But he is their father.
June 29, 2007
Filed under:Real
“But he is their father.”
noun fa•ther (fä’THər)
- A male person whose sperm unites with an egg, resulting in the conception of a child.
- A man who adopts a child.
- 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.
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