But he is their father.

“But he is their father.”
noun fa•ther (fä'THər)

1. A male person whose sperm unites with an egg, resulting in the conception of a child.
2. A man who adopts a child.
3. A man who raises a child.

Fine.

So am I.

“But he is their father.”

I get told this by those that are liberal and progressive minded. Those that think that the previous century’s gender-specified parenting roles need some re-working. Their motivations are noble and unquestioningly right. Their application is what needs work, like most free-thinkers and their accompanying movements I suppose.

The definition at the top is what I rely upon for the Truth, yet it is not all of what I believe. He is, in fact, only the first, and nothing more. Nor will he ever be. I am, in fact, the third, and will someday be the second as well. Much more than he ever was or will be.He is a lump. A worthless, brain-damaged, bovine, dispassionate, easily-manipulated lump. He is NOT a father.

And he never really was. He was a pothead. An angry and spoiled prick, who effectively killed himself that day because he was forced to choose between drugs and his child. That day when he made his choice and walked past his sleeping infant son’s crib and hung his body by the neck. That day when his life was fought to be saved against his best efforts in spite of the fact that he was truly undeserving.

He died that day, and though he remained on this Earth enough to function as Part 1 of that definition above for another as well, the man that he was still died and will never come back.

“But he is their father.”

Just as Part 1 of that definition states, his actions resulted in conception. His following actions resulted in nothing but heartache and pain. He’s brought nothing even close to good since, with the exception of a little girl that wasn’t intended for him yet he’s enjoyed nonetheless.What he is, is fertile, and nothing more. Big deal. So am I, and I’ve proven just as equal in that respect.

“But he is their father.”

And they are told by his family that I am their step-father. A term I find almost as distasteful as “real dad” or “half-sister”.We are not “reals” or “steps” nor “halfs” nor bips or baps.

We are a family, and he is not in it.

Real is the daily life that we lead, that we grow and change and love and live in.

Real is my love for them. Nothing is realer, and I will challenge anyone who dares say different.

“But he is their father.”

No. He is not.I am.I have had enough of this. I’m just going to say it and say it loud.

I am their father. All three of them, and I don’t give a fuck if I don’t qualify for Part 1 of Webster’s definition for the older two children.

This would probably be different if he was different. If he had some semblance of a soul. If he was ever any good at being a parent. If he wasn’t such a fucking dickhead, even before he topped himself. If he ever brought anything significantly Good to their lives.

He is, at best, an uncle maybe. Who kind of, sort of, plays games with them, and mostly sits and watches DVDs with them. Who doesn’t do much else. A fact that is not lost on my son, who is 6, when he tells me that he appreciates the fact that I get down on the floor and play with him and tickle him and cuddle him so much, because Cabbage “doesn’t really do all that stuff. He’s not funny and fun like YOU Dad.”

The courts have some new laws that they are pushing a bit much since last July. Laws that are supposed to empower fathers more. Laws that are supposed to make things more fair, more just, more well-rounded, and, most importantly, better for the children. Laws that are touted as “in the best interests of the children, first and foremost.”

They got it wrong. They forgot someone.

They forgot Me.

I am their father and I want a fair shake. Every single act during my every waking hour is “in the best interests of the children, first and foremost” and I want that recognised.
I’m sick of sitting in mediation with that worthless sack of protoplasm and his blustering blowhard sub-intellectual of a father. Part 1 of Webster’s definition means that he gets the Rights, and I don’t, and that is Not Right.

Because of his lack of a series of connected vertebrae, his father has to tell him what to do. Because he effectively killed himself, his father has to tell him when and how to care about the children. Left to his own devices, he’ll do what he’s always done: whatever the fuck he pleases, with no regard to anyone else.

They crossed yet another line, when they (his father) decided that they’d like to be more involved in the children’s school happenings. Our mediator was a bit too zealous in her encouragement of such, and made the mistake of mentioning this as part of his Rights.
His Rights. To MY children?

Blustery Blowhard takes issue with the fact that the children don’t use the name that appears on their birth certificates, and instead use mine. Truth be told, the whole reason that we’ve got a court date is because we made the effort to change their name legally.

I’m their father, why shouldn’t they have my name? The same name as their mother and their sister?

Blowhard assumes that the children aren’t registered at the school under their given names. Blowhard has decided that, with the compromise that never fails to accompany mediation as well as the according loss of power, he needs to flex any remaining muscle and insist that he (Cabbage) be kept more up-to-date with the school’s reports.

The fact that Cabbage has never shown any real interest in being a parent at all, let alone in their schooling, seems to have no bearing to Blowhard. Nor does the fact that they are using my name for their own justified, noble, rational, and well-thought-out reasons. We left it up to them, and this is what they chose.

Wife was afraid and worries, as she does, that they’ll make an attempt at muscling in on a community that we have immersed ourselves in. She spoke to our kid’s teachers about her fears. They told us about what we’d expect. They would do everything in their power to prevent such an interference. The question that remained centred around how much power that indeed was.

This morning, I spoke to the Principal. El Queso Grande. The Head Honcho.

Without pretence, he is the one who will make the call on this kind of thing. The person that is in charge of the situation if anything goes down.

And he made it a point, almost went out of his way, to ensure that I knew that he was behind me to the fullest extent. It was even suggested that his support would extend beyond the law. Any man in that kind of position of power, with the health and welfare of several hundred children as his main concern, does not necessarily need to trifle with things as petty as the law when it is contrary to what he knows is in the children’s best interests.

He deals with this kind of thing quite often, and he knows the score for the kids.

He knows who I am. He sees that I am there, every day, dropping the kids off and reading to the class, picking them up and greeting everyone with a cheery smile. He sees me at every Parent’s Assembly and knows of my ambition to eventually be a teacher. He sees me with my kids, and he Knows who I am.

And he’s with me on this.

Today, my rights according to the law don’t seem to be worth shit, but that doesn’t mean that I’m not. The people that matter know this.I am their father.Today, there are those that would say different.

We’ll see what tomorrow brings.

Posted by JuddHole

This blog was the one that changed everything in my life, so it stands to reason that it continue to do so. I hope it starts with my underwear.

Lesson Learned.

What kind of lessons are we teaching?

When we openly admit that you don’t really have to pay for your crimes if you don’t want to? When we let you go after we’ve passed sentence and shrug it off as if we’d at least “given it a shot”? When we let people write their own rules simply because they’re rich and/or famous?

I don’t know that I’ve ever been more embarrassed and upset by Hollywood. It’s always been a bit of a zit on the ass of my life, but now it’s gone and swelled up to the point of bursting with a disgusting and putrid pus. If I only had a louder voice, I would shout out the truth and effectively squeeze it, trust me.

Everybody can have their way if they just don’t want to do something badly enough. Pitch enough of a fit, chuck enough of a wobbly, and you can have what you want. It’s the biggest issue I have with “public parenting” that I bear witness to in the shops and at the schools. The people that somehow think it’s acceptable to give in if their child is simply making enough of a scene.

There is an ad on TV here, where the child begins throwing a tantrum and the mother simply beats him to it, throwing herself on the floor and flailing about with her arms and legs while screaming. The look that the kid gets is unforgettable and priceless. This behaviour is not only unacceptable, but doesn’t actually work. THAT should be our message.

There are times that it is incredibly difficult to keep the peace, I’m aware as I have been through them, but the second you waver, the second that you compromise with something that simply isn’t right, is when you have lost. And the pains to regain it again are astronomical compared to the pain of living with the resentment or possible hurt feelings that may be caused by you sticking to your guns.

My son wants an X-box. He’s a gamer. I’ve tried to gently bend and guide his attitudes, his wants and desires, in another direction, but I have realised that it’s inescapable. He LOVES video games. Oh well, I did too at that age. My inner grown-up though, has to have more say sometimes than my inner-child, and it is firmly and resolutely against having a “Game System” in this house. I believe that they are one of the major contributors in childhood obesity and spoiled rottenness. I see virtually NO benefit that they have in one’s life other than something to do to pass the time. I don’t believe that they stimulate the mind near as much as books or art, and I will do everything in my power to keep my children’s lives free of them.

That said, I find that I have overlooked that the child sees me and his mother parked in front of computers for the majority of our day. He sees fun things happen on them and associates them more with the fun that they provide rather than the work that they are necessary for. He sees that I have games on my laptop and is ever-asking if he can play them.

I don’t give up on my stance, but I know when something is serious enough to explore. When I don’t let him have video games it doesn’t stop him from seeing them at the store and asking for them for when he goes on his bi-weekly custody visitations. He knows that without a doubt they are not allowed in this house, so he brings home books from the library about... video games. No surprise that they are some of his favourite books.

I relent and let him play on my laptop while dinner is readying, reminding myself that I should be checking on the time and keeping him from being on here too long. I forget, of course, and when I finally come to check on him I find that he’s finished his game, shut down the computer, and is now playing a board game with his little sister.

My trust in him is justified, for I know who he is as a person and he is a good one. One of the best that I know, for certain. His sister can be a horrible turd, and gets a much smaller share of those kinds of considerations, as she has yet to earn any such measure of trust. Her boundaries are much firmer and intimately defined, because they need to be. The person that she is will win out but, if left to her own devices, the selfish shit will prevent the good person within from reaching her true potential.

I live with these children, these small people, and aside from my wife know them better than anyone alive. Their punishments and rewards, whenever either are necessary, are made with the considerations of what is right, what is fair, and what is going to make them the best people they can be. The lessons that are taught to them on a daily basis are carefully and painstakingly measured and analysed for fear of ever being a “bad” lesson, even with good intentions, because let’s face it, most of them end up being that way anyway.

So I’ll ask again... What kind of lessons are we teaching when the highest authority we have does this kind of thing? What kind of trust and respect (or lack thereof) are we earning?

As I sit here typing this, I can hear my oldest daughter (4) chatting happily to herself in the bathroom, a location where she is notorious for misbehaving, so I crack the office door and watch her covertly.

She sings and talks to the mirror, but refrains from touching it and smearing her messy little hands on it, as she’s been taught that it makes us unhappy to have a messy mirror and that I’ll make her clean it off (not that this is a distasteful activity, she just hates being made to do anything). She turns the tap on full blast and then corrects it down to the barest of streams, as she knows that wasting water will make us unhappy too. She carefully washes her hands as she’s been instructed to do so many times, simply because an action so simple can be trained into even a brain so defiant as hers.

She helps herself to a cup of water, as she has been told that she doesn’t need to ask us for one and is allowed to help herself so long as she doesn’t abuse the privilege, and then carefully places the cup back in it’s spot. She dries her hands on the towel without yanking it off the rack and heaping it carelessly on the floor. She then says something amusing to herself and trots happily out the door and down the hall.

This may not seem as important to others that do not know this child, but this behaviour absolutely struck me. She was being so good. Without me yelling at her to turn the tap off after I’ve heard it running for a solid 5 minutes. Without me reminding her not to touch everything in the freakin’ room when her hands are dirty/soapy.

She did everything that she was supposed to do. Without me saying a thing.

And I can’t help but think to myself, “Shee-it, it’s actually working.”

The lessons that I’ve instilled in her are actually having an effect. Granted, this is only a small sampling of our lives, and I don’t want you to think that I haven’t considered the alternatives. Would it be the End of the World if I had dirt/soap-smeared mirrors and towels on the floor? Will Mother Earth shrivel up if my child further adds to the water shortage issues? Will she grow up to be a perforated-veined gutterslut if I let her dump handsoap and deodorant into her drinking cup and splash it happily against the tiled wall?

Probably not. But isn’t this way much nicer? If bad actions get bad consequences and unhappiness, and good actions get good consequences and happiness, as opposed to a mish-mash of the two, then isn’t that the preferred? Even if our actions bring about the ultimate in negative reinforcement... indifference and apathy, aren’t we still learning that way?

Lessons are important, one of the most important facets to being human, and I strive to teach my children to recognise that they are learning them every day, as am I. My wife and I strive to remind ourselves that we are teaching lessons every day and to be careful of their nature, be they good or bad.

We’re careful not to teach bad lessons. Shouldn’t we all be?

Posted by JuddHole

This blog was the one that changed everything in my life, so it stands to reason that it continue to do so. I hope it starts with my underwear.