To Battle We Went
In the hours that followed finding out that K might lose his kids there was the shell-shocked silence one might expect. He came home from work that day and we held each other for a long time in the entry of our home. His shoulders shook and he bent his head into the crook of my neck to cry. I wish I could say I was strong when he needed me, but in that moment I wasn't. I cried too. I couldn't believe that anyone could do something so hurtful to someone they once loved. I was naive. Removing him for his children's' lives was the ultimate blow; that was likely his Ex's intention. She was angry he had left and bitter he had moved on. And she had vowed to make our lives a living hell. A promise fulfilled for two years at that point.
K and I talked often about what it meant to be a parent and a father, the sacrifices and limitations it made to life. We talked about how it changed everything. He told me that having R and K was the best thing to come out of his relationship with their mother; they had been the reason he had stayed for so long. As a single father he blossomed. He became the dad he could have been, should have been all along. He adjusted his priorities, put family first and really started listening when his kids talked to him. He got down on hands and knees to play cars with his son. He learned how to fold socks and bake chicken. He played soccer with his daughter and every night there was a story at bedtime. Living with them, I could see how much love the three of them shared. The house pulsed with it.
Which made the news that their mom planned on moving away with them that much more painful. This wasn't the story of a deadbeat dad who showed up late or not at all to pick them up. It wasn't even the story of a man who had treated his ex badly in the days, weeks, months and now years after the separation. I am not so blind to say that K made all the right choices in leaving, but he certainly behaved with dignity and respect in how he engaged with the mother of his children after the split. Something that proved increasingly difficult and ultimately impossible for her to give back. Her rage dictated all of her actions, a rage that blinded her from seeing that her children were hurt the most by her behavior.
When bad news arrives it hangs a cloak over you so that living feels like wading through mud. We wallowed in the shock and despair that we might not get to sit down to dinner as a family together. Or go for long hikes at sunset on the weekends. That bedtime stories would be shared during the long vacations of summer or spring break only. The reality left a bitter, metalic taste in my mouth and I solidly decided we simply wouldn't have it. Many, many nights K and I lay in bed in those first few weeks after finding out and I emphatically reminded him that losing the kids just wasn't an option. He had the best lawyer money could buy. We would fight this. We would stop taking vacations, eat dinner in, forgo fixing up the house to save money to pay for the legal fees that would surely come. We would fight. And then, if somehow, some way we didn't win... we would move. We would pick up, start over, make the best with the hand we had been dealt and begin a new life where ever she chose to land. Because losing the kids just wasn't an option. He was quiet when I would say these things, thoughtful maybe. Playing out what that would be like to give up the lives we had here to chase his kids across the country.
"To hell and back," I would say quietly in the darkness of our room. And I meant it.
************
The legal system moves like molasses, which in our case was a blessing. The act of sending a letter through attorneys to notify K of the impending move was akin to alerting someone you would be robbing them in six months. It gave us time to prepare for the fight, to pour over emails and recall the ways we felt this move wasn't best for the children. I became obsessed with learning all that I could about move-away cases and who the legal system typically favored. I was desperate to find something that would reassure us that when this was all over R and K would still spend half their lives growing up with us. The law wasn't so forthcoming with this information. In some ways it seemed like the legal system had begun to recognize that fathers had rights, favoring 50/50 custody in most cases. But I couldn't be certain that a psychologist and a judge wouldn't think what was best for the kids was to stay with their mom.
And so the process began. K brought home thick packets filled with the most private of questions about his relationship with his ex, with me, with his children. These questions pried into his childhood and how his parents raised him, the way he was disciplined and how many marriages his parents each had. It created a road map for the skeletons each of us have in the closet of our upbringing.
It took him weeks to answer all the questions- he sat hunched over the computer at our table reading and re-reading his responses to me on the nights we didn't have the kids. It dominated our life.
He met with the psychologist many times. Alone, with his ex, with the kids and with me. It was a veritable carousel of characters in the story of our life coming in and out of this doctor's office, sharing with him the intimate parts of our life and our home. On the day that the kids, K and I went to see the doctor I was an absolute mess. Our appointment was in the afternoon. I couldn't keep my hands from shaking and there was a heavy pit in my stomach. I wasn't afraid of what the doctor would find when he looked at our life under a microscope; it was just unsettling being scrutinized.
The doctor met first with K and the kids alone. Then he invited me in. He observed us playing games together. K's daughter laughed uncomfortably and spoke loudly when talking- she acted the way I felt inside. K's son came and sat on my lap during the game and it felt so good to have him close. It reminded me why we were there and what we were fighting for.
The doctor spent some time talking with me alone. I tried my best to be unemotional and present the facts. I had faith that this man with diplomas lining his wall and a kind smile would see the truth. I believed he would see that R and K's mom wanted to leave, not for a job, but because staying close to K was too hard. Watching them love us hurt too much. She wanted to wash her hands of the whole mess and start fresh somewhere new. I didn't want to rob her of that chance, I just didn't want her taking the kids with her. His face didn't give away much during our interview. I left the room feeling relieved it was over and uncertain how it would all end.
On our way home we stopped for dinner. We squeezed into a booth together, the closeness felt nice after such a hard day. Kelly's daughter sat swirling her straw around her soda, staring into the abyss of Sprite in her glass. His son laid out flat on the seat, using it as a little bed.
"I'm glad that's over," I said quietly. His son sat up. His daughter's eyes met mine.
"I was pretty nervous to go there today," I continued tentatively.
"Yeah, me too," his daughter said. Something felt right about acknowledging the difficulty of what we had just been through. We seemed to collectively relax in that moment.
We had made it over one of the mountains and even though we didn't know what lay ahead, right then, I looked at the light on the faces of these three people I loved and I felt peace for the first time that day.
K and I talked often about what it meant to be a parent and a father, the sacrifices and limitations it made to life. We talked about how it changed everything. He told me that having R and K was the best thing to come out of his relationship with their mother; they had been the reason he had stayed for so long. As a single father he blossomed. He became the dad he could have been, should have been all along. He adjusted his priorities, put family first and really started listening when his kids talked to him. He got down on hands and knees to play cars with his son. He learned how to fold socks and bake chicken. He played soccer with his daughter and every night there was a story at bedtime. Living with them, I could see how much love the three of them shared. The house pulsed with it.
Which made the news that their mom planned on moving away with them that much more painful. This wasn't the story of a deadbeat dad who showed up late or not at all to pick them up. It wasn't even the story of a man who had treated his ex badly in the days, weeks, months and now years after the separation. I am not so blind to say that K made all the right choices in leaving, but he certainly behaved with dignity and respect in how he engaged with the mother of his children after the split. Something that proved increasingly difficult and ultimately impossible for her to give back. Her rage dictated all of her actions, a rage that blinded her from seeing that her children were hurt the most by her behavior.
When bad news arrives it hangs a cloak over you so that living feels like wading through mud. We wallowed in the shock and despair that we might not get to sit down to dinner as a family together. Or go for long hikes at sunset on the weekends. That bedtime stories would be shared during the long vacations of summer or spring break only. The reality left a bitter, metalic taste in my mouth and I solidly decided we simply wouldn't have it. Many, many nights K and I lay in bed in those first few weeks after finding out and I emphatically reminded him that losing the kids just wasn't an option. He had the best lawyer money could buy. We would fight this. We would stop taking vacations, eat dinner in, forgo fixing up the house to save money to pay for the legal fees that would surely come. We would fight. And then, if somehow, some way we didn't win... we would move. We would pick up, start over, make the best with the hand we had been dealt and begin a new life where ever she chose to land. Because losing the kids just wasn't an option. He was quiet when I would say these things, thoughtful maybe. Playing out what that would be like to give up the lives we had here to chase his kids across the country.
"To hell and back," I would say quietly in the darkness of our room. And I meant it.
************
The legal system moves like molasses, which in our case was a blessing. The act of sending a letter through attorneys to notify K of the impending move was akin to alerting someone you would be robbing them in six months. It gave us time to prepare for the fight, to pour over emails and recall the ways we felt this move wasn't best for the children. I became obsessed with learning all that I could about move-away cases and who the legal system typically favored. I was desperate to find something that would reassure us that when this was all over R and K would still spend half their lives growing up with us. The law wasn't so forthcoming with this information. In some ways it seemed like the legal system had begun to recognize that fathers had rights, favoring 50/50 custody in most cases. But I couldn't be certain that a psychologist and a judge wouldn't think what was best for the kids was to stay with their mom.
And so the process began. K brought home thick packets filled with the most private of questions about his relationship with his ex, with me, with his children. These questions pried into his childhood and how his parents raised him, the way he was disciplined and how many marriages his parents each had. It created a road map for the skeletons each of us have in the closet of our upbringing.
It took him weeks to answer all the questions- he sat hunched over the computer at our table reading and re-reading his responses to me on the nights we didn't have the kids. It dominated our life.
He met with the psychologist many times. Alone, with his ex, with the kids and with me. It was a veritable carousel of characters in the story of our life coming in and out of this doctor's office, sharing with him the intimate parts of our life and our home. On the day that the kids, K and I went to see the doctor I was an absolute mess. Our appointment was in the afternoon. I couldn't keep my hands from shaking and there was a heavy pit in my stomach. I wasn't afraid of what the doctor would find when he looked at our life under a microscope; it was just unsettling being scrutinized.
The doctor met first with K and the kids alone. Then he invited me in. He observed us playing games together. K's daughter laughed uncomfortably and spoke loudly when talking- she acted the way I felt inside. K's son came and sat on my lap during the game and it felt so good to have him close. It reminded me why we were there and what we were fighting for.
The doctor spent some time talking with me alone. I tried my best to be unemotional and present the facts. I had faith that this man with diplomas lining his wall and a kind smile would see the truth. I believed he would see that R and K's mom wanted to leave, not for a job, but because staying close to K was too hard. Watching them love us hurt too much. She wanted to wash her hands of the whole mess and start fresh somewhere new. I didn't want to rob her of that chance, I just didn't want her taking the kids with her. His face didn't give away much during our interview. I left the room feeling relieved it was over and uncertain how it would all end.
On our way home we stopped for dinner. We squeezed into a booth together, the closeness felt nice after such a hard day. Kelly's daughter sat swirling her straw around her soda, staring into the abyss of Sprite in her glass. His son laid out flat on the seat, using it as a little bed.
"I'm glad that's over," I said quietly. His son sat up. His daughter's eyes met mine.
"I was pretty nervous to go there today," I continued tentatively.
"Yeah, me too," his daughter said. Something felt right about acknowledging the difficulty of what we had just been through. We seemed to collectively relax in that moment.
We had made it over one of the mountains and even though we didn't know what lay ahead, right then, I looked at the light on the faces of these three people I loved and I felt peace for the first time that day.
=)
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