Playing Together

Little Man, this picture makes me smile.

Ok, this picture also freaks me out because Baby J is five feet tall there… nearly anyway.

But it makes me smile because you and your sister are doing the same thing.

This picture on the left was lifted from LuAnne’s Facebook profile.

Look at all the smiles.  Even your little baby sister is smiling.  That’s cool.

I’m not going to make it, kids.  Frankly, I’m not qualified to give any tips on living life and anything I say about myself is probably for my own entertainment.

It’s not likely that when you read this we will have seen each other.

Gosh, even if there wasn’t a protective order, or when it expires, assuming your mother doesn’t make up some more bullshit to go to the judge about, then if I come to a soccer game, I can  imagine she’ll file stalking charges or something on me.

I think the Art of War would probably advise that I should appear strong when I am weak and appear weak when I am strong… all that bullshit.  This isn’t a war.  This isn’t even a fight.  I probably shouldn’t act like this has hurt me within the politics of ex-marriages, but I don’t want you to ever get the impression that this was easy.

I hate missing you and I hate being accused of all this.

I can’t get a job partially because of all these accusations.   People don’t know what’s going on — they just look up the court records and I appear to be a complete psycho.

Your mother just cries on the stand and says that every time she turns a corner she’s worried I’m going to be there to get her.

Wild.

I’ve never tried to get her.  I’ve never threatened to get her.  I’ve never stalked her.  I haven’t driven by the house.  I haven’t driven by your school.  I haven’t played pranks.  I haven’t really done anything.  I haven’t “accidentally” shown up at family gatherings where you might be.  I skipped my 20th high school reunion because she would be there.

It was complete bullshit, kids.  Fantasy.  Drama.

Some would say that I shouldn’t tell you any of this.  That it’s better that you think I’m a psycho who tried to kill you and your mother — because your mother told you so — than to have you questioning reality as administered by your mother.

…reality as administered by your mother.

Just to be weird I’m going to add that the Matrix cannot tell you who you are or who I was.