How’s that for a sign-off?
Reverberations are still being felt. Glacial movement. Encouraging engagements. And… We’re on a Facetime call and she’s in her pajamas drinking coffee and laughing at my humor, smiling at my smile, and you know, doing the happy-to-see-you thing. All is well.
Thirty years later, at 92 he was still fascinated by his partner and her bouncy hair and buoyant sense of humor. Solid. Back in the day, we used to call it securely attached. They weren’t so much attached as fond of each other. That’s enough. In this mad mad world: fondness and respect are enough.
And a killer attitude to go with the lightup-smile.
Joy.
I have come to believe that a power greater than ourselves can restore us to sanity: joy.
I can see it. I can feel it. My dog always has it. My cat, if I had one keeps it quiet behind the watery eyes. Joy.
As an adult, how does one develop joy or court joy? What are the conditions for breeding and raising happy kids? Kids with joy?
I think I am learning more each day about how, why, and the sobering consequences if love is conditional or absent. A major disconnect happened after the divorce. I mean, that’s the point. I was jettisoned from the family home. Taken out of a staring role when they were 9 and 7. All of our lives took a turn. But the optimism and hope became a rare element in my kid’s lives. I was relegated to alternating weekends. A fractional dad.
I walked out of the house for the last time a bit worse for wear. I’d tried to stay in the home, I had stayed in the home, even after my then-wife asked me to leave and “Give us all a break.”
She was the one who needed the break. Something was broken inside her. An unavailable mom with mental issues. A dad who failed to support her any more than he supported himself. A stoic. Remarried and divorced her mom at least once, maybe twice. In other words, my ex-wife never had a chance. Her happiness is wrapped up in some Excel formula that requires inputs she doesn’t understand or recognize. A feeling is just that: nothing. A passing note.
As the announcement to the kids scene unfolded my son responded first. “That means we get two Christmases!” We were shown each year how my sister’s kids got two competitive piles of Christmas gifts. They were competing with each other. My sister won. Her husband refused to pay the child support awarded in the decree. My sister waited until her ex was back on his feet and making money (he had employment issues) before she sued him for the back child support. Or maybe it was after his mom died and left him some money.
My malfunctioning wife took out her rage on my progress when she filed our decree with the attorney general’s office for “enforcement.” I was a week late. I gave her a month’s notice that my employer had lost a major client. I was going to get paid, but I was going to miss a payment. I’ll stop with this narrative, as I’ve documented across many books and blogs and podcasts the injustice of a deadbeat mom, defined it, even.
Aside: the “sign off” was to my recently reconnected first-grade crush.
But what if, what if my ex-wife had not weaponized our divorce? What if she had come to her human heart with curiosity rather than animosity? What if she’d been a better mom, co-parent, ex-wife?
As it went down, as it often goes down, daughters bond with dads, sons bond with moms. If my ex-wife had kept it positive I’m positive my son would not have so many issues at this moment. His hope and optimism was not only taken out when he was nine, it was replaced with a shitty narrative containing angry phrases full of “your father.”
Fuck. There was not much I could do. She hated my writing about it. Hated it more when The Huffington Post threatened to make her famous. I’m guessing my near brush with greatness and the Today Show Coldplay Whole Parent interview just about immolated her. But the interview never ran. A terrorist attack in Berlin shut down all of our hearts and minds for a week. My Chris Martin segment never ran. A near miss. I repeated this prayer to soothe my own disappointment.
“It’s not about IF I’m going to be discovered, it’s about WHEN.”
Um… That was nine years ago. I still think that. Something’s gotta give.
And then in a conversation with my across-the-culdesac-neighbor about Confederacy of Dunces. “Yeah, he had a lot of great writing, but he wasn’t getting read.”
That’s our creative dilemma today. Do we care about an audience? Reach? Fame? I’m going to admit to a long-time movie star complex. I think I got it from my dad. My Love on the Air podcast was going to make a fantastic talk show, said the TV producer who took me under her wing. She also had some issues. The fantasy rose up and lasted about three months. My brother’s ex-husband got involved as my cameraman. But I was fat. My dyed hair was questionable. “He’s too old,” said my producer’s producer. Poof.
The TV pilot is still in the pipeline.
The opening scene in draft one involves the breakfast routine. The title of the episode is “The Breakfast King.” I loved mornings. Still do. I wake up most days with enthusiasm and gratitude. I would serenade my kids and my then-wife with music, vaudeville routines, and encouragement.
“Up up up, French Toast in ten!”
It worked. My kids, as they grew up under my guidance, would dress themselves, get their books and homework ready and arrive in the kitchen ready for special order eggs or French toast. Early on they both rode the bus. So, we just had to get them dressed, fed, and out the door. It was my joy and a huge part of what me and my kids lost in the divorce. If my ex-wife had been honest she’d have admitted mornings were always hard for her. She wouldn’t have claimed to be the “better and more responsible parent.” It was bullshit then, and she knew it.
Today, as one of our kids, trips over anything remotely emotional, she exhibits the same malfunctions, perhaps magnified by her diverse husband. They are perfect for each other, but sometimes I wonder if they are still in a relationship. She does whatever she does in the evenings and often doesn’t get up until 2 pm. Whatever.
The problem came after the divorce. She was awful at getting the kids to school on time, or at all. In two years of middle school my daughter had to take summer school for her missed days. What? That’s on my ex. She was a pushover if a kid complained about “not feeling well.” Maybe that’s her normal state, so she was okay having a companion for the day. She could make soup. Try and come off as a caring and loving parent. It was a ruse. She is/was emersed in her own spiral of anxiety and running from the skeletons in her closet. I hope they never catch up with her.
What if my son had continued to have my support and masculine energy during his hyper-formative years? Even if we’d divorced, what if my ex-wife had admitted we were both positive parents and good stewards of our kids hearts and minds? What if she’d been honest?
That was too much to ask.
After a year or so I was able to afford a two-bedroom A-frame house a bit further out but in the same school district. My kids loved it. They were young enough that a shared bedroom was not yet an issue. Early on in our first semester on one of my “school days” my son reported back that he had asked his mom to do morning routines a bit more like “dad.”
Well, fuck, I understand how that would make her see red. She was not always in touch with her anger. Even before the divorce, “Fuck You” would erupt from time to time, surprising us both. The second and third time it happened she apologized. She is awful at apologizing. I don’t ever expect her to come clean about the injustice she inflicted on all of us.
Of course, the target was me. I was the bad guy. I was the reason we got divorced. Except that’s not the truth. My kids could see it was me that was balanced and happy. It was me that delighted in getting them ready for school, even if it meant they would not see me for over a week. The off-week Friday bag drop was painful. On the Thursdays of an off-week would usually have dinner with my mom, Nana, they called her. It was a small consolation. Dinner was great. My mom was another loving force in their lives. They’d do homework in the “gnome house” and I’d do my breakfast routine in the morning. Even with two different school dropoffs, I don’t think I had more than one or two “late” notices.
I was making it as easy as possible on my ex-wife. I would drop the kid’s things back at our her house on Friday mornings and proceed to fall into a black period. Crushed. Even going back to my old house, week after week, was difficult. Living with my sister wasn’t easy either, but my kids benefited from my mom’s attention. Right after the divorce, on “dad’s weekends” we were like a larger family. My mom, my sister, her two kids and my two kids. It was still somber, but there was a lot of intentional joy added to our lives by the presence of a family.
I can only imagine (though I’m starting to hear stories from both of my kids) that the lack of joy in that house was devastating. The loss. The anger. The depressive mom who can’t get the fuck out of bed to get the kids to school on time, or at all. NOPE. I can’t imagine. Best if I don’t spend much time on that line of thought.
But…
My son was starving. There was no warmth and cuddle from Mom. She was a basket case. Casting around trying to find a new lover, quick. Trying to get married and change her name, quick. Trying to distance herself from the damage she was still inflicting. She still does stupid shit to enrage my kids. My daughter easily sees through them. It doesn’t mean they don’t crush her.
She calls me crying. I comfort.
My son, on the other hand, has internalized all the bullshit that went down. The bedeviling of his dad must’ve hurt. And in response he learned from his mom how to stuff or deny feelings. How to “frame up” a lie to cover for mistakes or lies. The person he leaned on for comfort was incapable of providing more than a stiff hug, a word of encouragement, and “you can do it.”
Sons go all-in with their moms. I was the same. My dad, however, *was* that bad. My man-of-the-house protection was established about the same age, nine. Dad was the devil. Mom was Lady Madonna.
It was brought home to me when my son forwarded me a short story he had written in seventh grade. He was a creative and ambitious writer. There was a line from the narrator, “and she was already dealing with a divorce at the time.”
How I knew that feeling. His writing struck me in the chest. There was nothing I could do to rebuild the trust that was shattered daily by an angry ex-wife. Dealing with a divorce.
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