THE VIRGINIAN-PILOT
Copyright (c) 1995, Landmark Communications, Inc.
DATE: Sunday, June 25, 1995 TAG: 9506250043
SECTION: LOCAL PAGE: B1 EDITION: FINAL
SOURCE: ELIZABETH SIMPSON
LENGTH: Long : 117 lines
The mothers and fathers file in and sit as far apart as they can, fingering documents in envelopes worn thin from being opened and closed.
Lawyers scurry in and out. They're the ones in the suits, carrying briefcases and conferring. The judge sits up high, where the air is clear.
This is Circuit Court, where the business of parenthood is brokered. At least for people whose marriages have crashed and burned, whose attempts at civility have gone up in smoke.
This is where the raising of children is brought down to a mathematical problem. Where children's lives are dissected into his-and-her payment schedules.
I am here to cover a hearing, but instead witness a disturbing perspective of parenthood in America:
You pay health insurance; I knock off 100 bucks from child support. You pay the medical co-payment, and I'll get the prescription. You pick up the life insurance, and I'll get the school expenses.
Private school tuition? Get outta here. Is it in writing? Forget it, then. Don't have a job? Get one.
It's done in a civilized manner for the most part, dressed up in ``whereas'' and ``wherefore'' and ``if it please the judge.''
Still, the undercurrent of tension makes my head throb.
The judge tells one guy he needs to make payments on $12,000 in back child support. What, the man angrily asks, is he supposed to do about the child support he's paying on two other children?
``You've been busy,'' the judge says drolly.
``Just being a dad,'' the man answers, shaking his head disgustedly as his ex studies hands shaking in her lap.
Hard to believe that many of these same couples started out years ago with the vow, ``For better or worse, for richer or poorer, 'til death do us part.'' And now answer to, ``Do you swear to tell the truth, the whole truth and nothing but the truth?''
The same people who thought children would bind them together are still bound, but by court hearings and mediation dates.
People who once whispered intimacies now say everything through lawyers, even if their ex is footsteps away. And want everything in writing, notarized and signed by the judge.
These families are just a handful of the 1 million U.S. unions that end in divorce a year. But they offer insight to studies detailing what the divorce revolution has wrought on children: Kids more likely to be stressed, to have therapists, to clash with parents.
Even though these hearings are all about children, it's hard to imagine them.
They're not here. In court, they are numbers, names and itemized lists, instead of faces, voices and wriggling toes.
I'm thankful they can't hear the quibbling over shoes, tuition, the birthday cards that never got sent, the Christmas gifts that never arrived - all the yardsticks that measure parenthood in court.
After five hours, I rush from the courthouse, suck in fresh air, and drive home to bury my face in my own two children.
The loads of laundry, the pile of bills, the high-pitched whining will seem less daunting tonight.
Far from the courtroom where children's lives are split down the middle.
The mothers and fathers file in and sit as far apart as they can, fingering documents in envelopes worn thin from being opened and closed.
Lawyers scurry in and out. They're the ones in the suits, carrying briefcases and conferring. The judge sits up high, where the air is clear.
This is Circuit Court, where the business of parenthood is brokered. At least for people whose marriages have crashed and burned, whose attempts at civility have gone up in smoke.
This is where the raising of children is brought down to a mathematical problem. Where children's lives are dissected into his-and-her payment schedules.
I am here to cover a hearing, but instead witness a disturbing perspective of parenthood in America:
You pay health insurance; I knock off 100 bucks from child support. You pay the medical co-payment, and I'll get the prescription. You pick up the life insurance, and I'll get the school expenses.
Private school tuition? Get outta here. Is it in writing? Forget it, then. Don't have a job? Get one.
It's done in a civilized manner for the most part, dressed up in ``whereas'' and ``wherefore'' and ``if it please the judge.''
Still, the undercurrent of tension makes my head throb. You can see shirts tremble from pounding hearts, as one parent stands off against another. Sweat soaks through clothes despite the air conditioning.
The judge tells one guy he needs to make payments on $12,000 in back child support. What, the man angrily asks, is he supposed to do about the child support he's paying on two other children?
``You've been busy,'' the judge says drolly.
``Just being a dad,'' the man answers, shaking his head disgustedly as his ex studies hands shaking in her lap.
Hard to believe that many of these same couples started out years ago with the vow, ``For better or worse, for richer or poorer, 'til death do us part.'' And now answer to, ``Do you swear to tell the truth, the whole truth and nothing but the truth?''
The same people who thought children would bind them together are still bound, but by court hearings and mediation dates.
People who once whispered intimacies now say everything through lawyers, even if their ex is footsteps away. And want everything in writing, notarized and signed by the judge.
These families are just a handful of the 1 million U.S. unions that end in divorce a year. But they offer insight to studies detailing what the divorce revolution has wrought on children: Kids more likely to be stressed, to have therapists, to clash with parents.
Even though these hearings are all about children, it's hard to imagine them.
They're not here. In court, they are numbers, names and itemized lists, instead of faces, voices and wriggling toes.
I'm thankful they can't hear the quibbling over shoes, tuition, the birthday cards that never got sent, the Christmas gifts that never arrived - all the yardsticks that measure parenthood in court.
After five hours, I rush from the courthouse, suck in fresh air, and drive home to bury my face in my own two children.
The loads of laundry, the pile of bills, the high-pitched whining will seem less daunting tonight.
Far from the courtroom where children's lives are split down the middle. by CNB