On August 5, Mark posted another old photograph of himself with his sons.

“To many years have gone by ! I enjoyed them all.”

That is a fascinating way to summarize fatherhood.

Not I regret the years I wasted.

Not I wish I had done things differently.

Not I am doing everything the court requires so I can repair what has been broken.

Not even I miss my sons.

Just:

“I enjoyed them all.”

So I have a question, Mark.

Actually, I have several.

What Did You Enjoy Most?

Did you enjoy the vacations?

The treats?

The sporting events?

The outings?

The pictures?

The moments where somebody could hold up a phone, smile, and preserve photographic evidence that Dad was there?

I imagine those parts were enjoyable.

They are enjoyable for most parents.

But those are also the easiest parts of parenting.

It is pretty easy to enjoy being Dad when Dad means ice cream, trips, ballgames, adventures, selfies and entertainment.

The question is whether you enjoyed being a father when there wasn’t anything fun happening.

Because that is where parenting actually lives.

Parenting is sitting through a teacher conference after a long day when you’d rather be home.

It is going to the pediatrician.

It is going to the specialist.

It is knowing the medication.

It is listening to the doctor even when you don’t like what the doctor says.

It is sitting in an emergency-room waiting room.

It is driving to practice instead of just appearing at the game.

It is paying the registration fee.

It is replacing the uniform.

It is answering the coach.

It is getting up when a child vomits at 2:00 in the morning.

It is staying home when they are sick.

It is rearranging your own plans because your child’s plans matter more.

It is attending the meetings nobody photographs.

It is signing school paperwork.

It is doing homework.

It is enforcing routines.

It is knowing what is happening academically.

It is paying bills.

It is feeding children.

It is taking them to appointments.

It is doing the boring, repetitive, inconvenient, expensive work over and over and over again with absolutely nobody around to applaud you.

There aren’t many Facebook selfies from those moments.

Maybe that’s the problem.

It’s Easy to Enjoy the Fun Parts

The history we’ve documented shows an uncomfortable distinction between the visible parts of fatherhood and the labor of fatherhood.

Games were visible. Practices were inconvenient.

Photographs were useful. Parent meetings weren’t.

Access to medical information was demanded. Actually sitting in the appointment was another matter.

Questions for doctors were plentiful. Showing up, listening to the answer and following the treatment plan could become a battle.

The emails document Mark and Tori receiving schedules, medical updates, appointment information, sports information, medication instructions and detailed care plans. They also document missed practices, ignored communications, missed opportunities to attend medical care and repeated explanations for why something couldn’t—or didn’t—happen. One documented example involves Liam needing his feeding tube reinserted at OHSU: Mark had an opportunity to come but did not, with the explanation later being that they assumed the procedure would be finished quickly. Another describes wanting access to the orthodontist but then deciding it was unnecessary to sit at the office and attend the appointment. Pasted text.txtTXT

That’s the difference.

Wanting access is not the same thing as participating.

Wanting the title isn’t the same thing as doing the job.

And showing up for the enjoyable parts while somebody else handles the appointments, the bills, the medicine, the school meetings, the transportation, the sick days and the emotional cleanup isn’t being prevented from parenting.

It is selecting which portions of parenting you feel like doing.

Disneyland Dad is fun.

Tuesday-at-4:15-at-the-pediatrician Dad is work.

Did You Enjoy the Medical Years Too?

Here’s where “I enjoyed them all” becomes especially difficult to read.

Because some of those years weren’t just difficult.

For Liam, they became medically dangerous.

Dr. Nikhil Rao described Liam’s ARFID and OCD as among the most severe and chronic cases he had seen in terms of impact on the body. Liam became growth-arrested. His bone age was approximately three years behind his chronological age. His puberty was delayed. His nutrition had deteriorated enough that his body had effectively stopped progressing normally. Dr. Rao.docxDOCX

And Dr. Rao didn’t merely document the illness.

He documented the conflict surrounding your involvement in treating it.

He wrote about alternative and extreme health beliefs, difficulty appreciating the severity of Liam’s condition, disruptions to appointments, challenges involving medication, attempts to pursue unsupported alternatives while nutritional restoration was urgent, and Liam reporting increased anxiety surrounding time at his father’s home. He documented Liam saying that you were increasingly trying to persuade him to stop medication that Liam himself believed was helping him. Dr. Rao.docxDOCX

He documented Liam reporting that you called him obese.

At a time when Liam was severely growth-restricted.

He documented the so-called “contract” Liam said he was forced to sign.

And after reviewing Liam’s condition, treatment and his interactions with you, Dr. Rao concluded that although he believed you wanted what was best for Liam, you had demonstrated a lack of formal capacity to make medical decisions for him. Dr. Rao.docxDOCX

So I’ll ask again:

Which of those years did you enjoy?

Because while you’re remembering cotton candy and smiling photographs, some of us remember feeding plans.

Medication schedules.

Weight checks.

Food anxiety.

Doctors.

Specialists.

Feeding tubes.

Waiting rooms.

Meals that had to be completed whether anyone felt like dealing with them or not.

There aren’t many glamorous selfies from that part.

Did You Enjoy the Excuses?

Another part of parenting that doesn’t photograph particularly well is accountability.

The emails tell the same story repeatedly.

Information was sent.

Calendars were offered.

Coach emails were forwarded.

Medical instructions were given.

Appointments were communicated.

Our Family Wizard was offered precisely because it would centralize communication and eliminate the recurring “I didn’t know,” “I didn’t get it,” “nobody told me,” problem.

When payment for the program became an objection, Melissa offered to pay.

And still the objections continued.

The record shows a recurring pattern where the method of communication somehow became the problem whenever the information itself created responsibility: email wasn’t enough, texting would be better; text could be disputed; calendars could be ignored; Family Wizard was resisted. Pasted text.txtTXT

There always seemed to be an explanation.

Too far.

Didn’t know.

Didn’t get it.

Too tired.

Didn’t understand.

Couldn’t log in.

Thought something else was happening.

Wasn’t feeling well.

Nathan didn’t tell me.

Melissa didn’t tell me correctly.

Russ shouldn’t be involved.

The doctors don’t understand.

The diagnosis might be wrong.

The treatment might be wrong.

The court might be wrong.

Everybody, apparently, gets something wrong except the person producing the excuses.

That must make fatherhood considerably more enjoyable.

And Then There Are the Court Orders

This is probably the least Facebook-friendly portion of the nostalgia.

There came a point where courts weren’t merely dealing with disagreements between parents.

Orders were put in place to protect the boys.

Those orders were not photographs.

They weren’t opinions posted on Facebook.

They weren’t suggestions from Melissa or me.

They were boundaries imposed after professionals and the legal system had been presented with what was happening.

And when Liam was placed behind a no-contact order, there was eventually a path for you to address the separation.

That matters enormously.

Because there is a world of difference between:

“They won’t let me see my son.”

and

“There are conditions I must satisfy before I can regain contact with my son, and I refuse to do them.”

One makes you the victim.

The other requires accountability.

And accountability has never photographed particularly well.

The record around the no-contact period also documents attempts to push against those boundaries, including social-media contact/tagging issues that were reported through attorneys and Our Family Wizard and ultimately became part of a contempt finding. Pasted text.txtTXT

So here’s another question:

Did you enjoy fighting the protections more than you were willing to work through them?

Because when a court says, Here is what must happen before we can safely move forward, a parent who desperately wants his child back has a pretty obvious response:

Do it.

Schedule it.

Complete it.

Cooperate.

Demonstrate change.

Follow the order.

Don’t spend years explaining why you shouldn’t have to.

Don’t find another reason why the requirement is unfair.

Don’t complain about distance while traveling great distances for things you actually want to do.

Don’t tell the world how much you miss your child while refusing to complete the work designed to give you a path back to him.

If these boys were truly the center of everything, the question shouldn’t be:

“Why should I have to do this?”

It should be:

“How quickly can I get this done?”

Protecting Your Children Isn’t Supposed to Be Convenient

That’s another part of parenting that Facebook nostalgia leaves out.

Sometimes being a father means doing something humiliating.

Sometimes it means admitting you were wrong.

Sometimes it means sitting across from a professional and answering uncomfortable questions.

Sometimes it means complying with an order you don’t agree with.

Sometimes it means accepting that your behavior contributed to the situation.

Sometimes it means proving—with action rather than posts—that something has changed.

And sometimes it means doing all of that while nobody tells you what a wonderful father you are.

That’s the job.

The court didn’t create the underlying medical concerns. Dr. Rao independently documented profound concern about Liam’s condition and the effects surrounding his father’s involvement in treatment. Dr. Rao.docxDOCX

The order wasn’t the tragedy.

The events that made protections necessary were the tragedy.

And refusing to complete the work necessary to move beyond those protections doesn’t make you a persecuted father.

It leaves the protection necessary.

What About the Times They Were Sick?

Did you enjoy those?

Because those are the days Melissa and I remember too.

Not every sick day is dramatic.

Most aren’t.

A kid has a fever.

Someone vomits.

Someone needs medication.

Someone is exhausted.

Someone has an appointment.

Someone has anxiety.

Someone doesn’t want to eat.

Someone needs to be reassured.

Someone needs a ride.

Someone just needs an adult sitting beside them.

Those moments aren’t terribly rewarding.

Nobody is cheering.

Nobody sees you.

There isn’t a photo opportunity.

You just take care of your kid.

The record we’ve assembled over the years tells a story in which Melissa and I repeatedly supplied schedules, appointments, medical information, meal instructions and medication information and repeatedly tried to create opportunities for your involvement. Pasted text.txtTXT

The work existed.

The opportunity existed.

Far too often, you did not.

What About the Money?

Maybe you enjoyed the financial version of fatherhood too.

The one where somebody else pays the gap.

Children don’t become less expensive because their father doesn’t pay his full share.

They still eat.

They still need clothes.

They still need shelter.

They still need medical care.

They still need school supplies.

They still play sports.

They still need braces.

They still need transportation.

They don’t accept “Dad had other priorities” as payment.

Even after the house fire, Rob Peters documented one small but telling example. Nathan needed a replacement All-Star baseball uniform. The league expected reimbursement from Mark. Peters wrote that the payment didn’t come through and that I offered to pay so Nathan would receive his uniform without delay.

That single uniform isn’t the financial story.

It’s just a tiny illustration of it.

The child still needs what he needs.

Somebody pays. Somebody shows up. Somebody solves it.

And then somebody else can arrive later for the photograph.

Maybe “I Enjoyed Them All” Is the Problem

Because parenting was never supposed to be measured by how much you enjoyed it.

That sentence centers you.

Your memories.

Your experience.

Your happiness.

Your nostalgia.

Your photographs.

But some of those years involved children dealing with conflict, medical crisis, frightening health ideas, adult disputes and circumstances that they didn’t create.

So perhaps the question isn’t whether you enjoyed those years.

Perhaps the question is:

Did they?

Did the boys enjoy wondering whether Dad would show up?

Did they enjoy hearing another explanation?

Did they enjoy adult conflict being poured into their world?

Did they enjoy medical treatment becoming a battleground?

Did they enjoy feeling responsible for adult problems?

Did they enjoy the court cases?

Did they enjoy the uncertainty?

Did they enjoy having one household trying to implement medical plans while another questioned them?

Did Liam enjoy reaching the point where his psychiatrist described him as growth-arrested?

Did he enjoy the anxiety Dr. Rao documented surrounding visits with you? Dr. Rao.docxDOCX

Those questions aren’t visible in the photograph.

And that’s exactly why the photograph works so well.

It freezes fatherhood at the pleasant part.

Before the appointments.

Before the bills.

Before the consequences.

Before the court orders.

Before the work.

The Photograph Is Old. Your Responsibility Isn’t.

That’s the part I keep coming back to.

You can keep reaching into the archive.

There will always be another picture.

Another vacation.

Another smile.

Another baseball game.

Another ice cream.

Another photograph where everybody looks happy for one hundredth of a second.

And Facebook will happily serve it back as evidence of the father you want people to remember.

But Liam isn’t frozen in that photograph.

He’s continued growing.

His medical needs continued.

His life continued.

His relationship with you did not.

And there is something profoundly backwards about spending your time curating photographs of the years when you could see him while refusing to fully confront the reasons you cannot see him now.

A loving father doesn’t merely preserve the past.

He fights responsibly for the future.

Not with Facebook posts.

Not with excuses.

Not by challenging every person who tells him something he doesn’t want to hear.

Not by avoiding court requirements.

Not by finding loopholes.

Not by complaining about the road back.

By walking it.

So, Mark:

“Too many years have gone by.”

For once, we agree.

The question is what you’ve done with them.

Because while you were apparently busy enjoying them all, other people were doing the parts of parenting that were never enjoyable enough to post.