I’ve had thoughts like this before, so this isn’t new, but they’re happening more frequently. And as these thoughts go through my head (today’s helped along by listening to Bryan Adams’ “Summer of 69” on the radio and pondering all the things that song COULD mean), I think back and realize that my whole life has been pretty blah.

Oh sure, I had flashes of brilliance—some really great girlfriends, the promise of adventure and travel in the military, some really great jobs that I blew off for one (perfectly valid) reason or the other. But in the end, instead of being “there,” I am here.

I accept partial blame. I’m NOT a risk-taker. I’m not a money spender. I’m comfortable being comfortable and that’s a dangerous thing to look back on when you’re in your late thirties and you see how rote your days have become. I’m SO looking forward to Christmas this year largely because it’s something to get excited about. Certainly dragging ass into the office isn’t doing it for me. My marriage is fine, if unexciting. My kids are full of excitement, but I just can’t keep up with them and everything else my boring life, house, job, marriage requires.

But, giving myself credit here, I have no hankering for a flashy red sports car, and while a mistress might spice things up for a while, I’m too averse to the risk that comes with that kind of dalliance.

As I write this, the responses to my Facebook post roll in and they run the gamut of, “Only you can change it,” to “unless you move to a farm and become self-sufficient…suck it up!”

Ah, the wisdom of the masses…

For those who are connected to me via other social media outlets, you’ve already seen me mention the fact that my anniversary is coming up and CareerMom has recommended a more…strenuous…outing than I would have planned were it up to me alone.
As with all things, there’s a bit of backstory—there always is.

We’re coming up on our 12th anniversary. About a month ago, CareerMom and I started kicking around ideas for something to do and I came up with following:

• Reynold’s Plantation: A lovely place the eastern part of Georgia. Extremely quiet and secluded. The only real drawbacks were:  A. the money and B. the lack of anything to do if you weren’t walking in the woods, riding a horse for an hour, golfing, or getting spa treatments, which pretty much all point back to point A. (the money). However, the pluses were that it’s very secluded and pretty darned romantic. It’s on the water; at night you can wrap up in a blanket and roast s’mores. And there’s wine…lots of wine.
• Barnsley Gardens: Everything I said about Reynold’s Plantation applies here, except for the lake and s’mores.
• Lake Lanier Resort: Don’t let the name fool you…it’s not quite up to the same levels of “resort” as the previous two options, but nice nonetheless. The benefits of this option are that it’s relatively close, inexpensive and there’s lots to do. For instance, I had recommended the sunset wine and hordy orvys boat ride, with….LIVE music!

So I sent these over to CareerMom via email one day and got the following back:

“What about this? Looks fun!”

http://www.lakelanier.com/blogs/lake-lanier-islands-canopy-tours/

If you don’t want to click on the link…let me save you the time and just tell you that it’s a tour of Lake Lanier Islands…via zip line.

Now see, this is where my mind kicks into over-analyze mode and I start trying to put meaning to something like this instead of just accepting it for what it “might” be. In my head, I’m putting the following pieces together

1. 12 years of marriage
2. Yeah, my “moves” are probably getting stale. So stale that not even a romantic boat ride and copious amounts of wine can make it seem new and exciting
3. Between her working 12-14 hour days, and my getting up at 4:45 to go to the gym during the week, OH…and the kids…there’s not been much time for romance at home, which is never a good thing for a marriage. I’ve always had a healthy…um…appetite and I gotta admit that I go hungry a lot these days.
4. And let’s not forget perhaps the most important one here–she knows I’m deathly scared of heights, yet…

Now, in her mind (and I recognize that I’m straying into dangerous territory here), likely she’s just thinking, “Hey, let’s do something fun and exciting for a change!” But in my mind it’s, “Enough with the romance already. Let’s have fun!”  *snicker*

I’m 38 and there’s only so many more years that I can keep…this…looking halfway decent, which means there’s only a finite amount of time left to really enjoy the proverbial pleasures of the flesh and I kinda want to take advantage of these times.
Apparently, I’m alone in this.

But, I’m keeping an open mind here. I’ve booked the zip lines and I recognize that while she’s usually stuck watching Marissa in the afternoons, I get my exercise playing ball with the boys. So, I’m willing to suck it up and address my fears head on and go fling myself 50 feet above the ground on a magic-marker thin piece of rope AND THEN get out of my harness and walk across a thinly-planked sky bridge in the tree tops. I’ll do it for her, and I’ll try to (look like I’m) enyoy(ing) it.

And yes. My life insurance policy is paid up.

“Hi Chris. I was hoping a could get a couple minutes of your time and then I’ll let you go.”
“OK.”
“I wanted to say I’m sorry for what I said to you when I was there. I’ve never meant to hurt you now or in the past and I just want to ask your forgiveness and then, it’s up to you what you do with it. “
“Well, I appreciate your calling and saying that and I can forgive you for what you said, but I …I can’t forget it. It was very hurtful.”
“Well, I understand that. I just wanted to have the opportunity to say that and ask for your forgiveness.”
“OK, thank you.”
“Bye”
“Bye”

…and that was it. As I’m sure we all do with these things, I’ve run the tape through my head dozens of times looking for nuances or meaning that probably aren’t there. But regardless, even if I just take what she said, I’m left with a feeling of, “That’s it?  You tell me I’m a horrible father and husband and all you ask for is my forgiveness?”

It’s as if she called and said what she did because she felt her spirituality required it of her; not because in her heart she knew she’d said some hateful and hurtful things and wanted to make it right.
And as my wife pointed out, now, if I never “fix” things, it’s on me. She can go off and tell everyone that she tried and I didn’t want to hear it and that I just don’t want anything to do with her. She’s assuaged her conscience and anything from here on out is on me.

So be it. I can live that. Outside of her and her husband, the only contact I ever have with her family is when we’re all physically in the same spot. I send them all Christmas cards, and never get them back. I respond to their posts on FB, and never get any in return. I wonder what the loss would really be.

Someone asked me, “What are you going to do?” and I really don’t know. Truthfully, there is a part of me that is relieved it’s over—which makes me look even further. Have I been keeping up this relationship because I want or need it, or just because I feel a responsibility to her and to my kids to keep her in my life. A little of both I hope, but more of the latter I think.

I’ve known other people who have gone through things like this and I’ve often wondered what happened that is so unforgivable. I mean, they’re family right? What could someone from your family ever do or say that’s so bad. Now I know. Doesn’t mean I understand it any better, but at least I have context.

I’m going to take this on my timeline. I’m going to let this rest through the holiday; not because I’m being mean or holding a grudge, but because I don’t want to deal with whatever happens. Even if all were forgiven tomorrow, the holidays would still be tense. Just not worth it.

Ultimately, maybe that’s the answer I’ve been looking for.

Many of you, who have kept up with me over these past few years, know that my family background is…diverse. Having been adopted at the age of 2 into a marriage that ended in divorce a handful of years later, only to have yet a new “mother” in my life by age 6…well…that gets messy eventually. All told, there are three women in my life who hold the moniker “mom” or “mother” in some way, shape or form. Add in a doting foster mother and it makes four.

Thankfully, there is only one person whom I call “dad.”
For years, the woman who generally raised me from age 6, has been my go-to mom, both out of respect and love. To keep things simple, let’s call her Mom #3. She has been there for me when I was hurt, both physically and mentally and I know that at any time I could call on her, and she would be there. But none of us are perfect. I’m certainly not and I’ll be happy to provide anyone who asks, with a litany of my shortcomings.

Despite my love and respect for my “mom,” it has not been an easy relationship. Since day one, I’ve had to deal with her jealousy of other “women.” As a child, if my brother and I spent a weekend with our adopted mom (who divorced us a few years after our adoption), more often than not when we returned home, we’d be greeted with silence from Mom #3. Her method of dealing with things was to walk away from it—just push it away until she could come to terms. This was also how she dealt with misbehavior from my brother and me, as well as her marital disappointment with my dad. I remember one especially bad spell when I was younger. It had been about a week since we’d gotten any meaningful communication from Mom #3. I don’t remember what happened, but whatever it was, it didn’t warrant such a protracted silent treatment. And much like my older son, I was a very emotionally sensitive child. Something happened at school and I just broke down and ended up in the Counselor’s office where I just remember blubbering about what was going on at home. They called my brother in to corroborate and when he did, I remember them talking in hushed tones about calling our house. Both my brother and I flipped out and begged them not to. They said they wouldn’t, but as I look back, I would imagine they had a duty to and probably did anyway.

This cycle of behavior extended in my early adulthood. When I got married, my soon-to-be bride and her mother spent endless cycles trying to figure out how to seat all my different “moms” in the church just so Mom #3 wouldn’t get upset. They didn’t do the typical groom dance with the mother for fear of offending anyone and Mom #3 in particular. At the one bridal event that Mom #2 was invited to, Mom #3 got up and walked out. Couldn’t even be in the same room with her. And that’s how it’s been.

Mom #3 lives about 3.5 hours away, so going up and seeing her is not exactly a weekend trip you want to make with three kids too often. When we do go, CareerMom and I do pretty much the same thing we do at home, which is constantly watch the kids. Only, we do it without much help from the Grandparents. She never plans anything for the kids. She never cooks anything special for the kids. She never buys “gifts” for the kids outside of birthday or Christmas. In short, she treats them much like she treated me…kids should be seen, and not heard. When she does play with them, it’s forced and more often than not, as she’s trying to hold them and force them to be “lovey” with her, they end up crying and clawing their way out of her reach.

Things began coming to a head this past summer when we invited them to spend a week with us in a condo at the beach. The plan was for us all to arrive on Tuesday and stay until Saturday. Most of Mom #3’s family is down around Mobile near the beach, so they went on early and did the family round-robin and joined us Tuesday evening. That evening and most of the next day CareerMom and I spent with the kids—alternating between the pool and the beach. Mom #3 appeared sporadically, never really joining us, only watching from afar. Late Wednesday afternoon, an aunt came by and everyone got in the pool together. Mom #3 alternated between whispering with her sister and grabbing at my youngest son and trying to make him play with her. He finally began yelling at her to leave him alone and it got so bad that CareerMom finally had to step in and tell her to “Let go!”

Things went downhill from there.

I headed upstairs to start dinner. Mom #3 came up later and locked herself in her room-her husband clearly mad, banged on the door for her to let him in, which she finally did. An hour later, dinner was ready and they were still in their room, so my family began eating. A few minutes into dinner, Mom #3 appears with her bags packed and announced, “We’re leaving.” I followed them to the door in shock to see what was going on and was told, “We’re having problems and we don’t want to ruin ya’ll’s vacation.” And with that, she left. Didn’t hug the kids…didn’t even tell them “we had a great time and we love you.” Just walked away. I called her the next day, because they’d left with our camera, and expressed my displeasure, which was met with more of the same martyr-like speak I’d come to expect and we both hung up.

Fast forward to three weeks ago, acting as if nothing had happened over the summer, Mom #3 calls out of the blue and asked if they could come down. Trying to just “let it go” I heartily welcomed them. It was her birthday on Saturday, so I got a cake; the kids made a card; really, I was trying to make her comfortable and happy.

They came in this past Friday night and everyone acted civilly—no problems. Saturday, we all went to my older son’s football game and Saturday night, I bought VIP tickets to the Stone Mountain Laser Show. The VIP tickets allowed us all to sit in seats rather than on blankets on the ground like the rest of the masses. Both Mom #3 and her husband have health issues and I was hoping to make it all more comfortable. We were seated down a short hill and Mom #3 mentioned to me that she’d left her Asthma inhaler at home (along with her purse/phone) and that when we left, she was going to be really slow coming up the hill so that we should all just go on. Around 9:40 p.m., we all decided to head back to the car a bit early. Both my youngest son and daughter were asleep anyway and literally, there were probably 10K people there and if we didn’t leave early, we’d get stuck in traffic and get home at midnight. I carried my son and CareerMom grabbed my daughter and some bags, leaving just a cooler and a blanket for Mom #3. We headed up the hill and I looked back a couple of times to make sure they were OK, which they were. So CareerMom and I headed back to the car, which was a straight-shot walk from where we were seated. Arriving at the car, we got everyone settled and I stepped out to look for Mom and her husband. They never showed. For the next hour, I walked all around the park, back and forth three times from our car to our seats, looking for them. I called my aunt hoping she’d be able to give me Mom’s husband’s cell, but she wasn’t home. I finally found them wandering around a parking lot around 10:30.

Obviously, I was frustrated at this point, but upon seeing them, I walked up, took the cooler from her husband and said, “Well, at least you’re OK!” We’d seen a couple of ambulances go roaring past, and not having any way to communicate with them, had no idea if they were OK or not. Now, when I get aggravated, I get quiet, and I remained quiet on the ride home. When we did get home around 11:30, we all piled out of the car, CareerMom and me carrying sleeping children to bed. When we came back downstairs, Mom and her husband had retired to their room.

Sunday morning, my family was up, as usual early. Mom #3 came upstairs around 8 a.m. and sat, stone-faced, on the couch. I offered coffee, which she refused, stating, “No, we’ll get some on the road.” She got up off the couch and started walking to the door. I followed and said, “Come on, you’re going to leave?” And she said, “Well it’s obvious we’re not wanted here.” I replied, “So, when things get hard, you’re just going to leave, like you did at the beach? You’re going to let your being upset with me, get in the way of you spending time with the kids?”  She said, “Well, they didn’t want to spend time with me at the beach, and they haven’t here either. I asked Ethan yesterday who I was to him and he didn’t know. I asked him who his grandmother was and he said, “Not you!”

The conversation followed with me getting more and more incredulous. I finally said, “You can’t expect to have a relationship with them when you spend 24 hours with them every 4 months!” To which she replied, “Well, you never come see me! You give everything to everyone else, but I get nothing.” I stood there just aghast, groping at what to say next when she continued her tirade. I tried to interrupt and couldn’t until finally, I said loudly, “Can I talk?”

Oh no…

She then said, “Don’t you raise your voice at me and treat me like one of your kids. You treat your wife and kids like shit and I wouldn’t talk to anyone like you do them!”
I quietly said, “You need to leave. Right now.”

“I am leaving,” she said and as she walked out, she continued, “I’m not going to let you talk bad about me and make me feel bad like you did your father.” And with that, she left. I returned to the living room where her husband and my family sat, listening and I told her husband, “I’ve asked her to leave.” He hopped up and started walking out and I said, “Can I talk to you for a second” hoping to have a second and tell him that I appreciated him and that the kids loved him like a grandfather and that I hoped he remembered that in years to come, but he wouldn’t stop and talk to me. He just said goodbye and left.

I stood there just devasted. Not because she’d left, but because of what she said. I walked back to where my wife sat and asked her to come up to our room to talk. She’d not heard the full conversation, only when I’d raised my voice. I told her what my mom had said and she too was shocked.

For the next day and a half, we would both re-run the weekend through our heads and tried to figure out where all this hate and vitriol came from. At no point had I raised my voice at my kids over the weekend and beyond just telling them to “stop this” or “stop that,” I’d said nothing bad to them. And certainly, my wife and I hadn’t had any back and forth that would have contributed to my “treating her badly.”

I later called my dad and asked if there was any validity to what she’d said about me and him and he was incredulous as well, saying that it was quite to the contrary. He finished his comment up by saying, “And anyway, how would she know?” (Mom #3 divorced my dad a few months after I graduated from high school and joined the military. Before the divorce was over, she was bringing her current husband to family functions.)
I have done everything I can think of to make sure there isn’t a grain of truth to Mom #3’s accusations. I know I’m not perfect. I have yelled at my kids. When I get angry, the kids know to get out of my way, but not because I’ve ever hit them…only because when I get angry and my voice gets deep, I can seem larger than life. Most of us could say the same of our own fathers.

Even today, I’m at a loss. How something so hateful can come out of a person who preaches God and love, is both appalling and cliche’ at the same time. What I think is most surprising to me, is how her husband acted on the way out. Maybe he was just supporting her, or maybe she’s filled his head with her nonsense too. If so, I feel awful. I’m sure, as time goes by, the aunts, uncles and cousins that I grew up with, will all be spoon-fed her side of the story and that I will become the black-sheep—never knowing how much more to the story there really is.

But when it is all said and done, it makes you stop and evaluate all of your relationships. Maybe I’ll be a little more patient with my kids in an attempt at preventing a self-fulfilling criticism. Maybe I’ll cut Mom #2 a bit more slack because after all, despite the things my brother and I endured during her time, she has changed and she, more than any other, makes an effort. She remembers birthdays, anniversaries and sometimes “just becauses.” We’re going to see my dad in a few weeks and I’m sure I will cherish our relationship all the more for it.

But for Mom #3, there is no coming back from what she said. I can forgive, but I won’t forget. I won’t let her poison my kids, my marriage or my thoughts. The loss, is hers. She has no other children, or grandchildren. She has only her miserable work and her husband. The rest of her family is 500 miles away. I don’t wish her ill, but I hope she woke up today and realized the horror of what she’s done.

To be fair, I have found a broker that has been, up to this point, extremely easy to work with, but as these things go, the closer we get to closing, the more intractable he’s becoming in our dealings. For instance, he claims the bank is requesting the following:

• Explanation why I’ve changed jobs twice in the last year. Is that really any of their business? They’ve seen my W2 so they can tell that I’ve not been dropping work and laying around on my keester.
• They claim this one is for the government, but they’re asking how many children we have and what their ages are. I suspect this is “big brother” trying to do as much IRS cross-referencing as they can by being sneaky about it. 
• They want to see my full bank statement and not just the one that shows the balances. Why? It’s none of your business WHERE I spend my money; only that I’ve got enough to cover the closing costs! I go through a LOT to cover my tracks on the Internet where I do the majority of my shopping, so I’ll be durned (yes, that’s a Southern word) if I’m gonna just hand it all over to some nameless nobody over at Fifth Third bank.

Maybe I’m paranoid because I live and breathe Internet security and the protection of personal information, but half of this mortgage paperwork process seems less like making sure I’m a good risk and more like trying to gather data on middle-income America.
And last I checked, wasn’t there some kind of issue with the housing market? I’m not against banks per se, but in this economy, if they’re being THAT picky about who they loan money to, that tells me they’re sitting on a WAD of cash and don’t feel like they necessarily need to loan it out. Wonder how much of that wad came out of my taxes?

When I was young, my brother and I would spend a couple of weeks each summer with my grandparents in North Carolina. This was back when the airline industry was revered and you got those cool little gold “Delta” wings when you flew. We were only like, 6 and 9 years old then (I was 6) and we flew by ourselves. The crew always made sure we were safely tucked on board and they walked us off the plane upon arrival into the waiting arms of my grandparents. The funny thing was, once there, we didn’t do a whole lot with my grandparents and because of that, I gravitated to my grandfather’s sister, Aunt Marjorie.

She was old back then even. But she lived in the house with my grandparents and pretty much acted like the maid, butler and all-around babysitter. I loved her like…well, like nobody really. I slept in her room in a twin bed on the other side of the nightstand from her and at the crack of dawn, we’d both get up and start making breakfast. I can still smell the frying bacon and taste the cool, graininess of the homemade apple sauce that she’d bring up from the bare-earth basement.

But once breakfast was done and the house chores were finished, often Aunt Marjorie and I would go for a drive. In her younger years, she worked at the Biltmore House and we would often drive around the estate and she’d rattle off how she used to do so and so there, and over there she took care of this or that. We’d also usually drive parallel to the French Broad River—a deep, fast river that runs from North Carolina to Tennessee and that I simply loved.

On rare occasions, we would stop by one of the many volunteer stations where my Aunt worked and one day we went to an old folks’ home. We didn’t stay long, but I remember walking in with her and being told to “stand right there” while she dropped off some covered dish or something. She turned to speak to someone and, like all little boys, I had to look around and see what was going on. There were old people everywhere, which was fine…I was OK. But then, this old lady about ten feet away, sitting in a chair, beckoned to me and said, “Come here. Come here little boy.” Now, being used to doing what adults told me, I obeyed. I walked over to her, a bit stiffly and she reached out and with preternatural strength, wrapped me in a sinewy, old-lady bear hug and began to squeeze the ever-lovin’ life outta me!

I couldn’t breathe. I couldn’t call out. After what seemed like ages, finally someone noticed what was going on and a bunch of them came running over and had to literally pry the old lady off of me.
I was scared…shaken, and apparently never the same again. Today, I like old people from a distance. And I like old people in general, but there becomes a point at which I go from looking at them as just older versions of myself, and start seeing them as these not-quite-human “things” that I’d just as soon avoid. And this is bad because CareerMom’s grandmother has recently taken a turn for the worse and has been here visiting. We’ve done a couple of big family get-togethers and while everyone else is gathered around her trying to make the most of her remaining time, I have to literally force myself to even go into the room—and it shames me. I pray she hasn’t noticed with everyone else gathered around. To cover myself, I follow the kids around, pretending to be watching them, when really, I’m avoiding.

I know…one day it’ll be me in that chair and I’ll wish I could reach out and squeeze my grandkids. I pray I’m still lucid enough to show some restraint.

In my infinite parental wisdom, I’ve decided that I have no blame here. No, I blame school. I blame those snotty little five year olds who come on the P.A. system every morning and tell the rest of the student body what the weather is going to be. And then I blame the school system for too many dad-blamed storm drills. A couple of times this past school year, by the time he got off the bus in the afternoon, storms or no, he was already wild-eyed and near tears over the fact that there was a ‘chance’ of evening thunderstorms.

Now this goes hand in hand with another fear that seems to have come out of nowhere…and that being, that we’re going to leave him alone. I can’t tell you how many times in the past six months I’ve had to answer, “Where’s mommy?” or “Where are you going?”  And heaven forbid, when you drop him off at the kids’ play area at the gym while you work out, that you’re even a minute later than you told him you’d be–NIAGARA FALLS!

OK, maybe  I share a little of the blame here–but indirectly. As a child I was also a bit of a worry-er. But the things I worried about were just a tad more serious that this stuff. And by serious, I mean like, “Oh crap, what now?” kind of stuff.

But I didn’t worry about the weather.

In retrospect, I suppose if he’s going to be worried about something, it could be worse. But we’ve tried reassurance; we tried fussing at him; nothing seems to work. And while I know that mostly he’ll grow out of it, I know I still carry some of my childhood worries with me today. Even now, when I hear footsteps above me in the house coming towards me, for just a second, my gut clenches up and my heart jumps ahead. I wish I knew how to take these fears away from him.

Hmm, I’m sure I’m the first parent to have ever said THAT.

Which he declined on moral grounds stating that maybe one day I’ll get off my lazy butt and start blogging again. (I paraphrase)

I really should, and I know this. It’s not that I don’t have time so much as it that the little bit of free time I do have, I like to spend lying in my bed at night with my wife in hopes that she’ll take pity on this graying stallion and let me practice my “oh so overused” moves on her before she falls off to sleep by 9:30 p.m. So see, it’s really nature preventing me from blogging…not laziness.

In truth, I’ve started and deleted a number of posts in the last year. Usually, I recognize them for what they are–wallowing in self pity–and I, realizing how pathetic I sound, delete the post rather than joining the ranks of the millions of others out there similarly enamored of their own depression.

But I hereby declare, maybe not a resurgence, so much as an EFFORT…to blog more often. And while I realize I have probably lost every regular visitor I have, perhaps I’ll use my professional marketing skills to just blow this thing outta the water.

For now though, it’s 9:23, which means I only have about 7 minutes left to woo women. Which should be plenty of time…and then some.

If I had ten thousand dollars for every time I’d heard someone say to me, “It’s a miracle you turned out as well-adjusted as you did,” I’d have at least…I dunno…a hundred thousand dollars! Though perhaps after blogging all this, I’ll hear it more often. If I’m being honest though, my problems pale in comparison to others. My problems don’t require medication. They don’t cause me to completely withdraw from the people I love for long periods of time. And they don’t make me want to act out on the society at-large, so generally speaking, I’m doing alright.

But there are times. Oh yes, there are times.

For instance, parenting. Parenting has been a challenge as I’ve discussed on numerous occasions and it continues to cause personal problems for me. I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again, parenting is not for everyone. There is a line that each person much recognize within his or her tolerance and they must adhere to that line, for when you do not, THAT’s when you make the morning news.

My personal “line” was crossed the moment I found out we were having a third child (and yes, I’m probably going to hell just for saying that out loud). But I’m not going to spoil the literary moment here by telling you how much I love my children and how I wouldn’t trade a moment of it for the world, because frankly, that’s a bunch of crap.

In fact, there are about 30 moments, each day for the past year, that I’d gladly trade for say…more Hydrocodone.

After 11 years of marriage, my wife has learned the tell-tale signs of my having reached a point, which manifests itself in one of two ways:

- either via a sudden, violent outburst at one of the children in the form of a “STOP IT!” or a “SHUT UP!”

- or more often, the tightening of my jaw, the narrowing of my eyes, and an obstinate will to keep perfectly quiet. Don’t try and draw me out of it. Don’t ask me what’s wrong. Just leave me…the hell…alone for a while.

I think one of the failures of the human race is our desire to compare ourselves to others. I do it; I’m sure you do it to. We each hold ourselves to this impossibly high standard that’s based solely on the public persona shown to us by others who are privately just as screwed up as we are. I’m sure, to that divorced lady who lives up the street and who only sees me when I’m outside playing with the kids, that I embody everything a good father should (perhaps with the exception of Ryan Reynolds-like abs). Because all we see of people is what they want us to see.

But I do wonder how I compare. Oh, I know that I could search Google right now for, “Fed up Dads” or “My kids make me want to just walk away” and I could find thousands of people who have expressed similar feelings. But, we’re still in the minority when you consider how many parents are out there.

I look at people like “Father of Five” and that dude just makes me feel A) ashamed and B) proud all at the same time. Ashamed because he has way more kids than I do, plus works crappy hours (on second thought, maybe that’s WHY he’s such a patient dad…) and Proud because it’s nice to know we’re not all as screwed up as me.

So, my hat off to you FoF and all you other Fathers and Mothers out there who make having families bearable for the rest of us.

“Let me start by saying that what I know, is both based on what I was told and what I remember, plus what I later found out,” I began. “I was adopted at about the age of two. I have a brother who is three years older than me.  I have other siblings–well, half siblings really, but who’s counting? Anyway, my brother and I were adopted at a young age. The story we were told growing up, and what I believed to be the truth, was later born out, so I was at least raised with the correct information and it was always openly offered.”

“Our mother and father were very young. My mother was about 16 when she got pregnant with my brother. Our dad was an Army guy and was stationed away frequently. A lot happened between them and us that eventually led to our adoption. Initially, we lived with different foster families, ultimately spending the remaining time with a great family in South Carolina. The couple had other children who loved us and treated us like their own. Years later, when I was in my 20s I visited them for a day. The father had passed away, but I saw the mother and a couple of the sisters. Anyway, South Carolina law, at that time, forbid foster families from adopting their wards, else we probably would have remained there. However, what would become my mom and dad, found us and adopted us and we lived in S.C. for about a year and a half before moving to Mobile, AL.”

“Do you know why you moved so far away, so quickly?” asked the doc.

“I don’t know for sure. I’ve heard two sides of the story, but ultimately it was for a job that didn’t pan out quite as they’d hoped,” I replied.

“I see,” she said as she scribbled something on her notepad and then said, “Please go on.”

Let’s see…in Mobile, we moved into a nice little house in a good neighborhood and life was normal for a while. It was traditional family life.”

The doctor interrupted, “And what do you consider “traditional?”

“Well,” I began, “You know. Dad works while mom stays home with the kids.”

“I see,” she said. “And how do you feel about that traditional style of life now?”

“Oooh.” I said. “That’s a prickly piece!”

“Why?” the doctor asked.

“It’s complicated I guess,” I said. “There’s a part of me that very much likes that idea and wishes I had that kind of life. In fact, I think if the country still had that kind of lifestyle ideal, we wouldn’t have a lot of the problems we have. But at the same time, I wouldn’t force my wife into that situation. I married her knowing full well that with her educational background, in all likelihood, she’d end up getting a better job than me and making more money than me. And I was right. So, I like the idea of a traditional family, but I don’t think it’s terribly practical if you live around a big city.”

The doctor made some kind of “Ummm, hmmm” sound, wrote something in her pad and then said, “Please continue.”

“Ok. After a year or so I guess things went a bit sour. Our “mom” wasn’t prepared for kids. I think she wanted them, but I don’t think she could handle them really and she did things that today would get you arrested if others found out. I remember what happened to me and I can only imagine what my brother went through. True Story, she put my brother and me in summer schools and daycares without my dad knowing it. I guess she handled the finances and just “hid” it from him.”

Within a year or so, my dad started working away a lot and my brother and I spent a lot of time either by ourselves, or with babysitters. Sometimes, rather than getting a babysitter, our mom would make us go to bed at like 5 p.m. so she could leave and lock us in the house and not have to worry about us. I remember one time we had a babysitter, but we were supposed to be taking a nap. It was broad daylight outside, and anyway, we were like four and seven years old. I didn’t know where ”mom” went and I would guess neither did my dad. But all my neighborhood friends were standing at my window talking to me and my brother asking why we couldn’t come out and play and evidently I was pushing on the window and it dropped and chopped off the tip of my finger. Blood was going everywhere. I was screaming. My brother was trying to stop the bleeding. Eventually the babysitter, who was only 15, came running down and was freaking out. Luckily, our next door neighbor was home and she drove me to the emergency room. I remember “mom” showing up and her just being relieved that I was OK. I had feared she’d be mad, but she wasn’t.”

“Eventually though, she and my dad divorced. There are differing stories about what caused that too, but I think it mostly just built up and then one final precipitous event forced my dad’s hand. It was messy, but my dad capitulated to her demands and gave her everything but the kids and the house. My dad later admitted he had no idea that “mom” was treating us as she was. He didn’t know half the things she was doing on her own, much less to, or with, us kids.”

‘Do you remember how this made you feel when it was going on,” the therapist asked.

“I don’t know. When you’re four years old, I don’t think you understand that adult world. I mean, you can see and hear what’s going on, but I don’t think you understand the ramifications. I know we weren’t happy and I remember wondering why mom would get so mad when she told us to go to bed and then would catch us with our lights on. As a parent now, I can empathize with her to some extent, but I know that what was going on had an indelible impression on us and for that, I can’t fully forgive her.”

“You speak a lot about your mom, but not your dad. Was your dad good to you and your brother?”

“Dad tried, really hard. I remember being happier when it was just us and my dad, than when it was us as a family. My dad would take us to a really cool daycare and pick us up in the evenings. We ate out a lot and I remember my favorite being the nights we went to Krystals. I remember their chili and oyster crackers. Huh…it’s funny what you remember the most. Anyway, within about a year of the divorce, my dad started dating his second wife. She was a LOT younger than him, by about 18 years. They met at work and didn’t really date all that long before they got engaged.”

“Right before the wedding, my dad took a contract job in Montgomery. It must have paid well because we kept the Mobile house and rented another in Montgomery. Right after the wedding, my new grandmother stayed with my brother and me for a week in Montgomery while dad and our new mom were on their honeymoon. And that’s when I first remember my brother starting to act up. I remember he took dad’s little blowtorch and burned several holes in the doors of the new house. Dad was sooo mad when he found out.”

“How did your father react to what your brother did?” she asked.

“I honestly don’t know,” I said. “I know he was really mad though. As time went on, I learned to just go in my room whenever stuff was coming down with my brother. I think I felt that if I kept my door closed and pretended not to know what was going on, that I wouldn’t get in trouble. And it seemed to work…at least that’s how my 6-year old brain took it. That’s the first real “acting out” I remember from my brother and maybe my parents chalked it up to all the changes going on. As I remember, things got back to a normal routine pretty quickly. That first year was pretty good. We were a family again. We had a good neighorhood and lots of friends around. Dad was working locally, so the stress on our new, young mom was minimal. But then, after about a year, we moved back to Mobile and things went downhill fast. Dad started having to take out of town jobs, only coming home on the weekends. I didn’t realize it then, but my dad had lost his job with the chemical plant locally and had to take out of town work. But at home, we were kids, doing the usual kid things. Our new mom wasn’t prepared for it and rather than dealing with it well, she withdrew. She never got violent, which I probably would have dealt with better than the silent treatment she gave us.”

“Wait,” the therapist said. “Tell me about this silent treatment.”

“Well, when things got tough for her, she’d just retreat to her room and close the door, only coming out to do the bare minimum. My brother and I were necessarily fairly self-sufficient. We could generally get ourselves ready for school, and put ourselves to bed, so really all she needed to do was cook for us and that’s pretty much what she did. Sometimes, she’d go for days hardly saying a word to us. A lot of the times, I didn’t know why she was upset. It was probably because of something my brother did, but I thought it was my fault and I took it hard. I’d leave like, little “I’m sorry” notes under the door and stuff, but it didn’t help.”

“I remember that, at the time, I was in speech therapy classes in school because I couldn’t say my “s” very well. And I was a very emotional kid…would cry at the drop of the hat. And I guess I lost it once at school and I had to see the counselor and I told her what was going on at home. They called my brother in and asked him if what I was saying was true and he confirmed it. They wanted to call our house, but we begged them not to. We didn’t know what would happen. I mean, we were used to being mistreated when we displeased our mom and this…well this was surely going to be hell to pay. In the end, I don’t know what happened. I don’t remember any repercussions, so maybe they let it go. I just don’t know.”

Anyway, time passed. One summer the whole family stayed in this tiny camper in a campground in the DeSoto Caverns State Park so we could be near dad and another summer we did the same near some beach…I don’t remember which. I’m guessing our young mom put her foot down and told my dad there was no way in hell he was leaving her at home alone with the two kids for the whole summer! Despite living in a camper for three months, we had good times. Back at home, time passed and things remained fairly static. But it wasn’t long before my brother started acting more and more odd.”

To be continued…