"I mean, who doesn't want their six-year-old daughter to hang out with princesses, and shit...?"
A few of us nodded solemnly. Some threw up their hands, clicked their teeth in disgust. Many were quiet with sloped shoulders. Seated at long tables arranged into an open rectangle, we all pointed our bodies and attention towards him in agreement. I doubt the men would use the language "holding space for him," but that's what we did.
We meet twice weekly to loosen their knots of habits, deeds, lessons and norms, particularly as partners and parents. Over the course of six months, we unpack trauma, toxic masculinity, self-actualization, expectations and accountability vs. responsibility. They weigh the stakes of their relationships, wellness, and even their freedom. The men also have space --often, for the first time-- to admit their hurts, their misguided intentions, their inherited perspectives and debunk curious myths.
This week, our check-in, a warm-up conversation before the lesson, unexpectedly tapped into a potent ache: the co-parenting war games. For a lot of these men, dysfunctional relationships had always been presented as the norm. The games they learned to play. The perspectives they've never considered. Habits of combat mislabled as communication.
We listened to the father of teens talk about feeling doomed to conversations with his ex swinging erratically from logistics to vile exchanges, loaded with f-bombs. He also owned how his pattern of mixed signals fueled the unmanageable fire. We listened to a father of a toddler describe how he engages his new girlfriend to temper the theatrics of the ex girlfriend. We listened to the husband without access to a shared bank account. Sitting in our rectangle, drinking coffee and soda, and munching popcorn, we dug in. The real tension was how any defense on his part was received as defiance by her. He talked about the shouting. The fear. The extended days of arguing. How it had always been easier to ride her moods, until it wasn't.
"Did you cheat on her?" someone asked.
The men fell away from the table, spun in their chairs, threw up their hands once again when he dropped his head.
"You lost her trust and now you gotta build it back, my guy."
There's a lowest denominator of "deadbeat" and a much more common denominator of "co-parent." Our legal and cultural contexts about breakups are biased towards women (yes, I said it). Even though I know I know better, I know my first unfounded question in a breakup is to wonder what the guy did wrong. Well, plenty centuries of guys doing wrong. Reforms, barely fifty years old, finally discussed alimony. Custody. Domestic violence. Stalking. Child support. Thank you. Sweeping changes to net the lowest denominators of abusers, absconders and assholes.
We listened as the Disney father puzzled about his ex refusing a free trip for their daughter. He described their history, how their success as co-parents often depended on her wellness and willingness at the time. The men listened, simultaneously recounting their own ignoble moments with an ex. The times they were pushed and taunted and ridiculed and, essentially, dared to show emotion about how they were being treated. To imagine themselves worthy of respect and regard, in spite of their boys-will-be-boys, mansplaining, whore mongering and socially-encoded privileges.
As we listened, we saw his tucked corners loosen. Here, they are permitted the audacity to be offended. To be unnerved. To be angry. It's unnatural, though. Out there, they've been told since Big Wheels and Tonka Trucks that "hurt" and "feelings" don't apply to them. Out there, the courts tell them they are the lesser parent, by default. Out there, they navigate policies and laws that weaponize the insecurities, immaturity or spite of their children's mothers. They are denied visits with their children when a new girlfriend arrives on the scene. They respond to baiting messages rather than risk the assault of phone calls and text messages that come if they try to ignore her. They are mandated to classes and groups like ours, not for their well being, but to manipulate maintenance calculations. They are refused permission to take their six year old on a vacation to Disneyworld because ... well ... because she can.
"We don't ever talk about these trash ass mamas, though..."
I shared that line with the group. I'd picked it up in a podcast or standup routine or sitting around after an open mic or workshop. I thought of it, often, when I'd hear stories or witness behaviors by my sisters that would get a man burned alive. We/she are seldom held accountable for being immature, irresponsible, irrational or irritating. Instead we get to high five with acrylic nails every time an ex is "put in his place." We want to say we're celebrating progress and justice, even if her rath is outdated, unwarranted or sporadic. Somehow, we ALL soften our condemnation of her because that's how women are, how relationships go and, surely, it's his fault, right...?
We don't talk about how ridiculous and reckless it is to amen our sisters when they disrupt their kids' relationships with their father ... simply because they're angry about his shortcomings as a partner or their own hurt has not been resolved or, sadly, because they can. Both of my husband's exes have gone as far as court papers to minimize his presence as a father. Not because he was unsafe, but because the mothers had found him unsavory as an ex. Their claims were unfounded, in every case, and my husband was victorious in court, every time. Still, their seasons of co-parenting could only be as healthy as the mothers' perceptions of him and themselves.
"I save all the text messages. My daughter's gonna ask me one day why she's not in the Disney photos. Or the photos of all the other places I'm gonna go and stuff we'd be able to do. I'm saving all the messages so I'll be able to show her 'This is what your mother said. This is why you weren't with me. This is how hard I tried...'"
The men made space for his hurt and his powerlessness and his dignity and for themselves. A few others fantasized aloud about redemption days with future versions of their children, where they'll have a chance to account for themselves, instead of being represented by an exes' persistent caricature. I told him to save those text receipts, all of them should, to keep themselves safe in their immediate relationships and negotiations. I also invited him to imagine forward, picturing his daughter looking at photographs from the trips they will take together. That he has permission to expect more, to work toward better, to insist on everyone bringing their best selves, more often than not.
"We all have work to do, so keep doing it," I said. "Be authentic and be consistent. That's all anyone can ask of any of us, really. Our children. Our partners. Our co-parents. Co-workers. The world. 'How do you show up, consistently?'"
A few of us nodded solemnly. Some threw up their hands, clicked their teeth in disgust. Many were quiet with sloped shoulders. Seated at long tables arranged into an open rectangle, we all pointed our bodies and attention towards him in agreement. I doubt the men would use the language "holding space for him," but that's what we did.
We meet twice weekly to loosen their knots of habits, deeds, lessons and norms, particularly as partners and parents. Over the course of six months, we unpack trauma, toxic masculinity, self-actualization, expectations and accountability vs. responsibility. They weigh the stakes of their relationships, wellness, and even their freedom. The men also have space --often, for the first time-- to admit their hurts, their misguided intentions, their inherited perspectives and debunk curious myths.
This week, our check-in, a warm-up conversation before the lesson, unexpectedly tapped into a potent ache: the co-parenting war games. For a lot of these men, dysfunctional relationships had always been presented as the norm. The games they learned to play. The perspectives they've never considered. Habits of combat mislabled as communication.
We listened to the father of teens talk about feeling doomed to conversations with his ex swinging erratically from logistics to vile exchanges, loaded with f-bombs. He also owned how his pattern of mixed signals fueled the unmanageable fire. We listened to a father of a toddler describe how he engages his new girlfriend to temper the theatrics of the ex girlfriend. We listened to the husband without access to a shared bank account. Sitting in our rectangle, drinking coffee and soda, and munching popcorn, we dug in. The real tension was how any defense on his part was received as defiance by her. He talked about the shouting. The fear. The extended days of arguing. How it had always been easier to ride her moods, until it wasn't.
"Did you cheat on her?" someone asked.
The men fell away from the table, spun in their chairs, threw up their hands once again when he dropped his head.
"You lost her trust and now you gotta build it back, my guy."
There's a lowest denominator of "deadbeat" and a much more common denominator of "co-parent." Our legal and cultural contexts about breakups are biased towards women (yes, I said it). Even though I know I know better, I know my first unfounded question in a breakup is to wonder what the guy did wrong. Well, plenty centuries of guys doing wrong. Reforms, barely fifty years old, finally discussed alimony. Custody. Domestic violence. Stalking. Child support. Thank you. Sweeping changes to net the lowest denominators of abusers, absconders and assholes.
We listened as the Disney father puzzled about his ex refusing a free trip for their daughter. He described their history, how their success as co-parents often depended on her wellness and willingness at the time. The men listened, simultaneously recounting their own ignoble moments with an ex. The times they were pushed and taunted and ridiculed and, essentially, dared to show emotion about how they were being treated. To imagine themselves worthy of respect and regard, in spite of their boys-will-be-boys, mansplaining, whore mongering and socially-encoded privileges.
As we listened, we saw his tucked corners loosen. Here, they are permitted the audacity to be offended. To be unnerved. To be angry. It's unnatural, though. Out there, they've been told since Big Wheels and Tonka Trucks that "hurt" and "feelings" don't apply to them. Out there, the courts tell them they are the lesser parent, by default. Out there, they navigate policies and laws that weaponize the insecurities, immaturity or spite of their children's mothers. They are denied visits with their children when a new girlfriend arrives on the scene. They respond to baiting messages rather than risk the assault of phone calls and text messages that come if they try to ignore her. They are mandated to classes and groups like ours, not for their well being, but to manipulate maintenance calculations. They are refused permission to take their six year old on a vacation to Disneyworld because ... well ... because she can.
"We don't ever talk about these trash ass mamas, though..."
I shared that line with the group. I'd picked it up in a podcast or standup routine or sitting around after an open mic or workshop. I thought of it, often, when I'd hear stories or witness behaviors by my sisters that would get a man burned alive. We/she are seldom held accountable for being immature, irresponsible, irrational or irritating. Instead we get to high five with acrylic nails every time an ex is "put in his place." We want to say we're celebrating progress and justice, even if her rath is outdated, unwarranted or sporadic. Somehow, we ALL soften our condemnation of her because that's how women are, how relationships go and, surely, it's his fault, right...?
We don't talk about how ridiculous and reckless it is to amen our sisters when they disrupt their kids' relationships with their father ... simply because they're angry about his shortcomings as a partner or their own hurt has not been resolved or, sadly, because they can. Both of my husband's exes have gone as far as court papers to minimize his presence as a father. Not because he was unsafe, but because the mothers had found him unsavory as an ex. Their claims were unfounded, in every case, and my husband was victorious in court, every time. Still, their seasons of co-parenting could only be as healthy as the mothers' perceptions of him and themselves.
"I save all the text messages. My daughter's gonna ask me one day why she's not in the Disney photos. Or the photos of all the other places I'm gonna go and stuff we'd be able to do. I'm saving all the messages so I'll be able to show her 'This is what your mother said. This is why you weren't with me. This is how hard I tried...'"
The men made space for his hurt and his powerlessness and his dignity and for themselves. A few others fantasized aloud about redemption days with future versions of their children, where they'll have a chance to account for themselves, instead of being represented by an exes' persistent caricature. I told him to save those text receipts, all of them should, to keep themselves safe in their immediate relationships and negotiations. I also invited him to imagine forward, picturing his daughter looking at photographs from the trips they will take together. That he has permission to expect more, to work toward better, to insist on everyone bringing their best selves, more often than not.
"We all have work to do, so keep doing it," I said. "Be authentic and be consistent. That's all anyone can ask of any of us, really. Our children. Our partners. Our co-parents. Co-workers. The world. 'How do you show up, consistently?'"
By the time all of the men had checked in, it was time to check out. From twenty minutes to one hour and forty-two minutes of authenticity, reflection and truth. We didn't miss the planned lesson at all this week. We all entered the night with the magic of princesses in our spirit.
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