imagination that the camp secretary was suspicious and cold, because I had been on a first name basis with her these past 4 years, but I don't think I imagined the indifferent offer of "oh, well, if you want us to have your number down I guess I can put it in for you" response she gave when I suggested that she place my correct phone number down in case of emergency. I hope she actually DID put my number down correctly. Even if it is under Parent Number Two, it will take another 14 years to erase the fact that in the beginning I was always the Parent Number One.
And in spite of my new status as Parent Number Two, I'm still the mom.
Love, Mia
Sunday, July 25
I'm Still The Mom
It's been a year since I left.
I thought that I'd be living in one of those condo's that are over by the golf course, and that maybe my ex would be living there too in another unit, maybe on a different floor. I thought that the kids would be moving back and forth between us, at will but with some standard of boundary or structure. I thought that my ex and I might not be necessarily friendly, but that we'd be polite and able to communicate. I thought I'd be still tucking my daughter into bed most nights, and sighing over my son's report card, and heaving my tired self off the couch to drive someone to some practice or rehearsal or friends house or sometimes saying, "dad said he'd pick you up and you can stay the night at his place tonight" interspersed with "you are with dad mostly this week so don't forget your backpack and your key ok?"
I never imagined, a year ago, that I'd be seeing my kids an average of 72 hours a MONTH... that is, 3 days a month.
It never once occurred to me, a mostly stay at home mom for 14 years, that I would go an entire year without tucking my daughter in to bed, without making a school lunch complete with silly note scribbled on a napkin, without being there when my son was hurt or sick. I would have laughed if you'd suggested it.
But it all happened.
Even 6 months ago I still thought it was all a mistake, a momentary "thing" and that it would sort itself all out and that by now, July, I'd be spending days and weeks at a time juggling the kids and their bickering and the laundry and veto-ing potato chips while giving 'the look' over a serving of broccoli.
It's been a year of being surprised, shocked, bewildered, broken. A year of loss, day by day and breath by breath. A year of days that wouldn't end, for God's sake they just wouldn't end, and nightmares that happen in broad daylight every day over and over again. And now, the realization, finally, that this year wasn't just a momentary "thing" but has become a precedent for the years that are to come.
What I've lost this year, what has been stolen from my children, is only the beginning of what is going to be more loss. And at the end of each day I remind myself that I Am Still The Mom.
This blog is for me, for my children, and it's for you and your children. It's for every parent who finds themselves empty but it's also for those parents who find themselves bitterly and angrily witholding, denying, and controlling. It's time to let go.
I thought that I'd be living in one of those condo's that are over by the golf course, and that maybe my ex would be living there too in another unit, maybe on a different floor. I thought that the kids would be moving back and forth between us, at will but with some standard of boundary or structure. I thought that my ex and I might not be necessarily friendly, but that we'd be polite and able to communicate. I thought I'd be still tucking my daughter into bed most nights, and sighing over my son's report card, and heaving my tired self off the couch to drive someone to some practice or rehearsal or friends house or sometimes saying, "dad said he'd pick you up and you can stay the night at his place tonight" interspersed with "you are with dad mostly this week so don't forget your backpack and your key ok?"
I never imagined, a year ago, that I'd be seeing my kids an average of 72 hours a MONTH... that is, 3 days a month.
It never once occurred to me, a mostly stay at home mom for 14 years, that I would go an entire year without tucking my daughter in to bed, without making a school lunch complete with silly note scribbled on a napkin, without being there when my son was hurt or sick. I would have laughed if you'd suggested it.
But it all happened.
Even 6 months ago I still thought it was all a mistake, a momentary "thing" and that it would sort itself all out and that by now, July, I'd be spending days and weeks at a time juggling the kids and their bickering and the laundry and veto-ing potato chips while giving 'the look' over a serving of broccoli.
It's been a year of being surprised, shocked, bewildered, broken. A year of loss, day by day and breath by breath. A year of days that wouldn't end, for God's sake they just wouldn't end, and nightmares that happen in broad daylight every day over and over again. And now, the realization, finally, that this year wasn't just a momentary "thing" but has become a precedent for the years that are to come.
What I've lost this year, what has been stolen from my children, is only the beginning of what is going to be more loss. And at the end of each day I remind myself that I Am Still The Mom.
This blog is for me, for my children, and it's for you and your children. It's for every parent who finds themselves empty but it's also for those parents who find themselves bitterly and angrily witholding, denying, and controlling. It's time to let go.
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