I signed the final orders today. The final orders. And no, I'm not really happy with them, despite the fact that R's father is required to wear "more equipment than a microwave tower," according to my attorney, for a full year.
At least I know my son will be safe ... from his father's drinking or prevented drinking. But I know he can still do damage. He's never accomplished much else, from my perspective.
However, packing R's bags for the weekend, the first that he will spend away from home, with his father, for three entire nights, is NOT FUN.
It's painful. But what choice do I have?
Maybe the train that has been mowing me over has passed ... the engine hit me forcefully, and I keep waiting for the caboose. A good friend said there is no caboose, they no longer exist. I pray he is right ... that the train has hit and passed me, and somehow, I'm still breathing and can hopefully move forward.
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