The precious in-between times

This is D drawing a picture of his poop.

We're knee-deep into one of the worst parts of the year. As the hockey season shakes out the last of its playoff teams, the NFL draft is too far away to care too much about it, and baseball is back in the front pages. Listening to baseball scores on sports radio in April is like watching a marathon of 80-year-old women moving in single file across the street. It doesnt matter what kind of shoes they're wearing. They're still old ladies and it's boring as hell watching them try to run.

Billy Packer is making stupid comments, as usual, acting like an @!$%#. Barry Bonds is back hitting home runs again, and baseball is being forced to behave like a responsible organization by Congress, perhaps the most irresponsible organization in American history. Nobody cares about the end of the NBA season, and the Indy 500 is still months away. Sports reporters everywhere are struggling to break a story of any interest.

Good timing.

Last night I ran up the stairs shouting and waving my hands. My wife was up there, folding clothes or something, and I had to bring her the news. The littlest one in the house finally crapped in the toilet. This was big. I was screaming my head off, and the little champ, usually shy about success, usually hiding his smiling face in his hands whenever he does something amazing (which is pretty regular for a 3-year-old, as parents know), was standing in the bathroom, pants around his ankles, wiping his ass, with the biggest smile and proudest look on his face that I've seen. His older brother was dancing in the kitchen, singing, "D went poopy in the potty! D went poopy in the potty!"

I hated to see that piece of @!$%# get flushed. I wanted to save it forever.

I realize that this doesnt mean the end of dirty underwear or accidents at the mall, but it's a big step for a kid who, for the past year, couldnt move his brain away from playing long enough for a 2-minute poop that would earn him a pirate toy or an ice cream cone or somesuch other brilliant reward.

And it was the kind of day that any divorced father embraces, even more than watching his favorite team finally win it all.

There are plenty of people in this mad world who keep trying to put women in some subservient place in society. But those people dont work in family courts. Despite the fact that statistics show, overwhelmingly, that a father's role in a child's life has a critical impact on that child's future lifestyle and survival, and despite the fact that there is still a staggering number of fathers who, due to pure physical construct, are able to get the hell out of the way, out the door and way down the highway, whenever an unexpected bundle of joy and poop comes along, there is still an enormous and confusing effort by family courts across America to make matters worse.

After a divorce, the mother usually "gets the kids" and the father has a "visitation" arrangement for something like every other weekend. It's nearly impossible, unless there is proven and chronic abuse by the mother, for the situation to be reversed. And for a father to get anything near equal time with his children, he has to spend years in court and thousands of dollars in fees. More and more states are making efforts to presume equal custody at the outset of a custody situation. But in practice, even in states like Pennsylvania, whose legislature has stated that judges must make every effort to order a 50-50 arrangement, that rarely actually happens. And since family court proceedings are closed, and the risk of angering a judge by filing appeals can make life even more difficult for the father, there is, really, little recourse.

But this article isnt about the larger situation. It's about me, my family, and D's miraculous poop.

Personally, I'm still fighting. I dont even have 40% custody time, and I've been at this for 4 years now, as of this week. I've had more than 4 court orders issued regarding custody. Some added time, some took time away. Once, my judge even took time away from an agreement that my ex-wife and I made in a pre-court proceeding, without cause or explanation. When I want more time, I'm accused of trying to get out of child support payments, but when my ex-wife wants to keep the majority of time, no one accuses her of trying to live off the support payments. My new wife and I live in a small, rented duplex apartment on a busy street in a small downtown neighborhood. My ex-wife and her boyfriend live in a $350,000 house within the boundaries of the best school district in 100 miles.

I'm not bitter or anything, but it sure is nice when something happens at our house, like a tooth falling out, or hitting a baseball for the first time, or crapping in the toilet instead of in the pants.

Because those things dont happen often.

And I needed that this week. I didnt even get to watch the Final Four this year because we were on the road. I'm too anxious about the NHL playoffs and the Sabres' hopes to really get excited about it — it will be enough if I'm able to not chew off the ends of my fingers during the first round. Baseball bores me, and the NBA is full of bad attitudes and worse officiating. Not to mention that I'm bound by moral contract to write a thousand words a day for the next who knows how long. It's been a rough 7 days, to say the least.

We have the boys with us this weekend, for Easter, and thats only because their mom doesnt want them...she has other plans, but, technically, it's her holiday. If I ever gave up a holiday with the kids, I'd lose even more custody time with the next court order — I'd be seen as an absent parent. But I'm not complaining that we have them. Every year, there are several days where we have the kids with us because mom has plans. Thats the best thing in the world to me and my new partner.

I cant really say that this shared custody arrangement makes me appreciate the kids more than I otherwise would. I know for a fact that because I've fought for more than 25% (the normal time granted in this region), the boys have developed a loving relationship with my new wife — more love to go around, and I know for a fact that my routine revolves more around my children now than it would had I not fought so hard so far, and even moreso than if my ex-wife and I had stayed together.

But most important, I think, is that D may always remember Dad running up the stairs, the gleeful scream from his step-mom, and his brother dancing in the kitchen, along with the pride of this toddler achievement. And the fact that we have enough time to create these memories for the boys is what I really appreciate, and I think they will, too.

And, eventually, they'll be able to stay up late and watch the Sabres lose in the playoffs, or the Bills kick the ball off the uprights.

And it will be them, instead of you, forced to listen to me wax sentimental about their childhood.

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