All In The Game

A few months ago. I'd gotten a little love note from my friends at the Domestic Relations office at the County seat.  My friends who'd decided that a shared custody arrangement was ideal for my children, and a financial agreement to pay Lars the equivalent of a monthly car payment for a fully loaded European sports car and 58% of our shared expenses would be reasonable and fair. Six years ago.

I should not still be bitter. It is all formulaic.  But I think the whole idea should be tossed out when both parents each earn well above the national average household income. Every man for himself. Or every dickhead, as the case may be.  Why throw our paychecks into a pile and divide by two? 

But who am I to question?  Just a relatively reasonable citizen who worked hard to achieve a decent career and got scorched by her money grubbing, under-performing Ivy League grad layabout husband in divorce. No, no bitterness here.

Anyway, this letter was a form letter reminding me, and presumably reminding Lars in his copy, of the right to have the case reviewed every three years by a judge. (A generous title, I've found, for a bunch of cranky, old, bitter folks who really just like the loose fitting robes that make love handles seem dignified, and who really don't know much about what constitutes "fair," but do like the idea of judging...)

I have no genuine interest in agitating Lars. It has never been a pleasant experience to have done so, intentionally or by happenstance. But by invitation to do so, I thought it might be a good idea.

Lars and I no longer have some of the outrageous and routine expenses we used to have when the order had been written.  No before and after school care. No summer camp. No extended day services at summer camp. No babysitters. No constant replenishing of shoes and wardrobes for kids who seemed to grow an inch a month.

And I had gotten some modest increases to my salary over the years. Lars' employer had flourished, even in the economic downturn; I was hopeful that he'd shared in the gains.  Maybe, just maybe, there would be a modest reduction in what I had to pay him. (After taxes BTW.  Like paying a crappy, overpriced babysitter two weeks of every month.)

So I'd gone to the courthouse as directed, filed the petition, handed over my $10 to the lady behind the glass and hoped for the best. I walked out with a court date and a copy of a letter that would be going to Lars telling him what I'd done.

And since that time, there had been changes to my job, ups and downs with Craig, prospects for new employment opportunities.  A lot of planes yet to land.

And this is one more uncertainty. And it's a doozy.