Guinea Pigs and School Buses

It took awhile, but I learned a valuable lesson this weekend: in the end, I can't be there.

This, I surmised after a long weekend with my kids... sort of a "weekend on, weekend off" deal I'm trying to work out with Anne. It seems to be going well, despite the friction from Anne who peppers my efforts with vocal passive aggression and inflexibility. ("Oh, I want to go..." she announces when the kids tell her our Sunday plans, leading my 3-year-old to invite her along.)

Our weekend began on Saturday morning, long before I arrived to pick Sam and Josie up, with a heated phone call between their mom and I. She shouted angry words at me, accusations, abandonment, anything to make me feel small. I have to admit, for awhile it worked.

I stumbled briefly, mostly because of my unclear plans -- a few days earlier she had made comments opposing a Daddy Weekend, arguing, saying the kids wanted both their parents to take them to the apple orchard. (...I'm sure they came up with that on their own.) Saturday, it went about-face. Daddy Weekend on... no other plans. Logic spiraling. Head games. Frustration.

To worsen matters, Josie didn't want a sleepover at my house so I was relegated to sleep on the couch as Anne had "plans to go out" and could not be expected home for the kids. More games. I did my best, acting unaffected, unrattled by this curveball designed to thwart my confidence. "You look like a cowardly defeated man!" I was told Saturday morning.

But in reality, I was very strong.

I showed up and dressed the kids as Anne left for breakfast with friends. The weekend went beautifully, with lots of outdoor activities for the kids and lots of time to watch them laugh and smile.

But still, hurtful feelings crept into my head. "Abandoner!"

I fought those feelings for two days. Feeling the urgency to prove her wrong. Fighting the twisted feeling of guilt rising inside me in my moments of weakness.

But, I *was* there: laughing with them, feeding them, doing their laundry, teaching them, supporting their emotions, kissing their playground injuries, helping them with homework.

It all came to me in one moment... two actually. First, was a heartbreaker: Josie waiting anxiously all night for mom to come home so she could ask for the Guinea Pig we saw at Petco, only to be told "no. never." in one swift cut.

Desperate, painful crying and sadness.

I tried. "Don't get your hopes up," I had warned her on the car ride home, but a 7-year-old with a soft heart for cute, cuddly animals knows no restraint. As the tears flowed like I haven't seen, in this instant I realized I couldn't have helped her. I couldn't shield her from this letdown. No matter how, I wouldn't make a difference in this little girl's heartbreak. As much as I wanted to. As much as I felt it was my job to.

All I could do was listen to her cry.

This morning, a passing school bus offered me the same resolution. Initially, feelings of pain ran through me, of compassion, of worrying about my kids on the school bus. Would they be bullied? Would they be safe? How can I protect them from the world they're driving into?

Then, it suddenly dawned on me: there was nothing I could do. I can't ride the bus everyday. I can only talk to them about life, and about hardness, and hope to be there for them if things don't work out -- be it in-person or on the phone. Consistently as I am.

It's a lesson I learn everyday.

I am a good dad. I'll never abandon that post.






(heart)

The Town Villain

I'm being told that my reputation will be smeared all over town. Everyday, I fight the feeling to care. 

First off, you know these words will be used against you. It's the battlecry of a relationship ended, when someone else decides to end it. "Oh, wait 'till I tell everybody what a jerk you are." It's the natural next step in a phase of disfunction. It's anger, and resentment, and those words are meant to cause a fearful reaction.

It works.

Why do I care what everbody thinks? My first impulse is to care, because I'm not that guy. (Actually, I feel quite the opposite -- that she's the bully.) I guess I hate that my reputation in town might be ruined, spoiled in such a haphazard way, and by someone who is purposely trying to hurt me.

But then I realize, who am I worrying about? Seriously... what are their names? Is it Chuck and Sue, who may side with her because our kids play together? Is it Meghan, who lives to bring homemade soup to all those in town who are suffering? Is it Ronnie, a divorcee herself who has already expressed her understanding of my situation, but has a longstanding rapport with Anne through her own relationship woes?

Who? Who am I worried about?

I honestly don't know. I tell myself that anyone who thinks badly of me probably wasn't on my side to begin with... probably wasn't my friend in the first place. They probably aren't worth my headspace.

But still... it hurts. Words can hurt when they prey on your fears and uncertainties. Some people are good at that, I guess.

I'm not a villain. I'm just a dad, and a man trying to feel better about himself.

It'll come. In time.

Telling the Teacher

I went to Josie's school this morning to tell her teacher about the divorce. I've read a few articles online about this being a good idea, and I guess I figured it's time. Josie is a sensitive girl, and very likely will show subtle behavioral changes. I don't want her to hurt inside, and that's how she hurts.

She's like me that way.

I wanted to do this jointly, with Josie's mom, but given the poor rapport we've had lately and given her shaky mental state, I guess I realized this was something I'd have to do on my own. That's fine. It's always been my job in the relationship to manage crises and coping.

I pulled up to the school feeling very strange. This tall man in a dark shirt looming in the parking lot. Going into the school to tell a dark, mean, secret. They'll hate me. They'll think I'm the villain. I felt sheepish as I approached the door. 

It was locked. 

I went back to my car, feeling relief. My mind said: "I'm off the hook. I'll call, or email. I need to get to work." Honestly, I knew this was the cowardly way out. I knew I needed to look Josie's teacher in the eye and tell her how much I care about this fragile little girl. Is that more for my sake? Perhaps. But, sometimes I feel like only I truly get Josie. That only I can reach her and help her. This was my job today.

As I drove away, I slowed to ask a teacher in the parking lot when teachers typically arrive. Luckily, it was Josie's former first grade teacher, with whom Josie first connected. She loves Josie with a special bond. She led me inside and in the corridor I confided in her that things were tough at home for Josie, not saying more. I guess you can never prepare yourself for what to say or how to say this. I asked her to look out for my daughter. She told me that she had noticed she was quieter over the past 2 weeks. 

She noticed.

As I spoke with Josie's teacher, tears instantly formed. I was surprised how choked up I became, but I guess this is the first time I've spoken of this to anyone outside. It wasn't the divorce that saddens me, it's how it may hurt Josie. The teacher was kind, slightly teary herself in response to me. She said she'd keep an eye on her, and asked about counseling. 

Now, I realize that school counseling is a viable, trustworthy option these days, but I guess I wasn't sure how much I wanted to trust that -- the images of counselors from my past leave a bit to be desired. I guess I'll agree to having Josie see a counselor, hoping it won't shock the poor girl. I have to have faith in education.

I walked away feeling good. Thinking I did the right thing for my daughter. I knew her mom likely wouldn't have gone there, not ready herself to accept the notion of this divorce. And, truthfully, I don't fear the impact of this divorce on Josie as much as you'd think. I think this will get Josie the attention she deserves, and help break the pattern of chaos she's been led into from her mother. The life of delusion.

From the outside it seems contrary, but I think I can make a better life for my kids.

Memoirs of a broken man

September 22, 2008 -- The lost innocence

I saw Josie and Sam last night for the first time in several days -- it went a lot better than I expected, to be honest.

I sucked in a deep breath as i got out of my car. It's always hard to be in that cul de sac. It represents so many broken dreams to me, though it also still promises hope and opportunity and comfort for my kids, whether I'm there or not. I look around with half-hearted feelings, neighborhoods offer so much false fronts -- not unlike Desperate Housewives ironically -- the dirty truths always lie somewhere below the freshly manicured front walkway up to the perfect homes and perfect families. They are all liars in their own right. We all are. There are alcoholics, and cheaters, and thieves, and anger, and deception, and sadness, and abusers, and mental illness... and they all live on your street. 

Up the front walk I go, keys in hand, a visitor to my former house. This is the hard part. Letting yourself inside a home in which you no longer sleep. One day, I realize, soon I'll be using the doorbell and not keys. This is the realization of divorce. These are the little parts that hurt. This is the deconstruction of your marriage, piece by piece, brick by brick. The house is no longer yours.

Through the window I see my family. Right here I am most nervous, fearing their reaction. How will the kids react to me? Wife brushing Josie's hair, frowning, pretending not to notice my arrival. Through the door panes I see Sam scream with delight. Josie nervously hits him, glances my way and says "Sam stop!" I feel my heart stop, as I realize it is now Josie's reaction that I most care about, of all the people in the world. It is she I fear I have hurt the most. It is her love I live for above all. This doesn't downplay Sam, but he is still just a baby-drone, living and smiling and talking about trucks. Soon he will reach the point of understanding that Josie has, and I will seek his love as well at the same level of urgency.

I determine that Josie is not mad at me, not entirely nervous about me, but is lashing out at Sam through her typical sense of anxiety. She hates people making loud noises. She hates drama. This is a product of her mother's environment, and the product of my genes. I'm the same way.

I enter their lives and hug Sam instantly. He is my safety in this moment because he is screaming for me and wants to play. I pick him up and he drops his little pumpkin he wants to show me. It falls to the ground and breaks its stem. He is instantly sad and I feel terrible for my clumsiness. I instantly feel this rush of embarrassment and shame for coming into this world and wrecking this little boy's joy. I predict the disapproving glance of Anne, knowing she's thinking "nice job asshole, now you ruin his pumpkin. Another way you're ruined his life." I know these feelings shouldn't matter, but in this moment of sheer discomfort for me truth is lost. I resort to saying it's okay that Sam dropped his pumpkin, like it's his fault and I'll help him. I full well know he dropped it because I grabbed his arms.

Awkwardly I scramble around my (former) kitchen, trying to find glue and maintain rapport with Sam, who is now in full conversation with me and clearly long forgotten the pumpkin incident. He asks me 100 questions about the tools he finds, I now know that he was seeking connection to me. Tools are my thing. But at the time, I was nervously trying to find glue. To fix this fucking pumpkin and make the disapproval and shame go away. I failed in this moment. I can buy him 100 pumpkins, and he'd forget about them all in 10 seconds if I just paid enough attention to him. I keep conversation with him, despite my frantic search for glue, or a nail, or anything that will fix this pumpkin. Trying to buy my time and ease my entrance into this house.

Josie continues reading her book homework while Anne brushes her hair. 

By the way, a full bottle of wine sits in the fridge. Waiting. This tells me two things: one she's drinking, and two, she's drinking a bottle a day because it would be a partial bottle otherwise.

The phone rings. "Can you get that?" she yells to me. I go to the phone, curious to see who's calling. It's not in the holder. She yells again. And again. Now with a sense of true anger, rage, unfathomable rage, she yells "WHERE IS IT!?" Almost in a scary tone. The kids seem unaffected, but I'm shocked. Over and over, "WHERE IS IT!?" I'm looking and I don't know. I'm actually frantic because she's getting so mad, I want her to have the phone. I then reJosieze that maybe the answering machine will go off, and she doesn't want me to hear the message. Who's calling, and what will they say? Maybe about a lawyer. Maybe other info. No message. She gets her cell phone and calls the phone again. "WHERE IS IT!?" Again... with the same anger and rage. I go to help look.  

I find the phone in a drawer. Odd. A drawer? Things like this happen in that house with me not around. I tell Josie it's in the drawer and we share a laugh, the kind only we do -- and unfortunately it's at her mom's expense. I've got to stop doing that because Anne will resent Josie for this. For being more like me. Josie is slightly in tears as she laughs. Maybe she needed to laugh with me. Maybe she needs to cry with me.

I learn that Carol, our elder neighbor, has just been over for a visit and read the kids a book. Shame again enters me. Our neighbor thinks I'm a fool who abandoned his family. They all do. I feel myself sinking, but I also know this isn't my reJosiety and I just need to push through this because the truth is really out there. I can't let other people's opinions of me clutter my mind. I keep my head up and focus on the kids. I sit on the couch next to Josie and Sam instantly jumps into my lap. I feel good in this moment. I feel victorious over Anne because the kids love me. They don't resent me as she's told me. I'm doing okay with them and she hates that. She soon gets up and leaves, muttering comments from the kitchen meant for my ears, but I pretend not to hear them. She's trying to cut me down. It's her way.

Sam leaves and Josie and I hang together. We talk gently about school. I'm studying her responses to me, trying to read into her. Is she struggling at school? Has she had emotional issues? I know she stayed home from school today, and I ask her. She says she didn't feel well, but I truthfully know she was throwing her morning fit and Anne gave in. In her self-pitying state she let her daughter stay home. Adding her to the issues. Letting her life be affected. This is not okay.

Josie is good. I tell her I miss her and that I love her and I ask her if she's mad at me because I've been away. Yes. I say "I'm so sorry baby." I sense a maturity in her. She tugs at her hair with a hairbrush, painfully pulling it through a rat-sized knot in the back. "Ow!" she smiles, nervously exposing herself. I wonder in this moment if this is my distance from her not seeing her growing up, or if it's a direct reaction to the chaos around her, or, if it's a maturing phase while her mom visibly falls apart in front of her.

We talk more. We laugh. I hear her read, trying to sense if shes missed a step in her learning. No. She's being a little lazy though. It's fine. Josie is good. I finish brushing her hair. Determined to get that knot out. I eventually did (part brushing/part tearing) and was happy I didn't let her down. Off to bed, I hear Anne in the bedroom on the phone. Sam is waiting in his room, lights on, I guess awaiting me. We read. We do hand shadows on the ceiling with a flashlight. He tells me he loves me. We're good.

I kiss Josie goodnight, and ask her if she's okay. I tell her I'm giving her a cell phone and she likes that idea. Texting is something she wants to do, though I doubt she has anyone to text. While I don't want to give such a responsibility to a 7 year old, I know she is way beyond her years in maturity. She can handle this, and I know it's something I can control. I tell her I love her, and she responds, under her voice, as she always does. "I love you." I'm content.

I leave the house without saying goodbye or goodnight to Anne. She won't come out. She has nothing to say. I glance at my garbage cans left standing outside the garage door. The cans I used to wheel to the curb every Monday morning. 

I used to enjoy that ritual. Getting rid of your weekly garbage is oddly fulfilling in life. Sometimes it feels like progress, though truly you're only keeping up with what's being used around you. 

Not sure what that really means...

Today I'm a broken man, but I will pick up the pieces and build a better me, everyday.