I'm Tired of Explaining Myself

You ask, "Why don't you get a sitter?"
I answer, "The house is too messy to invite anyone over."
"Why don't you clean it up?"
"I don't have time, but I'm not a loafer."
I'm tired of explaining myself.

"Have I offended you?"
"I can't banter around and around."
"You haven't answered my e-mails."
"I'm too busy. We haven't lost ground."
I'm tired of explaining myself.

"Why can't you stay out late?"
"Losing sleep hurts my ability to cope."
"You're no fun."
"I've had chronic fatigue syndrome. Sorry, but nope."
I'm tired of explaining myself.

"Do something for yourself today."
"I need to hustle to make ends meet."
"You will be fine."
"Now that would be a feat!"
I'm tired of explaining myself.

"Look on the bright side."
"I've struggled with depression, common a writer."
"Sometimes I feel connected to you; other times, not so much."
"I'm moody. Maybe bipolar?"
I'm tired of explaining myself.

"You should be doing this with your career, not that."
"I'm doing what I need to."
"Talk to this person. Get into that discussion. Go to that event."
"A matter of priorities. I can't bite off more than I can chew."
I'm tired of explaining myself.

You want more than I can give.
I must be disappointing you.
Yet I can't change my situation.
I don't know what else I can do."
I'm tired of explaining myself.

"Can you accept all sides of me?
Don't you see that I'm struggling?
A full-time single mother is overwhelmed.
She's doing too much juggling."
I'm tired of explaining myself.

"I can see your motives are pure,
But please take note of what I say and write.
The answers are all there.
Clear as day, in plain sight."
I'm tired of explaining myself.

I'm tired of explaining myself

I'm tired of explaining

I'm tired.

The Knot in the Pit of My Stomach

We heard about Ayla, Lisa, and Isabel, said a prayer for their safe return, and thanked the Lord our children were not missing like those little girls. We couldn't imagine being a parent of Madeleine McCann or Etan Patz, missing and long-presumed dead. 

However, another such real-life nightmare has hit very close to home for those of us living on Cape Ann in Massachusetts. Caleigh Harrison from Gloucester was out for a walk along the shore in neighboring Rockport with her mother, four-year-old sister, and dog when their ball sailed over a wall in front of some summer cottages. The mother went to retrieve the ball. When she returned, two-and-a-half-year-old Caleigh was nowhere to be found.

Was she a victim of foul play or abduction by a mysterious man "seen" by her young sister? Did she fall off a footbridge between two beaches into a creek whose strong current leads out to sea? Thus far, none of these scenarios has been ruled out.

As soon as the story went public, my Facebook friends and I started posting articles about it, comments, and requests for prayer. One such friend even worked with the girl's grandmother! I discussed the situation with two mothers during a playdate not long after. One used to live in the area of the beaches and knows them well. She talked about the footbridge and demonstrated with her hands the pulling motion of the Atlantic Ocean as the tide went out, as it reportedly was doing when the midday incident occurred. She used phrases such as "wanting to throw up" and "a knot in the pit of my stomach" to describe her feelings upon hearing the news.

I nodded in solidarity. It is beyond horrible to think about that poor innocent toddler's fate.

As a beachgoing single mother by choice of two sons, the ordeal felt incredibly scary to me on a personal level. An old boyfriend once said to me, "When you have more children than there are parents in the family, you are outnumbered." I am outnumbered every day--a fact that really comes into play at the beach.

Singlehandedly managing young children at a beach is one of the most difficult tasks of any parent. Indeed, it has been for me.

First neither of my sons were what you'd call "fish." My eight year old was still reluctant to stick his face in the water despite having taken many swimming courses at two YMCAs and one aquatic center. This made for a serious aquatic impediment. Incongruously, the ocean--with its unpredictable waves, undertow, and current--was the body of water in which Christopher performed best. Make no mistake. He didn't swim in the ocean. He merely jumped through the waves and got knocked down and tossed by them. And he enjoyed it. He never got in trouble in the ocean, though I watched him vigilantly as he played in the water with his excellent swimmer friends. (As for myself, I was grateful to be a strong swimmer and former lifeguard, albeit never an ocean guard.) Then there was my younger son who avoided the ocean except to cool off his lower body, rinse off sand, or fill up his bucket.

Nonetheless, Charlie presented a huge challenge on the beach because he was A Wanderer. Dare I say he's gotten a little better since getting older? I'm not sure. At six he no longer absentmindedly toddled off or ran away willfully to exert his independence. Instead, he ambled away just as a course of being in his own little world. He could be very good all day playing beside me alone or with friends then suddenly disappear into a crowd of sunbathers, umbrellas, and sand toys just before it was time to leave. I have many war stories to tell. Still, praise the Lord, I always managed to find him.

Having resided on a coast my whole life except for my college years, I can't really image living inland for any substantial length of time. I expect that I would feel claustrophobic, needing to at least once in a while gaze out at the wondrous blue horizon.

The ocean is a source of beauty, recreation, relaxation, and renewal. It is an inspiration for magnificent art and enlightening writing. Winslow Homer, Herman Melville, Nathaniel Philbrick. Yet, lest we forget, it is also a source of great danger from drownings, shark attacks, and boating or scuba diving accidents. 

I will continue to pray for Caleigh and her family.

A Week of History and Morality

One of the most important jobs of any parent is instilling in their child or children a sense of respect for history and morality. As a single mother by choice, this duty has fallen squarely on my shoulders. I welcome the challenge.

To commemorate the 100th anniversary of the sinking of the Titanic, History ran a two-hour documentary about an expedition to the world's most famous wreck site. The ocean floor was mapped by two unmanned robots called AUVs (autonomous underwater vehicles) whimsically named "Maryann" and "Ginger" after the popular characters from Gilligan's Island. The AUVs uncovered never-before-seen pieces of the Titanic that, along with other evidence gathered by top underwater experts and forensic scientists, enabled them to essentially reconstruct the vessel and draw conclusions about how it broke apart and plunged to the sea floor.

The findings put to rest the century-old lingering questions about the disaster: Was the ship poorly built? No. Did faulty rivets "unzip," causing a rush of water to enter the ship? No. Was the ship traveling too fast when it hit the iceberg? No. The iceberg was not spotted until it was too late due to the moonless night and calm seas. Why were there so few lifeboats on board? The ship carried as many as were required at the time. All of the Titanic's lifeboats--unlike those on the Lusitania, Andrea Doria, and Costa Concordia--were functional because the ship did not tip to its side. In fact, a large number of passengers survived due to the "unsinkable" ocean liner staying afloat for almost three hours after hitting the iceberg.

I could tell from the preview that the program would be captivating, so I offered my older son the chance to see it. Many other mothers of eight year olds, I suspect, would not have permitted their children to watch because it follows a true-life story of death and disaster--unpleasantries they want to shield their kids from as long as possible. But my son has known about the Titanic for a long time and, like me and scores of other aficionados the world over, was fascinated by it. Besides, it was school vacation week. Why not let him stay up till 10 p.m. to watch to the end?

We as parents are not able to predict which privileges we give our children will positively impact their future lives in a significant way. But I venture to guess that allowing my son to watch an entire program filled with some of the latest scientific inventions and investigative techniques, a virtual holographic reconstruction of an iconic shipwreck, and answers to a longstanding mystery stood as good a chance as any to make a mark on him. What red-blooded boy wouldn't love that? "Cool" was my son's response when I told him about the show.

Three days later, we went to Alton, NH, to climb Mount Major. Electronic signs along I-95 informed drivers to take Exit 2 for Michael Maloney's wake, which was scheduled a day before his memorial service that would be attended by US Attorney General Eric Holder along with thousands of police officers from around the region. Maloney, the police chief of Greenland, had been gunned down the previous week by a suspected drug dealer during the execution of a search warrant. The shocking incident also involved the shooting of four other police officers in addition to the apparent murder of the suspect's girlfriend followed by his suicide. Greenland, meanwhile, is a small, unassuming town not far from where I lived nearly twenty-five years earlier. As a reporter in those days for a daily newspaper that covered the region including Greenland, the tragedy felt a tad personal to me. So when I learned the wake was still in progress as we drove through the area on our way back to Massachusetts, I felt an emotional pull to attend.

My sons knew of the horrific crimes from seeing coverage of them on the news and from hearing me talk about them as part of my ongoing, broken-record anti-drugs and -guns mother lessons that also included tutorials on Michael Jackson, Whitney Houston, President Kennedy, and Martin Luther King Jr. among others. My boys have also been fed a steady diet of praise for those who uphold and enforce the law as well as others in the giving professions. This is why my sons said yes without hesitation when I tentatively presented the idea of going to the wake.

I wasn't exactly sure how I would handle the issue of them seeing Chief Maloney's body in a casket. I mean, talk about being up close and personal with death! I think I have an open, progressive attitude toward parenting. We have discussed the passing of my parents (their grandparents), other relatives, a dog of mine they both knew when they were very little, and famous people. But subject them to a viewing of a dead stranger's body in a funeral home? Hmm, maybe I shouldn't have suggested such a mature thing. .

Despite reports of traffic being backed up along the route to the stately white funeral home in Hampton, we did not have trouble getting to the site. As suspected, however, the line out the door was too long for us to wait. I later learned from a clerk at a gas station where I bought a copy of my old newspaper that it was taking visitors two and a half hours to get into the building past reporters, cameramen, and countless uniformed officers. Surprisingly, we did not have trouble getting to the site. The traffic was light enough at that early evening hour for us to drive right past without being stopped in the road for long.

But making the effort to pay our respects, if only spiritually, was worth it. The route was handsomely decked out in yellow ribbons, American flags, and messages of tribute. As I explained to my boys, it is unusual to have the opportunity to witness a community honoring one of its citizens to such a great extent.

Block after block, street after street, the messages kept coming. R.I.P., Godspeed, and my personal favorites: "Some serve, some protect. Mike gave his all," and "God's finger touched him, and he slept." It was a beautiful display that brought Christopher and me to tears. 

Had I created a memory for my sons? I believe they will remember the love expressed in Hampton toward "one of the good guys," in the simple yet straightforward language of one sign. I believe they will understand that honorable deeds performed for other people are life goals; criminal actions are not.

Faced with two different yet both newsworthy events, I chose to break unspoken parenting rules by affording a memorable--and maybe life-changing--privilege to one son and presenting a model of noble behavior to both.

As they are receptive to my informal morality lessons, I am confident they will grow up to become good men. That's what I want most for them.

Boys, It's Warm Outside!

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.