In December, my son’s father, M, experiences what I can only assume is yet another manic episode.  I have no idea if he is off his meds or using, and considering the infrequency with which he sees our son, I do not particularly care. Our custody agreement could easily sit on my bookshelf between Margaret Atwood and Octavia Butler. 

He sends me a bouquet of flowers that will be dead within a few days, a necklace I coveted in 2010, but now only reminds me of him.  I prefer that my accessories not be trauma triggers.  The $350 spa gift certificate M sends me, I admittedly put to good use.  M also buys our son Jake a second bass guitar, Apple ear buds, and tickets for a Japanese pop band concert that takes place in May in New Jersey.  On a school night. They will never attend much to Jake’s immense disappointment. 

M says he has been “laid off,” but there is “nothing to worry about,” and will I please “not get hysterical” because he has been given 6 months' worth of severance pay.  Nothing with child support is going to change.  Uh huh. Right. This isn’t my first or even fifth rodeo with him changing jobs. 

At the end of January, M predictably ceases sending in payments.  His wages cannot be garnished because he has no employer.  Meanwhile, America goes to war with Iraq for reasons I am not sure Pete Gegseth himself can answer.  Food and gas prices soar.  My kid can eat an entire pizza in one sitting and outgrow clothing on a seemingly hourly basis. His guitar lessons are practically $1 a minute. He’s only been out of braces and private school for a year, and college looms large with unreal price tags.  The timing isn’t great, given I lost months of work to cancer last year. 

By March, M shares that he has been hired for a new job. He claims I will receive child support by April 1st. April 1st comes and goes, and the joke is most certainly on me. His LinkedIn lists an employer, and I share this with the incredibly caring and competent Child Support Enforcement Agency (CSEU), who recently informed a friend whose ex lives in Australia that they are notifying Austria of her case.  

On April 10th, CSEU tells me they have verified his employer, and within 2 weeks, I will get a portion of the 6K in arrears he owes.  Weeks pass, and supermarket prices continue to climb, with some charging nearly $10 a cereal box. 

By the month’s end, M insists his paycheck was garnished, and he will be sending a screenshot.  He never does, and the arrears continue to accrue. I fantasize about him being fined with a 50% APR, the same way AMEX does when my payments are not made in a timely fashion.  I plead with my landlord not to raise the rent again, as they have done so every year. They respond that they will be raising the rent again.  

I lapse into elaborate fantasies of creating an ad campaign. I envision M’s photo accompanied by the inquiry, “Have you seen this deadbeat dad?”  along with an 800 number reminiscent of 1980s missing children on milk cartons in between the pain law malpractice and AI ads on the subway and at bus stops. I imagine drivers passing giant billboards while entering and exiting the Brooklyn and Verrazano bridges.    The arrears will automatically update every 2 weeks, like NASDAQ. I dream of making him a cautionary tale with ads warning unsuspecting women on dating apps, as well as packages of condoms and Plan B.  I think of adding M and men like him to the syllabus of puberty education classes. Herpes can be mostly controlled with medication. Chlamydia can be eradicated with antibiotics. A narcissistic bipolar alcoholic is far less predictable and manageable than an STD. The prospect of contending with M and CSEU could also sell a lot of magic wands.  

I call CSEU back and navigate the maze of prompts, endeavoring to speak to a live human being.
When I eventually reach one, they inform me that their employer was actually never verified. 
“But you told me the employer was verified!” I cry out.

“We have no verified employer on record,” they respond, sounding bored and probably scrolling TikTok. 
“So he just can not pay, definitely?” I ask, bewildered.    
“Well, we will notify the lottery,” they offer.
“The lottery?” Surely I have misheard.
“Yes.  If he enters and wins the lottery, we will deduct the arrears from his winnings.”
“So I have to wait for him to win the lottery?”
“His driver's license will also be suspended,” they add. 
“But we live in NYC. He Uberes everywhere. This isn’t helpful,” I am becoming more and more distressed.
M once called taxis a form of public transportation with the rationale, “It’s a form of transportation available to the public.” 

“So that’s it?” I sputter. “I continue to house and feed and clothe our kid, and you do nothing about a court order? I couldn't work for months last year because of breast cancer. My landlord expects rent to be paid on time. I can’t file a violation because I don’t have a mailing address for him. What are you doing to find and make him pay?” “Ma’am, I am going to have to ask you to call back when you are calm,” They proceed to hang up on me. May arrives, and the beautiful magenta magnolia and light pink cherry blossom trees exacerbate Jake’s seasonal allergies. I buy a lot of name-brand Claritin, as the generic proves completely ineffective. I need the new insurance card from M’s employer, as the pediatrician is unwilling to prescribe Prednisone, which worked in previous years without seeing Jake. 

I begin blindly emailing what may or may not be Human Resources for M’s employer. A week or many tissue boxes later, a rep responds and explains that M, in actuality, works for another company with whom they are contracted. I navigate to that company's webpage and learn their mission statement boasts of helping clients “tame chaos.” These people hired M Nevertheless, I managed to connect with their HR representative, who accepts the court order I provided and agrees to fill out the form for wage garnishment and provide the Aetna card. The arrears now exceed 10K.

As I sit in the pediatrician’s office waiting to be called, toddlers play with toy kitchens and babies shriek.  Amy Winehouse’s song “Rehab” plays. It could be M’s theme song, and the irony of the artist’s death from alcohol poisoning is not lost on me.  Why are they playing this in a pediatrician’s office? Although admittedly, I do prefer it to Kidzbop.  

A medical assistant named Destiny calls us in. A buff pediatrician who looks like he could be prescribing himself steroids examines Jake, then calls in Prednisone to the local pharmacy. Jake and I pick it up, and I give him his first dose.  

Sunday is Mother’s Day, and M emails insisting, again, that his check was garnished. I checked online and lo and behold, $1900 has been applied to the arrears. It has yet to hit my bank account, but in my vast past experience, I know it will this week. Happy Mother’s Day to me indeed.