Divorced desperate and dating
Consequently, there's always a greater pressure to be the perfect parent, both as form of compensation and a way of assuaging your guilt.What I've discovered is that the problem is not so much with Dexter, but with the baggage of guilt and my desperate and doomed attempt to be Superdad.I also pick him up and take him to school twice a week, but really we just have 48 hours of quality dad-son time together each week. He's a wonderful boy, but when he utters those three words my wonderful boy becomes a cruel little monster. Sometimes he will demand Mummy and an hour later he has forgotten all about her. He won't stop calling for his mum, and for me to go away. Don't all little boys want to be with their dads and wrestle and play football and have fun? I've tried talking to him and it usually goes something like this. How could I tell him that I wished more than anything I could do just that, but it was impossible? But I do because I feel I have been rejected by his mother and now I'm being rejected by my son, and that's an agonising double rejection.And when I say no, he becomes verbally abusive or breaks down in tears. Dexter has always been closer to his mother than me. Having been married before with a son, who is now 24, I knew all about the special bond that exists between mother and child (especially a boy); it's one that a father can never quite match.I put this to Fionn King, an experienced child psychotherapist, who tells me: 'It's very natural for children to want to share things with their immediate family.
It's full of furniture you can bounce on and great piles of junk, planks of wood and rooms that time forgot and taste couldn't face.
I had hoped that because he was just three years old at the time of the split, Dexter would just accept the fact that it was normal for Daddy not to be living at home.
I think neither Dexter nor I have fully come to terms with the aftereffects of divorce.
Sitting in our newly furbished kitchen in our lovely flat in Bloomsbury eating a delicious omelette with warm crusty bread, I looked up from my meal and I thought: my wonderful wife! I left the wreckage of our marriage feeling battered and bruised and moved into a small, dingy and dusty storage room in my parent's house in North London.
I must point out that my parents are old bohemians with a life-long aversion to housework or home improvements.