Custody Battle Quotes

I want you to marry me, Thomas." Marcus' attention had weight and heat on every exposed, raw part of him. "We can get a license in a state where it's legal, have a ceremony wherever you want, however you want. And I don't care if there's no law for it on the books, it will be the law between you and me and whatever God there is. I want it to be impossible for us to leave each other without a hell of a lot of paperwork, ugly custody battles over furniture, whatever. "I want to marry you," he repeated. "I want you to know that every morning when you wake up and see me that I want to be there, that I made an oath to be there. To stand by you. And that there's no one else for me. Not ever.

I can tell my parents are unhappy by the way they smile at waiters. In that small act of ingratiation I can see the custody battle to come.

From the standpoint of integrity, I think we all need to own up to our dirty little secrets. I believe that when we are open about our own strange desires or unusual lives, it paves the way for others to do the same. In the past thirty years, gay men and lesbians took a lot of flack to tell the truth about their love lives and their courage opened the door for a mass migration out of the closet. We’re now at a moment in time when unconventional families (even thirty-year triads and gay couples) are losing their children in custody battles because their families don’t conform to mainstream ideas about what a family should be. Given this context, I want to be someone who stands up for my choices even if they’re unpopular, even if I get snickers at cocktail parties.

Stories in the news often end at the deportation, at the airport scene. But each deportation means a shattered family, a marriage ending, a custody battle, children who overnight go from being raised by two parents to one parent with a single income, children who become orphans in foster care. One study found that family income dropped around 70 percent after a deportation. Another study found that American-citizen children born to immigrant parents who were detained or deported suffered greater rates of PTSD than their peers.

She had to learn not to be afraid of a man, the way, in your childhood, you learned not to be afraid of an earthworm or a bug. Often, when she spoke to men at parties, she rushed things in her mind. As the man politely blathered on, she would fall in love, marry, then find herself in a bitter custody battle with him for the kids and hoping for a reconciliation, so that despite all his betrayals she might no longer despise him, and in the few minutes remaining, learn, perhaps, what his last name was, and what he did for a living, though probably there was already too much history between them.

anything to do with their lives? “You and Nick are in the middle of a custody battle,” said Elisabeth. “It’s really serious.” Custody battle. It sounded like “custardy” battle. Alice imagined herself and Nick flinging spoonfuls of sweet yellow custard at each other, laughing and shrieking and licking it off afterward.

On top of all that is the general complexity of life, complicating the search for clarity. Consider the question “What really happened?” say, in a failed marriage, divorce, and child-custody battle. The answer to that query is so complex that settling the disagreements frequently requires court evaluation and multi-party assessment

I am here for readers to see parts of themselves during my dark days, but also for a better way of living in my triumphs and gained wisdom.

Often, when she spoke to men at parties, she rushed things in her mind. As the man politely blathered on, she would fall in love, marry, then find herself in a bitter custody battle with him for the kids and hoping for a reconciliation, so that despite all his betrayals she might no longer despise him, and in the few minutes remaining, learn, perhaps, what his last name was, and what he did for a living, though probably there was already too much history between them. She would nod, blush, turn away.

According to the L.A. news, the explosion at the Santa Monica beach had been caused when a crazy kidnapper fired a shotgun at a police car. He accidentally hit a gas main that had ruptured during the earthquake. This crazy kidnapper (a.k.a. Ares) was the same man who had abducted me and two other adolescents in New York and brought us across country on a ten-day odyssey of terror. Poor little Percy Jackson wasn’t an international criminal after all. He’d caused a commotion on that Greyhound bus in New Jersey trying to get away from his captor (and afterward, witnesses would even swear they had seen the leather-clad man on the bus—“Why didn’t I remember him before?”). The crazy man had caused the explosion in the St. Louis Arch. After all, no kid could’ve done that. A concerned waitress in Denver had seen the man threatening his abductees outside her diner, gotten a friend to take a photo, and notified the police. Finally, brave Percy Jackson (I was beginning to like this kid) had stolen a gun from his captor in Los Angeles and battled him shotgun-to-rifle on the beach. Police had arrived just in time. But in the spectacular explosion, five police cars had been destroyed and the captor had fled. No fatalities had occurred. Percy Jackson and his two friends were safely in police custody.

It was entirely possible that the parents of all the students in the institute were dealing with the most crucial life problems right now. Some might be going through a divorce. Some fighting a grave illness. Somebody might be in the middle of a custody battle, somebody else expecting a child. And all of them would prefer to think that their grown children were getting an education at a decent, albeit provincial, institution of higher learning. And no one would suspect that the success of their endeavors, their health, and even their very lives depended on the academic performance of their forgotten children, abandoned in Torpa.

I see that both her parents are here. I'm pleased that they are, because I'd like to take the opportunity, early in what I fear will be a long and bitter battle, to tell them what I think of what they're doing to their child. I'm not spearking here about their fight for custody of her. I'm speaking here about their decision to get divorced. Let's not fool ourselves about what divorce is. Divorice is a failure of parenting. It does more damage to children than just About anything else that might happen to them in the years before they become adults. It takes from them the only things they hold dear. It breaks up their home. It destroys their sense of family. It removes them from the comfort of having one bed, in one safe, secure, familiar house, where they go to sleep every night of the week. It fills them with sadness and, probably, guilt. They can't help but think that they must somehow be to blame. It sets them up for a world in which nothing is certain and nobody can be trusted.

What we face is not a loss of books but the loss of a world. As in Alexandria after Aristotle’s time, or the universities and monasteries of the early Renaissance, or the cluttered-up research libraries of the nineteenth century, the Word shifts again in its modes, tending more and more to dwell in pixels and bits instead of paper and ink. It seems to disappear thereby, as it must have for the ancient Peripatetics, who considered writing a spectral shibboleth of living speech; or the princely collectors of manuscripts in the Renaissance, who saw the newly recovered world of antiquity endangered by the brute force of the press; or the lovers of handmade books in the early nineteenth century, to whom the penny dreadful represented the final dilution of the power of literature. And yet, the very fact that the library has endured these cycles seems to offer hope. In its custody of books and the words they contain, the library has confronted and tamed technology, the forces of change, and the power of princes time and again.

A MAN AND HIS YOUNG WIFE WERE IN COURT BATTLING FOR THE CUSTODY OF THEIR CHILDREN. THE MOTHER ARGUED TO THE JUDGE THAT SINCE SHE BROUGHT THE CHILDREN INTO THIS WORLD, SHE SHOULD RETAIN CUSTODY OF THEM. THE MAN ALSO WANTED CUSTODY OF HIS CHILDREN, AND THE JUDGE ASKED FOR HIS RESPONSE. AFTER A LONG SILENCE, THE MAN SLOWLY ROSE FROM HIS CHAIR. “YOUR HONOR, WHEN I PUT A DOLLAR IN A VENDING MACHINE AND A PEPSI COMES OUT, DOES THE PEPSI BELONG TO ME OR THE MACHINE?

agreed to wait until three thirty, but that was as long as she could hold on. Julia and Anna had spent hours getting ready for the puppy: buying the bed, choosing where to put it, selecting the name (Anna had settled on Bella, which Julia thought was a fine name for a puppy), stocking up on dog treats, planning where they would take her for walks, and Julia did not want to have to deal with the disappointment that would follow if she had to tell Anna that the puppy would not be coming home that evening after all. Even more than that, Julia needed the puppy to be a source of nothing but joy and affection, because she was going to be facing her own custody battle soon enough and, if it was anything like Carol Prowses’s, Anna would need all the distractions she could get. Julia hadn’t found Brian in bed with one of his students –thankfully, since he taught in a junior school –or with anyone else, for that matter. If she had she probably wouldn’t have cared, which was exactly the problem. She liked Brian. She thought he was a good man and a good dad and a good husband –well, an OK man and

It's all interrelated, these destructive things I do. I latch on to people, like I'm collecting them. I'm always looking for a hero, you know?

The custody battle between Malcolm’s parents subsequently reduced the chances of further educational remediation or further mental health follow-up.

caught up in a custody battle.

being in loco parentis. It is possible for a step-parent to be required to pay child support even if the child's biological parent is already paying child support.

Oh. I take it from your tone that the custody battle is not going well.” “Tom has an in with the judge. A golfing buddy, believe it or not.” “You can’t get a venue change?” “My attorney says no. Guess what Tom’s claiming.” “What?” “I lead a”—Esperanza made quote marks with her fingers—“‘prurient’ lifestyle.” “Because you’re a wrestler?” “Because I’m bisexual.” Myron frowned. “For real?” “Yep.” “But bisexuality is so mainstream now.” “I know,” Esperanza said. “Practically a cliché.” “Tell me about it. I feel so passé.” She turned away. “So it’s bad?” “I may lose him, Myron. You know Tom. He is one of those master-of-the-universe, take-no-prisoner types. It isn’t about what’s right or wrong or the truth. It’s all about winning. It’s all about beating me no matter what the cost.” “Anything

knew. And his ex had seemed so kind on those first few dates, so infatuated with his Navy uniform, so enthusiastic in tearing up his bed. His ex-wife, a former stripper named Trish Bardoe, had married on the rebound a fellow by the name of Eddie Stipowicz, an unemployed engineer with a drinking problem. Lee thought she was heading for disaster and had tried to get custody of Renee on the grounds that her mom and stepfather could not provide for her. Well, about that time, Eddie, a sneaky runt Lee despised, invented, mostly by accident, some microchip piece of crap that had made him a gazillionaire. Lee’s custody battle had lost its juice after that. To add insult to injury, there had been stories on Eddie in the Wall Street Journal, Time, Newsweek and a number of other publications. He was famous. Their house had even been featured in Architectural Digest. Lee had gotten that issue of the Digest. Trish’s new home was grossly huge, mostly crimson red or eggplant so dark it made Lee think of the inside of a coffin. The windows were cathedral-size, the furniture large enough to become lost in and there were enough wood moldings, paneling and staircases to heat a typical midwestern town for an entire year. There were also stone fountains sculpted

Emily pinned him with her eyes. “Custody battles are war without the Geneva Accords,” she said. “Greg got nasty. I got nasty back. You do whatever you have to in order to win.

This man figures I’m some sort of grifter. He can’t seem to get it straight in his head, though. Am I passing off another man’s child as Kellum’s? Or am I trying to shake his people down through a custody battle? And then there’s the ten thousand dollars, which seems to say they don’t care which it is, they just want the garbage to take itself out. The knot in my stomach sits there, gross and heavy as lead, while my breakfast churns. Eggs on a hot day. I knew it was a bad idea. I bet this comes down to the fact I belong to the help. I’m not a decent person like them. That’s how they all see me, isn’t it? I’m trash. Cheap slut. Liar, conniver, whatever. But above all, cheap. That’s how they see me, and that’s how they’ll see Mia. My heart sinks, but my brain keeps plugging along, impervious. Ten thousand dollars is a lot of money for cheap.

Institutionalization and ‘special housing' At the time of the passage of the ADA, states still had laws on the books requiring people with mental disabilities to be institutionalized. Not even slaves had been so restricted. "Spurred by the eugenics movement," write legal historians Morton Horwitz, Martha Field and Martha Minow, "every state in the country passed laws that singled out people with mental or physical disabilities for institutionalization." The laws made it clear that the state's purpose was not to benefit disabled people but to segregate them from "normal" society. Thus, statutes noted that the disabled were segregated and institutionalized for being a "menace to society" [and] so that "society [might be] relieved from the heavy economic and moral losses arising from the existence at large of these unfortunate persons." "The state of Washington made it a crime for a parent to refuse state-ordered institutionalization," they wrote; "once children were institutionalized, many state laws required parents to waive all custody rights." Justice Thurgood Marshall wrote in the 1985 Cleburne Supreme Court decision (the decision saying that people with mental retardation did not constitute a "discrete and insular" minority) that this "regime of state-mandated segregation and degradation [had] in its virulence and bigotry rivaled, and indeed paralleled, the worst excesses of Jim Crow. Massive custodial institutions were built to warehouse the retarded for life." Yet they continue today. In 1999, the Supreme Court in its Olmstead decision acknowledged that the ADA did in fact require states to provide services to people with disabilities in the "most integrated setting"; but institutionalization continued, because federal funds  -- Medicaid, mostly  -- had a built-in "institutional bias," the result of savvy lobbying over the years by owners of institutions like nursing homes: In no state could one be denied a "bed" in a nursing home, but in only a few states could one use those same Medicaid dollars to get services in one's home that were usually much less expensive. Ongoing battles were waged to close down the institutions, to allow the people in them to live on their own or in small group settings. But parents often fought to keep them open. When they did close, other special facilities cropped up.

There will be custody battles and separate homes. There will be no fixing it this time.

Poor little Percy Jackson wasn’t an international criminal after all. He’d caused a commotion on that Greyhound bus in New Jersey trying to get away from his captor (and afterward, witnesses would even swear they had seen the leather-clad man on the bus—“Why didn’t I remember him before?”). The crazy man had caused the explosion in the St. Louis Arch. After all, no kid could’ve done that. A concerned waitress in Denver had seen the man threatening his abductees outside her diner, gotten a friend to take a photo, and notified the police. Finally, brave Percy Jackson (I was beginning to like this kid) had stolen a gun from his captor in Los Angeles and battled him shotgun-to-rifle on the beach. Police had arrived just in time. But in the spectacular explosion, five police cars had been destroyed and the captor had fled. No fatalities had occurred. Percy Jackson and his two friends were safely in police custody.

In the following years of prison life, when finding ourselves under the custody of new guards, we at once scanned their uniforms for campaign ribbons, knowing that our treatment would be more humane under battle-seasoned troops than in the hands of occupational forces who masqueraded under the laurels of combat soldiers.

When you date from thirty onward, get ready to meet someone with 550 pounds of rucksacks absolutely brimming with history, complications, and demands. There will be divorces and children and houses that half belong to an ex; IVF attempts and dying parents and years of therapy and problems with addiction and jobs that take up all of their time and ex-partners they still have to see once a week because of a custody-battle dog. It can be daunting, serious, intense, grown-up, and not very fun. The older you get, the more baggage you carry, the more honest, open, and vulnerable everyone allows themselves to be.

I run the last thirty yards or so until I get to him just as he’s walking down the stage steps. He feels me. We make eye contact. He looks puzzled, maybe a little alarmed. “I think we have something in common” is what comes out of my mouth. His eyes well with tears. Mine do too. The next ten minutes are an informational exchange of a blur. I ask him if he knew about me, that I existed. He says yes. And my brothers. He says that he’s been waiting for us to contact him. He didn’t want to contact us because he wasn’t sure if we knew. He asks how I found out. I tell him. He says things ended poorly with Mom and that there was a big custody battle when we were little—that Mom said he was physically abusive (he assures me he wasn’t). She won. I ask him if he knew Mom died. He says yes, he saw it on E! News. I think about what a strange sentence that is.

I wondered how there could be a custody battle when Hong Kong was already a fully grown adult and all she wanted was exactly what her parents did, the wealth of the entire globe.

There was nothing in this story about hot young bartenders who studied law, or real estate agents who stole other people’s husbands. There were no subplots involving lewd photos or extorted hush payments. No mentions of custody battles or starving authors doing questionable things to pay their bills.

A nasty child custody battle in Tim Walden’s school district in Massachusetts revealed just how substantial the volume of e-mail correspondence schools receive from parents had become. As superintendent, Dr. Walden received a subpoena from a boy’s father for all e-mails related to the boy; the father hoped to use the content of some of his ex-wife’s e-mails against her. Instead the subpoena revealed a different fact pattern: in the aggregate over the boy’s freshman and sophomore years the father had e-mailed teachers and administrative staff over two hundred times. Ironically the mother had sent only about ten e-mails.6 Technology has changed many things but the school day is still only six or seven hours long. How do teachers and administrators even begin to handle the enormous work increase caused by interactions with parents?

The preparations for and the writing of such influential reports as this one attributed to McNamara was a work of skill, perseverance, and high art. Whenever it was decided that McNamara would go to Saigon, select members of the ST sent special messages to Saigon on the ultra-secure CIA communications network, laying out a full scenario for his trip. The Secretary of Defense and his party would be shown “combat devastated villages” that had paths and ruts that had been caused by the hard work and repeated rehearsals—not battles—that had taken place in them between “natives,” “Vietnamese soldiers,” and Americans. McNamara would be taken on an itinerary planned in Washington, he would see “close-in combat” designed in Washington, and he would receive field data and statistics prepared for him in Washington. All during his visit he would be in the custody of skilled briefers who knew what he should see, whom he should see, and whom he should not see.

Collectively, THEY BUILD HOUSES WITH SHITTY MATERIALS, FAULTY STRUCTURES, TEMPORARY ARRANGEMENTS AND DEFAULT CLOSINGS, WHERE THEY THEN USE FALSE MARKETING AND ADVERTISEMENT TO SELL IT; ALL WHILE ENTERTAINING DECEPTIVE TRADE PRACTICES. STILL, I AM PERPLEXED. I AM PERPLEXED, BECAUSE THIS IS ABOUT AS BAD AS A BALLON LOAN, WITH A PRE PAYMENT PENALTY CLAUSE. WHO DOES THAT?

Even as I write this, I’m still battling for the right to share custody and attempting to peacefully end my marriage. Through all of this, I have had a great support group. I have my parents and I have the kind of friends that I can call at any hour of the day to talk about what’s bothering me. I can go lie on their couch and cry for hours, saying nothing at all. Accepting that I need these caring people in my life doesn’t mean I’m a weak person. I don’t have to be okay all the time. It took me my whole life to learn that, to understand that no one is happy all the time, no one is perfect.