Continued from Round One: And the Winner Is ...

I spent the next 30 days between the library and that friendly lawyer's office back home. I read everything I could get my hands on about preparing for a custody trial and successfully getting through a psych evaluation. We'd both been ordered to visit a court appointed psychologist who, after several one-on-one visits with both of us and one visit with each of us along with the child, the doc would enter a written report detailing her findings and recommendations to the court. It's not the only thing the judge would rely on in making her decision, but she would depend on the psych's words heavily.

I was not at all confident.

"The man is a sociopath, she's trained to see right through people like him, don't worry about it," my supporters said.

I hadn't seen right through him.

"She knows the signs, she knows what to look for. Once she meets him, this whole thing will be over in a couple of weeks. I knew there was something off about him the first time I met him," the peanut gallery rallied behind me.

Yeah, but I didn't. As I said, he's pretty convincing. I couldn't depend on the psychologist properly gauging his character. I needed to work on my own presentation.

I pored over clinical questionnaires, books as thick as my forearm outlining what to do, what to say, how to do it, how to say it. Be friendly, not too friendly, smile, not too much ... instructions like that were for mothers and fathers. But these books devoted entire chapters to the desired appearance of a mother who wants her children back.

Everything I’d read suggested demure dress, short nails (one book actually said "you can't bake cookies with long nails and you need to look like you've been baking cookies." This was NOT a circa 1950 book, by the way), no bright colors, no heels (no heels?) Yes, this was in bold print … basically, I needed to look like a school mom and act the part as well. Don’t bad mouth the other parent, answer questions as succinctly as possible, don't elaborate or offer unnecessary information unless asked, be honest, speak about the other parent's good points, don't sound like a bitter, scorned woman, demonstrate that you are able to separate the other parent's performance as a partner from his performance as a father ...

There was sooo much. I went shopping (in the women's department :)) and came out with bags like I was replacing my entire wardrobe. Knee length skirts, waist cut pants (not the kind that hug and scoop your rear, which is all they sell) button down blouses in larger sizes, not the stretchy, accentuating kind (equally hard to find), flat shoes and absolutely no cleavage of any kind, which is a bit of a feat for me. I've been blessed. :) It's also hot outside at this time, so finding clothes that adequately cover isn't even seasonal right now.

Meanwhile, after returning to New Jersey, we'd been staying in a hotel for a week while looking for an apartment everyday on the internet and up and down the streets checking out for rent signs. Not in the same city or even the same county as with BD, though. I'd put about 45 minutes between us.

But during this time we were also sharing our son equally, as we would until a final court decision was made. We'd meet at Burger King or some other public place to make the exchange. That's when he began acting strange. After the telephone threats and the angry intimidating long stares, now, all of a sudden, BD was nice. Sweet, even. To the point that it made me uncomfortable. Once he handed me the baby and as I took him in my arms, he leaned in next to me, smiled and snapped a pic of the three of us with his digital camera. A family picture? Another time he brought flowers and kissed me on the forehead. Gross, at this point.

He even suggested that we go to church together. Church? Together? I don't think I covered this, but BD was sooo anti anything Christian. He dumped out a little bottle of holy oil for the baby that an elder at my church back home had blessed for him. Not once but twice, he threw away the baby's first book, this cute little black and white "Jesus Loves Me" baby book that I'd bought.

I quickly learned not to get drawn into theological debates with him when he called me a "handkerchief wearing negro" for believing the "white man's lies" and "worshiping the white man's God." He told me he never wanted his child to step foot in a church.

The day before my scheduled C-Section, (yes, while the child was still in my belly) he had a fit when I peeked my head into the back room where he was playing Madden and announced I'd be back in a couple of hours, I was going to church. His need for control was obsessive.

I could not believe he was actually changing. Not really. BD wasn't the type to have second thoughts. He was always right the first time. Maybe this was one last ditch effort before the final psych eval and our trial date to gauge how hard I was really willing to go. (He had no idea). Perhaps he was as nervous about the impending psych eval as I was.

I got into "costume" and went over my "lines," rehearsing from those clinical questionnaires and the notebook of notes I'd taken, with my family. (This happened to be going on during the summer, my mother's a teacher and my sister was a student at the time, so they were both able to stay with me a while).

But when the day of my first appointment with the woman who held the fate of myself and my child in the power of her pen finally came, I could not have been less prepared.

Check back tomorrow as Melyssa takes a seat on the doctor's couch.

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*All names have been changed to protect the guilty & the innocent.