The Big Bang, 10 Years Later

It was Valentine’s Day. Yet there I was, blubbering in the bathtub.

I’d spent a fabulous romantic 45th birthday in San Francisco with Noah, and chose to look at the 10 year anniversary of the Big Bang as a necessary evil that, in one fell swoop, practically catapulted me into a new life and later, the arms of a wonderful man who cherished me.

On the afternoon of February 14th, our plane landed back in Portland and Noah and I were picked up from the airport and taken to dinner at a small Italian restaurant in the St. John’s neighborhood. Noah’s parents graciously wished me a belated happy birthday and toasted Noah and I with glasses of red wine over calzone. Later that evening, as I relaxed in a bubble bath, my phone rang. The word “kids” flashed across the screen and I cheerfully answered.

My heart sank when I heard Mike’s voice on the line. Today of all days I didn’t want to even think of him much less speak to him.

“Hey, Soph, on Friday Faith is going to a slumber party then Wanda will drop her off at her dance practice in the morning."

It wasn’t a question. Mike was informing me of how Faith wouldn’t be dropped off on my weekend. Again.

This time, I didn’t push back. For the past several months I’d been firmly but politely telling the kids and Mike that there were going to be times I would veto a slumber party or volleyball practice on my weekends so I could spend time with my kids. The older kids get, the more challenging it is for any parent to count on face to face time with a teen or pre-teen and even harder to have that time as an every-other-weekend non custodial parent. My children are extremely social and athletic, which is good. But if I said “ok” every time they wanted to make other plans or their dad and Wanda insisted they go to a practice or game, I’d never see them other than on a field while I sat on the sidelines cheering from a distance.

I’d tried to express this to Mike in counseling. He’d simply reacted by blustering about the importance of sports. I knew exactly where he thought I fit into our children’s lives and it was several levels below athletics.

After eight years of acting against my maternal instincts and disdain for the habitual over scheduling of my kids, I finally stood my ground early one Saturday morning in September and for the first time, didn’t take Faith to her 3rd season in a row of “Fall Ball” softball. It was an all-day tournament 20 miles from home, in the rain, and she was too tired to begin with. That was definitely not the way I wanted to spend my precious time with my daughter that weekend. I told Faith she didn’t have to go. I emailed her coach, copied Mike, and let him know that since I’d only found out that Mike had obligated her to the tournament the day before, we were making other plans and the team would have to do without her that day at least.

Mike was furious. He pulled Faith off the team entirely and told her it was her mother’s fault for influencing her and he told her that she had to pay him back the money he’d spent signing her up. Our parenting plan states that we have joint legal custody and decisions about school and sports activities are meant to be discussed and agreed upon together, before obligating the other parents parenting time. He also told Wanda to block my telephone number, and Noah’s, from all three of my children’s cell phones as my “punishment,” which was even the word he used when we met once with a counselor about the level of difficulty between us.

“Damn straight, it is like punishment. She didn’t take Faith to her game that we paid for.”

He also said that the cell phones they’d bought my children as Christmas gifts the year before, and most likely used a portion of the child support I paid, was a “luxury” and that they didn’t buy the kids cell phones for my convenience therefore, they had every right to block my land line and cell phone numbers from them.

“You can just call the landline at night or go through me and Wanda if you need to talk to them.” The counselor just shook his head and nothing was accomplished by the end of our hour.
When I later insisted he be rational and fair and unblock my number after months of the blocking continued, he’d been so miffed at my audacity to ask instead of “dropping it” as he’d ordered me to do that he took the kids phones away from them completely, telling them it was their mother’s fault they’d lost the right to them.

Several heated conversations followed. I asked Mike and Wanda multiple times, week after week, in a fair and polite appeal, to please unblock my phone from my children’s.

Mike sneered at me and his voice was condescending as I crouched in the bathtub on Valentine’s Day, cringing as I heard myself wimpily asking him yet AGAIN to unblock me from my children’s phones.

“I’ll think about it,” he finally said.

On the exact 10 year anniversary of the day my ex husband did what he did to end our marriage, I finally felt something deep within me snap.

Not only did he not even fathom the fact that he was mocking and bullying me, but he didn’t realize or know it was exactly 10 years to the day that I had answered the door of our safe, suburban home to two policemen looking for my husband.

When I hung up the phone, instead of feeling hurt and helpless, a new emotion surfaced, and for once, I embraced it.

Rage.

(To Be Continued)

Shower Confessional

"Shades of Gray" from Michelle DuPuis

Our bathroom is 11-year-old Faith’s confessional.  The combination of warm running water, steam, and the familiar smell of Suave Strawberry shampoo mingled with Johnson’s Baby Bath unhinge my youngest daughter’s emotions.  The shower curtain, drawn between us like a confessional screen, provides just enough privacy to unlock her inhibitions.  The warmth and security of the steam blanket wrapped around her often extracts long, pent up thoughts and fears from the darker corners of her mind and shoos them out into the open where I can help her turn them over and make sense of them.

Our ritual starts with me running her bath or shower and asking her to go upstairs for her robe and pajamas.  She returns and closes the door behind her.  After she’s settled cozily beneath a blanket of bubbles in the tub or has pulled the shower curtain and warmed up, she’ll often call for me to return.  We’ve had some of our most important conversations in this sanctuary.  
On a recent Sunday night, there was another installment in our running sessions, one that I was not prepared for.

“Mom?”

“Yes Honey?”

“Can I talk to you about something?”

“Of course, Sweetie.  Always.”

“Mom, last time, in the summer, I talked to Ryan.  He’s a really good person to talk to about this stuff.  I trust him and he… he knows.”

I was caught off guard.  Not many of my daughter’s conversations begin with reference to her 29-year-old step brother, Mike’s oldest son and my former stepson.

At a loss for words, I waited, knowing that she was summoning her thoughts and feelings to the surface.

“He told me not to tell you because you’d probably call Children’s Protective Services again or something and get dad and Wanda in trouble.  He said it was okay and not a big deal and dad didn’t mean it.  He said it happened to him too when he was a little kid.”

My heart was caught in my throat.  I could barely breathe.

“Mmmmhmmm...”

I was glad for the curtain between us.  I didn’t want Faith to see the apprehension in my face.  I worried that she might not have continued if she had.

“Ryan said, when he was a kid, dad scared him too.  He used to get super mad….like, remember?  When Dad yelled ‘Shut your face, Faith! Shut your face!’ And I didn’t even know who he was?  Well, like that.”

“What happened that Ryan said you shouldn’t tell me, Faith?”

The story, like a pent up stream of water, came gushing out.

“Well, when I was getting ready for Gospel Christmas last night, and I thought I looked cute.  I had on my leggings and this cute shirt and top.  But then Wanda came in.  She didn’t even knock.  I don’t like it mom, when she barges into my room.  All she says is ‘it’s just me, don’t mind me,’ but sometimes she just says nothing.  Even when I’m in the shower.  I don’t like it, mom.  It makes me uncomfortable.”

This was another subject I’d need to get back to with Faith.  For the time being, I steered her back to the story about her outfit, and Gospel Christmas.

“What happened after you got dressed?”

“Wanda hated my outfit.  Like usual.  She said I looked ‘weird.’  She got me jeans and a tee shirt, and Mom, it was Gospel Christmas.  I wanted to dress up for once.  It’s the holidays, and at night, and downtown.  I don’t get to get dressed up that much and I liked what I picked.  It wasn’t weird.  But oh no, Wanda had to tell me it was ugly.  I’m so tired of her telling me what to wear!  Why does she always care about how I look so much?”

Faith was fuming.  She was not timid or crying.  She was definitely mad.

“Then, I slammed my drawers when she went downstairs.  Then, dad stomped up the stairs REALLY loud and fast, like when he gets super mad.  He ran into my room and I was scared mom... he was scary.  He slapped my face.  Mom, I know I probably shouldn’t have acted so mad at Wanda.  I was having a temper.  I was having a meltdown.  But dad was so mad, and he just slapped me right on my face.”

Mike had hit the children before.  About a year ago I got a call from then 16-year-old Claire, telling me through sobs that her dad had spanked her after she had an argument with Wanda.  It had resulted from another yelling match between them, this time about an upper ear piercing Claire had not gotten permission for.  I’d called both my lawyer and our family counselor immediately.  They both asked the same thing:  “Did she call the police and is there any bruising?”  No, and no.  Again, they both said if there are no bruises, and the child did not call the police, there was nothing that could be done.  I made a mental note for future reference.

I hadn’t noticed any bruises on Faith’s face, but I’d double check after the shower.

“How hard did he slap you, Faith?”

“Not hard.  It wasn’t hard mom, it was just a slap.  But Mom, isn’t that not okay?  I don’t want to be one of those kids who gets abused.  God, Mom, it sounds so weird to say now, ‘my dad hit me.’  I shouldn’t have acted so mad mom, but he didn’t just talk to me.  A parent should act like a parent, you know, like talk to their kid about it.”

The last time Faith and I had a long conversation about parenting, I tried to give her some tools to use to make sense of the different parenting styles she’s encountered.  I used my sister-in-law as an example of how a good parent, who is firm but constructive and loving, handles discipline with her young boys.  She and her husband never lose their temper and would never hit or scream at their kids, no matter how stressful the situation.  They are always in control of their actions, no matter how carried away the boys might get.  When my kids have felt bad before, and come clean to me about things said in the heat of frustration and anger at their dad’s house, I’ve asked them - “Do you think Katie or Brian would ever scream at Evan to ‘shut your face’?  The last time Emma just laughed in understanding of the absurdity that such good parents would do such a thing.

Last December their stepmother’s mother, Grandma Crater, had dropped the kids off to Noah at the mall by the airport.  Noah had noticed that she was driving her daughter’s car, and asked me later, “Doesn’t she have a breathalyzer in her car?  I don’t think she can drive another car.”  We had driven to the beach that weekend with the kids and they openly dished on the matter, which appropriately ended up with an open Child Protective Services case and interviews with the kids.  Their dad and Wanda had accused the kids of lying about feeling afraid and disallowed them (attempted to, anyways) from talking to me at all about Wanda’s family.  I had taken the opportunity to use my sister-in-law and her husband again as parenting examples in discussions with my kids about this matter.

“Can you imagine Katie and Brian saying that their kids were lying about seeing liquor bottles in the front seat?  Or that the breathalyzer was just for asthma?”  They just laughed.  It was nice to realize that my kids were now old enough to see through most of the BS without any help.  I knew it stung Mike and Wanda because they rarely missed an opportunity to accuse me of fabricating stories, and their radio silence on this matter with me was surely due to the file sitting somewhere in a CPS office with their names on it.

“Faith, I’m so sorry, Honey.  But you’re right -- it’s not okay for him to slap you, even if it isn’t hard.”

In the past, Mike had made a big show of telling Ryan, and then later our son Jackson, that it’s never alright to hit a girl.  (I’d taken it farther and told all my kids - “Don’t ever hit anyone”).  Yet here he was, a 50-plus years old, 6’3, 230 lbs., breaking his only cardinal rule again.  He slapped our 11-year-old daughter right before taking the family to “Gospel Christmas.”  It seemed like an episode of a really bad Afternoon Special about child abuse.

“Ryan said, it happened to him too.  He said, when he was little, Dad poked him in the chest, like this” —she poked her head outside the shower curtain and pantomimed an angry, tightlipped face, bugged out eyes, and motioned a stiff, repetitive jab to the chest and throat.

“He said dad poked him so hard, he at first felt like he couldn’t breathe.  Then, dad saw he might have hurt him, and he felt bad.  He said he told him he was sorry, and hugged him and asked if he was okay.”

I was temporarily at a loss for words.

“But mom, Dad didn’t say anything like that to me.  I was so mad.  I was crying.  I was crying and crying like crazy.  But dad didn’t act like anything happened after that!  He just acted normal.  Not mad, not sad... like nothing even happened.  He ALWAYS does that!  I don’t get it!”

Her anger had bubbled over and Faith was now crying.  Tears were flowing as she stood in the shower, warm water pummeling her from above.  I knew what she was talking about.  I’d written down all my dreams, in a journal, when I was married to her dad.  They reflected what happened in my life with him.  Mike, in my experience, lacked the ability to know or acknowledge when he’d done something wrong.  To this day, I always wondered how he could do what he’d done to our family and marriage back then, and just seem to forget.  Or worse yet, he’d ended up blaming me for how I’d reacted to what he’d done.  When I made him move out, he’d been angry with me too.  He’d told me how selfish I was.  He was two people, A Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde character -- a jovial, loving father one minute -- a swearing, angry, monster who could barely restrain himself the next.

I used to think (hope?) that it was just me.  Either I overreacted to his temper, or I’d done something that deserved that level of anger.  I hoped that he had since matured, and having gotten away from me as his wife, he wouldn’t lose his temper anymore.  Apparently, I was wrong, and my kids are stuck dealing with it.

I remembered something else Faith had said.

“Faith, what happened in the summer that you told Ryan about and he told you not to tell me?”

“Well, I was so scared of dad back then too.  I took a nap one day, you know, during softball, when I was on that team at State.  I woke up too late, and I was really tired, and dad was mad.  He was so mad.  He told me to hurry up, I was late for softball practice, and he pushed my face.”

She’d turned off the shower, wrapped up in a towel and showed me her open hand, fingers splayed straight and her arm locked, exaggeratedly stiff.  Again, her face was imitating a mask of seething anger.  I’d seen that face a long time ago myself, on my ex husband when he was frustrated with me.  Faith was sobbing now.

“Mom, I don’t know what to do.  Dad acts like it’s nothing.  Ryan told me not to tell you.  Most of the time, dad is nice.  Before he’s been nice, anyway.  But mom, he’s not my dad anymore.  I just don’t even want him to be my dad anymore.”

We sat together on the edge of the tub.  I held her shoulders as they shook.  I worried about what to do next.  The last time I took Claire to the counselor and called my lawyer, it didn’t sound like there was any way I could stop what I knew was going on at the other house.  If I said anything, I might be accused by my ex and the kids step mom that I was, to use a few of their favorite phrases -- “stirring things up,” “just trying to make us look bad,” and “trying to make yourself look good.”  If I confronted Mike, I was afraid that it would make things actually worse for the kids based on past experience.  A few years ago I’d urged Faith and Jackson to speak to their grade school counselor.  They were upset with some things going on at their other house and they kept saying that they want to live with Noah and me.  I’d told them to talk to her about the issues at their other house because she would listen and document the problems.  Instead, the counselor called their dad, without them knowing, and asked him to come to the school that day.  The kids walked into her office and saw him sitting there.  She proceeded to tell him what the kids had told her about Wanda, and how their step mom treated them and talked to them.  Mike told the counselor he didn’t know it was that bad, that he’d talk to Wanda and things would change.  Jackson and Faith told me when they got home that day, the first thing Mike did was tell Wanda that the kids had been talking about her to the school counselor.  She was furious.  They held a family meeting later that night, and their dad cried and told them he didn’t want them to someday move out, like Ryan had when he’d gone to live with his Grandma as a teen.  My kids didn’t want to hurt their dad.  They didn’t want to anger Wanda.  Wanda and their dad told them that if they moved in to live with their mom, they would leave their school, and neighborhood, sports teams and friends.  They were told not to go the counselor again.

“Faith, you have to help me so I can help our family.”

She nodded weakly.  I could tell she was exhausted.  Spent.

“Faith, I know you don’t want to get your dad in trouble.  I know you are not that comfortable talking to a counselor, but honey, it’s to help your dad too.  You have to think of how telling the truth can fix things.  It’s not being mean to your dad.  It’s not ‘telling on him.’  He shouldn’t hit.  You know that.  He’s the one who says that even.  Dads shouldn’t hit girls; not anyone.  YOU shouldn’t have to worry he’s going to hit at all when he’s mad.  It’s not okay.  I need you to talk to our counselor with me.  He knows your dad.  He will want to help him.  He remembers what we talked about with Claire last year when she moved out.  You can’t be afraid right now about hurting your dad’s feelings, or getting in trouble with Wanda.  Let’s at least meet him and he can give us some advice.  Maybe he’ll know what to do.”

I was also exhausted.  My kids were not in immediate physical danger that I knew of, but how close was the breaking point?  Things were not getting better.  The fact was, Mike was having a hard time staying appropriate and in control of himself.  His “Jekyll” character was still simmering just beneath the surface, and I’d be a bad parent if I waited for a bruising or a call to the police by one of the kids.  I would need to take another look at what it would take to get temporary custody.

Faith was limp.  She leaned against me.

“Mom?  I just want him to be away somewhere.  Put away.  Where he can’t touch me or see me or talk to me.  I want to tell him how I feel.  I want to just tell him how mad I am but not be afraid.”

My 11 year old daughter was saying what I’d thought but never been able to say, almost exactly

10 years ago, when our family first fell apart because of Mike’s lack of restraint and control.  Would my 13 year old son follow in his father’s footsteps?  With all the empty sermons his dad had spewed about not hitting girls, my tender, smart, loving son had told me recently that when his step mom had grabbed his arm, and he’d knocked her hand off of him, he’d told her, “Don’t touch me.”  He said she was furious.  “Then I’ll just have your dad touch you,” she said to him.  After telling me this story, he added:   “If Wanda ever does try to hit me, I’m going to punch her in the face.”   And with venom I’d never seen in Jackson’s calm blue eyes, little he belted a tight fisted punch into the air in our kitchen.

“No.  Jackson, I don’t care WHAT the circumstances, or HOW mad you are.   You don’t ever hit anyone.”

“I don’t care.  I’m going to hit her if she hits me.”

“Jackson, if you hit Wanda, YOU will be the one in trouble.  You are bigger now.  You are a teenager.  If you hurt or hit someone, it is called ‘assault,’ and you could go to Juvenile jail or have a record.  Or, worse yet, really hurt Wanda.  You cannot EVER hit. Violence is not the answer.”

“Mom.  I don‘t care.  She makes me so mad.  It’d be worth it.”

I called the counselor to set an appointment the following day.  As much as I worry about putting at risk the trust my kids put in me when they confide in me, I cannot stand by and not do take action to protect them, and maybe even Wanda and Mike, in the long run.

The Real Cost of Custody Battles

This piece first appeared on Fathers and Families.

For the past eight years, I’ve adopted and grown into both the idea and reality of being a role reversal model of the mother as the non-custodial parent, but if current trends continue, the percentage of non-custodial parents will shrink.  That is because recent trends indicate that more progressive state laws are defaulting to split custody scenarios between divorced parents.  Of course there will be exceptions to this rule, but don’t children and their capable, loving, non-abusive parents deserve the right to equal parenting time?

That wasn’t the case seven years ago when my ex-husband and I agreed (with a handshake deal) that, based on our schedules and the better schools where he lived, it made sense for the kids to live with him during the week.  I failed to protect my legal interests in the matter.  I made the mistake of thinking that, because I believed it to be the status quo, one parent assumed the role of bread winner while the other parent filled the role of “main” or “custodial” parent.  I have joint legal custody of my children, but it really never occurred to me that I could (or should) have demanded and worked toward joint physical custody back when my ex and his new partner hired an attorney and put a very lopsided parenting plan in front of me to sign.

As my new reality sank in, I counted myself as one of the distraught and broken mothers who “lost custody” of their little ones.  I sought comfort online in forums and groups for mothers like me.  On those sites, I found comfort and camaraderie, but few solutions.  The women vented and prayed for each other, but there was little dialogue about a hardcore strategy for reshaping one’s co-parenting landscape into something more fair.   Frustrated, I recently turned to sites for divorced fathers who were trying to get shared custody of their children.

After finding a particularly noble and helpful forum for divorced fathers, I naively announced my arrival on their site.

“Hi guys!  I’m like you because I pay child support and only have my kids every other weekend and one night a week!” (I’m paraphrasing here, but you get the gist).

They swiftly corrected me.

“You are not like us.  Most of us have fought hard in court for the right to have our children at least 50% of the time.”

Oh, right.

To add insult to injury, even my kids’ stepmom reprimanded me for not starting a legal battle for custody years ago.  She took a verbal jab at me over dinner one evening as I tried to find a cooperative middle ground between us – the two women in my children’s lives.

“If they were my kids, I would have fought for them.”

She’s not alone – there’s an army of mommies out there incredulous at my adoption of the non-custodial mother role.  “How could you…?” is always at the root of their thinly veiled questions.

The parenting climate that my children are living in at their other house has deteriorated over the years.  I’ve always taken the high road in the co-parenting role to keep the peace for the sake of my children, but they now need my help, so I’ve had to figure out how to use my joint legal custody status for leverage in negotiating with my ex-husband.  The forum for divorced fathers that I found has provided what I need, and that is actionable advice.  In only two months time, I’ve picked up ideas, strategies, and tactics to employ in trying to level out the playing field in my co-parenting situation to bring it closer to what is fair and what is best for our children.

I believe in exhausting all avenues of negotiation before involving attorneys.  Once you “lawyer up,” even if the tone is civil, it’s hard to pretend that the peace process hasn’t been forsaken for all-out war.  For years, divorced parents have assumed it’s their duty to go to court to battle for custody.  Countless children have carried this cross, limping between broken homes as dinged and damaged trophies.

In the U.S., the divorce rate is commonly thought to be around 50% (www.divorcerate.org shows it being between 40% and 50%).  That divorce is such a hot button topic should be no surprise – it affects so many people in such a profound way.  Add to that (1) the way our legal system does not discourage, and essentially encourages, frivolous lawsuits, and (2) the 24-hour-sensational-news-cycle culture that pumps out books, blogs and news sites that splash titillating headlines on their covers about the who’s, why’s and how’s of every divorce from you to Maria Shriver – and it’s no surprise that so many divorcing and divorced people have a hard time turning off the noise and focusing on what is best for their children.

But if the nationwide trend towards shared custody continues, divorced parents could serve their children well by getting used to the concept and realities of cooperative co-parenting.  If the emotional well-being of the children is the agreed upon goal (and how can it not be, I have to remind myself with clenched teeth and fists quite often), then as adults and loving parents, we need to agree to terms and rules for a new reality – one in which our children are not the spoils of war.  The battlefield needs to give way to neutral ground where a broken family can lay the groundwork for fair and just terms that benefit, not hurt, the children involved.  Hopefully this trend towards shared physical custody will help pave the way.

Are You My Mother?

I recently received an email from a woman -- a mother -- in California; let’s call her “Melissa.”  It started out like many of the emails and messages I’ve received – “I happened to come across your blog while at work today, and have been reading it for a while. I have laughed, sighed and most of all felt the comfort of hearing from another Mother who has gone through my current situation. I do not know another Mother that has gone through divorce and sharing custody, or being a non-custodial Mother.”

She launched into various questions about how I have handled different situations as a mother without physical custody of my children.  Her children are young and she’s grappling with many of the same issues I dealt with in that after the wheels came off my marriage and I had to navigate the rubble of our new reality.  She then posed a question that cuts to the core of a mother's essence. 

“What would you say if your daughter was calling her Step Mom 'Mommy'?” 

Oh boy.  

She goes on:  “My daughter is 3 ½, and she took a liking to her new Step-Mom (who she knew for only 2 months).  Part of me wanted to gently explain to her that I am her ‘Real Mom’ now, before it went on too long, but my daughter didn’t seem to get it, or she is set in her ways. She just said ‘I have two Moms’ with excitement. I didn’t want to make her feel guilty, or in trouble, so I just gently said 'Yes, you have 2 women who love you. You have me, your real Mom, and then Mama Kathy.' She just smiled. I tried talking to her new Step Mom, and she said that she refers to herself as 'Mama Kathy' (which I am 100% fine with), but that my daughter started calling her 'Mom'/'Mommy' anyhow. A few friends have said ‘I would never let my kids call another woman Mom,’ but how can you argue with a 3 year old?  I don’t think she understands the sacredness of that title. I guess I worry that when she does understand it, it will be too late to reverse the title if she has been calling her Step Mom ‘Mom.’ For now, I am trying to focus on being grateful that there is another woman who seems to love and care for my kids, who is nice to me when I come to get them, etc. I try to remember it could be a lot worse, and that I need to be happy that my daughter feels fondly for her Step Mom. It just tugs at your heart. I hope I am not being a pushover, I just don’t want my daughter to feel guilty. I decided I will just smile and say ‘Oh you mean Mama Kathy?’ and hope she catches on. It's just difficult when you are at work all the time, and another woman is being called ‘Mom.’”

Author’s note:  In composing this entry, I debated between including only Melissa's initial question versus the entire passage from her email that illustrates the situation and shows the internal battle she is going through that I know is so common for many non custodial mothers.  As you can see, I decided to leave it in, specifically for the latter reason; that I think it will resonate with anyone who has been in a similar situation.  Clearly Melissa is a reasonable, loving mother, but her point about the title of "mother" or "mom" being "sacred" is, I believe, at the crux of her dilemma.

I remember going through what Melissa is going through.  To be in this position as a mother doing what you think is right for your child or children, but violates so many maternal instincts, feels unfair and unnatural.   And it's terrifying.  Then, to have your child referring to another woman as “mommy” only adds insult to injury.  But many moons have passed since I first found myself in Melissa’s situation, and I’ve grown accustomed to willing myself to be philosophical and practical, not emotional, in these matters, and my response to her reflected that.

"Melissa, let me ask you this question -- how is whatever name your child calls her stepmother adversely affecting the well-being of this child?  At this point, I encourage you to always use this lens to judge matters involving your kids and your situation.  Again, it's very difficult and it will take a while to get used to it, but that's what I've taught myself to do and I really believe it is a big reason why my kids are well-adjusted, when, on paper, you would think that they would be torn in half.  Your daughter is WAY too young to try to explain this matter to her.  I am not an expert on this stuff though, and perhaps if you can't get past it or really think that it's wrong, then I would encourage you to seek an expert's advice.  Continue to focus exactly what you are focusing on, that there is even more love in your children's lives.  That's the best advice I have for you.”

Then I asked if she’d ever heard the story about King Solomon’s Wisdom. While an extreme example, it was only after I was forced to consider what was really best for my children when I entered the workforce (to provide health insurance for my kids) that I understood the saying "If you love something, set it free."  You might ask - but how can this apply to one's own children?  It's not easy.  In fact, it's a leap of faith.  

Although it’s been almost ten years since the night my family imploded, I’m not so far removed from this reality that I don’t still have to deal with situations like this.  But as long as my kids aren't harmed by the trivial posturing their "other parents" are prone to, I don't sweat it.  Most people are amazed at what I endure.  Here's one recent example:  My 11 year old daughter's state softball tournament was a month ago in a town four hours from where I live.  The "other parents" have more flexibility in their work schedules than I do and were able to immediately take the next six days off of work to go with the team and stay in a hotel for the whole week.  I went to an early game with my mother, then a game later in the week with my husband.  During the second game, my daughter got a key hit and drove in a run.  One of the team moms jumped up and turned to my kids' step mom and shouted - "Who's kid is that?!" My kids' step mom jumped up and the two women triumphantly and dramatically high-fived each other.  My husband squirmed ferociously.

"Will you please show her your C-section scar and ask if it's at least worth a fist bump?" he said to me under his breath.  

"No, but be sure to point her out to me one day so I can give her a copy of my book."  

After the game on the way to the car, he asked if it bothered me at all.  The truth was that of course it did, but only for a split-second, then I reminded myself that no matter how much I don't care for her father and stepmother, they love her and she loves them and she's getting a lot more out of life at this age than if I picked fights and made scenes over these types of things.  And I can see the benefits my children have received from their childhood not being marked by strife between their parents.  

Back to Melissa - two weeks passed after my email before I heard back from her. 

"I forgot to thank you for that story (The judgment of Solomon).  That was a great story, and I will always remember it.  I have decided to let go of the issue of my daughter calling her Step Mom 'Mommy.' I have to remember to look at it from the filter you told me about."

To complete the aforementioned saying -- "If you love something, set it free. If it comes back, it's yours.”  It’s not a name or word that anchor us to our children -- its love.  Love, hope, faith – these things can’t always be seen or heard, but that doesn’t mean that they don’t exist. On the contrary, these are the invisible, anchoring tethers that keep our children close to us as loving mothers, no matter how far away they are in either time or place. 

Authors Note:  This was the end of the blog post, but I want to give the last word to Melissa.  This was her response when I inquired if I could share some of her story for this entry.  May her words reach those who can find strength and guidance in them...

"I would not mind you use my story at all. If it can help other Moms relate, or feel not so alone I would be happy. Finding your blog and just writing with you has helped me a lot. It has really made me feel less alone, and stronger. It has helped me to accept my kids new Step Mom, and to put my own emotions aside a lot more. Even when I have a right to be angry/bitter/resentful at my ex for lots of reasons...this morning was my son’s first day of school and I was determined to meet my son’s Dad and Step Mom at his new school, and to smile and get along so that my son could have that. My own parents were divorced, and they would have never done this. I felt it was valuable and important for my kids to see the 3 of us together, all talking and peaceful with one another.

Some friends get protective of me, and defensive for me, including my Fiancé who feels my ex does not own up to any real responsibility (He will take my son to an arcade or to do fun things, but I paid for all this school clothes, new shoes, etc).  But I have decided that one day my kids will see this. For now, I want to be my best for the kids...and be confident that they will understand what went on one day. I knew before that you had to try to keep the peace and 'pick your battles' but I have learned that If I fight for what is fair, even if I have a right, it will hurt my kids and myself...And so I have to weigh that out in every situation."

Better, Not Bitter

This piece originally appeared in the Non Custodial Mom Chronicles on Post Divorce Chronicles.

Shortly after my ex husband and I separated, I plummeted into a darkness that I could not have imagined.   It wasn’t just the fact that I’d experienced the sucker punch of betrayal, but I was grieving for the life I knew I was losing.  I was strong on the outside during the day.  I went about my usual chores and daily rigmarole that was familiar and calming to my three children and tried to act normal.  But at night, the darkness swallowed me.  I couldn’t sleep.  I worried and felt angry and lost.  In those early days, I clung to my religion for dear life.  Sleeping alone in our king sized bed for the first time in 17 years, I used God like a dying person uses morphine to snuff out the pain.  I prayed.  I wept.  I read passages in the Bible, searching for wisdom and signs to tell me what to do.

In the mornings, I woke up early, before the kids even began to stir.  My ritual was to light a fire in the fireplace, wrap myself in a blanket and simply sit and stare at the flames.  Sometimes I cried.  Sometimes I prayed.  Mostly, I absorbed the silence.  It was in those hours I pulled myself together so I wouldn’t fall apart in front of my children.  Once the initial spells of weeping and grieving began to subside, I prayed less and listened to the quiet around me more.  It was in those hours that I made decisions about the life in front of me — the new life I was starting to let myself imagine…

What if life is a series of events and happenings that God (or Destiny) puts in front of us for our own good?  What if our purpose in life is to see the path in front of us and go along with it, even if it’s not what we planned for ourselves?

What if we are supposed to be quiet enough to pay attention to the signs along the way, and have the guts – and the faith — to follow the signs, no matter where they might lead us?

These sacred mornings allowed me that time and space I needed to start thinking about what I hadn’t thought of before — options.

At first, I never thought I would entertain the idea of letting my kids live with their dad, not even for half the time.  I kept thinking about how content I was with our old life — how comfortable, predictable, and cozy it was for our children.  How dare my husband do what he did!  It dismantled our family, and I didn’t want to share my kids with him.  I didn’t think he deserved them.  I just couldn’t imagine not being the same kind of mom as I had always been.  I had been raised by a traditional, baked-cookies-after-school type of homemaker mother, and this was the model that I knew and was comfortable with.

So when the idea to enter into a joint custody arrangement with my ex began to emerge as a real possibility, I thought there must be something wrong with me.  I really thought that maybe I’d flipped a switch or was going a little bit crazy from the pit of sorrow that I had been stuck in for so long.  I had doubts.  I felt guilt.  I knew I would miss my kids and they would miss me.  Even though it went against my upbringing, I asked myself — what if being a responsible and good mother now means that I need to work outside the home instead of flipping pancakes and shuttling the kids to school and practice every day? Ultimately, I decided that it was my turn to bring home the bacon, and their father’s turn to be the caregiver.  I decided that I would have to let go of what everyone else would think and pay attention to what my children’s practical needs were instead.

In all epic dramas, there is always a darkness that threatens to overwhelm the characters we identify with.   In The Wizard of Oz, Dorothy, the Tin Man, the Scarecrow and the Cowardly Lion are on the run from the Wicked Witch.  In the end, they learn that the reality they were seeking, the salvation, was right in front of them all along.  My life was changing abruptly – that was a fact.  But instead of feeling sorry for myself, I decided to take advantage of what, at first glance, looked a lot like a bad situation.  Instead, I looked at it like an engraved invitation to do something new while showing my children a stronger and more self-sufficient version of the Mom they knew.

I wasn’t sure at first how to go about designing this new version of our family.  I had no blueprint.  What I was sure of was that, even though, I was entering into uncharted territory, I was terrified and excited at the same time.  I began to realize this sure beat being bitter and paralyzed by the past.

From Sweatpants to High Heels

After the terrific response from A Non Custodial Mother Article in the Huffington Post and the latest news about mothers who are redefining traditional roles (such as the recent piece by Rahna Reiko Rizzuto on Salon.com), I thought I’d put a face on one non custodial mother – me.  This is the beginning of my story, and an unexpected new life:

From Sweatpants to High Heels

For a long time, I considered myself a proud member of The Mommy Sorority.

When it came to raising my children, I did everything “right,” and I held other moms to the same expectations I had for myself.  I stayed home with my children, first when they were babies, then as toddlers.  I bought the latest Baby Einstein crib mobiles and educational toys.  I never forgot to pack an extra hat and kept an ample supply of organic graham crackers in the diaper bag.  I would spend hours researching what kind of diapers or sunscreen to buy.  I made baby food and froze it in convenient serving sizes in the ice cube tray.  I subscribed to Family Fun magazine.  I felt confident in my role of Super Mama for over eight years. 

I was even smug about it.

When working mothers dropped their children off at my house for daycare, I didn’t envy them at all.  I contentedly breathed in the aroma of homemade play dough that wafted through my house and co-mingled with the familiar and comforting scents of homemade pancakes and maple syrup.  I felt superior to those mothers.  After all, I knew all the words to Kenny Login’s “Return to Pooh Corner” soundtrack and I was free to spend uninterrupted hours of the weekday at home with my kids.  I thought I was doing the noblest job of all, that of stay-at-home mom.  I decided I didn’t need to worry about make-up, stylish clothes (Hanes sweat pants did the trick!) and a career at an office.  I’d given up my dreams of writing and photography.  I figured that by being there 24/7 for my three children, writing about them in my journal, and photographing them at every stage, my dreams were being fulfilled in a more down-to-earth, practical way.

After all, sacrifice is the soul of parenting.

But in 2002, my suburban June Cleaver world turned upside down.   Little did I know, while I was nursing babies, flipping pancakes, planting bulbs in the backyard, folding mountains of laundry, and tending to our home, my husband was tending to other women.  On our 14^th wedding anniversary, I learned in the most shocking of ways that he had been having an affair.   I was so caught up in my idealized suburban slice of heaven that I this possibility never dawned on me.   After all, he was a church-going man — a Promise Keeper and part of a “Men’s Accountability Prayer Group” on Thursdays.  Over the course of our 17 years together, he’d told me many times that he was “the Captain of our family’s ship.”  He was, he said, in charge of making sure we were taken care of, and I trusted him to navigate us through any choppy waters.  It never seemed possible that our marriage would become a shipwreck.

But when I found out what my husband had done, I immediately made the decision to make him leave.   He was not at all the husband I thought he was.  Maybe some couples survive the heartbreaking devastation of infidelity, but my husband’s version of it was too much for me to work through.  I would have put my health in jeopardy if I’d stayed with him.  To put it bluntly, not only had he been unfaithful, but he’d been extremely promiscuous with a high-risk person, and did not use protection.  That additional bit of information mattered to me a lot.  I wouldn’t risk my health by staying with him, and although I could eventually forgive him, I knew I would never be able to be intimate with him again.  I couldn’t stay married to a person I did not want to ever make love to again.  Not only had he betrayed me emotionally, but the physical repercussions of what he did were more than I was willing to overlook.  My logic was, if I stayed with him, and eventually became sick or contracted a disease because of his infidelity, what good would I be to my kids then?  In the end, I traded in my marriage and relationship.  I valued my long term health, and didn’t trust that he ever would.   It is my belief that a woman shouldn’t stay with a man who endangers her health and doesn’t cherish her enough to protect at least that part of her.

I also found myself deciding, out of necessity, to take over as “the Captain of our family’s ship” by going back to work (my husband also lost his job because of his indiscretions).  We couldn’t pay our bills or our mortgage.  In the aftermath, we even lost our health insurance.  Someone had to take over, and that someone, however unconventional it felt in the world I was familiar with, was me.

So I joined the ranks of the working mothers that I’d looked down my nose at.  Not only would I become a mother who worked full-time outside the home, but I would be a single mother.   The women from my church didn’t understand how I could make my husband leave and not work things out with him.  But they didn’t know the whole story.  My own family and friends thought I was crazy not to take my estranged husband to court for alimony and child support to “make him pay” for what he did.  I struggled with my own idea of how a mother should be.  I was in very new territory, and I privately wondered if I was making the right choices.   But I did know that my children missed their daddy.  They spent more time with him since he was not working much.  He became the parent that would take them to their soccer practice, doctor appointments, and help them with their homework after school before making them dinner.  I became the frazzled busy parent who would pick them up late at night at his apartment, then shuttle them to daycare early in the morning, hurriedly strapping them half asleep into their car seats with limp toaster waffles wrapped in napkins and warm juice boxes for breakfast.   It was a harrowing adjustment for all of us, and I wasn’t happy with what kind of mother I was turning into.  It seemed like I was exhausted, cranky, and in a hurry all the time.  My kids were tired and their performances at school were suffering.  I wasn’t giving them the kind of parenting they deserved, and it began to haunt me.  I felt guilty, angry, and sad.  Mostly, I felt overwhelmed.

Once my ex husband met the woman who would become his new wife, I found myself fantasizing about how nice it would be to share with them the responsibility of parenting.  She was a hard-working woman with an office at home.  She seemed to really like my children and volunteered to pick them up from school several times a week.  She stepped right in.  She packed their lunches and made cupcakes to take to baseball games when they were with their dad.  Their home environment was more of a traditional family existence than it was with me.  She seemed to be the perfect partner, not only for my ex husband, but for me.  I could finally rely on another woman to help me “mother” my children, since I didn’t have enough time to do it by myself.   Eventually, my ex and I came to a verbal agreement over a couple beers in a restaurant.  The kids would be with me on the weekends, then with their dad and his new girlfriend during the week.  My ex husband was more than happy to have our kids during the weekdays since he was working on the weekends, and I was willing to let go — just enough to give myself a little workweek breathing room.

Unfortunately, I failed to see the repercussions of what amounted to a handshake deal.  Our new set up would come to tear at the very fabric of my concept of motherhood and my identity.  I also hadn’t thought ahead about how other people would view me as a woman and mother.  Worst of all, I didn’t anticipate the legal repercussions of letting my children go to live with their dad without having a lawyer draw up an official parenting plan.

There are specific things I wish I would have planned for and thought about before making the crucial decision that I did.  Being a non custodial mother has been challenging and surprisingly rewarding as well, (which has been quite a pleasant surprise actually), so stay tuned!

My next blog article will feature off the cuff advice to other women and mothers who may be going through the difficult decision making process of how to divvy up time and finances with an ex, as well as some rather unexpected positive side-effects of divorce.