Tag: longdistanceparent

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

The Drive I Didn’t Take

Posted on by cmfalato

How I balance motherhood, self-care, and a deep-seated sense of guilt

My Son Calls Twice

My son calls me twice in a row that morning — right as I’m getting Rocky ready for training.

Twice.

That’s never just a casual “hey, what’s up.”

Later that day, he asks if I can come pick him up.

And just like that, I’m split clean down the middle.

On one side: that deep, instinctive pull — the one that says your child needs you, get in the car, go. It’s not gentle. It’s not rational. It’s tidal. It rises fast and urgent, like something alive moving through my veins.

On the other side: reality.

Can I physically make that drive to New Jersey on Memorial Day weekend?

Short answer: no.

Long answer: my back, my neck, my wrist — and let’s not forget my car — would all like to formally decline.

And I know it.

I know I need to stay home. I know I need to start being smarter about how often I make that trip instead of pretending I’m still capable of doing it like I used to. I also know that in a month or so, he’s likely moving into a Level I home, which means another long drive is coming whether I like it or not.

Still… I want to see him.

The Soundtrack of Loving Him From Far Away

Yesterday, I heard a song by Pink — “All I Know So Far.”

And it hit.

Hard.

I wanted to send it to him. Not just the song — the lyrics. The message. The parts that say all the things I’ve been trying to say to him for years.

Because this is what I do.

I build soundtracks.

I’ve been collecting songs for him forever — songs that explain how I feel, songs that say the things I can’t always find the words for, songs that carry lessons I hope stick long after I’m not in the room to say them.

It’s my way of still being there.

Even when I’m 210 miles away.

The Guilt That Never Packs Up and Leaves

Intellectually, I know I’m not a neglectful parent.

Not even close.

But try telling that to the part of my brain that believes, with absolute conviction, that a good mother is physically present. Every day. Every week. Not “when she can manage the drive.”

That voice doesn’t care about logistics or spinal alignment.

It just whispers:

You should be there.

And it doesn’t stop.

Reality Checks, Delivered by My Lower Back

I’m in the car with Rocky, heading home.

It’s been maybe 20 minutes. No traffic.

And my lower back lights up like it’s filing a formal complaint.

I breathe through it, try to relax, feel the pain travel through my hips.

And there it is — the answer, loud and undeniable:

New Jersey is not happening this weekend.

Not unless I want to arrive unable to stand up straight.

Meanwhile, in the World of Dogs and Chaos

A jogger crosses in front of the car.

Rocky launches himself toward the dashboard like he’s auditioning for a stunt role.

I yell — loudly — using a training command that, unfortunately, includes language I worked very hard to remove from my daily vocabulary.

The upside? It works.

The downside? I am now the person you hear in public aggressively swearing at her dog like a retired sailor.

Character development is not always linear.

Domestic Life, But Make It Slightly Ridiculous

Ten minutes later, we’re home.

Ella is in her crate, having miraculously not destroyed anything or peed in protest. She earns a piece of pepperoni, which she accepts like the tiny queen she is.

The dogs go outside. I head into the three-season room and kick off my boots — carefully placed there because one of these animals has a very specific hobby involving footwear destruction.

My husband calls on his way to Staples. He wants help figuring out how to connect his computer to two televisions as monitors.

Now, I can do this. I have done this.

But here’s the catch: I keep my tech current. He does not. Which means I would have to physically inspect whatever prehistoric ports exist on the back of his machine — and I choose peace.

I decline the mission.

The Life I Actually Built

I sit down, and my back reminds me — again — that I was supposed to ice everything last night.

It’s literally on my whiteboard. Right next to:

  • Socialize Rocky
  • Walk Ella
  • Walk myself
  • Write something
  • Read something
  • Duolingo (because apparently I’m learning Swedish now to read Fredrik Backman in the original language, like a completely normal person)

This is my life.

It’s structured, intentional, a little chaotic — and entirely mine.

I love my work. I genuinely look forward to it every day. That’s not something I take lightly.

But it exists alongside all of this — the dogs, the pain management, the guilt, the distance, the constant recalibration of what I can do versus what I wish I could do.

Choosing Not to Go Is Still a Choice Made Out of Love

I bring the dogs back inside — it’s too hot for them out there anyway.

Rocky practically puts himself to bed in his crate. He’s had a big day.

I head upstairs, boot up my computer, and start working.

Later, there’s a vet appointment for Ella (and yes, it’s exactly the kind of appointment you think it is, and no, I will not be elaborating further — because some things are better left implied).

And life continues.

The Truth I Keep Coming Back To

I didn’t get in the car.

I didn’t make the drive.

And that doesn’t make me a bad mother.

It makes me a human being with limits.

A human being who loves her son enough to stay functional for the long haul instead of breaking herself for a single weekend.

The tide still comes.

That pull toward him — it’s always there.

But sometimes love looks like showing up.

And sometimes it looks like knowing when you can’t — and finding another way anyway.

Posted in Autism

Autistic Before Autism Was Cool

Posted on by cmfalato

Late diagnosis, Gen-X masking, and raising a neurodivergent kid when you had no idea you were one.

Memorial Day, 10:37 a.m. I’m heading north to Hobby Lobby.

Sunroof open. No music. Just the road.

My husband’s outside dismantling something in the yard. The dogs are asleep. Sun pours through my sewing room windows. I could be quilting.

Instead, I’m doing 75 on I-93. Highways are, paradoxically, the quietest place my brain knows.

Not physically quiet—mentally quiet. There’s a difference.

(At least until one of my three beautiful humans — Leading Man #1, Husband #2, or TheEx — calls with something “urgent.”)

Growing Up Gen-X Before “Neurodivergent” Was a Word

As kids, autism meant one thing. If you were bright but socially strange, you got labeled “Hyper.” Difficult. Too sensitive. Argumentative.

I spent four decades assuming I was just an oddball with strong opinions and terrible social timing.

Then, at 48, my therapist mentioned — almost in passing — that I “met the criteria for Asperger’s Syndrome.”

I’d been autistic my whole life.

I was also raising an autistic kid. How in the actual hell had I missed this???

Moving on.

The Noise Most People Don’t Notice

My brain notices everything. Every voice in a room. Every shift in tone. Every raised eyebrow. Every micro-expression from someone standing fifteen feet away.

Then it tries to fix everything.

If someone nearby seems unhappy, I instinctively start adjusting — changing what I’m saying, what I’m doing, whether I’m talking at all — until everyone around me is comfortable.

Picture those paper fortune tellers we folded as kids—folded again and again, until nothing’s left but paper dust. That constant adapting was my social strategy.

That was my social strategy for most of my adult life.

The Existential Wardrobe Situation

I can mix patterns all day when I’m designing something. Quilts, scrapbooks, retail displays — mismatched is fine, actually encouraged.

Wearing mismatched underwear? My brain refuses.

Blue polka-dot underwear with a black-and-white bra? No way. I know it’s illogical—no one sees it—but my nervous system ignores logic.

Autism is often described as a difficulty in processing sensory input. I describe it as opening my closet every morning and wondering which item of clothing is about to start a philosophical argument with my central nervous system.

The “Fix Everything” Instinct

If someone suggested something, I assumed it was an instruction. If someone seemed unhappy, I assumed it was my job to fix it.

This made relationships… complicated.

I spent years anticipating what people wanted instead of just being myself. Then I’d quietly resent having to do things I never actually agreed to.

My husband — patient man — eventually sat me down and delivered the note in its simplest form:

“Stop folding yourself into origami shapes and just exist like a normal human.”

It took time. But I got there. Mostly.

On the Missed Diagnosis

A lot of people assume an earlier diagnosis would have made everything easier. Maybe. But I’m genuinely not sure childhood-me needed the label.

What do I wish? That I’d figured it out in my twenties, trying to navigate adult relationships without understanding why things felt impossible.

But growing up autistic before autism awareness was common gave me a crucial perspective: I understand what it feels like to be the kid who doesn’t fit. That insight matters, especially as a parent.

Motherhood on the Spectrum

When my son was growing up, I had one goal: he was going to experience everything a neurotypical kid experienced. With modifications, maybe. With extra coaching, definitely. But the opportunities would be there.

So I taught him to drive. Took him out for his first legal drink at twenty-one. Helped him decode the unspoken social rules that nobody ever writes down.

The world doesn’t always rearrange itself around you. Sometimes you learn the rules of the game — and then you decide when to play and when to walk off the field.

Understanding my own neurodivergence made me a better parent for one key reason: I fully grasp the stakes and challenges my child faces.

The Reset Button

For years, I never knew why I craved long drives, writing, or time alone away from others’ emotions.

Now I realize those are resets—moments where the mental noise quiets and I can process all the day’s data.

Without them, the network overloads. With them, I work pretty well.

Reflecting on all of this, I’ve realized one thing: Autism explains me, but it doesn’t define me.

When I first got the diagnosis, I let it define me for a while. Then I stopped.

I’m autistic. I’m also a mother, a writer, a project manager, and someone who has spent decades figuring out how to navigate the world in her own slightly unconventional way.

Autism explains some things, not what I can do. Maybe it even explains why I write — because stories refuse to shut up until I get them out of my head.

Some people write because they enjoy it. I write because the alternative is worse.

After years of decoding the world, the biggest breakthrough is finally understanding how my own brain works—and that knowledge is genuinely liberating.

Even if it took fifty-four years to get here.

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!”