Long-distance relationship

My heart rate started to accelerate when I clicked on the new post button. I hate thinking about this story, writing about it is worse. I think this why I haven't written lately. This story had decided it was going to be next. It was holding up the line.

I was 21 years old on December 31st, 1996. I was married and had three children. My husband, Mark, and I had been married about four years, rocky years. At times, I had been a terrible wife and he had been a terrible husband. I was young, selfish and overwhelmed by the suffocating responsibility.

It wouldn't be fair to assume what Mark was going through, but I bet it was similar.

We knew we were at the end of our marriage and were openly talking about divorce. Slowly, we were working out a plan.

It was New Year's Eve, and I was sick. It was the kind of sick when you can't even lie on the couch and enjoy it. I was firmly-planted-in-bed sick. Mark had taken the kids to his mother's house and was watching TV.

The doorbell rang.

Mark said it was for me.

I barked at him and told him to get it because I was really sick.

The bell rang again, and again, Mark said it was for me.

I rolled out of bed with my two-day-old hair and pajamas and went to see who was at the door. It was a man who told me he had some unpleasant news for me.

He told me he was there to serve divorce papers, and to tell me I had 24 hours to get out of my house with only my personal possessions.

My children did not count as my personal possessions.

For weeks, Mark had been planning this day. His mother had hired an attorney for him and helped him hatch this plan. I was blind to it all. I really believed we were trying to work out an amicable solution to benefit everyone.

I called my dad and moved back home, into the same bedroom where my Bon Jovi and Poison posters used to hang. The same room where I sneaked cigarettes and late-night phone calls.

Depressing.

My dad took me to see an attorney from his church, and the battle began.

The next few months were a blur of meetings with my attorney, meetings with a court appointed mediator and a series of court dates that never went well.

I moved out of the depressing bedroom and into an even more depressing apartment. It had two bedrooms, a living room and a kitchen. It was a square with one room in each corner and a tiny bathroom in the middle. I never really lived there. Sure, I slept there and ate there, but I didn't enjoy one single day there. It was never my home.

I did see my kids nearly every day. That was a continuation of the schedule Mark and I had worked out a year earlier. He worked first shift, and I worked second. In our young inventive minds, this was the perfect plan because we didn't have to pay for daycare.

For four days a week, I worked from 3:30 p.m. to 2:00 a.m. at an automobile vinyl pinstripe factory. Then at 6:30 a.m., Mark would bring the kids to me on his way to work at the plastic factory.

This went on for weeks and weeks. I was sleep deprived and not a very good mother. On top of all of this, I was ordered to pay child support.

I was exhausted and broke.

I was tired of the attorney. I was tired of mediation. I was tired of court. I was tired of Mark's power trip. I was tired of everything.

This is when I came up with my worst idea ever.

I decided I would quit fighting for my kids. I decided since they were with me every single day, things couldn't get much worse or better. I decided calling off the court battle was in everyone's best interest.

I signed the papers that said Mark was in charge.

Then Mark packed up my kids and moved 120 miles away.

When that happened, Brent was 4, Charley was 2 and Allie was 1.

Today they are 15, 14 and 13.

I have carried on this long-distance relationship with my children for more than 10 years. All these years, they were here every other weekend, long school holidays and summer.

I've done everything I could to be the most normal mom who lives two hours away. I've driven thousands of miles for concerts, plays, sports and parent-teacher conferences.

Today, they aren't here as often, because they are busy teenagers with busy lives. But when they aren't here, we keep up through e-mail, phone calls and text messages.

When I meet new people, I'm always waiting for the inevitable question.

"Where do your kids go to school?"

What they really mean is, "Which Wichita school do your kids go to?"

When I name a city instead of a school, I can feel the judgment unfold around me. I know it looks bad. I'm sure it looks like I must have done something terrible. Only the worst of the worst mothers don't live with their kids.

I did do something terrible. I made a really bad decision in 1997. That's it.