Money, Shoes, and, Computers

"A dollar is a terrible thing to waste"

There is the co-parent who is mentally sober and then there is the co-parent who is not. I have the challenge of working with both. I came to an interesting milestone of sorts recently. It has now been six months since the separation. Six months. Do I still get angry, yes. Do I still miss her, yes, Do I still want our relationship to work itself out, yes. Do I still have a candle in the window, no. These are the times I play that song by Carol King, “Well its too late baby, yes it’s too late, though we really did try and make it.” Then there are times when I hear other songs like “Never ever going to give you up,” by the late Barry White. Too bad no-one has ever written a song about the bipolar blues. Another aspect of this disorder, as one who really loves his spouse soon to be ex spouse, is that when the disease, the mania kicks in, the anti-self, its as though you are dealing with a child: not to sound insulting, but there are characteristics of being highly impulsive, irrationality, extreme mood swings, aside from a host of things you just don’t think you will ever understand.

Here is an adventure I had with impulse buying:
After our initial separation and our reuniting (cause it felt so good), I didn’t stop to think about how the money was going out the window, let alone, walking out the door. In fact, because I am the type of person who loves peace and quiet, I had grown immune to what anyone could see was spending gone wild. Enter the computer summit of 2009. I made the decision that it was time to switch computers. My HP was crashing. It was slow, it couldn’t multi-task and frankly I had gotten to the point where I was questioning if it would be able to perform during my dissertation phase. Being the tech geek that I was and still am, I concluded it was time to make the big switch, from PC to Mac. The only problem is that Macs are expensive. I like to think of the PC and windows operating system as GM, where as the Mac is like a Mercedes. As a rule, we felt it was best that we discuss big-ticket purchase items. The way our budget was then, 150 dollars and up required a sit-down or meeting to discuss if the purchase was feasible. My Mac was no different. We were talking about it in what I like to refer to as “our bubble,” the bedroom/office.
“Jean,” I say, “You know my student aid money is coming in January. You also know my PC crashed this summer, I really want to get another computer and I have been pricing the Apple machines. I really want to get the MacBook Pro.”

Money and Jean, I need to add have an odd relationship of sorts. For her, money provides a sense of safety and security, as it should with anybody. I, on the other hand, am not that attached to money. Maybe it was because I was buffered from any lack of money as I like to think my grandfather was a tobacco farmer on the side compared to his day job as a prison boiler plant supervisor. By no stretch of he imagination was my family rich, I was just buffered. Adding to that, the symbolism of money was shattered to me at an early age. My mom’s companion was the Black Diogenes, Socrates gone mad. He was the anti materialist. He drove around in clunkers or what we call hoop-tees. Three things were important to him, his house, his books and his two families, his legal wife and child and his cloaked wife and adopted stepchild. Oh yes, he valued education over anything else. I’ll never forget this, when I was offered a two-month scholarship to study journalism at Northwestern University, I actually wanted to stay home and make money to pay off my credit cards. He and my mom were like, NO! This is a once in a life time opportunity. You’ve won a competitive scholarship at the age of 19. So, off to Chicago you go! Never mind it was for two months. But I had fun and learn an odd lesson with money. Scholarship supersedes debt. In hindsight, it’s a nasty rationalization I learned. This was only furthered with his $50.00 Christmas party trick. One Christmas he wanted to demonstrate that he was not a slave to money. So what did he do, he took out a crisp $50.00 bill and burned it up in smoke. This was to teach me that money only has power, when you give it power. This strangely was my introduction to existentialism. Anyway back to our summit, Jean was lukewarm to the idea of my new Mac.
“I know you want this computer, can’t you write a grant to get it?”
“Jean, the grant process takes time. I simply don’t have the time nor the interest in writing a grant to get the computer I know I need.”
“Honey, how much are you planning to spend on it?” she asks.
“Well, like I said, they are pricey, but the upside is that I don’t have to buy anymore virus software.” I thought this would be a selling point.
“Ok but how much?”
“Well the one I want is going to cost $1800.00.” This is what I ironically call the pregnant pause. Only a husband really knows how the mind of their spouse works. Remember, we don’t have arguments, we have full-blown conference debates which are more civil spoken from positions of fact rather than emotion. The only problem is that the facts are emotionally driven. On to round two: Jean opens,
“I’ve been doing some checking, I think you can get a refurbished Mac for a little less. When I went on the Apple website, you can get this computer for $300.00 less.” Here is where I become defensive,
“May I ask you a question please? Why is it when you want something, damn the torpedoes, full speed ahead, but when I want something, we have to really debate it. When you bought that E-machine a year ago, I bit my lip and shut my mouth. When you went to Europe earlier in December, with a grant, knowing my objections you still went? For you, I demonstrate deference through compromise, where as for me, I’m shown the balance sheet. Why?”
“Honey, I didn’t say you couldn’t get the computer,”
Enter knee jerk response,
“Well, thank you dear, that said, I don’t remember seeking your permission to do so.” Ok wrong thing to say, but as one who is sensitive to language, it just came out.
“What I am saying Michael,” oh shit, when she says Michael, it’s a new dynamic,
“is that there are different ways to do it. If you write a grant, it doesn’t come out of your pocket. That’s the only reason I went to Germany.” This is where I have one of those ‘my life is a sitcom moments’ because I do realize she has a point, but the male testosterone refuses to let me give in, so what do I do?
“I need a time out.” So as I take my time out, going down the stairs I’m admittedly having my own temper tantrum, “Damn I can’t believe this shit. Why is it that I can’t get what I want ,with my own damn money, without a fucking debate. I know I’m 38 years old. It says so on my drivers license, but I feel like I’m fucking thirteen. I know I’m grown, I have a job, I pay a mortgage, I pay a car note, I’m taking care of my family yet I have to say wife, may I? I can’t believe the audacity behind this shit. I have to actually ask my wife, darling, may I please spend my own damn money? If I don’t, then she’s going to get her fucking jaws tight. Ain’t this some shit? I don’t give a damn, fuck it. So what if she’s right, its still my damn money. The 5000 dollar check is written to me damn it. Shit.” Now mind you, I am saying all this in my mind; not out loud, because again, I want peace and quiet. From there, I looked at my TV set. This is a bad-ass TV if I do say so myself. Not for its functionality, but how I got it. I paid only 178 dollars for it. A 36 inch television set that I only paid 178 dollars for. Hmm. Craigslist! Ok everybody’s happy, I save money, I get my computer and everybody’s happy. So after I go upstairs and propose the new idea she seems happy, and I can go to sleep with peace and quiet, well almost peace and quiet, our two year-old, Red Chief is well, he and sleep still don’t vibe yet. Ok so I get my Mac, paying 1300 dollars for it. I am in Mac heaven until I have to purchase a new hard-drive. Now I know why the son of a bitch was so damn cheap. Now fast forward to May of the same year. The conversation is brief but we have it anyway.
“Michael, I need to upgrade computers.” Oh no, I hear the rock falling into the bottomless pit. I can’t object because I just bought my Mac. All I can say is OK. Off to the best buy we go and 600 dollars is gone just like that because I was allowed to spend 1300 dollars on my Mac. I lug the computers and the boxes upstairs trying to keep my mouth shut because I want to be fair; why, because I just spend 1300 dollars on a Mac. Why are we buying this computer again honey?
“Because I need it for my online teaching.” All I can say is OK, why because I just spent $1300.00 on my Mac. So at this point we have how many computers in our house. Lets see there is the E-machine she had before we were married, then there was the Compac I had which I used strictly as my Frankenstein computer (my computer I was going to turn into a monster when I had time) then there was the other E-Machine she purchased only a year ago, there was my HP that I purchased when I started my Ph.D. program, then there was her IBM laptop she purchased with a grant, there was my new Mac and now her new Dell. In short we had enough computers to run our own business. Alrighty then. August when we get back together, as she rolls into the court room, she pops up with a new, BRAND New Sony Viao laptop. The Viao was like the corvette of PCs. It incidentally costs $2000.00. I’m too happy that we are getting back together so I ignore the purchase for now but you could add another computer to the mix. What I was noticing was that all her computers were grossly infected with viruses or spyware, where as me, I was chugging along, When I buy items particularly computer hardware, I’m going to take care of it, take it through serious maintenance to keep it running correctly at all costs because I am that dependent upon them. So again, the Mac is the computer for me. We go shopping one day, I had come into a little good fortune and I wanted to treat the family out to a nice dinner. Right after dinner, we go to the shoe store. She bought what I thought was one pair of Danskos. To their credit, they are incredible shoes, which are worth the money. I bought a pair a year and a half ago and not only are they comfortable on my feet but they last. Danskos are good business professional clogs that are worth the $120.00. In fact my purchasing philosophy is this, buy what has the long term return on the investment. I apply this to many of my big ticket items and some small ones. This is why I will buy K-Swiss classic sneakers. They are like Volvos, you can’t kill them. Same with the Danskos, you can’t kill them either. That said, Jean buys one pair that I see. Three days later, two additional pairs come to the house. So I am taking a look at all the money that’s been spent inside of a summer. One $600.00 computer, one $2000.00 laptop, 3 pairs of shoes totaling $360.00. Incidentally, the shoe purchases really hit an all time high when at the start of our separation I discovered she purchased a $260.00 pair of sneakers. Not Jordans, but orthopedic sneakers and yes, I was still being tapped for money by Jean. So shoe-wise, I saw 620 dollars walking out the door literally. These no-nos were not Manolos. They were Danskos. Rick James said cocaine is a hell of a drug, manic-depression, it’s a hell of a disorder.

Life Everlasting

Release is important to say the least. Without release, pressure will build and as that happens, you will eventually run the risk of some type of blow out. Be it a heart attack, or a stroke, cancer, stress is no fun. Stress can kill you. I recently heard of a guy who was a few years younger than me who suffered a stroke. On my dad’s side of the family, they rarely died from cancer but, strokes, heart attacks, well, I am genetically predisposed. Chalk that up for another reason I go to the gym, my health. As far as my sanity, the gym helps me with that too. Writing is another form of release. But right now, the best release is learning the new sport of weight lifting, which is why am seeking the assistance of a weight lifting coach.

Speaking of which, I actually made contact with two Olympic competitors and one has written me back with excellent information. I am so grateful. If that works out, man I am going to be so psyched! I get to learn something new and really apply my strength gains. I also went the other day and purchased some new weight lifting straps. I hate breaking in new straps because you have a tendency to do as I did, drop the weights, which is not too cool. Its early June and right now I am at 365 pounds – what I currently dead lift, so I am about 35 pounds away from my 40th birthday goal, 400 pounds. I am hoping that these new straps can help me but like any weight lifting goal there has to be some preparation, otherwise one can wined up on their back with a bad back. So one has got to properly warm up, stretch, (I now a have greater appreciation for Mr. Wood, my 7th grade gym teacher and assistant football coach). Last night as I was breaking in my new straps, warming up with 315 pounds, I really had to govern myself. Again, failure to do so as it did last night wound up in not being able to control my weight on the bar. Other lifts I have been working on include the push press—which right now I am up to 185 pounds. The Olympic lift (which I really shouldn’t be doing in a commercial gym) I am now able to complete 155 pounds max. I think this is divided into the clean and jerk, but then again, I need a coach. Multiple reasons here: the first is form. I must learn the form. Failure to learn the form is like planning to fail. Second, it will help me to prevent injury. Third, I think it will also provide an avenue for peer coaching.

On a professional note, while waiting for the IRB, I got note on my first teaching assignment for the up coming semester. Right now its one class but opportunity, well its where is where you mine it. As with where I was prior to, it started with two classes, then three, then summer school, then a full load. What I like about this is that I am actually going to be doing it on my own. No help from the family just me. That is gratifying. In my crazy way of thinking, there will be no more straw people, strictly me, that too can be seen as a form of liberation. I will be writing my first syllabus within a year and I will be teaching among folks who have read the texts I’ve read, and know the things I know. That’s going to be emotionally lifting, while intellectually, simply a high. Now back to the other part of the sitcom called my life, dysfunction junction, also known as the separation.

The other part of release, when in the middle of a separation, some days your ex will rock your body and your last nerve, and I don’t mean that in a Justin Timberlake way. In my case, I can’t blame the ex as much as I blame the disorder for causing my ex to do things that to me are really off the chain. Without going into the details, the one thing I have had to learn is always expect the unexpected. Just the other day there was an issue on the table with Red Chief and of course, with the ill communication it drove me to finally say enough. Enough, enough enough. Yesterday, I just had to speak my mind, what little I have left at this point. I think what had me properly pissed was the fact that now my own words were being used against me. I am like, come on already. Enough with the games, I don’t have time for them. I just don’t. So as calmly as I could, I responded as professionally as professionality would allow. The one thing I can say as the fog lifts, there is a type of new found knowledge that you gain. You start learning words like rationalization, manipulation, minimization, diversion, projection, and, guilt tripping. Needless to say, these were just some of the thoughts that came from my fingers and hit the keyboard. To finally call it as I saw it, was overdue. Like I said, release at this point was synonymous to going to the pottee and having a good bowel movement. Ok, maybe a disgusting analogy, but you have got to get the point. As it came out, I started to feel relieved. See that is the sad part about this disorder. People are not cognizant of their own behavior. The other thing that is important is that I am standing up for myself and saying, please go get some damn help. Talking with another professional in the psych industry yesterday, he shared with me, what I continue to hear over and over and over again.

The only thing I can do, and probably the best thing I can do, is take care of myself. Next, hope and pray that in due time, she will come to some type of cognizance, a cognizance that says to herself, she needs help. If we are lucky, blessed, this will happen before something more severe occurs. Maybe we will go to couples therapy, but going on six months of being separated, the main therapy I am concerned with is family therapy. I want to make sure Red Chief has two parents who are healthy and can take care of him. But the reality I have to adjust to predicates; it takes two who are committed to the same goal. In this case, her motional sobriety. One of the questions I asked Jean yesterday was, what’s more important, your having your way, or you getting the treatment you need for our child? When a person is put on WBLAST like that, and they don’t answer the question, that tells me that you would rather live in a state of toxicity, and you would rather parent in an a hazed state. A linguistic term for it is Stonewalling. What I am seeing is what is called mania. From the outside in, its as though I am looking at the anti-Jean. Mad denial, (another term I have come familiar with). It’s not me, it’s not me. See in the mind of the manic, when the manic is angry, their perceptions are their reality and nothing can rid their mind of that. What’s worse is the angry manic who knows how to use systems can be exceptionally dangerous because they can masquerade, especially when they have credentials of their own which allow them access to various systems. The angry manic has to be disarmed because if they are not, I don’t want to think about it. My story is living proof of what an angry manic can do. Every time I talk to a professional about the symptoms, they all say the same thing, until they recognize they have a problem, there is nothing that can be done. Now I understand what my Great Grand Mother said, “Life, Everlasting.”

Anatomy of Insanity

“Don’t stop thinking about tomorrow, Don’t stop, it will soon be here, It will be here, better than before, yesterday’s gone, don’t you look back.” Fleetwood Mac

Another truism of separation, particularly when there is the hint of mental illness is that, you, as the one who does not have the burden of mastering the mental illness, are still highly vulnerable of becoming, consumed, by your spouses, ex-souses, or, co-parent’s illness. I learned this at my bipolar support group. Maybe I shouldn’t say I learned this; I should say I speak from experience. I would be a liar if I did not say that I had acute bouts of depression, anxiety, and straight out frustration. The questions that remain are how do I channel these tensions and how do I focus them into something constructive?

There have been times when I wanted to lash out at the illness, and if it had a physical form, trust me, I would be looking for it, like someone who stole my lunch money. I mean when you think about it, the denial of this illness has taken, from me people I love, people I trusted. At the risk of self-pity, it has just been plain wrong. Sure there have been moments when I wanted to step in, and go back to try and make the relationship work, if only for the sake of our child. But then, by doing just that, the action would personify, insanity. Ironically, a high school student told me something that made a hell of a lot of sense: There is no future in history. Simplistic, yet so true. I too, used to have a mantra which says this: never visit the same watering hole twice. Both phrases say the same thing; revisiting the past, without changes in your present, in hopes of different future, represents the insane. Better put, in the words of my grandfather, to do this, you would be a damned fool.

So how do I combat the moments when insanity tries to creep in?

Two things I can suggest immediately. Work, work, and more work. Thank God I have my dissertation to keep me busy. I recently made changes to my IRB document while my advisor was in Ireland. Of course you know, I begged her to bring back a bottle of authentic Irish whisky. Needless to say, her reply was on the lines of this, you don’t drink and drive so you don’t drink and write a dissertation. When your dissertation is done, I’ll buy bottles for the both of us. Have I really been that worrisome of a student; probably. But that said, the anticipation of actually being finished with the title of Ph.D. despite all of this, has kept my mind out of some fairly dangerous places. I was reading one of my books on separation and divorce and the authors stated that the suicide rate for those in the middle of a divorce is pretty high. That’s scary but true. Again, because I have my work to keep me busy, in addition to the foreboding voice ripping at me, how dare you throw your life away, how dare you allow another person to have this type of power over you, how dare you not be here for your son, I stayed away from that ugly haunting spot. I did not go quietly into that good night. I’ve come too far by faith, family, and some pretty candid friends to even think about something like that. Despite the theme from M*A*S*H, suicide is, not, painless. It’s pretty damn messy. I abhor violence and simply have a low tolerance for pain, so know this for the record, that obscene thought, never crossed my mind. Even those who know me will tell you right now, he would never do that. He’s too much of a coward. He can’t stand pain. That said I would have to agree. Here’s an example. Before we were married, Jean and I obviously were engaged. I can recall a year before the wedding, I was laying on the sofa at her house. I was howling like a wounded dog, literally. Jean loved to medicalize everything where as me, hell, I liked to macho the pain away. It’s the David Hasselhoff side of me. As I was trying to say I can take it, with tears coming out my eyes, she’s like how much Tylenol do you think you can take? You’ve had damn near two bottles. Again, denial is a bitch, along with male pride. I can take it! As I put my face back in the pillow. Sure, you can take it, but you aren’t taking anymore Tylenol. I was like good, lets go get some vicodine. She’s like no, we are going to the dentist. Again, the male ego kicked in, along with some Fred Sanford-ian type philosophy. I don’t need no damned dentist, I need some damn pills! Well, needless to say I lost the battle. After calling the dentist and making an appointment to have the injurious wisdom teeth removed, the dentist prescribed for me the last bout of antibiotics and vicodine. The day of the extraction, you could not pull me out of the car. I mean just hearing the dentist/oral surgeon tell me the procedure, it was just too painful to sit for. I calmly asked the dentist, “You don’t actually expect me to sit here, while you crack open my jaw and pull these teeth out?” He’s like of course not, that’s why we are going to use this intravenous drip sedation. I wasn’t too thrilled about that big needle they put in my mouth to put my jaw to sleep. But when they put that i.v. in my arm, oh man, time and pain were irrelevant. That is until the very next day. The pain in my mouth, the pain in my jaw, the stitches in my mouth, oh I was properly pissed, because not only did I now have more pain, but it hurt to even yell about it. I was so disgusted. But again, I share all that to say, I hate pain. Hence suicide was never an option.

The second thing that kept me away from that nasty place was keeping my mind and body occupied at the same time. Many people when they are faced with stress, they blow-up-tu-ate. This translates into an unhealthy relationship with food. For me, when I am depressed I do the exact opposite, for some reason I cannot eat. I won’t even drink alcohol. When Jean’s brother called and chastised me the first time she left, his words left an indelible shit stain on my brain. Asking me, what type of man are you, I heard that song that was in the Ray Charles movie and when food was in my presence, I could not eat. I honestly felt as though I wasn’t worthy enough to eat food. Talk about psychological irreconcilable differences for that ass. Sad but true, my power was so impaled in my spouse and then to connect that with my son, I felt as though I wasn’t entitled to eat food because I was in a lower class of species. It took me about two months to finally realize that I was worthy to eat food in my own home. The second time Jean left, I was too keyed up. I could not eat once again. I wasn’t too depressed as much, as I was in fight or flight mode. I had too much work to do to slow down to eat. Food was a luxury at the time. I could do nothing but concentrate on getting the bogus charges from around my neck and do whatever it took to clear my name and get my son back with me. So again, after a 30 day period of eating marginally, I went from 173 to 155 pounds. Prior to the first separation, I was at 185 pounds. Ok so I lost weight, but not in a healthy way. Again, I too had established an unhealthy relationship with food. What I needed was motivation. I had to take my mind from the legal battles so that I could function if only at a nominal level. What did I do? I went to the gym. One hour became two hours, two hours became two days, two days became four and guess what, I got hungry. I physically started to become hungry again. Living with two folks who are in their sixties, you don’t always eat the best food, but regardless, I found that my weight was coming back. It was muscle, not fat. I also found my inner athlete. I don’t know how, but I found myself getting physically stronger. I could run 3 miles in 28 minutes. It was not a world record, but hey that was faster than my 5k time in 2008. I discovered dead lifting. At a body weigh of 175 pounds, I was dead lifting 225 pounds, then 235 then 275, then one day, at 175 pounds, I was dead lifting 315 pounds, not once but for actual repetitions. I was squatting 235 pounds, again for repetitions. Then, I found I was challenging myself, what was this thing called Olympic lifting. What were these things called push presses. Why was I dead lifting 365 pounds? Why was I leg pressing 700 pounds and not on drugs? I had never done that before. I found I was setting goals which if you were to ask me two years ago to do it, I would have said, you, are on that extra good shit. Now, I am trying to find an actual weightlifting coach. I want to learn the sport of power lifting. At present time, my goal is to dead lift 400 pounds before my 40th birthday. Do I want to look like a monstrous hulk? No. I plan to keep my body as it is, while still setting, meeting, and exceeding my personal athletic and fitness goals.

In doing these two things, I have managed to stay far away from the whirlpool called insanity and the nasty hell of self-destruction. I have come to realize that, I do have value and an identity beyond that of my married life. I love my life. Do I love every decision I’ve made? The short answer, is no. Extending on that thought, who does? Was getting married a mistake; of course not. Did I do some things that were wrong? Yes, hell yes. Am I a bad person behind it? No. Inside of my mistakes, inside of my short-comings, and even in my null accomplishments, I have to embrace all aspects of the journey. I hope I don’t make the same mistakes twice but if I do, (which again, I hope I don’t) I am not a bad person, it just means I am hard-headed. The biggest mistake I made and the most valuable lesson I learned is this: never surrender your power. Never, ever, surrender your power. I did, and I paid an inordinate price for that. My self-esteem was shattered, as I allowed it to be prescribed by others. Instead, I, now write the prescription for the antidotes, I, choose to take.

Is this the way Co-Parenting Is Supposed to Be?

It was the best of nights, it was the worst of nights. I was on an emotional high because I went to a meeting where I didn’t feel threatened, I felt accepted. At the same time, with what has happened over the past few days, that got shot down in a matter of moments. My new victory, was now, called back, due to a penalty on the play. I had went to my first, of I what now know, won’t be the last of my manic depressive support groups, also known as bipolar disorder. I found it through the, meetup, website. Chalk one up for social media. In my meeting we did the whole go around the table getting to know you thing and from there it was my turn. I went through yet another re-hashing of my Rhyme of the Ancient Mariner bit, telling my story, not the complete blow by blow, but just a simple highlight reel. Now again, no one in this group is a licensed practitioner of psychology or a psychiatrist. People in my meeting looked just like me, ordinary. Nothing spectacular, its just a collection of people who are wrestling with, living with, and most important, becoming the master of their disorder. First, I never knew how blessed I was in the sense that, despite all the hell I have gone through, I get out my apartment. I will go out and in the community. I will go to the bookstore, I will go to the gym, I will go to the movies. Some people I met tonight are in some cases waking from their hibernatetive state. I mean that as it sounds because depression, if unabated, can turn your house into an edifice for an emotional prison in some cases a mausoleum. It was so odd hearing the question come up, how many of you thought about killing yourselves this week. About 25% of the hands in the room went up. I am glad they are here to joke about it but the reality is bipolar disorder does have a high suicide rate. It will rip a family apart. Again, Jean doesn’t have a diagnosis. But after presenting some of the episodes I experienced, the jury came back quick; your ex spouse needs and assessment. I didn’t want my experiences to dominate the conversation so, I did something which is hard for me, I listened. I felt like Jack Klugman’s Quincy character because I was on the outside trying to find more information about something I couldn’t control, life and possible death. In one story, a mother’s son, killed himself, which then put her into a state of psychosis, and thus she became manic-depressive. In another case, a woman who was married to her alcoholic husband for 28 years, came home to find out he decided to end his life. Going around the room, one person, who lost their baby, their marriage, a lucrative career, tried to OD on zanax. One person, his story shook me the most. He had thoughts of killing himself but what stopped him was that he didn’t want to leave a mess for his partner to clean up. Going into this world, if only for a moment, opened my eyes yet again to the need for some type of health care reform. Most HMOs don’t address mental illness. My God. But if you do get a doctor, their fees are just cost prohibitive in today’s economic climate. Like I said, my doctor, he’s going to have to take a pay-cut. $120.00 per hour, damn. As I listened to these folks, I was on the outside looking in. Some of their stories shocked me; others made me laugh. What I was impressed with the most was this: they listened to me, and no while they could not offer a diagnosis, they did help to confirm my suspicions and were just there, if only for the moment, allowed me to feel I wasn’t alone. That said, there is a part that left me trembling. In most cases, the one who may get the diagnosis, well before they realize they need help, they will bottom out. Marriages are destroyed meaning the one person with the disorder in fact may experience multiple marriages, all destroyed. One may loose their job and become do debilitated to the point where looking for another job is impossible because they are entombed by depression. There are some times I don’t know what to say. In the meeting, I raised the question, did I bring this on my wife. You see one who has bipolar, well they are the ultimate tale of Jekyll and Hyde. It just takes a trigger to bring out the monster of mania within. Here is what I learned. I am not a trigger-man. Triggers exist, they are out there, but no one person, particularly a loved one should be considered one’s trigger. The one who has the disorder ultimately is responsible for their behavior and treatment. Until they accept that, they will at best be mastered by the disorder. One thing they were all of the opinion of. When a person is in a manic state, be it euphoric or angry, they can become a danger to themselves.
Hearing that, coupled with a series of evasive communiqués from Jean I think brought me down to a level where I was not too happy with myself. Basically, there was another miscommuniqué . I’m feeling that way because I, for this week, was to have RedChief for our regular visit. Mind you, Jean and I had a disagreement where before, I felt the need to assert boundaries. Why did I do that? I just felt that it was time that RedChief knew that he had a home with dad too. (Granted it’s a work in progress) I felt strongly that Jean was not working to facilitate a smooth transition for him. In fact, looking at one of my texts on separation and divorce, these actions could be called “creating frustrating contact with the other parent.” Saturday was no exception. Though we had talked about when the vacations would begin, we never had a straight-up agreement. Then looking further at it, her actions really seemed more vindictive, almost punitive. On top of that, my senses were just working overtime. I tried at first to appeal to her sense of logic and fair-play. This was met with limited success. Sunday was no better. When I was able to communicate with RedChief the communication was just horrible. The phone was placed in front of him, while he was watching television. I can’t be mad at him, he’s just a kid, trapped between two damn foolish parents who love him,. The next day, I hold to my position, expecting our son to be at the designated spot for parental exchanges. No Go. In fact, Jean tells me in email and text that I will not be seeing my son, regardless of the custody agreement. Its here where I almost start to cry, because I am having flashbacks to when all this started. If you ever have your child taken from you, you can easily drown in the emotions. One woman told me last night that when their child was in her custody, the child placed a handprint on the television. Every time the sun shines, that handprint comes into full focus. Then she is inundated by emotions. The same is true for me with the film curious George. I see George in the Jungle, causing mischief basically being a kid in the jungle. All the other kids liked him, but the adults were pissed, and I see George go alone into his pile of leaves in a tree, and the song goes, “Is this how life is supposed to be.” I see George, I see RedChief, and then I see myself as a little boy, then come the tears. Why is it that kids are the recipients of such stupid ass treatment by adults. My mom wanted me but was she ill-equipped to handle me. We both want RedChief but are we emotionally equipped?
On to my night ride of last night. After my meeting, after numerous failed attempts to locate him, after hearing him on the phone in what appeared to be a depressed state, I was not going to be satisfied until I put my eyes on him in the flesh. Again, there is so much distrust between both of us. Evasive answers going across the board. Actions in my mind which equate to irrational thinking. The poor communication, I had had my fill. I was to the point last night where I was not going to be satisfied until I saw the boy. This brought me to the house. Against my better judgment, I knock on the door, no answer. I knocked again on the door, no answer. I left got some food and I got a phone call from Jean, we can meet you at 8:30, I am like why would I do that when I am the one saying 8:30 he needs to be in bed. After hanging up, the detective in my mind shows up and guess what, I’m putting two and two together and I am like, why didn’t you answer the door when I knocked on the door earlier. By this time I am upset. I feel lied to, I feel frustrated. I am like I want to see him! Why is it we set up a meeting to see him, there is always a damn excuse. Why. Well needless to say, I’m nervous and frustrated and I am back at the house because of the numerous broken promises and miss communiqués. Finally I am able to see the boy, face to face and he looks like he is in good spirits. But on the way home, I was feeling like a first class heel. I didn’t like the person I was right then. This isn’t me. Of course I got a text from Jean saying I’m glad you could see RedChief, could you just call before you come. This is one of those moments you really have to not give into your impulses. I am happy to say I didn’t. “I just responded by saying, I am beside myself. Though I was happy to see our son, I was not happy with the context nor the methods involved.” Is this the way co-parenting is supposed to be?

Richard Pryor and And his take on Equitable Distribution of Property

Divorce and separation without doubt is no fun. However, the late Richard Pryor had the uncanny gift to take life’s tragedy and make you laugh at it, even if it was at his own expense. That said, I am happy to announce that I have not practiced any of his divorce coping techniques. Note to brothers who may read this: You can think about it, but please, God please, don’t do it. Here’s how he navigated through the tough issue of what divorce attorneys call, the equitable distribution of property. When he was going through his separation/divorce drama, and his wife tried to leave him, in the brand new Cadillac, he bought for her, he said this to his soon to be ex spouse, “The only thing you [are] going to leave here in, is them hush puppies you rolled in here on.”
To prove the point, he got his brand new, chrome plated, 357 Magnum. Took aim, not at her, but the car. Pulled the trigger, the hammer came back, and click, the bullet races from the chamber, tearing the V8 engine out of the car. If car engines could talk I’m pretty sure it said, “OHHHHHUUUGH! Damn man! What the hell did you shoot me for? I ain’t done shit to you man! That shit is tween you and her! What the hell do I have to do with it! I ain’t had shit to do with it man! Come on Rich, DAMN! I thought you and me was tight. You bought me off the show room floor, cash money! And you do, this, to me!” Of course there is no telling what drugs brother Richard was doing at the time. He said it felt so damn good, he shot the Cadillac again! By this time, I’m sure the car said something like, “F*ck you Rich! You Black Mother F**(&)ker! I hope they roast your black nuts in hell!” In case you’re thinking, no Richard Pryor’s Cadillac does not have the voice of KITT from Knight Rider, no his car probably sounds a lot like Max Jullian from The Mack. Of course, in the end, the L.A. Police Department came to his residence and promptly took him to jail for killing his Cadillac. Again, if the car could talk, it would probably say something like this, “That’s the mother f#$%#er that did it. No damn her, lock that damn nigger up for premeditated Cadillac homicide. And I hope your black ass gets the damn gas chamber, high-test!” But of course in the real world where real people do go to real jail, Richard rationalized the fact that it was best for him to voluntarily go into police custody. You see, the LAPD have Magnums too. He stated, “they don’t kill cars, they kill nig-gars.”

Recovery--Take Nine: Group Therapy Day 1

I sat next to a felon, guess what: she, like myself was human too. I have already attended one of my six parenting classes and this was one of the many parenting support group meetings to come. I had an interesting experience maybe interesting is too broad. Allow me if I can to paint you a picture. The room is a small 15x20 that seats, I’d guess, could seat 8 people comfortably. Its dusk, and the leader of the group introduces me to everyone by way of reverse introduction. As we went around the room, I was apprehensive at first; maybe it was my Black Bourgeoisie snobbery coming out. How did I get here. I am in a room with one who looks like he’s going through the downside of a midlife crisis. The other seems to be a walking talking living breathing example of why you need health coverage. She was in a cast for her arm, just recovering from knee surgery. Then there was an older man who by profession was a reverend and then there was this Texan who was high spirited who was just coming off of parole, and then there I was and yes let me not forget the one who brought us together, the social worker who is the head of my parenting class. How did I ever wind up here? There were parts of me that were scared, pissed, irreverent and of course, just down right indignant. Why was I here? Could be, because I drove myself here and asked to know was there anybody else out there going through what I’m experiencing. See as an only child, you have a rather narcissistic view on life. You are the world, nothing and no one else matters. That is at least, until life pulls the rug out from under your feet leaving you flat on your ass and your world, which incidentally you though was yours, now up side down, turning you inside out.. That’s why I’m here; life is giving me (maybe a much needed) wake up call. The world doesn’t revolve around me and I am not the only one going through this cesspool I’ll call the family court system, otherwise known as the 13th hell. Like the rhyme of the ancient mariner, I again tell my story yet to another group of strangers who look at me and chime in with their own opinions. The body language says it all. There are grunts of disbelief, one shakes their head while the other says, Dr. Phil is looking for new people to go into the Dr. Phil house. Your story would be great! In essence, I am in Bob Newhart Group Therapy. Lovely, life is grand: NOT! My friend from Texas she gets straight to the point. “Your problem is,” she exclaims, “You are too nice.” Ok, maybe she is right. I am too nice. Looking at it in hindsight, when my co-parent cries broke, while I’m eating peanut butter and baloney, she’s got the nerve to ask me for money. Like a damn idiot, I give her cash and while my back is turned, I see the damn molly maid cleaning crew cleaning the residence, I used to call home. Right now I am thinking its time for a forensic financial audit. That’s right, I need to go find Quincy: F.E.: financial, examiner. Chalk one up for my friend from the red state of Texas. Strangely, I realize, I’m not on this raft ride alone. Turns out one guy’s crazy ex just blew his world all to pieces. After he got temporary custody of his children through a restraining order, she got more crafty. She took their kids to another county; had them hidden for days. When he finally did track his children down, turns out one child who wasn’t potty trained, went potty on herself when she first saw her daddy. Thinking he could take custody of his kids, turns out his name was not listed on the list of people who could have access to the children. Sound familiar? Damn. Bubububut wait it gets worse. What I was apprehensive about happening to me (sexual allegations), unfortunately became his crucible. The Wake County Child Protective Unit had him under a magnifying glass, vis-à-vis a fabricated allegation of child molestation, all compliments of a scorned ex. I thought I had it bad. Not only did he have to endure the criminal mindedness, of a criminal justice system, which by the way is more criminal than just, but he too, had to face the labyrinth known as child custody. Never mind the fact that a judge had assigned him temporary custody in his home county; that same judge revoked it, deferring the case to family court. Further down the pile he goes. With his team of lawyers and social workers, he endured the indignities of video taped child custody evaluations, which in the end, did in fact conclude that he was fit to parent. We won’t talk about the dent, hell lets call it what it was and still is, the train wreck these custody evaluations had with his wallet. We won’t talk about the inordinate amounts of dollars, he or anyone for that matter, will have to pay to a third party facility, so that he could visit his children at a rate of $30.00 per child per 30 Minute block. His story, one of I dare to say millions, represents the cacophony of chaos we call our tax dollars at work. I am reminded of a quote again from my good friend from the state of Texas when she says, what you considered private, now is public. You become a fish in the aquarium. Some days you are offered bait. If you’re not too smart, you become the fish out of water. If you are unprepared, you easily become prey, to the shark-skinned lawyers. But if you are careful, patient, you will live to fight or die another day. All for your sanity, all for your state of independence, all for your children. Returning back to the episode of my comrade in arms, after he is cleared of all child molestation issues, the case manager from Wake County returns to him basically saying , congratulations, you’ve one the first 12 rounds. We’ve decided to change the rules, welcome to “The Texas Death Match” where we don’t count rounds; the winner is decided by your mortality. Maybe that’s a bit too much, but its fitting because, the case worker said that he was now being investigated for emotional abuse. In short, after going through this tortuous task, if you haven’t decided to take out your hostilities on someone else or yourself, then you should consider yourself the heavyweight champ. See, here is the sad thing about it, if you are a man, one who is black or brown, one who is under employed or unemployed, the classically trained mis-educated negro, and we might as well add deviant to the list, if you get trapped in the web of the DV and, or the family court system, you are presumed guilty until proven innocent. Innocence costs. Right here, the wallet is where you start paying. If you have money, the better chance you have for a good defense. Even if truth is on your side, which it was in my case, lawyers easily can play the game of Chess with your life. A competent lawyer vs. and incompetent lawyer easily dictates if you will or will not see your children. Will bogus allegations be the scarlet letter on your record for life or just a zit you will have to explain at a job interview. A competent lawyer vs. a hack could mean the difference between you having a criminal record because you unknowingly violated a restraining order vs. you having the opportunity to explain to your child who incidentally asks, Daddy, are you ever going to leave me again? You, will, fight back the tears—and if you’re lucky, you’ll have no other choice but to face the road and not your child. Fighting back the tears, it is mandatory you say this! “I never left you. I will never leave you. And even in this complicated thing called death which you are too young and innocent to comprehend right now; know even then, if the word death and my name are mentioned in the same sentence, know this even, on, that, day, I will never leave you.” Granted it may sound dramatic, may even be the lines uttered in some academy award winning motion picture, but its real. I said it. I’ve had to say it on more than one occasion. I’ve had to say it when I went to go walk our dog in the dark of a December night. Red Chief was crying in the arms of his grandfather, scared shitless not knowing if Daddy was coming back. In the eyes of Red Chief you see, his dad, mysteriously vanished. The explanation given to him was this, daddy was sick. Daddy loves you but he can’t take care of himself so he had to leave. Hellish mind games to play with a child. Extending, divorce and separation can be a hellish fireball to ride. On this journey through divorce and separation, you may think some ungodly things of your former spouse and their family. This cancer, like any cancer in the body, if not abated, let alone monitored, it will spread, in this case to your children. If that happens, tell him what he’s won Johnny! Ok, Bob (as in Barker) you could win an all expenses paid trip to Hellacious Acres! You and your guest take off to Hellacious Acres compliments of Hell in a Hand basket Airlines. You will enjoy a life long stay in the pit of white lava, where you will burn for life! Now certainly I realize I’ve taken it a wee bit over the top. However, to put your child in the middle of a grown up dispute, because you and your ex spouse act like adolescents in side of grown peoples bodies, doesn’t demonstrate maturity but the exact opposite, and seriously you need, a beat down, maybe a few of them. This probably why I am going through my shit right now. We both are catching it but won’t admit it. Denial is a wonderful drug. We didn’t act like adults about it. To anyone thinking about separation or divorce, there is a right way and wrong way to do things. Weaponizing your children, against your spouse, that’s simply evil. Allowing your lawyer to use your children against your spouse, that’s evil, to the second power. Even in the gangsters rule book, children are off limits. So back to what I was saying, as a parent if you ever have to counter parental alienation, from their side or even in your own, you commit that speech to memory. Put in brail, know how to sign it, shit put it in any foreign language your child may one day learn. It sounds deep. It sounds profound. It is the truth and must become, as it has for me, a way of breathing. Within the course of our meeting I have to say, my story represented the anomaly. I was able to successfully secure joint physical and legal custody of our son, despite the many attempts to do otherwise by my co-parent. As I went deeper into my back-story, my suspicions of bipolar disorder rose to the surface. As I do here, I qualified my suspicions by saying that I am not a doctor and no there has been no firm diagnosis. But as I replayed the various episodes, the numerous plates, cups, and flatware in our bedroom that would sometimes be there on weeks, the apple cores which started to grow fungi, the soiled sanitary napkins that would overflow out of our bedroom waste basket, I began to wonder about the wedding vows I took; wasn’t I supposed to be there through sickness and health. Its then when the one in the cast said to me, she knows about manic depression from first hand experience.. My ex boyfriend had it and died from it. She elaborated about how he would go through moments of bliss and then erupt into three-week splurges looking for drugs. And as she spun her story, my head went down on the table like a cowering dog. You did yourself a favor and saved your son by leaving. Unfortunately, only those who have experienced the signs of what you have said, and I too am not a doctor, I just happened to love someone who didn’t love themselves, before it gets better for them, it only gets worse. By this time, the dog came up. They began asking, she didn’t put the dog down did she? No, but she took him to the vet with no intentions of getting him back, which in turn could have resulted in him being put to sleep. It was then the room got quiet, dead silence. The felon who I sat beside, told me point blank, you will have bad days, you will have good days. You will have bad days again. You will be to the point of wondering if all of what you are going through and yet to go through is worth it. There will even come a time when you will just want to walk away from everything because it seems on the surface, it will be the easiest thing to do. You will go through more money than you thought you ever had , and guess what, you will find more money. My legal fees are in excess of $30,000.00 That’s just for the custody battle. We’ll not talk about the criminal legal fees but lets just say, you don’t ever want to do business with bail bondsmen. Do not cut anyone out of your life who is family or friend. What you are going through and will continue to go through is a typical day in the park. One morning you’ll wake up accepting what has happened to you and then incidentally you will say oh yes, divorce, does suck.

Relapse: Back to Zero

If my boy David Hassellhoff can relapse and bounce back, so can I
Shit, I have had a bad moment. A lapse of judgment. Now I have to go back to zero. I am so not vibing with my co-parent right now, which probably explains why we have chosen to re-define the terms of our relationship. What’s even worse is that this person still has a certain control over me, which I shouldn’t allow to happen. I mean right now I am PTFO, if you have to ask then you are too young to guess what those letters mean. I think what just has me upset is our most recent exchange. I try to establish boundaries, she gets pithy, I give an inch, this one takes an entire continent and asks like Steve Urkel, “Did I do that?” I think during the course of our marriage if I had responded back once or twice with a “WTF do you think you did!” “Oh it wasn’t you, it was the fairy blanking godmother.” Again, I was raised differently. I have always been taught to give people the benefit of the doubt. It’s not giving in, it’s working to make things calm and peaceable. Calm and peaceable my BLANK. I feel like the late Heath Ledger’s Joker, “What we need is a little anarchy.” I think what also has me disjointed is as I am emerging from my funk, I have become more upset at the crap I went through. This one put me and my family on a rollercoaster ride worse than anything at a sin filled city amusement park. It was the one way ticket to the other side, it was the Dr. Jeckle and the Mr. Frickin Hyde. One of my friends asked me the other day would I ever consider marriage ever again. I think the way I am feeling right now, I’d rather take the Gene Simmons approach; just buy her a damn house. It’s the same thing with less pain. Just cut the check every month, give her the deed and scram! Now I can change, as my late Grandfather would say, but right now, that’s the way I feel today. What has me agitated the most, is that we have a child. He didn’t ask to come into this world so why is it because we aren’t vibing he has to suffer. That’s not right. Again for the best interest of the child. God bless the child who’s got his own. I must have loved this person pretty damn much because I feel like Kellis. I think too, when the families got in the mix, especially when this one’s brother inserted themselves in our family business, I took the high road, and didn’t say BLANK. I chilled, I even thanked him for his service to our country. But to be abandoned, not once but twice. To be lied on, not once, not twice, but three times by this particular lady, OMFG I’m now invoking the damn Commodores. You know you are beyond upset when you start making Lionel Ritchie say what YOU want him to say. Saved by Red Chief. As I was spouting out venom, its almost like God sent him into the room. Its amazing how our boy can calm me down. I look at him and I see myself and I see him and I say, he’s worth it. I’ve got to chill. I can’t let this person reduce me to less than being a person, less than being myself. This person isn’t worth that anymore. So I’m going to calm down, apologize to his mother because I know, she probably too has been going through some things. I can’t even pretend to ride the little red pony of righteousness. Thank God, and even his mother for Red Chief. Lets see, how many days since the last moment. Lets see, I think 30. Alright, I am going to count for real this time.

Recovery--Take Eight: Who do you call when you can't call anyone else?

I am tired. I mean I am so worn out, but it’s a productive worn out. This week I feel as though I’ve gotten some items accomplished. Some, for the good and some for the well for the sake of being in motion. Let’s begin with Monday. Regrettably, but again out of obligation I made another payment on the furniture which I cannot use. I also paid my phone bill and stocked food in the pantry and fridge. Additionally, I am happy to say that I was able to bring my checking account to a positive status. Again, the recovery process is not about the giant leap, but instead, the preparation and practice required to successfully make those giant leaps. After picking up Red Chief, we did our father son activities, I got him ready for school the next day. Tuesday. This was one of those leap of faith days. I planted myself back at my virtual office and constructed the cover letter of cover letters to get my job back. When the posting became available, I figured what the hell do I have to loose. In fact, part of me feels that this was a good exercise preparing for other potential job opportunities. I completed the letter, filtered it through the multiple series of error checks and I have to say, I was impressed with my effort. I will have a job by July, end of discussion. I will have a job by July. I don’t mean a nickel and dime (though it too would be nice) but I mean getting back to what I do best, taking the weakest of minds and putting them in flight. I am going to go back to teaching and research. I have a little boy to feed. Just as important, I have a grown man to feed. I have a car that requires gas and of course the payments associated with it. I can’t say that I have fought hard but I will say that my spiritual force is reemerging and is the process of re-imaging my visage de vita. I don’t know where or how, but I feel myself gaining strength back to face the world again. Here’s an example. Tuesday, as I was heavily absorbed in writing my cover letter, I lost track of the time and forgot to reschedule my appointment with my therapist.. One of two shrinks I keep on my payroll. I called and left a message on his answering service, apologetic, asking to reschedule our meeting but also hoping that he would cut me a break and not ask for the full payment (his cancellation penalty). Well of course he calls back and takes the offensive believing that I was attempting to maneuver around the payment of his cancellation fee. Again, this is where I could feel my voice going from being sheepish to one of being equally direct yet being calm and controlled. Realizing the dynamic, in this case, I, being the customer am paying you for your knowledge, skills and abilities, took charge. The tonality of my response said, “I recognize that I did not call you as per our stipulated agreement, that said I did call you not because I was negligent, but I am looking for a job to support my family and if you still wish to be on my payroll, then you will cut me some damn slack.” See, what I am noticing here is that, being that my back is pushed to the wall, I am now in a position where I can no longer allow myself to be pushed. In fact, I had an aunt tell me of a possible job. I got her text message about it, politely said thank you but I can’t apply for this job. Instantly, a return text came up with a big W-H-Y. My response, unapologetically was this, the job is in Charlotte. Again, I didn’t go into detail, I just kept it moving. But now, I think I do want to go into some detail. The operative phrase here is, consider the source. I know my loving aunt was trying to be as supportive as she could. I really appreciated her concern. But again, from my perspective, this is something I have to do on my own. That said, after looking at everything that has happened to me, in retrospect, I have fought too, damn hard to be in my son’s life, only to now, just up and turn and leave him. I have spent, inordinate amounts of mental energy, thrust into the throws of a court system, that would just as soon leave separated fathers dead in a ditch, with the swing of a gavel. I vehemently refuse to contribute to the fodder feeding the myth of the problematized absent black father. Red Chief is my son and I will not abandon him, even through death. I refuse to be ejected, alienated from my son be it by the means of my co-parent, my family, or anyone else. In reading one of the many books now I have put in my library on divorce, separation, single parenting, co-parenting etcetera, they all share a common denominator. Dads too, can be caregivers and custodial parents, just as well as moms. Revisiting my family history, the considered source here, is a single mom, who successfully raised her daughter without the presence of her dad. So in my mind, I see my aunt’s standpoint as a single black mom being quasi valid. I’m a traditionalist. I strongly feel it takes two parents to raise a child. The two parents may not be in the same home, and that is ok. Maybe the mother and father weren’t equally yoked. That could represent a host of opportunities for the child provided the parents do the right thing. Blended families are more common now than the single parent. It would be nice if Dr. Gray and I were to restore our marriage, but that’s going to take more effort from her perspective and that’s if she wants to do it under the proviso I want to do it. I digress. Right now, for me, I will not retreat or surrender from my parental duty and privilege. In fact I, like other dads who don’t get the credit they deserve, am choosing to embrace it and nurture it to its fullest. Again, at the advice of one of my other shrinks on my payroll, it would set a bad example for Red Chief to see his dad ship out and suddenly become a fly in dad. That to me, just represents the ultimate disservice to him. It will just jack his small world up for years to come. That’s a challenge I’m negotiating constantly. That behavior personifies the toxic which I have to shield him from. The best hiding places are these: for a book, a library, a man, a city, a leaf, a forest—a quote by the late Raymond Burr out of the fictional character Chief Robert Ironside. I can’t afford to be a man in hiding when it relates to Red Chief. Lastly, I had to also demonstrate my new courage to the mother of Red Chief, Dr. Jean Gray. Again, practicing hard to be a quality parent, I am learning it requires predictability and patience. Enter the legend of Red Chief and the asparagus spear. He and I arrived back at the penthouse last evening to begin our dinner. The dinner routine is as follows: we come in, go to the kitchen, wash our hands. After, we then get some olive oil, our magic skillet, frozen vegetable medley and tilapia. I bring Red Chief into the kitchen, give him a chair so he can watch what I am doing. I talk him through the entire cooking prep and he even asks to help. Ok, after the meal is prepared, Red Chief’s job is to set the table. So he takes his plate, his cup and his flat ware and places it at his part of the table, then he does the same for dad. Dad brings out the cooked food with the beverages in tow. We say grace and I prepare his plate. Red Chief thinks the tilapia is chicken. I’m like cool, lets roll with it. Note, in the course of our dinner, there is no television. No distractions. Its quiet time where he and I talk, laugh and learn. This night, Red Chief was going to learn a greater appreciation for vegetables.
“Can I have some more chocolate milk please,” he asks with a toothy smile. I smile back at him and say, “I am so delighted in the manner you chose to ask me for your chocolate milk. That is so diplomatic! How about we eat some vegetables and we can get some more chocolate milk, what do you say?” Now remember, this is the flesh of my flesh, bone of my bones, so I know already ,this is only a prelude to a bigger means. “Daddy, I said please.” There is a hidden benefit to having kids when you are older because as the parent, you’re quicker with the comebacks. “Red Chief, I am pleased that you said please. I need you to please be understanding. Will you please consider eating your vegetables?” Again, using parental projection, I could see his puzzled look on his face saying, that wasn’t supposed to happen. Daddy’s got skills. Let me regroup here, ahh, I know. I’ll try play. “Daddy, lets play hide and seek.” Again, I maintain, “After you eat your vegetables.” I’ll give him some cool points because he tried some deflection. He gets an A for creative strategy, but a C for actual execution of the task. Dad is not budging from the vegetable plantation. In fact, base has entered Daddy’s tone. “Boy, you are going to eat these vegetables. How you eat them, is the only position, from which you have, to negotiate from.” There are two things I find interesting here. The first being this; I refuse to allow the topic of the vegetables to exit the conversation. Three things are key at this point in time, vegetables, vegetables, vegetables. The second element in this conversation I find amusing is how I go from being Ward Cleaver to James Evans in three short steps. See at his daycare, they really try to encourage him to make good decisions. I think that is a positive approach to teaching. However, when it comes to parenting, at least in my three short years of being a dad, sometimes, a little friendly persuasion and firmness is required to obtain compliance. So what happens, eating the vegetables became a game. First the vegetables are a train going into the tunnel. Next the vegetables are a plane going into a hanger. Then the vegetables become a helicopter. I think by the time we got to the F-22 Raptor, the vegetables, I am proud to say, were in his stomach. Never let my co-parent hear me say this. That said, despite my best intentions, occasionally, just like the CIA, you too, will have to negotiate with terrorists and toddlers. Welcome to your walk on role in your version of Mission Impossible. Uggggg! So anyway, Dr. Jean Gray calls, alerting me to the obvious, she’s running late. Understanding and knowing her patterns when it comes to matters of the clock, I still allow for our family outing to take place. Committing, I’m still conflicted. In the back of my mind, it’s going on 8:30. According to my schedule, 8:30 initiates the bedtime dance for Red Chief. Logic and common sense are trumped by opportunity. What I am having to learn is that to be a good co-parent requires flexibility. Never, ever, would I ever deny Red Chief a chance to see his mom. With the power of Professor X, I easily foresee the coming future. True to form we get to the spot, the book store. Red Chief sees his mom, and before I know it, Red Chief is going home with his mom, against my wishes. But as I have said before, we as parents have to embrace the reality that our children, now take the center stage. So even though on the books, I may have a scheduled night, that can easily change on the immediate needs and desires of Red Chief. What remains essential is that the child is comfortable. Parental comfort, through the eyes of the child, simply put, is secondary. That by itself is a bitter pill to swallow. But like with any medication, it may be bitter going down. Just like a laxative, swallowing that pill enables the detoxification process to begin. Detoxing, isn’t easy, in fact, some days, it can take the form of literally being, just plain, down, right, shitty. Your shitty days will turn into some shitty weeks. Your shitty weeks may become, some sorry, non productive, shitty months. Before you know it, you’ve had a shitty year! Congratulations on your shitty achievement! We can’t let that happen. Instead, like Diogenes we have to grit in and bare it, sometimes allowing ourselves to laugh at our own mistakes. So when the shit hits the fan, visualize it more as a cleansing process. You don’t have to like it, because I sure as hell don’t. If infants cry when their diapers are soiled, think about the adult who just soiled their pants. Hell, we’ll cry bloody murder. Instinctively, you’re not going to like it. But, we have to take that approach. Why? Because, again, that is in the best interest of your child. That said; I’m still bitter. Maybe pissed is a better word because I was pouting. My lip was poked out from here to Maine. We’re only human, not the endomorphic cybernetic organisms we aspire to be. Further exasperating for me, is the fact we are out and about at 10:00 at night. Instinctively, this is flatly wrong; but guess what, I already bought a ticket for this rollercoaster ride. I’m strapped in, passed the first deep plunge down and about to go through the second corkscrew of the night. Its now 10:30 and I’m going in and out of the grocery store so we can make this abrupt transition and again, our 3 year old is in tow. By the time I get home I am thoroughly disgusted. Not at his mom, but with myself. Being a co-agent in my psychic destruction; for allowing this manipulation and usury to continue. Returning to where I find peace and solace, the dragon’s tongue is channeled through my fingertips, onto my keyboard, transcribing my disappointment, in now what appears to be, yet another episode of our serrated parental debacles. Truly accepting the cold reality that I cannot change her; for the first time in a long time, I am open to receiving the message I have fought so hard all my life. I am cognizant of where the essence of true change begins; the revolution of self. So once again, I chisel another, in now what appears to be episodic declarations, of my ever evolving, states, of independence. This one, more pointed than the last. “What happened, happened. I own up to it because I allowed it to happen. That said, tonight the past is done. Period.” I can say that now with even more confidence after attending my first parenting class. It is irresponsible on both of our parts to have our toddler son out and about at 10:30 PM at night. Its unacceptable. Contributing to my bitterness was the fact that I, in good faith was attempting to be more relaxed with enforcing my portion of our custody agreement. Chalk one up for no good deed goes unpunished. Again I see my co-parent refuses to reciprocate. Adding further insult to injury, again, to assuage her guilt, she attempts to buy me off with a box of ice cream from the grocery store. I can’t be bought out of our son’s life with a box of Bryers. Do I look like I have the word, dummy, tattooed across my forehead? To me, actions like these, represent another form of emasculation. Even worse, this ball-ectomy, is being preformed in the presence of our son. Just as there is the colonized and the colonizer, there is also the compromise and the compromiser or let me say it this way, there was. I was direct and firm and I think I even had to beat my chest for a little bit because again with my back against the wall, I simply can’t be pushed any further. I was not ever a sperm donor. I was your husband. I am his dad. You will not undermine my rights to parent and to be an active present dad in his life. Nobody, particularly, you, is going to change that. Get with the program. Get therapy. Most important; get use to it. Now in hindsight, I know putting this in writing and sending something like this via email can easily be considered cowardly. I don’t like confrontation. But what is worse than confrontation? Being emotionally, spiritually, and financially compromised. With my back against the wall what are my options? Who do you call when you can’t call on anyone else? You call on yourself.

Recovery--Take Seven Mastering Pain

Yesterday, I went to the house of pain, also known as the gym. Some of you have said--give the gym membership up!!! It's too expensive, etc etc. As I do welcome and entertain some of those comments, I have to say this, part of recovery means finding solstice in other things while you are working through the hurt that has invaded your immediate 360 degrees. Like Diogenes, I've taken a slight vow of poverty, though I have not reverted to begging in the streets as a means of income. In fact, strangely, I applied for a job not too long ago. It was at the same institution where I was wrongfully terminated. According to the press, the said person who said he was not responsible for my dismissal, said he had nothing to do with it. So that being the case, I look at this as an opportunity for a clean slate. That said, in the event this individual does wish to for lack of a better term, drudge up the past, well, it would only be self destructive to this individual so it might be to his advantage, if I see him to sit down and be quiet. This is one example of mastering pain. You take what you have been hit with, internalize it, and then re-direct it with superior force. I learned this in martial arts demonstrations. You see, when you watch people breaking innocent pounds of concrete, they are taught to go through the brick or slab and not just merely break it. If you don't go through it, the force generated, regrettably will return back to the sender of the force-- this is a natural law of physics. The return of this force can actually throw that person backwards like a recoil. So why not apply this in life? No I am not the late David Caradine aka Kung Fu wandering through the desert barefooted, but I am one who is a grain of sand on the beach called life. For me and my big ass ego, that is a humbling recognition. So back to my day at the sweat box. I got in kinda late but I made up for it with intensity. I did the following:
3 sets of dead lifts at 315 pounds each. It was like this-- 5, 5, and 3.
3 sets of leg squats at 235 pounds. 8, 4, and 4.
2 sets of front squats at 135 pounds -- 10 and 10.
3 sets of leg step ups with 135 pounds on the shoulders -- this strangely is a good cardio exercise.
In the break of these sets, I preformed abdominal exercises from sit ups, to leg extensions.
Then took a break from my legs and worked the arms and back a bit.
2 sets of the standing military press at 100 pounds, that was 8 and 8.
3 sets of the push press at 135 each 5, 5, and 5.
2 sets of seated dumbbell shoulder press at 45 pounds each, lets see that was 2 sets of 10.
3 sets of lat pull downs between 180 pounds and 160 pounds.
Then back to the legs:
4 sets of leg extensions at 100 pounds each alternating between 8 and 6.
3 sets of calf raises,
and of course a light set of leg presses where my feet are in a ballet stance. Don't laugh, it works the inner thigh like you wouldn't believe.
BTW, if you do this DRINK PLENTY OF WATER or they will be calling 911 for you. For me that is a leg day and it's light. I am not attempting to sound cocky but trust me, thats a light day. Dead lifting 315 pounds is not my max. I've actually pulled 355 pounds and the goal is to pull 400 by my 40th birthday. Needless to say, when one lifts weight like that, you will get sore, especially in the back. Yepper your back and even your legs, particularly your muscles where your knees are, they will be a little sore. Then I discovered it how to master the pain. I nice hot bath. I don't mean lukewarm, I mean piping HOT. At first, that water burned like hell. But as I lay in the tub and allowed the steam and the heat to do its thing. Oh God I felt so much better. I woke up this morning virtually pain free. That's a blessing. Now, why won't I ditch my gym membership? Can you imagine what I would do, let alone look like, if i didn't at least take care of myself. Even my mental health care providers are like, keep doing what you are doing. Exercise releases natural anti-toxins. Those same anti toxins release stress and we all know, when you hit 40, shoot your late 30s you have now crossed the threshold into mortality. That’s heart attack and stroke range. On my dads side of the family, heart disease is common. So why not head it off at the pass? In fact the next physical challenge might sound a bit, well, crazy. I've decided to sign up for an 8k road race. The 8k is five miles. This will be brutal but it too like any challenge is not to be feared but embraced and conquered with the exception of my fear of fish. The leg strength I am not worried about too much but the oxygen, that might be a problem so i have to figure out how to train outside without getting my sinuses jacked up.

Relapse: A Flashback

Yesterday and not too long ago, I have to say I experienced a series of flashbacks to my childhood. RedChief was experiencing a slight cold of some sort and I had to pick him up from school. The daycare informed me that his temp had risen to the magic number of 101 degrees. Therefore, he needed to go home and rest. Ok, nothing too traumatic about that. They stated that they did, try to contact his mom, but to no avail; hence the back up parent was called. Namely, moi. Promptly, I get in the Knight Automated Tactical Transport (aka KNIGHT3K) and head off to the school. There, he did appear to be a little out of it; so, I quickly took him to the drug store to get some of the basic cure alls. Pedeialight, Ibuprofen, some Benadryl and of course fluids and fish. In this case the fluids consisted of Fruit Punch and Prune Juice. Prune juice was suggested by the pharmacist. According to his daycare staff, RedChief, hadn't had a BM all day. So as opposed to giving him a dose of fleet, prune juice would be much better. So we get back to the PentHouse, the new nickname for my current place of residence and let the medications begin. I even cut on some Scooby Doo for him because ironically, that is his favorite cartoon character of the quarter. Last quarter it was The New Adventures of Batman and Robin. Don't ask me, because I don't know why, but its like that, and that's the way it is. 6:00 PM, the phone rings. It’s his mom. Thinking this will be a friendly call: Unfortunately, I’m wrong. We commence with the interrogation, already in progress.
How is RedChief?
Did you take him to the doctor?
Can I come get him now?
Being peppered by these questions, I am flooded. The term flooded is one learned from our marriage counselor. Wait a minute, slow down, I say. He's fine, everything is cool. From there, the questions creep, bordering a hyper-extension into the category of demands.
OK, I want to pick up my son. By this time, I am consciously controlling my emotions as best as I possibly can. Though I choose not to articulate an immediate reaction, despite my best intentions, I’ve already mentally employed defensive tactical maneuvers. Quietly I'm thinking to myself, "what in the hell is that suppose to mean, your son.” …NOTE TO PARENTS: This is how separation and divorce can easily become toxic, potentially lethal. Allow me to qualify my definition of lethal. No, I am not singularly considering the term lethal in the physical sense of death, but more in the incarnation of a spiritual and psychic death. When parents begin to use the ultimate weapons of mass destruction—specifically our children, weaponized children can become everything from human shields, to landmines, IEDS, predator drones and of course smart bombs. Word choice is key. Timing is key. As parents, we know what the buzz words are. In psychology (note that I am not a psychologist, just one, like you going through this maze of human debauchery also known as a legal separation) they are called triggers. When the trigger is pulled, a projectile is launched, traveling faster than 432 feet per second, faster than sound, faster than light. From there, destructive thoughts come to the mind and guess what, children become collateral damage. In the words of military parlance, the casualty risk is too high. So not to be preachy, but to offer some unsolicited advice, put your child at the center of every breath you take, every thought you think, every word you say. Then, you and your partner/co-parent/spouse work to sustain the life you created. Now: back to our program. I attempt to maintain a sense of calm and control because 1) I can only control me. 2) How dare I allow another individual to have that type of power and level of control over me again, and finally the most important reason is this: Red Chief is in my presence. In the grand scheme of things what is more important to me is his well being. The constant mantra dictates "what is in the best interest of the child." I have a ZERO tolerance policy to exposing Red Chief to toxic situations, even when if they do involve me. So again, rather than debate from emotion, I try to evoke some since of logic.
I say to Jean Gray (member of what in my world personifies the Xmen) "Jean, he's already medicated and needs to sleep." However, Jean is persistent, "I want my son, and I want him now. Can you please have him available for me to pick up?"
By this time in the conversation, I can feel the calm trickling stream within my internal pond, slowly erupt, turning into a whirlpool of choppy waters. Why is this? Has our son become objectified, like a laptop computer, or a projector one reserves and checks out as they would a piece of equipment? Has the flesh of my flesh, now been reduced to the flesh of my flesh on lease? From my perspective, again at that moment in time, those were my feelings. Again I re-emphasize the potency of social linguistics, rhetoric and non verbal sub-cues. As you could easily detect, I was angry, again because of the triggers. I was emotionally flooded yet I still was cognizant of the control and power I had over myself, and trust me like my inner power, your inner power will be tested too. In my mind, regrettably now, I allowed Jean control over my mind and perceptions of our child. So that said, I forfeit any awards for dad of the day. Our son, according to Jean's interpretation, from my perspective (that’s labyrinthian isn’t it ?) is indicative of a rent-a-child. It’s a hard thing to say, and I know its got to be a hard thing for any parent to read. Again, I try to humanize the situation,
"Jean he hasn't eaten dinner yet; Is it an unreasonable request for him to at least have dinner? Again, the needle is stock on a broken record,
"I want my son, I want him now."
By this time I am done with the conversation. I realize that my attempts at being; not a co parent, but just a parent have again been thwarted. I simply surrender. Maybe surrender is too strong. I resign myself to the simple fact that I am a co-parent, and damnit, I am, regardless of anyone else’s opinions, I am doing the best I can, with the resources I currently have. My situation right here, right now, at this very moment is a temporary setback. And setbacks are set ups for come backs; look at Robert Downy Jr. Academy award nominee one day, state property the next, divorced the next, remarried the day after and now has one of the top grossing films of the decade. If he can loose it all, in the public eye and get it back, I can do that minus the drug abuse. So in short, I say this with all humility: To hell with anyone who has the audacity to stand in the way of my or my son’s progress. This includes family, ex family, friends, and especially enemies or as we say in the 21st century, “haters.” Be advised and be warned, your chances for success are better, standing on the third rail of a metro train. NOTE TO READERS: Sometimes you, like I have just done, have to reissue a personalized declaration of new found independence. This is where that strength you don’t know you have until you have to use it comes out. Get strong, get aggressive, get what is yours and get what belongs to your child. In essence get back to you. In my case-I’ve had to put the breaks on some things while taking risks I never thought I would take. I’ve had to stand up and advocate for myself in a court room. I’ve had to advocate for my son. I’ve had to advocate for myself in the presence of my mom and her sisters. Hell, I’ve even had to distance myself from a few of my friends because what is most important is being there for Red Chief. The following represents an example of how I took an already potentially volatile situation and instead made it a character-building situation not only for me, but for our son. I responded with the following:
"After he eats his dinner, I'll take him to the spot."
Enter the relapse, By this time, I can feel the tears welling up. Why: because, I again am forced to relive my past through the eyes of my son. –(It ain’t easy now)
I don't raise my voice, I don't argue, I just cooked his meal and made sure he ate it along with his hydration drink.

Just then another call from Jean comes in.
"Look, I'm sorry, I'm just nervous, You can keep him until 8:00PM." The one thing I hate is to be patronized and to me that's what happened.
"I want to make sure you get what you asked for and what we agreed to. No ups, no downs." Then again, the offer is made to 7:30. Again I say no.
You said 7:00, so 7:00 it will be.
Damn, is this really what co-parenting is supposed to be about? I don't want to set a bad example for our son so after he eats his dinner, I saddle him up and put him back in the truck and off we go to the spot. By this time I am dressed to go to the gym because by this time, I have a host of pent up of angst that must be worked out. We arrive at the spot and I'm cordial. "Where's mommy, where's mommy, Oh there she is." I smile and update her of his condition. Say what meds have been administered. I don't know why, she offered to buy me something, like a coffee or a cookie. I kindly refused. Then she again offered to allow for some family time for the three of us. Again, I politely refused. I wasn't angry, yet, I was annoyed. I was annoyed because I really felt like I was nothing more than an extension of our daycare employee. That really sucked. To me, and again, I might be reading too deep into this, I didn't feel like I was his father in her eyes, but again, just like last May, I felt like an appendage, a nanny. Not a husband, not a father but a nanny. I didn’t even feel like Tony Danza in the sitcom “Who’s the Boss?” I felt like an indentured slave who served at the liberty of his mistress. This probably explains why I elected to sleep on the sofa during the last months of our marriage. I can honestly say I felt under fucking appreciated. Not that I preformed the miracle on the Hudson or deserved to be invited to the Presidential Estate. I am Red Chiefs dad, and there are certain obligations and perks that go with the job. To make the situation better or more palatable for me or any parent in this position, a simple thank you and recognition has more currency than a cup of coffee or a cookie. Yes the episode made me angry but it didn’t and I have to emphasize this, it did not make me DYSFUNCTIONAL. That is the difference between a healthy parenting and destructive parenting. For me, I take from this slice of my life, which I humbly offer to you, the needs of the one outweigh the needs of few or the many. –OK its Start Trek but ride with me on this one: Our child is more important than a self serving custody battle. Our child (and yours for that matter too) is more important than winning a daily battle with a co parent. If I had it to do all over again, yes I would again fight to be apart of my child’s life. That said, as I have joint physical and legal custody, I don’t flex with it. By that I mean, I’m liberal and in some cases maybe over extend some of my visitation time with his mom. Why, because regardless of where the love is coming from (mom vs dad) our child is going to have the love of both of his parents. So that’s why I say, his development is more important to me than winning a battle (which translates into nothing more than another in a long series of fights with his mom) I wish my mom and dad could have seen that. Unfortunately, my history is my history—the good thing about that is this, there is no future in history. That simply means, my past, doesn't predict our son's future.
On a brighter note, I have confirmed my parenting classes. They start next Wednesday. I am excited because I actually get to meet others who are going through what I am going through while learning and in some cases improving on some skills.

Chocolate cielo

What if God were one of us? Today my planes fill the sky to mark my return to the land of the living. Today I did the following: I put on a suit, I opened a checking account, and I went to look at the place I will be calling my home note not apartment but my home (mortgage) by 2012. I'm not back: I'm stronger!

Recovery-- Take Six: Acceptance

Acceptance is a hard pill. When you accept a situation, it means you have or at least in my mind, you have resigned yourself to the current situation. I had a series of interesting talks with people recently including a few members of my family. One in particular, my aunt Pamela. Pamela is the closest in age to me being that she is 11 years older. There have been many times in my life when Pamela and I really haven't been on the same page. I like to think of it as sibling rivalry but the problem is, I have no biological siblings, that I at least know about. On to the conversation..I explained to her that my concerns regarding my feeling emasculated by my mother. As she allowed me to lament and vent, she nodded and eventually got around to saying some items that I began to give credence to. In short, she said, "You done lost your swaggar." You have lived a life of being co-dependent. If you weren't co-dependent upon your mother, you got co-dependent upon your wife. When a wife looses respect for you, it's (the marriage) over. Your wife didn't feel secure, she took liberties with your mom, you let her cuss your mom out, then you cussed us out, then you exiled yourself for six months and now basically, you are ass out. Your mother, who is 60 is mad because she is having to carry you while her husband is retired. You are 39 and you aren't acting your age but your shoe size. You have yet to accept your apartment. Your wife isn't coming back to you. She is done, your mother, she is done. You've pretty much have to man up. -- Again, this is a term I hate being used by women in an attempt to spark men into action. Could be because in my head, women should not be defining masculinity but instead men should be able to establish masculinity on their own terms.-- Side note: Unfortunately in our culture, the 21st century post modern African American culture, masculinity through the eyes of dare I say, a majority of African American women, has been predicated on the hegemonic ideal. Money[squared](2Power+2Power)/socio eco status=respect. A man is not a man if he is financial, plus cultured, plus educated-by educated meaning degreed. If you are a work in progress, you are not a man and therefore a social eunuch. -- this could be why Pamela stated I "lost my swaggar." It doesn't help either that despite the fact that there are plenty of support groups for African American women, when they hit a bump in the road-- very much like mine, synonymous to The Women Brewster Place, our sisters know how to close in the ranks to support one another. Within the context of this debate, I actually called Pamela on what I felt was a gendered double standard in the current family dynamic. Her son TJ who is 18, he too, grew up without his father, being raised by a single mother. Pamela's sister, the middle child, Cyn, has a daughter Rochelle who too was raised without her father. What I noted was that how Rochelle who is now a senior in college, sent a text message to her mother which stated this: Mommy, today I paid X, Y and Z and I did it without being dependent upon any man. Thank you Mommy. I was like, I am happy for her new found independence, that said--you are telling me that my role and TJ's role are to not only be independent ourselves but also pay the way for the newly independent black woman. In a nutshell, you are saying the black woman is a hypocrite and brothers who have our "swaggar" are supposed to buy this. Pamela's response was yes, we are funny that way. -- In my mind, I could now see how a black man would reject the black woman. With thinking like that I felt totally discombobulated. In my mind, I felt as though my wife and I were on the cuspid of greatness. I felt we were going to be among the new black elite. The super couple if you will. Here were my reasons; on the surface, after our second meeting in 2001, i thought she was fine. She had a beautiful ass, with honey blond hair. I was like man, we gonna make some beautiful babies. The second thing, she fit my chief prerequisite, she was an intellectual. I've always found the mind sexy. Three, her smile. She looked at me, while I was trying to play it off, but admittedly i was peeping her for a while. I though I was successfully in what I like to call "stealth mode." Then when she called my name -- well stealth mode had been compromised. Ok so we fast forward to the first year. I'm like ok I don't know if this is going to work. I started thinking about other options and then at a wedding, I saw this older dude talking to her. I got mad.. I was like who in the hell is this old troll with no hair a gut talking to my woman.. Oh oh-did I say that? Yep in 2002, I took ownership and was like from that point forward, this is my lady, all other brothers keep your eyes in their sockets or be prepared to pick them up off the floor. By 2003 I was ready to make the ultimate move. But like in a bad romantic comedy, stupid male ego. She felt as though I was cerebrally copulating with an Ex in Chicago. I was so mad because I was going to propose that year. Well after the male pride back fired, and i was listening to Barry White drinking a bottle of Stolli Vodka (100 proof) I realized after three weeks I couldnt live with out her-- I was in love in fact my proposal came as a slight surprise because we had an argument before we were supposed to go to Chicago for a conference. I was like, if I get to Chicago, I'll get there if I don't I don't. I already bought the ticket and I had the ring. So in April of 2003 i got down on one knee in the Signature Room on a Saturday Night overlooking the water of Navy Pier. I said how I knew the water relaxed her. I loved how the water looked at night. For me this is a special night, and I hope after this it will be a special night for you too. If you'll have me, I want to be your husband, for now and always. Will you marry me? And thats where I think things went down hill. We planned a big wedding but failed to plan a financial future. The goal was that I would go back to school, complete my PhD while she would work. I would use my retirement to support us as well as student aid and scholarships. But we did not move to DC which in hidsight would have been a better option for our marriage. The money in our marriage was funny but no one was laughing. She put up with a whole lot of crap. "If I knew back then, what I know now, If I understood the what, when, why and how, Now its clear to me, what I should have done, cause hindsight is 20/20 vision. Taking time to catch up some history, trying to figure out what went wrong with you and me, and doesn't really mater what we did before, cause I know there's no future, when you're walking out that door." George Benson and Patti Austin--1985. Its amazing how songs that you don't really think about suddenly matter when they become the sound track of your life. So anyway, my aunt was like you out here doing the James Brown Please Please Please Please, while she's singing hit the road jack. So in the words of Austin Powers, my mojo is gone and I want it back. But what do you do, After the Love Has Gone, what use to be right is wrong. Like Phil Collins, you coming back to me is against the odds and thats what I've got to face.

Recovery: Counting Blessings

Even as I look at my son make a mess on the floor eating his pasta, I forgot a very important lesson. Be thankful for what you've got. Yesterday, I could honestly say that if I were to go away from this planet, not that I have plans to, I honestly can say I have lived a life that is full. I did something that really was fufilling, me and Red Cheif actually played ball outside. I threw the football and he ran it back to me! We kicked the soccerball and just got active! Seeing a smile on his face as he was enjoying learning how to run with a football or control a soccer ball made me honestly look to the sky and say thank you to the Creator! I honestly could say I was blessed. Even with the transition going on in my life right now, and trust me I do have my moments, I can now understand the concepet, "in the best interest of the child.". NOTE to Fathers: learn to celebrate even the smallest things from your children. Now allow me to qualify that. Mediocracy is no what anyone strives for. First place isn't what one strives for. However, what one should strive for, at least I now do, is the effort and journey it takes for one to arrive at their destination. Here is an example I would like to share. A friend of mine told me of their childs preformance at a track meet. It was the son's first time running track. The parent was so excited for the child but unfortunately, track spikes for little boys aren't easy to find. When they finally did locate the spikes, the shoes were black and pink. Being comfortable in my masculinity, for me, if I had to wear pink track spikes, I'd do it just to psych out the competiton. Of course gender construction and the preformance of gender just doesn't fly too well with a ten year old. So the parent did what a loving parent would do, they painted over all parts that were pink. When I saw the finished product, I had to snicker because eventually my day is coming with Red Cheif. So anyway, the day of the track meet, his first mind you, he came in last. The parents concern was not the he came in last, but that he made excuses for his preformance. When they shared this with me my first concern was how did the paint job hold up. Then I asked if I could offer an oppinion. When I learned their concerned was linked more to the litnany of excuses, the first thing I offered was not to link the comentary about excuses to to running track. The cause effect relationship that could have possibly could create bad memories of track and possibly squelch the next Jesse Owens. The main thing that counts strangely is the response a child gets from the parent. Praise the child for the preperation to get to
the point of competiton. Praise the child for getting out there and running. Praise the child for the gumption of getting out of
the house to play in the sunshine. NOTE to DADS: get out there with them. In my case even though I bought a $250.00 electric train for
my son for Christmas, the experience of throwing the 8 dollar football, and seeing him run it back to dad smilling and saying let's do it again, to me that's the definition of priceless. Yeah I admit it I got a rush out of throwing the football a long way, chalk one up for biceps, but he also got a rush seeing dad actively fit, throwing the ball like an NFL quaterback. In his mind he's looking at dad like wow! My dad can do
that. You know what, if I can be my son's hero, then I have an obligation that's bigger than me and my woes. NOTE to Dads: you don't have to wear a cape or know how to fly or even be bullit proof or even ride in a 82 black trans am that is all of the above to be a hero to your child: just be there and be an engaged dad. That way you will always be a superhero to your child! That said: I AM IRON MAN! While my son is Batman in training :-)