The Parenthood Experiment

By Popular Demand

2024-08-11T19:55:00.000-04:00

Pizza Muffins

You will need:

English Muffins
Shredded Mozzarella Cheese
Pizza sauce
Mini pepperoni slices
Grated Parmesan Cheese (if desired)

Preheat your oven to 360 degrees.

Split and toast your English muffins to desired toastiness (we like ours only lightly toasted). Spread muffin halves on a foil-lined cookie sheet, center-side up. Top with pizza sauce to cover the muffin, parmesan cheese, mozzarella, and mini pepperoni slices, in that order.

Bake for 10-12 minutes until cheese is slightly golden brown.

Enjoy!

Post Script

2024-08-06T20:38:00.007-04:00

Pizza muffins.

They're toasted first so they don't get soggy as they bake.

We had enough for everyone to have six each.

Oldest wanted half-and-half: half with baby pepperonis, half with just cheese. Youngest will want hers to just be cheese when she gets home. Middle and I both wanted baby pepperonis on ours.

I called them for dinner (except Youngest, who is at band practice).

Middle demands to know how long I've baked the pizza muffins. Long enough.

Shortly it sounds like a mini-jet is throttling up in my kitchen, so I break Rule #2 and ask. "Why are you firing up the air fryer?"

Middle sheepishly appears in the doorway to the dining room. "For my pizza muffins."

What?

"They're not crispy enough."

All is well and good until I go into the kitchen to fetch my two remaining pizza muffins (I could only fit four on my plate) with pepperoni.

What's left is nothing but cheese pizza muffins.

Fiends.

Super Secret

2024-08-06T20:33:00.000-04:00

Scene: the kitchen, where Middle and I are assembling pizza muffins for dinner.

In fact, we are making 24 of them to make sure we have enough for everyone, and the muffins have all been toasted, and now I'm doling out the pizza sauce. I've gone through the half a jar I had in the fridge from last time we did this (just last week). Middle helped me open the next jar I had in the pantry...but that one is getting kind of low, and I still have a lot more muffins to slather with sauce than I'd like.

I voiced my concerns about our sauce levels.

"Do we have more?" Middle asked.

At this point, not having pizza muffins is, well, not an option.

"Look in the pantry," I said. "I think there's another jar of Del Grosso sauce in there. It's sealed, so even if it's old, it should be okay."

Middle finds it and checks the date...and gives me a dubious look.

"What's the date?"

"Twenty-two."

Oooookay. I start conserving sauce a bit as I work my way around the muffins on the cookie sheet. Maybe we don't have a backup plan after all. I'm not crazy enough to serve two-and-a-half-year-old pizza sauce to my family.

"Maaaaaaybe," Middle intones quietly, "you and I eat the ones that are fine and everybody else eats the ones with the janky sauce. We just won't tell."

Apparently Middle has no qualms about poisoning her family.

I get down to the last three muffins, and by golly, there is just enough sauce to go around, with a little left over to make sure all the muffins are sufficiently covered.

"Now we don't have to poison the family!" Middle said as she started covering the muffins with shredded mozzarella.

"And if it ever comes out that the family does get poisoned, you're my first suspect," I told her.

She just laughed and kept piling on the cheese.

Quoting John Watson

2024-08-04T18:31:00.001-04:00

Middle bounced down the stairs just now. Then, she leaned her head between the spindles of the rail that tops the half-wall of the dining room to look at me. (I've been editing in here the better part of the afternoon.)

"Can I go on a bike ride?"

"I thought the bike was broken," I said, as I considered whether I should even let her go. She is, after all, on day 11 of a 14-day grounding for doing Things Not Allowed.

"That's Youngest's bike. There are two."

I then studied her attire: a long-sleeved, oversized flannel shirt that came nearly to her knees. I echoed John Watson from Sherlock's premiere episode of series two. "Are you wearing any pants?"

"Absolutely not, which is why I was going to go change."

Well. At least she's honest.

And willing to put on pants before she goes out in public.

Just When You Think It's Over

2024-07-12T21:40:00.000-04:00

The divorce has been final for a month and a half now.

It still feels weird to say it: I'm divorced.

About four weeks ago, I got what I thought was Lady Tiger's last bill...and then everything with listing the house for sale got in the way of me writing this particular post. The damages aren't bad. Five hundred dollars to wrap up the end of my marriage.

It is, of course, $500 I don't currently have.

I had some pricey repairs to the house as I prepared to list it (plumbing is not cheap; I have gone into the wrong business). And there was a little mishap of a rather large tree branch coming down in the yard that cost a small fortune to get rid of, right after we listed the house.

Then the girls and I all went crazy getting the house into showplace condition, and darned if I didn't forget about Lady Tiger's bill until the next one arrived in today's mail.

Fortunately there wasn't much added. This time.

But in selling the house, Ex-Hubby now has to approve the sale and sign off on documents, which means Yours Truly is footing the bill every time my Realtor calls my lawyer.

The nice thing in all this is that we've found a house we love. It's right in our neighborhood, so we won't be moving far.

And we have an offer on our place. There's the rub. Ex-Hubby has to sign off on everything too, and he's in a place where he's a trifle indisposed, so to speak. So my Realtor and my lawyer have been talking. Which means I will be incurring more costs until this insanity ends.

I hate asking for help.

But I am.

In a little over a month's time, we will be in a new house. A fresh start for all of us.

We'd love to make that fresh start without having this ghost of the past hanging over us.

So many people have been wonderfully helpful the last few months.

You've given far beyond our wildest dreams, and there are no words to express the depth of our gratitude. We are so very thankful.

I still owe $500 to my attorney, who has truly done yeoman's work in taking care of me and the girls. Please, help us launch into our new lives.

Saying "So Long"

2024-07-10T21:20:00.000-04:00

I first met RadioGeek the fall of my freshman year of college. I had become friends with this one guy, Eventual Hubby, who was in the school's A Cappella Choir just like I was, and he knew RadioGeek from his home district, and they were both Youth Ministry majors. Because of choir, I spent a lot of time with Eventual Hubby, who spent a lot of time with RadioGeek, and soon RadioGeek was part of my regular group of friends. I’m pretty sure he was there the day the whole table was laughing at lunch, and the same crowd assembled at dinner, only to be just as rowdy, causing me to remark, “I haven’t laughed this hard since lunch!”—which only sent us off giggling again.

RadioGeek loved music as much as I did, even if his talents in that regard might have been a tad questionable. Moreover, he loved the same kind of music I did, so we had things to talk about. The names I grew up listening to—by golly, he knew who most of them were, and he liked them. Even at a Christian college, not everyone grew up doused in Christian music the way I had been. Most everyone hadn’t. But RadioGeek knew these singers and groups and was as much of a contemporary Christian music nerd as I was. He had the knack for filling in the precise 34 seconds of musical intro of Geoff Moore and the Distance’s cover of “I Can See Clearly Now” with his own “weather report” while we were in college. When I asked him to do it later for my own kids, he still had it…some twenty-five years later.

I had briefly considered making Communications my major—RadioGeek doubled in both Youth Min and Communications—so it’s something I picked his brain about once or twice. In the end, I chose English, but we’d shared a class or two along the way.

One of those classes was The Philosophical Quest. Required for all students, regardless of major, this overview of philosophy was team-taught by two well-known and -feared professors during our tenure at the school, and it was brutal. We formed more of a support group to get through it. Come to think of it, maybe RadioGeek had taken Phil Quest the semester before I did and barely squeaked by. I had someone to commiserate with as I slogged through the course.

RadioGeek worked the mail room at college, and I would often stop by to see if the mail had arrived yet. One day, I asked him what happened. Why hadn’t the mail come? He didn’t miss a beat: the Iraqis, he explained, had gotten hold of the mail and weren’t letting it go. (It was the early 90s. The Iraqis were responsible for everything bad.) His words had their desired effect, and I cracked up. From then on, it was a running gag. I no longer asked if the mail had come; I’d ask what the Iraqis were up to today. And every now and then, I’d find a slip of paper in my student mailbox that simply said: “You are loved” and signed with his initials. It was such a catchphrase of his that I didn’t need the initials to know it was from him.

Somewhere along the line, we took to calling each other by our last names. The rest of school called him “Radio” or “RadioG,” but to me, he was HisLastName, usually followed by three exclamation points. Sometimes said with amusement, sometimes said with frustration, but always said with affection.

When Hubby and I eventually got married, RadioGeek stood up for Hubby as one of his groomsmen. The day of the wedding, when all heck came unloosed and I was left alone at the house with no bridesmaids to assist me (my mother had sent them all ahead to the church), RadioGeek and one other groomsman hopped in a car and drove the twenty-five minutes from the church to my house to do whatever needed doing for me. I’ve never forgotten that.

After the wedding, RadioGeek remarked rather sadly that he’d no longer be able to call me by my maiden name. “To you,” I quickly reassured him, “I will always be that name.” The last time he was here to visit, he still called me that.

I knew, by the time Hubby and I married, that it mattered to me that RadioGeek found someone special to share his life with. I don’t think it was too long after his marriage to Sunshine that he introduced us on Facebook—something that both of us say he regretted aloud but was secretly thrilled with. We became fast friends, Sunshine and me.

RadioGeek and Sunshine came to visit us several times while we lived and served in the Cburg and Sburg area. There was one time, while the girls were still in school, that we went out to lunch, had some ice cream (Cookie Monster ice cream should be blue), and played a round of minigolf that had us all howling on the course.

It was RadioGeek's confidence that I have a great voice for radio—he wanted to hire me to do some voiceover work, but, he said, “I can pay you in cheeseburgers”—that led me to believe I could someday maybe do my own audio work for my books.

We went bowling one time when they visited, and the music had RadioGeek dancing in the lanes along with my daughter Oldest. (That’s one of her fondest memories of him.) I have pictures.

When the adoption of our girls was—at long last—finalized, RadioGeek and Sunshine came out for the celebration and happily billed themselves as honorary uncle and auntie.

When my father passed away, RadioGeek very graciously loaned me his wife for a week.

When hard times hit in my marriage, RadioGeek and Sunshine were there. They loved me and supported me, even from as far away as North Carolina.

Most recently, RadioGeek and Sunshine came to our area for a wedding, and they crashed at our house. They had enough time before the wedding to attend Sunday school with us on Sunday, and followed me to church. Once we arrived, RadioGeek quipped, “I very much enjoyed the over-the-river-and-through-the-woods-to-Grandmother’s-house-we-go route we took to get here.” When we got home from church that afternoon, I saw undeniable evidence of their visit: the sidewalk chalk had been found, and “You are Loved” was written in huge letters on my back patio.

RadioGeek, I wish more than anything that I could razz you one last time. Skip you in Phase 10 one more time. Howl at your stupid jokes one more time. I will miss your humor, your love, your gentle compassion, your wisdom, your friendship. My heart breaks for Sunshine and for all of us who must face the intervening years without you, until we meet again. I will miss you. And, yes, I know I’m loved.

BRUH.

2024-06-13T19:39:00.000-04:00

Just now, from the kitchen:

Middle (almost exploding): I have a tan! [pause] From the sun!

Youngest laughed.

Me (from the dining room): That's kind of how it works.

The Fries, by the very nature of their skin tone, have always tanned better than I do (um, don't), but Middle admittedly has the palest skin of the three.

Middle comes into the dining room and shows me her thumb, starkly pale above the second knuckle and brown all around.

Me: That's a tan, all right.

Middle: I can't believe I got a tan. Bruh.

Me: Maybe it's just dirt.

Middle: I can't rub it off! [rubs furiously at her skin] I can't rub it off!

Me: What were you wearing?

Middle: Bruh. Bruh! It's not coming off!

Me: A ring?

Middle: A band-aid. BRUH!

I laughed.

She ran back into the kitchen, howling at her twin.

Annnnnnnd...scene.

We're Having a Grape Time Tonight

2024-06-09T20:51:00.001-04:00

So I'm sitting here in the dining room, trying to concentrate.

There's a whoop from the kitchen, and suddenly Youngest says, "It looks like I don't have a lip."

This is, in my world, what one might call A Clue.

I also suspect that dinner might be done, so I get up and gimp into the kitchen.

Youngest is sporting a cloth bandaid over her lip. It does indeed look like her skin goes straight to her upper lip without stopping. More than a little weird, if you ask me.

Knowing I'm violating Rule #2 but feeling I need to, I asked, "Why do you have a bandaid on your lip?"

Middle answered. "Youngest had her mouth on my knuckles, and so I went to bump her with my fist, like this"--here she mimicked a gentle punch, if you can call it that--"but I really went like this"--she gestured a nice uppercut--"and I split her lip. I feel so bad!"

I avoided the question of why Youngest was apparently kissing her twin's fist and swiveled my head to look at her instead.

"I'm fine," she insisted, touching the bandaid centered neatly on her lip.

Oldest is trying to muffle her giggles.

Middle fetched some grapes from the fridge, which were quite tasty and had a pleasing crunch, as she then told us. "Youngest, you have to try one of these."

Youngest balked. "I don't like those."

We are a house divided when it comes to grapes: we all love seedless, but Youngest and I love green grapes, while Oldest and Middle will only eat the red ones. Middle was brandishing red grapes.

Middle selected a fat red grape and pushed it towards her twin's mouth. Youngest reared back.

"No, they're really good. Try it!" Middle switched out the next grape she picked, which was smaller, for the monster she was trying to force on Youngest. Youngest gamely let her twin pop the grape into her mouth...but then couldn't close her mouth to chew without it putting pressure on the split in her lip.

Now everyone's laughing as Youngest tries to eat the grape without having to hold her lip in the middle.

Middle grinned at me. "You might as well have had boys!"

New Beginnings

2024-06-09T20:37:00.000-04:00

May 22, 2024

I sat in the conference room of Lady Tiger's office. Ironically, it was the one on the opposite side of the building from where I'd been on my first visit to her office.

I felt a lot of the same emotions, and tears threatened. I blinked them back.

This time, I was here to sign documents. Five of copies of the same thing, to be precise: the Marital Settlement Agreement. It was finally back in Lady Tiger's hands after more than a month. More than a month and a half.

Lady Tiger walked in and greeted me warmly, and we got down to business. Each of the sixteen (16!) pages of each document had to be initialed before the notary would be brought in and I would sign each of those five copies in her presence.

It felt a little like signing a mortgage. But only a little.

The visceral shock of seeing Hubby's familiar initialing and signature on the pages hit hard. I thought I'd prepared myself for it. But there it was, on these documents that would help formally end our almost-29-year marriage. Familiar and beloved, yet at the same time...written by the hand of a stranger.

Lady Tiger brought in the notary once all of the initialing was done, and I did the actual signing then. After that, the notary had me swear an oath that every mark I'd made was true and correct and not under duress.

The whole thing took less than thirty minutes.

Lady Tiger explained that she would forward the divorce decree by email as soon as she received it, that they would keep my file for five years, and if I needed any help getting the car titled in my name, or with the sale of the house, then all I had to do was ask. She said the MSA would be filed in court the next day, and it would take a week, no more than two, for the divorce to be finalized by the court. We shook hands, and I left.

May 31, 2024

I'd been monitoring my email since Tuesday, which made me plenty distracted at work. I knew nothing would come then; the holiday would have slowed things down at court, so any work that normally would have proceeded on Monday was now happening on Tuesday, and so on, but still. I checked my email far more often than I normally would have.

Wednesday, I thought I might have a shot, and it was a lather-rinse-repeat of Tuesday, but the day went by with nothing from Lady Tiger.

Thursday passed in much the same fashion. I'd told the girls when we went out to dinner that night to celebrate Family Day that I was kind of glad nothing had happened that day; it could still just be Family Day, not the anniversary of my divorce too.

Math is not my strong suit.

Mid-morning, we had a lull at the clinic, which we never say out loud for fear we'll lose it, and I checked my email again.

There was an email from Lady Tiger. Congratulations! said the subject line.

I popped open the email.

Sure enough, there it was. The divorce was final. As of the 30th.

My provider had stopped by my desk to chat, and leaned over my shoulder to read. "That is awesome," she declared.

And yet...while I felt relieved...I couldn't seem to feel happy. Inasmuch as I'd been alone for the last three years, now I was really alone. Yes, this was what needed to happen. For that reason, I'd wanted it. But for that reason only. As the lies had come out, and the wounds to the children, I'd wanted it because they needed to be believed and protected at all costs. But never had I wanted my marriage to die. Not to the man I thought I'd married. The man I'd actually married had morphed into someone I no longer knew, and this needed to be the choice I made.

It still felt like I failed.

It still felt like I'd been robbed of the kind of 40-year love story my parents had enjoyed.

And, in one single piece of paper, it was now all over.

I felt very grieved.

Still...I'd been waiting a long time for this. The year and a half Lady Tiger had initially warned me it could take had become almost three years.

I texted the girls. The divorce is final. Rita's tonight, to celebrate?

One of the lesser delights of my life is that I am now gluten free, which means I can eat the frozen custard at Rita's that I love, but I cannot have a cone. Let me tell you, a large chocolate/vanilla twist in a dish is much smaller than one in a cone. When I say I want a large, I have expectations. What I got was not it. Should have gone to the old river-side dive place I know back home. But that's six hours from here. The girls all got their favorites, and we made a dinner of it, despite Middle's (great) idea that we all have something healthy to spite him as our celebration.

Honestly, being free and being together was the best celebration we could have.

Who's Tracking Who?

2024-05-18T22:24:00.002-04:00

So the church we go to is rather large. And by "rather large," I mean we have three campuses that run a total of seven combined services over any given weekend. "Rather large" also means we topped 3500 people, total, across those seven combined services for Easter weekend.

That's over two-thirds of the year-round population of the town I live in. (We're a university town. We double in size during the school year.)

So. Large.

We attend the main campus in Cburg, and somewhere along the line in the last couple of years in the brouhaha that is my life, I discovered that there was an over-40 singles group. They met, I discovered, after the Saturday night service. I have found in these ladies a group of hardfast friends...even though I'm technically still married. Therefore I go to church on Saturday nights so that I can go to group, and again on Sunday morning, I take the kids.

I'm telling you all this so I can tell this story.

Now, the Fries all got phones the fall after The Event. They were going to school full-time; I was going to work full-time nearly an hour from home...phones for everyone! They came with a hitch: Everybody installs Life360 on their phones and commits to using the app. I know where you are, you know where I are. I also explained this does not absolve them from telling me when they're going places just because "you can see me on Life360." I should not have to check; I should already know. (We've had this conversation, along with various others surrounding what Life360 needs to work properly, a few times.)

I've discovered, to my amusement, that I get tracked an awful lot.

I have the least social life, but the times I've gotten "Why did you leave work today?" when I get home are more numerous than I care to admit. I went to the dentist, child.

Today, while out grocery shopping with the twins (this is what constitutes an outing in my life), Middle asked me, "Are you going to church tonight?"

Well, duh. It's Saturday. This is my social night.

"Are you going to Olive Garden?"

I tried not to look astonished. How does she know? J only texted this morning that we were meeting there after church tonight! "As a matter of fact, I am going to Olive Garden tonight."

Middle gave me what can only be described as a wicked look. "Bring me breadsticks!"

This conversation then became a hilarious topic of discussion at the table after church, and conspiring how we were going to get our poor waiter, Al, to bring us some more breadsticks after we'd finished what we could of our meals, since three of us wanted to bring breadsticks home and there was only one left. Y said she would ask, since the rest of us were shy. She pointed to three of us, who were definitely not shy. Y is, I will admit, the least not-shy of all of us.

Our group broke up a little before 9, and I ended up with two breadsticks in my bag, and headed for home. Knowing I needed to pack at least one more box tonight before bed, I wasn't in any hurry to get out of the car and into the house. Since I knew we would only be at church for the 9:45 hour tomorrow, I wrestled my church bag out of the car with me. (Usually I just leave it in the car on Saturday nights for the next day.) But Youngest has a parade she's marching in tomorrow, so we have to cut out early. I looked at my Olive Garden bag. "Two breadsticks and three girls..."

I headed for the door...but didn't even have to dig out my keys. Middle yanked it open. "I've been tracking you!"

Well, usually they don't admit it out loud like that.

"Gimme."

I held out the bag to her. She was the one, after all, who asked for breadsticks.

"Thank you, Mother. Goodnight."

I love you too, kid.

Age is Just a Number

2024-04-22T21:49:00.001-04:00

"Mom, look."

Youngest held out her phone to me earlier this evening.

I did as asked and looked.

She was showing me the song that was playing, Lauren Daigle's "Thank God I Do." Youngest has been on a fast from secular music, so it's been nice seeing what she's listening to.

Now, Youngest is familiar with the song because she likes Lauren Daigle and has it in her playlist.

I am familiar with the song because I love The Piano Guys, and they chose to cover it and mash it up with an old hymn, "Be Still and Know," on their latest album, Unstoppable. It's one of my favorite tracks.

This led me to ask Youngest if she'd heard about the too-young death of Christian artist Mandisa, whose music I knew the girls had loved at one time.

Youngest was quite sad, she said.

At this point, Middle entered the conversation. "How old was she?"

"Forty-seven. A year younger than me."

Middle clapped her hands to her mouth, vertically. "You're 47?"

Youngest's eyes were wide. "Really?"

I nodded, a little surprised. They know my birthday. I thought.

"You're 47," Middle repeated.

"I'll be 49 in July," I pointed out.

"I've been telling people you're 45 for, like, the last five years," Youngest blurted out.

Well, I'm not gonna complain. "Keep doing that," I said. I'll take the extra free years of youth.

Always one to look on the bright side, Middle concluded, "At least you're not 50 yet."

Gee, thanks.

$2632.50

2024-04-20T22:21:00.000-04:00

The Marital Settlement Agreement has been with Hubby's attorney, Mr. Smug, since April 1. Almost three weeks, for those of you counting that sort of thing.

It took two weeks to hear back from Mr. Smug that he had at least forwarded it on to Hubby--he must use regular mail, you see, due to Hubby's current domiciling. He can't just email it.

So we are left to assume that Hubby has received the MSA.

And we're left to assume that Hubby is actually going to sign it.

Forgive me if I'm a little less hopeful on the second count than I am on the first. Jail mail moves slow, but it does get there. See, Hubby and I had hammered out an agreement some time in September 2022, chatting via the app the county jail had that let us communicate in the cheapest fashion, I took screenshots and forwarded those to Lady Tiger, and she drafted an MSA then. She asked Hubby to respond ASAP with any changes he wanted. That was early September. In December, I asked if he was going to do anything with the settlement paperwork, since neither I nor Lady Tiger had gotten so much as a peep from him. We finally heard from him around the first of March 2023. Six months. Six months of him doing nothing before he reneged completely on the agreement we had, going back to his first offer of more than a year before and adding insult to injury with that one. This MSA gives him more of what he wants, so he may well sign off on it, but I'm not counting on it happening in a timely fashion.

Hubby doesn't seem to like doing things in a timely fashion if it hurts me in some way.

He said at one point that he didn't want to bankrupt me, but he's doing a great job of running my finances into the ground anyway with all of his stall tactics.

The bill from Lady Tiger arrived last week, and it's going to cost me $2632.50 for her services to not go to court last month.

Thanks to an unexpected anonymous friend, I have $500 more in the legal fund than I did two weeks ago. But I'm still short $1100 (and fifty cents).

Which leaves me here again.

I can't do this without help.

I probably have another $2500 in legal bills (sorry, SnarkyDad, I know that's above where we've set the goal on this thing) coming after this, because I still have to sell the house and wrap that up before I can finally be fully free of everything.

And that's if I'm guessing my expenditures right. Lady Tiger is good, but she is not cheap.

So I'm asking again. If you can, help us out financially. Invest in the future of my kids. If the only help you can give us is sharing our link, I'm more than grateful.

The Good News

2024-03-27T16:45:00.007-04:00

It's the 27th, and I did not spend my morning in Court as scheduled.

But that's okay.

On Tuesday of last week, my lawyer approached me with an idea: What if we sent another settlement offer?

My knee-jerk instinct was a big, fat NO. I had offered two reasonable settlement options, and Hubby had discarded both. What I haven't said before is that both of those options came with me completely waiving all alimony and child support. So not only is he getting money out of the sale, he's also gaining-by-not-losing future cash in the realm of any support, of any kind, to the family he has essentially abandoned.

But I also knew, from my discussions with my attorney, that I was probably looking at getting either Hubby's last offer (a 60/40 split) or 65/35 on the house when it came to the hearing. I asked what the chances were I'd get more than 65% in trial. My attorney said about 20-25%. Eep. Not good, then.

Lady Tiger (my attorney) proposed a 65/35 split on the house, with closing costs to be split 50/50 by both parties, an agreement not to list the house for sale until a date of my choosing, and several other things that had already been mutually agreed upon regarding personal property and such. No digital photographs would be exchanged.

Well.

Decisions, decisions.

I talked with my mother. She liked all of Lady Tiger's proposal except the house sale split. Mom thought I should get more.

Heck, Mom, I think I should get more. And so does everybody else who knows this story.

SnarkyDad thought it was a good idea and offered his suggestion for when I should list the house for sale.

In the end, I was bothered by why we were reneging on our "last and best" offer, so I asked Lady Tiger exactly about that.

She gave me three excellent reasons for it:

So that Oldest would not have to testify at Court (she was going to in regards to the pictures and not wanting them to go to her father).
So that we would retain as much control as possible over how things panned out in the final order.
So that I wouldn't have to pay assorted court and court reporter fees (Hubby magnanimously refused to pay half the court reporter fees since I was the moving party in the divorce).

I thought those were sound reasons and said we should move ahead with extending the offer. Lady Tiger drafted it, I approved it, and it was sent off electronically that afternoon, with a deadline of this past Monday at noon to accept it.

We got an email from Hubby's attorney, Mr. Smug, on Thursday, I think, that said basically that he thought now we were getting somewhere and that this was how he thought Mr. Divorce Master was going to split everything anyway. I wanted to boink him right between the eyes, a la the Three Stooges. He didn't have to be so, well, smug. Even if he was right.

Over the next few days, I continued to be easily distracted by new emails on my phone, and my anxiety went up several notches over the weekend. I honestly wasn't sure how this was going to go: would Hubby take the deal and be done with it? Or would he reject it just to hurt me/thinking he'd get more out of the Divorce Master? I could not begin to predict how Hubby would react to this. He'd changed so much from the man I once thought I knew down to his soul.

One of my friends asked me what I was going to do if he didn't take the deal. I chuckled humorlessly and said I'd go to Court and get 65% anyway.

Monday mid-morning, I got an email from Lady Tiger, stating that Mr. Smug hadn't yet been in touch with Hubby about the terms of the offer. The prison had been supposed to call on Friday, but hadn't, and was supposed to call this morning at 11:30 to let them discuss. Talk about cutting it all close to the wire!

Lady Tiger's email pinged in at 11:58 a.m. The offer, she said, had been accepted. No need for trial prep that night at her office; no need for Court on Wednesday.

The next steps are to draft the Marital Settlement Agreement, have Mr. Smug review it, and then get it signed by both of us and filed. After that, the Court will issue the Divorce Decree, and the divorce will be finalized. I figure it may take a month for all that to happen at the most, depending on prison mail.

I still feel like the whole thing is a little surreal.

I am annoyed that I am waiving so much child support, alimony, and APL in the face of him getting such a huge percentage of the house's sale value AND getting to pay off his entire DOJ indebtedness all at once. That's something I feel he should have to work at paying off, not just essentially get lucky at paying it all off in one fell swoop because a) there's a lien on the house that has to be satisfied with the sale, and b) the DOJ will come in and take any incoming money in his name to apply towards his debt; that's part of his sentence. It feels a bit like a slap in the face to only get 65%. It feels even more like a slap to realize I wouldn't have gotten more in court.

Oldest and I went out to lunch today in a small celebration of Not Having To Go To Court. We sat in Chipotle, ate good food, and talked about Hubby (she's finally getting past him and what he's done), Youngest and their relationship (some things don't change, some things do), her boyfriend (he seems to be a good egg), and the upcoming move (she's looking forward to it now). We're continuing to hope and pray for a home that meets all of our needs. (We have a list.) We also talked about the differences between getting married and getting un-married. Both are expensive, I told her, although unless you're rich, getting married doesn't usually involve a lawyer. Getting un-married does.

Lady Tiger will have the Marital Settlement Agreement to me by the end of the week. I asked her what happens if Hubby refuses to sign after we've done all this work. She said she didn't think it would happen, given what Mr. Smug has told her about Hubby's financial situation, but she asked the Divorce Master to leave the case open...just in case. That way we can quickly reschedule the hearing if we need to. But she doesn't think we'll need to.

Soon, the only thing left of this adventure will be selling the house and the legal bills.

Do I Call This Part 8? An Update

2024-03-17T08:59:00.002-04:00

I met with my attorney before Christmas because I simply could not wait until after the holidays to learn the outcome of the December 11th Pre-Trial Conference. We met by Zoom for an hour and a half.

Most of the news was not good.

I'm going to tell you the good news first: the Divorce Master has declared this is not a 50/50 split case. That was something of a relief. But of course the Divorce Master hasn't looked at any of the evidence yet, either. He did, however, suggest to my attorney that I would likely be getting a larger portion of the assets because of the fact that I will not be able to collect any kind of alimony, APL, or child support from Hubby due to his imprisonment. To what end? Probably a 60/40 split, maybe 65/35.

It became rapidly clear, however, as my attorney and I reviewed the assets and debts of the marriage, that I wasn't going to be able to do the one thing I'd hoped for over the last two-plus years: keep the house.

I had already spent an hour one Friday night on the phone with our current mortgage servicer, seeing what I could do to put the remaining balance of our mortgage in my name. I cried when I got off the phone because it was so unfeasible. What they wanted to do to get me to keep my house was impossible, and that didn't even factor in an extra $30-40k to buy Hubby out. It was just impossible.

All because Hubby was insistent on having enough money to pay off his debt to the US Government with the sale of the house and have a little leftover to fall back on when he gets out of prison.

I'm sorry, but his worries about his after-jail life are not truly my concern.

My concern--and his, it should be--is the safe rearing of our children until they're grown...and thus a safe place for them to live.

I told the girls the day after Christmas that we were going to have to move.

On the one hand, they're mad. We love this house. It holds a lot of memories for us. On the other hand, the thought of a new place and new memories has a great deal of appeal. The house's memories aren't all good.

I have been packing up what I can here and there, stuff that doesn't need to stay out, filching empty boxes from work to bring home. The china cabinet. The library. The yarn for my crochet projects that are currently sidelined while moving is my new project. The scrapbooks. The shelves in the living room. Out-of-season clothes. Games that we're not playing. Christmas decorations.

Preparing to change our lives.

We sent an offer to Hubby's attorney of record: a 75/25 split on the sale of the house, since everything else was pretty much settled. We felt, my lawyer wrote, that this was a fair offer, given my lack of support of any kind from his camp.

The week that the response was due from Hubby's side, my lawyer received notification from the court that Hubby had changed lawyers. This is just five weeks before our trial is scheduled. My lawyer reached out to his new one to confirm he'd received our offer, and received a counter-offer in response: 55/45 split, and digital copies of all photographs from the marriage.

Well. There's a sticking point. The children do not wish for their father to have photos of them. Ever.

I discussed this with my attorney and we sent back what we called our "best and final offer": no photos, as we would be respecting the children's wishes, and a 70/30 split on the proceeds of the house, expiring on 3/15/24.

Hubby's attorney responded twelve days later with Hubby's own "best and final" offer of a 60/40 split.

My attorney and I began preparing for trial.

I began to quietly freak out.

My lawyer reassured me that she would support me no matter what I decided to do, trial or settlement, but suggested we prepare and gather our exhibits.

Court is in ten days.

Ten days.

The most recent bill from my lawyer's office came today. Almost $520. Between that and the one two months ago for $1500, I have maybe $100 in my little account for the divorce.

We meet on the 25th to prep for trial, which will be about two hours of time. Court is scheduled for three hours on the 27th. $100 is not going to cover us. Our GoFundMe is still active, and we'd appreciate your help as we head into this final stretch.

We Three Kings of Orient Are Tried to Light a Rubber Cigar

2023-12-15T23:33:00.003-05:00

It was loaded, and exploded...

Or ran into a Kahi. It's anybody's guess, really.

But my manger scene is down to two wise men.

It's bad, but I'm hoping to superglue him back into some semblance of normalcy.

This set is extra special to me because my mom made it some 40-odd years ago for her mother, and it got passed down to me.

Kittens are no respecters of antiques, I guess.

Sigh.

I Have a Problem

2023-12-10T20:58:00.003-05:00

I've been doing holiday baking this weekend, because this is when I can get it done, and I just hope it lasts.

I suppose that's problem #1.

Today, I made a staple around here, but tried it this time with gluten-free flour, something I've never had to do before. This is my first Christmas season being gluten free, and I wasn't sure all my favorites would hack it.

Yesterday's peppermint meltaways handled the gluten free measure-for-measure flour I use just fine. But they're delicate to begin with and don't travel well, so I don't think I'll be taking them in for the office cookie exchange, despite my plans. And yesterday's buckeyes were naturally gluten free (small favors), and so was the fudge (of course).

Today I tackled a box mix for lemon bars (new to me and I still haven't tried them; they need to chill awhile longer before I can cut them) and the perennial favorite around here: Peppermint Snowy Bars.

They'd finally cooled completely and I was able to dust them with powdered sugar a little bit ago. They're a bar cookie, so I cut both pans and then proceeded to taste-test both (an important step). I was thrilled when they tasted just like the real thing, and even the texture was right! (This is not always the case in GF baking.)

I was putting the cookies away when I realized I had a problem.

I'd bought six new goodie storage bins when I was at Walmart earlier, but as usually happens, they're even smaller than the ones I bought last year. A single batch of fudge won't fit in one of these bad boys, as I discovered. There was no way one was going to hold an entire 9x13 pan of bar cookies.

Well, first step: get rid of cookies. I took three upstairs to offer to the girls.

Youngest actually moaned over how good the cookie was. Medium echoed the sentiment around a mouthful of confection.

"These are awesome, Mom."

"Gluten free," I said to Medium.

"Really?"

"That's the good news," I said. "The bad news is we have a cookie storage problem."

"No, we have my stomach," Middle fired back.

This kid.

I don't think her stomach can hold an entire pan of cookies, but I shouldn't ask.

She might try.

In the end, I used up all but one of my remaining goodie bins for the Peppermint Snowy Bars.

I honestly don't know what I'll do with the next rounds of fudge (I need to make at least two more vanilla mint) or the lemon bars chilling in the fridge.

Get more bins, I guess.

It's sure not fair for Middle's stomach to hold all the cookies.

New Words

2023-12-09T17:44:00.000-05:00

Me, coming back into the kitchen: Put 'em back in for a little longer?

Youngest is taking Christmas pinwheel cookies out of the oven for the second time.

Youngest: Yeah, they didn't look right.

I'd had a similar experience the other night with my first attempt at peppermint meltaways.

Me: Maybe there's something wrong with the oven.

Middle, who has been spectating and taste-testing but not actually baking: Yeah, I had to ovenate something the other day, and . . .

I just looked at her.

My word kid.

Ovenate.

Middle: Ovenate. I'm just making up words now.

Me: You mean cook. Bake.

Middle: Yeah. Ovenate. I'm telling you, I'm losing it.

Maybe, maybe not.

She's given me two blog posts in one day.

Tis The Season...

2023-12-09T13:59:00.002-05:00

...for Christmas goodies.

I spent most of last night working on a double batch of buckeyes (a big favorite that didn't get made last year), doing all the prep work so that I didn't have to do anything but dip today.

I'm standing in the kitchen this afternoon, trying to keep Kahi from eating toothpicks and naked buckeyes and generally being a nuisance, as well as dipping said buckeyes, when Middle walked in.

She took one look at what I was doing and asked, "Are those buckeyes?"

Ask a silly question...

"No," I said with a straight face.

"Oh. What are they?"

I grinned. "Buckeyes."

Middle gave me a sly smile. "Do they need taste testing?"

I grabbed one that had fully set up and handed it to her. "I've already taste-tested a couple, and they were pretty good, but..."

"They're delishish," she said around a mouthful of chocolate and peanut butter confection.

I'm surprised she stopped at one.

Changes, Part 7

2023-12-05T18:50:00.006-05:00

Auntie Jlwrites, I can hear you saying to me, why are you telling us all of this stuff? It can't be just catharsis.

Well, there's that for sure.

And this is a family blog, which chronicles the events of my family. These have been some pretty big events, if I don't mind saying so myself. They've forever altered what our family looks like. Someday my kids may want to know what happened in a fuller way than our conversations have said, and they'll have this record to look at.

It also shows that even what looks like perfection on the outside can turn ugly when sin sinks its claws into it.

This kind of stuff is everywhere, and it needs to be talked about. It hid in my home, behind a man wearing the mask of a Christian. The more it gets talked about--that it happens, that it's real, that pornography is a threat and an addiction that claims lives in an altering way and rips families apart--the more light comes in and kills it.

This happened to us.

I think, in some ways, we are stronger for having lived through it.

He's sentenced. His projected release date is more than eight years out, with credit for time served and time knocked off for good behavior.

I am, however, still fighting for my total release from this nightmare. It's not quite over.

September 2022

Hubby and I had been chatting (sort of) via the texting app that he has access to while incarcerated in BigTown County Jail. We don't need lawyers, he'd written. He cited that we've been together twenty-six years and ought to be able to figure out a way to amicably split the marital property ourselves, without any attorneys in the mix (to muck it up).

So we hammered out an agreement. He'd wanted to boot me out of the house after the last kid had flown the coop, sell it then, and split the profits. That was his first offer that he'd sent my attorney. He asked now what my plans were for the house. I said I planned to live in it. The house was the biggest thing in contention. He was willing to agree to everything else and said he'd only asked for 10% ownership of my writing (which, I'll point out here, predated my relationship with him) because he desperately felt he needed it as a bargaining tool. I had no problem with most of what he'd asked for in return, and in the end, we'd messaged back and forth until we'd hammered out an agreement that was agreeable to both of us.

Or so I thought.

I forwarded the screenshots of our conversations to my attorney so she could draw up the Marital Settlement Agreement from those. She sent it off to Hubby for review, with the instructions to let her know as soon as possible if there were changes he wanted to make.

And we waited.

And waited.

Mid-December 2022

And waited.

Prison mail is slow, but this is ridiculous. I messaged him about something else entirely, but tacked on a post-script: "Are you going to do anything about the settlement paperwork, or do I have to make other plans?"

When I heard back from him via the app a few days later, he responded angrily about the first thing I'd mentioned, and then said he was going to do something about the settlement paperwork "soon."

Right. I'd seen his "soon." The last time he'd said he would do something soon, it took him 8 weeks to do it.

March 2023

It was finally "soon." Hubby wrote to my attorney, saying he was going back to his original counteroffer (the one in which he wanted 10% ownership of my writing) to settle the marital assets and debts.

And one more thing.

He wanted my wedding and engagement rings returned to him, as part of his personal property, as they were "contingent upon a continued marriage."

I almost came unglued at work when I read that. I messaged SnarkyDad, who did some fast research for me, and determined that my state's law already has precedent for that: the rings belong to me from the moment of marriage. They are legally mine and I do not have to give them back to him. Whew.

I told my attorney I was not willing to accept his (ridiculous) proposal, and said I was not willing to attempt negotiating with him again, when he can take as much time as he wants to respond. I want this divorce over. Let's go to trial.

Scary words.

She prepared the necessary filings and I sent in the money--$350--for the filing fees for a Divorce Master to be appointed.

Hubby, meanwhile, had written to the Court without copying my attorney, something she had asked him not to do. He complained that I am controlling all the marital assets and not releasing any marital funds to him (what marital funds? any money that was ours was long gone, in taking care of us before I found a job; also I had no way of releasing money to him anyway, but that's beside the point). He had no way of getting legal representation, he said; his calls to the PA Bar Association are disconnected before he had a chance to talk to someone. His criminal attorney had told him he would not likely get free representation because we have real estate involved (hey, I didn't qualify for Legal Aid, either). He wrote that I refused to communicate with him (not entirely true; I just wouldn't speak on the phone with him). He begged the judge for help.

Twenty days later, as she went to file the next round of paperwork, she discovered that the certified mail return postcard didn't have the date of receipt written on it. The clerk at the prison had neglected to put that on. Further investigation showed that even the tracking number had been improperly scanned, so we couldn't even prove delivery that way. With no proof of service, we couldn't do the next filing. We had to start all over. Argh.

June 2023

We received word that Hubby has an attorney now. No idea who is funding her, and I'm not asking. My lawyer thinks this is a good thing. We may be able to avoid a costly trial and settle now that he has an attorney.

Hahahahahahanotsomuch.

July 2023

Maybe it's August now? I don't remember. We'll call it late July. All I really remember at this point is that my attorney wanted to hear from his attorney by June 30, and his attorney wanted mortgage statements on June 28 while the girls and I were in Virginia Beach (sorry about your luck) and so she didn't get them until July 5 after we got back, and it was at least another month before we heard his attorney's proposal. So...

August 2023

We got Hubby's attorney's proposal.

Oh, he agreed to everything else on the list (including me waiving child/spousal support and alimony), but he wanted me to buy him out of the house to the tune of $65,000...or sell the house now, and give him half the profits. I admit I was also a little surprised when his lawyer indicated that "It is my understanding the parties have come to an agreement" about personal property, because last I knew, he still wanted my rings, and I wasn't budging on that.

The whole point of me waiving support was so that I would get the full value of the house, and he wouldn't have more debt hanging over his head when he got out of jail. I'm nice like that.

Plus, there was the matter of the lien on the property. You know, the one on his half of the equity. To secure potential payment for his restitution for his crimes.

The proposal was preposterous.

I told my attorney, after some thought, some discussion with my mother and SnarkyDad, and some prayer, that we needed to move forward with trial. Mom and I had done some rough calculations and figured out that, should Hubby actually be paying child support and alimony pende lite and alimony, he'd be looking at owing me nearly $90,000 for everything. That far exceeded what he wanted from me for the house. I paid yet another $350 for Divorce Master fees (the first sat in an account and slowly been whittled away at).

My attorney wrote a brilliant letter to his, declining the offer, stating that the lien on the property because of his crimes thus forfeited Hubby's rights to the equity in his name. And, of course, further that what he would owe in various supports exceeded his equity, and that we would proceed with a filing for a Divorce Master.

And the paperwork finally got filed for a Divorce Master.

October 2023

The Court has appointed a Divorce Master. Next up is the Pre-Trial Conference, which is just for the attorneys and the Divorce Master, where they present evidence, go over things, and learn when the trial will be. My attorney has advised that this will likely not be until after the first of the year.

Present

The Pre-Trial Conference is now set for December 11. My lawyer has told me not to expect a trial date until spring. I would love to simply have this settled and move on, but Hubby is not of that mind. He wants his half of the house and his cake too.

My lawyer is good, but she is not cheap.

I have a good job, but it covers our regular expenses. It doesn't cover...this.

SnarkyDad set up a GoFundMe for me, because he's a gem like that. It is, however, running low since I took that last $350 out of it to pay for Divorce Master fees. I am blessed to have so many people--friends, family, outright strangers--who have contributed to the cause of helping me manage to pay for thousands of dollars of legal fees I could not otherwise afford, all to get me out of a marriage I cannot, in good conscience, stay in for the sake of my kids.

Ahhhh, here you are, Auntie Jlwrites. You're shilling for cash.

Consider it an investment.

An opportunity.

A way to change the world for that one starfish you throw back into the sea so it doesn't suffocate.

My kids and I need out of this. We're suffocating.

So if our story has moved you at all, I'd consider it a huge blessing if you'd hit that link up there and donate.

Thanks for listening in. May the season bring you joy.

Part 8

I Strongly Suspect...

2023-12-05T18:45:00.005-05:00

...that Youngest's dinner tonight was nothing more than a big bowl of chocolate pudding and half a dozen or so of those Pillsbury Reindeer cookies.

You know, the presliced ones?

My kids love those. I bought a couple boxes of those and a couple boxes of the Christmas trees. Came home from work today to find Youngest had just taken a bunch of reindeer cookies out of the oven.

Do I care that she had pudding and cookies for dinner?

I suppose I should.

But tonight I don't.

Sometimes, you've just got to live and let live.

Changes, Part 6

2023-12-05T17:54:00.003-05:00

April 26, 2023

The Federal Courthouse at BigTown is an imposing building, but then, it's supposed to be. After circling the block where it was located in downtown BigTown several times, I found a place to park (what a racket courthouse parking was, let me tell you), grateful I'd arrived early. It wasn't yet 9, when I was to meet with Pastor Stick, my mother's pastor, who had agreed to accompany me. Not that my own pastor wouldn't, but when you're part of a flock that's more than 2000 strong...well, I preferred the company of Pastor Stick for this. He'd preached my father's memorial service. I was comfortable with him being present for this...event.

I passed through security without a blip; there were no lines. Just me and four security guards, who directed me to the Clerk of Court's office, so I could find out where to go in the massive building. Even PACER last night still reflected "courtroom TBD." It was an interminable five-minute wait to finally hear where I needed to go: Courtroom 2, seventh floor.

The courthouse was named for the judge presiding over Hubby's case, so I stopped to read a bit about her on my way back towards the elevators. Judge Stallone--her name amused me--had been appointed by President Carter, so she's been doing this a long time, and she had a decorated career.

I was coming out of the ladies' room (I had the time) when I saw Pastor Stick clearing through security, and was that SIL? Yep, and there was also Bro, at the security station.

I hadn't known they were coming.

We took the elevator to the seventh floor and ended up meeting up with Agent Fist, the one who'd led the investigation and subsequent raid on my home. He was a nice, humble man, and I liked him well enough, but it still gave me the jitters to see his name pop up on my phone. We exchanged pleasantries, and then the Assistant US Attorney arrived.

Now there was a man who did not match my mental picture of him. His name made him sound very Clark Kent, tall and strong and very much the picture of American justice. The AUSA was short, rotund, and balding. If I hadn't felt so overwhelmed by other emotions, I would have laughed. Agent Fist and AUSA Kent entered Courtroom 2, and the rest of us stood out there and chatted until it was almost 9:30, and then we entered the courtroom.

I was immediately proverbially smacked in the face with the sight of my in-laws; I had only been half-expecting them: my mother-in-law (whom I still adore), my husband's brother, and his wife. They sat on what had to be the defense's side of the room with a pretty strawberry blonde, who was probably some kind of coordinator for families of the defendant. I mentally shook myself. It's all wrong, I thought. Nothing is like Law & Order's courtrooms. My in-laws didn't greet me; I didn't say anything to them. I couldn't blame any of us.

"Let's sit over here," I said, gesturing to the second wooden pew on the prosecution's side. I filed in, and everyone followed me--Bro, SIL, and Pastor Stick.

I had never felt so alone in my life.

I sat and stared at the Great Seal of the United States on the wall behind the judge's bench, and wondered how on earth my life had come to this.

9:30 came and went, and I overheard the marshals asking for "a twenty on Stallone's 9:30." Thanks, Dukes of Hazzard, for teaching me the terminology to know that they were wondering where Hubby was. They must have gotten a satisfactory answer, because the court clerk nodded and went back to the judge's chambers.

Then Hubby came in, shackles on his hands and feet. He didn't acknowledge me at all, but smiled at his family.

Judge Stallone entered, and the bailiff called, "All rise."

The case was called, and Hubby's attorney spoke first. She said she did not wish to disrespect the terms of the plea deal, but she did want to call Her Honor's attention to the fact that Hubby's family was here to support him today when they had previously been unable to do so at the Change of Plea hearing. That being said, Defense requested that the Defendant be placed at the FCI Caribou, that he might be closer to his family. Then Hubby's attorney sat.

AUSA Kent stood up to speak next. He spent several minutes detailing observations from the report submitted by the psychiatrist who'd evaluated Hubby, having spent a total of 90 minutes with him: that Hubby had "accidentally fallen into" child pornography; that he was "unlikely to reoffend"; that he had suffered from a pornography addiction for a long time, due to periods of depression which could be traced back to several things. I frowned as Kent listed those things; I had expected Hubby to try to blame me, and he had, right there. Sigh. And now everyone in open court had heard him use me as an excuse. He'd had this problem for longer than he'd even known me! Kent went on to say that he disagreed with the psychiatrist's report (I stopped myself from shouting, "Thank you!"), based on the fact that Hubby had shared 2,411 images and 20-some videos. 2,411! I almost fell off my seat. That's way more than 600! This was not, Kent concluded, the actions of a man who "fell into" finding child pornography. It was clear, Kent stated, with Hubby's history of distribution, that he was a dangerous man. I was glad somebody besides me recognized it.

The judge nodded--not so much in agreement as in consideration. Then she asked if Hubby had anything he wished to say to the Court.

I have no idea if it was scripted and rehearsed, or if he spoke off the cuff. What I did do was pay very close attention to everything he said. He said he'd learned a lot about the things he'd done and how hurtful they can be. He said he'd embarrassed and shamed his family--his mother, his brother, his sisters. (That's it. No mention of his wife--which I understood--but no mention of the shame, embarrassment, and pain he's brought to his children.) He went on to talk about the hurt he caused the children he victimized, and added that he'd lost his relationship with his own children. It was more of a poor-me statement than it was an "I'm so sorry I've caused this." He finished up by saying he was sorry, but not what for, and he never once said "I was wrong."

I watched the judge more than I did Hubby during the sentencing, so I have no idea if he looked shell-shocked or not. I knew from earlier in the hearing that the sentence range recommendation was 151 months to 188 months (12.6 years to 15.5 years; I did the math right there in the courtroom). The judge imposed a sentence of 151 months. She announced there would be no fine, as the Court had found the defendant had no ability to pay; there was, however, a $100 assessment that was due immediately (a standard fee). She also imposed 10 years supervised release and everything that goes with it; registration as a sex offender and everything that goes with that (including that he was not to have communication with his own minor children); and he was ordered to pay $33,000 in reparations to 11 named victims--whose names she then read into the record. The judge finished by saying she would recommend FCI Caribou, but where Hubby would ultimately end up was the determination of the Bureau of Prisons.

The judge departed, we all stood, and it was all over.

Afterwards, he was led out, and I watched him mouth "I love you" to his mom, brother, and sister-in-law before he left.

"I don't know if I should believe anything he said," I commented quietly after my in-laws had left the courtroom without a backward glance.

"Oh, I wouldn't believe a word of it," Pastor Stick said.

SIL was angry. "He wasn't sorry at all."

Well, no, he wasn't. I pointed out that he hadn't mentioned us at all, and he'd never once looked over at me.

SIL shook her head. "He looked at you once."

I hadn't seen him even glance my way.

The victim relations specialist I had been in email conversation with came over to meet me in person when the hearing was over. She answered my many questions, but the ugly reality remained: he was sentenced, and we were not yet divorced. He had fought any settlement opportunity and had reneged on the deal we had come to back in September of '22. This meant, the specialist explained, that the government could put a lien on my home to secure his debt. But she was not the person to ask for sure, and she gave me a name and a number to call.

Pastor Stick departed for some other business in BigTown, and I now had the whole day ahead of me to do...whatever I wanted.

Bro, SIL, and I ended up going to a nearby Burger King and having a very early lunch. We sat and talked for several hours.

It would be six weeks before a random check online showed that Hubby had left the BigTown County Prison and was now in BOP custody at FCI Caribou.

Part 7

Level V Beverage Alert

2023-12-04T21:26:00.000-05:00

It's been a Monday. Can I get a witness?

I messaged SnarkyDad and told him I needed a mood boost and went looking through my phone for stuff to amuse me while I waited for him to respond and for Youngest to finish cooking dinner.

So, over dinner, I told the girls the same thing: I'm feeling kinda down. Tell me something happy, something that will make me laugh.

They tossed around a few things.

Oldest has finished a show she's been watching, and that made her happy.

Youngest has jazz band tomorrow, and that makes her happy.

Middle giggled.

Oh no. I know that giggle.

"I nibbled a banana down to a penis shape and threw it at Youngest. Then it broke."

"It broke because you fell on it!" Youngest shouted.

I just sat there and blinked.

Folks, I can't make this stuff up.

Changes, Part 5

2023-12-04T17:50:00.004-05:00

Mid-October 2022

I received a call on my cell phone while at work, and I picked it up--unusual; I mostly let my voicemail pick up because I'm, y'know, at work. They can leave me a message. I'm dealing with patients and doing my job. But my mom has been in the hospital and her hospitalist has been calling me daily. I thought that's who I was getting on the other end of the line.

Not even close.

A very nice lady introduced herself as working for the Court and asked if I had a few minutes to talk about my husband. She was working on the Pre-Sentence Report and had some questions.

I called to my partner that I was going to be a few minutes and took the call upstairs.

The lady asked me to confirm Hubby's date and place of birth (after twenty-six years of marriage, I ought to know those), how many siblings he had, where he grew up, and what kind of childhood he had. She also wanted to know if Hubby had ever been physically or sexually abused. Not to my knowledge, I said. He'd never mentioned anything of the kind. I also confirmed when and where we married and that, yes, I was seeking a divorce neither of us wanted but was the best course of action, based on his grooming activities. No, I said, I had no idea when those began, but law enforcement, social services, and the FBI were aware of his behavior. Middle had by then undergone three forensic interviews, as more and more information came out.

Yes, we have children: four of them. Three adopted, fourth of the heart. It works. Please don't ask me to explain that further.

No, I have no idea why he did these terrible things. Increased levels of addiction always wanting more? That's all I've got.

Her final question was to ask if there was anything I wanted to share with the Court. What a loaded question. I settled on saying that the children he violated deserve justice. So do his own children. I want justice for them all. This is not the Hubby I married. I don't know who this Hubby is.

The conversation left me off-kilter for the rest of the day.

I had figured, with the sentencing report due by the 19th or whatever of October, that sentencing wouldn't be far behind, and we could close this chapter of our lives.

I was wrong. It was still many months away.

January 31, 2023

I was checking PACER, just for kicks. You know, to see if anything new had popped up since the last time I was there.

And there it was.

Sentencing Hearing.

I opened the file and carefully read the brief information.

They'd set a date: April 26, 2023, at 9:30 a.m. at the Federal Courthouse in BigTown, courtroom to be determined.

I blinked. My eyes did not deceive me. That really said April 26, 2023--exactly two years to the day of his arrest. Huh.

I waffled for the longest time on whether or not to attend the hearing. On the one hand, it was going to tear me to pieces to watch him come in, dressed in prison garb, and see him be sentenced. The whole thing just screamed DIFFICULT. On the other hand...I really wanted to see and hear for myself what would actually take place in the courtroom. I wanted to know if he was going to try to blame me for his crimes.

In the end, I went. But I didn't go alone.

Part Six

Long Live Virginia Beach

2023-12-04T05:29:00.000-05:00

I mentioned in a previous post that we went to Virginia Beach this summer for vacation.

I know, it's kind of late to be doing a summer vacation post, but hey, at least it's here.

We went to Virginia Beach last year for vacation after our plans to go to SeaTown again with Special Edition and Mr. Nurse never were able to materialize. In conversation with my dear friend Netta on one of our many monthly get-togethers, she had mentioned how much her family loved Virginia Beach, and I decided last year it sounded like a nice place to go. We'd never been, and the drive was no worse than to SeaTown. We had a lovely time last year, and decided to go back this year.

This year our hotel was much closer to the beach; we were a whole block away, which was super nice. Also super nice was that the price was a couple hundred dollars less than what I'd paid last year.

We arrived on a Sunday night, and got settled into our tiny little suite.

The next day we hit the beach. The girls played in the waves while I sat in the shade of the beach umbrella (I am the sort who needs SPF Bulletproof) and pulled out my book to read. This is how I like to enjoy my beach vacation.

On Tuesday we went mini-golfing. Oof. Expensive. But we had lots of fun. I made us stop mid-course for a "groupie" (you can't call it a selfie when there's four of you in the picture, can you?) and the girls obliged. We went back to the beach after mini-golf to find it much more crowded than it was the day before. Thunder had us leaving earlier than we would have liked, as storms rolled in, but then we went thrifting. The twins--Middle especially--were eager to call their friends and tell them all about their purchases.

Wednesday was more beach fun, and then meeting up with Ms. Sunshine and Mr. W for dinner. Ms. Sunshine is a college friend, and her husband is an editing client of mine.

Thursday and Friday were both the same; we went to the beach. How boring, I know. But this was a beach vacation. I got to enjoy reading three books over the course of the week and the girls all turned deeper shades of tan than they already are. I found myself missing the days when they were little and loved making sand castles and digging holes and doing general little-kid stuff, but then, I also enjoy now, when I can let them go play in the waves and not have to be out there myself. (I still did a head count often.)

We had an excellent time, and hopefully we'll be able to go back next year.

Changes, Part 4

2023-12-03T00:04:00.005-05:00

I continued to learn more and more disturbing things that Hubby had done, things that, for the sake of my children, I will not lay bare here. Suffice to say that I had made the right decision in pursuing the divorce. I was disgusted by the things I learned, and heartsick for my kids.

Christmas 2021 arrived, and I did my best to make it a good one for the kids. We had taken the traditional Christmas morning pictures, opened stockings, had breakfast, and were opening gifts when it happened.

Hubby called my cell phone.

In retrospect, I should have just ignored the call, but then he would know I was avoiding him. As it happened, the way it worked out was probably for the best. I answered the call, but then barely got a word in edgewise as he ranted on about the grooming I'd (rightly) accused him of, what that meant I believed he wanted to do to his children, and how he couldn't believe I believed that and got the children to believe it too. (Which is not exactly the way it had happened.) He'd checked his heart, of course, and it was clear. He didn't do anything wrong. I sat and listened, unable to figure out how to respond and unable to be impolite and just hang up on him. The call would only last 15 minutes, I knew, and I also knew that there was only maybe 18 minutes of time left that I'd prepaid.

I let him rant. I said I didn't know what he wanted me to say. My daughters were getting uncomfortable. The merry mood was gone. Special Edition typed furiously on her own cell, brought it over, and stuck it in my face. You don't owe him anything. Hang up.

I smiled at her (probably not well), and at last got thanked for using GTE. I dropped my phone in relief.

And he called back.

He apologized for being so harsh, and wished us a merry Christmas, and but everything was tempered by a "but I had to get that off my chest." He wasn't finished when the call disconnected due to running out of prepaid time.

I wasn't sorry. And, I decided at that moment, he wasn't getting another dime of phone time. I would only communicate with him via the texting app...where I could screenshot messages and have proof of things that were said. Not another dime. I am proud to say I kept to that.

We went back to opening gifts, but it took a while for our previous mood to be restored.

Most of our communication from then on centered on messages about the divorce, which he was mad about, or him asking about the kids and me not telling him anything more than sparse information. The girls didn't want him to know about their lives.

August 17, 2022

It's a Wednesday night, and I'm sitting in Panera Bread, enjoying a quiet and solitary dinner by myself while the girls are at youth group. It's my little weekly treat to myself. I've brought my computer, thinking maybe I'll get a little writing done. I don't use the wifi when I'm there because I don't trust free and open wifi, but I don't need it to work on my novel. Or the novella. Whichever. I'm writing them both at the same time because I'm an overachiever like that. And it's been more than a year since my life fell apart; I'd like to get back to what I love to do. But it's hard to write romance when your own has imploded.

My mother texts me. Are you home?

Well, no. I'm not. I'm at Panera. I won't be home for a while.

Call me as soon as you have a chance.

Oh. Dear. I finished my meal in a hurry, feeling the anxiety in her words. Despite being in Panera, I whipped out my earbuds and my phone and called as soon as I finished eating. I was tucked back into a little corner of the restaurant, and pretty much alone. "What's going on?" I asked when she picked up.

"He's taken a plea," she said without preamble.

My gasp was certainly audible.

Now, from almost the beginning, I'd known that Hubby would almost certainly plea out before he even got to a trial. He'd said nothing to me about this, though...not that we were quite exactly on speaking terms at the moment.

"How did you find out?" I asked.

"Your sister was here, and she mentioned it."

The whole chain was that my brother found out first, and called my sister (not me), who then told Mom, who told me. The whys that this was extremely painful are too complicated to get into here, but I'll tell you this was certainly not the way I wanted to find out that Hubby had a plea deal.

I was also irritated with myself. I have a PACER account, and I'd been keeping tabs on the case (and finding out ugly things along the way) that way myself, and no plea arrangements had been up the week before when I'd last checked.

Innyhoo.

I couldn't log into PACER from my phone (it's difficult enough on the computer), so I'd have to wait until I got home. Meanwhile, I messaged SnarkyDad to bring him up to speed.

I came home after picking up the girls from church and hid in the library. Hubby was pleading guilty to the one distribution count; the possession counts would be waived with the plea. I downloaded the PDF of the plea deal--all 38 pages of it--and started reading. That's when I learned Hubby'd shared more than 600 images and videos.

There was no way this was as innocuous as he once tried to make it sound over the phone, early in his detention.

August 22, 2022

We have all been in some pretty intense therapy, and we had a family counseling session scheduled that night. It was also open house night at the school, which I didn't get to go to by virtue of work. But I had to pick the kids up from it. I'd had a terrible day, and I was still reeling from both the reality of the plea deal and its associated ugliness (my attorney said he was looking at 13 to 16 years, with $20,000 to $30,000 in fines, with the plea deal), plus he'd sent us his counter proposal for the divorce settlement a few days before the plea deal broke, and he wanted 10% ownership of my writing. I was a hot mess. And one of my children casually mentioned at the start of the family session, "Oh, Mom, the social worker came by today, and she wants you to call her."

I completely lost it. Why had CYS been by again? I thought we were in the clear after their first investigation, from the day of Hubby's arrest. It took 20 tearful minutes for me to sort out the details: they had shared some stuff with our counseling team, which probably hadn't generated a mandatory report, but decided they needed to talk to someone with greater authority, and had gotten the name and phone number of the FBI victim specialist, who had dealt with them on the day of Hubby's arrest, from Special Edition. And that had generated a report.

Dandy.

And that's how I found out more of the ugliness my husband had perpetrated in our own house.

I had Wednesday off, so I stuck in a meeting with our social worker too. The day's schedule was tight: Oldest had her formal senior portraits at 9:05 at the school. I met with the social worker at 10:30 for about an hour, because then Youngest and I had to be in ChocolateTown at 12:45 for a doctor's appointment (an hour's drive). Then back home, to drop her off, and turn around and run back up to Lisle for my dentist appointment (a filling and a crown) at 3:40. Somewhere in the mix of all that was Hubby's Change of Plea hearing, and I deliberately opted to not know the time. I didn't have time to go, nor the desire. However, when my mother-in-law called for the second time while I was in the dentist's chair, I apologized and answered the phone, afraid that something had happened.

No, she just wanted to pass on the message that Hubby loves his wife and children very much. Oh, and Bro was in the courtroom, which made Hubby very angry. Well, I can't control my brother's actions, and I had no idea he was even in the state (he's a long-haul trucker), let alone near BigTown.

That night, I talked to my brother on the phone for the first time in years. He wanted to be sure I wanted to hear it all. Well, it's my life...of course I'm not sure, you idiot, but I need to know the truth. My brother related in a sad voice how nearly everything the FBI had seized from our house (it was a lot) had child pornography on it. There was stuff found on the laptop they missed that I turned in about two weeks after his arrest (not sorry I did that). There was stuff found on one of my old laptops. The victims ranged in age from 2-3 to as old as 12, in photos and videos. The content was unconscionable.

He'd been using the Kik app since 2016, and that's how and where he was sharing things. He'd been caught in December 2020 because an FBI agent had infiltrated the chat room he was in, posing as a 12-year-old, and Hubby just voluntarily shared things. That would be when their investigation began in earnest.

Sentencing would be at least five months down the road.

I could only hope that we'd get our divorce settled before then, so that his sentence didn't affect me.

Part Five