Why I'm a Single Dad

Why I'm A Single Dad

I sometimes think about what possessed me to seek custody of my son after our divorce. My ex-wife was giving me a way out by not seeking child support. I was free and clear. So why did I not follow the current standard of men (particularly black men) and let her have primary custody while I settled for weekend visits?

In the end, it comes down to three people: my dad, my son's brother's dad and me.

My Dad

My dad was never around. He couldn't care less about me. See, I was the product of...well, let's just say that at least ONE of my parents was married. And...not to my other parent. My dad (the married parent) distanced himself from me. You see, his wife had recently had a miscarriage. It was a boy. So imagine his family's anguish and rage at the fact that he now had a son, but it wasn't within his family. So, pretty much, I was despised in his household by my half-sisters and, not surprisingly, his wife.

I only met my dad once. I was 17.It was at a concert that the Detroit Public school system would put on every year called “The Evening of Fine Arts.” That night was a showcase of artistic talent from all branches. I was there as part of a couple of choirs. My dad was an art teacher at one of the local high school and some of his students had works displayed for the event. He shook my hand, asked me a few questions about my plans, said good night and left. It was the first and last time I ever laid eyes on the man. I couldn't even tell you what he looked like.

I did have occasions to speak to him after that. I think we spoke about three times, each time with me being the initiator. I can't remember anything but the last one.

Being the irresponsible youth that I was, I hadn't planned well for my prom expenses. I had almost enough, but I still needed a little to push me over. I decided that I'd ask my dad. Up to now, I hadn't asked for money. I thought, “I'm graduating, so maybe he'll give me this as a graduation present.” I was at school when I had this bright idea, so I went into my choir teacher's office (I had it like that) and gave him a call. He answered and we chatted. Finally, I popped the big question. His “no” was immediate. His reasoning still haunts me to this day. He said, “You're 18 now and I'm done with you.” That was the last thing that I ever heard my father say.

My Son's Brother's Dad

When I first married my now ex-wife, she had three kids from previous relationships. The youngest of them was the son of a former co-worker of mine who, in no uncertain terms, hated my guts. And while the feeling wasn't exactly mutual, it wasn't far from it.

So when he found out that I was marrying his “baby mama”, (I hate that term so, soso much...) he drunkenly called her and left several messages about how he didn't want that <expletive deleted> raising his son.

Funny thing though, he didn't know anything about him.

After our wedding, he would call to occasionally, mostly to pester her about one thing or another. When he would ask about his son, he would ask questions like, “Is he walking yet?” (He was 3.) He put up so much of a fuss about me raising his son, but when it came down to it, he just didn't want anybody else to do what he wasn't doing.

Me

By default, I'm kind of lazy. I'm a horrible housekeeper, I enjoy entertainment a bit too much and it takes me eons to actually call someone. Add to the fact that I like being alone quite often.

So I asked myself, “If my son is living with his mom, how often will I see him?” I love my son with all of my heart, but, being me, I was afraid that not having him around would make me lazy about being a dad to him. I suddenly saw myself as both my dad and my son's brother's dad, not caring about the everyday worries of his life as long as I kept my minimum required promises. I saw my son becoming another statistic: black boy grows up without father. I saw myself becoming another stereotype. And I was having none of it.

So I made my choice.

It wasn't (and isn't) easy. 

He's three right now and he's full of energy and attitude. I work an odd-hour, full-time job, so daycare is a good chunk of my income. Again, I'm not a very good housekeeper, so cleaning up behind myself and my messy mini-me is a challenge.

But I'm thankful.

I'm thankful that my ex didn't put a fight over custody.

I'm thankful for the support I've received from friends, family and, especially, my church.

I'm thankful for the challenge. It's helped me grow in amazing ways.

And, most of all, I'm thankful that I get to see this beautiful boy grow up. I can't wait to see who he becomes!

3 Months Later...

**This is actually my first blog post, but I had to switch it to Blogger because the last site I used sucked.** 

It's September 26 and it's the 3 month-iversary (mensiversary?) of my divorce. How am I celebrating this momentous occasion? By watching the boys do fake roundhouse kicks in the backyard with the kids from the other apartments.

It's actually not something that I'm celebrating. I only just realized that 3 months ago today my wife and I put the kibosh on our 4-year marriage. I remember walking out of the courthouse surprised that it was over. I expected a lot more legal rigmarole to happen before the actual conclusion. Instead, here I was, holding this piece of paper that declared that the last 4 years were wasted, with the exception of my introduction to her kids and the the birth of our son, Dash. All I could do was get into my car, plug in my phone and listen to Nickle Creek's "Rest of My Life". (The first line: "The battle is over, here we all lie, in a dry sea of Solo cups, the sun in our eye. But it's one of those endings no one claps 'cause they're sure that there's more. What a great way to start the first day of the rest of my life." I thought it was appropriate.)

My wife was a horrible wife. Awful. But I don't hate her and I wasn't the best husband. I was lazy. I was inattentive in a lot of ways. I was certainly selfish and ignorant of many of her needs. And I was defensive on the occasions that she checked me on my mess. The one thing about divorce, especially if you're the one being divorced and not the one initiating the divorce, is that you run every piece of the past through this imaginary analysis machine, picking apart every mistake you made, every misstep, every foible, every regret. You wish you could change it and it eats you up that you can't. And I have to own it. I have to.

I had intended to list my ex's many faults and hurts that she caused, but I changed my mind. I wouldn't do any good. Suffice it to say that, in the end, even though I initially fought the divorce, I think it was better, particularly for me, to not be married to her.

So, now my challenge is not having outright contempt for her. I've heard it said that the level of love that you have for a person is the amount of dislike you have for them when they break your heart. And I loved my wife with the white, hot heat of 1000 suns. We talk, mostly about the kids. (Ok, only about the kids, with the occasional exception.) The other day, she texted me about something that didn't have anything to do with the kids. I just didn't text her back. I can't have that kind of relationship with her right now. She broke all kinds of trust with me that she has not even come close to repairing. Again, I don't hate her. I actually care about her well-being. But she's not invited into my life. She doesn't get that.

Where does that leave me? Well, in the divorce, I got our son. There was no fight. She already had 3 kids when we got married, I had none. I grew up without my father around and I had no intention of having my son go through the same thing, so I asked for custody. We live in the country (or, country compared to Detroit, where I'm from). We have fun with what we have. I thank God for the little things I get to enjoy with him.

And I get to enjoy time with at least two of her kids, the aforementioned roundhousing boys, who consider me to be dad. I don't have much: not much money, no cable and a one-bedroom apartment, but the boys love coming over for a bit of man time.

In the end, I guess that, as frustrating as my life can be, I have a good life and one that I can still glorify God with. And that's a good place to start.

The Stink-pocolypse

Here we have Halyomorpha halys, also known as the brown marmorated stink bug, or simply the stink bug. (Yes, I copy and pasted that from Wikipedia...)

 And right now, I'm fighting a losing battle against these little buggers.

Stink bugs (or as my 3-year old Dash likes to call them, stinky bugs) like to find any entrance they can fit through and hang around your house for the winter, funking up your place with their trademark stench. (Which probably can't be worse than stinky diapers, but it's the principle, ya know?)

But, for me, the worst part is the clumsy night flying. Here I am, trying to sleep on my uncomfortable pull-out bed when I hear this buzzing, followed by a thump as it crashes into my lamp or window shade or wall. Also, just the appearance of four to six of them chillin' on my windowpane like it's flippin' Cheers is the grossest thing! (I swear, if I hear one of them shout "Norm!", I'm out!)

More about this horrible creature (which is more annoying than dangerous, but still) at: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Brown_marmorated_stink_bug

In other news, here's Dash with a cereal box on his head:

P.S. I had to change blog sites. My last site was  not very user-friendly, so I went with Google, a.k.a the Company that is slowly taking over the world...