The Single Mom Handbook

We didn't choose an easy road, but we're going to make it.

[singlemomhandbook]

Don’t Let Them Call You Baby

Something (that may be quite small) made me very angry the other day.  And, since it’s the first week of January, of course I had to really stop and examine it because it’s the New Year and I want to be more Positive and less Reflexively Negative.

My ex was texting me his concerns about our oldest child.  I was on my way to sleep, I had to work the next morning, and so I texted some short, non-committal answers back hoping he would just fade away.  But then, he said something along the lines of “I’m just worried about our boy, (my nickname.)” and OOOH I GOT HOT.

Because although we were married and had some kids together that was ten years ago.  His treatment of them and me was shitty enough that whatever kind feelings I may have had toward him have long been choked out.  They’re dead, cold, gone, decomposed and blown away.  You don’t know me.  You don’t get to call me that name.  At best, you can call me “ma’am.”

And, let me restate that, it was ten years ago.  His drumming up some concern for his children at this point is so little, so late that it is more of an insult than if he kept bumbling through life, seemingly unaware he is a father/adult/person with responsibilities.

Furthermore, these past ten years, when I was worried; when the fear was so intense I swear I could feel it gnawing it’s way out of my body through my rib cage, do you know who got to hear my worries?  The ceiling.  The ceiling of the shelter where we lived.  After that, the ceiling of the tiny trailer we lived, hours from anyone who knew us, where the rain on the roof sounded like a bucket of nails being poured out.  I worked two jobs while living in that trailer.  I raised three children living in that trailer.  I got laid off six weeks before my fourth child was born.  I made it on zero income until that baby was ten days old and I went back to work again.  I drove from that trailer to the hospital, alone, in labor and drove back home from the hospital with a newborn in the back seat.  (That time, the windshield got to hear most of my worries.  And those were mostly just “Please make it to the hospital.”)  

In a moment of weakness, I asked him to come back to that tiny trailer with the newborn and his three other kids so he could take care of them while the baby and I slept.  He said he had to work.  Early the next morning, he called me from jail.  He’d been arrested after drunkenly slamming his mom’s car into a cop car parked on the side of the highway.  He called to ask me to bail him out.  

Fuck that.  You don’t get to call me baby, or my nickname, or even my name.  You don’t get to call me.  My ten years of worries all exhaled up above and I’m far enough up in this journey to look back and see how far I’ve come.  Without him.  Without most people.  He’s not even raising his kids and he can’t be alone, breathing out his worries to his ceiling.  In his parents’ house, paying no rent, learning no things, being no one.  

Don’t call me.  I do not care to hear from you.

[singlemomhandbook]

Your Ex-Know Your Limits

I think it’s great if you can be friends with your ex.  Or friendly.  Or cordial.  I think it’s better for kids to have parents who can tolerate each other’s presence.(Unless it is a case of abuse.  Then, by all means, hate their guts and only allow the visitation the courts require.) 

 My parents refused to be in the same room with each other (although, it was more one parent than both) and, because of this, when I graduated high school I had to have dinner with one side of the family before the ceremony, attend the four hour ceremony, and then have dinner with the other side afterward.  

They briefly shared the same space when my first child, their first grandchild was born.  They refused to speak to each other, building awkward tension in the room as the burrito-wrapped baby was passed around.  

I tried to have them together at the kids’ birthday parties for a few years and eventually gave up.  I wasn’t going to do two parties and I didn’t want to cater to two groups of people, existing in the same location as far away from each other as possible.  It’s exhausting.

I’m trying to be friendly with the kids’ dad.  It’s OK for about the length of a meal.  Of course, I didn’t know this until I tested it.  (I’m a “Try it.  Let’s see what happens.” type of person.) Their dad has occasionally stayed for dinner when bringing them back from a weekend visit.

But, just because you can get along, help each other out, and share the occasional meal DOES NOT MEAN that you can do more than that.  

I learned this the hard way when we went on vacation together last week.

It wasn’t a “rekindling the romance” type thing.  I wanted an extra pair of eyes so the kids didn’t drown in the ocean, an extra pair of arms to help bounce the kids over the waves, and I wanted to split the cost of a beach house 50/50.  It was fine the first day or so.  But I soon realized that being around him was taxing.  I wasn’t able to relax or enjoy the vacation because of the high level of interaction I had to have with him.

I don’t know if people change or if they don’t.  But he hasn’t changed much since we divorced and the things that made me unable to tolerate being married to him anymore showed themselves while we were on vacation.  I was the planner, the doer, the arranger, the scheduler, the decider.  While he just wanted to sit in a chair on the beach the whole day, I had to reckon with a four year old who is being deprived of her naps while simultaneously going to bed hours later than usual, a brand new vest-less ocean swimmer, a 15 year old who wants to wander off on his own, sunblock, food, drinks, towels, chairs, sand toys, bathing suits, goggles, gasoline, weather...it was exhausting. 

I would’ve rather paid the whole amount for the beach house and had time to myself.  I would’ve rather had been the only adult around so that the kids would follow my directions instead of seeing if their dad has any veto power.

By the end of the second day, I’d developed a migraine.  On the way home, I was seething.  He’d agreed to drive the 300 miles home.  I was planning on taking a long nap.  We were in stop and go traffic the first hundred miles.  He tried to maintain a 60 mile per hour speed limit.  He’d slam on the gas, then stomp on the brakes.  I was starting to feel carsick.  He nearly rear ended a van as he cut over two lanes which elicited an involuntary “HEY” from me. At that point, I knew I couldn’t sleep.  So, I sat there, angry about the sleep I was missing.  Hating the music he picked, hating the way he drove, hating the way he breathed.  (I’m not saying I was completely rational at this time.)

Driving like that didn’t get us home appreciably faster.  Now my transmission feels funny.  My migraine lasted three days.

So.  What I have learned is that the less time I spend with him, the kinder my spirit is toward him.  What better gift to my children could I give than memories of their father and I not hating each other and not fighting?  I just have to keep my distance.  And my car keys.

[singlemomhandbook]

You Must Be Made By Goblins

You only have so much...time, energy, money, many other things that could make this a very long list...and you must spend it-all of it-wisely.

Therefore, you must be made by goblins.

(If you’ve somehow missed out on all iterations of Harry Potter, you can google “Goblin Made” to see what I mean.)

I was reminded of this today during a barrage of texts from one of my parents that didn’t outright question my parenting abilities, but questioned my parenting abilities under a guise of concern.  

Before now, I would’ve gotten my feelings hurt and tried to explain that to this person.  This person would tell me I’m overreacting or maybe point out other faults they’ve found with me that they’ve been carrying around with them waiting for such an occasion as this.  Either way, I would feel bad.  I would spend time ruing the fact that this is how my relationship is with my parent.  I would think about how I wish things were.  I would feel worse.  It would be a whole “thing” that I had to “process.”

I spent three years (hopefully you’ll need less time) observing the people in my life and what they bring to it.  (Or take away.) Being that I am limited in many things and that I owe the most and best of myself to my kids, I do not have time for things that take away from them.  

If that means a far less close relationship than I feel like I “should” have, I have to let go of the should and accept what is.

I am only able to take in that which makes me stronger.  I do not have time or room or the desire for anything else.  Although this was formed from our necessity, I think it is probably a useful thing for everyone, everywhere.

It can be hard (and scary!) when someone doesn’t like the way you parent.  As long as you’re not breaking the law or harming your children, there are very many ways to parent.  I am a fan of natural consequences and personal responsibility.  Because more involved parenting (some describe it as “helicopter parenting”) was revered during part of the time that I was raising children, the things that I think are important for my kids sometimes surprise people.  

After being married to two men who didn’t know how to find a doctor, make an appointment, or refill a prescription; I decided that once my oldest got a job that refilling his prescriptions would be part of his responsibility.  My parent does not like that and has been giving me trouble about that this morning.

Instead of being sad and wishing for acceptance or support, I told myself that this is what that parent is known for, put down my phone, (was inspired by that interaction to create this post) and am going on about my day.  If my parent doesn’t think well of me because of my parenting choices...that’s on them.  Other people’s opinions of me are none of my business.

I know that the place I’m coming from is a place of love and concern.  My number one job here is to raise self-sufficient adults.  It’s not to create a magical childhood wonderland, it’s not to prove my love to my kids by how much I will do for them, it is to ensure that they understand it is their job to be kind, work hard, and help others.  If I parent from that perspective, most of the time, I’ll get things right.

When I read this response from Carolyn Hax (who I LOVE), it was like oxygen.  It was like, exactly what I needed.  It is also a thing that will never happen.  But that’s OK.  I did my part to make sure I had the best relationships I could with my parents.  I’m doing my part to make sure I have a good relationship with my kids-within the framework of teaching them to be net positives for humanity.  This is my purpose and my intention and everything is second to that.

https://www.washingtonpost.com/lifestyle/style/carolyn-hax-want-to-get-closer-to-your-daughter-offer-assistance/2017/04/25/cacf234c-26d2-11e7-a1b3-faff0034e2de_story.html?utm_term=.959f6c8f69e4

[singlemomhandbook]

The Beauty of the Lake

One of my favorite family traditions was born out of necessity.

I’m not sure if I constructed it as such in my head.  I imagine that the first time I packed my babies up and headed to the lake, my brain was achingly tired and I wanted some small time to sit without a child (or two, or three) attached to me.  

The furthest back that I can find pictures of us at the lake is Mother’s Day, just days before delivering my third child.  My oldest was almost 7 and my soon-to-be-middle child was closing in on 18 months.  The lake was great for us then.  It was springtime in the south and quite warm outside.  I was large and pregnant. In the picture I have, I’m sitting in the water so that it covers my lap (probably to cool off and maybe to take some of the strain off my heavily pregnant body), my toddler is clutching my arm and dipping her toes in the water and my oldest is in the background, splashing and shrieking.

As our family has changed over time, the lake has consistently held its place of importance in our lives.  It is something enjoyable for all of us.  That’s a big one.  If I wasn’t a single parent, if I had more time on my hands or money, then time and money and experiences would be divided differently.  Since there’s only one day per week that I have free and clear with my children...that day has to satisfy all of us.  My kids aren’t in sports or dance or anything like that.  But I think that whatever developmental opportunities those things can provide are definitely provided by the lake.

From their earliest days, the lake has been a source of new sounds and smells and feelings.  I’ve seen my babies slap at the water at the edge of the shore, marvel at sticking their fingers in wet sand, and grin as the breeze off the water blows back their hair.  When they’re a bit older, the beach is new terrain to navigate and sharpen their newly-emerging walking skills.  I’ve watched each of them stand on the shore, in breathless anticipation, watching the water approach their toes.  I’ve caught their surprised glance back at me at the feeling of their feet sinking in the sand.

There’s been a summer for each of them where they have been afraid of the water.  It’s usually the first summer after they turn two.  That’s a hard summer for them because their older siblings play happily in the water and they adamantly want to stay on the shore.  They staunchly dig in the sand and their back turned to the happy kids playing in the water.

They each have always had their own life jacket and understand that until they are capable, strong swimmers, the life jacket is non-negotiable if you’re going out in water past your knees.  (Different rules apply for the ocean.) The life jackets give the tiniest bit of breathing room while we’re all in the water.  They enable to safely try new things in the water without my being within arm’s reach.  (Which is good, because I have 5 kids and two arms.)  

As long as I apply sunscreen twice and pack a cooler full of food, we can stay out all day.  I keep their sand toys and vests in a mesh two handled laundry hamper so we can shake (most of) the sand out before loading it back in the trunk. Sometimes, there’ll be a snow cone truck at the lake.  I don’t know where other parents feed their children snow cones, but I will not do it unless we are adjacent to a swimmable body of water. Those things are nuts.  But at the lake, once the kids are all sticky and purple, all they have to do is go for a dip in the water-which is exactly what they wanted to do anyway.  The lake is such a win for us, I try to keep food around the house that can be hastily formed in to a picnic.  You don’t always know when you’re going to go to the lake.  Sometimes the lake chooses you.

My oldest, who is now a teenager, has been without a vest for years.  We took our first trip to the lake of 2017 last weekend and learned that my second oldest no longer needs a vest, either.  She swam by herself to the diving platform and jumped over the side over and over all day.  My younger three, all in vests, bobbed around and played made up games with eachother.  As I watched them, still nervous when they can’t touch the bottom with their toes in spite of their vests, I realized that time is tick-tick-ticking away and that next year, another one will shed their vest.  And so on and so on until it’s me at the lake on my blanket alone and the kids are running around with their friends.  Eventually, I’ll just be the ride. And so soon after, I won’t even be that.

And sometimes, I get a moment to myself.  I still sit sometimes where the water meets the shore to cool off.  I make weird, drippy sandcastles with the kids.  I take pictures like crazy...mostly of them, but also of the beautiful things in nature.  I even sometimes get to stretch out on the blanket that I always keep in my trunk (in case of unexpected picnics or lake trips) and look up at the clouds and listen to the sounds of the water, and the music, and the voices of happy kids.  I am so thankful that we have a thing that is a pleasure for all of us.  It makes me feel like we have enough.  Enough time.  Enough money.  Enough of each other.  That I am enough.  That’s the beauty of the lake.

-Single Mom

[singlemomhandbook]

The Fantastic Five, a couple years back.

[singlemomhandbook]

I Can Do It, You Can Too

You can do it.  If you want to.  If you need to.  I hope you don’t.  But if there should ever come a time when you need to become a single mom too, you can do it.  

I know you can because I did.

I know you can because I thought that I couldn’t until I did it.

I know you can because people stop me all the time and ask “How do you do it?” Some say it with a sort of grimace, like our whole situation is painful for them to take in.  Some ask it urgently, like they want to know what we’ve had to do without to make this happen.  Do the kids get 3 squares a day?  Do I leave them in my car while I work?  

I’m not special or particularly strong or brave.  You get to be like me when there’s no other option.

And if, however it should come about, there is no other option in your life; you’ll be a single mom and you’ll make it work.  Because not making it work isn’t an option.

It reminds me a little bit of getting my kids to eat their vegetables.  They don’t particularly like vegetables as a category and the ones they do like, they definitely don’t like them as much as say...popcorn or cotton candy.  But if I don’t keep popcorn and cotton candy or faux healthy but actually crap granola bars in the house, if there’s only fruits and vegetables, broccoli gets eaten and apples are a treat. 

I didn’t hammer out any kind of master plan before becoming a single parent.  Even if I had, it would’ve been amended so many times by now it would be unrecognizable.  

I know it is scary and I know it is hard, but if you need to become a single mom it’s because there’s no other option.  No one makes this choice lightly or without consideration.

I know there are so many people out there who are staying in precarious relationships out of fear that this life, the one I chose, is worse than how they’re living.  This life isn’t even that bad.  This life is better than abuse.  This life is better than addiction.  This life is better than constant selfishness or anger.  

It’ll hurt, it’ll be hard, and you’ll adjust.  You’ll find your rhythm and the steps that seemed so big will become routine.  You got this.  If you ever need to hear it, reach out to me.  I’ll tell you.  You can do it.  I did too.

-Single Mom

[singlemomhandbook]

Picnic Every Day

I’m lucky (?) that I live in the southern United States and most of the year is open to me for picnicking with my kids.  In the summer, we can go after dark so we don’t all die of heatstroke.  The winters usually throw in enough 70 (and sometimes even 80!) degree days for us to keep on picnicking.

It is a sanity saver.  It’s a little Pinteresty.  (I think.  I’ve never actually been there.)  I think it imbues their childhood with a sort of magic and wonder.  We see a lot of sunsets, stars, fireflies.

And those are good reasons to picnic with your kids.

But also, it’s much easier cleanup.

Dinner.  If you didn’t have the foresight to start something in the crock pot or meal plan and freeze your food for a week on your day off...dinner can really fuck your world up.  By the time we get home, it’s 6:30.  Bedtime is 8.  I have to prepare a meal, oversee chores and homework, get kids bathed and dressed.  And after all of that, there’s a sinkful of dirty dishes, messy stovetop and cluttered counters.  The kitchen table has to be cleared and wiped down.  And the seats.  (”Eat over your plate” is still repeated during our household mealtimes AT LEAST three times.) 

It is a drag.  

We did adopt two $5 shelter dogs to help keep the floors a bit neater.  (And, you know, because of love.) But they won’t eat fruits or vegetables.  And a clean floor only goes so far.  

Have a picnic.

There is nothing like a picnic at the park where your kids can play rough and tumble and loud, where dinner can be half price drive thru tacos or peanut butter sandwiches that you packed in your car that morning.  Because when you get home, all you have to do is shuffle the sleepy eyed kids through their bedtime routine.  They fall asleep more quickly.  And there’s no dishes to do.  And the floors are clean. You don’t have to touch a kitchen counter top or a rag.  

I hope that when my kids are older that they will look back and see me as a mom who fostered a love for the beauty of nature in them through these dinnertime picnics.  I hope they don’t look behind the curtain to see the cold, calculating, chore-minimizing motivation for eating outdoors.   At least, until they have kids of their own.  Then I can pass along this secret to them.

-Single Mom

[singlemomhandbook]

There’s Only One

My kid just puked five times in a JC Penney.  

I packed us all a picnic dinner to enjoy at the kid-sized tables next to the indoor mall play area.  I needed to get them out of the house for a couple hours so our cleaning ladies could come-smack in the middle of dinner time.  

So a picnic.  Minimal cleanup.  Let them run off some energy at the play area.  Return home with just enough time for them to shower, dress and go to bed.

The girls all played for a little over an hour; running, jumping, climbing.  No fighting.  No whining.  No crying.  

A climb to the top of the highest piece of the playground.  Clink. A whoosh down the slide.  Clink.  The minutes of sleep are adding up like coins in the bank of sleepiness.

I felt like I was coming out ahead.  This was a win/win.  Me and my sleepy kiddos, returning home to a pristine house.  Bedtime with no fuss.  Clink.  Clink.  Clink.

The first sign of something being awry was that at dinner, the youngest didn’t want to eat anything.  She’s three.  I watched her warily.  She drank quite a bit of her bottle of water though.  Although we were having food she normally likes (peanut butter sandwiches on raisin bread and applesauce) she said she wasn’t hungry.  Then she said that her stomach hurt.  

I rounded up the kids and decided to leave.  My son, my oldest, had brought a friend.  So it was me and three rows of two kids.  My middle daughters, my oldest and youngest daughter, and my son and his friend bringing up the rear.  

I marched us out quickly.  We travel everywhere quickly and purposefully because if we don’t, they will definitely wander off should something catch their eye; in the aisles of JC Penney, across a parking lot, in the road.

We were just in the jewelry section when I heard my oldest daughter exclaim “Sarah’s throwing up!”

I turned back and immediately surveyed the situation.  There was a puddle at her feet.  I couldn’t tell how bad her clothes and hair had suffered.  I ran back to her, picked her up under her arms and lifted her over the puddle of puke, and began leading her out by the back of her collar.  

I kept her turned toward me to limit the amount of JC Penney merchandise she’d destroy.  She kept on going, too.  Puking as we walked.  Me just trying to get us out of there as quickly as possible.  My oldest daughter ran to tell an employee.  I heard the call for housekeeping over the PA.  I felt bad for whoever that job fell to.

I haven’t carried a diaper bag in ages, with my youngest being almost four.  I had nothing with me that could’ve curtailed the fountain of vomit I was racing out of a department store.  We got to the van and it was dark and the wind was strong.  It was at that moment that I realized how.  Much.  Easier.  If it wasn’t just us against the world.  If there was another adult here to, as they say “multiply the joys and divide the sorrows.” In that cold, dark parking lot I definitely had some sorrows to divide.

I didn’t have an emergency “Your Kid Is Puking In A Mall” kit in the car.  I don’t even carry changes of clothes with me anymore.  I found a slightly stiff beach towel in the trunk of my van.  Two bottles of water in the floorboard.  I found two plastic grocery bags miraculously tucked away in the corner of my trunk.  I tucked the towel and one of the bags between my legs and unscrewed the top of one of the bottles of water.  

The wind was so strong, it was blowing our long hair horizontal.  It hadn’t been too cold today, it was in the high sixties, so it wasn’t bitterly cold.  It wasn’t warm.  I let the wind catch the first bag, opening it so I could start attempting to work her vomit soaked clothes into the bag without getting too much on myself.  

When my kids had accidents in public, whether or not the clothes were salvageable were determined less by the damage they’d sustained (our washer has a sanitary cycle, after all) but more by what the clothes MEAN.  Is it their favorite t-shirt?  Their only bathing suit?  Sarah was wearing a brand new sweater emblazoned with “Totes Adorbs” and pink leggings with white kitty cat leg warmers.  She loves that outfit.  It was her first time wearing it.  She was also wearing her only warm jacket.  The clothes had to be salvaged.  Probably the shoes, too.

It looked like I could probably fit everything in the two bags.  I took her jacket from her, letting the harsh wind hold the bag open.  I began to stuff the jacket into the bag, trying to avoid all the patches of puke.  I peeled off her shirt.  She huddled against the cold.  I pressed the shirt into the bag.  I told her to take off her pants, socks and shoes but she said she couldn’t, that her hands had throw up on them.  I told her to hold out her arms and I poured the water from one of the bottles on her arms and hands.  She took off everything but her underwear. I opened the second bag and the wind immediately took it from my grip and launched it into the sky.  It was three rows away from me before I knew it.  My next thought was that I had to make do with what I have.  

So I mashed those pukey clothes down into the plastic Walmart bag as hard as I could.  I knotted the handles together.  I wrapped her in that stiff beach towel and spread out a bunch of baby wipes across her lap to catch in case she needed to puke again.

Two police officers in their vehicles, parked so the drivers could talk to each other watched us from a few spaces away.  I didn’t know if I should hope for help or hope to not get a ticket for leaving a trail of child vomit through all of JC Penney’s lingerie, jewelry and hair salon sections.  They said nothing to me.

If there was one other person, they could’ve caught the bag.  They could’ve sat next to her on the way home, rubbing her back and reassuring her.  They could’ve stayed behind to rightfully clean up the mess that our kid made.  But our family is not configured that way.  There are a bunch of kids...and me.  That’s what we got and we have to make the best out of it.  

-Single Mom

[singlemomhandbook]

Time

We are smack in the middle of Christmas break and the district arranged it this year so they started break on the 23rd. Now we have all this time left and while we were frantically filling the days and weeks before Christmas with traditions, family get togethers and our favorite parts of the season; after Christmas there's a huge blank as far as what we should do. My kids let me sleep in today. I am so grateful. I'm about to cuddle them all up in my bed and love on them. And try to fill all of the days with that.

-Single Mom

[singlemomhandbook]

The Single Parent Prescription

When I first became single, the kids and I had to spend some time in a women’s shelter.  It sucked.  There may be time one day to start enumerating all of the ways that it sucked, but that’s a story for another day.

Part of staying at the shelter was mandatory daily counseling.  We had worksheets where we had to score ourselves on different things.  To be honest, I don’t remember what any of them were anymore except for this one.  Self care.

At the time, the phrase elicited a feeling inside of me that made me want to do a slow, exaggerated eye roll.  Self care reminded me of like...those Chicken Soup for the Soul books and potpourri and shit that had absolutely no bearing on my everyday life.  We were not in self care mode, we are in survival mode.  And once you’re a single parent, survival mode tends to go on for quite some time.  Maybe forever.  

So I did not relate to this notion of “self care.” As a matter of fact, at that time I think I was mostly subsisting on Dr. Pepper, peanut butter spooned from the jar (I washed the spoon!) and cigarettes.  That seemed like quite a bit of self care to me.  During this time, I always made sure the kids were fed, I never smoked around them, I was nursing the youngest two (and they’re not twins) but when it came to me, I felt like I should be happy with the fact that I was washing the spoon between bites of peanut butter.  And that it was not my finger.

(And, if you feel compelled to complain about the fact that I was smoking and nursing, I researched it independently, talked it over with my OBGYN and my pediatrician and learned about when, after a cigarette, the chemicals peak in your breastmilk and when they leave your breastmilk.  So, please don’t waste your time and mine.  It was not a good time for me to quit smoking and the kids were comforted by nursing.  We did the best we could with what we had.  I understand that many people feel a reflexive need to humblebrag about their parenting skills.  That’s because parenting is a frantically paced terrifying ride through circumstances that you’ve never before dealt with and we’re all fighting back the voice in our heads that says we’re fucking the people we love most in the world up.  We are, but not as bad as we think we are and no parent gets out of raising kids without fucking them up some.  We also get way more right than we give ourselves credit for.  So if you’re clutching your pearls, sputtering “Smoking!!! And Breastfeeding?!!?!” this might not be the blog for you.  Real talk.)

Anyway, every day I would have to report in on how my self care is going and every day they would tell me that I wasn’t getting it right.  I’m still working on this but I have kind of a better idea of what it is now.  It’s not emptying your bank account and going to Vegas.  It’s not getting pedicures every other day.  But I never did really well on self care.  I think it is taking me quite a long time to learn and I hope this saves somebody some time.

What, through my own experience, I’ve found is this.  Self care is identifying a middle ground between your kids’ needs and yours.  For a long time, I felt very guilty about our time in the shelter and tried to make it up to my kids in all kinds of ways.  When they first started going to their dad’s for weekend visitation, I would miss them so much that I would usually end up wandering around a Toys ‘R’ Us alone, picking out gifts to leave in each of their beds.  This wasn’t a matter of me trying to buy their affection.  It wasn’t done to spite their father or in an attempt to make them love me more than him.  If I was a tube of toothpaste, I wanted to be flattened and rolled and every drop of what I had to give, I wanted it to belong to my kids.

This can only go on so long.

Over the summer, a strange and terrible thing happened to me.  Well, several.  I’d been engaged to a man for about a year, together for two and our engagement ended.  (Perhaps another other story for another time.)  I also got hit by a car.  Like, I was crossing the street in a crosswalk and a lady drove her car into my body.  Both of these things served to teach me a little bit more about the need for self care.

The breakup happened first.  I was heartbroken.  Up until the last month or so of our relationship, it had my total confidence.  The kids loved him, I loved him, we made a great family.  But it had to end so it ended and I was very, very sad.  I was sad in a way I hadn’t yet experienced.  When I got divorced, most of my kids were very, very young.  They never asked for their dad and while I was very sad that our marriage had been the way it was, I never wished for it back.  Not once.  I wasn’t surprised it had ended.  But my engagement?  I was surprised.  I used my very best discernment in my relationship with him.  And it was good for a very long time.  So when that ended, my brain was like “Wtf?”  I felt like I was falling down a well.  The sides were slick and there was nothing to grab onto.  I knew my kids were hurting too and I have the rest of my life to help them heal from what happened.  Because they were much older now.  Their memories of us being a family are vivid.  They miss my ex and ask for him frequently.  And I knew that I had to get my head right if I was going to be able to take care of them.

I remember that after the breakup I stayed in my black nightgown for a few days.  I watched Bob Ross and wept.  (He’s usually very soothing to me, but I was beyond Bob Ross’ help.)  I went onto my back porch and looked up at the stars and thought “What do I need?  If I could have my pick of anything in the world, what would it be?”  The only answer that came back to me was that I wanted to see the beach and the mountains. 

So, I spent a little money on my credit cards.  There was definitely a very stern voice inside my head that said I was being irresponsible and that money should be for a rainy day or I should go somewhere with the kids.  But I cut through all the bullshit and realized that I needed to do what I needed to do, *for me*.  It sounds like a difficult thing to justify, a long summer vacation, but I think the reasons I needed it were good ones: I needed to create memories of which my ex was not a part.  I needed to be the protagonist in my own story.  I needed a change of scenery and a change of thought.  I needed to see the beauty of nature to take my mind off of the pain I was in...because everything around me reminded me of my ex-relationship.  

It was a good plan.  I did lots of selfish things.  But it was OK because I was far away from everyone else.  I didn’t blow through our savings, I just decided that my state of mind was worth an investment.  I slept by a creek in Arapaho National Forest.  I stargazed on a mountain in Rocky Mountain National Park.  After that, I flew to Los Angeles, a place I’d never been before.  I sunned myself at Venice Beach.  I had a prime rib picnic alone on the beach. I went to a memorial wall for my favorite musician and left him a potted yellow rose. I met up with friends I hadn’t seen in years.  At the end of it all, I visited the Museum of Broken Relationships.  I’d been communicating with the curator there about my post-engagement pilgrimage.  She met with me and showed me around the place and accepted my donation of a stuffed cow my ex-fiance had won for me at the state fair on my birthday.

But I stayed alone.  I went to bed alone.  I didn’t go out to have an affair or to drink until I can’t feel feelings anymore.  I just wanted to see what I liked and wanted to do when no one else was around for me to accommodate.  It was wonderful.  I learned a lot about myself.  I’m comfortable navigating unfamiliar areas.  I want to see and experience more of the world.  I like seeing new places and how people live.  I haven’t had an opportunity to travel since then, but I am putting money aside for my next great adventure.  The trip inoculated myself against so much of the despondence I’d previously felt.

Then, I got hit by a car.  Actually, my youngest child and I both did.  Fortunately, the car hit me first and I think I somehow knocked her out of the way.  She was injured but her only lasting mark is that she is missing a tooth.  It was a baby tooth and in a few years, one will replace it.  

I bore the brunt of the injuries.  And I wouldn’t change that.  I’m still healing and in pain.  I have to work, however, and I have to raise my kids.  So I’m carefully negotiating the line between what I’m able to do and where I need to ask for help.  I bought us a Christmas tree and brought it home, but needed help getting it up the stairs.  I hung the Christmas lights because the kids really, really wanted to decorate our apartment.  It hurt my back to do it.  A lot.  For a few days, my oldest two had to take turns making dinner while I rested on the couch.  I didn’t miss any work.  And my oldest child took the Christmas lights down this year.  

Tonight the pain in my back flared to spasms and a migraine.

Self care means maintaining a balance between your responsibilities and yourself.  It’s critical.  I wish I hadn’t taken so long to come around to it.  There’s a limit.  I’m pretty sure we all have a limit.  I’m also pretty sure that the media and corporations feed off our insecurities as parents. I think we could undo that by bonding together and fostering confidence in each other.  I think we are all scared of getting parenting wrong that the part of us that is terrified that we’re getting this wrong is searching for people we can feel better than.  I catch myself doing it all the time.  I have to stop and remind myself that we’re all doing a very hard thing.  That we’re all doing the best we can.  And that, short of abuse, we are all free to define our “best” as we see fit.

So, the prescription for the single parent is twofold.  One: practice self care.  You are doing a very difficult job and self care is necessary fuel.  Two: be proud of yourself for willingly taking on this very difficult challenge.  Let that pride extend to the other parents you know on this same-very difficult but very rewarding-journey.

-Single Mom

[singlemomhandbook]

How to Cut Your Clothes Bill and Laundry Loads in Half (Without Really Trying.)

Get rid of pajamas.

My kids attend a school that requires uniforms.  Uniforms are great.  They’re sturdy, inexpensive, and wrinkle-resistant.

When you’re the only adult in the house and getting out of the house on time is...maybe not a life or death struggle, but a quality of life struggle. (If your kid gets too many tardies, you get to go to court!  If you’re late to work enough times, you get fired!  Goodbye, income!  Goodbye, health insurance!  We’ll just all starve to death now!)

When I first started out as a single mom, every morning was a gut and heart wrenching struggle to get every body out of the house with every thing that they would need for the day.  

I looked for a way that we could cut our time down getting ready in the morning.  (And don’t say “Just get up earlier.” We’re already getting up at 6 a.m.  If we get up any earlier, we’ll all have to go to bed earlier.  If we all go to bed earlier, it’ll eat into the measly 90 minutes a night I get with my children before I put them to bed.  That’s 90 minutes for dinner, chores, baths, and a bedtime story.  One story.)  I noticed that getting sleepy children out of one outfit and into another was costing us precious time.  

So, I got out of the pajama business.  I don’t buy them.  I don’t have to wash them.  After their baths, my kids get in their uniforms for the next day and sleep in them.  

I don’t think you can tell by looking at them.  When I tell people I do this, they look like I am robbing my children of the rich childhood experience of nightclothes.  And anyone who side-eyes me over this decision is totally welcome to come try my life out for a day.  Or a week.  I’ve been wanting to check out Costa Rica.  

I don’t think any of them will end up in future therapy over their lack of pajamas as children.  But if they do, I’ll come back and update.

Save yourself the time, take back part of your morning struggle, and cut your dirty laundry pile in half.  Ditch the pajamas.  It’s sink or swim out here for us, and we don’t need pajamas holding us back.

-Single Mom