DSOT: Part II (Social Life)

Short of major purchases or lavish trips, there are few things that can eat up your funds faster than your social life. You can drop big bucks going out to dinner, a club, a movie, or a concert. But don't forget the babysitter!

If you are a single mother by choice, you don't have another adult in your home to look after the kids while you kick up your heels with your girlfriends. You don't have an ex-husband to take the kids off your hands every other weekend and one evening a week, thereby freeing up your time enough to make a social life possible. If you're lucky, you may have someone--or sometwo or somethree--who you can call upon to relieve you so you can get out. But if you are like me, you don't . . . not really anyway. And that is a problem.

Time to revisit that ole survival philosophy Deprivation School of Thought. DSOT is what I call doing without a "luxury" in order to prevent going broke.

Sure, I had other mother friends whom I could have called to ask if they'd take my boys for a little while so I could go out. I made requests in the past, and I was most grateful to these people when they accommodated me. I asked for child-care help when I had a work prospect, a chance to advance my writing career, a job to perform on a school-vacation day, a Cub Scouting commitment with my older son, or an opportunity to get rich (auditioning for Who Wants To Be a Millionaire). I did not, however, seek their assistance for something as frivolous as painting the town red.

To this day, I feel very uncomfortable whenever I have to broach the subject of needing a favor. Since becoming an adult, I have viewed myself as a superindependent person. I do not like asking for help for anything. But the reality of being a single mother by choice is: You must ask for help sometimes. Then once I've asked, actually accepting that help makes me feel guilty. That's because I know I cannot reciprocate to the same level.

With my house in such a poor state, I could not have that family's child/children over for a playdate, much less a sleepover. So I offered to drive the children places to relieve the mothers of some back and forths. (With only a few exceptions, they haven't taken me up on it.) I've bought Christmas presents for the mothers, but then they've bought me ones in return--completely not my intention. One year I was given a Christmas tree! I've brought presents back from a West Coast writing conference, written thank you notes, taken their children to a farm day and holiday library program, and even invited one on an overnight camping trip. His mother and a male neighbor had separately tried to get the boy through the night sleeping outdoors; I was the one who succeeded. It was a coup greatly appreciated by the family and of which I am very proud. Still, no matter what I do, it never seems enough to me.

I have grown used to my constant state of feeling indebted to other people, especially in regard to my inability to invite other kids over.

To avoid the pitfalls of having to ask and feeling guilty--not to mention enduring the possible discomfort one feels when sensing real or perceived resistance, pity, or judgment that the asking might bring about--the single mother by choice without free and willing help must hire a babysitter. Well, guess what? Babysitter fees add up quickly, often doubling the amount of money spent on the evening's entertainment.

Can an SMC really afford to go out under these circumstances? Some can, and some cannot. Adopting the long-range view, I put myself in the latter category. As such, I have done my best to practice DSOT by saying no to a social life that costs me too much dough.

I remember going out once a year earlier. I sent my boys to "Movie Night" at my health club for $20 total--no discount for members like me, natch. Wanting to check out the scene in my very small town, I stopped by a popular local establishment to hang out. After consuming two drinks and one appetizer, I picked up the boys and headed home. I was gone two and half hours and was $50 poorer. Sure, I met a few people (whom I have not seen since) and had a good time. A $50-worth good time? No. The price of the evening shocked me--and knocked some sense into me. I realized I could not partake of refreshments in the evening at a restaurant/bar just for the heck of it, at least not more than once in a blue moon.

A neon sign in my mind blinked "DSOT! DSOT!" at me. 

Not being part of a couple, I have not been invited to many parties in my town. The divorced contingent has also not embraced me as I am not one of them either. The type of social gathering I have been most often invited to (aside from kids' birthday parties) is the modern-day Tupperware or Mary Kay party--the sell-your-gold-jewelry or buy-someone-else's-jewelry party, the latter courtesy of Silpada or Stella + Dot. I remember the hostess of one such party saying to me, "It's been a long time since I've had a LADIES party!" The implication: She throws plenty of co-ed parties, though I wouldn't know from experience.  Yes, these genteel wine-and-cheese soirees are for women only--a demographic I am, let's just say, a little too familiar with, being one myself obviously but also having attended girls' schools for four years and a girls' camp for part or all of six summers.

Thanks a lot, Mom and Dad, for my very female-centric life! Incidentally, mother also wanted me to go to Smith College.

Here's what happened when I was invited to one of the aforementioned gatherings: As it was being held on a Sunday afternoon when I was normally with my boys, the child-care issue once again reared its ugly head. Not having received a response yet to her invitation, the hostess contacted me. I explained my predicament: no child care, house too messy to bring a babysitter in anyway and, oh, by the way, with money tight I probably wouldn't be buying any jewelry. (Got to stay strong with DSOT.) I was hoping my sons could join her children doing whatever they would be doing because I really wanted to attend any adult party. Without saying so specifically, the hostess implied that would create too noisy and chaotic a situation while the party was in progress. After hearing her plan for her kids that afternoon, I had to agree. She suggested a playdate another day, instead.

Poof! went my adult-party opportunity. Just like that. 

Every year I try to attend a reunion down in Boston for an outdoor school I went to in Wyoming in the mid-1980s. This party is really much more up my alley. Surprisingly, I have actually managed to get myself to it many years in a row despite it being held on school nights. A small miracle, really. This year? Hmm. Thus far, I have made no moves toward cleaning up my house, calling a babysitter, or finding a place where my sons could go on that particular night. Indeed, it will be very interesting to see if I can pull it off.

Regretfully, not having child care prevents the single mother by choice of young kids from going to ANY adult parties.

Rather than moan about this situation, I accepted it. It is part and parcel of being an SMC. Making the choice to raise a child on one's own means making sacrifices and being stoic about them. Like all my other SMC sisters, I must suck up the parts of the lifestyle I don't like.

My social life is an area I can curtail as it is not as essential as feeding myself, clothing my body, and taking shelter. Desirable? Yes. Necessary? No. Others may disagree. Of course, a robust social life can help to make a person happy. However, I know myself pretty darn well, so I know I am capable of a great deal of deprivation.

I am satisfied to do (or not do) what I must to keep my family financially afloat.

Deprivation School of Thought: Part I (Exercise)

Being a single mother by choice means being worried about finances.

It doesn't matter whether the woman is a low-paying social worker or a rake-in-the-big-bucks investment banker. She still expends mental energy--granted, some more than others--concerned with the condition of her family's coffers. She could get fired, laid off, or fall victim to an incapacitating illness or injury that would jeopardize her job standing for any period of time. Certainly, these predicaments can befall any working mother. But they are particularly troublesome for the SMC because she does not have another adult in--or out, in the case of an ex-husband--the house to provide a backup income for raising the children. She, alone, is responsible.

The SMC must tighten her belt any way she can. Personally, I follow what I call "Deprivation School of Thought," sometimes more successfully than other times. DSOT means sacrificing a nonessential aspect of one's life for the good of the checkbook. For the SMC, it can mean survival, i.e. keeping one's head above water financially. But it comes with a warning label, too. It can cause crankiness, depression, anger, celibacy, distance from friends, feelings of isolation and resentment, and stress eating (or any other manifestation of unhappiness). In other words, it's a lot like PMS. It is best administered in doses, if possible, or for finite periods of time with sufficient breaks in between.

I practice DSOT in regard to exercise and my social life. Today I will examine the former, i.e. my fickle relationship with my health club. When I discovered this amazing club, I said to myself: No, you need to finish your book first. That's DSOT talking--holding off on something you want until you've achieved something else. I knew if I joined the club I would have trouble getting my money's worth because I was flat-out with my memoir manuscript. I couldn't see myself putting it down long enough often enough to pay off the monthly fee. DSOT would act as an incentive for me to finish.

Only problem? I couldn't finish! My book project dragged on and on until I finally stopped writing. Then came the matter of editing the blasted thing. I plodded through the entire 344-page manuscript making change after addition after deletion after change. Mind you copy-editing my way through took nearly a year. At last I said: Done. So I picked up the paper doorstop, nestled into a comfortable couch, draped myself with a cozy blanket, and attempted to read it from start to finish with no tinkering whatsoever. Couldn't do it! I found something (okay, many things) I didn't like in Chapter 1. Just a teeny-tiny tweak here with the black pen . . . oh, and over there and over there and over there. No biggie. Same thing happened in Chapter 2 and Chapter 3 and, before I knew it, I had hit The Wall--the sad realization that I was utterly incapable of doing a read-through without making changes. So there went another year and, oops, another year. Hasn't Britney Spears written this song? Already frustrated from DSOT, I became doubly frustrated because I could not put my darn pen down.

It can really suck to be a Virgo.

My answer was to throw in the towel or, rather, pick up my gym towel: I joined the club. Happiness! DSOT can be implemented just so long before it makes you want to crack . . . or turn to crack.

Unfortunately, my original fear that I wouldn't use the club enough panned out almost immediately. What's more the classes I wanted to take conflicted with my boys' school-dropoff and -pickup schedule. They weren't offered in the late morning or early afternoon when I was available to take them. Paying the hefty monthly fee made me cringe. Yet I still wanted the opportunity to hang out at the small outdoor pool in the summer, and I wishfully though unrealistically vowed to somehow make a membership viable. But like a bad, co-dependent romantic relationship, I hung on far too long before eventually coming to my senses. Back to DSOT.

My sons attended the club's summer camp a few years earlier. It cost an exhorbitant amount of money, which was exacerbated by the fact that the boys (and I) were not members at the time. After two summers forking over the dough for one or two mornings of camp for one or two boys, I discovered my town's program at the elementary school. For roughly the same number of days attended, the town's camp was about nine times cheaper . . . and that didn't even take into consideration the fact that the program held sessions in the a.m. AND p.m. while the club offered my sons just one session per day, making the value more like EIGHTEEN TIMES as great!

Yowza.

As a New England-ranked tennis player before becoming pregnant with my first son, I was interested to see how he would do if given the chance to take one of the club's renowned clinics. Charlie, of course, had to tag along and was quite obnoxious, really, with his fixation on the club's cafe food case. (Is it my imagination, or is this becoming a running theme of these blog posts?!) Charlie was SO obnoxious, in fact, that I decided to sign him up for his own club membership. DSOT completely bit the dust. A membership enabled him to go to the club's child-care center for the one-hour duration of the tennis clinic. I would have him out of my hair, I would not be spending extra money on snacks, and I would be able to concentrate on my first grader's tennis playing. (Incidentally, Christopher was not a member, so I got no break on the cost of the clinic.)

Alas, after two twelve-week sessions, Christopher bid adieu to tennis. He observed--correctly, I hate to admit--that he was the worst player in the clinic. Poor footwork. Lack of control. Too many sky balls. Understandably, his observation didn't make him happy. Poor fella. So the whole experiment, which cost me $552 plus Charlie's membership fee of $39 per month, backfired big time! Here I had tried to turn Christopher on to my best and one of my favorite sports, but instead he hates tennis still to this day.

It's heartbreaking when your greatest efforts turn out to be royal failures.

Jumping ahead a few months, I decided to put my and Charlie's memberships on hold for the summer. Nearing DSOT. Once again I had been unsuccessful at regularly incorporating club time into my crazy schedule. On the other hand, I was not quite ready to drop out altogether. But get this: Even being on hold for three months (the maximum allowed per year) cost me money. Wish I was kidding!

Come fall I couldn't justify maintaining a membership at all. Thus, I resigned again. Hooray for DSOT! Not so fast. My on-off relationship with the club was back on by winter. Like the middle-aged woman who mistakes a hip hop mogul's car for her own on a humorous Straight Talk! commercial, I was still experiencing a smidgen of the false I'm-feeling-richer effect from having received a hearty check from my insurance company for my indoor flood the previous May. Three months later, duh, the feeling dissipated. I pulled the plug for what seems like the umpteenth time. Practicing DSOT once again.

With the outdoor season's arrival, I couldn't see myself choosing to go inside to work out on machines. (I've despised exercising this way since rehabbing my bum knee following reconstructive surgery nearly fifteen years earlier.) I couldn't see myself suddenly finding the time to take classes or, for that matter, swimming laps in the indoor pool or playing tennis, though I certainly would have liked to have done both.

Minus the club, I would be engaging in exercise that costs nothing--and that I truly enjoy. Hiking, Riding my bike. Swimming in the ocean and any other body of water. Playing tennis on public courts. Taking out my small flatwater kayak.

If not taken to the extreme, Deprivation School of Thought doesn't have to make you miserable. It just requires a little ingenuity to stave off its harsher negative effects.

Taxes Schmaxes

It's that time of year
politicians fear.
Let's make things clear:
Tax Day draws near.

"Quit the delay!"
That's what I say.
The sky is gray,
perfect for filing today.

It may seem like a racket.
Yet if you learn your income bracket,
you will be able to hack it
when you get the 1040 packet.

Interest, carryover, dividends. A sage
is needed to take center stage
to compute deductions, gifts, and my measly wage.
But why do I find page after page after page?

Choose H&R Block
or an accountant. Tick tock
goes the clock
toward April 17th. F*$%!

I haven't even begun,
let alone get done.
It's not an ounce of fun.
I'd rather wear a scuba tank on a run.

I used to do estimated
when my finances were complicated
and, oh, so sophisticated.
But now funds have dissipated.

November 13, 1789, is when
Founding Father Ben--
representative of men--
wrote Jean-Baptiste Leroy by quill pen:

"[I]n this world nothing can be said to be certain,
except death and taxes."

Sometimes I Get a Changing Feeling

The fact that it was like 85 degrees in northeastern Massachusetts in March automatically made it an epic day. But, oh, that doesn't begin to describe how epic. 

I headed into Brookline in the morning for my semi-annual skin checkup. These appointments at the Boston-area dermatologist's office always caused me a little anxiety because my mother died of skin cancer, and I am very fair. I spent my childhood all the way through my college summers in various shades of red--sunburn, that is--at a sleepaway camp in Maine, a beach club in my hometown, and another I worked at as a lifeguard and swimming instructor. My nose peeled constantly. I'm surprised I don't have a completely bare bone for a proboscis right now.

Without going into detail about my condition--a matter of my privacy--let's just say that I've had countless spots treated since I started getting checked the year after my mother passed on. They've been sprayed, sliced away, biopsied, and even removed surgically in a hospital. The fact is: I cannot leave an appointment without something having been done to me. It's been this way for as long as I can remember.

So when I got out of there a few days ago following only a handful of sprayings, I was downright elated. Since I had missed my previous appointment, it had been a full year.

Sometimes I get a happy feeling. 

To celebrate, I drove over to Harvard Square and treated myself to my favorite dark chocolate drink at L.A. Burdick. I took a picture of it with my iPhone and posted the result on Facebook. It was the first time I had done such a thing; I needed the chocolate servers to coach me. But I felt satisfied with the small achievement and confident I could do it again without assistance.

Sometimes I get a proud feeling.



Back in the car, bopping out to Flo Rida's infectious "Good Feeling," I missed the exit for 128N that I have taken a billion times. Argh. I turned myself around and next missed the exit to REI, my favorite store! How odd. What was wrong with me?

Sometimes I get an unbalanced feeling.

My annual dividend for purchases made the previous year had just arrived in the mail. I was psyched to spend it on new clothes for the unseasonable heat. First I collected a number of shirts and shorts to try on. Then I made my way over to the cap display in the rear of the store. The need to protect my face from the harsh rays of the sun was foremost on my mind.

I was determined to find a cute cap for the beach. I've never really been a cap person, but I suspect that's going to change. While rummaging through the store's stock, I found a tan topper with an interesting detail--a double-string brown leather cord holding a rectangular metal piece. I tried on the cap and asked a salesman walking by what he thought. He gave it a thumbs up.

At that moment, a man appeared around the corner with a smelly, dirty dog in tow. I'd never seen anyone in this store with a service dog, so the encounter took me slightly by surprise. "Ask her what she thinks of the cap," the man said to me, gesturing toward his dog. A strange request, but I played along. "What do you think of this cap?" I asked the golden retriever a bit foolishly. She approached, nuzzled my leg and the edge of my shorts and wagged her tail. "She likes it!" the man exclaimed. "I'm so glad you approve," I told the dog.

As I turned toward the display to look for caps I might have missed, the man walked passed me and rounded the corner out of sight. I thought he had moved along. Yet when I came around that side, I found him touching the clothes in my cart. He lifted a pair of dark green shorts I had partially draped over my open purse, thus exposing its contents. I was stunned. Was this man about to steal from me? If not, he was at least handling the clothes I had just picked out and planned to try on. Either way, it didn't look good.

Sometimes I get an uncomfortable feeling.

"That's my stuff," I said to him in the nicest tone of voice I could muster under the circumstances. But I was feeling tense. "Oh," he responded. He seemed to be not a bit surprised, embarrassed, or apologetic. Since no one else was near us in this far section of the store at the time, it seemed inconceivable that he couldn't guess the cart was mine. "Where did you get it?" he asked about my clothing collection. "Um, the women's department," I replied, matter of factly. I resisted the temptation to use sarcasm as the situation already felt a little disturbing. Surely, I did not care to anger the man. "I have six older sisters," he added by way of explaining his interest in this woman's clothing.


Then he walked off. It took several minutes of looking for a salesperson before I could relay the incident and express my discomfort. He apologized, and later a second employee who had been informed by the first did as well. I thanked them for their concern.  

 
Driving home, however, I felt nearly violated. Ever since two thefts occurred on my property on my private road a couple of years before, I have been highly attuned to recognizing the feeling. Nevertheless, I tried to shake it off with compassion. The salesmen told me that the man with the service dog comes into the store regularly and engages customers in conversation. But they did not know of him ever touching other people's possible purchases. That appeared to be a first. Hearing this, my heart sunk as I imagined that this man, who perhaps suffers from mental illness, frequents the store for company and to stave off loneliness.

Sometimes I get a conflicted feeling.

I picked my sons up at school at the appointed time. We were at the beach within an hour. At last I could relax. The late afternoon was lovely by the ocean. The sun was hot, but my face was shielded by my new tan cap. Fantastic. Hours passed, and we decided to stay for dinner. Charlie had a fit in the sand near the roadway because the pizza arrived with no pepperoni on top. He hadn't made it clear he wanted pepperoni, so his tantrum was not justified. But it's not as if I had never seen this behavior before! I was just grateful the unattractive display did not occur directly in front of the large group of beachgoers from town whom I know.

So there I was innocently eating my pizza with artichokes (Chris's choice) when a voice cried out a short distance away: "Christopher is trapped in the sand!"

Sometimes I get a scared feeling.

I ran over to a large hole. There my older son and a second-grade friend stood buried up to the top of their legs. Chris couldn't move his lower limbs, and he wanted out! That was certain. Yet part of him clearly enjoyed the attention: He was laughing. A bunch of boys and girls standing around the hole were also laughing.

Only two people could dig the sand away from the boys' legs because the group had only two shovels--the same two shovels used to make the hole. Christopher's friend was released first. I made one attempt to free my son, but I wasn't strong enough. He weighed eight-five pounds, and his legs were pinned. Having hurt my back a little over a year earlier, I was worried about getting reinjured. So I approached the group of local adults enjoying dinner and cocktails and zeroed in on the largest man. I recruited him to help free Christopher. With one big heave-ho, my recruit popped out my boy.


Sometimes I get a relieved feeling.

Chris emerged in a mixed state--alternately giddy from excitement and mad about being buried. What happened is this: He and four or five boys and girls jumped in the hole dug by two other boys. Using my son and his friend as ladders, the other kids climbed out. Then a bunch of girls older than Chris but still in elementary school started kicking sand into the hole until the boys's legs were buried.

As Christopher's mother, I found the experience a bit jarring. Was it all in good fun? Or was it bullying? As I watched one of the girls snicker during the rescue, I tend to think it was closer to the latter.

Sometimes I get a protective feeling.

Hunter-Downer Mom

My name is Shelby S., and I am a hunter downer.

A what? Good question. A hunter-downer mom is someone who conducts a massive search with the whole family in tow every time his or her child loses a belonging. Sound a little over the top? Perhaps. But it's the reason why I have been able to hold onto most of my boys' stuff without having to spend money on replacements.

Single mothers like me can't afford to keep buying backup winter accessories, school supplies, and the like. We must be pragmatic by doing all we can to retrieve what's ours. I remember discussing this topic with a well-off married mother in my town. "Ugh," she said. "I can't be bothered to hunt down that crap. We just grab another pair of gloves at the store or whatever." Indeed, the foyer to their home was stocked with children's gear aplenty.

But I have a sneaking suspicion that I would be a hunter downer regardless of my income. It's just the way I am. At first I am annoyed at my son's carelessness. Then I think about it and realize that I am excited about the challenge. I smell it and savor it like Prince Charles pursuing a fox on the Duke of Beaufort's Hunt.

Where's my scarlet coat?!

Everybody knows little boys are careless. My oldest would forget his floppy red hair if it wasn't growing out of his scalp. At school pickup every day, I have to consciously check that he has all his belongings at school pickup behind the building every day. "Christopher, where is your jacket?" Scrunched up in his backpack. "Hat and gloves?" In the side pockets. No . . . wait! Only one glove is there. "Come on, Christopher. Not again! Okay, back inside. You, too, Charlie." The moaning and whining would ensue, but they would have no effect because the boys know it is a hopeless cause trying to argue with Hunter-Downer Mom when she is on a mission.

Full disclosure: I am an excellent hunter downer.

I have managed to find nearly every misplaced item since my second-grader was in preschool. My son's hat went missing from his school cubby hole the last day of winter. I kid you not. Why is it always the last day or first day? The black fleece hat from REI has a red, white, and blue tassel sprouting off the top and thirteen colorful world flags extending along its bottom edge. It is really cool-looking and gives the impression the wearer is worldly. In actuality, Christopher has never left the country. He does possess a wide knowledge of the world for a child his age, however. That's due to hearing about current events from his news-junkie mother and stories she told him about her pre-motherhood foreign travels.

At preschool one day, I rummaged through my son's backpack. Then I poked around in other kids' cubby holes. Top to bottom I searched the place, including the "bike side"--a paved area for playing basketball and driving kids' vehicles--as well as the yard on the other side of the house/school. I talked to the director, the second in charge, and the teachers on duty. Could any of them recall where Christopher might have left his hat?

Negative.

Convinced another child mistakenly took it, I got to work once I got home. I pulled out pen and paper and drew up a sign. Correction: A Missing Hat Poster. No, no, no, I know what you're thinking. I did NOT make it on giant poster board, just a piece of notebook paper. Yes, I can be a little intense sometimes, but I'm not a lunatic, for Pete's sake! Honestly, it turned out to be a pretty good rendition, if I say so myself. In fact, I liked it so much that I have kept it all these years. Anyway I thumbtacked it to the school bulletin board and waited for the calls about sightings to come pouring in. (Joke.)

Waiting, waiting. Still waiting! No calls.

But I got the hat back, and once again my son looks like he just stepped off the Milford Track in New Zealand. Terrific. Time to add one more tiny detail: I hunted that thing down with the best of my abilities. However, it didn't show up anywhere I expected it to. Embarrassment alert: I discovered it in my house . . . my messy house. Looks like the hat didn't make it to school that day after all!

Oops. Someone else seems to also be forgetful.

I'm sure you can see my point: It pays (or, rather, keeps you from paying) to be a hunter downer. In the past few years, I have retrieved single gloves, a pair of gloves, a single mitten, a pair of mittens, a couple of hats, a sweatshirt, a school folder, winter boots, a tee ball mitt, a beach shovel, and a lunch box. Lots of successes and very few failures, among those: a bathing suit, a pair of cleats, and a Batman-themed glove. I blame myself for the last of these because I couldn't lead an investigation the day it disappeared. We had something going on that afternoon, probably a sports clinic, and I get charged for those as well. So let's see: a glove I got for free from the preschool director vs. a sports clinic.

Easy decision.

One time my younger son--an eager and clever hunter downer in his own right--and I tracked down his Toy Story backpack at 7 a.m. on a Saturday. We had to act at that ungodly hour since his basketball clinic started at 8, and I was not about to let him skip it. We scoured every square inch of the grounds behind the school, but it was not there. Then Charlie thought to look on the windowsill outside his classroom, and that's where we found it.

Another day the quest resulted in an awesome confluence of good fortune. A search of the same outdoor area just as it was getting dark provided a bonus The Amazing Race sort of challenge--flashlights not included! Aha. Christopher's glove was located on the floor right in front of his locker during an end-of-day dash inside the building. And his after-school jazz/hip hop dance class in another community was not even sacrificed! I dreaded waiting around at the Y with boisterous Charlie, so this hunt gave us something to do.

Late breaking news: Against all odds, part of the missing Batman-themed glove turned up after being gone for at least two months! Hunter-Downer-In-Training Charlie spotted it in the grass next to the side bushes behind the school while playing with friends after kindergarten early dismissal. "Mommy, Mommy!" he cried, running toward me. "You're not going to believe what I just found!" He opened his fist to reveal the crumpled and torn pinkie and ring-finger section of the right glove. It looked like an animal had attacked it . . . or a pair of scissors.

Useless yet fabulous. It's just this kind of incredible stroke of synchronicity that makes me feel truly connected to the universe.

I think I want to be a detective when I grow up.

Cupid's Trick

What does it mean to run into your last boyfriend on Valentine's Day?

I wish my question was hypothetical. Unfortunately, this supremely unlucky situation manifested itself last month, and I have been pondering it ever since.

It sounds like a plot point out of a predictable rom-com. Too staged, too forced, too unrealistic. But there "A" racing through Trader Joe's with five items in his cart and one in his mouth. Typical. He wore tight workout clothes that showed off his impressive forty-nine-year-old physique. Typical. He probably just came from yoga. He's probably still sleeping with his instructor or a fellow student. The bastard. His head of hair was still gorgeous: full, thick, and curly. Indeed, A's the only man I've ever been attracted to in the flesh with gray--no, silver--hair.

He looked just as I remember from exactly a year earlier when we ate together at a Thai restaurant before taking in a showing of The King's Speech. I had bought a sparkly blouse for the occasion. When we emerge from the theater, the sky exploded into torrential rains and gusting winds. We made a mad dash to our respective cars, deciding at his suggestion to say goodnight then and there because we would be seeing one another the next morning. As I followed A to the highway, he continued on in a surprising direction, which made me wonder if he was going to see another woman that Valentine's Day night instead of heading straight home. I tried to shake off the tinge of insecurity glomming onto me like a leech in a pond. I reminded myself that I would be with him again in less than twelve hours. And I was. Yet being left with a question in my mind definitely put a damper on an otherwise lovely holiday evening. Shame on you, A!

A broke up with me eight days later. We had been together only three months, and Valentine's Day was our last date.

He cited a reason that I--as an older single mother by choice--had found all too familiar: My children were too young. At fourteen and eleven, his kids were not a great deal older than mine. Still, A was not interested in having a long-term relationship with a woman raising kids younger than his. Chris was seven; Charlie, nearly five.

Period. End of story.

During our drawn-out breakup, which took place over two phone calls and one emotional get-together, many issues were discussed. Yet the fact remains he always had a great time with me. However, he reverted back to his overanalytical ways after each of our dates, his mind landing on the child problem and being unable to get past it. I encouraged him to live in the moment; he couldn't get out of his head. That was pretty much the roadblock in a pistachio nutshell.

As we sat at his kitchen table breaking up one morning, A said he believed we could be good friends after some months had gone by. I didn't know what to make of that statement. Like most women, I have heard the platitude "I just want to be friends" many times. But that's not what ends up transpiring in my experience. Too many hurt feelings, too much proverbial water under the bridge.

Did A genuinely want to be my friend? Or merely cushion the blow he'd dealt me?

I have run into him since the breakup, though only once that I can say for sure. Not long after my upstairs toilet caused an indoor flood, I bumped into A outside Starbucks. He was in a hurry, of course. He was wearing his workout clothes, of course. Banging someone from class again? (My mind always conjures up the worst-case scenario.) In any case, he seemed really happy to see me--even attracted to me despite my glasses and sourpuss demeanor on account of the flood. We chatted briefly, mostly about my misfortune and not at all about someday becoming friends. When we parted, I did not look back.

About six months later, my sons and I were making our way through REI to the outerwear section for boys in the back. My older son heard a man's voice say very softly, "Hi, Shelby." He turned but didn't see the man amid all the clothing racks. By the time Christopher told me, I couldn't find the owner of the voice either. I suspect it was A. He shops at REI, and he wasn't interested in meeting my sons. Since I was with them, I could imagine him choosing to remain hidden--as odd as that sounds. He had a troubled relationship with his own son that seemed to make him anti-kids. At least that's the impression I got. Besides I couldn't think of another man I knew in the area who would not come forward to show his face after recognizing me.

Fast forward: Valentine's Day 2012, Trade Joe's. Again A acted pleased to see me. Actually, a little overly pleased as before. Truly, the same amount of pleased as when we were dating. Did he miss me? Was he sorry he broke up with me? Did he want me to contact him to initiate the "friendship"? As we briefly caught up on each others' lives, he noticed my full grocery cart. Well, of course, it was full. I have two growing sons. Then he noticed the flowers in my cart and said, "Oh." Was he making an assumption that I was cooking dinner for a boyfriend and putting flowers on the table? Only the latter was correct. For his part, his cart contents bore no clues about any lovebird holiday plans.

While I am a very perceptive person, I am molasses slow on the uptake--especially when it comes to men. Correction: I am completely dense. So after he left the store, typical, I wondered if I should have made it clear that the flowers weren't what they looked like. On the flip side, I gleaned a certain perverse pleasure from the notion that he might have thought I had a hot date.

I was so hurt, angry, and stunned when he dumped me. "Pulled the rug out from under me," essentially, is how I describe being jerked around by him. The split came too soon, ahead of spring, before we could even try out warm-weather sports together. We were on the cusp of taking the relationship to a deeper level, but he decided not to go there.

Well, I decided not to go "there" (friendship) in return. It took me a long time to get over. I liked him very much. In fact, I had told him I was "crazy" about him. But I ultimately felt he had not been honest with me in the relationship. Nothing turns me off faster than dishonesty. 

 
So perhaps I am answering my own question. Since running into A on Valentine's Day, I am reconsidering my decision not to be his friend or--since I don't know if he was just feeding me a line--my decision not to ask for further clarification.

Why does this business of the heart have to be so confounding? Why did I run into him--the first time in nearly nine months--on Valentine's Day of all days? Was it for the purpose of telling me we could have some kind of a future together? Or that we should or could strike up that friendship to which he alluded? Or was the accidental meeting meant to be thought-provoking for A if he misinterpreted my grocery-cart items as preparation materials for a romantic dinner? Did he believe I had a new boyfriend? How did that concept make him feel? Did he hold any regrets? 

 
Oh, Cupid, why are you playing this trick on me?

Dreams of a Seven Year Old

Like most boys his age, my son Christopher has an active imagination that often takes shape while he sleeps. Here is a collection of his most recent dreams in his own words:

(Adventure) "My family was flying in a small cargo plane. We were the only people on board, but the plane was also carrying bees going to China. It was flying nonstop to Beijing. Over Tokyo, we jumped out wearing parachutes. We landed in the city. We stayed in Tokyo for two weeks then flew back in a different cargo plane, also nonstop. We jumped out over the runway in Boston. (The plane was going to London to deliver Chinese tea and art.) As we landed on the runway, a jet came speeding toward us. We ducked in fear. Luckily, it took off just before reaching us. It flew right above our heads. I felt relieved."

(Fear) "A  preschooler with long, brown hair who I didn't know came to my second-grade class on Halloween dressed as a clown. The next day, still in her clown costume, she chopped down a seventy-foot oak tree near my classroom. The tree crushed the room with everyone in it. We all screamed. We were studying social studies. I went up to a girl and asked why she chopped down the tree. She said she didn't know what to wear that day. She chose a clown costume because it was so colorful. She wanted to wear red to match the blood. But since no one was hurt, there was no blood. I was grateful to wake up." 

(Teamwork) "Charlie and I were walking down a rocky path when we saw a monster coming. It was tall, brown, and had big claws, red eyes, and not much hair. It didn't make any noise. My little brother was scared, but I wasn't. Bottles of chocolate and strawberry syrup were on the path, so we picked them up and started squirting the monster. It did not get angry, but it was surprised to be squirted. When we ran out of syrup, we started climbing the monster's body. I poked it in the eye with my finger. Then Charlie climbed up to its head and pulled what little hair it had. I climbed down one arm and pinched the monster's wrist while Charlie climbed down the other arm and bit its hand. The monster exploded, throwing us onto the path. We weren't hurt, so we kept walking. I felt brotherly love."

(Empowerment) "I was at the ski area we went to over winter vacation. At the top of the mountain, two snowboarders came over. One said: "Looks like somebody is going down the mountain with broken bones." Then he pushed me hard into the snow. That made me mad. I was not going to be bullied, so I kicked him hard with one of my skis. Both he and his friend lost their their balance and fell backward down the mountain. I felt victorious."

(Gratification) "I was at school, and my class was going to the book fair in the lobby. When I got there, I looked for the Captain Underpants books and Diary of a Wimpy Kid. But no books were for sale. All of them were locked inside display cases. I wondered why the school would have a book fair with no books for sale. So a friend and I asked the lady at the cash register. She told us to go look at the horseshoe at the end of the hallway signed by Jeff Kinney, the author of Diary of a Wimpy Kid. My friend and I ran down the hallway. Suddenly, it turned into a steep hill. We had trouble getting down the wet grass, but we reached the horseshoe at the bottom. I felt happy."