If Biological Doubt is Expressed or Implied, Consent to doing the DNA

If a man (or his mother) implies, states, asserts, accuses, or alludes to your child not being his,  then I advocate that you freely consent to doing a DNA test, because the doubt alone allows that father (and his mother) to rationalize away his duties and responsibilities as a parent.  Do the DNA, and when the results come back indicating that he is the father, his lack of participation will no longer have an excuse/escape.  Because you can best believe without the DNA results, whenever guilt about not being a decent father slips into his mind (or his mother’s), he will easily push it away when he reminds himself that the child is probably not his anyways. Of course, I do not advocate you doing the DNA on your own dime. Call him (and his mother) on his bluff and make him organize the DNA testing.  You must remove the opportunity for him (and his mother) to capitalize on this doubt. I bet you pound to pennies that day will never come.  Only the doubt pays off. The reality costs.

I knew a man who signed the birth certificate of a child whose mother he had sex with around the time she could’ve gotten pregnant.  He capitalized on the nobility of being a standup guy and signing the birth certificate without DNA testing.  However, once their relationship went south and she filed for child support he was singing a different tune.  Instead of requesting the DNA, he used one excuse after another (not having the money, not in town, etc.) to avoid getting it done.  In the end, he paid child support until the boy reached 18.  The entire time he was an absent father.  To relieve himself of any guilt about his absenteeism, he would say the child was not his.  He played on the sympathies of others with stories of  how he was used and exploited for his money.  Not once did he accept responsibility for not making sure the DNA was done.  Then the boy grew up to be a young man who accidently overdosed on heroin causing his death. Who knows why the boy started using heroin.  Maybe he thought his father didn’t want him.  The fact now is, the man who may or may not had a son, will never know because he never did the DNA.  The only thing that mattered to the alleged father is the sympathy that he received from his tale of how he paid 18 years for a kid that probably wasn’t his.   According to him, how the child turned out had nothing to do with him.  That’s the payoff for this standup guy.  He gets to forever and a day cry about how some woman took him to the cleaners for a child that wasn’t his all the while never being held accountable for his lack of parental involvement.

Mothers who have unhealthy relationships with their sons have begun capitalizing on the misogynistic trope of “Mama’s baby, daddy’s maybe.”  I’m not making this up.  In my lifetime, I have heard at least 100 times about an undocumented statistic of how many babies leave the hospital with the wrong name on the birth certificate as father, including the children from married couples. Or I should say, based on who is telling the story, especially married couples.  As if some wife somewhere could not wait to trap a man into believing he is a father of a child that he is not the father of.  Fiction, water cooler circles, campfires, and internet message forums tell us this.

In our society, if a trope supports men over women, it will have staying power.  If she cannot convince her son to leave his wife for whatever other reason she has attempted, maybe he will finally leave her when he understands truly how big of whore she was [is]. We all know when women get older society is no longer interested in them as when they were young consumers and attractive distractions for men.  What is a mother to do if she feels invisible and alone?  She is to guilt her son back into her clutches, and that task is difficult if he is married or has a long-term girlfriend. The wife/girlfriend has to be eliminated.  If the mother is confident enough (or insensitive enough) to employ this strategy, then she probably suspects that he is a simple mama’s boy that will be duped by it. It wouldn’t work on a man in his own right.

Older men with older children have begun using this trope as well.  Not too long ago a friend of mine told me that her second husband doesn’t feel like his oldest child with his first wife is his.  Even though, the child is almost 40 years old, and he and his first wife had two more children after the first child.  When questioned as to why the child may not be his, the answer was not because his first wife may have cheated; it was because the adult-first child is obese and is known to be a liar and possibly a petty thief. Although the child grew up with her father, now that she is not participating in society as successfully as he feels a child of his should be, then it must mean that she is not biologically his. It is very convenient to disappear your biological children when they do not live up to your expectations.

I have a good friend who lost three years of child support because she positioned herself as the “how could you?” damsel. I understand why women feel insulted when asked to do the DNA, even married women.  Being legally married does not make the possibilities any different.  I realize the feelings of humiliation, the resentment, I really do. However, if a husband-father or even long-time boyfriend allows himself (or his mother) to slip up and expose a drop of doubt, then you need to eliminate that doubt.  No, it is not your responsibility that he (or his mother) has the doubt, but you have the power to prove them wrong.  Withholding consent to do the DNA is only prolonging the emotional abuse that is being inflicted on you.  That abuse is slowly bleeding you dry like thousands and thousands of tiny paper cuts.  Compartmentalize that indignity and let the record show as fact. It has been etched in the public’s psyche, that the DNA does not lie.  Use that perception to gain ground in this little power struggle.

Afterwards, light will shine in all the dark corners.  His lack of participation will no longer be given pause because he may not be the father.  His mother will have to retract her “she’s a whore,” position. Their naked agenda will be exposed for what it is, pure ugliness and unwillingness to take some responsibility for and participation with his child.

Back-to-School-Around-New Germs-Crud


Yesterday Miss Violet stayed home from school sick.  I got her on the bus today and thought that was that.  They all had chicken noodle soup for dinner last night because both Jack and Violet were complaining about sore throats.  Alas, Jack didn’t make the bus, –sick.  Then, today, before lunch the nurse called and said Violet was having bathroom issues.  So, I had to go get her.  Poor Ashton will be riding the bus home alone this afternoon.  There were a couple of days last year in which everyone showed signs of the Back-to-school-Around-New Germs-Crud, but  Ashton prevailed.  He deserves his healthy constitution of an ox since he has little issues to deal with that the other two don’t have to, like his astigmatism and speech.  Let’s cross our fingers and hope he makes it through the week without getting sick.

I got some chicken soup cooking up right now.  Roughly chopped up the celery, onions, and carrots and got the pot started.

See that patch of sunlight?  That's way far at the back of the yard.  In the evening, sometimes, a deer will appear right in that spot.

See that patch of sunlight? That’s way far at the back of the yard. In the evening, sometimes, a deer will appear right in that spot.

Photo Day Soon


Moving on pass that tedious previous post (I’m been sorting boxes for hours), today the children brought home the school photo announcement.  Look at the brochure.  For the first time (that I’ve ever seen), there is a “sibling” option.  The children missed photos last year because they started to school late and photos were taken really early in September.  This year though, they will be right in there.  I’m going to have them take individual photos and sibling photos.  It says uniforms are not mandatory, but I want it to be a proper school photo, so they will be wearing their uniforms.

There will be enough photos to go around to everyone.

The Junk Drawer


What do you do with similar things like in the above photo?  I am determined to keep stuff here at a minimum.  When we moved we went over our targeted weight by a few tons.  Therefore, in the last year, I have been sorting and throwing items out and giving things to Goodwill.  I cannot bother selling anything because I tried that in California.  No one wants to pay anything for anything but they want everything.  So far, I have taken at least 20 boxes to Goodwill and thrown away countless trash bags full.  I didn’t want to put anything in closets or drawers until everything was painted and brought up to preferred standards.  However, that doesn’t look like it will ever be done and I cannot tolerate stuff lying about anymore.

As I have progressed from one box to the next, I have poured the small things into the next box until I created one large box full of miscellaneous items, –aka junk drawer items.  I don’t want a junk drawer. We already have a drawer that houses instruction manuals and guides that come with appliances, toys, and electronics.  I get anxiety thinking about purging that and finding out we no longer have whatever can-opener, toy, or washing machine the booklet belongs to.

What you see in the photo is my “black plastic/rubber” grouping.  I want to close my eyes and toss the pile in the recyclable bin.  Then I think what if that little thing belongs to something something something and when we discover it we can no longer find the part…….UGH! Give me strength.

A Tree Full of Apples

Although Violet and Ashton are in different classrooms this year, it looks as if they have the same assignments.  Of course Violet had to go above and beyond and turn over her sheet and draw a whole other picture.  Jack has an assignment to do this weekend, due on Tuesday.  Fingers are crossed that we will not wait until Monday night to tackle it.


Ashton’s Tree Full of Apples.

Violet's Tree Full of Apples.

Violet’s Tree Full of Apples.

Violet turned the page over and drew a picture of a camp fire with empty seats.

Violet turned the page over and drew a picture of a camp fire with empty seats.

Jack's assignment. Should be fun.

Jack’s assignment. Should be fun.

The Rules of Not Having Enough

I grew up in a culture where nothing was ever good enough.  Everyone was struggling and trying to get by and instead of recognizing relief when it came, although most likely temporary, and expressing gratitude for that relief, derision and scorn was heaped upon the relief for not being good enough and/or enough.  Good enough and enough are interchangeable within this type of culture. Someone who gave should have given more; someone who went out and did, should have done more, whatever someone did, someone else who didn’t do could’ve done better, on and on.

Nothing is ever good enough.

If you dared to point out the dynamic you would be accused of upsetting the applecart, –of thinking you are better than everyone else.  Accused of wanting more while drowning in a sea of not enough. Ridiculed for not having enough.  Because even though the not-have-enoughs constantly cried about not having enough, you are only allowed to cry about their crying if you have enough (which of course would be never), and if you do not have enough but are happy enough with what you do have then you think you are too good for them and your opinion is dismissed.

Get out of line and you are punished.  Physical abuse is not a good enough punishment.  Broken bones mend and bruises fade.  No, the punishment has to be emotional torment.  Something that will fester, scar, and live inside you forever. No punishment is enough except emotional abuse, specifically withholding support, love, and anything else that everyone needs/wants. And that abuse is only enough until the next time when you learn it obviously wasn’t enough.

If you do not play the game by the rules that have been set down for you, then you don’t get to play at all.  You are cut out.

That’s is why I can see it a mile away.  I know the not-good-enough people by a few of their utterances, glances, and after a complete conversation, I can see it etched on their bones and engraved in their soul.