Take the Money and Run

I have changed banks.

For most people this is easy. For me it is like changing skin. And about as painful and scarring and nightmare-inspiring as that would be.

I do this as seldom as possible. Only when forced.

I had to change banks when I got divorced. Lars, in a bizarre but not unprecedented act of freakish paranoia, had insisted, and would have gone to the mattresses over it, that there be language in our agreement that I would close my account that I had in the bank we'd used as a couple, and go find myself another.

And why couldn't he just take his little bag of crinkled up bills and go find a new bank himself? Had he robbed all the others in the neighborhood?

But I agreed. Just walking into the old bank made my stomach churn. It was the account we shared in that bank that he had drained except for a few dollars, without telling me, natch, on the very day I'd been paid, and stashed the money in his name. Then to ice the cake a little more thickly, had canceled my credit card. No money, no credit card, no gas in my car. And as I sat in my car turning into a little sniveling pile of goo, Charlotte rallied, found a bank 3 blocks from my house with evening hours and met me there. Did all the talking while I fretted and wrung my hands. Spotted me enough cash to to survive for weeks on my own and for God's sake hire a lawyer. She very calmly explained to the very empathetic teller, with surprisingly few expletives, what my louse husband had done, and what we'd hoped to accomplish by sundown, if not murder, and answered all the pertinent questions, and then helped me record each piece of treasured jewelry and each important document pertaining to me or the children as I placed them in a safe deposit box.

So really, what remained to be done by the time Lars was on his horse and riding about me leaving the Royal Bank of Whoville, was the settlement of whatever we decided to do with the children's accounts. The accounts for which I was the custodian. Lars insisted, stomped his trollish little feet and held his fetid breath until I agreed to divide the balance of each child's account with him so that we could open separate and distinct accounts for them for which we would be the respective custodians.

And to this day I ask, "Who does that?"

I mean besides a total asswipe?

But in the interest of settling, I took and gave him half of what little money actually had made it into the accounts, since it was Lars's habit to take big checks, like the ones for $1,000 his friend's parents, the Firestones had given the kids when they were born, and pocket them for his own use, however nefarious. I went dutifully, promptly and responsibly to my bank and opened new accounts for each child and assumed he'd done the same at the Royal Bank of Whoville.

Lars, I've learned recently, did no such thing. He claims to have done so, and then to have debited the accounts to buy things the kids have asked for - like clothes and sneakers, and school supplies, and that the accounts, without regular deposits, have simply been depleted and closed. At least that is what he's told the kids.

But I know differently because I know Lars. And can see the hallmarks of one of his lies a mile away. I know that that money never saw the inside of a bank vault. It went directly into his pocket, because he could take it. And because he feels he should be compensated for all that Life has heaped upon him. And because the children would never be the wiser.

But that is where he underestimates them. Because they are smart enough to question when things don't add up. And when he told them the tall tale about the fate of their money - from birthdays and Christmases and visits from the tooth fairy, they asked me about the money in the accounts I'd opened with them. Do I use their money without telling them? Do I reimburse myself from their accounts when I've bought them gym uniforms and ski jackets and Halloween costumes?

I told them honestly. Certain things are my responsibility to buy. Like all the things I've mentioned. Other things, if they really want them, are theirs to buy, like Bobbi Brown makeup and sports memorabilia. And if they really want them, as they have in the past, I will take them to the bank and help them make the withdrawal that they need. I show them their passbooks so they can see the credits and debits..."Here is your birthday money from when you turned 9...and here is where you took out some to buy a pair of hockey skates."

Because it is their money and it is my responsibility to see that it is used responsibly. Some things you need and other things you really want. And some things you have to wait and save for. Clearly a philosophy to which their father does not subscribe. Because he has always been, remains, and will forever be an opportunistic taker, whose selfishness knows no bounds.

It is a sad but important lesson for them to learn. Every kid realizes one day that their parents did not hang the moon. Worse, they are flawed. My kids, sadly, have had to learn that their father is the Grinch, only his heart will not be warmed by Cindy Lou Who, or even his own children.