Defending Dads

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Category: Uncategorized Page 9 of 14

Look Out: Adrenaline Rush!

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On July 5, 2016

In Rants, Uncategorized

Dads: No two of us are alike. Accordingly, each of us will react differently to the end of his relationship with his children’s mother and the surrounding circumstances. At the risk of dislocating my shoulder patting myself on the back, it seems my reaction has been more or less positive, though I have found some aspects of this mess to be extremely cumbersome, specifically anything to do with court and lawyers. For those with aversions to the court system as strong as mine had been, I cannot stress enough that you must put your emotions aside, find a good lawyer and get familiar with your rights ASAP. I failed to do these things and it cost me all kinds of money, time, anguish, aggravation, etc. Life is too short and you’ve got to protect your kids from as much of the carnage as possible.

It took better than 2 years, but I am finally able to follow my own advice. By simply going to court as I did this past June 24th, I proved to myself that I really have learned to put the children’s interests ahead of my own. In my world, it’s like being a yogi who has mastered the art of levitation. Great day in the morning.

Now that I am over that hump, I can focus more on self-CARE, which is a cornerstone of any dad’s ability to be self-LESS. Time to get back to eating right, sleeping well, working out…and posting some truly revolutionary content to this blog. Just you watch.

The Nitty Gritty II: Analysis of a Phobia

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On June 22, 2016

In Rants, Uncategorized

Though some constituents of the American legal system would have us believe their court rooms are bastions of impartiality, reason and justice, too often, they exemplify the worst personality traits of those that run them. This is the basis for my disdain for court.

Pragmatist that I am, however, I know that today’s system is preferable to the anarchy that characterized the American frontier in the nation’s infancy. Odds are that if I dare enter a court room anywhere in the United States today to address a traffic violation, I won’t wind up hanging from a tree behind the court house if I can’t pay the fine —  at least not in 2016. Regardless, I want NO part of ANY court. Period. Ever.

Reality check: Nobody cares what I want, probably not even my kids! But I love my kids. I want and need to be a part of their lives. In order to do that, I need to go through the courts. I need to learn the laws and how they can work to my advantage. I proclaim here and now that my love for my children supersedes my near-compulsion to flip the bird to the court system. I submit.

To that end, I went to the office of Northampton County’s Domestic Relations Section last week. I acted like a gentleman, was treated like a gentleman and took the steps necessary to maintain my connection with my children.

The irony that I walked into that place with the same attitude I would carry into a correctional facility was not lost on me. I knew the rules, what was expected of me and how to conduct myself. My mind was set on two goals: Walking in and walking out. How I came to be there had no bearing on what I needed to do and was therefore irrelevant.

As I walked out of the building, I felt an intense relief. Yes, it took considerable effort and time, but I had identified a phobia, analyzed its source, faced it down and defeated it. I am guilty of no crime and I have quality representation. Now, I’m cool with going to court everyday if need be.

Dads, once you get over the rage engendered by the very idea of divorce court and its inherent biases, you take away her attorney’s most lethal weapon: the ability to manipulate your emotions. Then, just as you would behind bars, you will have earned your respect. Carrying your weight in jail has more to do with mental fortitude than physical strength, although it is definitely helpful to be strong enough to hurt someone if you must. Facing down a big mouthed shyster in a court room? Relatively speaking, that’s a breeze.

Here’s the Nitty Gritty: Get a grip on your emotions, keep your court dates, study the law for your own edification and get your money’s worth from your attorney. If you’re really feeling gung-ho, file a motion or two. You won’t need to get medieval on anyone if you get analytical first.

The Nitty Gritty

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On June 21, 2016

In Rants, Uncategorized

Growing up poor often prepares young men for certain less-than-desirable rites of passage. Proms? Senior trips? First cars? College tours? Fairy dust. When a poor kid from a broken family develops the perception that, for him and his peers, the American Dream is just that, his aspirations tend to grow darker, his blood colder. “Hope” is for suckers; “compassion” becomes a weakness.

Not only did my divorce rekindle my phobia of court rooms, it initiated a new one for the receipt of deliveries. Over time, the idea of opening the door to a delivery person holding a court document or even discovery of one of these in my mailbox caused me to break into a cold sweat, hyperventilate and froze my digestive tract! These were, by far, the most outlandish physical reactions I have ever felt toward non-lethal threats. I have literally had guns pointed at me and felt less traumatized.

Many of my peers dropped out of school by age 14. That’s too young to work on the books in New York City so those kids “got paper” (earned money) anyway they could. Drug dealing, armed robbery, gambling, stealing from their mothers’ purses, whatever it took. Learning to commit these crimes and — temporarily — get away with them would be their school. Call this class Criminal Behavior 101: Getting Away with It. That class is finished with a student’s first serious arrest and serves as the prerequisite to Criminal Behavior 102: Introduction to the Criminal Justice System.

First up on the syllabus in Criminal Behavior 102 is booking: Peace officers usher youthful offenders through fingerprinting, mug shots and a background check. If an offender must appear before a magistrate, that offender will meet with a defense attorney to discuss particulars of her/his case, then enter a plea before a representative of the prosecuting attorney’s office. Expressions of emotion are necessarily repressed because they interfere with work. For everyone familiar with these procedures, it’s always just another day at the office, only not everyone gets to go home at quitting time.

From the point of view of an offender, getting booked is tedious, dehumanizing and toxic, and it couldn’t be much better for those running the show. Jail is not exactly a breeding ground for high culture and wrangling criminals all day can cast a pall on even the brightest personality.

In my less enlightened days, I was introduced to the court system as described above. I hated it then, I hate it now. Criminal, civil, doesn’t matter. Court is anathema to me and I’m not alone. This is why it took me forever to get my head around being dragged into divorce court when other options were available. As much as the architects and craftsmen do to dress up court rooms, and they are often quite impressive, to me, they always feel like the abandoned factories used to stage the sadistic games played in the “Saw” film franchise.

Not only did my divorce rekindle my phobia of court rooms, it initiated a new one for the receipt of deliveries. Over time, the idea of opening the door to a delivery person holding a court document or even discovery of one of these in my mailbox caused me to break into a cold sweat, hyperventilate and froze my digestive tract! These were, by far, the most outlandish physical reactions I have ever felt toward non-lethal threats. I have literally had guns pointed at me and felt less traumatized.

Bear with me. This is critical background information for the next post, which shall reveal the titular thing…

Relationship Status: Complicated

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On June 15, 2016

In Tales from the Front, Uncategorized

The house is 2,300 square feet of possibility…plus a basement. Though no direct sun falls on its windows, they capture enough light to cast a warm glow on the floors and walls of the interior. The carpet in the great room is new, but there is a sense that minor repairs have gone unaddressed for too long. It is as if the house was newly purchased after sitting on the market for an extended period, and has yet to be inhabited by its new owners. Figuratively, that would be the case, because although I own and generally reside in the house, I have yet to spiritually inhabit it.

Pity for the house, really, and for the builders. It’s a fine place and solidly constructed. It all but cries out to be crammed with family and memories and pictures and laughter and fun and whatever else an idealist imagines should be there. Right now, it has only me. Me and some mostly old furniture that does the place little justice.

I have looked around and thought of how much I love the place. I love it because though it might be tough to tell now, there have been good, even great times there. There have been first days of school, birthday celebrations, cook outs and at least one excellent holiday season. There had been love. The house has been a wonderful backdrop for all of that and I owe it a debt of gratitude. I owe it — her — some love.

As I work my way through the mundanities of life that claw at my ankles like reckless swimmers caught in a riptide, I can feel from the house the insistent expectation that we start sitting down for coffee in the mornings. The grand times we’ve shared have been too much like good visits to favorite cousins that end too soon and are too far apart. My house is saying to me that if we’re going to be together, this business of me treating her like a favorite bed-and-breakfast is over. She’s opening her heart to me. I know from experience that’s a good place to be. She’s well built, loving, comforting, cool in the summer, warm in the winter and she won’t welcome anyone except me, my family and my friends.

She has every right to expect more from me. I owe her my heart and soul. I’ve worked through enough of my crap to take the first tentative steps toward offering those to her. But, aside from what she already brings to the table, what I love most about her is she prefers gifts from Home Depot rather than Jared.

Distance + Time = A Yet Stronger Bond

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On June 11, 2016

In Tales from the Front, Uncategorized

Over the time I’ve lived apart from my children, my confidence in the bond between the three of us has grown from tenuous to unshakable.

Our love for each other never waivers. This is critical to my resurgence as a father, man and human being. I have dropped weight, negative emotions, specious ideals and any interest in wading in the sewer of the divorce industry. I want LIFE. I want it for me and I want it for my children. My new life has shaped my new goals.

No shattered personality, bureaucrat, shyster or impostor can change what is obvious to anyone who sees my kids and me together. We are the real deal because as much as they can be, they are my priority and this is understood between the three of us. I feel blessed to be part of such a synergy and vow to my children that I will do nothing to violate it.

I haven’t seen the kids for a week. Why is not important. What matters is that I put them first and I look at our separation in a positive light. I will never be one of these fathers that lets this situation get the better of him. Our time together is informed by human frailty; it will never be perfect, but it will always be the best we can make it because our bond is that strong.

I’m no saint, but my relationship with my kids is sacrosanct. It may be the one thing in my life that I ever get right. When my time comes, the least of gifts I can leave them is that they can feel good about whatever cliché they put on my headstone.

Guys, I love you and I’ll see you soon.

Escape from Purgatory

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On June 10, 2016

In Tales from the Front, Uncategorized

So many major life events have hit me in such a short time span that I found myself in what I recognize now to be a state of shock. I had so much to deal with that, often, I couldn’t deal with anything. Oh, I’ve had the occasional stretch of hyper-productivity, but it has been tough to sustain momentum due to the sheer volume and difficulty of responsibilities I face. For men of my age facing similar challenges, this situation is commonly referred to as a midlife crisis or adjustment disorder.

The path to self-satisfaction and long-term happiness begins with self-care; for too long now, I have put my problems before ME. I woke up this morning with the express intent to change that dynamic. This post is Step 1.

My first clues that I was going through something were feelings of extreme fatigue, physical weakness and constant hypervigilance. I would experience one or all of these symptoms at any given time. At home, I felt a creeping distance developing between my ex-wife and me for which I couldn’t identify a single, clear source. Alarmed by the possibility that, after years of struggling to build for myself and family a better life, I stood to lose it all, I resorted to online research.

I discovered a wealth of information from reliable sources that explains the midlife crisis and/or adjustment disorder and the best coping methods for dealing with them. I continue to follow the steps when I am motivated, but there are days when I simply cannot muster that drive. Then, there are days like today, when the quiet, indomitable spirit that has driven me from the streets of the Bronx to where ever I am today, peeks over the horizon like the New Mexico sun. Hope not only returns, it walks arm-in-arm with determination and ability. I am reminded that my struggle is not my own; I am rebuilding my life for the kids, too.

For the self-aware, a paradox of the midlife crisis is that, even with the help of a good supporting cast and the innate understanding that they have the power to pull themselves through with flying colors, they are also at times beset with self-doubt so crippling that they can lose sight of this. On such occasions, It can be comforting to lock one’s self in a motel room in a small town long enough to stop thinking; to give that over-worked brain a well-deserved rest. Once rested, the brain is better able to take stock of the situations at hand, prioritize them, concoct plans of action, then act on those plans. Direct, concerted action is the tunnel out of the prison of indecision, the purgatory constructed from the ruins of good plans gone awry.

I am doing serious introspection today, the kind I have avoided for weeks because I was so mentally exhausted from 4 years of sheer hell. I am going to re-examine all the obstacles to long-term happiness that I must overcome and figure out how to get ‘er done. Whatever life there is left for me to live, I will live it on my terms.

The path to self-satisfaction and long-term happiness begins with self-care; for too long now, I have put my problems before me. I woke up this morning with the express intent to change that dynamic. This post is Step 1.

Learning the Curve

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On June 6, 2016

In Tales from the Front, Uncategorized

When I first relocated to Pennsylvania, I commuted between my new home and a job in Manhattan. Most of the commute was a 70-minute drive on I-78. I’d head east-bound early in the morning and, save for sporadic traffic, it was seldom a problem. It was even scenic what with hills in the background and farms off the roadside up to the I-287 interchange. The west-bound drive wasn’t bad either…except for what I once thought a nasty curve just east of the Delaware River Gap.

Look: I learned to drive in New York City. I haven’t been in an accident that was my fault for as long as I can remember. It was downright humiliating to be peering over the steering wheel into the darkness and slowing even auto transporters behind me to a crawl. If the curve was Moby Dick, I needed to be Captain Ahab. Well, maybe not Captain Ahab…Moby Dick took him to the bottom of the sea. I needed to learn to take that doggone curve already.

The first 2 months or so, that curve was my Moby Dick. It’s one of those unlit stretches of interstate with no visible terminus that inexperienced or older drivers take at 40 mph, especially in bad weather. As a kid, I was kind of reckless behind the wheel. I bet that curve would have chilled me right out. As it was, I found myself hugging the right lane and getting honked at by eighteen wheelers riding my bumper.

Look: I learned to drive in New York City. I haven’t been in an accident that was my fault for as long as I can remember. It was downright humiliating to be peering over the steering wheel into the darkness and slowing even auto transporters behind me to a crawl. If the curve was Moby Dick, I needed to be Captain Ahab. Well, maybe not Captain Ahab…Moby Dick took him to the bottom of the sea. I needed to learn to take that doggone curve already.

Although my life has been pretty much all about taking on impossible challenges, I have to be kind of nudged into action most times. God knows I never wanted to work as hard as I have had to. In the case of learning this curve, my motivations were to shave time off my commute and redeem myself as a New York City-trained driver.

These days, I take that curve at 90 mph…if I think I can get away with it. There’s a weigh station manned by New Jersey State Police just 5 miles down the road. But my battle with that curve mirrors the challenge I face now to restructure my world. Here I am:

  • a single parent who never even planned to have kids;
  • a former office worker who never had any business in an office;
  • a home owner who knows next to nothing about owning a home; and
  • an aspiring writer born and raised in New York City with only tangential connections to New York’s literary community.

If you were placing bets at Aqueduct, I’d be the longest shot on the ticket. I still wouldn’t bet against me, though; nobody’s better at learning the curve.

Relay For Life of Phillipsburg III – It’s Goin’ Down

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On June 5, 2016

In Relay for Life of Phillipsburg Series, Uncategorized

Once Joscelyn and I were able to pull Julien off the computer, it was time to hit the street. My head is going in countless directions at once, so the sequence of events got kind of crazy. While the kids were preparing themselves for our day, I whipped up a few batches of weed killer and went to work in the front and back yards. Imagine: life long Bronx boy trying to kill weeds as opposed to smoking them. Anyway, the kids got themselves together and off we went.

You talk about pride? Forget it. I found myself wiping away tears. What a day. And we pretty much improvised it all.

Spontaneity is the spice of life, baby. I had general guidelines of what I thought we could do, but no specific destination. We drove over the border to Phillipsburg, New Jersey where gas is 25 cents per gallon cheaper than in Pennsylvania. They have a couple of parks there, too. Cheap gas, clean parks. What could go wrong?

We grabbed some sandwiches for a picnic, then stumbled across a cancer benefit taking place at the Phillipsburg High School football stadium, the Relay For Life. Music, games, food and a worthy cause…pay dirt. We parked, unloaded and set up.

I had thrown their bikes into the minivan in the event they wanted to ride. For once, they did. They specifically asked to ride. More than that, they took hills! Of course, with hills come spills, but they took their lumps without immediately calling for medical attention. I kissed and rubbed the boo-boos, offered some biking advice and life moved on. I was blown away. Previously, I often had to encourage them, especially Juice, to do what came naturally to my generation. Heck, when no one was available to teach me to ride, I taught myself! Kids today? For them, physical activity is — er — not always convenient. Not yesterday.

There’s nothing unusual about kids having fun on a sunny Saturday afternoon, but here’s the thing: Wings seemed to sprout from their backs and did they ever spread!

We had our picnic. After the kids wolfed down their sandwiches, as James Brown would say, they got on up, got into it and got involved! I watched in awe as they independently took part in the activities. Joss signed up for karaoke. Juice joined a pick up kickball game. They each got into conversations with the organizers. They asked questions about the causes of cancer and what they could do to help find a cure. Juice even drew anti-cancer posters and left them at the registration desk. The confidence. The maturity. The grace. My God.

You talk about pride? Forget it. I found myself wiping away tears. What a day. And we pretty much improvised it all.

Relay For Life of Phillipsburg II – The Setup

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On June 5, 2016

In Relay for Life of Phillipsburg Series, Uncategorized

Breakfast went down easy. Then, there were questions.

Very qualified people have talked with the kids and me about our futures. I have received excellent guidance on how best to bond with and help the kids live up to their potential. In my son Julien’s case, it’s been suggested that we figure out what most interests him and let him dive head first into it.

I asked if he had interest in any particular after school activity and his answer about put me down laughing: “Anything that doesn’t involve me going to the hospital”, he said. Turns out he’s into working with digital imagery. Little chance he’ll wind up in a hospital finagling with images on a loaded iMac, though bearing the cost of such a box might send me there.

In the past, I tried to bond with Juice the old fashioned way; I taught him how to throw and catch a football. Though he’s definitely got skills with the pigskin, he’s not really into the game. Oh well.

I asked if he had interest in any particular after school activity and his answer about put me down laughing: “Anything that doesn’t involve me going to the hospital”, he said. Turns out he’s into working with digital imagery. Little chance he’ll wind up in a hospital finagling with images on a loaded iMac, though bearing the cost of such a box might send me there.

He asked me to install Paint.net, a freeware kind of Photoshop, onto my laptop for his use. What? Done! Once the software was installed, Juice expressed to me exactly what he wanted to do. I showed him a few things and he picked up on them immediately. Eureka.

Juice dived so deeply into his work, it took half an hour to bring him back to surface. The next step is to help him channel that passion into other critical areas of his life. We can do this. And yet, there is more…

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…

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