Defending Dads

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Category: Tales from the Front Page 6 of 9

Anecdotes of my struggle to reclaim my life and my connection with my kids

Relay For Life of Phillipsburg

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On June 5, 2016

In Relay for Life of Phillipsburg Series, Uncategorized

This morning, my eyes popped open from a dead sleep at about 5:45. HBO was running a marathon of Six Feet Under, one of its groundbreaking original series. I turned it on and was immediately reminded why it was must-see back in the day.

I kept checking the clock because I knew time was short. You see, the kids were here and the second they knew I was conscious, they would be downstairs to crawl over me like ants and commandeer the remote.

Once they get bored with SpongeBob SquarePants reruns and treating me like part of the futon, their thoughts turn to breakfast and what we’re going to do after. Typically, that would not be a problem. They are great company and tend to brighten any room they enter. This morning, though, I had things on my mind. The path I have chosen is not an easy one and my struggles have darkened many a dawn, this one included. I wasn’t sure I had it in me to do a Saturday with the kids. The thing is, I don’t get many. I gotta make ’em count. Nine o’clock fast approached. I hadn’t yet heard any thumping on the floorboards, but a parent knows. The kids were awake and awaiting my signal that the day had begun.

I have told people forever that though I am not religious, I do believe in a higher power. It’s mornings like this that confirm my faith.

Crippling doubt that I could handle a whole day of the daddy thing kept my butt glued to the futon and my eyes to the screen. I thought of them waiting for me and I asked for the strength to stand up and engage my children. Some might call it a prayer. Within seconds, I was overcome with a burst of energy. I stood up and a plan for the day materialized in my mind as if a flash drive had been inserted into my frontal lobe. I went upstairs, the kids heard me stomping about and the calls for “Dad!” started to rain down. I was ready, but even I was surprised at just how ready…

Jail for Justice — An Open Letter to the Media

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On June 2, 2016

In The Jail for Justice Series, Uncategorized

I have forwarded versions of this letter to several media outlets. Please share if you care to.

To Whom it may Concern:

It is time for divorce law reform in the state of Pennsylvania. To bring attention to the clear bias the courts show against fathers, I am surrendering myself to the Northampton County Sherriff tomorrow before I pay another nickel to my ex-wife’s attorney, Bohdan Zelechiwsky.

Opposing counsel has a documented history of employing sleazy bait-and-switch tactics to not only separate me from my children for over a year, force the sale of a marital property at an irresponsible loss, but to evict me from my home on four days notice, all with impunity. Regardless of this scandalous behavior, the like of which might otherwise earn him a profile on American Greed, each time he files a motion, the court orders me to pay him.

I am already reeling from the costs associated with divorce and must continue to support my children. How does bankrupting and jailing a single father benefit the kids? If I feed, tutor, clothe and nurture them, provide them with a good home, make support payments and never once stood in the way of my ex-wife living as she pleases, why am I being punished?

In the end, my kids pay the price to boost the self-esteem of a bully who tries to do with paper what he could never do with character. Opposing counsel has done everything he could to defame me, dismantle what I tried to build for my children, plunder their college fund and haul me into court any time he knows I am not represented. Once we are in his playpen, he is free to say and do as he pleases. The judges, with whom he likely lunches on occasion, rubber stamp the boiler plate motions he files whenever he sees a sliver of opportunity to make a quick buck. Meanwhile, I have to stand mute as he lies, pontificates and pretends to be an esteemed officer of the court. If I so much as roll my eyes, I’ve found myself rebuked, insulted and even shouted at by the bench, then stared down by a team of deputies. Bohdan Zelechiwsky is nothing but a well-connected, long-entrenched shyster. Before I cleaned up my life in service to my family, I was a crook. I know one when I see one.

It is high time the media brings to light the plight of fathers routinely raked over the coals by unethical divorce lawyers such as he: Those who abuse the system, those who do the least to earn their fees and the judges who allow these shameful practices to continue. No responsible father, regardless of his past, should be forced to watch a slug hiding behind a law degree and connections destroy the dream he has for his children.

I have bent over backwards to support my family. Despite living for a time in another state, I have been active in my children’s lives. I never abused my ex-wife or broke my marriage vows. This is expected of me as a man and I have accepted those responsibilities, but I am truly perplexed that Northampton County courts seem determined that I end up bankrupt and in jail for refusing to be party to a corrupt system. It is time for change.

Learn more…

Birthday Pilgrimage

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On May 28, 2016

In Tales from the Front, Uncategorized

With hands trembling from exhaustion after a 11-hour drive, I throw out birthday shouts to three very special people:

  1. My great aunt Annabelle who turns 80 this weekend. I join my family in North Carolina to celebrate the occasion later today. When my clan gets together, it’s sho’ ’nuff a party and everybody loves Aunt Anna.
  2. My very own mom, Ms. Zhhamenique Rose. She rode shotgun on the trip, the first we have ever taken together. As few as three years ago, this little adventure would be a mere flight of fancy. We can never recapture the time we have lost, but we can make the most of that we have left.
  3. My only son Julien, 10 years old as of Memorial Day. Juice, I could slather upon your name any number of superlatives, but I’m just a proud dad and that’s what proud dads do. Rather, I place in your hands the tasks of discovering about yourself what I already know and making your presence felt where ever you go.

To you three, I extend simple, heartfelt birthday greetings and the hope to repeat them next year.

 

Ryukyu Kempo in the Park

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On May 26, 2016

In Tales from the Front, Uncategorized

In previous posts, I have referenced the level of physical activity my neighbors get up to and how I try to keep myself and the kids involved. We have trained in the Japanese martial art of Ryukyu Kempo since we relocated here from New York. Our interest in this type of karate has more to do with the charisma, leadership, commitment to the arts and innovative training techniques demonstrated by our instructor than anything else.

Sensei Robert Tocher not only teaches the fundamentals of the discipline, he finds a way to work a variety of enjoyable activities into the training. He switches it up. While that’s good for everyone — martial arts training is often like military drill — it’s especially great for kids.

Two weeks ago, Sensei held class in a local park outfitted with various exercise stations. The weather was magnificent and the park was loaded with people walking, running, playing baseball and lacrosse, just living. It was a sight to behold for a kid who spent too many warm, sunny days watching crackheads line up for service and trying to, as we used to say, make a dollar out of fifteen cents.

Like me, Robert is a refugee of corporate America. He is the sole proprietor of his dojo. He built it from nothing. I watched him do it. During that process, he and I have become good friends.

It is my pleasure to do what I can to help him build his school. In service to that goal, I played videographer/photographer that glorious day. “The best things in life are free” might be a cliche, but capturing images of Robert leading 20-odd kids through a workout that was not only physically challenging but fun absolutely made my day.

Watching my kids take part in something so innocent and joyful took me to a place I had never been. For 50 minutes or so, I was 10 years old again, living vicariously through my own beautiful children.

When class was over, the kids took the opportunity to enjoy the park. As if the ball fields, the walking path, the exercise stations and the sheer beauty of the place weren’t enough, they had the nerve to have a pond stocked with fish and frogs. Unbelievable.

On behalf of all the kids and parents fortunate enough to take part in that marvelous day, I want to thank Robert and let him know what an innovator he is, not only as a martial arts instructor but as an entrepreneur. I admire his courage and drive and strive to follow the trail he blazes away from life in a box.

Sensei, please set three black belts aside for the kids and me…and maybe another for Joss’s pal Ashley. She gets a…kick…out of your class. Get it? Kick? Oh, never mind.

Epiphany

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On May 25, 2016

In Tales from the Front, Uncategorized

The corporate world is a fluid, amorphous place. The constant is that it is driven by youth, image, current demand and, worst of all, politics. More often than not, it seems, productivity is incidental.

What I would give to work in an office that placed drive, ability and adaptability at the top of its business model. Then again, when I was 8, I wished Christmas lasted a week.

I have never worked for Apple, Microsoft, Google or other such forward-thinking organizations, but from what I’ve heard and read, they seem to have turned the corporate model on its head with crystal results.

What I would give to work in an office that placed drive, ability and adaptability at the top of its business model. Then again, when I was 8, I wished Christmas lasted a week.

I held my last full-time job for just over 10 years. My motive to succeed was uncomplicated; I had a family and I wanted to provide for them. It didn’t hurt that I have a knack for learning, using and modifying all manner of software.

Over time, I developed communication skills. This distinguishes me from many tech savvy folks who might be more comfortable in a room full of servers rather than people.

As if these favorable conditions weren’t enough, I worked under management that appreciated my skill set. I flourished.

No office is free of politics. As hard as I worked to not get involved, when things deteriorated in my personal life, enemies I didn’t even know I had began to stockpile weapons against me.

Nine years of innovation, nearly peak performance, satisfied clients, pitching in whenever and however I was asked and stellar reviews evaporated over a single year of turmoil.

Growing up in the South Bronx has its benefits. I learned early how quickly loyalties and alliances can shift, although in the context of an office, this is less likely to result in death or imprisonment. The worst they could do was fire me.

They fired me. Over the telephone, even. I was driving at the time. I said “OK” and didn’t bother to pull over. I was overcome with relief.

They may have grown dissatisfied with me, but after thinking about it, I realized the feeling was mutual. Opportunities for me with them had dried up. I had become kind of a Donald Draper trapped in the mail room. My aspirations had long since outgrown anything my job could offer. The travails of divorce, my grandmother’s death, separation from my children and a number of related circumstances obscured that reality.

Yes, I was relieved that I didn’t have to go back to that cubicle, ultimately a cell without bars, and deal with the same office inanity for a single second more.

I took some time to recover from absolutely the worst year of my life. There were emotional ups and downs to be sure, but I have developed and continue to develop the coping skills to reconstruct my life. Family and friends tell me I’m doing well. My kids enjoy spending time with me. I can think of no greater compliments.

After my blog and book, finding work is a priority. I have distributed my resume and followed up on some referrals from friends. To that end, I went to meet a recruiter in Manhattan several days ago.

The subway is vital to getting around New York City. I’ve been a regular rider for most of my life. Suddenly, the grime and oppressiveness of the stations, cars and crowds were the first things to catch my attention. I couldn’t get out of the subway quickly enough.

The streets above ground seemed alien. Which way was west? Were the building numbers going up or down? The crowds!

I found the building. I knew the drill. I sat in the waiting room waiting to have the standard talk. The agency lady was pleasant enough. The opportunities she spoke of didn’t seem much like opportunities. It all sounded like more of what I had already escaped. I felt the nausea well up in the pit of my stomach. Only the thought of the children stalled the cold sweat that was sure to follow the nausea. I was there to resume my role of provider.

The introductory discussion ended and I was handed a 15-page application. Fif-teeeeen pages. By page 3, my hand stopped writing, my body stood up and my feet walked me right out the door.

Witness the death of an anonymous corporate drone…and the rebirth of a devoted dad, activist and writer.

Damned Good Sense

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On May 23, 2016

In Tales from the Front, Uncategorized

Damned Good Sense is the title of a manuscript I’ve been working on for a number of years. Essentially, it is a letter to my children explaining to them who their father was and who he has become; kind of a blueprint for how not to live their youths, how to see the world from a broader angle, how to live a larger life than I have. Ironically, a major obstacle to me having completed the manuscript is doing everything I could to take damned good care of them.

I have reached a point of no return. The kids have read the unfinished manuscript. They know I have dedicated it to them. I have a golden opportunity to finish it now and my course of action is clear.

Even with limited distractions, writing is a laborious process. This is no secret to anyone who has ever written a term paper. I’ve found that writing a book while working, husbanding and parenting full-time is next to impossible. Now, I’m divorced and unemployed. Of course, those conditions come with their own complications, but by God, I can sit down and pound these keys with absolute abandon when my muse comes calling.

Inspiration is not something to be harnessed to a plow like a mule and driven to a predetermined quota. When it comes, a writer must ride it to exhaustion, then wait for it to come ’round again. Right now, I am inspired. Distracted, but definitely inspired. The difference between making it and not making it is the ability to ignore the distractions and produce. OK.

No proselytizing. This is it. Who ever your god is, say a prayer for me and my babies. We’ll repay the favor because that’s who we are.

Voyage to Manheim II: Dead Weight

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On May 21, 2016

In The Voyage to Manheim Series, Uncategorized

So there were Joss and I sitting in our U-Haul just outside the redemption lot gate. The car we were there to move is a Saturn Outlook, a mid-size SUV with a curb weight of 4,700 lbs. It doesn’t even run and some sadistic creep dropped the thing 200 feet into the lot.

Joss had her tablet. She showed only casual interest in the difficulties we now faced, but I was consumed with them. It was now 2:00 PM, which made it unlikely we would be on time to pick Juice up from school. Of no less concern was just how I was going to get the blue behemoth from the back of the lot, out of the gate and then, up onto the transport. With the understanding that God looks out for babies and fools, one of each being seated in that truck, I jumped down from the cab and approached the lot attendant.

He was a big kid and, fortunately, had a bigger heart. When I told him that the car doesn’t run, he offered to push it all the way up onto the transport. I was skeptical but I loved his spirit. We walked back to the Saturn. I threw open the driver’s door ready to push and steer. That’s when it occurred to me that the power steering went out over a year ago. Once we got started, turning that wheel proved to be like pushing a car inside of the car we were already pushing!

Generally, I feel pretty spry, but then and there, I felt every day of 48-years old…and maybe 10 years plus.

Between the flashes of white light I saw with every labored breath I took, I thought of my Joss sitting in the U-Haul and what she would do without her daddy, whose heart was sure to burst through his ribcage at any moment.

Once we got a little momentum going, the kid told me I should just hop in and steer. Either delirium brought on by the stress of exertion or some misbegotten sense of comradery caused me to grunt through clenched teeth “Nah, bro. We’re gonna do this together.”

At last, we got the thing to the gate. After pausing to catch our breath and wipe our foreheads, the kid and I shared that “we knew we had this” look guys do after accomplishing something exceedingly difficult (or foolish) without an occurrence of accidental death or dismemberment.

Suddenly feeling very macho — and happy to be alive — I tossed out to the kid “You play football?” He replied that he did.

“Line?” I threw back. The kid nodded and added “D”.

“Nose tackle?” Another nod.

You just know we were all pumped up. See, a guy’s vocabulary shrinks in direct proportion to any surge in his sense of virility at a given moment. Had we done anything more, we would have been reduced to grunting at each other until someone walked away.

After our tender moment of reflection, a glance at the waiting truck snapped me back to reality. I would now need to line the transport up with the wheels of the Saturn, drop the ramps, push the Saturn up onto the transport, then secure it. All in a day’s work.

I had no experience maneuvering trailers at this point. I would learn with some difficulty that steering a trailer in reverse is counter-intuitive. As Joss watched a dozen of the inscrutable videos posted to YouTube for the consumption of modern children, I made a dozen attempts to line up the transport.

I was trembling with frustration when Joss had the nerve to ask “Daddy, why do you keep going back and forth?” Only my love for my baby killed the knee-jerk response that nearly escaped my chapped lips. She’s only 8, after all. Now had she been 9…

Another yard employee was now on the scene. This was a lady and she guided me as I steered the trailer. I began to feel uneasy. Two human subjects simultaneously exhibiting compassion? At an auto yard, no less? Were they trying to gain our trust before attempting to abduct us? Would Joss and I be the main course at some macabre Memorial Day barbecue in the wilds of central New Jersey? I blinked away the paranoia. This was no time for a panic attack. The trailer was finally in position. I jumped out of the truck and dropped the ramps.

The kid and I got behind the Outlook and resumed pushing. The yard lady continued to direct our efforts. Then, against all odds, a third person showed up, another burly guy. We worked out that the kid and the burly guy would push the Outlook while I steered the front wheels onto the ramps with the yard lady’s guidance. The two guys weren’t enough to get the truck up the ramps. I jumped out of the Outlook to push with the guys; yard lady took my place at the wheel.

After several tries, we got the Outlook onto the transport — to a point. There was one last hump we just could not get over and we were all gassed. While we were trying to figure our next move, what should happen but yet a fourth person showed up, this one behind the wheel of a…tow truck!

The wrecker was just the type you want to see when your car is in a ditch on some obscure state route between towns at 2:30 AM on a Tuesday morning. He was cheerfully brusque and looked at the other yard workers incredulously as if to ask “why didn’t you call me sooner?” Clearly, he was ready to resolve this non-issue and move on to rescue other, more deserving motorists in distress. To me, he might as well have been Christ resurrected.

In what seemed like seconds, he had the Outlook hooked up to a tow line. With the pull of a lever, 4,700 lbs. lurched forward into place on the transport. We affixed the straps of the transport to the tires of the Outlook as the wrecker barked out for me the rudiments of auto transport safety. Joss remained in the cab of the U-Haul all this time, doubtless drawn into a hypnotic state by the arcane content of those freakish YouTube videos.

Suddenly, the ordeal was over. Joss and I were homeward bound.

Before I jumped into the cab to take off, I shook hands with each of my four saviors and made sure to get their names. Thanks to them, this impossible task was getting done and no one expected a thing for her/his trouble.

Kill that noise.

I had to return the U-Haul equipment and pick up my functioning car the next day. I couldn’t do much for these wonderful people, but I made sure to stop at the local Denny’s where I bought a gift card for each.

Mission accomplished.

 

Voyage to Manheim

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On May 21, 2016

In The Voyage to Manheim Series, Uncategorized

An unfortunate byproduct of my divorce is that I have two cars. Only one runs, but I have notes on both. I keep the note on the functioning car current. The other? Not so much.

The bank knows that the second car doesn’t run, but, as one might expect, they still want their money. I let the note slip for 3 months and that car, disabled as it is, promptly disappeared. After I checked David Blaine’s tour schedule to make sure he wasn’t in town, I called the bank and my worst fear was confirmed; my 4,700 lb. albatross had been repossessed!

After the four year nightmare I’ve been living, I didn’t bat an eyelash. I simply made the calls to learn how I could re-repossess my useless hunk of metal. I’ve about killed myself 3 times over the years pulling my credit out of quicksand. I couldn’t bear the thought of a repo hit against my FICO score…

I value the professionalism of the bank rep who so cheerfully informed me that my car had been transported to a facility some 70 miles from my home. Once I brought the loan current, she chirped, all I had to do was go pick it up. Well, jumpin’ Jehosaphat! Who knew it was that easy?

I paid the bill and made more calls to figure the least expensive way to retrieve the car. The quotes I got from the tow companies hurt my feelings so bad, I cried my way through a whole box of Kleenex. Upon regaining my composure, I tried to make peace with the idea that the car was gone for good. I really did. But my FICO score…

My daughter was a little under the weather last Wednesday, so she stayed home with me. I was cleaning up the breakfast dishes when it hit me…U-Haul! I’d rent a truck and auto transport and drag my lemon on home with my baby girl riding shotgun. We’d be back in time to pick my son up from school, easy-peasy!

Where do I get these cockamamie ideas?

I reserved the equipment at a U-Haul in Bordentown, New Jersey, then my baby girl and I were on the road like Willie Nelson. Once in Bordentown, we stopped at a check cashing place to buy a money order to cover the yard fee. To my disbelief, they didn’t accept debit cards or have an ATM.

What? Do they get their mail via Pony Express?

So I went to a nearby ShopRite. They didn’t have an ATM, either. For my purposes, they were definitely ShopRONG.

Frustrated but undaunted, I figured I’d grab the money order after we stopped at U-Haul. There had to be another check cashing place, Walmart or something nearby that was actually wired for electricity. Off to U-Haul we went…a half-hour behind schedule.

Once at U-Haul, I looked at the equipment and rubbed my jaw thoughtfully. I had never worked with these things before. Easy-peasy? Maybe not. It took the clerk and me 15 minutes to figure out how to get the truck connected to the auto transport. It wasn’t a big deal, but a little nuance was required. Off to the auto yard we went…now, 45 minutes behind schedule.

Google Maps showed that the yard, located in Manheim, New Jersey, wasn’t far. I went straight there figuring I’d see what the process was, find some place close to buy the money order, then seal the deal. Like I wrote, there had to be a place nearby.

The yard was absolutely sprawling. Thank God the streets were broad because I had to make a couple of wide u-turns in my 15-foot truck with trailer in search of the “redemption” lot. This is where they hold cars saved by their respective owners from auction and thus made available for pick up. I spotted my blue hulk sitting way off in the back. I called the yard office to ask where I could find a Walmart or financial institution to buy the doggone money order. “Oh, there’s one about 5 miles down the road, but there are a few banks even closer,” said the nice lady.

Banks overcharge for money orders, plus my baby needed a restroom. Off to Walmart we went…now, an hour and 15 minutes behind schedule.

I don’t know if the lady on the phone measures miles the same as everyone else, but it had to be 10 minutes before we saw so much as a strip mall. By then, Joss was telling me that any gas station would be fine. I saw some Brand-X joint coming up, so I pulled over. Joss climbed out of the cab like a spider down tree bark. I had to run around the front of the truck to track her down! By the time we spotted each other again, we had both figured the probable location of the restroom and made a bee-line toward it. We met near the door and Joss pushed it ajar.

Sunlight may never have revealed such filth confined to such small quarters. Joss and I locked eyes and immediately burst into laughter. “Umm, I think I can wait for Walmart” she giggled and back on the road to Walmart we went…now, 2 hours behind schedule.

At last, we found that fabled Walmart, took care of our business, and beat it back to the redemption lot. Once there, I handed the attendant my ID and the money order to set the stage for our reunion with the world’s biggest Matchbox car. Mission accomplished? Er, we’ll be right back after these messages, ladies and gentlemen.

Leaving It All on the Canvas

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On May 9, 2016

In Tales from the Front, Uncategorized

It’s well established that joint custody is seldom a convenient arrangement. Some days, I wish to Christ I had made different choices years ago. But two of the choices I made have heart beats. No matter how far away I would like to move from much of my past, there is no way I can turn my back on them.

So I swallow the bile. I choke on the bills. I bite the bullets.

Every time I want to throw up my hands, I think of them, what they mean to me, what I mean to them, where we might wind up without each other. I take a deep breath and I go at it again.

Those two all important choices I made nearly 11 and 10 years ago inform every choice I will make for the rest of my life. No matter how God awful I might feel when I wake up some mornings, I have to get up and be there for them. Bless their hearts, they make it easy. Looking into those little faces infuses me with a strength I’m not sure I could otherwise muster.

In addition to the gifts of Julien and Joscelyn Rose, I was gifted the ability to express my observations, thoughts, feelings and experiences in provocative ways. It would be a disservice to myself, and especially to them, if I didn’t do everything I could to exploit this gift to provide us with a life we might not otherwise dream of.

I freely admit that I am dealing with enough issues now to drive most people stark raving mad. Even Rocky Balboa would have to look at the beating I’m taking and wonder how I’m still on my feet. But just like Rocky loved Adrian, I love these kids. That’s why when I finish this post, I’m going to get off the stool, throw up my guard and come out swinging. I’m going to walk right into whatever punishment the world will throw at me as long as each step I take is toward a better life for us. It’s nothing more than we deserve.

Working Through Down Cycles

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On May 7, 2016

In Tales from the Front, Uncategorized

Sometimes, you wake up and know instantly that things are not looking good for the day.

There are the feelings of hopelessness, the boredom with the whole situation, the question of why to get up and go through the motions for yet another day.

Before the kids, you had the freedom to drop everything and drive to Tijuana, Mexico if that’s what you were inclined to do. Now, the first thing on your mind is how far behind in support payments such a trip might leave you.

The feeling of being trapped stems from the fact that, in a sense, you are. Someone started a family with you then decided she had changed her mind. Done. She’ll hire a lawyer who will present you to a judge as the devil himself and just like that, a family court in any of the 50 states will casually funnel a significant portion of your paycheck into her bank account until your children reach maturity — and permit you to even see those kids once in a while! As if that weren’t a raw enough deal, you won’t have a thing to say about how your money is spent. Tough luck, sucker. No one forced you to have kids or get married.

Dude, it’s OK. Such feelings are perfectly normal. What you’ve got to realize is that the control the courts have taken from you can be recovered with that you exercise over yourself.

Without question, you will experience instances of intense emotional turmoil over time. These come from a sense of helplessness to change your circumstances. When confronted with these awful feelings, you’ve got to remember that they are temporary. With determination, you can work through them. Eventually, you won’t feel a thing. You’ll find a way to make enough money to cover what you’re losing to child support, you’ll have your moments with your kids and if you choose to, you’ll even risk a new relationship.

It’s a waiting game, the most important one you’ll ever play. Look at the situation as would a single, childless man who lost a job he didn’t really care about. There will be a short period of anxiety before he dresses up his resume, hits indeed.com, signs up with some employment agencies and within weeks, he’ll be working again. In no time, the job he lost will be a distant memory. He’s moved on.

Yes, you had other, grander plans, but this is what people do to each other. Sometimes, it’s easy to blame things on declining standards of morality, but the truth is, the bible, written before life expectancies exceeded 40 years, tells the story of Cain and Abel. The human condition dictates that any relationship involving homosapiens is a crap shoot. Finito.

Ride it out, brother. If you keep your cool, you and the kids will win in the end.

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