I’ve had it with fundraising solicitations from my kids’ school and daycare. Yet, part of me is afraid to turn down these “opportunities to show school spirit”.
Maybe it’s an irrational fear, but I can’t help but wonder if the quality of my kids’ care hinges on my willingness to play (or should I say PAY) along.
I understand they need to raise funds from time to time to pay for special activities – and I’m okay with that. But the frequency of these opportunities is becoming a problem.
For me, the “fun” of fundraising began to diminish when my girls entered the second grade. The first fundraiser that came our way asked us to eat dinner on a designated night at our friendly neighborhood McDonalds.
The night before (gee, thanks for the notice), I got notes informing us that a sliver of the night’s proceeds would go to the PTA. The kids eagerly presented the notes, jumping up and down, chirping, “Can we? Can we? Can we, please?”
I decided we’d go, doubting all the while the funds raised from eating greasy fast food would be earmarked for new health-education materials.
When we arrived, the place was a zoo. There was no place to park, nowhere to sit, and the Playland was absolutely packed. I was certain that if I let my two year-old in there, he’d get trampled for sure. The parents looked tired and annoyed. But still, we did our time and I can proudly say that we contributed a hefty 23 cents to the PTA.
A week later, I was presented with yet another opportunity to show my support. This time, I could order a bunch of overpriced, over-processed, pre-packaged meals from some vendor in cahoots with the PTA. Again, a few pennies would be “donated” to the school.
This time I decided to pass. When I failed to place an order, I got three separate “friendly reminder” notes per child (remember, twins). Still, I could not be swayed. We really couldn’t afford dropping $9.99 of a package of six Mini Chicken Cordon Bleu Bites.
I tossed the order form. Okay, truth be told, I crumpled it up and tucked it deep inside the garbage can, so the kids wouldn’t see.
About a month later, I got a flyer notifying me that in two days (they’d gotten better) the school was holding its very own Chuck E. Cheese fundraising night.
Ugh. I hate Chuck E. Cheese.
I’m sure there are nice Chuck E. Cheese restaurants out there, but I have not been fortunate enough to find one. The one near my house is noisy, dirty and full of sugar-crazed kids and their checked-out parents.
Also, this particular “opportunity” fell just before payday, meaning I didn’t have the extra $50-60 to drop. So there was really no way we could go, even if I was up for bad pizza and a singing rat.
I decided to ignore the note again, throwing it in the garbage, then burying it with coffee grounds. I hoped this opportunity would pass unnoticed.
Sadly, the day of the fundraiser, my kids came home from school with more flyers. They were also wearing “Take me to Chuck E. Cheese” stickers on their shirts and telling me we had to be there by 6, because that’s when their friends were going.
I resented the position the school put me in. “Gee, thanks,” I thought. “Now I get to be the asshole who has to tell them they can’t go.”
I gently explained that we were not going to Chuck E. Cheese’s this time and tried to soften the blow by announcing that we were having homemade ice cream sundaes at home for dessert. Normally the at-home sundae bar is met with cheers. This time, they cried.
The following week, I got an invitation to a jewelry party being given by one of my son’s daycare teachers. While this was not a fundraiser, I felt compelled to show my loyalty to the staff. Again, in the back of my mind, I kept wondering if my boy might get treated differently if I didn’t go. So, even though I really couldn’t afford it, I went anyway.
A week after the jewelry party, I got two more invitations in the daycare cubby – a candle party scheduled for that Friday and a Tupperware soiree the following Sunday afternoon. Coincidence? I don’t think so.
The final straw came when my girls brought home order forms for me to purchase an art project they created at school. Mind you, each week their backpacks are stuffed with drawings, paintings and projects, most of which I have to toss because there’s just no way to keep it all. And now they’ve asked me to buy their artwork?
I understand that fundraisers are important, but I wish they’d quit nickel and diming me at every turn, then priming my kids to put the screws to me if I don’t open my wallet.
If anything, all of these solicitations work against their goal of building strong school spirit. For me, showing school spirit shouldn’t make me afraid to peek inside the take-home folder. I'd like to participate more, but my single-mom income simply doesn't allow it.
I’d like to know if anyone out there actually participates in all of these so-called opportunities. And, if they do, what kind of job do they have where they can afford all of this junk? And what the hell are they doing with all of that cruddy frozen pizza?
Perhaps their generosity (or fear of repercussions from not participating) is matched only by the sheer size of their freezer.
Mad Dog, Crowbar and The Deuce
When I was in college, I dated a guy who talked incessantly about getting married and having kids. Actually, he was quite specific about it all. According to his plan we’d have two kids – a boy and a girl – and we’d name them Sam and Hannah. He’d be a successful architect and I’d be a high school English teacher. We’d live in a house that he designed in the suburbs.
We were eating lunch in the student union when described the future he’d carefully laid out. Leaning in as if to tell me something confidential, he said, “It’s a good thing you picked education as your major – you know, so you can have summers off to take care of our kids.”
Rather than jumping for joy, I wanted to slap him.
For one, I found it extremely odd for a 22 year-old guy have his future planned out with the same giddy excitement as a seven year-old girl. But mostly I was repulsed by the thought of moving to the suburbs and getting saddled with a couple of kids.
As I listened to him ramble, I envisioned my appearance morph – like in the Terminator movies – from a trim, tan co-ed into a sort of mom-monster. After the transformation was complete, I no longer resembled myself. Instead, I was a pudgy woman wearing a gingham dress with flower appliqués. My hair was pulled up into a bun and I was taking a piping hot loaf of bread from the oven. Around my feet, toddled a herd of young children.
Days later, I broke off the relationship and changed my major.
I felt empowered. I had a newfound sense of feminism. I would not be pigeonholed into a maternal role. No man or major could force me to become a soccer mom. Hell, I might not even have kids at all.
I envisioned a different future for myself. I’d have an exciting career, a killer condo and a sporty two-seater. The only kids in my future would be my nieces and nephews. I’d be a cool aunt, but frumpy minivan mom? Forget it.
Fast forward four years…
After college, I fell in love with a new guy – one who was way more laid back than the architecture major. He was less of a planner and more of a wait-and-see kind of guy. I loved his casual attitude, his go-with-the-flow style and his ability to let things roll off his back. He helped me reign in my type-A tendencies and, as he’d say, “just relax a little.”
After a few years, we got engaged. And, fully embracing his c'est la vie approach, when my birth control prescription ran out, I figured I’d just wait and see what’d happen.
About nine months after our wedding day, I gave birth to twin girls.
The shock of being pregnant – let alone with twins – was incredible. After missing a few periods – and yet testing negative on two preggo tests, I was stunned. But I’ll tell you what…the minute I laid eyes on my babies, something in me changed.
As I held them in my arms for the first time, I knew, deep down in my core, that I was put on earth for those girls. I was meant to be their mother. The love I felt – and still feel – can best be described as primal. It’s a fierce kind of love.
Mad Dog was born first. She’s adventurous and daring. She had most of her physical milestones first: from rolling over, to crawling, to riding a bike. She’s my free spirited one. She likes her hair “long, loose and crazy-looking”. In school, she challenges her teachers (“Why do I have to show my work if the answer’s right?”) and once got in trouble for doing the worm on the floor during research writing time. If I had to guess her future career, it’d be professional snowboarder.
Four minutes later came The Deuce. She’s the brains of the operation. From infancy on, she’s generally quieter and a little more reserved. An introspective child, she has exceptional attention to detail and is a top student. She’s a list maker and spends her time “managing” her siblings – a.k.a. bossing them around, then tattletales when they don’t comply. Nothing gets past The Deuce. Her favorite phrase is, “But Mom, you said…” I believe she’ll either practice law or live a life of intrigue ala Robert Langdon of The Da Vinci Code.
Five years after Mad Dog and The Deuce were born; we welcomed our son, Crowbar, into the world. As the only boy in the house, Crowbar has got the market on all things robots and airplanes. He’s been seen pushing an imaginary button on his arm, sprouting rocket boosters and lifting off. He’s a master of sound effects – from helicopters to missile launches to dinosaurs, the boy does it all. Despite being a little tough guy, he’s a cuddler and, frequently crawls into my bed in the middle of the night to fall back to sleep with his little hand in mine. I’m not quite sure what Crowbar will be when he grows up. At this point, I see him in a cockpit versus a cubicle – but it could just be the vrooming sounds I hear in the background right now.
Having children is definitely a life-changing experience. But my fear of negative change – losing my identity, my sense of humor, and my style – hasn’t happened. I don’t wear sack dresses and I don’t consider myself frumpy. I still tell off-color jokes and listen to the same types of music. My love of pop culture and dark sense of humor are still, securely intact.
The other day I found my old copy of What to Expect While You’re Expecting. Flipping through, I wondered why the authors didn’t add anything about change – specifically the changes you’ll experience when you become a parent. They cover the obvious physical stuff such as lactating breasts and post-baby bodies. But they don’t say anything about some of the most amazing changes.
With Mad Dog, Crowbar and The Deuce in my life, my heart has grown bigger allowing me to love each of them as deeply, completely and fiercely as the next. It’s a little like Dr. Seuss’s Grinch whose heart grew three sizes in one day.
You know, that’s a diagram they should add to the What to Expect… book. Ditch the diagram of the stages of dilation, and replace it with the Grinch’s X-ray of his heart growing. That's a change we can all be excited about.
We were eating lunch in the student union when described the future he’d carefully laid out. Leaning in as if to tell me something confidential, he said, “It’s a good thing you picked education as your major – you know, so you can have summers off to take care of our kids.”
Rather than jumping for joy, I wanted to slap him.
For one, I found it extremely odd for a 22 year-old guy have his future planned out with the same giddy excitement as a seven year-old girl. But mostly I was repulsed by the thought of moving to the suburbs and getting saddled with a couple of kids.
As I listened to him ramble, I envisioned my appearance morph – like in the Terminator movies – from a trim, tan co-ed into a sort of mom-monster. After the transformation was complete, I no longer resembled myself. Instead, I was a pudgy woman wearing a gingham dress with flower appliqués. My hair was pulled up into a bun and I was taking a piping hot loaf of bread from the oven. Around my feet, toddled a herd of young children.
Days later, I broke off the relationship and changed my major.
I felt empowered. I had a newfound sense of feminism. I would not be pigeonholed into a maternal role. No man or major could force me to become a soccer mom. Hell, I might not even have kids at all.
I envisioned a different future for myself. I’d have an exciting career, a killer condo and a sporty two-seater. The only kids in my future would be my nieces and nephews. I’d be a cool aunt, but frumpy minivan mom? Forget it.
Fast forward four years…
After college, I fell in love with a new guy – one who was way more laid back than the architecture major. He was less of a planner and more of a wait-and-see kind of guy. I loved his casual attitude, his go-with-the-flow style and his ability to let things roll off his back. He helped me reign in my type-A tendencies and, as he’d say, “just relax a little.”
After a few years, we got engaged. And, fully embracing his c'est la vie approach, when my birth control prescription ran out, I figured I’d just wait and see what’d happen.
About nine months after our wedding day, I gave birth to twin girls.
The shock of being pregnant – let alone with twins – was incredible. After missing a few periods – and yet testing negative on two preggo tests, I was stunned. But I’ll tell you what…the minute I laid eyes on my babies, something in me changed.
As I held them in my arms for the first time, I knew, deep down in my core, that I was put on earth for those girls. I was meant to be their mother. The love I felt – and still feel – can best be described as primal. It’s a fierce kind of love.
Mad Dog was born first. She’s adventurous and daring. She had most of her physical milestones first: from rolling over, to crawling, to riding a bike. She’s my free spirited one. She likes her hair “long, loose and crazy-looking”. In school, she challenges her teachers (“Why do I have to show my work if the answer’s right?”) and once got in trouble for doing the worm on the floor during research writing time. If I had to guess her future career, it’d be professional snowboarder.
Four minutes later came The Deuce. She’s the brains of the operation. From infancy on, she’s generally quieter and a little more reserved. An introspective child, she has exceptional attention to detail and is a top student. She’s a list maker and spends her time “managing” her siblings – a.k.a. bossing them around, then tattletales when they don’t comply. Nothing gets past The Deuce. Her favorite phrase is, “But Mom, you said…” I believe she’ll either practice law or live a life of intrigue ala Robert Langdon of The Da Vinci Code.
Five years after Mad Dog and The Deuce were born; we welcomed our son, Crowbar, into the world. As the only boy in the house, Crowbar has got the market on all things robots and airplanes. He’s been seen pushing an imaginary button on his arm, sprouting rocket boosters and lifting off. He’s a master of sound effects – from helicopters to missile launches to dinosaurs, the boy does it all. Despite being a little tough guy, he’s a cuddler and, frequently crawls into my bed in the middle of the night to fall back to sleep with his little hand in mine. I’m not quite sure what Crowbar will be when he grows up. At this point, I see him in a cockpit versus a cubicle – but it could just be the vrooming sounds I hear in the background right now.
Having children is definitely a life-changing experience. But my fear of negative change – losing my identity, my sense of humor, and my style – hasn’t happened. I don’t wear sack dresses and I don’t consider myself frumpy. I still tell off-color jokes and listen to the same types of music. My love of pop culture and dark sense of humor are still, securely intact.
The other day I found my old copy of What to Expect While You’re Expecting. Flipping through, I wondered why the authors didn’t add anything about change – specifically the changes you’ll experience when you become a parent. They cover the obvious physical stuff such as lactating breasts and post-baby bodies. But they don’t say anything about some of the most amazing changes.
With Mad Dog, Crowbar and The Deuce in my life, my heart has grown bigger allowing me to love each of them as deeply, completely and fiercely as the next. It’s a little like Dr. Seuss’s Grinch whose heart grew three sizes in one day.
You know, that’s a diagram they should add to the What to Expect… book. Ditch the diagram of the stages of dilation, and replace it with the Grinch’s X-ray of his heart growing. That's a change we can all be excited about.
Take my kids...please!
I’ve always found humor to be an important element in my life. Maintaining a sense of humor is what got me through being pregnant with and having twins.
I remember the day when, at 36 weeks, I waddled into my OB-GYN’s office and stepped on the scale to learn I’d crossed the 200-pound threshold. At that point I outweighed my husband by 25 pounds.
Instead of crying, I wisecracked about how they’d better wait an hour before taking my blood pressure. The shock of learning I weighed the same as a Volkswagen would skew the results for sure. (BA-DUM-DUM!)
I had the nurses rolling.
Fast forward to the delivery room. As I lay there in stirrups, with my doctor verifying that I was indeed 10 cm and ready to push, all I could think of was Chevy Chase from Fletch.
Despite excruciating pain, in between contractions I asked, “You using the whole fist, doc?”
I brought a resident to tears with that one.
Humor got me through when my ex-husband left. Sure, I had my pity-party moments, but more often than not, I tried to keep up my sense of humor (my chin too).
It wasn’t too hard – after all, he did resemble Steve Martin from The Jerk when he left: “I don't need this stuff, and I don't need you. All I need…is this ashtray, the remote control, the paddle game, this magazine and the chair.”
Good or bad, it’s a defense mechanism.
I also apply humor to my parenting style. I enjoy my kids and find that I can get them to be more cooperative when I use humor, versus soul-crushing discipline.
Just the other night at dinner, as the kids were poking at their respective helpings of casserole, I stood up and ceremoniously announced a new house rule. Holding my spatula like a scepter, in a grand voice (a poor imitation of Julie Andrews in Mary Poppins, I admit), I proclaimed,
“Whoever complains about dinner, will receive another, delicious, nutritious and generous helping.”
My bit was met with eye-ball rolling. Impressions have never been my strong suit.
“Is this thing on?” I asked (still using the phony British accent), tapping the top of my spatula-now-turned microphone.
Granted, my humor is sometimes lost on my young audience, but someday, they’ll look back and appreciate that I made the effort. I hope that the kids’ childhood memories will be of laughing and having fun. Though, sometimes I wonder if I’m just giving them fodder for future therapy sessions.
But seriously, folks.
I think the use of humor in my house is having a positive effect. Humor teaches us to not take ourselves too seriously.
A few weeks ago, my youngest daughter and I were in the bathroom getting ready. I was putting on my makeup and she was brushing her hair. After studying her reflection in the mirror for a while, she asked me, “Mom, am I ugly?”
I put down my mascara and turned to face her. I gently cradled her face in my hands and said,
“Yes, honey. You are a very ugly girl.”
She held my serious expression for a split second before we both broke down laughing. She realized I’d caught her fishing for a compliment. I pulled her to me and hugged her. I assured her that she is very pretty and pointed out that it’s a little silly to ask a question for an answer you already know.
Any good comedian will tell you that it’s all about timing. I don’t want the kids to think they can joke their way through life or be unable to tell when I’m serious and when I’m kidding. And to be honest, we have our ups and downs in this respect.
Sometimes, when I’m laying down the law, they’ll crack smiles to try to charm their way out of trouble. Sometimes they can get me to break and sometimes they can’t.
Sometimes I have a hard time not laughing – especially when I’ve caught them doing something ridiculously naughty. Like the time my girls turned themselves blue.
They’d been outside playing with sidewalk chalk. Somehow, they thought it’d be fun to color their faces and bodies blue – including the brand new white turtlenecks I’d just bought.
Despite the Funniest-Home-Videos quality of the moment, I was livid. (We were set to leave the house within the hour to make an important appointment.)
The girls laughed, giggled and mugged funny faces, tying to ramp up the cute factor to avoid getting punished. Lucky for them it worked. Instead of scolding them, I grabbed the camera to capture the moment.
Though, I’m typically not a proponent of working blue.
I remember the day when, at 36 weeks, I waddled into my OB-GYN’s office and stepped on the scale to learn I’d crossed the 200-pound threshold. At that point I outweighed my husband by 25 pounds.
Instead of crying, I wisecracked about how they’d better wait an hour before taking my blood pressure. The shock of learning I weighed the same as a Volkswagen would skew the results for sure. (BA-DUM-DUM!)
I had the nurses rolling.
Fast forward to the delivery room. As I lay there in stirrups, with my doctor verifying that I was indeed 10 cm and ready to push, all I could think of was Chevy Chase from Fletch.
Despite excruciating pain, in between contractions I asked, “You using the whole fist, doc?”
I brought a resident to tears with that one.
Humor got me through when my ex-husband left. Sure, I had my pity-party moments, but more often than not, I tried to keep up my sense of humor (my chin too).
It wasn’t too hard – after all, he did resemble Steve Martin from The Jerk when he left: “I don't need this stuff, and I don't need you. All I need…is this ashtray, the remote control, the paddle game, this magazine and the chair.”
Good or bad, it’s a defense mechanism.
I also apply humor to my parenting style. I enjoy my kids and find that I can get them to be more cooperative when I use humor, versus soul-crushing discipline.
Just the other night at dinner, as the kids were poking at their respective helpings of casserole, I stood up and ceremoniously announced a new house rule. Holding my spatula like a scepter, in a grand voice (a poor imitation of Julie Andrews in Mary Poppins, I admit), I proclaimed,
“Whoever complains about dinner, will receive another, delicious, nutritious and generous helping.”
My bit was met with eye-ball rolling. Impressions have never been my strong suit.
“Is this thing on?” I asked (still using the phony British accent), tapping the top of my spatula-now-turned microphone.
Granted, my humor is sometimes lost on my young audience, but someday, they’ll look back and appreciate that I made the effort. I hope that the kids’ childhood memories will be of laughing and having fun. Though, sometimes I wonder if I’m just giving them fodder for future therapy sessions.
But seriously, folks.
I think the use of humor in my house is having a positive effect. Humor teaches us to not take ourselves too seriously.
A few weeks ago, my youngest daughter and I were in the bathroom getting ready. I was putting on my makeup and she was brushing her hair. After studying her reflection in the mirror for a while, she asked me, “Mom, am I ugly?”
I put down my mascara and turned to face her. I gently cradled her face in my hands and said,
“Yes, honey. You are a very ugly girl.”
She held my serious expression for a split second before we both broke down laughing. She realized I’d caught her fishing for a compliment. I pulled her to me and hugged her. I assured her that she is very pretty and pointed out that it’s a little silly to ask a question for an answer you already know.
Any good comedian will tell you that it’s all about timing. I don’t want the kids to think they can joke their way through life or be unable to tell when I’m serious and when I’m kidding. And to be honest, we have our ups and downs in this respect.
Sometimes, when I’m laying down the law, they’ll crack smiles to try to charm their way out of trouble. Sometimes they can get me to break and sometimes they can’t.
Sometimes I have a hard time not laughing – especially when I’ve caught them doing something ridiculously naughty. Like the time my girls turned themselves blue.
They’d been outside playing with sidewalk chalk. Somehow, they thought it’d be fun to color their faces and bodies blue – including the brand new white turtlenecks I’d just bought.
Despite the Funniest-Home-Videos quality of the moment, I was livid. (We were set to leave the house within the hour to make an important appointment.)
The girls laughed, giggled and mugged funny faces, tying to ramp up the cute factor to avoid getting punished. Lucky for them it worked. Instead of scolding them, I grabbed the camera to capture the moment.
Though, I’m typically not a proponent of working blue.
Lessons learned from my parents’ divorce
As a kid, I remember being very sad when my parents announced they were separating. I didn’t want my dad to move out and I was scared about what it would mean for our family when he did. I remember sitting in the family room in our little cape cod on Morgan Avenue, wildly sobbing, begging them to change their minds.
After Dad moved into a little apartment on the south end of town, the sadness began to dissipate. A peaceful calm settled over our house – there was no more arguing, no more tension-filled dinners.
Even as a 10 year old, I remember realizing that this new arrangement was better.
I learned that my parents’ happiness was what was important – regardless of if they lived in the same house or not. And, I realized that happy parents – not stressed out, bitter, argumentative ones – make a kid feel more secure and confident. They’re also more fun. Looking back, I have more memories of having fun and laughing after they divorced.
I’ve applied this lesson to my own divorce. I’m a firm believer that kids aren’t screwed up because their parents are divorced – they’re screwed up because their parents didn’t handle the divorce well.
I watched an Oprah once where a bunch of unhappy women blamed their parents for all of their troubles with love and money. One woman said her inability to form lasting, healthy relationships was because her parents were divorced and she never had positive role models to show what a happy, successful marriage looks like. She said she just didn’t want to make the same mistake as her parents did.
That’s bullshit.
Life is a collection of experiences – good and bad. I don’t view my marriage and subsequent divorce as mistakes. Don’t get me wrong, they weren’t my favorite of all my experiences – but none of it was a mistake. I have three amazing children from that relationship. Getting divorced was hard, but I’ve emerged a stronger, more confident person now. And that’s better, right?
So, even with the benefit of hindsight, I’d accept that proposal all over again.
I feel I represent someone who’s better because of divorce (my parents and my own). I have observed my parents’ parting and have applied those lessons to become better communicator, better mother and better participant in my own relationships.
In addition, I’ve applied those lessons to make my own divorce better…better for me, my ex-husband and my kids.
As you may know, I’m a big fan of lists, so I’ve put together a list of Lessons Learned from my Parents’ Divorce. Some of these things I’ve learned by watching them do things well and to be fair, (and with all due respect to my beloved parents), some of these lessons are based on things they didn’t handle quite so well. Nevertheless, here it is – in no particular order…
Lessons Learned from my Parents’ Divorce
1) Be honest and open with your kids and explain things to them in a way they can understand.
Back in 1983, on that sad day in our living room, I remember my dad used a clever way to help my brothers and I understand what was happening. He held his hand up and explained that it represented our family (five fingers = five family members). He crossed two of his fingers (like you do for luck) and said that that’s how he and Mom used to be – very close.
Then he uncrossed his fingers to illustrate that they’d grown apart. He pointed out that even though the fingers were uncrossed, the hand was still intact. The fingers would always be a part of the same hand. Like the hand, our family would always be connected, regardless of who lived where.
I explained my own divorce to my kids in this very same way and I continue to try to explain things in terms they understand.
2) Respect your kids’ relationship with your ex.
My kids love and trust both me and my ex-husband. I try hard to make sure my words and actions about him are influenced by this fact. Bashing my ex verbally may make me look or feel better in the short term, but what’s the gain for my kids?
Even if he is at fault in some way, it doesn’t matter. I need to keep my mouth shut and respect the kids’ relationship with their dad. Otherwise I look petty and spiteful (the exact opposite of trying to make myself look/feel better in the first place).
Respecting those boundaries is better for everyone – really, it is.
3) Co-parent in a business-like manner.
I like to think of me and my ex as business associates. Together, we’re Family Incorporated, and our mission statement centers around the common goal of turning our kids into confident, responsible tax-payers.
We need to agree on the major points of upbringing (our business model) and pool our resources (time, money, energy) to successfully implement our strategic plan (growing little people into self-sufficient big ones). We set emotion aside and try to approach challenges logically and in a way that works for each associate.
For example, when my three year-old son breaks standard operating procedures and refused to stay in bed (at my house and at his dad’s), we held a conference call to address the issue.
Together, we determined that a zero-tolerance approach was best and outlined a game plan. Our objective was to overcome the obstacle of the boy getting up repeatedly, seeking attention. So our plan was this: The minute he’s out of his room, he’s marched straight back to bed without any coddling and with minimal conversation. This plan would be implemented each time he got up – regardless of at whose house he was sleeping.
The little guy eventually learned that Mom and Dad (co-CEOs of Family Incorporated) have the same expectation and deliver the same consequence for not following our family’s Code of Business Conduct. While we have two branch offices (Dad’s place and Mom’s house), the company’s rules and expectations are the same.
4) Communicate!!
Information is power and it’s true in divorced families too. Withholding information doesn’t help anyone. Again, thinking of this like a business relationship, what would happen if the project manager didn’t communicate with the rest of the team?
Thankfully, advances in technology support the ability to communicate with minimal human interaction. My ex and I prefer to text via cell phone, verses have real, live conversations. Text messaging for us is convenient, non-intrusive and keeps communications brief and on-point.
I’m sure my parents would’ve loved to have text messaging and email communication tools back in the mid-eighties. Electronic communication eliminates those, “I didn’t like your tone of voice,”-type problems.
Lessons learned, lessons taught
I learned a lot from my parents’ divorce. I don’t blame them for how my life has turned out – they’ve influenced choices I’ve made, but they’re not responsible for them.
I know my kids are all going to grow up and have problems. I know they’ll sit in a therapist’s office, spilling their guts and I’m pretty sure my name will come up.
And I’m okay with that, really. They may not agree with the choices I’ve made, but will hopefully recognize that my choices and actions have shaped their own decision making in a good way.
Now that I think of it, I hope they’ll get their money’s worth for those therapy sessions. Blaming your divorced parents for your problems will be pretty passé in 2028.
Maybe I should try harder to give them something good and juicy to work with.
After Dad moved into a little apartment on the south end of town, the sadness began to dissipate. A peaceful calm settled over our house – there was no more arguing, no more tension-filled dinners.
Even as a 10 year old, I remember realizing that this new arrangement was better.
I learned that my parents’ happiness was what was important – regardless of if they lived in the same house or not. And, I realized that happy parents – not stressed out, bitter, argumentative ones – make a kid feel more secure and confident. They’re also more fun. Looking back, I have more memories of having fun and laughing after they divorced.
I’ve applied this lesson to my own divorce. I’m a firm believer that kids aren’t screwed up because their parents are divorced – they’re screwed up because their parents didn’t handle the divorce well.
I watched an Oprah once where a bunch of unhappy women blamed their parents for all of their troubles with love and money. One woman said her inability to form lasting, healthy relationships was because her parents were divorced and she never had positive role models to show what a happy, successful marriage looks like. She said she just didn’t want to make the same mistake as her parents did.
That’s bullshit.
Life is a collection of experiences – good and bad. I don’t view my marriage and subsequent divorce as mistakes. Don’t get me wrong, they weren’t my favorite of all my experiences – but none of it was a mistake. I have three amazing children from that relationship. Getting divorced was hard, but I’ve emerged a stronger, more confident person now. And that’s better, right?
So, even with the benefit of hindsight, I’d accept that proposal all over again.
I feel I represent someone who’s better because of divorce (my parents and my own). I have observed my parents’ parting and have applied those lessons to become better communicator, better mother and better participant in my own relationships.
In addition, I’ve applied those lessons to make my own divorce better…better for me, my ex-husband and my kids.
As you may know, I’m a big fan of lists, so I’ve put together a list of Lessons Learned from my Parents’ Divorce. Some of these things I’ve learned by watching them do things well and to be fair, (and with all due respect to my beloved parents), some of these lessons are based on things they didn’t handle quite so well. Nevertheless, here it is – in no particular order…
Lessons Learned from my Parents’ Divorce
1) Be honest and open with your kids and explain things to them in a way they can understand.
Back in 1983, on that sad day in our living room, I remember my dad used a clever way to help my brothers and I understand what was happening. He held his hand up and explained that it represented our family (five fingers = five family members). He crossed two of his fingers (like you do for luck) and said that that’s how he and Mom used to be – very close.
Then he uncrossed his fingers to illustrate that they’d grown apart. He pointed out that even though the fingers were uncrossed, the hand was still intact. The fingers would always be a part of the same hand. Like the hand, our family would always be connected, regardless of who lived where.
I explained my own divorce to my kids in this very same way and I continue to try to explain things in terms they understand.
2) Respect your kids’ relationship with your ex.
My kids love and trust both me and my ex-husband. I try hard to make sure my words and actions about him are influenced by this fact. Bashing my ex verbally may make me look or feel better in the short term, but what’s the gain for my kids?
Even if he is at fault in some way, it doesn’t matter. I need to keep my mouth shut and respect the kids’ relationship with their dad. Otherwise I look petty and spiteful (the exact opposite of trying to make myself look/feel better in the first place).
Respecting those boundaries is better for everyone – really, it is.
3) Co-parent in a business-like manner.
I like to think of me and my ex as business associates. Together, we’re Family Incorporated, and our mission statement centers around the common goal of turning our kids into confident, responsible tax-payers.
We need to agree on the major points of upbringing (our business model) and pool our resources (time, money, energy) to successfully implement our strategic plan (growing little people into self-sufficient big ones). We set emotion aside and try to approach challenges logically and in a way that works for each associate.
For example, when my three year-old son breaks standard operating procedures and refused to stay in bed (at my house and at his dad’s), we held a conference call to address the issue.
Together, we determined that a zero-tolerance approach was best and outlined a game plan. Our objective was to overcome the obstacle of the boy getting up repeatedly, seeking attention. So our plan was this: The minute he’s out of his room, he’s marched straight back to bed without any coddling and with minimal conversation. This plan would be implemented each time he got up – regardless of at whose house he was sleeping.
The little guy eventually learned that Mom and Dad (co-CEOs of Family Incorporated) have the same expectation and deliver the same consequence for not following our family’s Code of Business Conduct. While we have two branch offices (Dad’s place and Mom’s house), the company’s rules and expectations are the same.
4) Communicate!!
Information is power and it’s true in divorced families too. Withholding information doesn’t help anyone. Again, thinking of this like a business relationship, what would happen if the project manager didn’t communicate with the rest of the team?
Thankfully, advances in technology support the ability to communicate with minimal human interaction. My ex and I prefer to text via cell phone, verses have real, live conversations. Text messaging for us is convenient, non-intrusive and keeps communications brief and on-point.
I’m sure my parents would’ve loved to have text messaging and email communication tools back in the mid-eighties. Electronic communication eliminates those, “I didn’t like your tone of voice,”-type problems.
Lessons learned, lessons taught
I learned a lot from my parents’ divorce. I don’t blame them for how my life has turned out – they’ve influenced choices I’ve made, but they’re not responsible for them.
I know my kids are all going to grow up and have problems. I know they’ll sit in a therapist’s office, spilling their guts and I’m pretty sure my name will come up.
And I’m okay with that, really. They may not agree with the choices I’ve made, but will hopefully recognize that my choices and actions have shaped their own decision making in a good way.
Now that I think of it, I hope they’ll get their money’s worth for those therapy sessions. Blaming your divorced parents for your problems will be pretty passé in 2028.
Maybe I should try harder to give them something good and juicy to work with.
Wanted: SWM, must own ear plugs
Most single moms are so busy taking care of kids and home, that they aren’t very good at putting their needs first. For me, the idea of dating seemed like a luxury and about as realistic a venture as sprouting wings and flying to the moon.
When would I find the time? How would the kids feel? Where would I find a sitter with a car but without a life on a Saturday night?
For a long time, when the idea of getting out and meeting someone popped into my head, I’d sweep it away just as quickly. So when a colleague from work unexpectedly asked me out one day, my response went something like this:
“Uh, well, thanks. That’s really nice of you. Um…you know I have kids, right? I’m not really sure that…well, I want to but…I just don’t get many free nights. But I still want to…”
I sounded like an idiot.
But there was a good reason for my hesitation. Logistics aside, dating as a single mom can be really scary. Before I had kids, if I went out with a dud or a jerk, the only person at risk of getting hurt was me. Now, with kids in the equation, there’s a whole new level of pressure.
I was afraid to bring someone new into my life (our lives) until I knew for sure the person was:
A) not a psychopath, and
B) truly liked kids in a genuine, but not-at-all-creepy kind of way.
And, on the flip side, I was nervous about how my kids would respond to someone new. Kids are unpredictable. They say whatever’s on their minds and are prone to unsolicited tantrums and outbursts. What kind of guy would willingly get involved with a lady with three, rambunctious kids?
Frankly, I questioned his sanity for asking me out in the first place.
Despite my stunning response, he assured me he was still interested, really enjoyed kids, and was willing to wait until my calendar freed up.
Okay, I thought. This guy’s different. I’ll give him a try.
Several weeks later, we made that first date happen. And, over time, we saw each other more and more. I learned that he was down to earth, close to his family, and that we shared many interests. Sprinkle in intelligence and a sense of humor and well, what more can you ask for? We just clicked.
After a few months of covert dating – my brood didn’t know I was seeing anyone – he asked when he’d get to meet the kids. Nervously, I suggested we introduce him as “Mom’s friend” and spend the evening at a local festival.
Even though I was initially apprehensive, everyone had a blast. Somewhere between the midway games and cotton candy, I relaxed and just enjoyed the night. After we got home and put everyone to bed, he told me he was impressed by how everyone was.
Frankly, I too, was impressed by their behavior. They were respectful, sweet, and funny. There was no bickering or whining. Looking back, I think they were thrilled to have another grownup to show off for. They told jokes, did cartwheels and, aside from juggling flaming batons on unicycles, were quite entertaining.
“They’re just so…good,” he kept saying.
Every time he said it, I’d blush and thank him, though, on the inside I kept thinking, “Just wait...you haven’t seen anything yet.”
Over the next few weeks, I held my breath, waiting for the first outburst, tantrum or fight. I wondered how long it’d be before my kids showed their true colors. In my house, we do things with gusto. We laugh hard, play hard, and fight hard too. And I wondered how he’d react. Would he turn tail and run?
Sure enough, a few weeks later, the happy façade gave way. We were all in my van, heading out for dinner. My two-year old who, seconds earlier had been singing and giggling, did a prompt 180 and burst into a full-blown temper tantrum. He wailed as he kicked the back of my seat and his face turned as red as the toy fire truck he hurled at the back of my head.
I glanced over to see my new boyfriend’s look of terror.
“What happened?” he whispered. “He was fine just a minute ago.”
“Oh, he does this sometimes,” I said apologetically. “It’s best to just ignore him.”
Ignore him? Yeah, right. I was skilled at tuning out my kids’ outbursts. But asking a single guy who wasn’t used to this to just ignore him was a ridiculous request.
For an instant I figured that this new relationship was doomed. As my boy howled in the back, I could actually visualize a gigantic wedge that would be driven down between our bucket seats.
“You are so going to dump me,” I said, only half joking.
Surprisingly, the fear on his face gave way to a smile.
”I will not be bested by a two-year old,” he said with a sly grin.
Suddenly the giant imaginary wedge disappeared.
Inexplicably, in a matter of seconds, my little guy turned off the waterworks and began to sing. The tantrum was over and my new boyfriend hadn’t jumped from the moving vehicle to get away – not this time.
It is possible for single moms to date, but it comes down to finding the right guy. My advice is to take it slow and be realistic about what you can and can’t expect from everybody – kids and grownups included.
Patience is key, a sense of humor is critical and a set of earplugs in the glove box doesn’t hurt either.
When would I find the time? How would the kids feel? Where would I find a sitter with a car but without a life on a Saturday night?
For a long time, when the idea of getting out and meeting someone popped into my head, I’d sweep it away just as quickly. So when a colleague from work unexpectedly asked me out one day, my response went something like this:
“Uh, well, thanks. That’s really nice of you. Um…you know I have kids, right? I’m not really sure that…well, I want to but…I just don’t get many free nights. But I still want to…”
I sounded like an idiot.
But there was a good reason for my hesitation. Logistics aside, dating as a single mom can be really scary. Before I had kids, if I went out with a dud or a jerk, the only person at risk of getting hurt was me. Now, with kids in the equation, there’s a whole new level of pressure.
I was afraid to bring someone new into my life (our lives) until I knew for sure the person was:
A) not a psychopath, and
B) truly liked kids in a genuine, but not-at-all-creepy kind of way.
And, on the flip side, I was nervous about how my kids would respond to someone new. Kids are unpredictable. They say whatever’s on their minds and are prone to unsolicited tantrums and outbursts. What kind of guy would willingly get involved with a lady with three, rambunctious kids?
Frankly, I questioned his sanity for asking me out in the first place.
Despite my stunning response, he assured me he was still interested, really enjoyed kids, and was willing to wait until my calendar freed up.
Okay, I thought. This guy’s different. I’ll give him a try.
Several weeks later, we made that first date happen. And, over time, we saw each other more and more. I learned that he was down to earth, close to his family, and that we shared many interests. Sprinkle in intelligence and a sense of humor and well, what more can you ask for? We just clicked.
After a few months of covert dating – my brood didn’t know I was seeing anyone – he asked when he’d get to meet the kids. Nervously, I suggested we introduce him as “Mom’s friend” and spend the evening at a local festival.
Even though I was initially apprehensive, everyone had a blast. Somewhere between the midway games and cotton candy, I relaxed and just enjoyed the night. After we got home and put everyone to bed, he told me he was impressed by how everyone was.
Frankly, I too, was impressed by their behavior. They were respectful, sweet, and funny. There was no bickering or whining. Looking back, I think they were thrilled to have another grownup to show off for. They told jokes, did cartwheels and, aside from juggling flaming batons on unicycles, were quite entertaining.
“They’re just so…good,” he kept saying.
Every time he said it, I’d blush and thank him, though, on the inside I kept thinking, “Just wait...you haven’t seen anything yet.”
Over the next few weeks, I held my breath, waiting for the first outburst, tantrum or fight. I wondered how long it’d be before my kids showed their true colors. In my house, we do things with gusto. We laugh hard, play hard, and fight hard too. And I wondered how he’d react. Would he turn tail and run?
Sure enough, a few weeks later, the happy façade gave way. We were all in my van, heading out for dinner. My two-year old who, seconds earlier had been singing and giggling, did a prompt 180 and burst into a full-blown temper tantrum. He wailed as he kicked the back of my seat and his face turned as red as the toy fire truck he hurled at the back of my head.
I glanced over to see my new boyfriend’s look of terror.
“What happened?” he whispered. “He was fine just a minute ago.”
“Oh, he does this sometimes,” I said apologetically. “It’s best to just ignore him.”
Ignore him? Yeah, right. I was skilled at tuning out my kids’ outbursts. But asking a single guy who wasn’t used to this to just ignore him was a ridiculous request.
For an instant I figured that this new relationship was doomed. As my boy howled in the back, I could actually visualize a gigantic wedge that would be driven down between our bucket seats.
“You are so going to dump me,” I said, only half joking.
Surprisingly, the fear on his face gave way to a smile.
”I will not be bested by a two-year old,” he said with a sly grin.
Suddenly the giant imaginary wedge disappeared.
Inexplicably, in a matter of seconds, my little guy turned off the waterworks and began to sing. The tantrum was over and my new boyfriend hadn’t jumped from the moving vehicle to get away – not this time.
It is possible for single moms to date, but it comes down to finding the right guy. My advice is to take it slow and be realistic about what you can and can’t expect from everybody – kids and grownups included.
Patience is key, a sense of humor is critical and a set of earplugs in the glove box doesn’t hurt either.
Me and Mr. Winkie
My son was five months old when his dad moved out, leaving him outnumbered in a house full of women. The poor little guy was left to figure out on his own how to do “boy things.” There’s no way I could teach him how to make those cool machine gun noises, let alone how to properly throw a baseball.
When it came time to potty train him, I didn’t really know where to start. I’d successfully trained his sisters, but they were girls - and part of their training included watching how Mom does it. That approach clearly wouldn’t work here. So, I began asking friends and family for advice.
Should I start him sitting down or standing up? He’s too short to clear the rim of the bowl, so should I pick him up and point him downward or get a step stool?
Because he was vertically challenged, I decided to start him sitting down. He hated that little guard attachment that came with the potty seat, so he popped it off and threw it away, announcing, “I don’t like it, Mama.”
After a few times of having his pee shoot straight out and down his legs instead of in the pot, I taught him how to tuck it down and lean forward. This worked pretty well, until I noticed his pee was still not hitting the water. Instead it was running under the seat and down the front of the bowl, pooling on the floor.
Now, with the bathroom stocked with Clorox towelettes and flushable baby wipes, we tried a new approach. This time he stood on a stool, with me behind him, holding him steady. He preferred to stand, but not by himself, since being up so high made him feel wobbly.
The first time he peed standing up, it shot upward, like a fire hose, nailing the back of the toilet and the surrounding wall. I couldn’t believe the force with which he peed – especially in the morning. The pressure was incredible.
So, we began to tackle the issue of aim. Recalling advice from a friend, I tossed a few Cheerios into the bowl and encouraged him to use them as a target. Confused, he looked up and told me (with a look of concern) the cereal shouldn’t go in the potty.
“No honey, you’re not going to eat it, you’re going to pee on it,” I explained. He shrugged his shoulders and complied. He tried to take aim by moving his hips from side to side and leaning forward – an approach that was creative, but not effective. Using this style, he hit the water for one, brief instant, and then ended up nailing the shower curtain, vanity and a towel rack as he swiveled his hips.
I knew I had to get him to take hold and take aim, but I wasn’t sure what terminology to use.
Penis sounded too clinical. Besides, it reminded me of story a friend once told me about growing up with her psychologist mother. The woman was strictly against using cutie-pie names like pee-pee or woo-woo to describe body parts. Instead, she insisted they use correct anatomical terminology. She felt that euphemisms were ridiculous and downright embarrassing. Sadly, her plan backfired when one of her daughters fell off her bike and ran into the house yelling at the top of her lungs, “MOM! I HURT MY VAGINA!”
I considered using the word pee-pee, but decided against it because pee-pee is what comes out and I don’t want him touching that.
Another friend (also a single mother) suggested I call it Mr. Winkie. Her daycare provider called it that and her son didn’t seem to have a problem telling Mr. Winkie where to squirt. I tried it out a few times, but it just didn’t roll off the tongue.
Finally, I settled on pee-pee maker. I know it’s a mouthful, but he gets it and I’m not embarrassed to say it out loud – which is good, because I find I’m saying it often.
“Hold your pee-pee maker and squirt it in the water.”
“No, you do it,” he says, folding his arms and piddling on the floor.
“That is your pee-pee maker, not mine. You do it.”
Still, he refused to touch it. I guess he thought he would eventually perfect his fancy-dancy hip maneuver.
After another week arguing over who was responsible for whose pee-pee maker, I finally figured out why he wouldn’t grab on and take aim. One day, after I had to aim for him, he refused to wash his hands.
His argument: “I didn’t touch anything,”
Once I convinced him that he has to wash his hands every time he goes potty, regardless of what he did or didn’t touch, he finally relented. Now, when he goes, he takes hold and hits the water a good 75% of the time, which I call success.
Potty training my son was a long, tough journey, but together, we made it through. He’s even trying to go all by himself, without help, which when he perfects his aim, will be just one more milestone that makes my life easier.
In the end, I won the potty war at my house. My boy is peeing like a pro and shows no hesitation to reach down and take matters into this own hands. In fact, this new willingness to reach down there has evolved into a sort of fondness for it. I caught him a few times just today, “feeling things out”, if you know what I mean.
The more I think about it, I guess I can claim at least partial credit for teaching him one of those “boy things.”
When it came time to potty train him, I didn’t really know where to start. I’d successfully trained his sisters, but they were girls - and part of their training included watching how Mom does it. That approach clearly wouldn’t work here. So, I began asking friends and family for advice.
Should I start him sitting down or standing up? He’s too short to clear the rim of the bowl, so should I pick him up and point him downward or get a step stool?
Because he was vertically challenged, I decided to start him sitting down. He hated that little guard attachment that came with the potty seat, so he popped it off and threw it away, announcing, “I don’t like it, Mama.”
After a few times of having his pee shoot straight out and down his legs instead of in the pot, I taught him how to tuck it down and lean forward. This worked pretty well, until I noticed his pee was still not hitting the water. Instead it was running under the seat and down the front of the bowl, pooling on the floor.
Now, with the bathroom stocked with Clorox towelettes and flushable baby wipes, we tried a new approach. This time he stood on a stool, with me behind him, holding him steady. He preferred to stand, but not by himself, since being up so high made him feel wobbly.
The first time he peed standing up, it shot upward, like a fire hose, nailing the back of the toilet and the surrounding wall. I couldn’t believe the force with which he peed – especially in the morning. The pressure was incredible.
So, we began to tackle the issue of aim. Recalling advice from a friend, I tossed a few Cheerios into the bowl and encouraged him to use them as a target. Confused, he looked up and told me (with a look of concern) the cereal shouldn’t go in the potty.
“No honey, you’re not going to eat it, you’re going to pee on it,” I explained. He shrugged his shoulders and complied. He tried to take aim by moving his hips from side to side and leaning forward – an approach that was creative, but not effective. Using this style, he hit the water for one, brief instant, and then ended up nailing the shower curtain, vanity and a towel rack as he swiveled his hips.
I knew I had to get him to take hold and take aim, but I wasn’t sure what terminology to use.
Penis sounded too clinical. Besides, it reminded me of story a friend once told me about growing up with her psychologist mother. The woman was strictly against using cutie-pie names like pee-pee or woo-woo to describe body parts. Instead, she insisted they use correct anatomical terminology. She felt that euphemisms were ridiculous and downright embarrassing. Sadly, her plan backfired when one of her daughters fell off her bike and ran into the house yelling at the top of her lungs, “MOM! I HURT MY VAGINA!”
I considered using the word pee-pee, but decided against it because pee-pee is what comes out and I don’t want him touching that.
Another friend (also a single mother) suggested I call it Mr. Winkie. Her daycare provider called it that and her son didn’t seem to have a problem telling Mr. Winkie where to squirt. I tried it out a few times, but it just didn’t roll off the tongue.
Finally, I settled on pee-pee maker. I know it’s a mouthful, but he gets it and I’m not embarrassed to say it out loud – which is good, because I find I’m saying it often.
“Hold your pee-pee maker and squirt it in the water.”
“No, you do it,” he says, folding his arms and piddling on the floor.
“That is your pee-pee maker, not mine. You do it.”
Still, he refused to touch it. I guess he thought he would eventually perfect his fancy-dancy hip maneuver.
After another week arguing over who was responsible for whose pee-pee maker, I finally figured out why he wouldn’t grab on and take aim. One day, after I had to aim for him, he refused to wash his hands.
His argument: “I didn’t touch anything,”
Once I convinced him that he has to wash his hands every time he goes potty, regardless of what he did or didn’t touch, he finally relented. Now, when he goes, he takes hold and hits the water a good 75% of the time, which I call success.
Potty training my son was a long, tough journey, but together, we made it through. He’s even trying to go all by himself, without help, which when he perfects his aim, will be just one more milestone that makes my life easier.
In the end, I won the potty war at my house. My boy is peeing like a pro and shows no hesitation to reach down and take matters into this own hands. In fact, this new willingness to reach down there has evolved into a sort of fondness for it. I caught him a few times just today, “feeling things out”, if you know what I mean.
The more I think about it, I guess I can claim at least partial credit for teaching him one of those “boy things.”
Be careful what you wish for
Due to my ex-husband’s crazy work schedule, I have my kids most of the time. He takes them on one-night visits about once every 7-10 days, which leaves him aching to see them more, and me fairly exhausted by the time one of my “breaks” come along.
I say “breaks” because typically I use those nights to do some pesky chore or run errands that’d be difficult or downright impossible to accomplish with three kids in tow. My friends tell me to relax and take a bubble bath, but more often than not, I’m using that time to scrub a dirty ring from the tub – not soak in it.
So, you’d think that when my ex informed me he has a full week of vacation coming up, and that he’d like to take the kids for 5 straight days – I’d be thrilled. Surprisingly enough (especially to me), the thought of being without them for almost a week makes me nauseous.
Seriously, I feel sick to my stomach just thinking about it.
When you’re solely responsible for your kids 99% of the time, it’s hard to just hand the reigns over to someone else. Don’t get me wrong, I trust my ex completely – he’s a great dad. It’s just hard to turn off being in full-time mom-mode, ya know?
I remember the first few times the kids went away for a one-night stay. At first I thought I would pamper myself by doing my nails or enjoying a glass of wine and a good book. Instead, I puttered around the house, walking from room to room, missing the kids. I felt (and most certainly looked) pathetic.
The next time they went away, I had visions of accomplishing all sorts of errands. I’d do some shopping free from the cries of “Mom, can I have this?” every ten steps. However, in reality, I crashed out on my couch and fell asleep by 6:30 p.m., not having accomplished a thing. I think it was a combination of exhaustion and depression. My body just gave out and I shut down.
Over the last three years, it’s taken me a while to begin enjoying my nights off and actually use that time more efficiently.
So, what am I going to do with a full week off? I think it’s going to shake down like this:
Early in the week, I know I’ll be full of energy and eager to get out of the house. I really need to reconnect with some of my long, lost friends (the ones without kids, especially). And I’m dying to see a movie out in a movie theater. It can be any movie – so long as it’s not animated, or has animals that talk.
And I want to go shopping – but instead of getting things for the kids, I plan to come home with a few little treasures just for me. This won’t be a crazy splurge that I’ll regret later. Instead I’ll get something small but personal, like new perfume. I haven’t bought new perfume – or have had anyone to buy it for me – for years. The other day someone told me I smelled good and asked what I was wearing. Embarrassing as it was, I had to fess up. It was just my Lady Speedstick. Yes, new perfume. Definitely.
I’ll also catch up on some much-needed downtime. This will be a great opportunity to get some decent sleep. As it stands now, at least every other night, someone creeps into my bed due to a bad dream, upset tummy or just because. I have to admit that on one level, I love it – my kids are great snugglers. But on the other hand, sleeping with your kids isn’t really restful sleep. Someone’s always snoring or poking you with their bony elbows. A week without a nighttime visitor may be a tough adjustment, but one that will be well worth it.
This weeklong break will be good for all of us. When the kids return, I’ll be rested and rejuvenated. My batteries will be fully charged. I know I’ll be more patient and will appreciate them more. My desire to cook will return and I’ll be eager to eat some good, home-cooked meals myself.
The more I think about it, the less apprehensive I feel. Instead of a twinge of nausea, I’m beginning to feel a twitter of excitement. Instead of dread, I’m actually looking forward to this.
Still…we’ll see how I feel when I see them drive away in their dad’s white Ford. Seeing my whole life drive off, not to return for almost a week, will surely make me feel sad and lonely.
But I know that their return five days later will bring me indescribable joy. I’ll be elated when they rush me, shouting, “Mom! Mom!”
I can feel myself getting a little misty just thinking about it now.
For me, with my kids in my arms, the planets are aligned and my world is in order. I silently complain that I wish I had more “me time” but I know deep in my bones that my kids are my life and I need them near.
Time away, whether it’s one day or five, reminds me of who I am and what I’ve been put on this earth to do. I’m a mother – their mother – and a damn good one. And it doesn’t matter if my perfume is nothing more than Fresh Scent deodorant.
I say “breaks” because typically I use those nights to do some pesky chore or run errands that’d be difficult or downright impossible to accomplish with three kids in tow. My friends tell me to relax and take a bubble bath, but more often than not, I’m using that time to scrub a dirty ring from the tub – not soak in it.
So, you’d think that when my ex informed me he has a full week of vacation coming up, and that he’d like to take the kids for 5 straight days – I’d be thrilled. Surprisingly enough (especially to me), the thought of being without them for almost a week makes me nauseous.
Seriously, I feel sick to my stomach just thinking about it.
When you’re solely responsible for your kids 99% of the time, it’s hard to just hand the reigns over to someone else. Don’t get me wrong, I trust my ex completely – he’s a great dad. It’s just hard to turn off being in full-time mom-mode, ya know?
I remember the first few times the kids went away for a one-night stay. At first I thought I would pamper myself by doing my nails or enjoying a glass of wine and a good book. Instead, I puttered around the house, walking from room to room, missing the kids. I felt (and most certainly looked) pathetic.
The next time they went away, I had visions of accomplishing all sorts of errands. I’d do some shopping free from the cries of “Mom, can I have this?” every ten steps. However, in reality, I crashed out on my couch and fell asleep by 6:30 p.m., not having accomplished a thing. I think it was a combination of exhaustion and depression. My body just gave out and I shut down.
Over the last three years, it’s taken me a while to begin enjoying my nights off and actually use that time more efficiently.
So, what am I going to do with a full week off? I think it’s going to shake down like this:
Early in the week, I know I’ll be full of energy and eager to get out of the house. I really need to reconnect with some of my long, lost friends (the ones without kids, especially). And I’m dying to see a movie out in a movie theater. It can be any movie – so long as it’s not animated, or has animals that talk.
And I want to go shopping – but instead of getting things for the kids, I plan to come home with a few little treasures just for me. This won’t be a crazy splurge that I’ll regret later. Instead I’ll get something small but personal, like new perfume. I haven’t bought new perfume – or have had anyone to buy it for me – for years. The other day someone told me I smelled good and asked what I was wearing. Embarrassing as it was, I had to fess up. It was just my Lady Speedstick. Yes, new perfume. Definitely.
I’ll also catch up on some much-needed downtime. This will be a great opportunity to get some decent sleep. As it stands now, at least every other night, someone creeps into my bed due to a bad dream, upset tummy or just because. I have to admit that on one level, I love it – my kids are great snugglers. But on the other hand, sleeping with your kids isn’t really restful sleep. Someone’s always snoring or poking you with their bony elbows. A week without a nighttime visitor may be a tough adjustment, but one that will be well worth it.
This weeklong break will be good for all of us. When the kids return, I’ll be rested and rejuvenated. My batteries will be fully charged. I know I’ll be more patient and will appreciate them more. My desire to cook will return and I’ll be eager to eat some good, home-cooked meals myself.
The more I think about it, the less apprehensive I feel. Instead of a twinge of nausea, I’m beginning to feel a twitter of excitement. Instead of dread, I’m actually looking forward to this.
Still…we’ll see how I feel when I see them drive away in their dad’s white Ford. Seeing my whole life drive off, not to return for almost a week, will surely make me feel sad and lonely.
But I know that their return five days later will bring me indescribable joy. I’ll be elated when they rush me, shouting, “Mom! Mom!”
I can feel myself getting a little misty just thinking about it now.
For me, with my kids in my arms, the planets are aligned and my world is in order. I silently complain that I wish I had more “me time” but I know deep in my bones that my kids are my life and I need them near.
Time away, whether it’s one day or five, reminds me of who I am and what I’ve been put on this earth to do. I’m a mother – their mother – and a damn good one. And it doesn’t matter if my perfume is nothing more than Fresh Scent deodorant.
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