Raising Mine: The trusty dummy whichever way the wind blows.

I am sitting in my bedroom listening to no.5 snore and battle to find his dummy. He does this without opening his eyes. There is just a trusting knowledge that someone will be close enough and paying attention enough to find his dummy and gently put it to his lips so that all he has to do is open his mouth and the dummy will magically go in.
The other children: two, three and four are fed, teeth are brushed, prayers are said and they are in bed. One is at a friends for a sleep-over. (‘Not sure how I feel about those, but that’s another story)
After a long day of loud, untidy and emotional “tata can I have this” and “tata, she hit me in the eye,” a day of swerving across for lanes to get into a mall you were passing because “tata, I need to wee and it’s heavy. I cant hold it,” the house is finally quiet.
My lady has spent the afternoon with the girls and she deserves it – after a week of diapers, hugs from dirty, muddy arms, cooking food for little people who will reject it on principle.

So today has really been about me and the kids. My feet are a testament to this as they throb hotly in the distance behind my lap-top screen.
Farther in the distance, ontop of the low TV stand, next to my wallet and TV remote is a flimsy piece of paper that has become a great weight on my psyche since it arrived. I orbit this paper with disgust. Sometimes I find myself wanting to scream at it: ” How dare you come into this house?”
But I don’t.

The flimsy piece of paper is a court summons requiring me to appear in court for “failing to pay (a large sum) of money for maintenance.”

It sits like an elephant in the bedroom. A finger of accusation saying what I have been contributing is regarded as not enough. Each time my eye lands on it, a vial of toxic bile drips from my throat onto my heart and threatens to choke me in a sea of rage.

Before I continue, let me rattle off some facts. I vowed to myself that whatever happens between me and the mothers has nothing to do with my responsibilities to my children. I have no love for men who don’t take care of their children; financially or otherwise. It’s cowardly and dead-beat behaviour.
But equally; I have no love for mothers who will use money, especially child-maintenance, as the battleground for venting their hurt. The courts will decide the rest.

So I stare at this summons. As I swallow down my offense at the suggestion that I would ever not do the best for my children I find peace in the thought that 1. To the greatest of my ability, I will not let this affect my relationship with my children. 2. Whichever way the wind blows on the date of the court, my children will always know that they have a father who loves them silly, whenever you kiss him his beard will scratch you or tickle your nose and when you reach out for your dummy in your sleep, it’ll magically find its way to your mouth.