Category: Non Custodial Mom

Posted in Autism, Long Distance Parenting, Motherhood, Non Custodial Mom, Non Custodial Parent

It Takes Guts to Live Without Regret

Posted on by cmfalato

Do I regret giving up custody of my child during my divorce? Short answer: It’s complicated.

Last December, I was interviewed by Guts Non-Profit about my life as a non-custodial mom to an Autistic, mildly intellectually disabled child.

It was a great interview. I share my story openly so that people who might be going through the same thing, or even something remotely similar, won’t feel alone.

I suffered a mental health breakdown during my divorce that forced me to take control of my mental health, actually advocate for myself to doctors, and, learn how to (mostly) not let my life fall prey to depression and anxiety. After a long road, I fully recovered and leveraged the experience to make me a better advocate for my son.

I want someone to hear that, and look me up on LinkedIn, or Instagram, and think “Hey, that happened to her and look at all she did after. I can do that, too!”

Being a non-custodial mom, giving up custody of your child, living 210 miles away from them for over half their life and still raising a strong, odds-defying, and just generally good human is hard… actually, it’s pretty emotionally devastating. And, it’s isolating. I’ve stayed fully connected to my son – we have a thriving relationship – and I have a great group of friends.

I’d love it if another parent was encouraged by that.

Divorce is – even if you’re the one who initiates it – hard. There’s this life you plan on when you walk the aisle, or, as I did with Husband #2, to whom I’m (knock on wood. Damien, can you come up here please. I need your head) still happily married, step in front of the justice of the peace.

Letting go of that life, and not having regrets about it…well, it takes awhile.

…and, as I say in the podcast and have said before here, the reasons you end a partnership don’t end with a divorce decree (or its equivalent).

I am happily remarried (Damien, get up here now please, and bring The Boxer. His head’s even more wooden than yours), and I’m on great terms with my ex.

My goal is to have someone newly divorced, navigating the initially contentious waters of a freshly minted divorce decree and child custody agreement, and have faith.

And then, of course, there’s the big A: Autism. I’m on the spectrum. My son is on the spectrum. I can have an existential crisis over a black bra and blue panties and still, successfully navigate an IEP meeting, or, since JR turned 21, an ISP (Individualized Service Plan) meeting. I have a successful career. My son is about to graduate college.

I really need someone to hear that and know they’re not alone, and that autism isn’t a living death sentence. (And if you need help navigating the K-12 special education system and/or post-21/22 transition, or even just someone to vent to about a recent IEP, just reach out anytime.)

(I’m serious. I had and have a lot of support for JR. My turn to pay it forward).

Moving on.

So, overall, the podcast was rattling along fine, even the hard parts, until they asked this question:

Do you regret giving up custody of your son?

If you listen to the podcast, that’s my full stop moment. Multiple reasons:

  • I’ve never been asked that question before.
  • I wanted to give a completely honest answer.
  • I don’t ever want my son to listen to this podcast and think “She gave me up and she doesn’t regret it? Do I mean that little to her? Was it that easy?”
  • What will people think of me, and the kind of mother I am, if I say “no”?

Do I regret giving up custody?

I’ve been so busy being a mom – and fighting so hard just to prove, mostly to myself I suspect, that I am every bit as good a mom as any one of my SUV-driving peers who is happily married, or if they are divorced, retained custody – I have never stopped to ask myself that question.

But do I?

Do I wish I had fought harder for residential custody?

Do I wish I had just sucked it up – and forced my ex to do the same – to stay in a stressful marriage?

Do I regret moving to Boston?

The “But Do I’s” might actually be worse than the “But Why’s?”

Hard to believe, I know.

You can listen to my full answer at 16:34 in the podcast itself, but the short answer is…

Drumroll please!

Add more dramatic tension…

No.

I have made so many mistakes as a mom and as both a custodial (when I was married to JR’s dad) and non-custodial parent. I’m human. Every child is, as trite as it sounds, different. The same thing that was great for your best friend’s kiddos, or even your own other child, might be wrong for the tiny human standing right in front of you.

Yes, I regret those mistakes. Not one of them was at all remotely harmful or devastating to my son, but still, I have those moments where I think back and wish I’d done it differently.

I’ve also had moments when the autistic spectrum, which can often be a royal pain in the arse**, unleashes its worst, and I’ve cried and wished I’d just stayed married, or I hadn’t moved so far away, or, yes, I didn’t give up custody.

**I know calling the autistic spectrum a pain, or saying it unleashes its worst is probably ableist. It’s not intended that way. BUT watching your kid spiral into a meltdown they can’t get out of, one they will feel endless shame over later, no matter what you say or do, is just that. So’s when your brain calls a full halt to your legs – invariably when you’re running late – because a tiny wisp of hair no one but you is going to notice is falling over your forehead. Triple that when you spend the entire day after a party replaying every moment, and everything you said, on your brain’s 3D IMAX theater screen obsessing over what you THINK you said or did wrong.**

But, do I actually, on an average day, which is most of them, regret that I gave up residential custody?

JR, I love you. You are the best and most important part of my life… but I do not regret letting you live with your dad full-time.

Or moving to Boston.

I wish, for your benefit, I could, or I could say I did. I want you to know how much you mean to me. I hope you don’t hate me.

I gave up residential custody because I knew where you needed to be, and I knew which parent was, at the time, best able to give you everything you needed then.

And I knew, at that time, it wasn’t me.

I am so sorry.

I’ve done a lot of hard things in my life. Letting you go, even just to live in another house where I saw and spoke to you all the time, even after I moved to Boston, was the hardest.

You are, however, who you are today because of that very reluctant decision. And J, you are everything a mother could ever want from a son, everything I thought and dreamed you would be, the moment in that delivery room when they set you on my chest and said, “Meet your son, Mrs. R–.” You have never, ever disappointed me.

You’re human, too. I’ve been disappointed in your behavior plenty. Can we talk about the video game budget, please?

Not you. You are perfect, exactly who you are.

I know that if I had fought harder, neither of us would be who or where we are today.

So, what should you do if you’re a non-custodial parent dealing with regret about giving up, or not fighting harder for custody?

Listen to the podcast, read the blog, and think, “Hey, she did it, and look at her and her kid. I did the same thing. I don’t have to regret this. I know it was the right decision.”

Because it was.

–CMR

Posted in Long Distance Parenting, Non Custodial Mom, Non Custodial Parent

Essential Tips for Safe Long-Distance Parenting Travel

Posted on by cmfalato

I’m planning a trip to New Jersey in the next couple of weeks. Actually, I’ve been planning this trip since the last trip three months ago. Sadly, I’m driving, not flying over the Merritt Parkway, aka the 2-lane Connecticut highway from hell (AC/DC reference intended).

If you know, you know.

Connecticut Route 15 is the scenic, tree-lined “connection” between my son and me. It is also a winding ribbon of brake lights. It offers moments of existential reflection. Occasionally, a BMW appears, seemingly believing speed limits are philosophical suggestions.

I have a complicated relationship with that road. It is the corridor to my kid. It is also the place where time stands still behind a landscaping truck doing 38 miles per hour in a 55.

But here is the thing about long-distance parenting. The road is not optional. Safety is not negotiable.

1. My Car Is Part of the Parenting Plan

Before every trip:

  • Oil checked.
  • Tires inspected.
  • Wipers working.
  • Gas tank filled the night before.

My vehicle is not just transportation. It is the bridge. If it fails, I fail to show up. That is not a risk I take lightly.

2. Weather Is a Decision-Maker, Not Background Noise

Living in New England means snow does not politely reschedule itself around custody weekends.

If the forecast shows ice, heavy snow, or dangerous wind, I avoid driving in it. I do not white-knuckle my way through it to prove a point. I reassess. I communicate. I reschedule if necessary.

Canceling for safety is not a weakness. It is parenting.

I would rather disappoint my son for a weekend than terrify him with a risky drive or worse.

Watch the forecast. Leave early. Or do not leave at all if conditions cross the line from inconvenient to unsafe.

3. Leave Early Enough to Be Human

Route 15 has two lanes. Two. That is it. No shoulders worth mentioning. No graceful exits when traffic collapses into a parking lot.

So I leave early. Earlier than feels reasonable.

Because driving into a pickup truck matters. Showing up flustered, snapping at traffic, muttering about Connecticut infrastructure policy, does not.

4. EZPass Is a Love Language

Get the EZPass.

Unless you enjoy:

  • Surprise toll invoices.
  • Grainy photos of your license plate.
  • Whatever states you travel through and to sending you requests for (toll) money like you just won the lottery.

EZPass saves money and your mailbox. It is essential equipment for the interstate co-parent.

5. Hands-Free or Hands Off

Podcasts queued before departure. Phone mounted. Texts are unanswered until I am stopped.

Nothing is worth glancing down at 65 – AHEM! – 55 miles per hour while the Merritt curves like someone with a vendetta against straight lines designed it.

6. Manage the Emotional Traffic Too

Long drives invite rumination. Court stress. Old conversations. What you wish you said at drop-off.

Emotional distraction is still a distraction.

If I need to process something heavy, I do it before I merge. If I feel overwhelmed, I pull over. Rest stops are underrated therapy rooms.

7. Fatigue Is Not a Badge of Honor

Sunday night returns are brutal. Early Monday alarms are real.

If I am tired, I stop. A 15-minute nap beats fighting gravity at highway speed. Showing up safely beats showing off endurance.

8. Model It When He’s in the Car

Seatbelts first. Phone down. Speeds reasonable—no commentary about the driver who just cut me off.

He is watching. Always.

Long-distance parenting is measured in miles, maintenance appointments, toll charges, and weather apps.

Connecticut Route 15 tests my patience, my brakes, and my faith in civil engineering.

It also carries me to my son.

The safest arrival is the only one that counts.

See you next month, Hartford!

–CMR

2/28/2026

Posted in Long Distance Parenting, Motherhood, Non Custodial Mom, Non Custodial Parent, Non-Custodial Dad

Beware the “But Did I Do’s?”

Posted on by cmfalato

Don’t second-guess yourself when visitation is done. You showed up for and spent time with your kid, and that’s enough.

My son isn’t even gone yet. He’s down the hall in the spare bedroom we use as a library, sprawled out on, as he calls it, a comfy couch, with his Nintendo Switch 2 (yes, he saved the $200 for it. Go Joey!).

Yet, here they come anyway, unavoidable as always:

The But Did I Do’s.

The ButDidIDos start as I’m packing my son up to return to his father’s for my fearless co-parent’s half of the Christmas holiday. Our train leaves Boston at the crack of dawn tomorrow. I picked JR up on the previous Monday. He’s been with me a whole 10 days.

I’ve done everything I can to maximize that time. I took off work. Cancelled my reservation at the company Christmas party. Left early the day I did have to work (starving freelance writer and special education advocate in training after all).

We had a long drive from Bergen County, NJ to Boston, MA to talk and listen to music. We played Christmas carols on the radio.

At JR’s request, this was a chill-out vacation. We didn’t do any of the usual things we do: no museums, no bowling, no amusement parks, no hiking, no New England sightseeing. Instead, we decorated the Christmas tree and baked cookies together. We hung out together, built Legos, and watched our favorite movies and TV shows.

The ButDidIDo’s creep around the edges of my mind as I fold jeans, t-shirts, and underwear, consolidating 2 chaotic, overpacked suitcases into a single neat one.

I swat them away impatiently and set to work making room for that single suitcase in front of the bedroom closet, stacking video game sleeves, hanging shirts, and tucking away clothing JR no longer fits into.

Still, they persist:

  • But did I leave him alone too much?
  • But did I pay enough attention to him?
  • But should I have made him play a board game or go bowling?
  • But should I have gotten him out of the house more often?
  • But should I not have gone to work for four hours that Saturday?
  • But did I –?
  • But should I have–?
  • But do I still have time to–?

But Did I Do Enough with/for Kiddo on this visit?

You’d think I’d have learned to tune out the ButDidIDo’s by now. This August marked my 20th anniversary as a non-custodial parent and my divorce from JR’s dad, my fearless co-parent. As Rosanne Cash once sang, sad anniversary of a 100 old things…

20 years of every other weekend, every other holiday, week-long vacations, long weekends, early Christmases (I celebrate Christmas with JR the week before Christmas Eve), longer school breaks when I moved to Boston…

…nope, at the end of every visit, the ButDidIDo’s pay me a visit. They nag at my self-assurance. They highlight whatever mistakes I think I’ve made (The time 19 years ago my son got sunburned on a beach trip lives on in infamy in my self-doubting subconscious).

I know the ButDidIDo’s are being ridiculous. I know I did all I could to make this a great vacay. I treasured every moment with my son. I spent as much time with him as he would let me. I respected his desire to be alone in his room when he asked. I even heard Leading Man #1 on the phone with his father telling him what a good time he was having once or twice.

C’mon, Cris. Have some self-confidence for frick’s sake!

I finish cleaning JR’s bedroom floor. I close the closet door and set the suitcase in its place in front of the doors. Next, I whip out my mighty self-confidence nerf sword, prepared to do battle with the ButDidIDo’s. I will vanquish them for good this time!

But first, I’ll check on Leading Man #1 in the library.

I pad down the hallway and look in the doorway. “Hey kiddo! How’s it–” I stop as I see my son, all lanky 6 feet of him, curled up asleep on the couch. Our dog, Ella, sleeps at his feet.

I should be over this too. Just before I return JR to his father, I feel one part of my heart start to tear away. It happens with the slow sound of Velcro halves being separated.

I know I’ll never get over it. I’ll never vanquish the ButDidIDos. I’ll never get over the feeling of loss I get when I have to return JR to his father.

It’s enough that JR is ready to go home to his Dad’s. It’s enough that he had a great time. My feelings don’t matter. His do.

That’s how it’s gotta be.

I tiptoe to my bedroom. I grab my book off the nightstand. Then, I settle into the recliner across from JR in the library. Ella looks at me and yawns. Rocky, our boxer, comes in. He looks at Ella on the couch. He considers jumping up to join her. He wisely decides not to rile his sister. Instead, he settles at my feet.

One more moment to make the absolute most of with my kid.

Plus a whole train ride tomorrow! Woohoo!

What do you do after you drop your kids off with your fearless co-parent? Tell us in the comments.

Posted in Long Distance Parenting, Motherhood, Non Custodial Mom, Non Custodial Parent, Non-Custodial Dad

Despite My Lack Of Custody, I am Mom

Posted on by cmfalato

December 2014

I am a Mom.

I Think Like A Mom.  I checking the temperature and nagging my son to wear long sleeves when it’s going to be icy cold.  I follow up on homework assignments.

I Dress Like A Mom.  Nothing that requires dry cleaning.  I have a stack of tank tops with built in bras to go under my pajama tops.  My non-work socks are all holiday themed.

I Accessorize Like A Mom.  One True Hobbit Lego Ring adorns my Pandora bracelet.

I Worry Like A Mom.  Somewhere, at the back of my mind, 24/7/365 I am aware of my son’s general whereabouts and my mind is poised, ready for action in the event of a phone call.

I Talk Like A Mom.

Children are the common ground of adults.  Parents commiserate about their kids’ grades, silliness, the antics that drive us batty, teachers, and developmental stages. 

I do the same thing.  When I meet other adults, I talk about my son.  I talk about Leading Man #1’s progress in school, the latest school project, his highs and lows, the teacher homework website it took three adults (myself, TheEx and Stepmom) to decipher.  I’m pretty good at covering my tracks, but at some point in every conversation, the question comes up.  The evil innocent trick question that causes me to stammer and justify:

“Where is he?”

There is also the evil innocent trick question’s diabolical twist sister question:

“Where does he go to school?”

The designers on Project Runway complain about Heidi Klum’s little “twists.”  Let them design an answer to these two. 

The parent who asks doesn’t know these questions are evil innocent or diabolical twists.  Said parent assumes the answer is a) off at some event or with the non-residential custodial father. and b) some local private or public school in sunny – ice cold right now – central Massachusetts. 

As a non-custodial Mom, I’d rather have Tim Gunn breathing down my neck and a naked model about to be subjected to Michael Kors’s scrutiny on the runway.  I’m always afraid when the often happily married custodial parent I’m speaking to finds out I’m NCM, they are going to assume I’m more than a caffeine addict and workaholic: they’re going to assume I’m some psycho and I had custody ripped away from me.

I don’t want that.  Hence the stammer stammer justify.

The stammer stammer justify goes something like this:

Stammer, mumble, stammer some more, and in between mumbling and stammering, an inaudible justification of why my child lives with someone else.  The conversation usually goes like this:

“He’s autistic spectrum so he goes to school in X, and lives with his dad, but the school is great and I’m really involved in…”

Yes, I know I do this.  I’m not being fake.  I’m not lying.  I just know that while 99% of the parents who ask the question will accept my answer and move on, one in 100 will either be appalled that I didn’t fight harder, or their face will tear up as they try, and fail, to picture being without their kids for more than a couple days. It’s that parent I stammer to avoid.

There’s no way to escape that one parent.  They’re going to ask.  You’re going to answer.  They’re reaction is going to stick with you for a long time.  I do have three tactics for minimizing it, both with the one parent in 100 and just to reassure myself.  If you’re a NCM stuck facing down parent one in 100, feel free to blatantly steal them.

I Focus on Connection, Not Custody. 

I tell people I’m non-residential custodian and then I continue talking about my son like he’s a part of my everyday life, because, well, he is. He gets annoyed with me on a regular basis for making him set down his video games to answer the phone.  He’s on video chat. I have to nag him about wearing warm clothes and the science project he completed that I got a picture of but my ex did not.  The custody issue fades to the background and I become just your boring, every day parent again.  J. also has his own album in my smartphone.  When I talk about him to other people, I pull out photos to show them. 

The Necklace. 

I always wear a necklace with a heart my son gave me for Christmas around my neck.  If the subject of kids comes up, I capitalize on the fact that my being non-residential custodian allows me to work long hours.  I don’t have to take off for snow day, early dismissals and late openings.  I keep pictures of my son on my desk.  3, to be exact: 1 of which is a picture of the 2 of us.

Incidentally, I take photos of just the pictures on my desk and occasionally Skype them to my son so he has tangible proof of how he is always on my mind. 

Staying True To Myself. 

I always acknowledge the situation sucks, and I hate it.  I admit to hating to have to explain it, too.  I tell people why I hate having to explain it.  Autism was my enemy and I made a hard choice that has had me sleeping curled around a ratty stuffed frog for seven years. 

Could we steer the conversation to how devastated I was when I realized Tim Gunn wasn’t straight?

At least we’ll always have Hugh Jackman…

—CMR

Posted in Motherhood, Non Custodial Mom, Non Custodial Parent, Non-Custodial Dad

Parent of secondary residence

Posted on by cmfalato

Non-custodial parenting: Expectation vs. Reality

Technically, I am not – was not, custody ended 5 years ago when Joey turned 18 – non-residential custodian. My custody agreement says I am “parent of secondary residence.”

Same difference. New Jersey legalese says po-tay-to, the rest of the world says po-tah-to.

It’s New Jersey. Fuhgeddaboudit! Whaddaya want?

Just don’t refer to pork roll as Taylor Ham north of Newark and you’re golden.

No, seriously about the Taylor Ham thing.

Parent of secondary residence, non-custodial parent, non-residential custodian. It all comes down to the same thing: my kid doesn’t live with me.

No big deal, society has accepted weekend dads.

Yep, that’s where it gets dicey. Society has not accepted weekend moms.

Non-custodial, parent of secondary residence, non-residential moms haven’t accepted that about themselves.

Or, at least, I didn’t.

I divorced my husband; gave up residential custody, but somehow forgot that meant I was no longer part of Joey’s day-to-day life.

Maybe it was that long-delayed “childbirth amnesia” finally kicking in, because let me tell you, when a 9 pounds, 9 ounces and 23 inches newborn exits your body through a tube less than 1/2 inch in diameter, you remember.

Or you do until you come home to an empty apartment after working late because you don’t want to face not being able to tuck that now 4 year old into bed and tell him a story.

That pain, initially, is worse. Much, much worse.

There are just some losses you don’t ever get over. You just force yourself to live around them.

If I stop to think about how much my not being there every day hurt Joey, I won’t be able to keep writing. I’ll lose myself in the guilt a mother never gets over: the kind that comes when your child gets hurt because of something you did. Like when you forget to reapply sunscreen at the pool and they get a sunburn, or when you have to work so they miss a birthday party.

Except for non-custodial moms, it’s worse.

I once read a book for non-custodial moms that told me I should let go of my guilt and embrace my life as a “big hearted mother living apart from her child.”

I can understand spoken Russian better than I can comprehend that statement.

_____________________

“Coming to bed, dear?” my husband calls from down the hall. Then, “By the way, I think some of the clothes you put in my clean laundry pile actually belong to Joey.”

“I’m coming to bed in a moment,” I reply, followed by “And that doesn’t surprise me.”

The part about coming to bed in a moment is a lie. I’ve got at least another half hour on this chapter.

The part about my son’s clothing mixed in with my husband’s isn’t.

I am surprised that my son’s laundry has gone through the wash already. It’s only been a week and a half since he went back home to college. Did I really clean his room so quickly?

______________________

When I decided Joey would live with his dad full-time, it did not occur to me that I wouldn’t be able to see him every day. Joey would just be spending every night at his dad’s, except for the 2 Friday and Saturday nights a month he would spend with me.

Other than that, nothing would change. I would continue to be a part of Joey’s every day life, the same way I always had been.

I didn’t think I wouldn’t be there to tuck him in at night. I only lived 2 miles away. My now ex-husband wouldn’t mind my coming by his house every night.

I wouldn’t mind going over to his house – my old house – every day!

I would also take care of Joey when he was home from school, and pick him up at after-care. Joey would be with me any time his father needed a babysitter.

I am Joey’s mother. Of course that’s how it would go!

Or, maybe reading Frank Herbert’s Dune series during my pregnancy postponed my post-partum Mommy Brain Fog for four years.

Yes. I wanted to see my son.

I did not want to see my old house or my old husband every day.

Yes, said old husband wanted his son to spend time with his mother.

He did not want to see said mother, aka his newly minted ex-wife, every day.

Also, living separate and apart – more New Jersey divorce legalese – means, well, you don’t live together.

You kinda have to live with your kid to be a part of his every day life.

…until he turns 18, graduates high school, moves in with roommates, goes off to college…suddenly he’s the same age his dad was when you met and he’s calling you up because he left his iPad in his bedroom in Boston…

True story.

Posted in Long Distance Parenting, Motherhood, Non Custodial Mom, Non Custodial Parent, Non-Custodial Dad

Define Mess, Exactly

Posted on by cmfalato

You do what’s best for your kids, even when it hurts

When I say my life was a mess 20 years ago, or a disaster, because it was in my eyes, I mean I was completely disorganized, stressed out, and unmoored. I had planned this … life; this Disney fairytale where TheEx and I had 3 kids, lived in our cozy little Zaymoor Colonial in Bergen County, worked, and had big family gatherings for holidays.

I had been forced to admit that life wasn’t going to work out. Even though I was the one leaving, I still felt heartbroken. I felt shattered, and the fact that I hadn’t planned where I would be going to after I left meant I had no way of even starting to pick up the pieces.

Also, I didn’t have a job, which, for me, is a disaster. Even before I became a non-custodial mom, I defined myself in part by my career. I had quit my old job as a proposal writer in New York City on the (bad) advice of my lawyer, who advised if I was working outside the home, I could lose even joint custody.

Yeah…not smart. A job would have been an anchor point.

So, yeah, back then my life – new apartment with windows I learned after I signed the lease didn’t lock, noisy neighbors living next door, no job, hastily packed boxes of my old life and random bits of new Ikea furniture scattered about – was a disaster.

TheEx, on the other hand, had a job, making more money than I ever could as a writer, had the house because I couldn’t afford to buy him out of it, and was heartbroken, but also angry.

…and he could afford a better lawyer, and a custody battle.

We were in our old bedroom on a Wednesday, 1 month after I filed for divorce. I was packing up my clothes while we discussed the financial settlement, how we would break up holidays so Joey could see both of us at Christmas, whose CDs were whose, who wanted the wedding china; who would take the stoneware vs. the Correlleware –

–the stuff you hate to need to figure out when you end a marriage —

…when the subject of custody came up. We had been trying split-week custody for the last month. Joey would live with me Sunday afternoon to Wednesday afternoon, and with his Dad Wednesday night to Sunday morning.

“You take residential custody,” I said quietly, staring down at my hands folding a blouse, feeling my heart start to fall to the pit of my stomach as my entire body tensed up, like it was being asked to do something it was incapable of doing, had no choice but to do.

“Why the change?” my (still then future ex) husband asked.

___________________________

That afternoon, before I drove him to his Dad’s, Joey was riding his red and blue big wheel in the back driveway of my apartment while I hung laundry on the line.

“Mommy!” Joey called just as I was fastening a sheet to the line.

I rushed over to my 4 year old son to find he’d had an accident. The 2nd one that week, and the 5th that month on my watch, despite his having been potty trained since 3, and my asking him every hour if he needed to go to the bathroom.

The look in my son’s eyes showed how stressed he was.

I scooped my son up onto my hip, soaked shorts and all and smiled at him. “I’ve got you. Ready to clean up and head over to Daddy’s?”

Joey nodded.

“Do you want to live with Daddy all the time and I’ll come see you every day?”

Joey looked down, frowned, and then slowly nodded.

I smiled, hugged him tightly, and carried him into the bathroom. “Then that’s what you’ll do. You live with Daddy. I’ll come see you every day, and you can sleep over every other weekend. How does that sound?”

My son stopped tugging off his wet clothes, visibly relaxed, and smiled. “Can we watch Star Wars?”

“Of course, honey.” I ran the bath water, squirted in some Mr. Bubbles, tested the water to make ure it wasn’t too hot or too cold, and plunked him down in the tub.

__________________________

I remember that day; that moment with the yellow sun streaming, Joey riding his blue Big Wheel with the big red tire, the clothespin in my hand. I remember hearing his call, seeing what happened, and knowing.

You do what’s best for your kids, even when it kills you, and kids know. Kids know when something isn’t right. They know where they belong. They let you know what’s best for them.

In this case, best for both of us as it turned out, but it took me a long time to learn that.

___________________________

My phone beeps. It’s my ex, texting me a picture of Joey holding up his new video game.

I smile. Back to the t-shirt.

To be continued… 

Posted in Long Distance Parenting, Motherhood, Non Custodial Mom, Non Custodial Parent, Non-Custodial Dad

Back to the start

Posted on by cmfalato

The 2 Days of my son’s life I remember most clearly are the day he was born, and the day I let him go

Sitting here in front of my computer today, glaring meaningfully at a scrap of a former Cricut Infusible Ink transfer sheet in the vague form of an X-box. This is my second attempt at this t-shirt – my 4th if you count its 2022 and 2024 heat transfer vinyl counterparts.

Joey gets a t-shirt every year for his birthday. Hand made – well, hand-ironed on, sometimes custom designed. Although to be fair, I have cheated a couple times with Amazon.com, usually the few times I wasn’t able to be there in person for Joey’s birthday – COVID, neck surgery (long story), bi-lateral carpal tunnel release surgery (another long story), a mid-March Nor’Easter.

I have them all, too. I’ve saved them. I’m going to turn them into a set of memory quilts using an ancient quilt I made that became Joey’s favorite when he spent the entire summer up here in 2020.

Remember in when I told you we all have that friend, and that I’m her?

I digress…again…

Level 23 Unlocked!

Has it been that long already? For confirmation, I look up to shelf above my desk to the silver-framed photo of Joey at 2 months and then down at the more recent on the wall behind me.

Yeah, it has… 23 years ago I was staring at my baby bump saying, “C’mon honey, Mommy wants to see her feet again.”

____________________________

I did not expect Joey to arrive on his actual due date, that never happens. I had hoped for early, or at least not, following in the footsteps of both his parents, 2 weeks late. Those didn’t happen either. My son, the master of compromise even in utero it seems, arrived exactly one week after his due date.

Supposedly, you stop recalling things exactly as they were over time. There are things – both my weddings, the restaurant my husband took me to on our first date, the restaurant Joey’s father took me to on our first date, the first time I met my old boss at SimplexGrinnell – I can remember but not pull up a clear picture of.

I can see, clearly, any time I think of it, the first time I met my son.

After 30 hours of labor. Joey took his own sweet time joining the world outside my womb. I was cursing like a sailor for the first 10-20 hours of that time. They actually closed the door to my labor and delivery room; turns out those doors are actually soundproof.

The last 10 hours I just chanted “10 fingers; 10 toes; 2 eyes, a mouth and a nose.”

I don’t actually remember much about the labor itself, other than the swearing and the chanting. I just remember, at the end of it, a nurse said, “Meet your son Mrs. R–,” and putting Joey gently down on my chest.

“Hi little guy,” I said.

My son opened his newborn gray eyes and looked straight into mine.

A part of me I didn’t even know had been missing fell silently into place in my heart.

____________________________

The same heart that broke, 4 years later, in another moment I can clearly recall: the day I knew I had to let him go.

I did say earlier than when I divorced Joey’s dad, my life was a mess – or maybe I said disaster – either is rather accurate. That is what you expect to hear when you learn that a mother doesn’t have custody of their child(ren). You expect a mother without custody’s life to be a mess. You expect she’s lost custody through some fault of her own:

  • She’s an alcoholic
  • She’s a recovering drug-addict
  • She physically abused her children
  • She physically abused herself
  • She has a mental health disorder like borderline personality disorder or schizophrenia
  • She has a mental health disorder and refuses to stay on her meds or in therapy
  • She ran off with another guy
  • She abandoned her kids

I’ll grant in some cases that is true; those are the classic definitions of a life being a disaster.

Most of the time, it’s really just that Mom didn’t have the money to fight a custody battle, or she didn’t want to put her kids through a custody battle. Sadly, it’s not always assured that a court will grant residential custody to Mom anymore. Also sadly, custody battles are often decided by money: whoever has the most, and can hire the best lawyer wins.

In my case it … I pause to think for a minute. Writing this part is hard. I have had a very long road learning to let go of the guilt I felt over not fighting harder for my son; over not just staying married so I could stay with him; over all the things I did wrong 20 years ago…

________________________

Just now my ex-husband calls, breaking my train of thought. I’m actually wondering why my current husband hasn’t come up to my home office to do that yet. I so rarely get time alone to do anything on a weekend.

Anywhoo, Leading Man #4 (bumped from #3 by the dog) is out with my son today. “Joey, say hi to Mommy.”

A gruff 23 year old voice comes on the line, “Hi Mom.”

“Hey Leading Man #1! What are you guys up to?”

“Oh, we’re just going to lunch and then the game store,” my ex cuts in cheerfully. “Say, what are we going to do about college transportation? Are we still using the same service?”

“We’re switching, but after spring break,” I reply.

“Ok, well let me know what I need to do,” TheEx says.

“Will do.”

“Ok, say goodbye to Mommy, Joey.”

“Bye, Mom.”

“Bye sweetheart. Have a great time today!”

I wish I was there with him.

I have to finish this t-shirt!

–CMR

Posted in Long Distance Parenting, Motherhood, Non Custodial Mom, Non Custodial Parent, Non-Custodial Dad

Heart FALL-ure

Posted on by cmfalato

Every time I cross the interstate border, my heart falls into place…A few days later, it falls out again

One thing I definitely did not miss in my years as a long-distance parent, with my heart falling into place every time I crossed the NY/NJ border. I was that much closer to my son. The mother and child reunion was about to happen!

My heart would break every time I crossed back a few days later

I also did not miss, by any remote stint or glint, clogged highways. I hit a LOT of traffic commuting back and forth between Boston and Bergen County, New Jersey. Invariably, whenever I am on the road to or from Jersey, a third of Worcester, Massachusetts’s population is there. All of Connecticut is present too. …and at least half the drivers in New York and New Jersey are with me.

Invariably these days those drivers are upset with me. If you watch that TV movie montage of all the years I’ve been doing this, you notice something. After the 2nd time I was pulled over, going the speed of traffic on the Mario Cuomo Bridge, I slowed down. It was newly built but technically still under construction, which made the ticket worse.

Oh wait! The montage doesn’t show that one. The camera couldn’t get a steady shot. The cars flying by me and the police officer who pulled me over made the on-ramp shake.

I’m not complaining about 2 tickets in 14 years. I’m just going the speed limit and riding the right lane a lot more these days. That makes me hated by most of Connecticut, at least when I’m driving through it.

Speaking of which…

I look at the old-fashioned analog alarm clock sitting in the corner of my desk. Even if I left now, no shower, just tossed a bunch of random jeans, t-shirts, bras, and underwear into closest of about 10 different suitcases and weekend bags I’ve tried over the years – I think that’s a Vera Bradley at present. It could just be my husband’s Army surplus rucksack – and hit the road, I would still arrive in Trenton at …

Ohhh, I’m feeling optimistic… it’s 3:00 a.m.? Ok, I’d get there by noon.

Not kidding.

I turn off my sewing machine – the one I’ve been in front of since waking up 2 blogs ago. I HAVE a perfectly good purse for New Jersey. Why does the state intimidate me so? If I try hard enough, I might be able to get in 15 minutes of REM sleep before I have to get on the road. I wonder if the dogs have left me any room on the bed.

To be continued… 

Posted in Long Distance Parenting, Motherhood, Non Custodial Mom, Non Custodial Parent, Non-Custodial Dad

All the little things I missed

Posted on by cmfalato

I’ve lived apart from my son for most of his life, so why is he so much like me?

I’m not sure how my son turned out to be so much like his mother. I wasn’t around in person for a great deal of his life. From the time Joey turned 8 and I moved up to Boston – the only place I could find a job while child support arrears and credit card debit were steadily growing – until he turned 21 and went into a residential program for disabled adults, I was non-residential mom AND a long distance parent.

And yes, I drove a lot. I actually saw him quite a bit.

But despite all that driving, I missed a lot of my son’s life. Joey was a different kid every time I saw him, even when it was only a couple weeks between visits. I’d come down for Thanksgiving and when I returned for Christmas, he’d be a size larger. Or, as he got closer to adolescence – the bane of even a long distance parent’s existence, trust me – his voice would be an octave lower.

It was also little things I missed. When I moved in January 2010, Thomas the Tank Engine was Joey’s favorite show. When I saw him again that March it was Star Wars The Clone Wars. I’d pick him up from his after school program, check his backpack, and find a report card I’d missed. I wasn’t there for school plays and band performances. I did send my parents, or my ex would sit with his phone on in the auditorium so I could listen, but it wasn’t the same.

I didn’t know my son liked museums until his 8th Grade Teacher told me on the class field trip to Washington, DC (which I chaperoned. Brilliant, except for the sound of 60 teenagers on a tiny school bus talking endlessly for 8 hours).

I did call every day. And in 2015, Joey got an iPad mini and with it, FaceTime, so I saw him a lot more.

Well, I saw him when he wanted to see me. Long distance or not, I was officially the mother of a surly teenager who didn’t like to answer his phone, much less his tablet.

As that crab in The Little Mermaid said, “Teenagers man!”

Posted in Long Distance Parenting, Motherhood, Non Custodial Mom, Non Custodial Parent, Non-Custodial Dad

The Rogue Road Warrior

Posted on by cmfalato

Featured image: the Governor Mario Cuomo Bridge alongside the old Tappan Zee Bridge it replaced.

If they made a movie of my life, all you’d see is me driving.

Ugh! I have to be officially up at 5:00 a.m., and on the road by 7:00 a.m. at the absolute very latest, so naturally, at 3:00 a.m., I’m in front of my sewing machine making a new purse.

You know that friend we all have? The one who magically whips up stuff?

  • You’re going to a 50’s-themed Halloween Party, everyone else comes in t-shirts, leather jackets, and blue jeans and she has a hand-sewn, perfect poodle skirt?
  • You’re going on a double date and she and her date arrive in matching t-shirts?
  • You send out those pre-packaged Hallmark party invitations for your kids. She creates custom ones from cardstock?
  • You take the kids to the beach, and at lunch time, you pull out a couple juice boxes and PB&J sandwiches and she unpacks a cooler full of freshly sliced veggies, fruits, and whole wheat turkey sandwiches with the crusts cut off?

Yeah, that friend is me. Except for the gourmet lunch at the beach thing. That was my friend Jamie, as in Jamie Sommers, the Bionic Woman from the 1970’s TV show of the same name.

Everything I learned about early motherhood, I learned from Jamie.

Toddlerhood was as far as I got as a “real”, full-time mom. Then the divorce happened, or rather, I made it happen.

It had to happen.

Moving on.

When I need to relax, I create something, and I REALLY need to relax before a trip through Massachusetts, Connecticut, New York, and New Jersey. My son lately has been joking that he wishes my dog could teleport.

Man! I wish I could. Maybe I could even sleep through it.

Not a chance.

—————-

If someone made a movie of my life, the opening credits would show an endless highway. Maybe clips of me driving from Boston to Philadelphia across multiple highways over the course of 14 years and four cars.

The seasons would change: fall, winter, spring, summer.

The time of day would change: night, early morning, midnight, afternoon.

The cars would change: A 1998 gunmetal gray Toyota Camry LE; a 2008 gunmetal green Toyota Camry LE (bullet-shaped and more aerodynamic than its 1998 predecessor); a 2014.5 midnight, so called “Parisian Blue” Toyota Camry LE (longer and squarer than the 2008, not as cool as the 1998).

Finally, a 2018, dark gray Subaru Forrester (bought used. After 10 years in New England, I decided all wheel drive was a necessity).

Maybe you’d see the odometers on the first 4 of those cars whirl up over the 150K mile mark faster than, it felt like at the time I was driving them, I could blink.

You might get a cut away to the time I was pulled over alongside the entrance to New York Route 87, just before the Tappan Zee Bridge, and hear me telling the officer in response to his question about what I had to say for myself, “Well, the Pats stink and I’m a Jets fan.” (That got a chuckle from the officer, but it did not get me out of a speeding ticket).

Possibly, you’d get a glimpse of me crossing outbound of the newly-built Governor Mario Cuomo Bridge, which replaced Tappan Zee in the mid 10’s, late at night, just as the last car ever to cross the old TZ crossed on the inbound side.

I would definitely get older. Not the least in part because of Northeast Corridor Traffic.

Kiddo would get taller. A LOT taller. As a gangly teenager I would tease my shorter Aunt Liz about her height. “How’s the view down there?” I would ask.

Man! Karma is a bitch! My son loves putting his hand flat on the top of my head and moving it to where it comes up to the middle of his chest. He smirks at me the whole time he does it, too.

Like I said before, Leading Man #1 is a lot like me.