Cup of Comfort for Single Mothers: Stories that celebrate the women who do it all

N AT I O N A L B E S T S E L L I N G S E R I E S

N AT I O N A L B E S T S E L L I N G S E R I E S A

Chauff eur. Chef. Referee. Confidante. Provider. As a single mother, you balance these roles and dozens more every day— so take a break with A Cup of Comfort® for Single Mothers. In this empowering and bittersweet collection, you will meet single mothers who have created an unbreakable bond with their sons and daughters. From a woman who never misses one of her son’s games—despite being the only single mother in the stands—to a new single mom whose threeyear-old daughter provides comic relief after a less-than-ideal first date, these women will inspire and encourage you.

$9.95 (CAN $10.99) Self-Help/Inspiration ISBN-13: 978-1-59869-270-9 ISBN-10: 1-59869-270-4

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Illustration by Eulala Connor

Single Mothers

Colleen Sell has authored, ghostwritten, or edited more than a hundred books, including twenty volumes of the Cup of Comfort ® book series. She has used her way with words in whatever means necessary—including working as a copywriter, corporate communications specialist, and technical writer—to raise her three magnificent children single-handedly. She lives in Eugene, Oregon.

for

It’s never easy to raise children alone. But in this heartwarming volume, you’ll find inspiration and joy in the stories of fifty amazing women just like you—parenting on their own and doing it exceptionally well.

CupOF Comfort

You deserve A Cup of Comfort!

Sell

A

Cup

OF

Comfort

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Single Mothers Stories that celebrate the women who do it all

Edited by

Colleen Sell

for

Single Mothers Stories that celebrate the women who do it all

Edited by

Colleen Sell

Avon, Massachusetts

For my single-mothered children, Jennifer, Christine, and Mickey Copyright © 2008 by F+W Publications, Inc. All rights reserved. This book, or parts thereof, may not be reproduced in any form without permission from the publisher; exceptions are made for brief excerpts used in published reviews. A Cup of Comfort® is a registered trademark of F+W Publications, Inc. Published by Adams Media, an F+W Publications Company 57 Littlefield Street, Avon, MA 02322 U.S.A. www.adamsmedia.com and www.cupofcomfort.com ISBN-10: 1-59869-270-4 ISBN-13: 978-1-59869-270-9 (paperback) ISBN-13: 978-1-60550-381-3 (EPUB)

Printed in the United States of America. J I H G F E D C B A Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data is available from the publisher. This publication is designed to provide accurate and authoritative information with regard to the subject matter covered. It is sold with the understanding that the publisher is not engaged in rendering legal, accounting, or other professional advice. If legal advice or other expert assistance is required, the services of a competent professional person should be sought. —From a Declaration of Principles jointly adopted by a Committee of the American Bar Association and a Committee of Publishers and Associations Many of the designations used by manufacturers and sellers to distinguish their products are claimed as trademarks. Where those designations appear in this book and Adams Media was aware of a trademark claim, the designations have been printed with initial capital letters. This book is available at quantity discounts for bulk purchases. For information, please call 1-800-289-0963.

Contents Introduction • Colleen Sell . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . vii Altars of Sacrifice • Amy Hudock . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . x Keeper of the Peace • Suzanne Schryver . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 5 An Unsung Hero • Maria Pistone . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 13 Single Mom Seeking • Rachel Sarah . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 18 The Greatest Juggling Act on Earth • Michelle R. Yankee 25 A Choice, but First a Promise • Chryss Cada . . . . . . . . . . . 30 Friends Don’t Let Friends Single-Parent Alone • Kathy L. Reed . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 36

Losing Myself, Finding Myself • Suzanne Schryver . . . . . . . 42 We’ll Think of “Sumpin” • Shae Cooke . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 50 A Single Mother’s Gift List • Cathy Craig . . . . . . . . . . . . . 56 Left Turn • Andrea Harris . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 61 A Life of One’s Own • Chris Fabian . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 72 What Goes Around • Tammy Goodsell Freise . . . . . . . . . . 80 The Coparenting Tango • Tina Lincer . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 85 Flying Solo • Katie Allison Granju . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 92

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iv A Cup of Comfort for Single Mothers Sunday Breakfast • Minnette Meador . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 96 His Sister, Her Brother, and Me • Annie Kassof . . . . . . . . 102 Mommie Proudest • Marylin N. Warner . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 107 My Mom Will Be at the Game • Donna Paulson . . . . . . . 111 Youngish Widow, Oldish Single Mom • Marlena Thompson . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 116

Brave Hearts • Elaine Greensmith Jordan . . . . . . . . . . . . . 126 Number One Son • Melissa Sovey . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 135 Recipe of Memories • Cynthia Borris . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 144 Father’s Day • Anne McCrady . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 150 Maslow, Everest, and Life with the Boy • Elizabeth Klanac . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 155

No One Makes It Alone • Nancy Vogl . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 165 Halo Man • Paula Munier . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 171 Like Water for Taffy • Theresa Jacobs . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 175 Passing Storms • Lisa J. Solomon . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 181 A Home Built for Three • Barbara Marshak . . . . . . . . . . . 186 The Apology • Kimila Kay . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 193 Boys Will Be Boys • Nancy Lowell George . . . . . . . . . . . . 203 I Was Rich • Debra Hodgkins . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 208 Dating with Children • Diana Rowe . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 212 Chili Night • J. M. Cornwell . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 217 My Perfect Partner • Rose-Marie Barbeau . . . . . . . . . . . . . 221 On a Wing, a Prayer, and a Mortgage • Marilee Stark . . . 227 The Ties That Heal • Samantha Ducloux Waltz . . . . . . . 234



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You Never Know until You Try • LouAnn Edwards . . . . . 243 Muscle Memory • Jennifer Eyre White . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 251 Bedtime Battles • Beth Andrews . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 258 Gypsy in My Soul • Paul Alan Fahey . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 263 In Good Company • Lois Britton . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 269 Your Children, Line One • Susan Brandenburg . . . . . . . . 280 Mending Shattered Bonds • Katherine Burns Sartori . . . . 287 A Family of Two • Lori L. Vogel . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 296 Things I Will and Won’t Do Now That I’m Single • Lorraine Archer . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 301

A Soft Place to Fall • Nanette Guadiano-Campos . . . . . . 306 It’s Glad • Ona Gritz . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 311 Contributors . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 316 About the Editor . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 326

Acknowledgments

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sincerely thank the terrific team at Adams Media: Paula Munier, Meredith O’Hayre, Laura Daly, Laurel Marotta, Colleen Cunningham, and Lisa Gentes. My deepest appreciation goes to the writers— most of them single mothers—whose poignant and funny and honest and inspiring and very personal stories grace the pages of this book. Kudos also go to the people whose essays did not make it into the book, for having the courage to write and submit their stories. I am forever grateful to the many single mothers who have inspired me over the years, especially my late maternal grandmother, Mary Baum, and my sister, Melinda Frank. Most of all, I thank God every day for my children, Jennifer, Christine, and Mickey, who have always been and always will be the shining lights of this single mom’s life.

Introduction

The most important thing she’d learned over the years was that there was no way to be a perfect mother and a million ways to be a good one. ~Jill Churchill

I

became a reluctant single mom in the early 1980s, when my two daughters were still in grade school and my son was still in diapers—and when single mothers were the bane of society, according to a large crowd of finger-pointing folks, some quite influential. Their widely broadcast caricatures of single mothers as selfish, immoral, child-neglecting, manhating, poverty-stricken hussies and of their children as disturbed and dysfunctional hellions were hurtful to single moms and their kids. And it was a bunch of baloney. Most single mothers from that era were caring, capable, conscientious parents. And most of

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their kids turned out just fine, thank you very much. Still, those disparaging images and the resultant prejudices against single moms and their kids made an already difficult situation all the more difficult. Of course, that isn’t the only time in history when single moms and their children have gotten a bad rap and a bum deal. In fact, it was even worse for my grandmother and my mother, as a divorcee and her child in the 1930s and 1940s. The discrimination and hardships they endured literally broke my grandma’s spirit and left deep scars on my mom’s soul. My sister and her two sons have dealt with similar, if not as severe, challenges and prejudices during their two decades as a single-mom family. Even now, in 2008, my niece and her infant son are dealing with some of the same old misconceptions and criticisms that have dogged single mothers and their children for ages. Yes, attitudes and laws and other circumstances affecting single-mom families are better today than in the past. But single moms and their children still face hardships and discrimination . . . and they still don’t get the credit and support they deserve. I, for one, think it’s high time to replace those disparaging old stereotypes with the heartening and timeless truths about single-mother families. It’s time to acknowledge the millions of single mothers,



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who—whether by chance or by choice—are doing the hardest job on earth alone, without a partner, and doing it very well, with devotion, integrity, grace, and love. It’s time to sing the praises of these wonderful single mothers, to recognize both the burdens and blessings of their lives, and to let them know they are appreciated and respected and understood. Who better to speak these truths than the people who have lived them? What better way to reveal these truths than through personal story? That’s why we’ve compiled this collection of uplifting true stories that celebrate single mothers of all ages and circumstances. I hope that you will enjoy this Cup of Comfort® for Single Mothers and that you will share it with all the special single mothers in your life. Colleen Sell

Altars of Sacrifice

I

can’t sleep. Again. I sit on my upper front porch, door open so that I can hear if my daughter wakes up and calls for me from her room. In the pasture across the street, horses graze in the moonlight. I hear their soft snorts as they move lazily along the fence, heads down, jaws grinding. I remember taking my sleeping bag to the barn when I was child and hearing the same soothing noises as I drifted off to sleep in the hay. Once, I woke in the middle of the night and couldn’t go back to sleep. My pony, Rainyday, was not at all surprised when I gave him a midnight snack and climbed on his back. As I lay back on his haunches, his slow rolling walk rocked me back toward sleep. Part of me wants to go to the horses now and let them help me  



A Cup of Comfort for Single Mothers 

end this sleeplessness, this anxious being alone in the dark. I picked this house over other similar ones because of the horses. I love sitting here watching them, spotting them out the front windows as I do my chores around the house, and knowing they’ll be here when I return from work. They make my new house feel like home. I have not, however, gone over to ride any of them. I have become so much of an observer and so little of a participant that I didn’t even think of going over there for the first few months my daughter and I lived in the house. Then I met one of the grandfatherly owners as he was checking the fence, and I got an invitation to ride. “Come on over anytime, sweetheart,” he said with a slow smile. But more months have gone by, and I am still sitting on the porch—watching. Like the offers I get for dates, the invitation goes unanswered, unquestioned, unrecognized. What’s my problem? I think it may have something to do with the precarious balance I maintain between all those who need my care—my mother, my daughter, and myself. If I cross the street and go to the barn, I could start to care for one of those

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horses. If I accepted one of those dates, I could add to my life yet another person who needs my attention and love. Either move just might upset my balance. I have so little left to give. Being a single woman of the sandwich generation—mothering a young child and caring for my ill mother—has taken its toll. Fighting legal battles with my ex-husband has grated me down in size. I feel so used up, worn out, and empty that I could easily lose myself in the otherness. I move through the world step by hesitant step—a deer entering an open field. I would think that the pleasure I would gain from riding would overcome any fear. A friend asked me, “You give so much to everyone else. Who gives to you?” I shrugged and went on. The answer too obvious to bother saying was “no one.” Yet, a good horse loves unconditionally—gives wholeheartedly—and could be a “someone” to give to me. And by going riding, I would be doing one thing only for myself, benefiting no one but me. Or a date might introduce a man into my life who could make me laugh and perhaps help me to forget, for a time, the hunted feeling that nighttime brings. That might help me feel less used up. That might help me sleep at night. Yet, here I sit. After more than two years of caring solo for both my young child and my cancer-battling mother,



A Cup of Comfort for Single Mothers 

after more than two years of fighting my ex-husband in court, I have grown to expect crisis. I live with a sense of impending doom, a feeling that something dark and awful lurks nearby. I am not being paranoid. Something often has been. My mother endured a series of medical emergencies, including a bowel obstruction that almost killed her. My exhusband mounted surprise legal attacks that sent me to my knees in fear. And my father (long divorced from my mother) suddenly went into treatment for lung cancer, to remove the tumors stopping his breath. These reflections of the chaos of the universe keep me hovering close to home, trying through my caring efforts to build up a levee of protection around my family—thinking, somehow, if I am just vigilant enough, I can keep the rising water out. When I think that isn’t working, I take it a step farther. Reverting to the ancient traditions of offering blood sacrifice in exchange for the favor of the gods, I offer myself on the altar. If I play by the rules, if I give up enough, if I do everything in the proper order, then I will be rewarded. I think, somehow, that I can change fate through my actions—or inaction. The good Catholic girl that I once was imagines that if I sacrifice enough, my family will be safe. Simply riding a horse or going on a date seems like too much of a risk.

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But those aren’t good-enough excuses anymore. My mother is better—cancer free and living on her own. The court case has settled in my favor. My father’s surgery was a success, and he, too, is now cancer free. I should be able to sleep now. But here I am. Sitting on this porch. Still. Maybe I haven’t been ready, and I needed the time to sit and watch. But the fact that I am even wondering about why I am still sitting here suggests that I am no longer content being an observer. I need to dust off my saddle and find my boots. Jumping a horse is the closest thing to flying I have ever known. Perhaps if I remember how to fly, I will remember how to sleep—and once I’m able to sleep again, maybe I can allow myself to dream. I get up off the rocking chair, leave the porch, and rummage though my pocket book. There it is: the riding instructor’s card. I set it next to the phone. As the sun gains strength in the sky and the neighborhood wakes up around me, I make the call. Amy Hudock

Keeper of the Peace

F

ighting has broken out in the once peaceable living room. Three children have taken sides— each his own—causing a three-way conflict that seems, at first glance, to be unsolvable. The male builders have been throwing blocks, and the female sector has begun to kick and scream in retaliation. Threats are flying, and neither the words nor the tone bode well for a peaceful resolution. Neutral forces have sent Mommy in as peacemaker. Mommy is the obvious—really, the only— candidate for the job, since she is the sole adult resident of the household. But Mommy is not sure how far she will get with such unreasonable masses. Talks have broken down numerous times before. And as the summer drags on, she is cursing the ultimate dictator who decided—in his archaic but infinite wisdom—to allow children to stay home for the

 

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two hottest months of the year. She knows the two coldest months wouldn’t be any better; in fact, she suspects any two-month period is too long. Working from home with three children underfoot only makes the “vacation” seem that much longer. Mommy begins her peacekeeping mission with mediation. “He threw a block at me and hit me in the head!” the female sector draws out in a high-pitched whine. “No, I didn’t,” the bespectacled builder states with all the innocence he can muster. “The garage fell on her.” “I saw him,” says Alpha boy. “He threw that red block right at her head.” The female sector begins to wail with all of her strength at the verbal verification of her story by a usually hostile force. “I didn’t!” the builder begins to whine, taking the commotion to a new level. “He did, Mommy,” Alpha boy nods with a look of intense sincerity. “He went like this . . .” Alpha boy picks up a block and chucks it across the room. “Hey!” Mommy scolds. “We don’t throw blocks.” “But I was just showing you what he did.” Alpha boy’s innocent eyes grow wider.



A Cup of Comfort for Single Mothers 

Mommy dons her sternest face. “I don’t need a demonstration. I know what a flying block looks like!” The female sector, still wailing, is writhing on the sofa. Mommy sits on the edge and rubs her back. Mommy looks at the builder. “You are not to throw blocks. If any of those blocks is used as a projectile again, I will take them away, and you won’t be able to build for the rest of the week!” The builder stares at her with fear and disbelief. His chin starts to quiver. “But Mommy, I didn’t.” “And,” Mommy continues, “you need to tell your sister you’re sorry.” Apologies that appear sincere are one of the builder’s strengths. He immediately stands and walks to the couch, where his sister still whimpers. “I’m sorry,” he says as he wraps his small arms around her neck. He plants a delicious four-year-old kiss on her cheek before he resumes his building on the floor. All is quiet as Mommy stands and walks to the kitchen. Dinner preparations begin anew as the remnants of art projects are cleared from the table to make way for three children and one parent to consume a meal together in harmony. Screams erupt, fresh and piercing, from the living room, accompanied by the sound of a falling

 A Cup of Comfort for Single Mothers

tower of blocks. “You knocked down my garage!” the builder screams. “No, I didn’t!” shouts Alpha boy. “Yes, you did! Go away!” There is the sound of a slap, a pause, and then, “Mommy! He knocked over my tower!” “He hit me!” Alpha boy begins to whimper his way to tears. “Did not!” “Did too!” The female sector is amazingly quiet, sitting on the sofa reigning over the concurrent battle. Mommy, as the sole peacekeeper, once again enters the war zone, convinced that mediation will not work and tougher measures will be necessary. At times like this, she wishes she could call in Backup. However, the only member of the Backup team left years ago, moving on to other things that didn’t require such patience, strength of character, and determination to succeed. “All right, guys,” Mommy begins. “This is clearly not working. The foam blocks are next to the toy box. One of you can play with those, or you can choose to share these. If you can’t play together without fighting, you will have to go to separate rooms.” Both the builder and Alpha boy stare at Mommy as if she has two heads, maybe three. But Mommy



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has dinner to make before the masses are pushed to succumb to the whiny drawl that hunger elicits. Nor is she interested in watching the boys’ blank faces with no confirmation of understanding. “Do you understand?” she asks, her tone stern and requiring an answer. Both boys nod, their mouths still gaping. “Okay, what did I say?” Through her years of peacekeeping, Mommy has become an expert in the knowledge that blank faces are often a reflection of the inner workings of the mind. She is suspicious of children who agree too quickly. “You said we can play with the foam blocks?” the builder states in obvious question, uncertain whether what his mind thinks he heard is what Mommy actually said. “What else?” Mommy tests. “Mommy,” Alpha boy tries a teasing approach. “We know what you said.” “And what did I say?” Mommy is keenly aware that one of her toughest jobs is to raise boys who grow up to be listening men, and the only way to do so is to continuously confirm that they are on that path. “You said ‘share,’” Alpha boy points out. “Or what?”

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“Or we can’t play with the blocks anymore.” The builder looks on as his brother answers for both of them. “And . . . ?” Mommy pushes for a more complete answer, meeting only blank stares from the boys. “You will have to be separated,” she finishes for them. “I suggest you work on getting along.” Mommy turns heel and heads back to her dinner preparations, hoping beyond reason that this time her mission has been successful. Her patience is running thin, and it is that most difficult time of day that all parents must face as they prepare the evening meal. It is a time of day that is doubly difficult for single parents, as there will be no one walking through the door to help alleviate the evening stress that can stretch into bedtime. For the time being, Mommy has learned not to plan complicated meals. The sounds from the living room remain calm and cooperative as the meal is cooked and the table is cleared of art-project debris. Mommy snoops into the living room to check on the children. The boys are playing on the floor, legs splayed in various directions from control central, that is, their heads, which are close and comfortable as they move the blocks, build, and drive their cars over makeshift “roads” that now snake across the living room rug. The two have taken not one, but both, of Mommy’s sugges-



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tions that they share and use the foam blocks, and they now have two sets of blocks used in their cooperative play. The female sector is quietly paging through a book, sounding out the words and enjoying the colorful pictures. So enraptured is she by the book that she has scarcely noticed the boys’ new direction toward cooperation. “If you guys want to wash your hands, I could use some help setting the table.” All three faces look up from their activities. “Okay, Mommy,” Alpha boy says. “We just need to finish building this road to here.” He points to a building that is the destination of his cars, a foot from the road’s current abrupt end. “No, to here,” his brother points farther away as he adds his own opinion of the road’s ultimate end. “Okay,” Mommy quickly replies, putting a stop to the discussion while it’s still a discussion. “You have five minutes before I need you in the kitchen.” The evening meal is served in minutes, and the members of the family leave their differences in the living room, spread wide and open with the blocks across the floor. They come to the table as a family with a common direction and a momentary desire to be together. Peace talks ensue with no topic being too silly or too serious. This evening, discussion

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revolves around an upcoming day trip with another family and the activities they will share. Mommy is careful to include words about testing and teasing, behaving and manners. With each evening peace talk, Mommy tries to add her wisdom on sticking together and supporting each other through good times and bad. She uses the peace talks, as no other time, to keep her family grounded, instilling values, goals, and morals. She is her children’s main influence, and she takes her job seriously. On this night, the children listen and share and understand. There is a moment when harmony flows in and all are together in peace as only a family can be. Mommy breathes a sigh, savoring this moment. She waits for small feet to once again hit the floor, scattering everyone in his or her own direction, enabling the inevitable clashes to begin anew. Suzanne Schryver

An Unsung Hero

S

ometimes a story doesn’t seem to have a hero. Sometimes the hero doesn’t pop out at you until she is set against a background that really makes her shine. That is the case with my sister, Rebecca, who recently became a single mother. The story of how my sister came to be a single mom doesn’t elicit great sympathy for my sister. The fact of the matter is that she brought her single motherhood upon herself by making mistakes and choices that caused even the people who loved her most to question her, to judge her, and to blame her. Admittedly, I was, at first, one of those people. My sister faced a very harsh throwing of the stones, if you will, from all of us when she announced to the world that she no longer loved her husband. We each fixed her with cold, disapproving stares when she went on to say that she simply wasn’t happy. She

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spoke openly about how she knew that her husband was a wonderful father and friend, but that she just wasn’t in love with him. Her question of “Don’t I deserve to experience true happiness?” was answered with a whirlwind of questions that, because of the way they were worded and the tone with which they were spoken, seemed to be already answered by the people asking them. “Isn’t it better for your son if you stay with your husband and just try?” (It is.) “How will you possibly afford to be on your own?” (You can’t.) And, one of my personal favorites, “Can’t you just pretend for the sake of your son?” (You should.) Rebecca has always been a strong-headed woman, almost to a fault. She is also a somewhat impulsive decision-maker. Sometimes this results in catastrophe, but sometimes she chooses the right bend in the road and ends up winning the race. So, as her sister and friend of twenty-nine years, I assumed that I knew her well enough to decide for her that her decision to leave her husband was one of those catastrophe-causing ones. I joined the dozens of people already on the bandwagon and proceeded to preach to her about the challenges this path of single motherhood would pose for her. I wasn’t able to imagine that she could make it on her own financially, emotionally, or physically. Fortunately, she was able to imagine herself making it—even while



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being surrounded by people who seriously doubted her capabilities. As we, the naysayers, watched from the sidelines, every now and then throwing in our disapproving looks or comments, my sister embarked on her journey of single motherhood . . . and promptly proceeded to prove us right. The first leg of her journey would have stopped any action hero in her tracks. She endured a harrowing bout of guilt-induced depression and anxiety. My beautiful, confidant, older sister seemed beaten. She had always been the person who came to family functions looking well put together and full of spunk. During those few months after separating from her husband, she looked defeated and distracted and drawn. Her eyes were vacant, her appearance lackluster. One could tell just by looking at her that she was about ready to join that bandwagon of people who didn’t believe in her decision, didn’t believe in her. The thing that worried me the most during this time was how her relationship with her son drastically changed. He, of course, was lashing out at her for changing and taking him out of his comfort zone. She, lacking energy and confidence, had nothing left to give her son to reassure him that everything would be fine. This was very difficult for me to see, because up until that point, the characteristic that

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I’d admired most about my sister was her innate ability to be a loving, selfless, nurturing mother. To top it all off, her dream of going back to school to pursue a career in the medical field got off to a choppy start. Both her depression and her financial status kept her from getting started. So there she was, separated from her husband, depressed, unable to pursue her dreams, financially struggling, and disconnected from her son. All of this made those of us who’d questioned and criticized her decision the winners in the debate. But, of course, we didn’t feel like winners. We felt helpless. We felt confused. We felt guilty for not supporting her. So what did our hero do? How did she become our hero? Little by little, day by day, Rebecca began to prove us wrong. Her first important step forward was to seek professional help. Medication for her depression and a good counselor helped her make it to the next step. Eventually she began to feel a little bit better. This helped her to begin taking better care of herself. I remember the feeling I had when I first saw her looking put together again. I remember looking in her eyes and feeling that she might be okay today. From then on, each time I spoke with her she had accomplished something new. Sometimes it was a small accomplishment, like enjoying a cuddly story time with her son. Sometimes it was a



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grand accomplishment, like being accepted into the college program that she had set her heart on. Today she stands before us a hero: separated from her husband, happy most days, building a strong connection with her son, and pursuing her dreams. This makes the bandwagon of people who were against her decision the losers in the debate. This time we feel like losers and winners. Losers, because of the guilt that comes with knowing we refused to support a woman who was confident and strong enough to be true to herself and to pursue her dreams against all odds. Winners, because we were in the presence of a woman who was confident and strong enough to be true to herself and to pursue her dreams against all odds. This story has a happy ending: My sister came out on top, an obvious hero. But when I look back on how the world greeted her upon her entry into single motherhood, I realize now that she was a hero from the moment she announced that she was leaving her husband. She had the strength and the courage to believe in herself and to not care what others thought. My sister is a superhero, because she took that leap even when her support team pulled their safety nets out from under her. The fact that she ended up flying is just a bonus. Maria Pistone

Single Mom Seeking

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or the first time in my life, I’m taking a plunge into online dating. No big deal, you say? Well, for me it is, especially since I’m a single mom, which somehow makes this seem more risky. I’ve been raising my three-year-old single-handedly since she was an infant, after my boyfriend— the father of my daughter—walked out the door. His whereabouts? Unknown. In hindsight, the relationship would not have lasted, but I wasn’t exactly prepared to be the single mom of a seventh-month-old baby. After more than two years of not having a significant other in my life and having had no lasting success with dating otherwise, I’ve decided to give dating-dot-com a whirl. My first online “personals” ad reads: 18 



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I am a warm and generous single mom seeking a respectful and cooperative man who dreams big with both feet on the ground. One of the first men to respond writes: I am a warm and generous single dad who is seeking a respectful and cooperative woman who dreams with both feet on the ground too! I’m impressed: a man who pays close attention to details. When I click on his profile, Ronaldo seems to be looking right at me, his lips formed into a flirtatious smile. A six-foot-tall, Latino father of two, he’s completing his dissertation in psychology at the University of California at Berkeley. Hmmm, a psychology major. The skeptic in me wonders if this means he’ll play mind games or manipulate me with psychological tricks. I stop caring altogether about tricks when I scroll down to the second photo Ronaldo has posted. He has caramel skin, short black hair, defined cheekbones, and wire-rimmed glasses. I feel my cheeks flush as I sit in my T-shirt and panties shopping for a man on my computer.

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Brainy and bold women turn him on. Well, that works well for me, I think. Then I read this line: “I don’t really do things, I delegate them.” I pause. He “delegates”? What is he getting at? Is he good at giving orders and assigning tasks? Or is he raising his kids to be conscientious decision-makers? Maybe he just means that he’s very responsible and trustworthy. He goes on to say that he enjoys simplicity—a red glass of wine, a soft kiss, and easy conversation. Who cares if he likes to give orders once in a while? In my own sometimes chaotic and cluttered life, I could use a little delegation. I write back to Ronaldo, thanking him for the note. A week later, we’re at a cozy teahouse, swapping life stories. His ex-wife decided to go to medical school out of state and gave him sole custody of the kids. I’m impressed by his devotion to his children and the fact that he’s doing it on his own, like me. After our comfortable first date, we keep e-mailing. Ronaldo sends me some photos of his beautiful son and daughter, ages nine and ten, and I find myself taking mental notes of the background in every picture: His kitchen counter is spotless, books are neatly lined up on the shelf, and wine bottles are stacked on a rack in his living room, divided by red



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and white. This is nothing like my house. Haven’t I always wanted to be that organized? But I also feel apprehensive. There’s a red-flag alert, but I ignore it. We make plans to see each other again. But that morning his babysitter calls in sick with the flu, so I suggest we get together for the afternoon at the Marina—with all the kids—to fly kites. He offers to pick us up at our home. I know this is against every single-parent dating rule. I’ve been on only one date with this guy; it’s too early to drag my three-year-old daughter into the mix. Selfishly, I don’t want to call off the date. “We’re going to see one of mama’s special friends, honey,” I tell my daughter, Mae. “He has kids too. We’re going to fly kites.” When I get into his shiny black Jetta, the first thing I notice is that he is impeccably dressed: button-down shirt, khakis, and leather belt. I sigh— an uncomfortable sigh. Sure, Mae and I are pulled together. We’re both in calf-high pedal pushers and sweatshirts. But Ronaldo’s daughter wears a flowery summer dress, obviously just ironed, and his son has on a button-down shirt too. The second thing I notice is that the leather seats in his car are immaculate, in sharp contrast to the back seat of my Toyota, where an orange crayon has melted into the fabric and cookie crumbs

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are strewn everywhere. No empty water bottles roll under his seats either. I breathe in the scent of sandalwood, as opposed to the permanent stench of urine that seems to inhabit my car. “I’m hungry!” Mae whines as I strap her into the car seat. Ronaldo’s daughter giggles until her brother nudges her in the ribs. He’s eyeing Mae like she’s weird. I fumble around in my backpack for a cracker. But Ronaldo says, “I’m sorry, we don’t eat in my car.” I must look confused, because he goes on to explain, as if I’m one of his children, “The car is for driving and talking. Eating is done at the table.” Is he busting me? Then I feel a gentle jab in my ribs. “Relax!” Ronaldo tells me. The truth is, sometimes I wish I had more rules. I don’t mean to sound conventional, but setting limits just isn’t my forte. Nurturing others has always been my focus, and our home is based on everything feminine and on comfort. Caring for Mae is my strong point; laying down the law is not. Yes, a lot of my strengths and weaknesses seem to fall along stereotypical gender lines. But they are who I am.



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Imagine how clean my own car would be if I didn’t allow anyone to eat in it! Just yesterday, I found a line of ants crawling over the sticky straps of Mae’s car seat. I wouldn’t win a Good Housekeeping Seal of Approval, but there’s no lack of fun or love or thoughtfulness in our house of girls. At the marina, Mae quickly gives up kite-flying in order to roll down the steep hillside. She begs me to join her, and I end up in a dizzy jumble at the bottom. There is grass in my mouth, and suddenly, I can’t stop laughing. Our elbows are brown with dirt. When I look up, Ronaldo is standing at the top of the hill, looking unsure. I can’t tell if he’s disapproving or sorry that he’s missing out. “Let more string out!” he directs his son, who obediently unravels the kite. An hour later, it’s time to cram back into Ronaldo’s car. In the parking lot, I’m doing my best to brush the grass off Mae’s clothes; his children are already strapped into their seat belts. I slip off Mae’s muddy sneakers and hold them on my lap for the ride home. As we roll back through the city, Mae looks out the window. Suddenly she blurts out a line from one of her favorite TV shows to herself: “We were as pleased as punch!”

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I chuckle a lonesome laugh that seems to resonate by itself against the shiny seats. I wonder if I can be with a man whose parenting style is so radically different from mine. I’m not looking for someone who parents like I do, but he’s got to complement me, at the very least. Sure, my life could use a better system of cleaning and organizing. But I like how messy our family is. I don’t need a man to fix the parts of my life that aren’t magazine-perfect. He needs to like me for who I am. If Ronaldo were in my life, I might be tidier and more efficient, but after today, I can tell he’s not right for us. When I look back at our lives ten years from now, I doubt I’ll remember the dirt stains I couldn’t scrub out of Mae’s jeans. Instead, I will hold on to the two of us rolling down the hill, my head woozy, as Mae jumps up, screaming, “Let’s do it again!” I know I won’t see Ronaldo again, and that suits me fine. I’m as pleased as punch. Rachel Sarah

The Greatest Juggling Act on Earth

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onday through Friday, I felt like a circus clown, juggling college, a part-time job, and my then three-year-old daughter. After the incessant blurting of the alarm clock each morning, we were dressed and out the door in record time. Our first stop was my daughter’s preschool, conveniently located at the end of our street. In the afternoons, I loved its location. Within minutes of picking her up, we were home and ready to begin our quality time together. But in the mornings, it seemed all too close. We hardly had time to swallow our breakfast before we were walking out the door, and we could barely sing one verse of, “This is the way we go to school,” before we pulled up to the preschool. Countless times I pulled away in tears, sad that our first single hour together was so hurried.   25

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After dropping off my daughter, I spent the next eight to nine hours racing from one class to another, then to work, then back to class. But no matter how busy I was during the day, 4:30—when I could finally drive back to the preschool and then home—never came fast enough. By 5:00, the second act began: This time juggling dinner, playtime, bath time, bedtime, homework, and, oh and yes, “free” time. Ha, ha, ha. My daughter required ten hours of sleep to cope in the mornings, which meant that dinnertime, playtime, bath time, and bedtime all had to take place within three hours of getting home. Exhausted by the day’s activities and dreading the night’s lengthy reading assignments, I often found it difficult to focus and truly enjoy the time I had alone at home with my daughter during the week. Too often, I would sit with her on the sofa, and as I read the words and turned the pages of one of her favorite books, my mind would calculate the hours I’d worked the previous week, attempting to determine if I’d earned enough to pay the bills due on payday. Of course, multitasking is every good mother’s specialty—but it seemed that sometimes my attention was too scattered. Weekdays were so fast-paced that I constantly worried I would drop one of the many balls I had up in the air.



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I cried a lot. It was how I dealt with frustration, worry, and guilt. Though I usually hid my tears from my daughter, I couldn’t always. She asked me why I cried and I told her the Sesame Street version of the truth: simple words, simple emotions. And I always made certain to tell her, “No matter what, Momma loves you. Mad, glad, happy, sad—I love you, always.” Weekends were my salvation. Saturdays served as my catchall days. Harnessing the dwindling momentum of the week gone by, I cleaned house. With the laundry caught up and all the dishes put away, my daughter and I made our way to the grocery store. With no time through the week for any excursions other than slipping a payment into a drop box on our way to or from school and work, our weekly shopping trip was our version of a girls’ night out on the town. We would treat ourselves to something sweet and, weather permitting, hit the park while we were out. It was during one of our weekly trips to the grocery store that one of the balls I had been juggling came crashing down for the first time. We woke that morning without the shrill of the alarm clock. We ate our cereal while watching Saturday-morning cartoons and doing laundry. Having skipped a bath the night before, my daughter enjoyed a longer than

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usual bubble bath, complete with toys and foam shampoo. While she played, I scoured the toilet and bathroom sink, finishing just in time to towel-dry her pruned little body. For fun, we blow-dried her hair, and I styled it in the most adorable pigtails. She wore one of her favorite sundresses and a new pair of white sandals. My daughter liked to ride in the back of the shopping cart. She liked for me to pile the food on top of her, so she could play with the cans and boxes while I shopped. This particular day she rode in the back hunkered down in a squatting position, holding on to the side of the cart, rather than in her usual sitting position. “You’d better put your bottom down,” I warned, “or you’ll fall.” “I can’t,” she answered. “What do you mean, you ‘can’t’? Just sit down, please.” “I can’t,” she repeated. Then, leaning her little body toward me, she whispered, “I don’t have any underwear on.” I couldn’t believe it! I had bathed her and dressed her myself. In disbelief, I subtly turned up a corner of her dress. Sure enough—no underwear! There shone her naked little butt in all its glory.



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What happened next changed my outlook forever. I laughed so hard right there in the grocery aisle that tears streamed down my face as I doubled over next to the cart. How could I have forgotten underwear? Why hadn’t my three-year-old told me sooner? I thought of all the places we’d stopped before the grocery store and chuckled at the thought of my little girl just cruising around town with a bare bottom. I had always feared the day I would drop a ball, certain that after one fell, all the others would follow and that life, as I knew it, would no longer exist. To my surprise, no other balls fell, but life, as I knew it, did change . . . for the better. I quit living in fear of not being and doing enough, accepted good enough from myself, and learned to laugh. After all, what circus clown doesn’t drop a ball or two now and then? And what kind of clown doesn’t laugh and enjoy the performance? Life is too short to spend all of it hurrying and worrying. A good mother, like a good clown, balances work and concern with joy and laughter—not only during the evening and weekend performances, but also while juggling life’s hard balls, seven days a week. Michelle R. Yankee

A Choice, but First a Promise

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very night during the first year of my daughter’s life, I’ve tossed and turned and tallied up what had to give that day—because when you’re a single mom, something’s got to. Some days it’s my work that takes a hit. Lying in bed looking back over my day, I’ll know I wasn’t the best college instructor or journalist I could have been. Others days, it’s in my role as a friend or significant other or daughter or even dog owner (my guilt has no boundaries) that I fell short. Although I wish those days had been different, I can deal with them. The days I can’t deal with are the ones when I feel like I wasn’t the best mother I could be. Maybe I handed my daughter off to the babysitter too quickly after feeding her so I could get back to work. Or I wasn’t paying enough attention to her while I counseled a friend on the phone. Or



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she had to cry awhile to wake me up in the morning because I stayed up too late the night before doing laundry. Those days are hard to take, because I feel like I’m not living up to a promise I made. Unlike women who find themselves unexpectedly pregnant and alone, I chose single motherhood. Before I made that choice, I first made a promise to put my child’s quality of life above all else. From being able to help with my child’s science project to being able to provide everything my child would need on my single income, I had all the concerns of every parent-tobe. But because I would be raising this child on my own, I also had other concerns: Would I be able to teach a boy to play catch? (My pitching arm needs some work.) Who would take a little girl to the fatherdaughter dance? Before heading to the sperm bank to make a withdrawal, I made sure the “village” was ready to help me raise my child. Luckily, I have the full support of my parents, who live nearby, and a tight network of friends built up during the years of growing up in the northern Colorado region where I still live. In the end, I decided my child’s life would be different, but it wouldn’t be lacking. Being a single mom wasn’t my first choice. Like many little girls, I loved to play house when I was

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growing up—always in the role of “Mommy” to my dolls and stuffed animals. While there was rarely a boy anywhere in the vicinity, there was always the understanding that “Daddy” was just off at work. But life doesn’t always work out the way you play house. I was ten years into a relationship when I realized my significant other wasn’t interested in fulfilling the role of parent. After several years of pushing the snooze button on my biological clock, I realized I had to make a decision. I was in my early thirties, and the headlines were filled with new studies about decreasing fertility for women my age. Although I believed my partner was the love of my life (and still do) and desperately wanted my relationship to work, I just couldn’t give up the idea of being a parent. Although I’ve had a successful career as a journalist and many rewarding relationships, I’ve always felt that raising a child was one of the most important things I was put on this planet to do. “Kid time” has always been a part of my schedule. I babysat my way through not only middle school and high school but college as well. Once I became too old to be “the babysitter,” I started volunteering my services to friends, at a local school, and any other place where little ones needed somebody to play with. To me, nothing is better than when a child holds out her hand to you and leads you into



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her world of make-believe. I wish I could spend all my time in a place where princes and princesses rule, where a creature as small as a ladybug can be a source of endless fascination, where magic keeps even the scariest monster at bay. Of course, raising a child isn’t all playtime. Parenting is a job—a job best done with at least four hands. For starters, it takes a bare minimum of three hands to get a sleeping baby strapped into a car seat. The thing with single parenthood is there are no “my turns” and “your turns.” When the baby wakes up in the middle of the night to be fed or when she’s fussy and in need of soothing or when she needs her diaper changed, it’s always my turn. I knew what the deal was going in, and I’m fine with it. The tough times have been when one set of hands just wasn’t enough. Like the Sunday Chloé had a horrible case of gas and just wouldn’t stop screaming. In retrospect, it probably wasn’t a full hour that she was upset, but it seemed like at least a week. I’m a proud, independent, do-it-yourself kind of gal, but that afternoon I needed help. My neighbor tried not to look surprised when I rang her doorbell and handed over my month-old infant. She has eight children of her own and had offered “any type of help” I needed. I took her up on it. Just like I took my mom up on her offer to help me with Chloé’s

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“water appreciation” class (with a class of six-montholds, they just didn’t feel right calling it “swim class”). The class part I could handle, but getting a wet, squirmy, cold infant and myself washed, dried, and dressed was more challenging than learning to do the butterfly stroke backward. While my village has come to the rescue on more than one occasion, I must admit that an all-volunteer workforce isn’t always 100 percent reliable. The babysitting rotation I’d set up for my work days didn’t last until Chloé’s half birthday. One of my closest friends, who signed up for a couple of evenings a week while I taught class, is down to seeing Chloé every couple of months when she’s in the neighborhood. And I’ve found out that another friend’s definition of “babysitting for the afternoon” is having us over for lunch. Although initially disappointed, I understand where these friends are coming from— after all, they’ve already raised their children. Thankfully, there have also been pleasant surprises. My dad, who originally said he wouldn’t be interested in spending time with any grandchildren until they were old enough to hold a fishing pole, spends at least one day a week with Chloé. And my closest male friend, an avowed bachelor, has eagerly filled in on many of the nights I have class. I knew my mom would be a help, but I didn’t realize to what



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extent. She’s done everything from taking an infant massage class to feeding me because my arms were full of baby. I’ve rounded out the childcare schedule with a friend who is also a new mom and hired help in the form of a university student who is studying child development. There are still days when it doesn’t all come together. Like the times I have to do phone interviews with Chloé in her bouncy seat, trying to make funny faces to entertain her at the same time I’m trying to make sense of the interview topic. Or the times I have to hand her back over quickly after feeding her because I have to get back to work. Or the times I ignore her to talk with a friend or to sleep through the first of her early morning cries. But no matter how hard I am on myself at night when I count up my mistakes, in the morning I know I’m forgiven. The way Chloé’s face lights up when she sees me peeking over the end of her crib tells me that she feels loved—and that tells me I am, indeed, keeping that most important promise I made to her. Chryss Cada

Friends Don’t Let Friends Single-Parent Alone

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s the washing machine overflowed with gushes of white suds and the supposedly housetrained dog I had adopted for my kids went on the carpet for the second time that morning and the phone rang yet again from another bill collector, I slid my rear end down onto the wet floor in front of the washing machine, crossed my bare feet in front of me, put my head in my hands, and had a good cry. I cried for the new mother who had declared to the heavens that I would be the perfect mom to her children—and for the guilt-ridden mom who now spent night after night thinking of how badly I was messing them up by getting a divorce. I cried for the teenaged bride, standing beside the young hippie-looking man with the cool sunglasses in the probate judge’s office, scared to death I was making a mistake—and for the wiser woman who now knew I’d made a big



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one. I cried for the girl I used to be, with dreams and goals and poetic ideas about how life should be. And I cried for the dejected middle-aged woman I’d become—with three preteens, a few gray hairs, trifocals, a new patch of wrinkles, and no job, no money, no husband. While I sat in the puddle of bubbles, my hair drooping in my face, my nose running, and feeling very sorry for myself, I peered out from under my glasses with swollen eyes to see my best friend, Dawn, walking toward my back door. How did this fairy godmother of mine always know just when to appear? Ever since the day we’d met in the waiting room at the doctor’s office, both of us pregnant enough to pop, Dawn has always had an uncanny ability to turn up just when I needed her most. She rapped once at the door before opening it and walking in. She stopped quickly inside the kitchen doorway, took in the situation, and grinned. I responded with another round of sobs. She simply said, “I’ll get the mop.” An hour later, the clothes dryer was clunking along, the dog’s accident was cleaned up, my nose was wiped, and Dawn and I were sitting across the kitchen table from each other, sipping steaming mugs of green tea, part of her newest diet craze. She

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had read that if we drank enough of it, we would get skinny for sure. I opened my mouth and all my biggest fears spilled out amid tears, sniffs, and hiccups. “What was I thinking when I left him? How will I pay these bills? How will I raise these kids alone? I will never find a job. I’ll be alone the rest of my life! And I’ll never have sex again!” “Hmm,” Dawn said. “Well, that sex stuff is way overrated anyway.” I burst out giggling. We spent the next hour laughing about our misses, and hits, in that area of our lives. She reminded me that my ex had been a jerk, anyway, that men were at least calling me now, even if they were bill collectors, and that at least I’d gotten some good jewelry out of the marriage. I told her how worried I was about my kids and how the divorce would affect them, and she assured me that they had my stubborn streak and would do just fine. By the time she left that morning, I had a chicken noodle casserole ready to go in the oven for the kids’ dinner, a few jobs circled in the classifieds that didn’t require a college degree or pole climbing, and a new determination. When my kids got home from school that day, they must have thought this cool and collected mom had it all under control. Little did they know.



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This newfound Steel Magnolia–induced strength lasted until my next visit with Dawn. And then to the next. And each time I decided that I just couldn’t do it anymore, that I had to be the biggest idiot in the world for thinking I could, that my ex was right to say I was making a big mistake to walk out of our marriage over a little infidelity, Dawn would show up, arms filled with bags of groceries her kids “won’t ever eat anyway,” and say just what I needed to hear. . . . “You can do it. Just move your feet and don’t forget to breathe. That’s all there is to it.” And I’d move and breathe another day. I didn’t find a job; I found a few jobs. I put on a horrible purple polyester vest and granny shoes and served popcorn at the theater concession stand. I read very boring literature onto voice tapes for visually impaired students at our local community college until my jaws were so sore I couldn’t open my mouth for two days without groaning. And I scrubbed toilets and mopped floors in law offices at night, while getting free legal advice from whomever happened to stop in to do a little late-night work. In between all this, I started back to school to finish my degree. And I took every opportunity I could find to tell Dawn that my swollen feet were killing me, that I was too old to wear that dumb

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purple uniform, and that she wouldn’t believe what people tried to flush down toilets. Each time, she would say just what I needed to hear to be able to go on one more day. . . . “It could be worse. They could have made you wear that purple hat, too. Now that would be bad.” Two years later, just as I dropped the cutting board on my toe and cursed a blue streak while the dog barked out the window at the postman, I again saw Dawn walking slowly up the sidewalk and through the back door into my kitchen. She sighed and dropped her purse onto the chair. I spoke to her over my shoulder, but she didn’t answer, so I turned to look at her. I noticed she was wearing two different colored slippers. Her ponytail had come undone and fuzzed around her face. Her mascara had created two black smudges under her eyes. “I’m leaving him,” she said softly. At first, I was in shock. She had been married longer than I had, and although she’d had her complaints, she had seemed happy. “He has a g-g-girlfriend,” she cried as I sprinted for the box of tissues. I realized it was my turn now, and turning into Super Divorcée friend mode, I said exactly what I knew she needed to hear. . . . “Men! Go figure! He doesn’t deserve you. “You can do this! I’ll help you find a job.



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“You can keep the house. I know a lawyer. “Your kids will survive. You will survive. “It will all be fine. You will all be just fine.” She reached for another tissue, blew her nose, and peered over her glasses at me as if I had lost my mind. “And you know,” I smiled, “I bet you’ll even have hot, steamy sex again!” She started giggling, passed me the plastic butter bowl of lemons for my tea, and said, “No, thanks. I still think it’s overrated.” Kathy L. Reed

Losing Myself, Finding Myself

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t is mid-May on the coast of Maine. I am here for a writing retreat with a group of women I’ve known for many years. These women are not only writing companions; they are also my emotional support, my cheerleaders, my shelter, my friends. This retreat is an annual event, but it is my first time in attendance. As a single mother, my reality rarely allows for an escape of any duration. This retreat took much planning and an army of helpers. This morning, I have been put to the task of compiling a collage symbolizing “the things we lose.” It has been a tumultuous few years. In the depths of a difficult divorce, I am facing a deposition and trial in less than two months, and I am trying to focus my mind on the present and not allow my thoughts to wander into the unknown darkness of the future. 42 



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In my mind, this is the perfect timing for an assignment encompassing loss. Around me, a pile of magazines spreads outward like roots seeking nourishment. My scissors clip just the right photographs and phrases to capture the losses I’ve experienced, the losses many of us experience as we journey through life. I begin with a drawing of a woman stretching her arms above her head, reaching for all the good things she seeks to bring to her life. Her shirt rises above the waistline of her shorts, revealing her impossibly tiny waist. I cut her out to symbolize the physical perfection we all strive to reach, a perfection that becomes more elusive with the approach of middle age. Next, I find a chunky exclamation point in the shape of a heart. It is hot pink, outlined in a deeper shade. I mourn the loss of love as each day I face a new onslaught of attacks by a man I once thought loved me. The past months have taught me that some people are incapable of any love other than self-love. The heart goes on my pile, and as I set it down, I feel the beginnings of a release of resentments that I’ve been holding too deep in my soul. I calm to a gentler pace as I continue to flip through magazines. Around me, my companions are rustling through their own magazines, snipping with their own scissors, compiling their own litany of

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losses. I watch for a moment before the momentum of my work sweeps me back to my clipping. From the page of a parenting magazine, a baby captures my attention, his blue eyes are wide with innocence. Innocence is something that has been slowly and constantly dripping away since I left the womb. As we move through life, we hit rough spots where a dam bursts and large amounts of this precious commodity disappear in an instant. As I rebuild my own faulty dam, I recognize the need to cut the baby from the magazine and put him on my pile. I add the word “joy” clipped from the headline of an advertisement. “Live your best life” goes onto the pile, though I’m not sure how that fits in. And another single word, “home.” I come across a picture of a Christmas ornament. A smiling Santa hangs from a red ribbon, a long to-do list clutched in his hand. Items are checked off in red. Suddenly, Santa represents the beliefs and the sense of magic we lose over our lifetimes. It is only by truly focusing and working at it that we can maintain that magic. Right now, I don’t have the energy. Santa finds himself a place on the top of my pile of losses. A red magic marker and its cover represent the inconsequential “things” we lose. Shoes, keys, treasured stuffed animals, items of clothing carelessly left behind. It represents the items that become mis-



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matched. Socks whose partners have been lost are put together to force a new pair; markers and pens must wear different caps because their true cap is . . . well, who knows? There are always lost Legos—that one important piece that completes the fire engine or the spaceship for which I spend hours searching the house, the car, the vacuum-cleaner bag. Now, the magic marker isn’t only about things lost, but about the time lost looking for those things. I am careful to place the marker and its cap together in my pile, and I hope they stay together while I continue my cutting. I cut out a child dressed in a fairy costume and jumping on a bed. This girl has pulled a tutu over her flowered pants in an effort to become someone she is not. She is a fairy princess wielding a glittery star wand with which she will weave herself a life of magic and dreams. In her dreams, she attains the much celebrated life of “happily ever after.” I see my own daughter in her, carefree and beautiful and not worrying about what other people think. Where does she go when she retreats inside the woman she becomes? Self-confidence and self-acceptance are present early but squelched as we grow. Perhaps their disappearance has a connection to that slow leak of innocence. This girl and her bubblegum-pink room become the newest members of my collage pile.

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An ad for insurance is the next to catch my eye. A wooden knick-knack shelf, mismounted and crooked, slowly dumps its residents. An elephant, a Siamese cat, and a brown bear—all porcelain and all the same size—work together to save a rabbit who clings precariously to the dipping edge, his front paws clutching hard. No doubt, without the help of his friends, he would never be able to clamber back onto the once stable surface. These animals have somehow experienced a loss of stability—something that I, too, have lost and wonder if I will ever regain. I have moved from the stability of a family with a solid income through an incredibly stressful period of financial devastation to the not-so-secure position of being an unemployed, single mother with no ability to go back to work without incurring staggering daycare bills. I now realize why so many single mothers are on welfare. Even single mothers like me, who have graduate degrees, cannot compete in the face of such immediate out-of-pocket expenses. The crooked shelf, the porcelain animals—I could not have found a better image of the loss of stability. I tear the ad from the binding. Now that my pile has reached a level of acceptable depth, I must begin to assemble the pieces of the puzzle I have created. A blank sheet of paper offers much promise as I stare at its possibility. This is the



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sheet on which I am expected to mount the elements of my collage. It is big and blank and white; as yet, it has lost nothing other than the pad to which it was connected. On good days, this is how I view my life—new and fresh and full of promise. Around the room, I see that most of my writing companions have finished the exercise—meant to be a prewriting idea starter—and some are already deep into the writing process. Meanwhile, I am just beginning to glue my pieces together, to make a coherent story with the elements I have selected. I move them around on the page, partially hiding the marker cap behind the leaves of some apples that will soon lose their freshness. The baby figures prominently in the middle of the collage. Losses scatter themselves around the paper in a way that is interesting to an onlooker and becomes increasingly intriguing to me. No one would really know that this collage represents loss. It is comprised of beautiful elements—the woman with the beautiful figure, apples at the peak of ripeness, some children and a baby glowing with their youthful joy. Slowly, this collage that is meant to be a mere exercise in the writing process comes together in a way that makes sense to me and honors the struggles that I have gone through, am currently going through, and will go through in the future. It is a slow and tedious process, untangling myself from the

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web of lies and deceit that became the norm in my marriage, lies necessary to perpetuate my spouse’s ability to pursue his gambling addiction without question. At some point, it grew increasingly obvious to me that I had become a prisoner in my marriage. I had disappeared inside the web, lost and nonexistent. When I realized I no longer had a voice within my own life, I knew I needed to pull myself free. The process of creating this collage brings me one step further in my escape from that web. It brings me closer to myself, closer to who I need to be. The woman, the one with the unattainable physique, is strong and free, and she lives inside of me. She has always been there, and will always remain. I have not lost her, but she has been pushed aside. Joy is there, too, and innocence and magic. They are all living in my soul, and they will begin to emerge and grow, making me stronger and more whole as the wounds of my past heal. And slowly, but surely, they will heal. The loss of stability has shaken me to my very core, made me redefine myself, my needs, and my place in the world. But it, too, was a necessary loss in the process of finding myself. The loss of stability, like no other loss, has allowed me to examine my support structure. Nothing gives us a clearer view of friendship than losses suffered. Like the rabbit clinging to the edge of the shelf, without the help of my family and my friends, I would never be able to regain my sense of stability. I look around the room at all of the people



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present. Perhaps love has not been lost. What exists in this room is the sustaining love of true friendship, the kind of love that no one should be without. My collage has come together as an affirmation of my journey as I glue the words “Welcome Home” to the lower right-hand corner. “Home,” I realize, is not something I have lost, but something I have rediscovered as I’ve re-found myself. Once and for all, here in a visual and concrete form, is reaffirmation that it is only through our struggles, through our losses, that we discover who we are. I came to this retreat expecting spring, and metaphorically, that is what I got. A new beginning in the sprouting of new seeds planted in an old reality. If fostered and allowed to grow, they will become things of beauty. My collage encompasses the good and the bad, both beauty and loss. It is only through accepting my losses, by letting them go, that I can truly become the person I was meant to be. It is by living each day to the fullest—and by accepting the phrase “live your best life”—that I will grow stronger and even more resilient than I have already proven to be. This, I realize, is the beginning of my new life. Suzanne Schryver

We’ll Think of “Sumpin”

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he first time I truly knew I was a mom was when I caught my son’s vomit in my hands to save my sofa. The first time it hit me that I was a single mom was on the day my son had his first midchildhood-contemplative-why crisis. It required the answers to questions deeper than the Dead Sea— questions parents usually toss back and forth to each other like a flaming hot potato. However, I didn’t have a wide receiver anymore, and the hot spud rested smack in my hand with a thud and an ooomph! As I walked by the bathroom with an armload of laundry one busy Monday morning, I heard my young son’s hysterical sobs. I rapped on the door and opened it a crack. “Are you okay?” “No!” he yelled, “I not!” I heard a scuffle and paper rustling. “Well, did you have an accident?”



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“No, Mom. . . . Well, kinda. . . . Oh, Mommy, I’m dying,” he said with the seriousness of an undertaker. I dumped the clothes, swung open the door, and he darned near knocked me over as he dove into my arms. The toilet was full, and a seemingly endless trail of toilet paper followed him and landed in my lap. “What’s the matter, honey?” I asked, looking into his red, tearful eyes. “Why do you think you’re going to die?” “I had die-aweea,” he said. His lower lip quivered and his dimples disappeared. “Well, diarrhea won’t kill you, sweetie.” “Why does it say ‘die’ then, Mom?” I bit my lip and tried hard not to laugh. “That’s me in the toilet, and I don’t wanna die!” “Well, no, honey, that’s not you. That’s what comes out of you.” But there was no consoling him. He explained that if it came out of him, it was a part of him, and there was no way he was going to let me flush it. I gathered him in my arms, reached for the Pepto and my dog-eared Dr. Spock book, and asked, “Well, then, what should we do with it?” He said, “Just weave it, Mom, and I’ll think of sumpin.”

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As my cleaning day progressed, I purposely avoided the bathroom while I tried to think of a reason why we could flush it and how to convince him that it wouldn’t harm him . . . or until he thought of “sumpin.” “It’s just pooh-pooh ka-ka” I said. “It goes through the pipes and into the ocean. Wouldn’t you like it to have a nice seaside vacation?” He didn’t bite. I tried another angle. “Everybody and every living thing poops, but it doesn’t mean they’re going to die.” “Don’t fwush it!” he commanded. “Even Barney poops,” I countered, and then backed off as I met his icy stare. One day turned into two, and still I could not bring myself to “fwush” it without first helping him to understand. The odor, however, became an issue. So very scientifically I said, “Honey, I’ve explained to you that you’re not dying and that your poop has to come out of your body and that we simply have to flush it, ’cause it stinks!” I pinched my nose for emphasis. He flung himself on the floor and screamed; “Now you think I stink!” “I do not.” “You do too.”



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“Hon, let me prove it to you. How about that time I caught you eating your snot? That came out of you, it was nasty, but you didn’t die.” “Oh, M-o-t-h-e-r,” he exclaimed. “That’s different. That’s snot—it’s icky. And besides, I don’t eat it anymore. I have a spot behind the sofa—” There was no use quarrelling. It was my scientific argument against his childlike (though believable) reasoning. But when he asked me to put an “O of O” (Out of Order) sign on the door, I knew I needed help. Should I call the doctor—or his father? I opted first for his father. After all, he’d been a boy once; he’d know what to do. His father referred the problem back to me, but then called back and offered that if I couldn’t “handle” it, to call him and he’d come. Nix that idea, fast. He’d just flush the toilet and be done with it, and I’d be left with a boy convinced his body parts were in India and with an ex convinced he was the next Dr. Phil and I one of his extreme cases. I called the doctor. “Some children believe that their waste is part of their body,” she explained. “It’s a scary feeling for a child who believes that, and it’s a hard thing for them to understand.” Oh, that’s just dandy, I thought.

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“Try having him say ‘good-bye, poop’ while flushing, easing the stress with a happy-toned voice,” she continued. Well, that didn’t make sense. Why say good-bye to something that isn’t alive? Doesn’t that compound the problem? I mean, I had no problem bidding sayonara to the highly fragrant feces, but it didn’t resolve my son’s concern that a part of him was destined for sewer city. Later that day, I hovered around the bathroom door with my cleaning supplies in tow. A decision weighed heavily upon me. On one shoulder, I had the Tidy Bowl man whispering in my ear to barge in: “Go ahead and flush it—let me clean the can for you; it reeks. I’ll make that porcelain gleam.” On the other shoulder, a miniature version of my son pleaded, “Don’t fwush it! Don’t even bwush it!” Of course, I had another option, to admit I couldn’t handle a crisis and call in his father. I don’t know what got into me, but the Tidy Bowl man won. I decided I’d deal with the consequences later. I was just about to barge in when I heard the toilet flush, followed by a powerful rendition of the Oscar Meyer Weiner song. “Hey, um, sweetie?” I called. “What happened to, um, the poopy diarrhea?”



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“Oh, that? I fwushed it, and I’m happy to tell you I’m gonna live.” Some things are better left unsaid. I put away my cleaning supplies, swatted the Tidy Bowl guy off my shoulder, and went to prepare dinner. I’d worried and fretted that I couldn’t handle the crisis. And I didn’t. I didn’t have to. My son worked it out. He thought of “sumpin” and figured out one of life’s mysteries all by himself! Before I knew it, the problem was behind me and I was on to other things, like removing snot from the sofa. Suddenly— knowing I could get through life without having to pass the hot potato—single motherhood didn’t seem quite so hard. No matter how smelly or gross or dirty or complicated my son sometimes is and no matter how challenging single motherhood sometimes seems, it’s all forgotten at bedtime when I tuck him in, sing him to sleep, and hear him say, “I love you, Mom.” It’s right up there with “I can wipe myself.” Shae Cooke

A Single Mother’s Gift List

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ooking back—way back—to a fairly messy divorce that occurred twenty-five years ago, I realize that I did a few things right. My twin boys were five when the split happened. They went from being part of a whole family to being in the middle of two people who could barely speak to each other. For them, I imagine, it was like waking up to discover one of their arms had fallen off in the night. I knew that I was the one who was supposed to help make them whole, but I wasn’t in a good position to do it, swinging as I often did then between pain and catatonia. But luck or my basic good nature, or both, caused me to do a few things right as far as the kids were concerned, and I pass them onto you. I used my friends. Unabashedly used them. I had to talk to someone, and talk I did—on the phone every night for hours when the kids were in bed, after



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assuring myself they couldn’t overhear. I complained. I vetted. I yammered. I fished for information. News of a husband spotting. Who was he with? What was he doing? I discussed the blow-by-blow legal maneuvers taking place in my life. I know I repeated myself a hundred times over, and my wonderful friends listened patiently, supportively to months of necessary rantings. Because of my friends, I could resist pumping my kids for information and using them as pawns in my lonely battle for a new life. My friends were my allies and the smartest gift I ever gave to myself. Dropping my daddy envy was the second gift I gave to myself. That was hard. One weekend the boys came home with the exciting news that their dad planned to take them on a skiing trip. Jealousy and despair hit me at a hundred miles an hour. I couldn’t compete with that. I didn’t have the money. I didn’t have the inclination. Besides, I hated to ski. I projected that the twins would grow up doing glamorous, athletic things with their dad and leave me with the laundry. They would prefer his company. His activities. Him. My shrink set me straight. (Yes, I took advantage of that sounding board, too.) He looked me right in the eye and said, “You’re the mother. He can’t be the mother. You can’t be the father. Your boys need both of you and they know it, so stop wasting your time worrying about competing for their attention.”

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His words have enabled me a thousand times since: When I was reading bedtime stories. Making popcorn that we’d share while watching a favorite movie on a Saturday night. Teaching them how to make perfect scrambled eggs. Watching over them in the wee small hours during bouts of the flu. Setting a bucket of minnows loose at the shore while singing “Born Free” at the top of our lungs. Building model ships on the dining room table. Listening to them chatter away during play dates after school. Buying their first dress shirts. These were my things to do. The daily things. I grew to love the nature of these daily things. Plus, they were much less expensive than the cost of airline tickets and ski resorts. I also gave myself my in-laws. Your extended family might be a different kettle of fish, but mine were wonderful people. Conversation was tough at first. There was a lot of talk about the weather and the price of eggs and, of course, the boys. But nobody ever mentioned the elephant in the bathtub—the divorce. Picking up the phone to talk to the grandmother on the other side during the initial weeks of discomfort paid me back a hundredfold. When the grief of a failed marriage wore off, I had not one but two loving families around me. I resisted the urge to snipe at the boys’ father in their presence. I stifled my anger in front of them.



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The only time I slipped up was one particular night when I’d decided that I could install a curtain rod and consequently brought down a fair amount of plaster on my head. It was hot. I was tired. I still had to get my children to bed and prepare for a meeting at work the next day. I was human. I shouted, “Where is that sonofabitch when I need him?” Don’t you know, I got a phone call after the next weekend our kids spent with their dad, and there he was on the line saying, “I don’t appreciate being called a sonofabitch.” I realized that my sons had repeated my words because it was exactly what they’d wanted to say for themselves but couldn’t. How awful to give them the job of carrying insults back and forth. I switched tactics. I decided to see if they would carry compliments back and forth. Surely, in my swirl of vengeful thinking, I could come up with something good to say about their father. I started small. “You know, I always appreciated the fact that your father folded his socks.” With a little practice, I managed to up the ante. “One thing about your dad, he’s always on time.” Or, “Your father’s a really good driver.” Or, “I admire the way your dad keeps up with his exercise.” Did the compliments get passed along? I don’t think so. But a neat thing did happen. Anything I said their dad was good at, they became good at— with no nagging on my part. My sons are always on

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time. They’re safe drivers. They exercise. So that was another gift I gave to myself—and to my sons. Boys do need to emulate their fathers. Better the sockfolding, punctual, safe-driving, pumped-up dad than the sonofabitch one. Single motherhood isn’t for the fainthearted. Heck, it’s a 24/7 job that feels like 34/7 sometimes. That’s why each of us deserves the gifts we can give ourselves: Friends who are on tap to empathize and offer advice day and night. An extended family, with their visits and phone calls and invitations to weddings that just keep this gift growing and growing. The security of children who have both a mother and a father in their lives. And a new, more peaceful, respectful relationship with the ex, created with some honest compliments from time to time. So take a deep breath, have a sip of wine (or tea or whatever) to help relocate your sense of humor, know that you are not alone and that good things are ahead, and treat yourself to these gifts: friends, family, forgiveness, gratitude, and graciousness. By making these presents to yourself, you’ll be giving yourself control over your future and giving your kids the best gift of all: the ability to feel guilt-free love for both Mom and Dad. It doesn’t get much better than that. Cathy Craig

Left Turn

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here are two routes into our small town: the county road or the back roads. Sometimes, the boys and I take the back way—lonely, bumpy roads that wind around corn fields and farmhouses. At one point, going left means “back roads” and going straight means “county road.” William and Joshua wait for this point, holding their breath and watching my hands on the wheel. If I turn left, William, the mature middle-schooler, calmly instructs his little brother, “Make sure your seatbelt’s fastened.” Josh, not having learned yet to conceal his excitement, responds by emitting a series of ear-piercing shrieks. On the other hand, if we go straight, William emits an audible sigh and sadly shakes his head, sending his little brother into ear-grating, convulsive whining, “Why can’t we take the back roads, Mom?

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I wanna take the back roads, Mom. Please, can’t we take the back roads, Mom?” They’re not quite sure what influences my decision. It’s quite simple, really: Whether I take the back roads or continue going straight in the long line of slow-moving vehicles depends solely on how I am that day. Sometimes I am too worn-out from schoolwork, teacher work, mother and father work. On those days it is all I can do to focus on the car in front of me and just keep going. I have no energy to take the left turn. “William, time to get up.” I wait by the door until his feet hit the floor. It’s six o’clock. I’ve had two hours sleep. When I’m sure William is in the shower, I wake Josh, who wandered from his bed during the night and fell asleep in my room to the clacking of my fingers on the computer keys. “Joshua, wake up.” I get his favorite cereal down from the top of the fridge—only the Apple Jacks box is empty. How could I let this happen? I know that one little blip in his morning routine can throw off his whole day. It’s part of his autism. I should have checked the box yesterday. As he heads toward the fridge, I cut him



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off at the pass and try to offer a substitute, promising to go to the store later that day to buy more Apple Jacks. When he finally realizes that he can’t have Apple Jacks, he begins to smack himself in the head and scream. I hold him until he stops and finally convince him to have some “toast, bread and butter.” Will gets out of the shower and tells me he has to wear red because it’s “school colors” day. Both his red shirts are dirty—tangled in the mound of clothing stuffed into the hamper in the corner of my bedroom. After Will, reluctantly wearing a white shirt with red lettering, leaves for the bus stop, I see his math folder sitting on the kitchen table. It took us thirty minutes to figure out his assignment last night. If he doesn’t have his homework, he’ll get a disciplinary point. If I skip putting on my makeup, I’ll have just enough time to drop off the folder on my way to work. I hand Josh his clothes and begin printing the paper for my class—the paper I spent all night writing. The printer runs out of ink with two pages to go. I should have just enough time to print the rest on campus. After I drop Josh at the elementary-school entrance and William’s math folder at the middle-

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school office, I drive the 40 minutes to the college where I am both a teacher and a second-year graduate student. I compose my lesson plan in my head as I drive, trying not to worry about what kind of day Josh will have because I forgot to check the Apple Jacks’ box. I am running late. I chastise myself for not double-checking to make sure William had everything. I wish it wasn’t just me in the mornings—that some of the responsibility fell on someone else. But it doesn’t. On days like that, when the weight of single-parent responsibility has sapped my strength so early in the day, I stay straight on the county road—not even attempting to make my tired arms turn the wheel to the left. Other days, though, I go straight on the county road because I am too heartbroken by the questions I cannot answer, the person I cannot be, the money and the time I do not have. On those days, I often pass the turn without even realizing I’ve done so—blinded by my guilt. William is crying. “Why are you crying?” I ask. “Because Josh is crying,” he says. “Why is Josh crying?”



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I get no answer except for some sniffles and a face thrust deeper into the pile of throw pillows on the couch. I go to Joshua’s bedroom, and his face, too, is covered by a pillow. “Why are you crying?” I ask, as I rub his skinny back. “Because everyone else at school has a dad, and I don’t.” I was hoping this day would come later, at some miraculous age when a child who has grown up without a father suddenly understands why his mother had to do what she did. “You have a dad, Josh, just not one who’s in your life.” “But why isn’t he?” “For a lot of reasons. But mostly because Mom had to do what was best for you and Will.” “But where is my dad?” I take my fragile child in my arms. “Moms make a promise to do what’s best for their children,” I say, “and I kept mine by divorcing your dad.” He knows what divorce is, as much as a sevenyear-old can, because we’ve talked about it before. “William says my dad’s a bad person that hurt us.”

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I am not expecting this. I have planned how to avoid telling Josh about his father, but I have not planned how to respond when his older brother simply tells him the truth—that he is better off not knowing the man Will called his stepfather for three years. Josh is looking at me, waiting for confirmation or denial. If I thought it would do any good, I would lie to my son. If lying could protect him, I would strangle the truth with my hands and bury it deep in my soul. But it won’t. If I lie and say his father is a good person, Josh will look for other reasons why his dad is not around—reasons having to do with him. The truth will not take away his painful awareness that the other kids at school and his older brother have dads, but he doesn’t. So I nod. I hold my son, and I nod, and I tell him over and over how much I love him. On other days, the good days, I turn left, waiting until the last possible moment to turn the wheel, so as to prolong the anticipation and increase the excitement of the two boys in the back seat. Because sometimes I am too triumphant to go straight—certain that despite what they all say, my three-person, fatherless family will make it and my boys will end up neither psychologically damaged



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nor behind bars. On those days, I fight the urge to thrust my fist, and my finger, in the air as we turn. I am sitting in the bleachers with paper and pen. I have been instructed to keep stats—things such as points, rebounds, and assists. Sometimes I get so involved in the game that I forget to write down things when they happen, but I always remember later. Basketball is something Will and I share. I am the one who taught him how to shoot, how to do a lay-up, and how to keep going when everything and everyone is telling you that you have already lost. The game today is his toughest matchup. The other team’s “big man” is bigger and faster than Will, and he knows this. They have been fighting nonstop under the basket, both refusing to give an inch. Sometimes Will shuts the other boy down; other times Will is shut down. When their bodies hit the floor, I try not to wince as I nervously wait for Will to get back on his feet. The other boy’s father is loud. He jumps up and hoops and hollers, hand in the air, whenever his son scores or stuffs a smaller player. When the battle on the court between his son and my son comes near his seat, he yells commands to his boy:

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“Take him. He’s nothing.” “Just run over him!” “Go right through him! He’ll move.” He is frustrated when Will stands his ground— does not, in fact, move. I try to ignore this man, this father, but I feel the anger mounting. I imagine what I will say to him after the game. But after the game, after the mandatory team handshake, my son finds the other boy and extends his hand again. “You played a really good game,” he tells him, looking him straight in the eye. The boy’s father is standing right behind his son, avoiding my eyes. I am swallowing my angry words. Reluctantly, the boy extends his hand. Will shakes it firmly. And I know right then, beyond a doubt, that my sons will be just fine. Father in the home or not. And sometimes I am too full of joy at our life together—how much we laugh, how much we sing and dance, how rarely the boys seem saddened by having “just me” and how close we are because it is just me. On those days, I turn left because it seems only natural to take the fun way home, to add to our reservoir of laughter and memories.



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I wake to the sound of thunder and two thuds from upstairs—two sets of feet hitting the floor. The little one makes it to me first. He is whimpering. In his arms are his two favorite stuffed dinosaurs. “Mommy, I’m scared.” “It’s okay, honey. Climb in with me.” He is covered completely by the covers when William reaches my doorway. William stands there, debating whether he is too old to climb into Mom’s bed when all the lights go out. The darkness ends the debate. “Mom, I can’t see. Where are you?” “I’m here, William. Follow my voice.” He makes it to the bed, and I tuck him in next to his brother. “Guys, I’ve got to get some candles and flashlights. I’ll be right back.” I stumble into the kitchen and find the flashlight, but the batteries are dead. Josh has a toy flashlight in his room, so I slowly make my way up the stairs. I grope around in the toy box until I feel a large plastic dinosaur head. When I flip the switch, a light comes on in the dinosaur’s mouth and it roars ferociously. I jump back, startled, and then laugh. When I return to the bedroom with the dinosaur flashlight, the boys giggle.

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“Hey, at least the batteries still work in this one,” I say. I leave the flashlight with them and go back into the kitchen to find some matches. I light a handful of candles and place them strategically around the room. Soon the boys are sitting up and laughing at one another for being scared. I pull out a book and settle down next to them. As I read, they grow quiet and still in the flickering candlelight. Whenever I stop, one or the other tells me to keep going. When the lights come back on, they tell me to turn off the lamp and keep reading. I do until they’re asleep, curled into one another in my arms. Today, as we separate from the line of cars, Will reminds his brother to fasten his seatbelt, and Josh shrieks in response. A few minutes later, we make another turn, and the boys anxiously scan the road ahead. “No cars, Mom,” Will says, excitement creeping into his voice despite himself. “No cars, Mom!” Josh echoes. I press my foot against the gas pedal and will my old vehicle to fly: Come on, baby. You can do it. Up to fifty, then sixty, and then seventy we zoom.



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“Here we go!” I yell as we reach the first little hill. “Hang on!” “Whee!” Josh is laughing; his little body sailing up from his seat. “Ouch!” Will laughs, too, as his head bumps the ceiling. By the time we hit the third hill, we are airborne—flying together. I laugh at the butterflies in my stomach and look in the mirror. The boys are high-fiving. “That was sweet, Mom!” Will tells me. “Did you see how high I flew, Mom?” Josh asks. “Did you see how high I flew?” “Yes, peanut, I sure did,” I tell him. “That was really high.” We slow down and turn on to a more frequently traveled road. I take the turns slowly and stay well within the speed limit. “Let’s do it again, Mom!” they plead. “Soon,” I promise. Andrea Harris

A Life of One’s Own

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y eyes open slowly as the sunlight beckons me awake. I scrunch them closed again and turn my head into the pillow, where I smell the residue of his cologne, a strong, masculine scent. Smiling, I run my hand over the sheets where he was lying when I last saw him. His side of the bed is empty but not yet cold. That’s one of the few differences between us. He jumps out of bed as soon as he wakes, and I like to lie there until the sleep is fully shaken away. The rattle of pots and pans and the smell of coffee drift up the stairs. Well, he is definitely not one to sit around and wait for someone to make him breakfast. I feel just the slightest bit guilty that he’s making mine while I laze about on this autumn day, but not guilty enough to go down and help him. That is another one of our differences: He loves to cook, and I hate it.



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I’m still deciding whether to get up and shower when I hear his footsteps on the stairs. He steps softly so as not to disturb me, not knowing I am already awake. As he rounds the corner at the top of the stairs and enters the bedroom, he sees that I am waiting for him and breaks into a great smile. “Well, it’s about time you woke up, lazy bones. Breakfast will be ready in a couple of minutes.” Wordlessly, I reach out my arms to him, and he comes to me. He clambers onto the bed and stretches out his lanky frame next to me, gently putting his arms around me as our lips meet for a good-morning kiss. I snuggle in a little closer, and he laughs. “Hey, now, don’t get too comfortable. It’s time to get up.” “That’s not very flattering, you know,” I say with mock indignation. “I invite you to join me in bed, and you would rather have breakfast.” He laughs again, a warm throaty laugh. I could listen to that laugh all day long. “Oh, I think you know that I would like nothing more than to stay right here with you, but we have a big day ahead of us. Have you forgotten?” Of course I hadn’t forgotten. This is the day he will meet my daughters. “Aren’t you nervous?” I ask. “Why would I be nervous? They already resent my presence, think I’m trying to replace their father, and worry that I will spend their inheritance. I have

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nothing to lose.” We laughed together. “Come on. Let’s get this day over with,” he said, rolling his eyes, but his smile belied the words. I know he has been looking forward to meeting my girls. I wish I could say the reverse is true. My children are alternately happy that I’ve found someone to share my life with and resentful that it takes my attention away from them. They are also shocked and embarrassed to find that their mother is not too old to enjoy sex. The girls seem to think that when their father died, my life should have effectively ended, as well. But to their chagrin I have decided not to live in silence and solitude. So today is the day. I have talked to him about my children. I’ve told him they are bright and beautiful young women, full of youthful confidence and exuberance, and that they are loving daughters. I’ve also told him they are outspoken, opinionated, and not always as tactful as they should be. I have also talked to the girls about him. I’ve told them he is gentle and loving and treats me well. I’ve told them he is smart, hard-working, and successful. Today they will finally meet. He will be charming, and they will be reticent. They are predisposed not to like him. A few hours from now, either we will be enjoying a cordial meal together or a mushroom cloud will be rising over my house. I’m not making



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any bets on which it will be. But I am glad they will finally get together, these three people whom I love dearly. I get out of bed and head for the shower, smiling as I think back on the day when I first told the girls about Bob. My daughter had just referred to our family as “dysfunctional.” This gave me pause. Certainly we have idiosyncrasies, but so do most families. Yes, there are some misshapen branches on our family tree, but that’s not uncommon either. So why, I wondered, does she think we are so dysfunctional? “What do you mean by that?” I asked her. “Well, we never have mealtimes together. It seems that someone is always away or there is no food in the house or you just don’t feel like cooking.” I had to laugh at that last part, because it’s true. I don’t often feel like cooking. In fact, I never feel like cooking. I believe that a kitchen is for resale value only. “We do have meals together occasionally,” I pointed out. “Just last November we all sat down to a nice dinner.” “Mother,” she said, the word dripping with disapproval, “that was six months ago, and it was Thanksgiving.”

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Okay, I had to give her that one. “But you and your sister are away at college, and you’ve only been home for a couple of weeks in all that time,” I replied, attempting to defend myself. “And while we were home, we didn’t have one single meal as a family, did we?” “Well, nooo, but we’re busy people.” “You mean you’re busy, Mom—too busy for your children.” “I am not too busy for you and your sister. It’s just that I have a life of my own.” “Yes, and who told you that you could have a life without us?” she asked, and I was amazed to see that she was serious. “Cathy, you and Annie are growing up, becoming independent and finding your own lives. I think I should be allowed to find my own life as well, don’t you?” “Sure. As long as it doesn’t interfere with our lives.” Laughing again, I decided this might be a good time to let her know just how independent I was becoming. “As long as we are on the subject of my independence, I think you and Annie should know that I am considering a move. I’m interviewing for a job in Green Bay.”



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“What?” she shrieked. “Who told you that you were in charge of your own decisions? Annie, Annie, come here, quick!” she called to her sister. “Do you know what Mom is planning to do? She is going to move away from us.” “Mom?” whined Annie. “Is this true? Are you dumping me?” “Wait a minute,” I said to Annie. “I am just planning to move away from Pewaukee. You will still have a home with me as long as you need one. And, Cathy, you’re already living in your own apartment. Why would it matter to you?” “I don’t know. It just does,” she said, with not a little petulance. “And this proves my point, you know.” “What point is that?” I asked. “We are dysfunctional. Nobody else’s mother moves away from them.” “I think you should know there is another factor in the equation. I have met a man that I care about very much.” This announcement was greeted with an ominous silence. I hadn’t expected that. I thought they might scream, cry, and carry on, but I didn’t expect them to be speechless. “Don’t you have anything to say about that?” I asked.

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After a momentary pause, Cathy replied, “I can’t believe you are trying to replace Dad already. It’s been only five years.” “Didn’t you love Dad?” asked a tearful Annie. “Of course, I did. And that is partly why I want to share my life with someone I care about again. I miss that.” “You could get a dog,” suggested Annie. I laughed. “I could, but it wouldn’t be the same.” Turning to her sister, Cathy said in a loud whisper, meant for me to hear, “Maybe it won’t last.” With breakfast behind us and the house straightened up, Bob and I await the arrival of my daughters. It’s a short wait. I hear them before I see them, chattering nervously to each other. Cathy had picked up her sister on the way home. I share their nervousness. Only Bob seems unruffled. The door opens, and Cathy steps in tentatively, calling out, “We’re home, Mom.” “I can hear that. Did you have a pleasant trip?” I ask as I walk to the front of the house. Bob has remained seated at the kitchen table, to allow me a few moments with my daughters. I hug both of the girls, and we exchange dutiful kisses. Then we all take a step back and collectively breathe in deeply. As we exhale, we start to laugh.



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“Boy, no tension here,” Annie says. “Well, let’s get to it, Mom. Let’s meet Bob. It’s why we came home, after all.” Bob rises from his chair as the three of us enter the kitchen. He smiles broadly and says, “I’m so glad to finally meet you both. Your mom talks about you all the time; she is so proud of you. And you are even more beautiful than your pictures.” “Oh, brother,” Annie says to Cathy. “A little corny, wouldn’t you say?” But she is smiling as she says this, and we can all tell she is teasing. “It’s nice to meet you, too,” my well-mannered older daughter says. “I feel like I already know you. Mom talks about you nonstop.” The four of us migrate to the living room, where we can all sit down and they can get to know each other better. The spells of heavy silence and awkward moments I had imagined never happen. Bob and my daughters converse easily for close to an hour. I just sit in silence, basking in the joy that these three people who mean so much to me are getting along so well. I couldn’t have wished for a better outcome. Chris Fabian

What Goes Around

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he day after Annie found out she was pregnant, she went to the mall. Sitting down to rest, she glanced over at a couple with an adorable toddler. That could be us someday, she thought, smiling. Then the child spoke. His voice started out at a normal pitch but then rose in decibels and fury. “I want a picnic!” The woman muttered something to him. The little boy appeared to check out the acoustics of the place, took a deep breath, and screamed, “I WANT A PICNIC!” Then he dissolved into a flailing mass of tears. The sound of the shrieks bounced off the mall skylights and reverberated throughout the atrium. The mother looked like someone had yanked out all her nerves by the roots and the father looked like he was trying to will himself to disappear. 80 



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That’s when Annie thought that fateful thought. My child won’t act like that. It is a universal truth that the moment a pregnant woman so much as thinks those words, the thought converts to placenta-crossing screaming genes that promptly weave themselves into the fetus’s DNA. Annie’s baby was born by cesarean section. The doctor briefly held him over the partition before whisking him away. Annie realized her husband was on the other side of the drape again. “You know, I should have become a surgeon,” he was saying to the doctor. “Is that the bladder?” Annie ached for something to hold. Her baby. Her husband’s hand. She felt so alone. The baby was healthy, and that was the important thing. Her husband named him after himself when she was too drugged to object. Annie called him by his middle name, John. Her father’s name. Two weeks later, the baby seemed to wake up and resume the screaming he had done the moment he was born. It was hard for Annie to get out of bed with her stitches, so her husband put a mattress on the floor next to the crib to make it easier for her to get to her son. “You had the baby,” he said. “You deal with it.” Annie learned that it’s possible to be a single parent and still be married.

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She sat in the pediatrician’s office with her wailing child. She wore the same stunned look as her predecessor in the mall, but there was no one next to her. “Colic,” the pediatrician mouthed over the sounds of the screams, “Only temporary.” The pediatrician was right. It didn’t last forever . . . only until John was about six years old. Keeping an infant comfortable is a mother’s main goal. But Annie couldn’t make John comfortable. She kept him warm, dry, and fed, but he still cried. Annie cradled him. He cried. She rocked him. He cried. She played music. He cried. She wore him strapped on like a papoose. He cried. Through it all, Annie asked herself, What is my baby learning from this? That life is pain? Everything she did seemed so futile. She felt caught between desperately needing a break and being afraid of how a babysitter would handle the unrelenting crying. Her family lived far away, and when her husband was around, he left them to suffer alone. So she did the only thing she knew to do. She nurtured her son. She held him. She comforted him. She reassured him. Still she asked herself, What is all this pain teaching my baby? Once he grew out of the colic, he seemed bothered by the slightest things. When he was tired, he cried. Angry, he cried. Afraid, he cried.



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Annie worried that her son would hate this world that had been so hard on him in the beginning. How could anyone so sensitive ever survive? How would he ever cope? Years later, she found out. John stopped crying, stopped being so easily bruised by the world even, but he never completely lost his sensitivity. Something shifted, imperceptibly at first, so that it was years before she saw what it was he had learned. Annie trudged through a bad marriage, at least in part because she worried about what a divorce would do to her son. True, he had never been close to his father and was almost his opposite in every way, but he had had such a rough start in life. She hated the thought that a divorce could hurt him again. She got through the marriage the same way she had survived colic: alone and one moment at a time. But there came a time when she couldn’t get through one moment longer. John was sixteen. To her surprise, he seemed relieved. “I’m sorry,” she searched his face. “You don’t deserve to live in a single-parent family.” He shrugged. “Neither do you. But we’ve always made it, right?” One day she came home from work upset. She didn’t think anyone was home. The divorce was taking shape just like the marriage: Her husband did

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whatever he wanted, and she handled the responsibilities. It looked as though he would get nearly all of her savings to pay for his expensive tastes while she and John struggled. She didn’t know how she would get John through college, and the house would have to be sold. She felt as though she had no strength left. She broke down and sobbed. It turned out John had come home before her. Without saying a word, he put his big-kid arm around his mom. He held her, comforted her, reassured her. He told her it was okay, they had always had what was most important in life. She couldn’t help it; she sobbed out her biggest fear. “I don’t know if I can do it alone.” “Mom,” he said, “you’ve always done it before. Besides, you’re not alone. I can help.” Still, Annie cried. This child of hers—this big, wise boy—where on earth had he come from? But this time, she shed tears of thanks. Sometimes life just isn’t fair. There will always be those who take from others, but there will also be those who know what true wealth really is. Annie has only to look at her son to know that sometimes things really do work out for the best. Tammy Goodsell Freise

The Coparenting Tango

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few pairs of underwear. Favorite Nikes. Red lacrosse sweatshirt. They’re what my teen needs. I stuff the boxers into the sweatshirt hood, scoop up the sneakers, and plop it all on my back seat, then drive off to meet my son at his doctor’s appointment. The doctor’s office is along a strip of Route 7, the official byway between his dad’s house and mine. When the appointment is over, my son grabs his clothes and piles them into his own car for the trip back to his dad’s. “Thanks, Mom. Love you,” he says as he drives away. Ahhh, if only it were always this easy. Over the years, more often than not, I could be found somewhere along Route 7, zipping back and forth between my house and my ex’s house or some designated meeting point along the way, delivering kids and kids’ stuff. There was the time my son’s

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zip-off bottoms to his then-trendy cargo pants were at one house while the tops were at the other. The time my daughter was spending the night at my house but needed her Nikes from her dad’s for an early morning run for a charity fundraiser. And the countless times one or the other, or both, of them went to their dad’s without the favorite jacket/baseball cap/sweater/pair of designer jeans that would make or break the day/the event/a young life. Those two unattached cargo-pant legs are still waiting to be reclaimed and reconnected. I am a veteran of The Swap—the crazy postdivorce dance for kids’ stuff that’s as full of dips and swings as a ballroom caper. Picture this: I barrel away from my ex-husband’s driveway one morning, as if I’d executed the perfect heist. I’d just picked up my son’s trumpet for the umpteenth time that school year. As pickups go, this one wasn’t so smooth: I barely missed crashing into my former in-laws’ shiny, taupe Mercedes as they were driving in. I swerved. They swerved. The trumpet, secure in the passenger seat, didn’t miss a beat. Those of us who do the every-other-weekend joint-custody shuffle are all-too familiar with the steps, and the missteps, entailed in making sure our children have what they’re supposed to have, when they’re supposed to have it.



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My son turned seventeen recently, and my daughter is now twenty, a college girl. They were three and six when I started dancing to this tune, long before their driver’s licenses and our own nimble acceptance of this half-here, here-there lifestyle had kicked in. For some time, the dance meant continuous ferrying of that trumpet and my son’s hockey bag as well the home-to-home travels of one alto saxophone, skis, baseball and softball gloves, Rollerblades, a jock strap, social studies projects, presents for birthday parties, pocketbooks, calculators, bottles of amoxicillin and other prescriptions, assorted outerwear, favorite shampoos and hair gels, tubes of Clearasil and orthodontic headgear. One year, I, a long-time Mac lover, caved and bought a PC so I could be computer compatible with my ex. Then my kids could carry disks of their unfinished homework back and forth with ease—provided they remembered the disks. Murphy’s Law for Kids Who Live in Two Houses: The thing you need is always at the other house when you need it. For the record, my ex-husband and I have always tried to juggle this joint-parenting gig as gracefully as we can. You should have seen me glide to his house, unobtrusively pick up the desired objet du jour, then glide back home. Swish. Turn.

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Beautiful. Dual-household coparenting? No problem. Well, almost. While transferring kids’ belongings doesn’t loom as large as some other tasks that need coordinating, it can get tiresome quickly. The year my daughter turned thirteen and attended bar and bat mitzvahs nearly every weekend, her dress shoes never shared the same home as her good dress. There were many Saturday mornings that she’d get ready for temple only to announce at the last minute, “I don’t have my black shoes.” Ahhh, the dreaded “I don’t have.” A painful blast for any single parent’s ears. And so we’d be off. I’d ring up my ex, and we’d zip over; my daughter would charge through the door in her slippers and run out a minute later triumphantly clutching the recovered footwear. Cha cha cha. Even when her dad wasn’t home, the two-house rendezvous went on. Since I had the code to his garage-door keypad, I was free to drop off or pick up things when needed. The hockey bag made the one-mile trip between houses so many times I half expected it to skate over by itself one day. My childless and married friends have never understood the complexities of such transference, of juggling schedules and distances between homes.



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Like it or not, I’ve gotten used to it, good at it, resigned to it. My kids have also gotten good at it. But used to it? “You don’t know what it’s like,” my then fourteen-year-old daughter railed, after I asked why she didn’t think ahead and bring the shirt she needed from her dad’s to mine for “red day” at her school the next day. “You’re right. I don’t,” I agreed, trying to empathize as I pulled on my shoes (at least I knew where they were) for a late evening trek to The Other House. For a long time, my son, the family problemsolver, tried to convince (guilt-trip?) me that he needed more pants, more shirts, more jackets to make this two-house deal work. But I wasn’t buying into it. Murphy’s Corollary for Kids Who Live in Two Houses: More Is Less. It’s pointless to have two of everything, because the extras always end up in The Other House anyway. Frustrations aside, I tried to embrace the Zenness of the situation. Everything is as it should be, I told myself. My children are learning important lessons in letting go of material things. I am learning patience. We are all embracing the meaning of acceptance. Well, we try. Countless times I wanted to scream, “We’re supposed to be living apart!” I did not want to be in my

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ex’s space again. I did not want/need/like to see him in: (a) his jogging suit; (b) his PJs; (c) all his moody glory. Sometimes I ached to cry, “I don’t have another ounce of energy for one more trip to your dad’s house! Go yourself! Call him up! Let him come here!” You see, I was the leader of the dance, the one who set the pace, the master picker-upper and returner of things needed. Sometimes I joked that my kids had the only drive-in closet in the world. They didn’t think it was funny. Sometimes I wondered how others handled the same situation. Once, on a bus trip to Ellis Island with my daughter’s sixth-grade class, one boy showed up in shorts and sandals on a blustery, end-of-winter day. “How could he?” I asked of no one in particular as I hugged my wool coat closer, shivering at the sight of him. My daughter, standing within earshot, jumped right in. “All his clothes are at his father’s house,” she said. “We’re all swimming, uh, sinking, together. We’re in the same boat, know what I mean?” I looked at her. Seconds later, our laughter linked us in a private joke. That day, it was funny. My daughter always said that the best thing about going to her sleep-away camp summer after summer



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was having all her belongings in one place. Then there was the year, after she began driving and could cart her things between homes on her own, that she seriously began wondering if California Closets could install a mini-closet in her trunk. Talk about guilt trips. The only trips I am taking between homes these days are the rare occasions when my son leaves behind a book or his college application folder or those favorite Nikes (and okay, he did run out of underwear over there—don’t ask). In a year and a few months, he, too, will be in college, and The Swap will be over for good, I think. Ahhh, but I know better. You can always depend on a call from The Other House over Christmas vacation or summer break, when the weather’s bad, when the kid is tired or lazy or fed up. “Mom, is my (pick one) orange tie/Dave Matthews ticket/extra car key at your house?” Balance and swing. Pivot and point. Turn by yourself. Same steps. New dance. Tina Lincer

Flying Solo

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n her memoir, The Lunchbox Chronicles, writer Marion Winik tells how awe-inspiring she used to find single parents, wondering how in the world they managed to get by. She both admired and pitied them, and thanked her lucky stars every day that she didn’t belong to their ranks. Then her husband died, leaving her with a three-year-old and a six-year-old to raise all by herself. She writes that after the initial shock of her loss wore off, she suddenly realized that she had become not only a widow but also a single parent. And when she thought of the years of “hard labor” stretched out ahead of her, all she could say was, “Holy %$&@!” I, too, am now a single parent. After sharing parenting duties for the last eleven years with my children’s father, he no longer lives with me. My children still have two parents, of course, but we two



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parents no longer have one another. As a result, I am suddenly being forced into a steep learning curve at a time when I really thought I had this whole running-a-household thing mostly figured out. I have never mowed a lawn. I have no idea how to fix a leaky faucet or clean the gutters. I don’t even cook. In our family’s unofficial and voluntary division of labor, these tasks fell on my now-absent husband’s shoulders. Of course, when the children are at my ex-husband’s house, he, too, is now facing alien tasks that formerly fell within my purview. He is learning how to fix a ponytail, plan and referee play dates, and get three children to three different lessons during his work hours. And both he and I are facing the reality that after all the kids are finally bathed, read to, and asleep at night, there will be no cozy adult discussion of the day’s events or shared laughs and commiseration over spilled milk—literal or figurative. Interestingly, since my kids’ father moved out, many of my still-married friends with children have admitted to me in a somewhat furtive way that they envy me. Looking around as if someone might overhear their blasphemous confessions, one after another has told me of their secret fantasies of being able to run their households exactly as they choose, with no need for compromise or cooperation.

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“I’d get rid of that ugly recliner in about two seconds,” says one. “I’d use all the hot water every night, and I’d park wherever I want to in the driveway,” declares another. Other pals have expressed their suppressed desires to eat in bed without fear of crumbs bothering anyone else, to keep the heat turned as high as they like in the winter, or to throw out the stacks of decade-old newspapers and magazines rotting in their laundry rooms. As for me, I never fantasized about single parenthood. In fact, I fought with every fiber in my being to prevent the breakup of my marriage, and I fell into a dark depression for many months after my husband moved out. I was sad for my children, and I felt sorry for myself. Like Marion Winik, my commentary on the turn my life had taken was usually in the form of angry expletives or tears or both. But as the longest, darkest winter I had ever experienced began to fade, and as the weather began to warm and the crocuses and daffodils poked their first tentative tendrils up through the dirt in my yard, I began to notice for the first time how much I was enjoying certain aspects of living without another adult. I found myself reveling in certain guilty pleasures, such as eating ice cream in the bathtub and



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leaving my bedroom light on until 3:00 a.m. if I wanted to finish a book. I let my dog get on the sofa, and I stopped storing the bread in the refrigerator. Last weekend my children and I moved out of the home our family had lived in for the past seven years and into a charmingly dilapidated 1940s cottage that I love and my husband would hate. I see built-in china cabinets, an appealing ivy-covered exterior, and a yard that backs up to a library in my favorite local neighborhood. He would see a house with no garage and a topography that has “drainage problems” written all over it. I felt giddy on the day I signed the lease in my own name. Last night, for the first time, I slept in my own bedroom—which I painted pink—in my very own bed. The dog was snoring under the covers, and I read a mystery deep into the night. I still miss my husband and my marriage a great deal. I have a feeling that I will grieve this loss in my own way for the rest of my life. And there is no doubt in my mind that my children have lost something irreplaceable. Some days I still have the unsettling sense that I have somehow woken up in someone else’s life. But more often than not now, I am able to see that, in fact, the opposite is true: I am composing and reclaiming my own life. Katie Allison Granju

Sunday Breakfast

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o ruckus came from the bedroom shared by my three darling little boys, ages five, three, and three. Of course, that was a complete impossibility, especially on a Sunday morning at 6:00 a.m. I hadn’t slept passed 5:30 a.m. on any morning since my oldest had let out his first breath—actually, not since thirty-six hours before that. To this day, I couldn’t tell you what woke me that Sunday morning. Despite claims to the contrary in studies and countless books on child development, the thing that frightens parents most—more than midnight calls from the hospital, swan dives from the roofs of pickup trucks, or locked bathroom doors—is the sound of absolute silence wherever one or more children are near but out of sight. I knew instantly something was terribly wrong as my parental extra-sense went into overdrive.



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“Boys?” I called tentatively, my heart racing and the silence making my ears ache. It’s amazing how quickly adrenaline can get you going in the morning; coffee is a weak second-rater, if you ask me. I got out of bed, grabbed my robe, stubbed my foot on the nightstand just for laughs, and then knocked over the double-crossing baby monitor. That’ll teach ya! “Boys?” I called again, a little louder. This time I could hear something far off, something that sent an electric shock through my body and then chilled me to the bone. Believe me when I tell you, there is no sound more terrifying than the metallic click of kitchen utensils on a Sunday morning when your children are missing. To fully understand the impact of what happened next, I need to share with you what it was like living in the Reagonomic years, not from the viewpoint of an economist, newscaster, or historian, but from the perspective of a woman who was trying very hard to raise three small boys on her own: The eighties sucked. I received no child support, and I had no car, no savings, and nothing else of monetary value. All I did have was a job that paid six bucks an hour, food stamps, and three perpetually ravenous children. No, I’m not trying to depress you; actually, the boys and I did well, thank you very much, and honestly, this

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was probably one of the favorite times of my life. However, the reality of my situation at that time will make what happened next a little clearer. I slowly advanced down the hallway, glancing surreptitiously into each room as I passed. The rooms were vacant, but only in the sense that there were no boys in them. All I could see were mountains of stuffed toys, discarded clothes, blankets, pillows, crayons, fantasy action figures, space paraphernalia, puzzles, paper . . . well, you get the idea—things a working, single mom of three active kids didn’t have the energy to pick up the night before (or the previous six months, if you really want to know the truth). Not that the boys couldn’t have been buried somewhere amongst the clutter, but the growing mound of stuff was absolutely still, and that’s virtually impossible for small boys. The twins’ cribs had again been ingeniously broken out of without a trace of device or contrivance; Houdini had nothing over these kids! It’s amazing what a three-year-old can do when motivated. It’s even more amazing what he is incapable of only twenty seconds later. I approached the kitchen quietly. Now I could hear my oldest son directing events like a maestro. “Okay, pour that out here, Derrick. Devon, give me that, I’ll open it. Hey, are there any more of those? Give me that!”



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The twins were laughing uncontrollably. As I rounded the corner, my three darlings came into full view—sculpting, with the greatest care and precision, a pile of food two feet wide, six feet long, and roughly a foot and a half high. This pile was comprised of five pounds of sugar, ten pounds of flour, two pounds of coffee, not one, but two bottles of syrup, several boxes of assorted hot and cold breakfast cereals, lentils, barley, pasta, frozen corn, two gallons of milk, and exactly everything the boys could get their hands on from the refrigerator and cupboards. Good thing I went shopping the night before, huh? A guilty dining-room chair stood next to the counter, and every cabinet door was wide open. I have to hand it to them: it was really quite an accomplishment, worthy of the little geniuses they would later become. At that moment, however, I’m afraid I wasn’t feeling quite so appreciative. I am of the opinion that there is a moment in every parent’s life when you get so angry that your mind approaches a state of nirvana, a parental bliss, if you will. Or perhaps stupor is a better word. Your mouth falls open, your eyes go dry, and most of your upper body just kind of shuts down. There’s about ten seconds when, suddenly, you’re no longer a parent. It’s the strangest feeling. You can see your children. You’re reasonably certain they are yours. I mean, they

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really do look like you and all. But for one exquisite second, one completely perfect moment in time, you absolutely believe that fairies came in the night a few years back and left you changelings to raise. Unfortunately, the feeling doesn’t last. “Wha—” I muttered, or something like that. I wasn’t very coherent at the moment. All three pairs of bright blue eyes looked up at me as their little bodies involuntarily jumped about six feet off the ground and a kind of high-pitched squeal escaped them. Paul, being the protective big brother that he is, deftly dropped the spoon he had been stirring the pile with and pointed at his brothers. “It was their idea!” There were three ways I could react to this situation. I could just look at them, shake my head, and turn around to go back to bed. (Trust me, that was my first inclination.) Or I could calmly reach into the kitchen closet and hand the little angels a broom and dustpan with patient instructions on the art of sweeping. Or I could do exactly what I did. I stared at those three adorable toddlers and addressed them as if they were twenty. “Why the hell do you do these things?”



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With perfect aplomb, Paul looked me straight in the eye and said, “I think it’s something in their bones, Mama.” Honest to God, I think it saved their lives. I’ve never laughed so hard. I think we had egg McSomethings for breakfast that Sunday, and we didn’t starve, so it all turned out okay. And the laughter . . . well, that was priceless and rare—and unexpected, especially since all that food had to be replaced on a single mom’s scanty income. But it sure felt good. It took them three days, but those boys cleaned up every bit of food off that floor and, believe it or not, never did it again (at least not to me). They got pretty good with that broom, too. Though the years, we survived broken bones, broken hearts, and broken promises. We laughed really hard, and sometimes cried even harder. But it’s the sight of those beautiful, innocent blue eyes, surrounded by smeared flour and coffee grounds, staring up at me from a pile of every morsel of food we had hoarded that now brings a smile to my face. I can only hope their kids give them the same pleasure. Minnette Meador

His Sister, Her Brother, and Me

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eople often tell me I look younger than fortynine. My daughter scrutinized me the other day and pronounced, “I guess I’d put you at about forty-two.” “Thanks, toots,” I said, smiling. “I guess I’d put you at around ten”—the age she is. When I adopted my daughter out of foster care seven years ago, my being a single parent was a nonissue. Our adoption caseworker told me she’d worked with another single mom who had adopted six of her foster kids. My house is barely big enough for three, so I didn’t think I’d be adopting a whole passel; the bigger issue was whether I was up for the challenges of a transracial adoption. But I love our differences. I love our similarities. We both love dolmas and hot baths and lemon tea and riding horses. Oh, and her brown suede boots



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that we currently share. On occasion we’ve even been told we look alike. I remember feeling all warm and fuzzy inside when people remarked on the similarity of our eyes, our expressions. It remains to be seen if she’ll be a larger woman than me. It took a while, but I’ve learned to do her hair. She sits as patiently as a cat while I spend hours creating myriad styles with beads, barrettes, hair extensions. One night, in the living room, I’m standing behind her pulling a comb through her thick black hair. “Mom, can you do cornrows into a ponytail again?” “Sure,” I say. “Close your eyes.” I spritz her hair with oil from a tall blue can. Then she says, “I want a dad.” This comes from out of left field. I set down the can, take a breath. “Why? I’m like your mom and dad.” “I don’t know. I just do.” “Well, you have your Uncle Charlie, and you have … your Uncle Charlie.” Charlie is an African-American man I used to work with who’s taken on an informal role as Deja’s “surrogate” father. He takes her clothes shopping for school; he lets her tap on his drums at the Ashby flea market; he gives her copies of his ink drawings of

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polar bears and cable cars and acacia trees. Best of all, he’s helping teach her in subtle ways, by virtue of sharing the same skin color, what it means to be black in America—something I’ll never be able to do as a white woman. “So why don’t you marry Uncle Charlie?” she asks. “Because I’m not in love with him. He’s just our good friend. You know that.” Then I add, “I’m not in love with anyone.” “Then why don’t you go to dad.com to find someone?” My daughter’s been getting increasingly more Internet-savvy since I set her up with her own e-mail address. And more mouthy since she turned ten. “Very funny, kid. What, you don’t think I make a good dad? Well, maybe I’ll find you one before it’s all over.” We both know I’m kidding. We both know that most times she’s a pretty happy camper having me as Mom and Dad, and that I’m happy, too. We both know I’m certainly not looking for someone new. “Yeah, right, Mom.” My fingers are flying through her dark hair now. She reaches up a hand to check the progress of the cornrow I’m working on. Later, when she fails to pursue the topic, I’ll regard her request for a dad to be as fleeting as her



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sporadic desires for glazed donuts or new shoes or her own cell phone. My son was born at home with a midwife—a simply spectacular experience. I tell people that my daughter, who had been abandoned, was delivered to me in the back of a Berkeley police car. I tell her that, if she wants me to, when she turns eighteen I’ll try to help her find her birth parents, whom she doesn’t remember. I don’t tell people much about my son’s dad, who wrecked two of my cars, still owes my father ten grand, and after the nearly thirty years I’ve known him, continues to live paycheck to paycheck. I’ve told a handful of friends that he and my son have been in family therapy recently, trying to mend a relationship that fell off its tracks a while ago. I’ve told next to no one that, in spite of the fact that he helped conceive our son, for whom I’m eternally grateful, I often wish he’d disappear. No more slackers for me. Some people know how strongly my son (at age ten) advocated for me to adopt my daughter, when I myself wasn’t sure yet. “Pleeeeease adopt her,” he’d say, his blue eyes pleading. The other night when she had a fever and I discovered we were out of children’s Tylenol, my son

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rode his bike to Walgreen’s in the dark to get her some. It was his idea. He got us a new thermometer, too. I don’t tell too many people that I enjoy being a single mom—even though I do—because it’s just one of many things that I am. It’s so entrenched in my identity that it’s like another trait, like my dark hair or my thin legs. But when I really stop to think about it, I realize how much I love it. And how little I get caught up in what others might think of our nontraditional family. We like one another just fine—and that’s what counts. Besides, with just me and the kids, there’s less laundry to do. I get to decide what we’ll have for dinner each night. “Grace!” the three of us shout together sometimes when we sit down to eat. We laugh a lot. I have friends, both men and women, and my daughter has her Uncle Charlie. My son, nearly eighteen and with one foot out the door, will soon be testing the waters of his own adult life. But at least for now, and perhaps best of all, I get to have my terrific kids to myself a whole lot more than if there were a dad around full-time. It doesn’t get much better than that. Annie Kassof

Mommie Proudest

M

olly was typical in the giggly, mischievous, awake-to-the-world way of four-year-olds. A charming, curly- and red-haired moppet, she was also more reliable and mature than her same-age friends. Molly did not eat grass or poke sticks like swords, jabbing at trees, squirrels, and other children. She also didn’t hide food in her pockets or push dimes up her nose. She spelled better than anyone in her preschool, having seen words printed on 3" × 5" cards and taped to their matching objects throughout the house since before she could crawl. And because I had to drop her off at preschool early each morning before hurrying to teach other people’s children, Molly could dress herself before she was three and sing nursery rhymes between bites of cereal. So, although I protected other parents’ feelings by biting my tongue against bragging, I knew my

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daughter was advanced, exceptional on her own wonderful merits. Molly was also grand proof that a child raised by a single mom did not necessarily have to be a potential serial killer. I was very proud of her, and I used the final minutes before collapsing into bed each night to scribble in a notebook the exceptional and funny things Molly did or said that day. What I didn’t write in my journal was my grandmother’s reminder that pride goeth before a fall. The fall came on a cold nip of a Colorado morning. Rather than turn up the furnace when we’d be leaving soon, I turned on the space heater in the little third bedroom we’d converted into a TV room and study. Yawning, Molly carried in the stack of clothing we’d chosen for her the night before. I set her cereal, toast, and juice on a tray on the floor beside her and went to finish dressing. We talked back and forth as I put on makeup and fixed my hair. About ten minutes before we had to leave, I detected a burned smell, which I thought came from taking too long on a strand of my hair and quickly unplugged the curling iron. Molly brought in her empty cereal bowl to show me before taking it into the kitchen, and then she returned for a dab of lip gloss and the final inspection we gave each other before hurrying out to the car.



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As I was locking the front door behind us, she suddenly began to cry. “I burned the pillow, Mommie,” she said in a whimper. “I tried to fix it, but it’s all yucky.” My heart thudded as we ran back inside. Not only had an edge of a sofa cushion been burned by the space heater, but Molly had used the milk in her cereal bowl to put out the flame. Then, to hide it, she’d covered the cushion with an afghan. A book of children’s stories—the 3" × 5" card marked “book” taped to its cover—was on top of the afghan. We hauled the book, the afghan, and the cushion into the bathroom and dumped them in the bathtub. Beyond the scorch marks, there was no sign of smoldering danger, but we didn’t take any chances. We turned on the water and drenched them all, tossing in the little throw rug that had been by the space heater for good measure. Leaving those to “take a bath,” I set the heater out on the back patio, and we hurried out the front door. Molly was quiet as I drove. I reminded her that at dinnertime I’d want to hear all about her day. We would tell each other the very best thing that had happened that day and tell the one thing we’d really like to change. In the rear-view mirror I saw Molly nod her head. “I already know the thing I’d like to change.”

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Her voice was a sad sigh. “I’m sorry I let you down, Mommie.” I found the first place to safely pull over and stop. Then, with cars whizzing past, I lifted my little girl onto my lap. As we held each other tight, I could feel in her thin arms and deep sighs the heavy burden Molly had carried, the need to be more mature and a better helper than other kids who had both parents helping each other. That night, I began writing new things in my notebook: advice to myself, brief insights, and helpful reminders that I’d learned during the day. Oh, sure, I included the wonderful things Molly did— like admitting what had happened so that together we could figure out how to fix it—but the focus had changed. The things I remembered each day and included in the notebook were no longer examples proving that the child of a single mom was more reliable or well-adjusted than her little friends and neighbors from two-parent homes. They were the lessons I’d learned that day. Not as a single mom but just as a mom with nothing extra to prove to myself or to others. And that gave me time and energy each night to include all the blessings that were mine because Molly was such a wonderful kid. Period. Marylin N. Warner

My Mom Will Be at the Game

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quatting on the cold, metal bleachers watching my son’s lacrosse game, I swallowed back the tears threatening to trickle out from my eyes. School concerts and sports events are breeding grounds for those Single Mom Blues. This day I was feeling the struggle. “Mom, there’s not enough food in the house,” my son Joshua had complained that morning. “I have to gain weight. I’m on the varsity team!” Josh, a lean and muscular tenth-grader, was now taller than me. “Mom, all my pants have holes in them!” nineyear-old Tyler had yelped that morning as he dressed for school. He was trying hard to look good and had borrowed my hair gel to slick his short brown hair into spikes. I felt terrible sending him off to face fourth grade in tattered clothes. I was also concerned about my daughter, Sarah, who was home for the week from college. Her car,

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which she’d paid for herself by working two jobs, was making funny noises. The sky was gray with clouds, and a misty rain was falling, lousy weather for a lacrosse game but perfect for dwelling on the many ways in which I was failing my family. As I waited for the game to begin, the Single Mom Blues kept playing in my mind: My poor, fatherless, malnourished children, running around in ripped clothes and driving unsafe vehicles. I sighed. My heart hurt—and so, I suddenly realized, did my bottom. I tucked the windbreaker Tyler had left on the bleachers under me as a cushion. He’d run off with some of his friends, and I could hear them banging around under the bleachers. The twenty or so boys on the varsity lacrosse team were out on the field doing their pregame warm-up, whipping the lacrosse balls back and forth from player to player. I looked around at all the fathers proudly lining up to coach their sons and felt the hurt my son must feel knowing his father would not be there. Sarah must have felt the same hurt when her dad hadn’t shown up for her high school graduation ceremony. It was hard to believe, much less understand, but their father had disappeared from their lives. He had chosen, for whatever feeble reasons, not to see or communicate or be involved with his children.



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I wondered how the absence of a dad at these events—to encourage or coach, to back slap and rally with the other dads—was affecting my children. Were they overlooked by the coaches or somehow less appreciated because their father didn’t contribute to the team and wasn’t there to watch out for them? This line of thought did nothing to improve my mood. More spectators arrived, and friends and families greeted one another. A husky man wearing a fishing derby cap happily stomped up the steps and handed his wife a cup of coffee. Gee, I sniffed, I would have liked a cup of coffee. But I didn’t have the luxury of a spouse to bring me one. He probably takes his son fishing too, I added to my list of laments. Having tortured myself enough, I turned my longing gaze away from the happy parents and caught sight of my daughter near the entrance. Striding in green rubber boots, her long auburn hair lifting to the beat of her steps, she carried two cups in her hands. “Hi, Mom,” she said and handed me one of the hot cups, a large cappuccino with whipped cream and chocolate drizzle on top. “Hi,” I said after a surprised pause. “Wow! Thank you. You’re not gonna believe this, but I was just wishing I had a cup of coffee. This is great!” “I got off work early, so I came to see Josh’s game,” she explained, a little puzzled at my overreaction to

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a cappuccino. She looked at the field and asked, “So where’s Josh?” The team now stood on the sidelines waiting for the game to start. Underneath all that equipment, it was hard to recognize one helmet-clad player from another. “He’s over there,” I pointed to the player on the far left. Number twenty-four.” I was relieved that he didn’t appear underfed or any skinnier than the other players. “Do you think he knows I’m here?” Sarah asked. “I don’t know,” I said. “You know, I don’t know if he knows I’m here either. I didn’t get a chance to talk with him this morning.” Usually, I double-checked with Josh about his home games, but for some reason we hadn’t touched base before he’d rushed to catch the school bus that day. I was probably too busy searching for misplaced backpacks or gym bags—or obsessing about my children’s lack of sufficient transportation, clothing, and nourishment. A young woman drove up in the first-aid Jeep. I had seen her before at various sports events. She was the school’s athletic trainer, always on hand to help any injured players. Why had she walked over to Josh? And why did she have that concerned look on her face? She began pressing my son’s shoulder and back, obvi-



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ously checking something. I tried not to get nervous, but after she talked with him some more, she starting walking toward the bleachers, heading straight to me! “You’re Josh’s mom,” she spoke kindly. “Yes, I am.” I smiled back at her, but braced myself for some bad news. “I’m Stacy, the athletic trainer. Earlier today, Josh asked me to wrap up his shoulder. I insisted that I needed to check it, and he does seem to have a slight injury. I advised him to rest it, but he is adamant that he wants to play in today’s game. I told him I’d let him play, but I needed to talk with you first.” My son looked toward the bleachers and nodded. Then Stacy said something that changed everything. “I asked Josh if I should call you right then or sometime before the game, to make sure we’d have a chance to talk,” Stacy explained. “But he said, ‘No need to call her. My mom will be at the game.’” “Oh, he said that, huh? That he knew I’d be at the game today.” I chuckled. “He just knew I’d be here.” When my battle-weary heart most needed it, comfort came in a cup of coffee from my daughter and a vote of confidence from my son. (By the way, Josh got the first goal of the game!) Donna Paulson

Youngish Widow, Oldish Single Mom

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’m a single mom, but I don’t fit the “profile.” The term “single mom” usually conjures up the image of a young woman with no partner and one or more children under the age of eighteen. After all, being a single mother denotes not only marital status but a responsibility for the kids. Once a “child” is eighteen, he or she is legally an adult—old enough to marry, vote, and serve in the armed forces. Although, in fact, I am at the stage of life when it would be much more likely if I were a “single granny,” I am a single mom. At fifty-something, the most flattering age descriptor I can hope for is “youthful.” My daughter, Jenny, at almost twenty-five, can no longer be called a child. But Jenny has autism. For those who aren’t already familiar with the syndrome, autism is a neurological disorder that is distinguished by serious problems in communication,



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social interaction, and behavior. The level of dysfunction can range from relatively mild difficulties, such as social awkwardness typical of those who have Asperger’s syndrome, to debilitating repetitive or self-destructive behaviors and an inability to speak. Jenny is somewhere in between those two extremes. Though she can express herself adequately, she still has a language deficit significant enough to prevent her from understanding the storyline of an average film. She also often makes inappropriate noises typical of individuals with autism, who tend to engage in a variety of self-stimulatory behaviors. On the plus side, she has many abilities. For example, she taught herself to read at an early age, is an excellent swimmer, and probably has a greater store of knowledge about popular music than most DJs. But though she is very capable in some regards, she remains childlike in many others and definitely requires supervision. So, when I was widowed four years ago, I joined the club of single motherhood. Parents of special-needs children live in a parallel universe to the one in which parents of “ordinary” kids live. We often have few or none of the milestones that usually serve as markers for a child’s passage into adulthood, such as obtaining a driver’s license, getting into and completing college, setting out on a career, embarking on a significant relationship,

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or establishing a new family. With each of the above achievements, parents of children who are not disabled (I no longer use the word “normal”) relinquish a bit of their parental duties and responsibilities. When Johnny gets his driver’s license, even though Mom and Dad still caution him to drive carefully and come home at a reasonable hour, they no longer have to chauffer him to his various activities. When Mary goes to college, Mom and Dad might spring for the tuition and probably even do her laundry when she comes home on holiday visits—but the bottom line is that Mary is on her own, learning how to solve her own problems. Once adult children embark on their own careers, they are generally financially and socially independent. It is at this time that parents start to talk about experiencing the empty-nest syndrome, which can be both painful and liberating at the same time. But my husband, Steve, and I never had to worry about Jenny’s SAT scores or career choices or bad dates or prospective sons-in-law. We worried about her development, of course, and her safety and security. But the greatest concern parents of kids with the type of special needs Jenny has is, “What will happen to our child when we’re gone?” Steve and I did talk about it, a little, but we thought we had time to make serious plans. But



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life—and death—happen. Steve was in the Pentagon on September 11, 2001, and although he survived the attack, he lost many close friends and colleagues and was never the same. A year after the attack, he was diagnosed with cancer and passed six months later. I will always believe that he died of a broken heart. I not only had to deal with the symptoms of what I call “early onset widowhood”—shock (for one is still shocked at a loved one’s death, even when it is expected), anger, guilt (for not having “saved” my husband, irrational but not uncommon), and a soul-shattering sense of grief for which one is never prepared—but I also I had to convey the meaning of death to my daughter. She simply could not understand that she would never see her father again. Neither could I. What’s worse, I had always depended on my husband to help explain difficult concepts to Jenny. He was somehow able to soothe her in a way I never could. The father-daughter relationship exists between special daughters and their dads, too—and now I had to find a way to bridge that gap and provide Jenny with the sense of security she had always received from her father. One of the first expressions of Jenny’s insecurity after her father died was a return to a behavior we had worked hard to overcome when she was small— sleeping in her parents’ bed. Of course, the parental

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bed now belonged to only one parent—me—and that changed the scenario, as far as I was concerned. When she was smaller, it was important both to me and to Steve that Jenny come to realize that she was a person in her own right—apart from her parents. We wanted to minimize her dependency as much as possible, knowing that, in some respects, it would be lifelong. Learning to sleep in her own bed was one of those lessons in independence. But these were different times, and I knew that what Jenny required after her father’s death was comfort and the assurance that I was still available to her—especially during those hours when one is most likely to feel frightened and alone—the darkest hours of the night. So though she read, listened to music, and danced in her room during the day, at night she slept with me—and I never said a word to make her feel unwelcome. I took as much comfort from her presence as she did from mine, because, though my husband’s absence was hard at all times, it was all but unbearable at night. It is hard enough to be a parent of a child with special needs when there are two to share the responsibilities and pressures. When there is only one, it is extremely stressful. Though Jenny is relatively “high functioning,” she can’t be left alone in the house, as her behaviors can be erratic. Although she’s also



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often heard about “stranger danger,” I could never be certain she wouldn’t open the door when she shouldn’t. Steve and I always arranged our schedules so that the other would take charge of Jenny if one of us had to be somewhere important. It was a rhythm I had become accustomed to and had depended on— one on which I could obviously no longer rely. Although I could sometimes find a neighbor to stay with Jenny when I absolutely had to be someplace on my own, for the most part, trustworthy respite care for adults with special needs is anything but easy to find. To make matters worse, I was also isolated from the rest of my family. My siblings—two sisters and a brother—nephews, nieces, and any and all other blood relatives lived at least two thousand miles away. Friends that Steve and I had shared dropped away, as often happens after a spouse dies. But even without support from family and friends, I managed. I am a singer-storyteller, and at the time, I worked at a local bookshop. I rearranged my schedule so that it would coincide with Jenny’s school day. I didn’t go out much at night, and when I did, Jenny accompanied me. I didn’t feel that Jenny was a burden, which surprised me, because in the “before life”—the time before Steve died—I might well have thought along those lines. Instead, she and I became

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a team. The “Thompson Twins” is what she used to call us, naming us after the popular ’80s band (which actually had more than two members). Each of us provided the other with solace and reassurance, and we learned to adjust to our new relationship. But there were definite bumps in the road. Jenny still could not fully grasp the finality of death. It was as if she accepted the fact that her father was gone but believed that someday he would come back and things would return to the way they were before he left. She expressed this during the first few months after his death by refusing to let me take her to activities her father used to accompany her to. One of these was swim practice, which she loved. On her usual practice day a few weeks after the funeral, I told her to pack her swim bag and get ready to go. “No. I’m waiting for my daddy to come back and take me,” she responded stubbornly. I was devastated. I realized that I had overestimated her acceptance of her father’s death—perhaps even her ability to understand the concept. I tried to coax her into going and reminded her that her dad was not coming back. But she was adamant and threw a tantrum—her way of insisting that what I was telling her was not true, something that could be remedied through the force of her will. If only.



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The next week, I didn’t suggest that she get ready for swimming, or the next week or even the week after. Then, after about a month or so, on her usual swim day Jenny approached me with her bag already packed and told me she was going swimming. She then admonished me that if I didn’t get ready quickly she’d be late. So I knew she was not only adjusting, but getting stronger. Indeed, sometimes it was she who played the role of comforter. When she found me crying, she would appear with a glass of lemonade and tell me to “cheer up.” Sometimes she would even make funny faces. I know it was her way of saying, Don’t fall to pieces, Mom. You’re all I’ve got now. And so we got through that first year. When Jenny finished high school, about a year and a half after her father’s passing, she was given the opportunity to live in a group home. At first I was adamantly opposed to the idea, knowing that Steve would never have countenanced his daughter living apart from us. I was so used to having Steve help me make decisions about Jenny—determining the kind of educational program that might be best or whether a particular therapy would be worth trying—that I felt crushed under the weight of the responsibility that this kind of decision entailed. I

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think I became a single mother in earnest when I realized that such a decision was no longer Steve’s or Steve’s and mine to make, but mine alone. And I made it. I knew that Jenny deserved a life of her own and that the group home would afford a level of independence she would never have if she remained with me. But how was I to tell Jenny without making her feel abandoned by me so soon after her father had left her? She hadn’t yet returned to her own bed. How would she take moving into a new home, with strangers? I began the psychological aspects of the moving process gradually, by taking her to the group home several times and showing her how close it was to our family home. I assured her that we would see each other every weekend and on holidays and whenever else she wanted. Jenny had been going to camp every summer since she was twelve years old, so it wasn’t as if she had never been away from home. I tried to make the group home seem like an adventure. After she moved in, I called every day to make sure she knew I wasn’t deserting her. It didn’t take long for Jenny to adjust to her new surroundings. In a way, I think it was easier for her, not feeling her father’s absence as she must have done—as I did—in our home.



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Jenny has thrived in her new environment. But now that she’s living in a group home, does that mean I’m no longer a single mother, since I “share” my parenting responsibilities with others? My answer is no. Parents of kids with special needs never have truly empty nests, even if their children live in group homes. As Jenny’s legal guardian, I make important medical and other life-affecting decisions on her behalf. I visit the group home often and make certain everything is as it should be. And Jenny still comes “home” on weekends and holidays—and whenever else she feels the need of her mother’s love and reassurance. And that’s fine with me. Marlena Thompson

Brave Hearts

“M

om, I’m home!” Tommy comes in the front door on Sunday afternoon and drops his backpack on the table in the kitchen. He’s spent the weekend with my ex-husband, Kurt, who owns a hotel in La Jolla, a beach town about thirty minutes from our San Diego house. Kurt sells art—paintings, sculpture, and antiques—to the wealthy folk in La Jolla and plays backgammon for money. He’s bitter toward me, but he takes Tommy on most weekends and occasionally takes our eightyear-old daughter, Maryann. Both children adore Kurt’s company and love the stunning hotel penthouse he’s converted to a home for himself. “How’d it go, Tommy?” I’m not expecting much of an answer.

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“Can I talk to you?” Tommy asks and sits down at the table. “Sure. What’s on your mind?” Such conferences are not usual with us. Tommy mostly tells me his news while I collect laundry or bring in groceries from the car. Today he’s committed to a formal conversation. He sits up straight in his chair, a small-boned boy of ten in a fringed leather vest, the one he’s had since he was five. It’s somehow grown up with him. A few fringes are missing, giving the vest a well-worn look. He moves his black backpack to the side so he’s facing me unobstructed. “Mom, could I go live with Dad?” “Tommy! I—” . . . I’m stunned. My mind races around the kitchen like a bird looking for a place to light. I don’t know what to say. I’ve probably repressed Tommy’s earlier hints about his leaving, but now the words are out. The request has been officially made. Finally, I speak in a steady voice, forcing myself to breathe. “This is quite a surprise.” “I’ve been thinking about it a long time. I don’t like my school, and Maryann bugs me all the time. I want to go.” His face looks furrowed with concern. My son needs his western vest for this talk; it gives him courage. I understand. As a child, I used to play

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in cowboy vests like Tommy’s, pretending bravery and heroism. “Does your father want you to come?” “Yeah! I’d have a room in the hotel, and there are good schools in La Jolla.” “I know.” I get up and open the refrigerator, hoping for some delicious manna from heaven to appear next to the Oscar Mayer wieners. Manna will help me accept words I don’t want to hear. I can feel Tommy watching me as I linger at the open refrigerator, facing into the cool. “You hate your school, don’t you?” I say. “It’s a sad place. I know you’ve had a hard time ever since you were bused to Lincoln. I’m sorry.” Random chance had selected Tommy when they needed to increase racial diversity in an inner-city school. No excuses were allowed. “It’d be so much better with Dad,” Tommy pleads. “I could help out at the hotel. I want to learn to surf. I already do some of the cooking for Dad and me.” “Surf? Of course.” I come back to the table and sit down without any wonderful food. I can’t think of a good reason that might persuade Tommy to stay. He looks so appealing in his western vest, his green eyes clouded this afternoon. Somehow, his Japanese face has altered as he’s grown



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older, and he now seems more Portuguese—the olive-skinned explorer. We’d adopted this child of mixed heritage as an infant. “Tommy, I had no idea. . . . Are you sure this is what you want?” “It’s just that I want to go.” The hurt wells up in me. I can’t look at him any more, and so I study my hands, clasped together as I’d been taught in second grade. It feels like he’s gone already. My attention moves to the bird feeder outside the window, where a blue jay clings to the perch despite a strong breeze. Am I clinging too hard? I consider that Tommy needs to be allowed this request. His life here is difficult with a troubled sister and an embattled school. To force him to stay with me seems cruel. Perhaps alone with Maryann I can give her more attention. So I agree. Tommy will leave Jackdaw Street and go to La Jolla. Two years before, after the divorce, I’d bought the house on Jackdaw Street with money from the sale of our marital home on the hill. The place, situated on a street with sidewalks, tall trees, and a church across the way, made me feel secure. It seemed the two kids and I fit perfectly into our new setting. Everything in my corner house looked splendid—a big kitchen, dirty carpets, and a noisy staircase. My furniture fit,

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even my upright piano. Tommy played with a host of friends in the neighborhood, wearing his leather vest everywhere. My daughter’s adjustment was easy too. The afternoon we moved into the new house had a gleeful tinge. My friends rallied that first afternoon to help with the heavy lifting. “A rite of passage,” Gertrud proclaimed to no one in particular as she lugged a heavy load of clothing up the stairs. “Yep. The end of an era,” William added, carrying the coffee table into the living room. Tommy, in his leather vest, watched the bustling activity, hopeful for a role in the moving project. I grabbed his arm, “Hey kid! Could you find a step stool and hang the bird feeder outside the kitchen window?” He took the feeder, pleased to be asked to do a real job. “You’re lookin’ good, Elaine,” Iris called from the laundry room. “What’s that old joke about losing two hundred pounds with a divorce? You look less dowdy, I guess, less unraveled.” “I feel quite raveled, in fact. Never felt better.” After an hour of arranging and unpacking, I sat with Gertrud and watched Iris polish my coffee table. She rubbed and wiped while we provided an appreciative audience. How like her to take such care. Her streaked brown curls tied back with a kerchief,



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she revived my table as if she were making all things new, polishing with a gravity befitting the start of an uncharted life. “Watching Iris work on that table will be my most treasured memory of this day,” I told Gertrud. “But you need to stop now, my dear, and play the piano for us. I want to hear the ‘Hokey Pokey.’ It’s become my theme song.” “One little divorce, and you’ve become a tyrant,” Iris said and went to the piano. The music died away, we ate a picnic supper, and the work party ended with the departure of my tired friends. While Tommy and Maryann entertained themselves out in the front of the house scribbling on the sidewalk with colored chalks, I slipped out the back door to take a walk around the block before unpacking any more boxes. My faithful dog joined me, unleashed this evening. The quiet of Jackdaw Street did not require leashes. When we turned the corner on our return and my new home came into view, it looked like a welcoming granny whose embrace I could almost feel. “Daisy, we’ve done a good thing here. We’ve come down from the hill to a level world, to Jackdaw Street, named after a bird,” I said aloud to my dog. Yes, I thought to myself, there’s plenty of symbolism in that name—freedom, flight, nesting. This place will be

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my birdhouse. I blew my nose to keep the tears from falling and imagined contentment and calm in my future. Now, just twenty-four months later, Tommy will be leaving to be with his creative, entertaining father. Of course, I must let him go, but I don’t have to like it. The loss feels worse than the loss of the marriage, which had been ready to dissolve long before the divorce. This departure is more sudden and can’t be healed with the “Hokey Pokey.” When Kurt’s Mercedes convertible appears at the curb a short week later, we carry out Tommy’s things—including the leather vest—and he’s gone. I want him to leave the vest, telling him he’s outgrown it, but he takes it from me and puts it on to wear to his father’s house. By the time I walk the few feet back into the house, my nose runs, my head aches, and I see a hard-hearted failure of a mother in my mirror. I retreat to my bed as early as I can and dream my father has died. Within a few days Tommy is enrolled in a private school, a place I’ve objected to for its elitism, but Kurt argues that the school will nurture Tommy’s intellect. Kurt will pay all expenses. In some secret place inside my soul, I agree that Tommy will love such a school with its civilized atmosphere and top teachers.



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Though La Jolla isn’t far from where Maryann and I live, Tommy disappears into his school, the surfing, the cooking, and his father’s adventures. We stay connected, somehow, and I supervise summer activities and his birthday celebrations with his former pals. I get a post card from Africa, where Tommy and his father spend Christmas. Regular visits on weekends don’t happen, but his father drops him off from time to time—once, in the tenth grade, with a pretty girl. I know Tommy’s not lost his leather vest. He doesn’t toss away anything. I miss my son every day and worry constantly about whether he’s being cared for with love. Maryann and I close ranks, devising our own rituals. I teach at the high school and stay “raveled” enough to weather the storms of my daughter’s troubled times. As a single mom, it’s easier to manage everything with one child. Maryann struggles with problems at school, and, as I look back, I’m grateful she and I were alone then. She’s an adopted child, too, and had a longing to find her birth family. We work together on that. My son’s phone calls from La Jolla start to intensify after five years. He gets angry over the phone—about his tennis racket, about his haircut, about nothing—and I know he’s unhappy, though he argues that he’s fine. I know he needs to be with

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me again. He needs to leave the penthouse perch over the ocean and return to Jackdaw Street, where a birdhouse swings outside the kitchen window. So, proceeding carefully, I invite Tommy to come back to live with us. “Yes!” he says without hesitation. “You can help me with schoolwork. You can come to my swim meets.” As he chatters about his girlfriend, I imagine him wearing the careworn leather vest that always made him so brave. And I hold fast to the one thing that made me brave enough to let go and brave enough to let him back in: my love for my son. Elaine Greensmith Jordan

Number One Son

I

entered the world of single parenthood in a broadside flash, when my husband was driving home to us one rainy March night and never made it. Suddenly, my five-year-old, three-year-old, and infant sons and I were left fatherless and husbandless. My thirtieth year began as a fulfilled wife and mother of three boys. My thirtieth year ended as if I had become a triage nurse of broken lives and open wounds. I felt as helpless as a soldier alone with fallen comrades, desperate to console and to minimize the pain, secretly panicked for my own life. While the children and I began the painful struggle of letting go, I tried to deal with my overwhelming desire to place them all in a bubble. Fierce love and protection became my focus as I gathered them into our tight little circle of family.   135

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I eventually realized we were going to be fine. Yet, there were times when we clung together as if we were each other’s only tether to the shore in a very private whirlpool. Sometimes we shared our grief; often we grieved alone, entrenched in personal loss. I was so grateful to have these funny, roughhousing, silly, beautiful boys in my life. In time, life with the boys ensued, unchanged in some ways. Our home remained filled with Ninja Turtles, GI Joes, Nerf guns, and rubber band–slingshot ammo, which the boys aptly named “tacos”—carefully rolled and folded pieces of paper that did resemble one of their favorite foods. Years later, I still find stashes of the “taco” ammo in lidded jars and boxes. As it is with birth order, my oldest child, Mike, was to forever bear the burden of firstborn: being a trailblazer for his siblings. As if that role weren’t challenging enough, Mike was also the eldest son of a mother attempting to raise three boys on her own. Add to that equation the fact that, whether due to our circumstances or my maternal instincts or both, I was somewhat of a protective parent. Not surprisingly, in the years following my husband’s death, I alternately sheltered Mike and followed his lead. At first, I felt undaunted by the responsibility of being in sole charge of three tykes of the oppo-



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site gender. That didn’t last long, however. Instances soon arose that foretold the challenges we would face as mother and sons—not the least of which being that I was a “girl” in an otherwise all-male house. I had to devise a system of bathing that afforded at least minimal privacy while also enabling me to hear if trouble was brewing and allowing the boys to come into my bathroom if they needed me. For many months this involved keeping the door open and placing the baby—gurgling, legs and arms pumping—in the bouncy chair next to the tub. One particularly hurried day, Mike came rushing in just as I stepped out of the shower and reached for a towel. I followed the quick trail of his wide eyes as they passed over my nakedness like a laser-trained barcode scanner. Then he dissolved into a curled-up heap on the floor and sobbed, “I never want to grow up!” I have to admit I was mildly affronted that my image was so upsetting to him. In fact, since hysterics were not that uncommon in our household and since no one was bleeding to death, I did take just a moment, stepping over both the bouncy chair and Mike’s crumpled body, to check myself in the mirror before tending to my oldest son. After having wrapped myself properly, I knelt down and asked Mike why in the world he wouldn’t want to be a grownup someday.

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He wiped his eyes with one balled little fist and promptly told me exactly the reason. “I don’t want my penis to fall off.” Then he started to cry, all the while gripping said portion of his little man body with a force a crowbar couldn’t have loosened. Assurances were made. With a sigh of relief, Mike left the bathroom secure in the knowledge that he would always be a boy—with the appendage in question, and everything else that made him so, intact—and that it is boys and girls, not kids and grownups, who are different anatomically. I feel certain that he promptly filled his younger brother in on the secret as well. As Mike progressed through elementary school, his concerns extended altruistically to his brothers and to our family’s well-being. He became the self-proclaimed man of the house. He fretted about everyone and inquired about things far beyond the concerns typical of his age. I urged him to delve into his interests and to keep a journal. We also had wonderful neighbors, friends, and family, and a caring network at the grade school that helped me to refocus Mike’s attention on just being a little boy. During his “tween” years, Mike would scour the back pages of comic books for hours, circling ultraviolet fingerprint dust, invisible-ink pens, laser beams that might sound alarms when someone (a brother)



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crossed their barriers, and various other wished-for gadgets. He also wrote long stories about spies and mysterious adventures. I fed his interests with stacks of books, which we read together and that helped me understand the fantasies young boys take to their dreams at night. Still, I also understood that I was unable to be all that Mike needed. I could not totally replace what any of my boys were missing: a dad. Even if I’d been the best basketball player, camping aficionado, and auto mechanic, my attempts would have remained undeniably effeminate. Early one summer evening, Mike quietly entered the kitchen, which was unusual. At the time, I usually had to go out and retrieve him against his will. He was looking a little glum. “Hey, sweetie,” I greeted him. He looked up at me briefly, his face red, his jaw set. He had been shooting hoops with our neighbor and his son, Tom. “You’re home sooner than I expected,” I said. “Are you okay?” “Yes. It’s just that I think Tom wanted to play ball with his dad alone,” he said as he left the kitchen. “Hey!” I said as I followed him. “I’ll play with you in our driveway.”

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He slowed but kept moving. “No thanks, Mom. It’s not the same.” My throat ached and my eyes welled, but I let Mike go to his room alone. Some things we both just had to accept. The boys proceeded to grow up, Mike paving the way with all the “firsts” that most mothers struggle with: driving, dating, and all the maddening and endearing hormone-related behavior of teenagers. We carried on with life—sometimes as fierce allies, sometimes as wayward strangers, but always as a team. Once, in ninth grade, Mike called to check in, a mandatory rule that he followed meticulously. He asked if he could leave his buddy’s house with the group and go to another friend’s house. “How are you going to get there?” I asked. One of the boys was going to drive them, he explained. “He’s had his license for a while,” he said and then went on trying to preempt the litany of questions he expected from me. He might as well have saved his energy. I decided that Mike was not going anywhere in a car with a bunch of boys, who were obviously older, if someone could drive, and nothing Mike told me would convince me otherwise. My solution, my offer to Mike, was that I pick him up and take him.



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Mike climbed into the front seat of the van looking straight ahead. I wonder now what excuse he used with his friends. I asked where the friend lived, and he quietly replied, “Just take me home.” He walked ahead of me into the house, straight up the stairs, and into his room. I gave him some breathing space and gave myself time to gather my arguments before I followed. I asked permission to enter, which he granted. He was sitting on his bed in the dark, and I left the lights off. Through the tall windows, the moon lit Mike’s silhouette as he gazed at the street below. I found a spot on his bed to sit. “Mike—” I began, hoping to review all the reasons why I hadn’t let him go that evening. He lifted one hand, and I stopped my speech. I’ll never forget his words as he explained that I had to give him a little more freedom, that I had to let him fly a bit, that he had to find out some things for himself. He was so calm and levelheaded. He could have ranted and raved and argued and sulked; instead, he simply told me what he needed from me at the time. I had the sudden vision of him flying right out those windows he so longingly looked toward, wings wide, catching the wind. We sat silently together in the dark for a few moments. Then he asked, “Are you crying?”

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“Yes.” “Why?” “Because sometimes I don’t know what to do, Mike. I don’t know how far to let you go. I don’t know what boys your age should be allowed to do. And I struggle with always wanting to keep you close.” My son reached across his bed and engulfed me in his arms. Fifteen-year-old boys do not readily permit hugs from their mothers and rarely offer them, so it had been a while. Where was that little-boy smell? Where was the soft, sweet, feel of that little-boy body? In that moment, I realized that I was in the arms of a young man—a warm, caring, intelligent, and good young man, who really needed to take some steps away from me. And I needed to step back some from him. We were working on it. Mike is now twenty-four years old, a Colorado State University alumnus, and a first lieutenant and an Army Intelligence Officer stationed in Afghanistan. The day he left, wanting to hear his voice right before he departed, I telephoned from my office. My coworkers no doubt overheard my farewells and the gasps I took as I fought the lump in my throat. I kept reminding myself of the words I had taped to my refrigerator at home, which seemed to comfort me when I doubted the sense of things: Be still and listen. Be brave and believe.



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In one of his recent e-mails, Mike wrote: Things are going all right out here. A buddy of mine is out here now, but he’s stationed farther southeast, toward Pakistan. He came up here on a convoy last week, so we met up and grabbed some chow together. He’s a transportation officer, so he’s constantly moving back and forth out there. I go back and forth to Kabul sometimes to check in with my counterparts up there . . . it’s the Wild West out yonder and third world as all hell. Love you guys, stay safe. To which I wanted to reply: Hey, who said it was okay for you to leave the airbase? I specifically said “no leaving the fenced-in area.” That’s it, you’re grounded, mister. In fact, you tell whoever’s in charge there that I’m coming for you immediately and that it’s going to be a long time before you’re allowed to go back! Instead, I conveyed my love and pride, asked him to please stay safe as well, and closed with woefully inadequate strings of Xs and Os. Because he’s still my number one son, and I’m still learning as I go. Melissa Sovey

Recipe of Memories

“K

eep looking, guys.” I drag another wooden drawer from the kitchen and dump the contents onto the living room floor. “They’ve got to be in here somewhere.” I sift the pile of crinkled napkins, loose marbles, and faded photographs. My son Karl hauls a second drawer; the weight rests on his thighs. “Where do you want this one?” I fling my hand to a vacant spot on the littered carpet. “Over there.” With a shift to the left, he lifts the rectangular box and starts to pour. Papers flutter to the ground, covering the last naked spot. “Okay, everyone, hit the ground and start searching.” I crawl on all fours, shuffling through twenty years of junk and treasures.

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Grant, my youngest son, turns a third drawer upside down, and trinkets cascade to the carpet while paper clips adorn my hair. “Just what are we looking for?” Erin asks, while questioning stares come from Karl and Grant. “Recipes,” I answer. “Recipes?” they echo. “I hear recipes are big hits on the Internet.” Excited, I explain. “All I have to do is post my favorite recipes, and we’ll be rich.” “Your recipes?” A tremor of shock rattles the room, a bottle of antacids rolls out of the cupboard, and the kids gulp in unison. Unfettered, I push the unsupportive threesome aside, sliding my hands into the collection. This is business. Single mom. More bills than money. I’m on a financial crusade. I study an ancient piece of paper, ragged-edged, the ink faded. Beyond the missing directions, I smell possibility. I fold it and tuck the paper into my back pocket. Karl holds up a tube of tub caulking and a bicycle pump. “I thought this was a kitchen drawer.” “It is,” I nod and push a plastic ant out of my way.

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“Whoa! Look what I found.” Erin cradles a toy ice cube with a fly in the center. “Recipes, guys, recipes.” I toss a handful of expired coupons into the fireplace. “Everyone else is making all the money. This is serious.” I glance at Karl’s worn shoes and Erin’s one-sizefits-all shirt now one size too small, somewhat like my bank account, and inhale softly. “Come on, come on, there’s got to be at least one.” Voices still, fingers file childhood souvenirs into stacks while discarding nonqualifiers to the trash. A tiny bug escapes from the dusty drifts. Erin finds a party horn in the mess and toots a sour squeal. Casting aside, if temporarily, the pressure of mounting bills, I grab the horn and squeal back. Sometimes Mom needs to be a kid, too. “Remember when Mom put peas in the guacamole instead of avocado and thought no one would notice her fat-free pea dip?” Karl says as he separates items. “All right, that one bombed, but how about . . . ” I prepare to make my case. “Yeah, how about when Mom gave her friend the strawberry smoothie, high in protein, and it exploded all over his office.” Grant ups the prosecution’s memory bank.



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“It wasn’t my fault; it fermented,” I protest. “Or the day she lost the football bet and made the same guy a sandwich with the plastic cheese.” Laughter explodes, and the lamps rock. “And he had a lunchtime meeting, so he gave the sandwich to his boss.” “So that one backfired—but he gave the sandwich away, not me,” I remind the gang. “That was a good one,” I chuckle to myself. Cheese stamped “Made in China.” Even now, the post-lunchtime call saying, “Lucy, you have some explaining . . . ” tickles my memory. Yeah, it was good. “Is that guy still your friend, Mom?” Erin fingercounts the mishaps. “The best of.” I look her way and wink. Nonstop, my sons and daughter tally Mom’s misculinary moments. I intensify the recipe scavenger hunt. Kids or not, I won’t be derailed. “I know, how about the Thanksgiving when she tried to make fresh cranberry relish and hammered the berries with the meat grinder?” Grant offers. “Wasn’t that the same year the evaporated milk curdled, and we poured our pumpkin pie down the sink?” Eyes meet and heads bob up and down. Karl draws deep into his childhood and pulls out a winner. “One year she took us camping and forgot the food.”

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“That doesn’t count. How many years ago was that? Eight? Nine? That has nothing to do with my cooking talents.” I shove a magnet covered with twoinch nails, Christmas ornament hooks, and picture hangers to the discarded corner. Still, no recipe of worth. “That was the same year she melted the sleeping bag . . .” Grant wipes streaks of tears from his flushed face, “. . . and screamed there was a bear in the tent.” The scrapbook of haunts flips another page; the room bursts with ghosts best left to childhood memories. “All right, so I’m not perfect.” Slowly, I sort and shift miscellaneous debris on the floor. “I didn’t scream; I loudly suggested.” I clear my throat and regain my mom status. Dang raccoon; felt like a bear. The children refocus, the mom-bashing eases, and we continue to rummage for recipes of wealth. Soon, Karl holds a tattered paper; grease spots scallop the edges. “Look, Mom’s killer Boston cream pie recipe.” “My secret recipe.” I reach through the air for the list of ingredients. Step-by-step, every word is clear and readable. Finally, I can post something. I feel my pocket book expanding with anticipation.



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“Isn’t that the one that sent Grandpa to the hospital?” Erin asks. Stone faces stare at the paper; the room falls silent. “Poor Grandpa,” Grant says, a whisper of empathy christening his lips. I flop back on the floor; a thumbtack stabs the palm of my hand. A tiny Smurf figurine smiles from the mess. I don’t smile back. “Maybe you should stick to writing football stories and bunny tales, Ma.” Karl says. “Ma?” Just when did I go from Mommy to Ma, I wonder. Strong arms wrap around my neck, a hug seals the question, and we toss the tainted formula into the fire. With a crackle and a pop, my secret concoction succumbs to ash, and I concede the recipe battle to the cuisine experts. I glance at my kids and realize that, beyond the stack of bills, my life is abundant and plentiful. Even Webster’s would define me as rich. Today I am a rich person, and what’s more, I think I’ll share my wealth. With a smile, I say, “Come on, guys, let’s go visit Grandpa.” Cynthia Borris

Father’s Day

M

150 

y mother met my father in the early 1950s, when a doctor with the promise of a high salary was considered quite a catch for a girl with working-class parents. So when my mother called home at the age of twenty-three to say she was dating a handsome student at the medical school, her family was delighted. Beautiful but sheltered and living with her older sister, she gladly said yes when the young doctor asked her to marry him, even though it meant they would be living halfway across the country from her home. After the wedding, the couple moved into a small apartment while my father completed his surgical residency. Mother supported the two of them financially by working in dental and radiology labs, while he finished the six arduous years of medical training. Though their time together was limited, they began



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their family. Marriage and parenthood were made even more challenging when my father was named one of the chief residents of the surgery program. By that time, my sister and I were three and one. Intrepid and hardworking, my mother managed their young family on her own most of the time. By the time residency was over, they had added my brother to the mix and decided to set up my father’s surgical practice in a small town. Starting a new business was a risky proposition, and my father threw himself into his work, establishing himself as a skilled surgeon. Again their family grew, and with five children under the age of seven, my mother felt blessed, if often exhausted, by her traditional role as a wife and mother. Since my father was away at work much of the time and was often on call even when he was home, it fell to Mother to do most of the parenting. With help from a variety of babysitters and friends, she got us to Camp Fire Girls, sports practices, dance lessons, dental appointments, and school programs. On top of all that, I was seriously ill with asthma almost every night of my young life. Mother would stay up with me for hours, so we would not have to wake my father, who had early morning surgeries to attend. She made sure we all did well in our studies, attended church every Sunday, and never lacked for

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personal attention. Though it was a busy life, it was a blessed one, and the responsibility and activity never seemed to faze her. Our house was full of laughter, love, and living. We had everything we needed and often shared with families who had less. My mother even took on foster children when she could and always kept an open heart. That joyous, spirited life came to a crashing halt the spring of my senior year in high school. At only forty-eight years of age, my father, who had saved so many lives as a gifted physician, was diagnosed with metastatic cancer. Three months later, just two weeks after I left for college, my father died, leaving Mother stunned with the prospect of raising five teenagers alone. Seemingly overnight, she was jolted from her role as doctor’s wife and Junior League volunteer to head of household for a large family in financial and emotional crisis. Drawing on her years of independence due to my father’s long hours, her experiences as a church and community-service leader, and her deep and abiding faith, Mother took on her next challenge with courage. Though she had been out of the job market for nearly twenty years, she went to work first as the activities director for a nursing home, then as the director of a church center for low-income children, and finally as the office manager for a local



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obstetrician. Still struggling with her own grief, she learned to handle the new responsibilities of financial management, insurance matters, and real estate issues as well as car and home repairs. While those things would have been trial enough, she also single-handedly maneuvered the struggles associated with our growing independence: five versions of first dates, missed curfews, high school graduations, college experiences, career choices, and finally weddings. Through it all, she made jelly for the staff at summer camp, cakes for our homeroom teachers, and freshly baked bread for our roommates. She taught us how to drive and how to iron dress shirts. Best of all, she remembered and recounted hilarious stories from her childhood and ours to keep those memories alive. Like all families, we had our share of disagreements, but love and faith won out every time. Though Mother never remarried, she tried her best to ensure that my brothers and sisters and I never lacked for the guidance that parents provide. Several years ago, when all five of us were married with children of our own and Mother had become an even more amazing grandmother, I was in a gift shop one June, looking through the selections. A greeting card display reminded me that Father’s Day

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was approaching, and I sunk into a moment of sadness over my early loss. My thoughts were interrupted when a young girl near me complained out loud that all the Father’s Day cards were so masculine. Not sure how to respond, I asked what kind of card she would prefer. “I don’t know,” she explained. “Something pastel, I guess. My amazing mom may have to be the mother and the father for me, but her favorite color is still pink.” I was struck by her affection for her mother and her insight into her mother’s dual role. I was also reminded of how many times my own mother had managed to serve as a father figure. Forgetting what I had come to buy, I began searching for just the verse to let Mom know what I have since told her many times: The saints we know as single moms deserve to be remembered not just on the second weekend in May each year but also a month later on Father’s Day. Anne McCrady

Maslow, Everest, and Life with the Boy

I

have a bone to pick with noted 1950s psychologist Abraham Maslow. He claimed you can’t selfactualize until the basic needs in the lower levels of his pyramid are met. Many of us ascribe to higher planes. Essentially, self-actualizing means to be all you can be. Maslow, however, said you can’t be anything unless you’re fed, housed, loved, safe, secure, and brimming with self-esteem. Hogwash! I’ve spent most of my adult life laboring within the first four tiers of his critically acclaimed pyramid doing the single-mother juggling act, always missing something, and I still found time to write papers about Charles Darwin and Leonardo da Vinci. Okay, so maybe we single moms are known for eating the same tuna casserole for days and for starting our own self-help groups. And yes, we’re specialists in creative financing. (I once used eighteen dollars in coupons

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on a ninety-three-dollar grocery bill.) But enough of the stereotypes; it’s time for the truth. People tend to shy away from too much honesty, but it’s a pill I try to swallow daily. I tell myself that I’m not much different from Francis Petrarch, the father of the fourteenth-century Humanist movement. I thirst for knowledge. I’m also an idealist, a tough thing to be as a single mother. Like Petrarch was, I’m hermetic in my inclinations. I’ve abandoned my social skills; I sit at the computer until the wee hours of the morning writing. Seven hundred years ago, Petrarch sat hunched at a butcher-block table studying ancient manuscripts by candlelight, looking for God. In 2007, I’m looking for reason. I’ve earned two college degrees in my search for it. I always knew it would be difficult writing about life with my son. My friend, a Catholic nun, tells me I’ve done the best I could. I know there are many who’ve done it better. My son is away at college now, and I’m left behind, painting pictures of his childhood, wondering if I’ve done enough or too much. I packed a box for him filled with Top Ramen noodles, granola bars, a package of candy hearts, and my old psychology book he’d asked for.



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Is there really any eloquent way to speak of domestic violence? You can’t dress it up, make it sing opera. It’s not a designer label, but it’s a label nonetheless. It leaves behind stuttering children with night terrors. It leaves years of sleepless nights and scars that alter your thinking and perceptions of the world. It leaves tears, grief, guilt, and self-doubt. Along with all of that came prison mail addressed to my son. The letters were filled with kind words and lessons for the boy on what not to do, but for my son, there was never a take-your-dad-to-school day—not when your old man’s a murderer. I read them all, fifteen years worth of letters, looking for more trouble, looking for remorse, looking for apologies. Actions, of course, speak louder than words. It was those we remembered: the beatings, fights, drunken rages, threats, stalking, and finally, the murder of my fiancé. I won’t continue. Maybe you already know the drill. Ultimately, it meant our lives were about The Thing—that label: “survivors” of abuse. Because of that, every victory, no matter how small, was monumental. But in the beginning, it was only about the bare bones of surviving each day. Raising my son in the early years after those events was like scaling Mt. Everest. Base camp is

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easy. There’s no headaches, no pulmonary edemas. You sleep in relative comfort; eat, laugh, and thank God you’re alive. It’s when you get above the clouds that the real trouble begins. Your head begins to pound as the blood vessels dilate. The breath in your chest crackles like Rice Krispies in milk. Your nose turns black from frostbite. You need sleep and can’t think straight, and you just want it to be over. You wonder why you ever made this climb. I was in the clouds back then, and in deep trouble. He’s four. It’s two in the morning, and like every other night, I’m up before he is. I hear him in the next room, thrashing and crying in his sleep. I’m exhausted, frayed, and angry. I go into his bedroom. Shake him. “Wake up,” I hiss. “You have to stop this. I need to sleep . . .” He cries for real now. I’m not Mommy, the humanist; I’m Mommy, the jerk. I leave him and lie back down in my bed, knowing sleep will escape me for another night. I worry. I run a printing press, a fast-moving machine that once sucked my two-foot braid into the rollers quicker than I could say *#@$!



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Fifteen years after my fiancé’s death, I’m standing in the dark at 5:30 on a Saturday morning, looking out my slider at the snow bathed in moonlight, taking my first sips of coffee, remembering. It has taken a long time to see beauty in the night. For years, the hours between midnight and dawn were predatory, stalking my subconscious like a henchman of Hades. I had nightmares, like my ex-husband gutting me from bow to stern or our house catching fire. Now, what do you think a single mother saves—besides her child—if her house catches fire? For me, it was my journals and money. I remember, in my dream, climbing the staircase. I could see a big hole in our roof where fat drops of rain came through, hitting my upturned face. I was after the coffee can of change. The water began to sheet down on me in earnest. In one hand I clutched my water-logged notebooks; they chronicled my ragged attempts to piece our lives back together. In the other, I’m stuffing nickels, dimes, pennies, anything I could find into my pockets. I looked up, seeing nothing but the ragged spires of our burned-out walls jutting into the steel-gray sky. For days I triple-checked the burners on the stove, scoured the ceiling for water stains, and plotted our escape.

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The sun has risen. I’m well into my second cup of coffee. The crystalline, moon-washed world outside my window passed a lifetime ago. Writing about our lives leaves me drained. I grab one of my son’s straw cowboy hats from a bookshelf and put it on, look down at my cross-eyed cat. “There’s a new sheriff in town.” He blinks at me, yawns, and goes off into my bedroom to sleep. I’d gotten a very similar reaction from my son months earlier. Laughter’s good. I don’t do enough of it. I sit back down at the computer, dredge up more memories. Poverty comes with a kind of bliss. You can’t miss what you don’t have. He’s still four. We’re at the grocery store. He’s sitting in the cart. While people squabble over cans of green beans and Similac, we share a box of animal crackers and I do the math, just in case I have to put stuff back. I take out the Ovaltine and Pinesol, keep the pancake mix and syrup. He loves pancakes. He’s six. “I love you, Mom,” he calls from his bedroom. I hear him rummaging in the pile of toys at the foot of his bed. Five minutes later. “I love you, Mom.” “Love you too, Kev.”



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I hear him padding into the bathroom. The seat goes up. He pees, flushes, runs back into his bedroom, more rummaging. He says it again, “Love you, Mom.” We carried on those simple dialogues for years, room to room, casual words spoken in passing. Words like threads, tethering each to the other. It is what it is, a boy loving his mom, but it’s something more. He’s making sure I’m there. I remember more about the boy. He’s eight. Hazel eyes, blond, poker-straight hair, soft white cheeks, a serious countenance for one so young. I loved watching him do math in his head, silently ticking off the numbers, looking out the window, his lips barely moving as he counted. “Three thousand two hundred eighty-three,” he announces. Of course, he’s right. I’m about to dispel a myth: You won’t damage your child if he sleeps with you. My son slept with me for years. It was always a source of contention. Everyone had their opinions. But this is our story, not theirs. He’s ten. It’s one o’clock in the morning again. I jolt awake, nearly have a coronary as I see his shadow in the doorway.

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“Can I sleep with you?” He stands there, waiting, fidgeting. I’m still in a fog. The alarm is set for five. “I had a bad dream . . . ” he starts again. I can hear it in his voice. He’s ten and still afraid. I cave, because I need to sleep and because for us there’s no book saying what’s right. As he got older, the floor beside my bed became Kevin’s own KOA campground. Eventually, he slept more in his room. Then he slept with the lights off. Kevin weaned himself from me in his own time. I couldn’t lock him in his room, convince him that he had nothing to fear. Each needed the other in equal measure. There were times I slept in peace just knowing he was there, next to me in bed or on the floor. As a college man, he’s developed a decidedly bohemian look, and there’s a distance between us now. I could see it as he got into high school, the tether stretching. I watched him go, deciding that victories came in his casual wave or in the overnights spent with his buddies. Normal has always been my goal. So I started back to college at night—to work toward normal . . . and to regain some part of myself. More memories . . .



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He’s sixteen. He shakes me awake, tittering, smirking, because I’ve fallen asleep in my books again. “Mom, I’m going to bed. Everything is turned off.” He kisses me while I close my book, wipe the sleep from my eyes. “I need you to wash my basketball uniform. I have a game Friday night.” I loved watching him play ball, but he was an angry player. It’s difficult to tell how much of that comes from our past. He’s reserved, private, doesn’t share much of his feelings with me now. I don’t know how he processes his father’s impact on our lives. It’s a burden I wished he didn’t have. There are more stories. There’s his high school graduation and my college graduations, burger and movie nights and shoving each other for space on the couch. There’s the day he was accepted to Ohio State University on a full academic scholarship. I love my son. It’s always been about the boy. There are still questions, fears. Will the sins of the father manifest in the son? Will he remember the bad, but temper it with the good? Will he realize I did the best I could? The summit of Everest reaches an amazing 29,028 feet, but the perils of climbing pale in comparison to

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the reward. I just picked up my son from school. For a moment, I lost my breath as the bearded, long-haired boy-turned-man shoved three bags of laundry and his book bag into the back seat and then climbed in, smiling at me. “Okay, I’m ready. Sorry for all the laundry.” I smile, start the car, and head toward home . . . our home, mine and the boy’s. Elizabeth Klanac

No One Makes It Alone

A

while back I attended a retirement dinner for my old friend, Lou Monticello. Highly regarded in my hometown, Lou seems to know everyone and is involved in a variety of community affairs. I rarely see him, but when I do, well, he’s one of those folks you can run into after years of not seeing each other and the fondness remains the same. I like to think the feeling is mutual. I first met Lou many years ago when he was a loan officer at the neighborhood bank. At the time, I was thirty and still smarting from the fresh wounds of a broken marriage. Quite literally, I barged into Lou’s office with my two preschoolers in tow and the baby tucked into a backpack carrier. Newly selfemployed (a career choice I was determined to maintain, so I could be a mother first and a part-time real estate agent second), I had no assets to speak of,

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very little income, and no credit history of my own. With child-support payments few and far between and mortgage rates hovering around 18 percent (not exactly the best time to launch a real estate career), I was barely able to feed my little family and struggled each month just to pay the rent. On top of that, much like my turbulent marriage, our little television decided to breakdown, too. Of course, I realize a broken TV is not the end of the world, but it was definitely not a good thing when the antics of Big Bird, Elmo, and Cookie Monster entertained and enlightened my girls, affording some relief time to their weary mommy. Lou sat behind his desk in a small cubicle, his kind face and gentle voice easing my fragile nerves. Although I knew full well the absurdity of anyone loaning me any amount of money for anything, I was determined to borrow enough money to replace the TV set. I must have looked resolute, or perhaps desperate enough to convince him I was worth the risk. Lou somehow saw a spark of promise in me that I could hardly see for myself. With a twinkle in his eye and my signature, Lou gave me my very first bank loan: a thousand dollars! It might as well have been a million. It was a moment of deep satisfaction, early proof that maybe I could wrangle my way into the real world and survive.



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Elated, I went out and purchased a Curtis-Mathes television. Set in a walnut case on a swivel base, it even had remote control and options for video-game playing, something quite new back then. It was a magnificent piece of furniture, and the TV set lasted nearly as long as my friendship has with Lou. Being a single mom can seem like the loneliest, most challenging situation in the world—at least it often felt that way to me. The failure of my marriage pretty much crushed my spirit. But inspiration and hope can come from the most unexpected places. Sometimes, simply an encouraging word or a friendly smile or an act of faith, such as a small loan to a frazzled mom, is all it might take to keep going. If there’s one thing I’ve learned after two decades of single parenting, it is this: No one makes it alone. I’m living proof that, with a little support and guidance from a few Lous along the way, we can all make it through even the most wretched times. Of course, asking for and accepting help can be easier said than done. Being broke or simply being overwhelmed can do a number on a single mom’s self esteem. So reaching out to others in a time of need can take real courage. But everyone needs a helping hand now and then. Shortly after my husband moved out, taking the good car with him, the “beater” car I was left with went kaput. The timing couldn’t have been worse. I

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found myself starting a real estate career and caring for three small children without transportation and with no means to replace my beyond-repair vehicle. Yet, somehow, through the grace of God and the transit system, I managed to sell two houses back-toback in my first four months of real estate (during the interest-rate crisis, no less). As soon as I got those two commission checks I trudged in the snow to the nearest Oldsmobile dealership and plopped myself down in front of the general sales manager, Don. I must have an honest face or a pleading demeanor, or both, because he managed to bypass normal General Motors Acceptance Corporation (GMAC) loan requirements and got me approved for a Cutlass Cierra. Hallelujah! When I came back a few days later to sign the paperwork and drive that baby home, Don asked for my insurance policy. “What? I didn’t know I needed to provide that!” “Nancy, you can’t take possession of a car without one,” Don admonished, albeit kindly. I honestly didn’t know. It was the first car I had ever bought. After taking care of three months back rent and some seriously overdue utility bills and forking over the down payment and title fees for the car, I had just enough money left from those two house sales to feed my kids. There was no money for car insurance. Off I went on foot again, the blowing



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snow mixing with the tears streaming down my face. What am I going to do? I cried. On the way home I decided to stop at a nearby café around the corner from my little townhouse. I needed some time to think. I sat there for about thirty minutes, not coming up with any immediate solutions, feeling a little hopeless. Just as I was about to leave, I felt a tap on my shoulder. There stood George, who I knew only casually from several years prior, when I’d been the desk clerk at the local tennis club, where he was a member. “What seems to be wrong?” he asked. “You’re always such a chipper person. Today you seem really sad.” After telling him my dilemma, out came his wallet. Before I knew it, he had laid ten one-hundred-dollar bills on the table. “Nancy, I know you’ll pay me back as soon as you can. Now, go get that car.” The kindness of friends, acquaintances, and even a couple of neighbors helped me through those early days of being a single mom and beyond. There were dozens of times when I didn’t know how we were going to pull through, and one of those little miracles would crop up. Like the time when the child support hadn’t been paid for months and I hadn’t sold a house in six months, and we were all out of food. Things seemed really bleak. A neighbor, Laura, the mother

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of one of my daughters’ friends, happened to call that day. She must have sensed my distress, because she asked what was going on. I told her the fix I was in, and she insisted I come right over. Then she dug into her cookie jar and pulled out fifty dollars so I could buy some groceries. The hot dogs we had that night might as well have been filet mignon. No one makes it alone. No one. Today, Lou Monticello moves a little slower, is slightly hunched over, and has a lot more gray hair. But he still has the same kind face and gentle voice. Scanning the sea of people seated at his retirement dinner, I wonder how many other lives he’s touched as profoundly as he’s touched mine. At Lou’s retirement party, he told me that I’m still full of promise. He said that he admires what I’ve accomplished as a single mother and as a businesswoman thus far and that he knows even greater things are yet to unfold. Knowing someone else believes in you and is willing to help, especially when you feel like the world is spinning downward, can ignite something inside that causes you to look up and move forward. And when those compassionate, generous people, like Lou, remain a part of your life, sometimes you get to prove them right. Nancy Vogl

Halo Man

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ot long ago I found myself sitting next to an attractive woman about my age on an early evening flight to Cincinnati. I pulled my usual “reading a book, no desire to chat to perfect strangers on planes” routine, but she would not be deterred. “Hi.” “Hi.” Head buried in book. “I see you’re reading The Ice Queen.” “Yes.” Head deeply buried in book. “I love Alice Hoffman. But I haven’t read that one yet.” Apparently I wasn’t going to read it yet, either. In the lottery that is coach air travel, I had drawn a talker. I knew from experience there was no stopping her. I closed my book, looked up at my new best friend, and smiled. “You should. It’s good.”   171

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She smiled back shyly. “I will. Are you going to Cincinnati on business?” “Yes. You?” “I’m flying out to visit my son. He’s at Xavier University. His first term.” “Nice. I’m sure you must miss him. Is he your only?” “Tom’s my oldest. I’ve got two more at home, Grace and Josh . . . ” She burst into tears. Oh, Lord. Worse luck. My talker was a crier. “I’m so sorry.” She lowered her voice to a discreet whisper. “I’m getting divorced. This is my first trip as a single mom.” I took a deep breath and said the words I knew would bind me to this woman for life. “I’ve been there.” “It’s so hard . . . and the kids . . .” I sensed a major keening coming on. “Look, I know it’s hard now, but honestly, it will get better.” “Really?” “Really.” I gave her a big smile. “The truth is, I’m fine. And my kids are fine. More than fine.” She braved a small smile. “Are you still single?” Aha! There’s the rub. “Yes, I am.” I leaned forward with a conspiratorial grin. “And I love it. In fact, I predict that you’re going to love it, too.” What followed was a two-and-a-half-hour pep talk on the glories of being single. My new best friend



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was feeling much better about her nonmarital state by the time we landed in Ohio. And so was I. Because I realized that all my cheerleading wasn’t just propaganda; I actually believed it! I was happy being single, even if I had spent the past eight years looking for the right man to be the good husband and stepfather we needed to be a real happy family again. We christened this perfect guy “Halo Man” during one of my many “I hate being single, all the good ones are taken” rants. I addressed these depressing soliloquies to my happily married friend Candy after every disastrous relationship. “Oh, Candy, I wouldn’t know a good man if I fell over him.” “I’ll pray for you,” Candy said. And I knew she would. She’s that kind of friend. “Well, you’d better tell God to give me a sign when a good one comes along. Something so obvious even I’ll be able to recognize him for the saint he is . . . like a halo.” “I’ll pray for your Halo Man,” Candy promised. I told my kids this story, and we all prayed for Halo Man, too. Each night, my youngest, Mikey, would add him to his litany of favorite people. “God bless Mom and Dad and Sissy and Greg and Trish and Papa Colonel and Grandmama and Halo Man, wherever he is.”

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I tried to find him. There was the cute single father whose devotion to his daughter was equaled only by his devotion to moi and, as it turned out, gin. And the brown-eyed engineer, who showed up to fix my computer and never left. Mikey liked him, too, but at fifteen years my junior, the only Halo he knew anything about was the eponymous video game. And finally, the bald colleague, who charmed Mikey by showing up at all his football games, as easily as he’d charmed me. I’d never dated a bald man before; when the sun struck his shiny pate at a certain angle, I saw, well, a halo. I learned the true meaning of “optical illusion” when I found out he was living with another woman the entire time. Long story short: It’s been nearly eight years now, and still no Halo Man. My older kids are grown and gone, with college degrees and good jobs and even nice spouses to call their own. Mikey’s in high school, and there’s no reason to think he won’t turn out as well as his older siblings. We are a real happy family, Halo Man or no Halo Man. That said, I’ll be back on a plane next week, when I fly to Lausanne to visit my daughter and her French-speaking Swiss husband. How do you say Halo Man in French? Paula Munier

Like Water for Taffy

“C

lean pee off of wall behind toilet.” Audrey took off her rubber gloves, picked up a pencil, crossed off this last item on her spring-cleaning list, and smiled. The apartment she shared with her three-year-old son Derek was spotless for the first time in a year. The towels that covered the bathroom floor for months were washed and neatly folded in the closet. The dartboard that Scott had hung over the couch was now where it belonged, in the dumpster. The spot on the floor where Scott had spilled root beer was shampooed, leaving only a light shadow of a stain. Scott had left them just after Christmas. Audrey was glad to be rid of him. Derek did not seem to notice that his dad was gone. This is the life I want, Audrey thought, as she hung a hand towel in the bathroom, a pretty one her mom had given her. She looked in the mirror and

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twisted her hair into a knot. She picked a stray hair off of the white countertop and threw it in the garbage. No more whiskers clogging the sink. No more razors left where Derek could reach them. No more piles of dirty clothes littering her home. This was her life now. She was in charge of creating the family she wanted with her son. She walked into the living room and admired the order and peace of her home. The apartment was all right. In fact, it seemed even more like a home now, with Scott gone, than it had when the three of them had lived there together. She had an hour left before she needed to pick up Derek from her sister, Rachel’s, house. The ham and scalloped potatoes were all ready for Easter dinner. She felt like she had everything under control. She vacuumed the carpet one last time. Then she opened the curtains wide to let in the sun shine. “Derek was perfect, as usual,” Rachel said. Then she rolled a mini–soccer ball to Derek and said, “Here, kiddo, play ball with the cat for a minute.” Rachel took Audrey aside and said, “You know how Derek never mentions his dad? Well, I always thought that was a good thing, that he was young enough not to be upset about Scott not being around. But last night when he was petting the cat I heard



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him tell her, ‘Abbey, you know what? I miss my dad. I miss him a lot, Abbey.’” “Were you and Derek talking about Scott last night?” Audrey asked her sister suspiciously. “No! I would never bring that up with him. I think he just felt he could share his feelings with the cat, poor kid.” Audrey and her sister returned to the living room in time to see the cat take the ball to the top of her head. “Come, on stinky face,” Audrey said to her son. “The Easter bunny came last night and hid a basket for you. And I made your favorite orange sherbet JellO for dinner.” “Auntie, are you coming to dinner with us?” Derek said as he took another kick at the ball. “No, honey. It’s a special day for just you and your mom.” Audrey had called her sister every day from work to talk about the day. “Can I borrow your rug shampooer?” “How long will it take a ham to cook?” “I bought him a giant stuffed Easter bunny to sit at the dinner table with us. Won’t he just love it?” The traffic was light as Audrey drove home. Most people were at church or hunting Easter eggs in their yards. Audrey could not wait to get home

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and let Derek find his Easter basket. Nestled among the goodies in the plastic grass was a decorative sugar egg, the kind she’d loved as a child. Inside the egg was a beautiful little scene of a sparkling bunny next to a flower. What are you doing? she chided herself, after making a left turn in the opposite direction of her apartment. It was the road where Scott’s mom, Derek’s grandma, lived. Scott would be there today, along with his brother and cousins. She drove by the house and around the block. Derek was asleep in his car seat with one hand resting on his soccer ball. She pulled over to the curb and sat with the engine running struggling with her thoughts. She thought about the great day she and Derek were going to have together. But she couldn’t stop thinking about the simple truth that her son had only felt comfortable sharing with a cat: He missed his dad. She pulled back out into the road and drove toward the best gift she could to give her son on this special day. “Mom,” Derek said sleepily as he rubbed his eyes, “are we going to Grandma’s?” “Yes, cutie.” Audrey checked her face in the mirror to make sure she was smiling. “You’re going to spend the day with your dad today.”



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“Can I show him my soccer ball? He’ll love it, I know he will!” Derek’s eyes were wide, and he picked up the ball with both hands and held it in his lap. “This is going to be the greatest day, Mom!” He looked out the window and barked at a passing dog. “Dad will be so surprised to see us. You’ll kiss him, right?” Audrey just smiled, as Derek’s bright eyes met hers in the rear-view mirror. Audrey’s hands clenched the steering wheel and her mind raced, What am I doing? What am I doing? as she pulled into her former mother-in-law’s driveway. “Come on, big guy,” she said to her son. “Let’s get you out of that car seat so you can see your dad.” Derek’s grandma came running out the side door of her house to greet them. “Oh, I am so glad you came,” Derek’s grandma said, placing her hand on Audrey’s arm. “How are you doing with everything?” “Fine,” Audrey said. Derek jumped out of the car and was swept up in his grandma’s arms. “I’d love to stay, but I’ve got so much to do at home,” Audrey said. “Could you bring him home by five?” She saw Scott coming toward the driveway.

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“Dad!” Derek shouted. He ran into his dad’s open arms and was swung high in the sky. “I have to go. I’ll call later to see how he is doing.” Audrey could feel her eyes pooling with tears and was glad she had on sunglasses. She drove away with the image of the happy Easter family in her rear-view mirror. It hurt. It hurt so much more than she’d thought it would. She pulled the car over to the curb again and let herself cry. She dug through her purse to find a tissue, and her hands circled around a piece of saltwater taffy left over from a trip she and Scott and Derek had taken last summer. Taffy was pulled and stretched and balled up only to be pulled and stretched again. She felt like taffy. Wanting a perfect, sparkling, sugar-egg life is nice, but being able to be pulled and stretched without breaking, like taffy, is the secret to being a good mom. She unwrapped the taffy, popped it in her mouth, and drove to the humane society to snuggle a kitten. She needed to bury her head in the soft fur and hear the gentle purr and confide to the little feline, “I miss my son, kitty. I miss him a lot.” Theresa Jacobs

Passing Storms

A

t the beginning, each step hurt. My newborn baby was attached to my chest by a haunting love and a borrowed infant carrier. My legs felt like they had been accidentally switched during the chaos surrounding her birth. Together, we wobbled out the door. We walked. It was winter, and instinctively, I wrapped my arms around my baby, who was already wrapped in layers of pink fur. As the cool air hit her face, she craned her neck for one long look at me and then closed her eyes, lifted her puckered mouth up to the sky, and drifted into that perfect baby sleep. The one that says, I trust you, Mommy, to not fall and to carry me home, safely. Always. But the aches in my heart and my brand-new mom body made me wince with each step. I kept envisioning the cold, black

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pavement rushing toward my face as my baby and I fell down, down, down, smacking to the ground, her first, crushed under me. Something was pulling me down, filling me with terror—that I would fall, that I would fail, that I couldn’t even walk without endangering us. The vibrating in my legs and the pain between them reminded me how my body, along with so much in my new life, was out of my control. I had to stop and hold onto a mailbox a few houses down from ours. How could I go on? How could I possibly get through the nightmare of divorce while learning to raise the trusting bundle attached to me if I couldn’t even walk anymore? I did make it home that day, shaken and sore, but without falling. Looking back, I think that walking became a symbol of survival to me in that moment. The next day I tucked my daughter in the carrier and set out again. My hands trembled. My legs felt weak. But my little girl’s brown eyes followed me with such openness and trust that I told myself over and over I would learn from her, for her, how to trust me. So we walked. Still struggling with each step. But everyday, we walked—a little bit farther each day. In time, the pain in my legs and in my body from a stressful pregnancy and childbirth subsided. The



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shaking gave way to a surefootedness that helped carry the blackness still hanging around my heart. When spring came, I bought some purple-andwhite walking shoes and bright long T-shirts for myself, and big floppy hats and matching booties for my daughter. When she and I grew stronger, my mother and father bought us a bright purple-andgreen jogging stroller, which I assembled myself. The ritual of my feet meeting and moving on the pavement soothed me, even healed me, in ways I could never have imagined on that first day. Although we fell into a routine of walking every day, usually early in the morning, I never planned our routes. Instead, I let my body and troubled heart wander as they pleased, or needed. On difficult days, I found myself tackling the hills, one after another, up and down, pushing and pushing, breathing hard and spilling my mind’s poison along the way. Sometimes we ended up near the creek and followed the smooth, flat circle around it, hearing nothing but water and the occasional passing car. Other times I simply observed the flowers changing shapes and the colors from yard to yard to yard. All along, I noticed my daughter was forming her own rituals of gazing—at her toes, at clouds, at a toy I’d brought along, or at nothing at all. Our walks became timeless, agenda-less, mother-daughter

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adventures that we could count on, every day, when little else was certain. Then one day, uncertainty found us on a walk, miles from home. In the time it takes for a glass of soda to overflow, the sky bubbled from blue to coal gray. I walked fast, pushing my daughter’s stroller, looking over my shoulder at bloated, angry black clouds rolling toward us. Suddenly, huge rain drops fell from the sky. I ached when I saw my baby’s happy face turn to shock and then fear as the cold water splashed her creamy skin and soaked her fuzzy white blanket. She looked back at me. She reached her arms to me, but I couldn’t pick her up. I had to get us home. I ran. Lightning crackled above tall trees, rocking wildly in the wind. My feet slipped on the drenched pavement, and my wet hair stung my eyes. My heart raced when I heard my daughter’s frightened cries. I tried to comfort her while I ran, but she could not hear me over the torrents of rain pounding the streets. Wet, cold, and utterly exposed, we had more than a mile to go. I ran fast. My baby screamed loud. And I knew, right then, that I would never be able to completely protect her, or myself, from the unknown, and I began crying too.



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Finally, we rolled under the protected shelter of our garage. I unbuckled my drenched little girl and wrapped her in my arms. She stopped crying instantly, and her magical smile returned as she looked at me and then pointed her shiny wet finger at the rushing curtain of drops, now in front of us, rather than surrounding us. We stood together like that for a long time, watching the rain, me holding her up, and her, in a real way, holding me up. I realized then how much stronger my daughter and I were then I’d thought. And I wished on every drop of rain falling before us that our strengths would not be tested too often in the days, weeks, months, and years to follow. But I promised myself that, if they were, I would remember this day. How my legs were strong. How my daughter’s spirit was brave. How, in the end, there was nothing to be afraid of. We made it home. We took a warm bath. We listened to the rain as we fell asleep together in my bed. Lisa J. Solomon A version of this story was first published in Walking Magazine, May/June 1998.

A Home Built for Three

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he school year had just wound to a close, and it was time for my two daughters to fly out of state to their dad’s house. It was only our second summer for this type of extended visit, and I was still having a hard time with the whole idea. My precocious and bubbly Emily was barely five years old, and sweet, methodical Karli only eight. Part of me could hardly stand the thought of not seeing their sweet smiles for six weeks, yet I knew they needed time with their father. No longer able to keep my girls within arm’s reach was by far the hardest consequence of the divorce. I made arrangements to fly with them from Minnesota to Tennessee, giving myself a chance to help the girls readjust before saying goodbye. It wasn’t something I was required to do, but plain and simple, I couldn’t put my two precious girls on the plane



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alone. At least not yet. And as long as I had a few dollars in savings to afford the extra plane ticket, I would be on the seat right next to them. Following the divorce I rented a small house before discovering I qualified for a government loan. After weeks of searching, I selected an older, storyand-a-half Tudor to call my own. The loan officer strongly voiced his opinions against the purchase, doubting a single mom could handle the responsibilities of owning a forty-year-old house. To me the house had character, not concerns. More important, it was only a few blocks from the school my daughters attended and where I also worked. To be honest, I had all the confidence in the world that I could handle the financial issues. But without a “man around the house,” I wasn’t quite as sure about potential structural problems, like the roof, one of the points the loan administrator had bluntly pointed out. Regardless, I met the stringent requirements and went ahead with the purchase. I was thrilled—for the first time in my adult life, I was a homeowner! It was more fun than work to paint and decorate the spacious house in my spare time. I scoured local auctions and shops for quaint antiques. A nineteenth-century trunk from Denmark with the original lining still intact was my favorite, a steal for seven dollars.

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The girls wanted to share the big bedroom upstairs, so I painted the spare bedroom a cheery yellow and turned it into a playroom. In the roomy kitchen I added a small table, perfect for the three of us. I brought neglected flowerbeds back to life and took advantage of warm, summer breezes to hang laundry on my backyard clothesline once again. The icing on the cake was seeing the front steps filled with kids laughing and playing, making the girls feel like they genuinely belonged in the neighborhood. Still new in my faith journey, I was amazed at how God chose to answer each one of my needs, whether it was something big, like the house, or something small, like the perfect scripture in my daily devotional. Deep within my soul, a sense of healing was beginning to take root. Only a few weeks before summer break, Karli had made a passing comment about school, and by her tone, I could tell something was wrong. When I asked what was bothering her, she broke down and cried so hard that my imagination ran wild. This type of outburst was completely out of character for Karli, who was usually mild-mannered and eventempered. I braced myself for the worst. I took her by the hand and led her into the living room. I pulled her onto my lap in order to give her



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my full attention. “I’m listening, sweetie. Tell Mom what’s wrong,” I said, caressing her soft skin. Between sobs, the story slowly came out. “The b-b-boys call me names,” she stuttered. “Like what?” After more coaxing, she finally cried, “Kar, Kar, drive your car!” “Oh, honey,” I soothed, at the same time thinking, Is that all? I held my tongue and listened as she finished pouring out her heart. I thanked God it wasn’t something more serious and explained about kids being kids and saying things they don’t always mean. “More than likely,” I added, “the boys probably like you, and it’s their quirky way of showing it.” She nodded as I wiped away her tears, trying to understand the antics of third-grade boys. Just then I noticed Emily in the doorway, crying her eyes out, begging to be noticed. “Now what?” I whispered under my breath. Karli so seldom required my undivided attention that I hesitated to end our heart-to-heart talk. “What is it, Emily?” Never one to be left out, she looked up, tears tumbling from her gray-blue eyes. “You n-never put m-me on your lap! And talk to m-me like that!” Her short curls and shoulders shook in dramatic fashion with each sob.

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I hid my grin and gently pulled Emily onto my lap, situating her on the other knee. I wrapped my arms around both girls, and in that single moment, nothing else mattered. Mother-to-daughters, I reassured them I would always be there to listen, no matter what the problem. “I love you both so much,” I reminded them yet again. Pictures of the girls on the bookcase caught my eye. I took in the Barbies stacked on the stairway, their favorite blankets scattered on the floor. The warmth of the moment overwhelmed me. Despite the changes in our family structure, we were a family of three, blessed beyond measure. Now it was time to let them visit their dad for six weeks. The suitcases were packed, ready for our flight the following day. On the surface I tried to be upbeat so the girls would be excited about their big trip, but inside, my emotions were a jumbled mix. Even with family helping out periodically, the school year had been draining, and I felt myself needing a breather. I walked down our tree-lined street to a neighbor’s yard, where the girls played with friends. While I waited for Karli and Emily to gather up the toys they’d dragged up and down the block, the mom came outside to chat.



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“We won’t see you until July,” Emily reminded her friend. Gripping her doll, she tried to wave goodbye without dropping it. The mother gasped. “I could never let my kids go anywhere for that long!” She patted herself on the chest as though simply saying it somehow made her a better mother. “I would never be without my kids—I just wouldn’t do it,” she firmly declared. The look in her eyes betrayed her horror. She had no idea how deeply her words cut, slicing through the delicate assurance I had created in order to do what I believed and hoped was right for my daughters. I didn’t expect or want her to stand in my shoes. I merely wanted her to acknowledge that I didn’t have a husband coming home from work every day like she did, one who made his wife and children a priority. “Sometimes we’re not given a choice,” I said, thinking of the court order that required them to go. With one hand protectively positioned on each of her children, she waited, as though wanting me to validate her statement. “C’mon girls, we leave bright and early tomorrow morning,” I said, trying to keep my composure. “I get the window seat,” Karli announced. “I wanna see Tennessee before Emily.”

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“Hey, Mom,” Emily said, slipping her hand in mine. “Let’s skip all the way home.” She giggled and squeezed my fingers, her gray-blue eyes looking up at me. The sweetness in hearing her say that simple word—“home”—warmed my heart at once. The girls were completely unaware of my fragile emotions as we skipped down the sidewalk toward our house. When it came into view, something inside of me shifted, ever so slightly. The peonies stood out in full bloom with balls of deep fuchsia tumbling to the shaggy grass that needed mowing. Two lavender bikes stood side by side in the driveway. Our slightly crooked “Welcome” sign hung by the front door. I had no ironclad guarantee that the foundation wouldn’t crack and the roof wouldn’t leak, but God’s voice told me that He was our true cornerstone, and that’s what really mattered. Yes, my girls were going away for a visit with their dad. And then they were coming back home. Barbara Marshak

The Apology

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y road to forgiveness started with an apology. “I’m truly sorry,” my ex-husband said. “I’m sorry for not being a better husband. For not going to counseling. For not being a better father.” “It’s not too late,” I said, “to be a better father, I mean.” We exchanged a smile, and I wondered whether his apology was all-encompassing. Was he apologizing for leaving us penniless with no means to pay the bills or to buy groceries? When we’d divorced, I was a stay-at-home mom to Norman, age three, and Derrick, age two. Geoff was the sole breadwinner, which might be why he thought he could clean out our bank accounts before he left. My sons and I had enough food to get us through those first few weeks, and just when I’d resorted to

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feeding them Cheerios with orange juice in lieu of milk, I landed a job. I wouldn’t receive my first paycheck for two weeks and desperately needed to fill the oil furnace tank. Winter was coming. From desperation came ingenuity. I sold Geoff’s beloved pool table for enough to fill the oil tank and buy groceries. Of course, he was furious, but I wasn’t sorry. Had he meant for his belated apology to ease the feelings of abandonment that Norman and Derrick felt year after year when their father didn’t see them? Thankfully, they were too young to assimilate the fact that Geoff had left because Derrick had been diagnosed with autism. It was easier to foster the idea that his lack of interest in them was due to the fact that he had remarried and his new wife did not want them around. The first year of him missing his weekends, I made excuses. Then I stopped telling the boys he would be picking them up, so they wouldn’t be disappointed when he didn’t. It had been his loss, as much as theirs, those five years of missed memories. He should have been sorry. Every day of those five years, I’d been there— creating memories of a lifetime. . . . I arrived at the soccer field with the boys in tow for six-year-old Norman’s fall soccer practice. He



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was excited to be participating in his first organized sport, but on that first day of practice, we discovered there was no coach. Though I knew very little about soccer, I took on the role of coach anyway. The team struggled all season, losing every game except the last. We celebrated our hard-won victory with a pizza party. Grocery shopping was always an interesting adventure. Since Norman liked to push the cart, I would place Derrick in the kid’s seat and then walk at the front of the cart. As we navigated the rows of food, I would select the limited choices that fit our budget, and Derrick would grab anything from the shelf that caught his eye. On one such trip, as I restocked four of the five packages of Oreo cookies that Derrick had managed to toss in the cart, Norman continued to amble down the aisle. His sight was limited by his short height and his brother blocking his view of what lay in front of him. “Oh, my goodness,” the gray-haired lady said with a start. “You need to watch where you’re going.” “I’m so sorry,” I rushed to apologize. “Usually, I guide the cart so we don’t run into anyone. Are you hurt?” “No, dear. I’m fine.” She smiled that smile reserved for struggling moms. Stepping closer to the

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cart, she asked Derrick, “What’s your name, blue eyes?” “Damn it, Derrick,” he responded with his trademark mischievous smile. “Oh!” The lady shook her head at me, returned to her cart, and without a second look, hurried away from us. Our evenings consisted of Norman playing in the front yard of our low-income house. While Derrick watched through the large picture window from the safety of the couch, I cooked dinner and prepared lunches for the next day. Occasionally, Derrick would join his brother, and I would keep him in sight via the kitchen window. The key to keeping Derrick safe was to head him off before he took off exploring. He’d been known to disappear in the blink of an eye, causing panic until he was discovered eating cookies at a nearby neighbor’s. After dinner and dishes, after their baths and their clothes were laid out for the next day, the three of us would sit on the couch. I always sat in the middle, and we would watch one of their favorite programs before bedtime. This ritual changed to reading each night after Derrick decided that our television was too hot and poured water down its back to cool it off. We went weeks without a television, until my parents finally found a used one at a garage sale.



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I’d had just enough success coaching Norman’s soccer team that the other parents asked me to coach his Little League baseball team, too. At least I had played baseball as a kid and was slightly more comfortable about my abilities. This team fared better than the soccer team had. We won half of our games, and every player on the team got at least one base hit. After the season, Norman’s third-grade teacher asked his class to write a story about an activity they enjoyed with their parents. When Norman brought home an engaging B+ story about learning how to throw a baseball and how much he enjoyed playing catch—with his dad—I have to admit I was taken aback. After all, I’d been the one who’d taught him how to throw, how to hold his mitt, and how to catch a ball. I was disappointed until I realized that I was the reality and Geoff was the fantasy, that Norman was a little boy without a father. I was blessed with the support of my mother, Rita, and my sister, Lori. Of course, my friends were also always on hand to lend a listening ear or a supportive shoulder to cry on—not to mention the countless blind dates they managed to arrange. When a potential suitor arrived for a date, there was the usual awkwardness that Derrick always

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managed to ratchet up a notch. One particular evening, as I finished applying my makeup, I heard a familiar conversation and smiled at my reflection. “What’s your name?” Derrick said, not making eye contact. “Scott.” “Are you going to be my dad?” Derrick smiled to himself. “Ah, no. No, I’m not.” “Is your name Ron?” “No, it’s Scott.” “Do you know Ron?” “No.” “My mom has a friend named Steve. Do you know Steve?” “No.” “Are you going to bring me back something?” “Sure, what would you like?” “I like cars.” He showed Scott his favorite Matchbox car. “Can you bring me a car?” At this point, I usually rescued my date in an attempt to assure they would ask me out again. Of course, if I had no intentions of seeing them again, I let the conversation go on a bit longer. When I was first divorced, it never occurred to me I would spend so many years as a single mom.



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I learned early on that I had to fill two roles, both mom and dad, which meant I was always the disciplinarian. I never got to be the parent they ran to in tears, who could console them and gently explain the logic of the correcting parent. I learned through counseling that the best way to parent Derrick was to physically lower myself to his level and make eye contact. Then, using picture words, I would explain what I wanted or what he had done wrong. Yes, there was the occasional burst of anger that resulted in me exclaiming, “Damn it, Derrick!” But for the most part, this method worked well for both of my sons. Imagine my surprise, then, when I received a call from the Department of Child Services requesting that I attend a meeting to determine if the boys should be removed from my care. Frantically, I called my sister, and together we met with a child advocate who explained that Derrick’s teacher had reported what appeared to be physical abuse. I sat quietly and listened to the charges against me. When it was my turn to speak, I explained that the bruises on Derrick’s back were the result of wrestling with his brother, who had accidentally shoved him into the fireplace hearth. The child advocate tapped her pen on the table top and flipped through papers in a file. She looked

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up and said that my version of the events matched the story Norman had told her earlier that day. She went on to say that when she had spoken with Derrick, he had, in fact, blamed the fireplace for his injuries and had wanted to know if the offending brick and mortar could be arrested. I blew out a sigh, and my sister let out a little laugh. After a couple of days, I realized I was angry at the system, a system that suspected me of child abuse but turned a blind eye to the fact that my exhusband failed to pay child support. Wasn’t he being abusive, or at least neglectful, by withholding monetary assistance? Without the means to hire an attorney, I was resigned to limp along as the sole breadwinner. Not only did my ex-husband not pay child support and choose not to see his sons, he also didn’t acknowledge their birthdays or celebrate Christmas with them. And, God forbid, he offer a helping hand with clothing or medical bills! When Derrick poured milk from his cereal bowl down the back of our second television, I was beside myself. Money was tight, and there certainly wasn’t enough for yet another television, especially since I’d just replaced the VCR after Derrick had put his peanut butter sandwich into the video slot.



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My boss at the time was sympathetic to my plight. So much so that he gave me the money to hire an attorney to take Geoff to court. The attorney lowered his rate for me and let me do a lot of the leg work to get us ready to appear before the judge. Derrick’s neurologist agreed to testify and waived his usual fee. Thank God for the kindness of others. So, armed with Geoff’s bank statements and tax returns, we headed to court. I testified first and answered the judge’s questions about being a single mom. Derrick’s doctor was next and did his best to explain Derrick’s disability in layman’s terms and to outline, as gently as possible, his limited future. When Geoff took the stand, the judge let him sit there for a few minutes without saying anything and then finally asked him some basic questions. The judge tapped the papers on his dais into a neat stack and glared down at Geoff. I will never forget what the judge said that day. “Mr. Hart, you are undoubtedly one of the worst fathers to come before me in a long time. Not only will you begin paying child support immediately, you will also start being a father to these two boys, assuming they and their mother do not object. Do you have any objections, Ms. Graves?” “No, your honor,” I said.

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“Then Mr. Hart would like to take his sons to lunch today. I will leave it to the two of you to determine an acceptable schedule for future visitation. Mr. Hart, I strongly advise you not to come before me again on any of these matters unless you plan to spend some time in jail.” Geoff and his wife took the boys to lunch and to the park that day. As luck would have it, his wife left him not long after he started paying child support again. The boys, especially Norman, weren’t sorry to see her go. “She was mean to Derrick,” he told me once she was gone. After that, Geoff saw his boys regularly and never again shirked his responsibilities as a father. For two years, we managed a peaceful co-parenting existence—then came the apology. Geoff never said what had triggered his need to apologize, but I suspected the therapist he was finally seeing had encouraged him to do so. Plus, I was getting married. His apology was long overdue but said with such sincerity that I forgave him. Though my boys and their father could never go back and reclaim the years of memories they’d lost, their journey of forgiveness had begun. Kimila Kay

Boys Will Be Boys

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he office phone rang at 3:14 p.m., my daily call from my eleven-year-old. Usually he reports on his homework load or gives me the score from the recess football game. Today, however, he had other news. “We saw that film today,” he said. I had forgotten it was the day for the yearly growth and development film. “Did you learn anything new?” I asked. “No.” “What was this film about?” “Deodorant and sperm.” Deodorant and sperm—that’s about the best description of male puberty I can think of for a single mom negotiating the unfamiliar territory of teenage boys. I know all about female adolescence; I used to be a teenage girl myself. Growing up in

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a home with no brothers, however, I had thought teenage boys were mysterious, even exotic, creatures. Now I know better. Most of the time, raising two sons and one daughter without the benefit of an adult male in the house works out fine. Friends and family fill in the gaps, tying neckties or fishing lures when necessary. Sometimes, however, I’m left to my own resources. One day my fourteen-year-old announced he was ready for an electric razor. Considering the purchase a potential sign of maturity, we immediately set out on the errand. As soon as we entered the store, he asked me to select the razor and disappeared. I understood this routine; it was like shopping for that first bra. A heavy-bearded man in the razor department offered his advice, and I selected a shiny, blue electric razor. My son nodded his approval from a distance as I stood in the checkout line. I didn’t think to offer any directions when the new shaver, his ten-year-old brother, and the electric razor disappeared into his room. When the boys emerged, one was missing half his eyebrows and the other was sporting a liberal trim to his sideburns. Not wanting to make the same error, I decided that next time I’d give some explicit directions before sending my sons off to try something new. Dat-



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ing manners quickly became the next new topic of discussion. I had not considered the urgency of teaching my boys dating manners until my daughter’s homecoming date arrived at the house a few weeks later. He chatted with me, helped her with her wrist corsage, held the door for her, and escorted her to his car. Then I noticed my sons sprawled in comfort among dirty socks and half-consumed snacks as they watched a football game on television. With shock, I realized one of them could be escorting his own homecoming date in just one short year. I pulled him aside and reviewed door holding, chair pulling, and coat helping, and announced that from now on he was to practice these manners on me. “Hey, Nathan,” he bellowed to his brother with shock. “Mom wants us to treat her like a lady!” With the exception of manners, I’ve strived to keep my oldest son from feeling the pressure of assuming the role of the man of the house—we don’t want to offend our male Chihuahua who thinks he is the man of the house. I assign chores with no gender bias. My daughter cuts the grass, my sons do laundry, and I do both. Sometimes, however, my boys have an early opportunity to take on traditional male tasks. To create a festive holiday home, I purchased boxes of icicle lights to decorate the house for Christmas.

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Thrilled at the opportunity to scamper on the usually forbidden roof, my young sons were eager to help with this chore. As I inched across the roof on my hands and knees, they darted to the highest peak of the roof to admire the view and then waited impatiently as my foot groped for the ladder to climb down. The one-hour job I’d anticipated turned into an all-day project. And every nagging word I ever said about Christmas lights flashed through my mind. The next Christmas they were the first to bring up the subject. “Let’s skip the icicle lights this year,” they suggested. I agreed, and my palms quit sweating. I enjoy sports, but I don’t share my youngest son’s passion. My daughter and I try to understand when he locks himself in his room after his favorite team loses a key game. I don’t disturb his elaborate pregame ritual to ensure good luck. I just try to be supportive. When he woke at 3:00 a.m. after the last presidential election and asked me, “Who won?” I knew the right response: the Dallas Mavericks. Along with the challenge of raising these two sons comes many rewards. I’m the driver the day one son wonders about the birds sitting on the telephone line: “Do you think the bird sitting by itself gets lonely?” With my feet braced, I accept their tackling hugs.



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On road trips they wander through a few antique stores in exchange for my participation in their choices—jumping across a creek on a hike instead of turning back, or attending a local rodeo instead of stopping at a museum. I’ve overcome my cave phobia, and I once followed an armadillo through a dark woods with a flashlight—things I wouldn’t have done without my sons’ dares. I hope they remember me as trying my best to navigate their male world. I’ll always be grateful that they made an exception for me in their “No Girls Allowed Club.” Nancy Lowell George

I Was Rich

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never knew that I was rich while I was growing up. My dad left when I was about five, and then we got food stamps off and on and welfare a time or two. I remember well the government peanut butter and powdered milk. I don’t remember missing designer tags or fancy cars. My mother did what she could for my brother and me, and I knew she loved us. As I reached my preteen years, a new roller skating rink opened in the neighboring town. Every Saturday night found my friends and me waiting in line to get in right at 6:00, so we’d be ready when the first song started at 6:30. I don’t know how my mother found the money to send me every week, but she did. Not only did she give me the money to go skating, but I’d have a little extra for a drink and a candy bar too. More often than not, it was my mom who drove 208 



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the gang of giggling girls to the rink and picked us up again when it was over. One wintry Saturday a huge snowstorm was brewing, and my mother said it was too dangerous to drive to the skating rink. My friends’ parents agreed. No skating for them either. Well, I wasn’t going to be denied. I begged and pleaded until my mother gave in. My friends’ parents did not change their minds, so I was going alone. I didn’t care. At least I was going. Ah, the self-centeredness of youth! It was snowing hard by the time we drove the six miles to the rink. My mother dropped me off and went home, and I went happily into the rink. A little while before the session ended, I was paged to the desk. I had a phone call. It was my mother. She said the roads had gotten really bad and that when the session was over, she wanted me to start walking and she would meet me. That sounded like an adventure to me! Well, it did start out kind of fun. It was dark out, of course, but it was a well-lit road, and I traipsed along watching the snow fall and catching the flakes on my tongue. There wasn’t much traffic, so every time I saw headlights coming, I expected it to be my mom. After I’d walked about a half mile, I had to walk past the huge parking lot of a factory, where a grader was plowing. For some reason it gave me the

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creeps, and I started getting scared. It didn’t help when a strange man stopped to ask if I needed a ride. I told him no, that my mom was coming to meet me, and he went on his way, but after that, every time a car came by, I was afraid it would stop and try to pick me up. When I had gone maybe another half mile, I came to a Dunkin’ Donuts and decided to go in and get warm. I couldn’t understand what was taking my mother so long to meet me. I mean, after all, she was driving a car, and I was walking. I watched cars go by for a while, but none of them were my mom’s old Gremlin. The girl working at Dunkin’ Donuts let me use the phone, and I called home to see if they could tell me anything about when my mother had left or might reach me. My sister-in-law said Mom had left right after she’d called me. I told her I didn’t understand why it was taking her so long to drive a few miles in the car. That’s when she told me my mother was walking too! By then, I’d been sitting in the donut shop for a good thirty minutes. I might have been a spoiled brat, but I felt bad for sitting there all warm and dry while my mother walked in a blizzard. I also realized she wouldn’t have been out in that mess if I hadn’t insisted on having my way.



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I started out again, this time, too concerned for my mother to worry about anything else. I walked only a few more minutes before I saw her shadowy figure trudging through the snow toward me. I knew right away it was her, and I was so glad to see her! I told her I was sorry that she’d had to walk so far in the blizzard, but that I’d thought she was coming in the car. I told her how I had been sitting at Dunkin’ Donuts and had finally called home to see what was taking so long. She didn’t say much. She never did. She was just glad to see me and to be heading for home. As soon as the worry about finding each other was over, we became very aware of how cold and wet and tired we were. We marched along with heavy feet for another mile or so before a kind old man picked us up and took us right to our door. I can still see my brother and his wife shaking their heads as we came in and went straight to bed. My mother never said another word about that night, and neither did I, but I never forgot it. Even now, perhaps especially now, when I have teenagers of my own who just have to do this or go there, I remember. Growing up, I never knew I was rich. But I was. Debra Hodgkins

Dating with Children

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ating with children can be likened to driving a motorized vehicle while blindfolded. Sure, the feeling of speed is exhilarating, but you have no idea where you are or when you’ll hit an obstacle head-on. And usually that obstacle is your own flesh and blood. Following the tradition of the Midwest, I married right out of high school and my first daughter was born eleven months later, followed by another daughter eighteen months after that. Then, unlike tradition, I filed for divorce a few months after my youngest daughter’s first birthday. Unhappiness will do that to you. In my defense, by then I’d left the confines of Iowa and ventured into Denver, aka The Big City. I had become my mother’s worst fear: a city girl. And you know what happens to divorced women in a city? Mom considers divorced women



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considerably lower on the dating totem pole than never-married spinsters. God forbid that her daughter might date more than one man at a time! Instead of releasing the free spirit in me, though, singlehood has been more like cabin fever in a secluded mountain wilderness. As a single mother with little to no child support and as a new transplant to Denver, not only did I not have the resources, but I also had no idea where to meet single men. The good news is that I’m resourceful and not very shy, so I managed to stumble my way to all the hot spots. I also stumbled my way through a few bad dating choices. Just ask my daughters. The first post-divorce date was an enlisted Air Force guy who sported the typical service buzz cut, which conveniently somewhat concealed his thinning hair. When my girls, ages three and five, first met him, it was as if they’d done a sister huddle before my oldest daughter, the appointed spokesperson, whispered quite loudly, “Mommy, he can’t be a daddy. Daddies have hair!” The next time around, I waited longer to introduce my daughters to another date. I’d learned my lesson, I told myself. It was far better to ensnare a guy with my charming traits for several months before letting my daughters loose on a man’s self-esteem. Quite a few baby steps later, I’d reluctantly agreed to

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a camping weekend that included my daughters. My boyfriend of nearly a year hauled his boat and my daughters, now four and six, north to Wyoming. A day early, he returned our entourage back to Denver in a very quiet ride home. Unbeknownst to me, my youngest daughter had overheard me telling one of my girlfriends a juicy little secret, and she felt it her duty to tell him what she’d heard. “I don’t have to be nice to you, because Mommy is breaking up with you when we get back anyway.” As my daughters grew older, we exchanged roles. Sometimes I was the mother; other times they wore the mom hat. I coached my daughters’ competitive fast-pitch softball team for many years. Since my girls were less than two years apart, as teenagers they played on the same team. The team was wildly successful that year, and we earned our place in the World Series in Florida. After many fundraising events and sponsors, I, along with my co-coach, took fifteen fourteen- and fifteen-year-old girls to Orlando in July. We didn’t play our best because we were unaccustomed to the heat and humidity, and the best description of our team, including the coaches, was exhausted, hot, and grumpy.



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After our latest loss, I found my way into the hotel bar for a rewarding, ice-cold beer. After looking around, I realized I was the only woman in the room. Within minutes, I had an entourage of men surrounding me, buying me drinks, and I admit I was shamelessly flirting—until the entire bar went silent. The guys stopped talking and stared behind me. I slowly turned around to find all fifteen girls with their arms folded, tapping their toes, and shaking their heads. The spokesperson (my oldest daughter again) said, “Just what do you think you’re doing, young lady?” Fifteen teenagers kept a straight face while they glared at the men, and I’d never seen a bar clear out so quickly. A few months later I had finally met the man of my dreams (or so I thought). After a few dates, he brought me home after a movie. The porch light was on, and my teenage daughters were home, as it was a school night. Feeling a little like teenagers ourselves, my beau and I started making out in his car, steamy windows and all. Bleary-eyed, my date suddenly stopped kissing me. Imagine my surprise when I followed his line of vision to the porch light, blinking on and off. My daughters didn’t stop flicking the switch until I made my way into the house to

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find them giggling and using one of my lines on me. “Just because you’re in the driveway doesn’t mean you didn’t miss your curfew.” The best part about dating with children, though, is that they know their mother better than anyone else ever can. When the “man of my dreams” broke my heart, my daughters were there for me. When I arrived home late from work and still not quite myself after the breakup, I walked into the kitchen to a candlelit dinner for three, consisting of tomato soup, grilled cheese sandwiches, and milk in wine glasses. My daughters sat me down and toasted me. “Mom, don’t worry about him. You’ll always have us.” Diana Rowe

Chili Night

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hen the boys and I got home, after I picked them up at the sitter’s, they knew not to talk to me for at least thirty minutes. I wanted to hear about their day, how they were, and their complaints about the sitter, their teachers, or other kids, but after working twelve hours, I needed some quiet before discussing all of that and fixing dinner, checking homework, overseeing baths, and getting my boys into bed. All three of them were pretty good about giving me that first few minutes; they played quietly, holding off on bickering and on their next mischievous adventure. As soon as the kitchen timer dinged, they descended en masse in full and glorious surround sound. Weekdays were exhausting, and most weekends weren’t much better. Saturday mornings were spent doing laundry, cleaning the apartment, and running

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errands. There were groceries to buy for three ravenous, growing boys, bills to pay, and other little chores that didn’t get done during the long workweek. It was difficult for them to understand why I couldn’t buy whatever they wanted when I had plenty of blank checks in the checkbook. Every time I had to tell them they couldn’t have a toy or a cool jersey or shoes or candy or whatever they had their hearts set on, we discussed our finances. They knew the spiel by heart, but they still asked. It was their job. When my boys were growing up, before the days of VCRs and DVDs, going to the dollar movie was a treat, especially when I broke down and bought movie popcorn instead of sneaking in homemade popcorn in my shoulder bag. Sometimes the boys wouldn’t take no for an answer when they begged and pleaded for large sodas and boxes of candy from the concession stand. “Never mind then. Let’s go home,” I’d say as I walked toward the door. The boys immediately stopped fussing and went inside, certain I’d follow. I did. I wanted to see the movie, too. Sundays we went to church and visited family, taking a short break before the whole round of school, work, sitters, and homework began again. Sometimes we topped off the gas tank, made sandwiches or wrapped up cold fried chicken or splurged on fast food, and went to a museum, a park, or a lake



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for the day. Other times we took our picnic and went for a drive in the country. Nothing stopped us on those days, not even clouds of mosquitoes. After months of long hours and harried nights and weekends full of chores, one Friday night the boys were quieter than usual during the ride home. I had been passed over for a much-needed raise because of budget cuts. I’d have to work more hours at my second job and Saturdays. More hours meant less time with the boys and far fewer weekend movies and picnics. I’d have to pay the sitter more because she’d have to keep them longer, which meant working even more hours to cover the additional costs. Winter was coming. The heating and electric bills would go up, and I could barely cover them now. The boys needed winter coats, boots, and warmer clothes. At home, I dropped down onto the couch, my bag still hooked over my shoulder, tears welling in my eyes. Welfare wouldn’t help me; I made too much money. My ex-husband refused to pay child support. My parents wouldn’t help. I had nowhere to turn. I was so sunk in despair and disappearing options that I didn’t notice my boys clustering around me. Eddie, my middle son, climbed up on the couch and patted my shoulder with his chubby little hand. A. J., the youngest, climbed into my lap, and David Scott held my left hand. The tears I’d held back for so long

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rained down my face. Struggling to get control of myself, I swallowed hard. A. J. reached up and wiped away the tears and cuddled against me. Eddie continued patting my shoulder, and my normally stoic eldest son, David Scott, looked pale and stricken. “You need a man, Mom,” Eddie said. A smile escaped me, and then I burst into laughter. I laughed until I cried again. The boys laughed with me. We laughed so hard and long, the neighbors pounded on the walls and ceiling, making us laugh even harder. When we could breathe without giggling, I went into the kitchen and turned off the Crock-Pot. It was chili night. Picking up my bag from the couch, I went to the front door. “How about tacos for dinner?” I asked. David Scott looked at his brothers for a moment; they nodded. “We’d rather have chili,” David Scott said. Suddenly I knew that however much my boys grumbled about what we didn’t have, they appreciated what we did have: each other. We’d find a way to get through whatever happened together. “Eddie, get the crackers and milk. David Scott, get the bowls and glasses. A. J., set out the silverware and napkins. We’re having chili tonight.” J. M. Cornwell

My Perfect Partner

A

friend who was weighing the pros and cons of leaving her unhappy marriage wailed, “But I never wanted to be a single mother!” Caught by surprise at the vehemence of her tone, I briefly felt offended by the vision she clearly attached to the statement. “Not many of us chose to be single parents,” I pointed out. “It was never part of my life plan, you know.” And it wasn’t, of course, but neither had being a parent in the first place. Marriage and kids had never been high on my list of priorities. I had dreamed of finding that perfect partner to share my interests, but the conventional setup had never really appealed to me. In my teens and even twenties, I had transplanted myself mentally to some vaguely French location with a study crammed with books and comfortable leather couches and a bearded, intellectual,

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and somewhat older man. I’m now convinced that we don’t actually plan anything—particularly children. Instead it can happen like this: A whirlwind marriage while working overseas, almost immediate pregnancy (yes, just the once without safeguards), and almost as immediately, dire issues with a husband who had wanted to secure his emotional future through the binding of a child but was intensely jealous—even of an unborn baby. Our daughter was only three months old when the first accusations of adultery were flung at my head, and the final episode of the soap opera was played out when she was three and a half. There I was, overseas, with no family support, and already the main breadwinner, employed and doing freelance jobs as well. I was fortunate to have a wonderful babysitter with whom our daughter was very happy. But when my daughter and I were alone in the house, she would not let me out of her sight. After having her father simply drop out of sight without a word, she was convinced I would do the same. This went on for almost a year. Her loss ate away at me, and because of my guilt, I found myself relaxing rules right and left. Four years old and she wants a porcelain doll that costs the earth and will be broken within days, if not hours? Well, if it makes her happy. A second or even



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a third chocolate éclair? Well, she deserves an extra treat, doesn’t she? Gradually, we created a pretend world in which every minute was “special” and everything was a “treat.” And bedtime? Previously a wellstructured operation that left Nerissa bathed, read to, and in bed by 7:00 or 7:30, bedtime now became a lengthy affair that stretched past one to two hours, then three and sometimes even longer. My daily routine started at 6:00 a.m., when I got up to get Nerissa dressed, fed, and ready to go to the babysitter. I would then dash to my job, finishing at 3:00 and hurrying to pick her up, doing any shopping on the way home. I was often loaded down with child, stroller, laptop computer, purse, and bags of groceries, all the while battling crowded streets and even more crowded public transport. Playtime, dinner, and bath followed our arrival home, during which supportive friends would often stop by or our landlady would come down to see Nerissa, the apple of her eye. I always put aside my freelance work until later, concentrating first on my daughter and then giving myself time to unwind, relax with friends, read, or just try to grapple with the grief of a broken marriage, before doing several hours’ work. However, as time went on, bedtime took over my evenings. I found that Nerissa was demanding story after story, and I didn’t have the heart to say

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no. So I would read endless stories and give cuddle after cuddle, often until 10:00 or even 11:00. When sleep would finally conquer her, I would jump on the computer, attacking waiting tasks in a frenzy. Often, tight deadlines for my freelance contracts meant I was working until 2:00 or 3:00 in the morning; but with no financial support from my ex-husband, I had little choice. I lost so much weight that my clothes were hanging on me, and I felt as if I were on a merry-go-round that I couldn’t get off, with nonstop needs from my daughter and nonstop work demands that had to be met. In the meantime, my own needs—to relax after a hard day, to just sit and grieve, or to talk things out with girlfriends—were shelved. One night, two friends came over for dinner. I went to bathe Nerissa and put her to bed while they sat out enjoying the summer night. An hour, then two, of story reading passed. The friends also took turns reading stories. Then I resumed, and another hour passed, but with little progress toward sleep. Finally, I snapped. Not more than a minute after I had rejoined my guests, I heard the call—threw the teacup against the garden wall and began crying. It was just too hard, and I was too tired. I had never considered raising a child on my own, and at that moment, I wasn’t sure I was up to the job.



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“It’s all down to me, and I just can’t do it,” I remember saying over and over. I had reached breaking point and felt I was staring into a huge black hole of need that would never be fulfilled. I knew I had to do something. The next evening, after reading the bedtime advice of some of the leading childcare gurus, I explained to Nerissa that I loved her very much and that after her story, I would be sitting right outside her door on the living room sofa. If she stayed in bed, the door would stay open. If she got out of bed, we would have to close the door. Heart in mouth and large gin-and-tonic in hand, I sat on the couch, speaking to her in a soothing but firm voice when she cried, but not going in. We made it through the evening, which was far harder on me than on her! The next night the gin-and-tonic was much smaller, and the time it took to achieve a sleeping child was much shorter. The third night went like a dream, and she slept solidly, as she had always done in the past. I felt as if I’d won a significant battle—against myself. Because as I sat on that couch, I slowly realized how, because of my feelings of guilt and the need to try and make up for the loss of her dad, I had stretched crucial boundaries until they were so thin as to be nonexistent. Rather than reassuring my child

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and giving her extra security, the lack of boundaries (and the impact on me) had made her anxious and unsure and, therefore, demanding—until the whole thing became a vicious circle. It was a huge, valuable lesson; one I never forgot. From that time on, I stuck to my own rules and added a few new ones. I always made time for me, so that my emotional and physical resources would be fully charged for my daughter. I never said anything negative about my ex-husband to or in front of her. I didn’t hide my sadness, I let her comfort me, and we talked about our feelings. When she was sad and asked why, I never failed to remind her that her dad loved her very much, and she grew to understand that sometimes no one, including her dad, knows exactly why things happen. The honesty and closeness that we established when she was four has carried on. Even now, as she experiences high school and hormones and her mom having a new and serious boyfriend, she is still my perfect partner, reading her book across from me in the recliner while I lounge on the comfortable leather sofa with mine. Rose-Marie Barbeau

On a Wing, a Prayer, and a Mortgage

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he other day my friend Eric called me “normal.” I wonder what normal is for a stressedout single mom trying to pay two college tuitions on one income and one house leveraged to the max. I do know what has been the norm during the twenty or so years I’ve been raising my two daughters single-handedly: getting calls from them in the middle of my work day. You name it, they’ve called about it: sore throats, sprained ankles, misplaced soccer cleats, help with homework, problems with teachers, requests for dinner (please, no leftovers!), for rides, for on-my-way-home-from-work purchases . . . even for injured guinea pigs! Now that my girls are in college, their calls are mostly for money. So it should have come as no surprise when my twenty-two-yearold daughter, Kate, called me at work recently.   227

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“Mom, I can’t register for spring classes because my tuition hasn’t been paid!” She’s frantic, and I’m confused. I distinctly remember that the last notice I received from her college read, “No payment due at this time.” “Kate, I’ve handled this.” “Mom!” she interrupts, suddenly sounding more annoyed than frantic, “they won’t let me register. I’m a senior and need these classes to graduate. Did you pay the tuition?” “Kate, I’ll look into this. My client is waiting.” I’m trying to sound calm, but my stomach is in knots. “I’ll have to call you back.” As a psychotherapist, I sometimes find it a relief to set aside my own problems while I help clients with theirs. Not this time. Knowing I have to wait fifty minutes before I can call the financial aid office unnerves me. Throughout the session, I struggle to keep my anxiety in check and my attention on my client. I watch the clock on my desk, growing increasingly more impatient as the minutes tick slowly by. Finally, my client leaves, and I rush to the phone. Someone answers and immediately puts me on hold. There goes the ten minutes before my next appointment. “May I help you?” a woman’s voice asks after a two-minute wait that seems much longer.



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“Yes,” I say and inform her of my daughter’s crises. Talking a little faster, I explain, “I’ve made payment arrangements with TMS, and the last statement indicated no payment was due at—” “I’m sorry,” she interrupts, “but we don’t handle TMS arrangements in this office.” “Have you ever tried to call TMS?” I ask. I realize I’m getting off the point and being surly, but I’m so frustrated I don’t care. “It’s like calling the IRS or the DMV. I’ll be on hold for at least ten minutes, just trying to get to the right department. Once I get to the right department, it will take another twenty minutes before I’m connected with the right person. I can’t do that right now; I have to get back to work!” I stop myself, realizing I’m talking too fast and too loud. I have only a few more minutes before my next client. I regain my composure and try again. “Look, my daughter is a senior, and if she doesn’t get her classes, she can’t graduate.” “I’m sorry,” the woman says. “We can’t change the rules for one family.” “I don’t expect you to change the rules,” I say in resignation. What I want to say is: Have you ever tried to put two children through college with one moderate income? Have you had to refinance your house every

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two years to pay their tuition and living expenses? Have your children called you at work, year after year, with one “emergency” after another? Have you ever been unable to help them with a true emergency—like this one? I want to scream. I feel caught between my work, the financial aid office, and my daughter’s college graduation. Years of frustration well up, and I remember one of the first calls I got at work after my divorce. It was from the girls’ elementary school. For some reason, their father hadn’t picked them up as planned. The school secretary assured me the girls were safe and waiting in the principal’s office. Could I please come get them? Or send someone else who was authorized to pick them up? I couldn’t just leave work at a moment’s notice, so I called my mom. Of course, she would pick up the girls. Thank God, my parents were on the “authorized” list. As a single parent, I had learned the hard way that I needed backup—family and friends who could be called in emergencies. Not having a ride home was an “emergency” when the girls were in elementary school. Not having enough money for tuition is an emergency when they are in college. This time, though, I was clearly on my own.



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“You just need to call TMS,” the woman in the financial aid office tells me, jarring me back to the present. “I’m sure they can help you.” “I don’t have their number with me here at work,” I say. “I’ll give it to you,” she offers. “Haven’t you and I spoken before about your daughter’s financial-aid package?” I can tell she’s trying to be helpful now, and I feel embarrassed about losing it with her. “Yes, I believe we have,” I say, trying to remember whether I’d lost it during that conversation too. I really wish I could just ask this woman—or someone at TMS—to call the girls’ dad for his share of the tuition payment this month. I wonder what she’d say to him when he tells her he’s sorry, but he simply doesn’t have the money. “Can’t get blood from a turnip,” he likes to say. Or better yet, maybe she could ask him why he can’t help with our daughters’ tuitions when he managed to go to Sri Lanka to help the hurricane survivors. He sent “wish you were here” cards to the girls from there. I’d like to send him a “wish you were here” card from the financial aid office. Wish you were here to write out a check for Kate’s tuition. I want to be certain Kate is going to get her classes, but I can’t do anything about it while I’m still at work. I say a little prayer that this is going to work

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out. Call this faith, crisis management, whatever, it is how I cope with feeling powerless in a world I can’t control. The next morning I call TMS. Sure enough, they’d made an error in calculating the nine months of payments. I should have received a statement showing the amount due, rather than the statement that read “no payment due at this time.” Nevertheless, they agree to adjust the payments so Kate can register for classes. But I still have to come up with a large lump sum by the end of May. I call Kate immediately after speaking with TMS. She answers the phone sounding as if I just woke her up. “Kate! You can sign up for classes!” “Mom, you don’t need to yell,” Kate is awake now. “What did you do?” she asks, sounding skeptical. “Are you sure?” “Yes, I’m sure.” “Does the financial aid office know?” “Yes, Kate. TMS will notify them. We’re good. For the moment, we’re good.” Two weeks later I get a call from the financial aid officer at Kate’s college. This time she’s calling me at work. Now what? I wonder. “Your daughter has been awarded more scholarship money, which will pay off the balance due,” she says.



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“Are you serious?” I’m stunned. “How did that happen?” “Occasionally, we have surplus aid money at the end of the school year, and we like to give it to our graduating seniors before dispersing the rest of it.” “I don’t believe this,” I say, feeling a little out of breath. “Thank you. Thank you so much!” I put down the phone and lean back in my chair. My eyes fill with tears as I send up a silent prayer, Thank you, God. I wonder if my friend Eric would call this “normal”: Putting two kids through college on one income, one leveraged house, and plenty of prayer. Marilee Stark

The Ties That Heal

I

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hummed an improvised harmony to the song on the car radio, while Ben, my seventeen-year-old son, beat a staccato accompaniment on the dash. We were on our way to ski fresh powder from a rare midApril snowstorm. This quality time with my older son was a rare break in my hectic life as a single working mom. In the three years since my divorce, my job as a high-school and summer-school teacher had left few days to play with my three teenagers. As we wound up Mount Hood, an unexpected second storm spread a veil of fog over the highway. The road became a sheet of ice. I considered turning back, but Ben encouraged me to pull off so he could put snow chains on my car tires. I turned the wheel slightly to the right. Abruptly, our car skidded left across the highway and nosed into a snow bank. Ben and I got out to survey the situation. A woman



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whose car had lost traction and stalled on the highway about fifteen feet from us asked Ben if he would put chains on her Buick. He went with her, while I opened the trunk of my car for our chains. I didn’t see the black Jeep Cherokee spin out and slide across the road. A scream from one of its passengers split the air as the car struck me a glancing blow, then careened into the Buick where Ben stood. The impact tossed Ben like a rag doll onto a snowcovered rise. Doubled over with pain, I struggled through snowdrifts and a gathering crowd to where Ben lay, the snow turning scarlet around him. Thoughts of my own injury vanished as I took his hands. Both legs jutted at odd angles from his knees. Jagged rips in his snowboarding pants revealed mangled tissue and bone. I looked steadily into his eyes, willing him to stay conscious until help arrived. Both of us shivered with cold and shock and fear in the damp, icy air. “My legs, my legs,” Ben said in broken gasps. And “I can’t believe this happened!” And “Let this be a dream.” Or only “Mom?” Over and over, I said, “I’m here. Hang on.” After an eternity, I relinquished my son to the care of an off-duty medical tech who happened by and then to a team of ambulance paramedics. The

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driver of the Cherokee approached and assured me of his excellent insurance. Money? I just wanted my son to live. A second ambulance arrived and whisked me off the mountain. “You’re doing fine,” a paramedic assured me. But I wasn’t fine. I fought hysteria as the initial shock of the accident wore off, my pain increased, and I thought of my son battling for his life back on the hill. When I’d fled my marriage with my children, my ex-husband had said I would be sorry, that there would come a time when we would need him there. Was this it? I wondered. Would Ben and I be better able to recover if the marriage was still intact? I imagined the questions my ex would bark at me: Why had I chosen to drive up the mountain after a spring snowstorm, knowing everyone would have had their snow tires removed? Why, when a second storm had surprised us, had I pressed on? He was the type to find fault, not to reassure. No. His presence would not make things better; it would make things harder. At the hospital, where I was diagnosed with a fractured sacrum and given pain medication, I called Rick, a man I’d been dating for a few months. I was desperate to lean on someone, and he was perfect for the job—warm and supportive. Since Ben would be in surgery for several more hours, I asked Rick



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to take me home so I could hug my daughter, Tami, and my younger son, Joel, fiercely to me. By the time we got there, Tami had called her father. He said he and his second wife would meet me at the hospital. I stiffened. I wanted only positive energy around Ben and me right now. Soon after we returned to the hospital, a doctor still in scrubs entered the room and held up X-rays of Ben’s legs. The tibias and fibulas were nothing but white bark dust and a few long shards of splintered bone. The doctor had been able to insert a metal rod in each leg that extended from knee to ankle, and he expected the bones to heal, but X-rays couldn’t show the extent of irreversible damage to muscles, tendons, and nerves. Circulation was so impaired that the doctor feared bone infection would develop. He thought he could save Ben’s right leg, but wasn’t sure about the left. I went home that night with the X-ray images seared into my brain. Insignificant as a fractured sacrum was compared to Ben’s mangled legs, my back really hurt. Rick left, and I lay in bed curled around a pillow, thinking of nights I had held vigil for Ben as he recuperated from the measles or a minor soccer injury. His father and I had usually disagreed on how to best care for him. Today had been overwhelming, but at least I could find my way through this night-

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mare without the constant friction and arguments my marriage had been. The next morning I felt briefly elated. “Ben is alive,” I said aloud as I wandered through our house, picking up a snowboarding magazine here, a stray sock there. Then I sobered. There was a fifty-fifty chance Ben would lose his legs. I needed to arrange for rides to the hospital so I could sit with him every day. Tami and Joel would visit him, as would his father and friends, but I felt that I, his mother, could potentially make the biggest difference in his recovery. I’d cheered on the sidelines of every athletic event and school program; I would certainly be on the sidelines now, cheering as he fought to mend tissue and bone and spirit. Over the next two weeks, I sat by Ben’s bed for hours, reading to him, talking of the accident as often as he wished, and occasionally crying with him. Evenings, I gathered with Tami and Joel around our oak kitchen table for dinner. I knew they must be badly frightened to have their brother so seriously hurt. As much as Ben needed me, they did too. Over each evening meal, we talked of Ben’s progress as well as school and the various activities Tami and Joel were engaged in. Afterward, I helped them with homework, or we watched a movie together. They asked me how I was doing, and while being



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careful not to burden them with my worries and fears, I talked some about my feelings after the accident. And they shared theirs. I felt the three of us draw together and grow stronger as a team. Amazingly, Ben was on our support team, too. He consistently expressed gratitude to everyone around him for any care he received and cracked jokes in the midst of his intense suffering. How could I complain about anything in the face of such courage? One morning at the hospital, Ben’s father and stepmother cornered me. They’d learned the doctor was releasing Ben to go home. Since his legs still oozed fluids that immediately soaked thick gauze pads and he would need two adults to turn him and replace bandages every hour or two, they were taking him to their home. I was welcome to visit whenever I wished. I felt like I’d been knocked across the room. Ben belonged with me. Where had his father been for Ben’s games and school programs? For his class projects and parties with friends? Over the years of our marriage, my ex had more often wrapped himself in his personal interests than Ben’s. Now he was going to yank him from me? I should be the one giving my son medications, checking his temperature, changing his bandages, talking with him about how he felt and what he saw for himself down the road as

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he healed. Besides, I needed to see Ben every day to reassure myself he was healing. But realistically, I couldn’t give Ben the care he needed. Never had I felt so vulnerable or inadequate as a parent. Still, I visited Ben daily at his father’s house, holding strained conversations with my ex and his wife and chatting with Ben with all the optimism I could muster. When Ben asked to come home after two weeks, following an argument with his father, I wanted to shout for joy. I ordered a hospital bed. Rick built a ramp from the kitchen to the garage, put new hinges on the bathroom door that allowed it to swing wide enough for a wheelchair to pass through, and removed the door to Ben’s bedroom. I hung a simple curtain in the doorway. Life took on a routine. I returned to teaching part-time, while a cousin stayed with Ben. Ben’s friends often came by. When Tami was home from business school, she’d join them as they drank Cokes and swapped stories. Joel, ever helpful, answered the phone, refilled glasses, and brought Ben an extra blanket or took one away. In weekly appointments, the orthopedist snipped dead tissue from both Ben’s legs and assured us the recovery was going well. I began to breathe more easily.



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Then the shin of Ben’s right leg began to sag, sucked air when he lifted it and gurgled when he set it down. At about the same time, I learned Rick was seeing another woman. Who would hold me and tell me that I was not a terrible mother? That Tami and Joel didn’t feel neglected? That my son would be all right? I sat on our family-room couch, head on my knees, and wondered how I was going to manage. Everyone needed me, and I had nothing left to give. I’d never felt so alone in my life. I cried a bit, then I picked up the phone to call Ben’s orthopedist. The doctor confirmed our worst fears: The leg he had been most confident of saving had developed a bone infection. He referred us to a new doctor, one famous for “saving limbs.” That surgeon shaped one of Ben’s abdominal muscles into something that looked like a kidney bean and attached it to Ben’s calf. The reshaped muscle mass would help with blood flow while antibiotics released through a shunt near Ben’s heart fought the infection twenty-four hours a day. Bandages would be removed in two weeks. If the leg was pink, Ben kept it. For fourteen days, the specter of amputation stalked our house. The dark depression I’d experienced in the last years of my marriage threatened to enfold me again, but with the support of friends

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and the positive attitudes of my children, plus some professional counseling, I kept it at bay. When, at the end of two weeks, the bandages came off, the leg was pink. We all cried with relief. After one more surgery to fill gaps in the bones of his legs with bone from his pelvis, followed by an excruciatingly painful recovery, Ben could begin a steady road to wellness. As I watched Ben assault the hill outside our house in his wheelchair, then swing on crutches and finally walk again, I thought of the abdominal muscle that had been reshaped to replace the damaged calf muscle. I’d left a marriage I felt was damaging for my children as well as for me, and together, the kids and I had reshaped a new family unit. Ben would feel the effects of the accident all his life; we couldn’t change that, any more than we could not feel changed by the divorce. But my son’s near-miraculous recovery had helped forge a family bond that I knew would sustain us through any challenge. Samantha Ducloux Waltz

You Never Know until You Try

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was raised by a single mom who wasn’t “extraordinary” by traditional standards. She didn’t graduate with high honors from a prestigious university, achieve fame in the newspaper, or win any lifetime achievement awards. She just performed the “ordinary” job of motherhood with humor, honesty, and selfless love. After two miscarriages, I was born. My parents had no other children together before they divorced, when I was three. Then it was just the two of us— Mom and me. Before she’d married, Mom had completed a two-year clerical program at a business school. After the divorce, she easily landed a job as a secretary. I attended a day nursery across the street from her office until I entered first grade.   243

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Cashing in a life insurance policy she’d acquired years before, Mom proudly counted out the down payment for our own little, two-bedroom house the year I turned six. It had ugly brown walls covered with wallpaper that was nicked and torn, and old rust-stained fixtures, but Mom beamed at the possibilities. After all, it was all ours. Money was extremely tight, and Mom had no family nearby. But she was determined to make a secure life for me. Still, having divorced parents was sometimes hard, because I didn’t have one other friend in the same boat. Sometimes it was funny. One afternoon when I was about eight, Mom and I were browsing in a greeting-card shop near our house. I was searching and searching for just the right card to give my remarried dad at Christmas, and in frustration, I finally bellowed out across the aisle, “I can’t find a card that says ‘To Dad and his wife!’” Several customers chuckled; Mom just smiled. They probably have a card like that today. Of course, my mother also thought lessons in every sport and art form went along with that secure life plan. Soon, I was pliéing and pirouetting my way across the shiny wood floors of Miss Anita’s dance studio in our little suburban town. I loved jazz and ballet, but Mom encouraged me to try a wide variety of activities—many of which I had no interest in.



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One of her favorite sayings was, “How do you know until you try?” Soon I was plunking away on the piano every week, ice skating at the local mall, and shimmying onto horses at a local riding stable. Mom scraped and saved every penny she could to afford the lessons she thought were important. Sometimes, late at night while paying bills, she’d look up at me, sigh, and say, “I wish I wasn’t just a lowly secretary. I wish I could give you more.” Fortunately, my mom always found a way to get what we needed. When a manager in her office lamented the need for ski bus chaperones, Mom quickly volunteered, securing free ski lessons for me for several years. I needed them; it took me three seasons just to master the rope tow! Mom never paid for home repairs either, not if she could “do it herself” with a tool and a manual. She could be an expert seamstress creating a Swan Lake tutu one day and a handywoman wrestling a pipe wrench to fix a broken toilet the next. Friends were incredulous when they found out she had single-handedly fixed her carburetor, installed a garbage disposal, and completely rebuilt two closets. Mom just smiled and gave her usual response: “How do you know until you try?” The summer I turned sixteen, Mom had finally earned enough time off work for us to take a real

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vacation—to the Hawaiian Islands, a place we’d often dreamed of seeing. Mom believed travel should be part of every young girl’s education. I worked every day after school and weekends at Marr’s Humdinger Hamburgers and saved every check for our big splurge. Of course, most of the expenses had to be charged on Mom’s Bank Americard, but we were going just the same. She prided herself on having perfect credit and decided this was a good time to use it. Mom always believed in getting in the mood for a fancy trip, so for three weeks before our departure, she played Don Ho records on our stately Packard Bell stereo in the living room. Every day, we woke up, dressed, ate meals, and did the hula to “Tiny Bubbles,” “My Little Grass Shack,” and “The Hawaiian War Chant.” By the time we showed up at the airport, I was sure we could hula with the best of the native islanders. Mom sewed each of us several brightly colored muumuus, and we bought plenty of coconut suntan oil as well as film and flashcubes for our Kodak Instamatic. Finally the big day arrived, and everything went according to our glossy vacation brochure—until the weekend we visited Maui. While checking into our beachfront hotel, we noticed the front-desk clerks talking in animated voices. A tall, dark-haired native



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informed us that a massive tsunami was predicted to hit the island that very weekend! Mom and I looked at each other. Being from Oregon, we had no idea what a tsunami could do. “Will we be safe in our second-floor room?” Mom asked in a hopeful voice. “Oh, no,” replied another clerk, shaking her head dramatically. “You have to head for high ground,” she warned, pointing in the direction of the mountains. They weren’t kidding. We scurried up to our room. Mom grabbed the phone book and began dialing rental-car agencies for our getaway car, hoping there would still be one left on such short notice. Soon, a shiny, late-model, silver Toyota was delivered to us at the hotel. Being in a new car felt really exciting and strange, as we had only driven Mom’s eleven-year-old Comet before. Mom decided we should go out to dinner in the new car that night, so we could get some practice in for our big storm escape the next day. It was already dark out when she started up the motor in the hotel parking lot. We were both starving and looking forward to a big, juicy Polynesian-style steak and salad at the restaurant we’d picked out in downtown Lahaina. “Wonder how we turn on the headlights?” Mom said as we pressed and pulled knobs and buttons, none of which ever did turn on the lights. Had any-

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one seen us—two nearly hysterical females, sitting in a car with windshield wipers going, water spraying, the radio blaring, and heater blasting—we would have died of humiliation. Mom finally turned off the engine. It was already pitch dark, and we were stuck. We got out and scoured the area, and finally flagged down a guy in the parking lot and begged him to help us out. It took him about two seconds to turn the lever on the steering wheel that turned on the lights! After gobbling down our well-earned dinner, we mentioned the impending disaster to the waitress, who nearly dropped her tray of Mai Tai’s. “Oh, that Jeanne Dixon!” the waitress laughed heartily. “The islanders are so superstitious.” Mom gaped in disbelief. “Jeanne Dixon, the astrology lady?” she wailed. “Oh, for crying out loud!” We’d thought the hotel clerks had meant a weatherman or meteorologist—not a psychic—had forecast the tsunami. Well, we at least got two days with a new car, and we knew how to turn on the lights. That trip to Hawaii awakened in me a fierce yearning to travel. I knew that somehow, someday, I was going to do it again. I also began enjoying the ice skating lessons more. I let most of the other activities



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go and worked more hours to pay for private lessons, with Mom helping out as she could. When I graduated from high school and enrolled in a nearby college, I decided to move into the dorm; Mom would now be living alone. To my surprise, she handled the separation well. Her only concern was that I was spending too much time on the ice and too little time on my studies. Skating had become my passion, and I knew in my heart that I was supposed to pursue it. Mom thought I should be more passionate about my grade-point average. For the first time in our lives, we had a serious argument. Things came to a head one day when a statement from the rink arrived at the house before I could intercept it. Mom gasped at the huge bill I’d run up. “What are you doing?” she accused. “Mom, you don’t have to worry,” I assured her with confidence I wasn’t sure I felt. “You see, I’m going to get really, really good and join one of those big fancy ice shows and travel all over the world and make you proud!” That year, some former Olympic champions were using the ice rink where I trained to rehearse a show. Watching them from the bleachers, I noticed how the entire opening number was mostly dancing. Hadn’t I had fifteen years of dance? I noted how the performers kept precise counts of the music. Hadn’t I

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learned those counts when I’d taken piano? Song after song, they expertly glided on one foot then another, requiring the kind of balance that is required in skiing. Hadn’t I had all those skiing lessons? I knew what I had to do; I’d heard Mom’s words for too many years: “How do you know until you try?” One year later, the gold brocade curtain opened, the overture began, the spotlights cued, and I glided across the ice with twenty-three other chorus skaters, taking my place in front of thousands at the Wembley arena in London. My tour with Holiday on Ice also took me to Caracas, Rio de Janeiro, Geneva, Stockholm, Prague, Paris—in all, to twenty-seven cities around the world. It was everything I’d hoped for and so much more. My dream came true because of one single mom’s determination to give her child the best. And on that first opening night, sitting proudly in the front row and grasping her program, one lowly secretary couldn’t stop smiling. My mom not only started my engine, she turned on the lights too. LouAnn Edwards

Muscle Memory

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t’s Saturday night, and John and I meet at a bar for a beer before going ice skating together. John is an accomplished skater. He trained seriously with a coach for three years when he was in his twenties, skating five mornings a week before work. He trained first as a singles skater and then later moved into pairs. It’s been a few years since he was on the ice regularly. I’ve never seen him skate before. I’ve skated only a handful of times, mostly in my childhood. Back then I was physically fearless, with ice skating and with everything else. Getting repeatedly stitched up in the emergency room didn’t dampen my drive. My main goal in ice skating was to go as fast as possible; it never occurred to me that fast might not be good when you don’t know how to stop.   251

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I’ve grown more cautious with age and motherhood. I’m a single mom now; I can’t afford to get hurt. John and I have known each other for about six months and have developed a close friendship. Several evenings a week he comes to my house after work, and we stay up late, cooking and talking. All day, I look forward to seeing him. I like the way he listens to me so attentively and responds so thoughtfully. He is a serious person. We met at the company where I work when he came in for an interview. He’d worked there years ago, before I was hired, and knew most of my coworkers well. He declined the position, and I didn’t see him again for months, until we were both at a party for a mutual friend. I found him sitting alone on the floor of the kitchen, watching people but not engaging in conversation. I sat down on the floor across from him, and we talked for more than an hour. He started coming to my house soon afterward. He’s an engineer, like I am, and at 5 feet 7 inches tall and 130 pounds, he’s not much bigger than I am. He wears glasses that are too big for his face. When he takes them off one night, I’m pleased by the warmth and intelligence in his brown eyes. His slim build, tenor voice, and easy movements all con-



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vey an impression of youth—although, at thirty-one, he is already losing his hair. I like his smile, his high cheekbones, his square chin. I find myself watching his Adam’s apple when he talks. He doesn’t mind that I am newly divorced. He likes the fact that I am a mother, and he likes my three-year-old daughter. When he invites me on outings, he makes sure to choose ones that can include her. He never brings her presents. He waits for her to initiate conversations, and when she does, he listens as closely to her as he does to me. After a few months he says to me carefully, with a formality of speech he hasn’t used before, “I hope this does not come as a surprise to you, but I wish to date you.” It isn’t a surprise. I tell him no. I am longing to have a stable, happy family, and he tempts me with this vision, but I turn down his advances. The problem is this: I am simply not attracted to him. I don’t know why I’m not; I often wish that I were. When I tell him I don’t want to date him, he accepts it, but he still wants to spend time with me. So we do. We keep right on seeing each other, and I’m relieved that nothing seems to have changed. Many of my friendships have fallen apart or grown

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awkward since the divorce. He is my closest friend now, and I need him. On the night when John and I go skating, my daughter is staying with her dad. I haven’t yet gotten used to her being away half the time. Part of me continues to listen for her even when she’s gone. I’m glad to have something to do with myself to occupy the empty time. I drink two beers at the bar, so I’m tipsy, a bit full of myself. We walk the five blocks to the rink. I am chatty the whole way, which makes John smile. When we get there, I lace up my creased brown rental skates. John’s skates are also well-worn, but I know the black boots are custom-made and expensive. He shows me that the serrated edge at the front of the blade—the toe pick—is much bigger on his skates than on mine. “You don’t really need toe picks unless you’re jumping,” he explains. “Mostly they just trip you up, so try not to let your weight get too far forward. If you catch a toe pick, you’ll probably go down hard on one knee, which really hurts.” He smiles and adds, “I’ve done that a lot.” “Good to know,” I say. We zip up our jackets and step onto the ice together. I skate slowly around the rink alone while



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he warms up. He passes me by, lap after lap, first skating forward and then, with a small hop, flipping himself around to skate in reverse. He practices some footwork, and I watch him. So do several other skaters. He is intensely focused; he doesn’t glance in my direction even once. From across the rink he looks like he could be about eighteen. After a while, he glides up next to me and says, “Do you want to try skating as a pair?” I think he’s joking, since I’m barely able to stroke around the ice on my own. I laugh and say, “Sure.” He moves in very close behind me and pulls me back against him. He startles me with the firmness of his grip. We have never touched each other before, and I hadn’t anticipated his body confidence. We are both facing forward, our bodies pressed together. He takes my left hand in his and positions our hands at my hip. He takes my right hand and extends our right arms out to the side. Because we are so close in size, we fit each other neatly, without excess. I think of all the times I’ve watched Olympic pairs skaters and I wonder what we look like. “Ready?” he says. “Okay,” I say, but I’m not sure how to start moving. It doesn’t matter. He does it for me. He simply begins to skate, propelling me in front of him, saying quietly in my ear “Left foot, right foot, left foot, right

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foot” for every step, and somehow my feet listen to him. With each stroke we lean left, then right as we transfer our weight from foot to foot. He is a powerful skater; within five steps we are moving faster than I’ve ever moved on the ice. In ten steps the noise of the wind we are making drowns out everything except the sound of his voice. It’s like being on the prow of a speedboat. I am surprised to realize that although we’re moving very fast, I’m not afraid of falling. I have the sensation that I can’t fall because I am completely contained within a moving steel cage. We are approaching the curve at the end of the ovalshaped rink. I lean into the turn and cross my right skate over my left as he does, and we round the bend without losing much speed. His voice is in my ear, “Good, good, you’re doing fine. Now left to avoid the girl. Good. Keep your arm out straight. Excellent.” We weave through the other skaters. We are moving faster than anyone else on the ice, stroking in synchrony. I don’t know how I’m doing this. When your body performs some skilled physical maneuver without explicit direction from your mind, it’s often called a muscle memory. This is what’s happening to me—but it isn’t my memory. He has seeped inside of me, taken control of me, infused me



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with his ability to skate. There is only his voice and his body guiding mine. When we’re done skating we walk back toward the bar, where my car is parked. I don’t say much. It’s Saturday afternoon, six years after John and I first skated together. I’m standing at the edge of the rink, watching him skate. He’s hunched over, holding up our three-year-old son, who’s flailing between his father’s legs and giggling. John is patiently telling him that he needs to stand up and walk forward on his skates. If they’re making forward progress, it’s not discernible to me; they are moving about as slowly as two people can move on the ice. The baby in my arms wriggles and shrieks when he sees them, and does it again when my daughter—who’s nine now— skates by us, stroking as fast as she can, building up more speed than she has any control over. “That’s your sister, big guy,” I tell the baby, and he smiles. As I stand there holding my baby and watching the rest of my family skate together, I remember the period in my life when I thought I’d forgotten how to love someone, when I didn’t trust my own heart. But it seems the heart has muscle memories of its own. Jennifer Eyre White

Bedtime Battles

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258 

ave you ever had one of those nights when you badly needed the kids to be in bed and asleep early so that you could have some time to yourself? Well, this was definitely one of those nights. My daughter was three years old—and a precocious, energetic, curious child who didn’t want to miss anything. Hence, the bedtime problem. Every night, she would find as many reasons as possible not to go to sleep. I had read somewhere that this is a sign of a bright child, but that was no comfort that Monday night. At the time, I was a social worker for the children’s hospital in our city. The day before, Sunday, had been my turn to be on call. My pager went off much too often, mostly with regard to emergencyroom child-abuse cases. Fortunately, most of it could be handled over the phone, and my daughter’s father



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had her for the day. I didn’t have to scramble to find backup childcare if I did have to go to the hospital, and I didn’t have to feel guilty about using the TV as a babysitter while I was on the phone with the hospital staff. That day, my daughter would’ve been watching a lot of television and interrupting me every five minutes, because the phone rang incessantly. The next day, Monday, was absolutely gutwrenching. I talked with the shell-shocked parents of a baby newly diagnosed with cancer, trying to give whatever hope and support I could. I discharged an abused and very frightened three-year-old to foster care, trying to comfort him while he sobbed, “I want my mommy!” Finally, I spent several grueling hours embroiled in a crisis intervention with a depressed adolescent who had attempted suicide, ensuring that she was safely transferred to a psychiatric hospital. Forget paperwork; that would have to wait until tomorrow. I raced out the door at 5:15, keenly aware of the tug of war between work and my child’s needs. Forget about my needs. There just wasn’t time. Traffic was horrible. By the time I reached day care at 5:45, I was dead tired—physically, mentally, and emotionally. And I was late. The day-care provider gave me The Look—you know, the “you’re late!” scowl. I apologized and mumbled something about a crisis that kept me from leaving earlier. She

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didn’t seem to care. She knows what I do for a living, I thought. So why doesn’t she cut me some slack? I would have to grovel later. No time now. Sometimes, my job made me appreciate my healthy child more. I would go home and hold her and tell her I loved her, and the world would feel like a better place. Tonight, though, I just felt as though everyone wanted a piece of me. I had nothing left to give. Finally, dinner was over and the dishes were . . . well, sort of piled in the sink. The dog and cat were fed. My daughter’s bath was done, teeth brushed, hair combed, jammies on, and story read. I scratched her back and sang her favorite lullaby, hoping she wouldn’t sense that I was rushing and make me do it again. I was desperately exhausted, and all I could think about was zoning out in front of the TV to watch my favorite show and then crashing. Please, God, I prayed silently. Let her go to sleep quickly. And is it too much to ask that she sleep through the night? And while you’re at it, how about in her own bed? I sat down with a cup of tea and turned on the television. Ahh … finally, peace and quiet. Then I heard it: the dreaded pitter-patter of little feet. Then came a little voice: “Mommy, I can’t sleep.”



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I walked her back to bed, tucked her back in, and gave her a kiss. “Go to sleep now,” I said, wondering what idiot had thought up the bright idea of graduating her from a crib with bars to a toddler bed. Five minutes went by. From the bedroom, I heard the voice again. “Mommy, I’m thirsty.” I took her a drink and kissed her again. “Go to sleep now,” I said, a little louder and firmer this time. Five more minutes, and there she was again— back in the living room. “I can’t find my blankie,” she cried, with a touch of obviously fake distress. I took a deep breath to quell my rising anger, then marched her back to bed and tucked her in … one last time. I searched for her blankie, knowing full well that she’d had it when I tucked her in the first time, and quickly found it. Some clever little person had carefully concealed it under the covers. “I had better not see you out of bed again!” I yelled, completely exasperated. Five minutes went by, then ten, then fifteen. It was quiet. I held my breath. Was she actually asleep? Then I heard someone quietly sneaking up behind my chair. Now, I wonder, who could that be? “You had better not be out of bed again!” I barked.

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“But, Mommy,” she whispered, “I have clothes on.” I turned around, about to explode with anger, and instead began to laugh hysterically. On top of her pajamas, she had put on three pairs of underwear, two pairs of pants, shorts, four shirts, socks, shoes, and a hat. After walking her back to the room and helping her peal off the outer layers, I put her back to bed, yet again . . . and giggled the rest of the evening. All of my stress melted away, and life came back into perspective. My daughter is twelve now and still quite the drama queen. Sometimes when she doesn’t want to go to bed on time and I am getting angry, she’ll put on her fake whiny voice and wail, “But, Mommy, I have clothes on!” Then we both dissolve into uncontrollable giggles. Beth Andrews

Gypsy in My Soul

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other always said we were different. “Gypsies,” she said, and she was proud of it. We were a mother and her young son, roaming the San Francisco Peninsula in the early 1950s, drifting here and there, shifting our addresses, one step ahead of creditors and outraged landlords. Just me and Mother, and I was crazy about her. Father left us when I was three. He moved in with his married sister, worked a crane at Bethlehem Steel during the week, and played golf on the weekends. My childhood homes were a series of furnished studio and one-bedroom apartments, overlooking back alleys or next to a Lucky’s supermarket, a USave discount store, or a Chinese takeout. But I was with Mother, and that’s all that mattered. We weren’t big on belongings. We traveled light, cramming into two suitcases all our clothing, an old

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set of encyclopedias for bedtime reading, a few odd pieces of Grandma’s Revere Ware, and a box that held our family photographs. Sometimes I wondered what I was missing by not having a “normal” childhood. I often tried to visualize my life as an adult, but I couldn’t. We’d led such different lives from the kids I went to school with, the friends and neighbors who seemed to have such stable nuclear families. Mother worked hard to make us a home. One time she was a Mercury flight-insurance clerk at the San Francisco Airport, another time a hostess for a seafood restaurant, then an Arthur Murray dance instructor, and once a “change girl” for a casino in Tahoe. Mother never held a job for long. There was always the lure of something better just over the horizon, and off we’d go to a new town, a new job, a new place to stay, and a new school. In the late 1960s, I joined the Peace Corps and ended up an English teacher in Ethiopia. I don’t remember how I adjusted to that crazy, wonderful monarchy boasting thirteen months of sunshine and posing some very serious problems for a city kid who’d never seen a cow up close, let alone a wild animal. But thanks to Mother, my vagabond childhood paid off and prepared me well for this strange, yet fulfilling, experience.



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After four years of service, I asked Mother to join me in Africa for the last few months of the school year. I sent her some money to pay for her flight, and she borrowed the rest from Grandma. I remember Mother’s lime green dress, billowing in the dusty heat, as she stepped down from the Ethiopian Airlines jet, her hair recently dyed a reddish-blonde. I can see her standing at customs, smiling to airport officials, while I tried to explain in my best pigeon Amharic that this was my mother come to visit, all the way from California. Waiting for her luggage, Mother opened her purse and pulled out a knife, fork, and spoon embossed with the airline’s logo of a lion about to pounce on an unsuspecting tourist. Smiling, she dropped the silverware into the pocket of her tote. “Amazing what you can carry in these things, honey.” In the taxi on our way to my apartment, she put her arm around my shoulder, and in her typical way of underlining the obvious she said, “It’s different here.” I nodded and began to bite my nails, a habit I thought I’d outgrown in grade school. What was she saying? I wondered, forever her child. “I mean the sky,” she said. “It’s so unreal. No clouds, just a deep blue you can get lost in. No wonder you wanted me to see this.”

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As the Fiat taxi rattled away from Bole International and entered the roundabout at Maskal Square, I told her Addis Ababa meant “new flower.” From the taxi window and through a pair of very large, very mod, white-rimmed sunglasses, Mother peered at the capital city of Ethiopia. She seemed eager to take it all in: the pot-holed streets, the hovels with tin roofs lining unpaved side streets, the Italian shops closed and locked for siesta. As we drove by, children dressed in rags chanted, “Ciao bambino. Como esta?” (“Gimme money, ferenge lady.”) A man by the roadside, his back to oncoming traffic, urinated into an open sewer. Mother raised an eyebrow, then laughed. “‘New flower.’ Who’s to say, right?” She pulled out a handkerchief and dabbed at the sweat running down her cheek, the scent of Emeraude, her favorite cologne, waging a losing battle against the strong street odor of sweat mixed with urine and cooking spices. I remember thinking she must be exhausted from the series of connecting flights, not to mention her age. I was twenty-five then, and Mother was well into her fifties. I wondered if I’d been wrong to invite her. It took me months, almost a year, to learn Ethiopia’s ways and customs, and yet I still felt like a foreigner, a ferenge. How could I have expected Mother to adapt in such a short time?



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But I was wrong. Mother did adjust. I saw it that second day when she opened the bedroom shutters on a eucalyptus-scented morning. It had rained during the night, and the sun filtered its rays through a light mist. I looked into her eyes and recognized a familiar spark from childhood that usually accompanied a new adventure. “So this is Africa,” Mother said, and then went to her suitcase. “Do you think this will do for a trek to the piazza?” She smiled and held up a red-fringed white blouse and a pair of yellow Capri pants. “I can’t wait to see everything you mentioned in your letters.” I knew then she’d be fine. In 1976, Mother married an ex-Marine, who was also her childhood sweetheart. When he passed away, she sold her home in San Carlos, California, moved south to Santa Cruz, and took a job as a salesclerk at Sears and Roebuck. Meanwhile, I’d accepted a full-time position as a learning-disabilities specialist at Cabrillo College in Aptos, California—a small village near Santa Cruz. It was good to have Mother close by, like old times. She had her work and a busy social life, and I entered a long-term relationship that developed into a thirty-year partnership. Mother passed away at the age of seventy-one. She’d waged a brave fight with cancer and managed

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to live far longer than her oncologists had predicted. How fitting that the last year of her life would be spent with her son, traveling back and forth to Burbank for experimental chemotherapy. Mother and I again lived out of suitcases, stayed in strange hotel rooms, and ate continental breakfasts. Mother was thrilled with these “outings,” and though her therapy was painful and her prognosis poor, she was clearly back in her element. “What a life,” she’d say, as she cheerfully lined up her medication by the small sink in the bathroom or arranged our coats and sweaters over the backs of chairs. “Who said we couldn’t make a little home here, honey?” Now, just beyond middle age, I spend more time looking back than forward. During my nomadic childhood, whether we were temporarily housed in a strange motel room or in an efficiency apartment, Mother always managed to make it a home, a safe haven where the past and future were banished from our thoughts and only the present mattered. My mother taught me not to fear change. She taught me life doesn’t always have to be planned and predictable. She left me with the love of adventure, and when I look back on those roaming days of childhood, these are the memories I treasure. Paul Alan Fahey

In Good Company

T

he fireworks celebrate the end of the evening at Disneyworld. “When You Wish upon a Star” fills the air in surround sound, serenading happy families as they say good night to the Magic Kingdom. As Tinker Bell glides across the darkened sky, my six-year-old son, Conor, observes, “I can see the cable, Mom. She can’t really fly.” We shiver a little in the cool March air. Conor is tall for his age and thin. His tube socks are stretched to his knees, exposing pale bare skin between his kneecaps and his shorts. His blue tropical-print shirt is inappropriate for this chilly evening; I’m glad I brought his jacket. Just like the television commercial, Conor and I stand with our faces lifted, watching the fireworks. We are worn out from a day of standing in line, walking, and struggling with each other. I take his

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hand, and we walk to the tram that will carry us back to the parking lot. I steal a look at his precious, vulnerable face. Did I make him happy today? Conor’s father and I divorced five years ago. My son and I have never before been on a real vacation together. Our only getaways have been a few days in Chicago, a few hours’ drive from our Illinois home, and visits to family in South Carolina. I want this vacation to be special, but so far it hasn’t been easy. Yesterday, when we landed in Orlando, Avis wouldn’t rent me a car because my credit card was maxed to its limit. I ended up renting a car from a no-name company that accepted my travelers’ checks with proof of my return flight. The hotel I’d reserved a month earlier was overbooked, so I drove down the main drag of Kissimmee and found a mom-andpop motel. Then, this morning, our first stop at the Magic Kingdom was the gift shop. Conor was determined to spend the twenty dollars his dad had given him within the first hour, which caused me to carry Tigger around all day. Our dream vacation is filling me with anxiety. I bought only a one-day pass to Disneyworld, because Conor doesn’t like rides; he gets motion sickness on airplanes, merry-go-rounds, and in cars. I convinced him to try the rides with special effects and little motion, knowing he would enjoy them. We did



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the Pirates of the Caribbean, It’s a Small World, Robinson Crusoe, and Twenty Thousand Leagues under the Sea rides. We saw the shows. We ate. We argued. I wanted to eat lunch; he wasn’t hungry. I monitored the time so we wouldn’t miss the next show; he dawdled. Constantly, throughout the day, he pulled against me or I pulled against him—which was it? At about four this afternoon, we finally decided we were having a good time. But I wanted him to have a fantastic time. Now, as we watch the fireworks artificially brighten the night, I think Disneyworld is a lonely place. I don’t have someone wiser and more experienced to help with travel arrangements. I don’t have anyone to help convince my son that this is fun and to enjoy the adventures it has to offer. I don’t have someone to take him to the men’s restroom. Conor doesn’t have siblings to share the rides with. He doesn’t have an intact family. Everywhere I look, boys and girls are holding hands with their moms and dads, laughing and enjoying the vacation I’ve dreamed of. It is December 28, and Conor and I are doing the Chicago Architecture Foundation’s (CAF) walking tour of The Loop. Conor’s nose is red from the cold, but his head and ears are snug in a green and yellow Packers’ stocking cap. He wears ski gloves

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and a puffy coat that make him look a little like the Michelin man. I, too, am prepared for the Chicago weather, in my long, cobalt blue wool coat and matching earmuffs. Our group of twelve people is gathered outside the cramped CAF bookstore. Conor is the only child. We follow our leader closely, his words competing with horns honking, trucks shifting gears, and the El clattering overhead. The smell of diesel from the city buses and of tacos and gyros from local eateries is nauseating. This tour is my attempt to bring life to one of Conor’s homework assignments. He reluctantly participates in the gifted program at his school. Though he doesn’t like to stand out, he is interested in things other nine-year-olds aren’t ready for—such as architecture. In his fourth-grade enrichment program, he is doing research on Daniel Hudson Burnham, a famous Illinois architect who designed many of the buildings in Chicago after the 1871 fire destroyed the city. Chicago is known for the diversity of its architecture. On our guided CAF tour, we see some of the first skyscrapers by Sullivan and Burnham, the forty-five-story Chicago Board of Trade, the James R. Thompson Center with its much-criticized atrium of empty space, and the IBM Building designed by Ludwig Mies Van Der Rohe.



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Conor complains about the cold. His neck is tired from looking up. He’s hungry and doesn’t think he can wait forty-five minutes until the tour is over. He thinks walking the two-mile walk is child abuse. He is oblivious to our twelve companions and one guide who are evaluating my mothering skills. I’m beginning to wish we had just bought a video of the tour. The walking tour ends at CAF’s gift shop. We buy a paperback book with pictures that Conor can cut out for his poster-board presentation. We discuss topics to cover in his report to make it interesting. We talk about which buildings are our favorites. We agree Daniel Burnham was traditional and that the more recent architects are more creative. Just an hour ago, Conor was whining, and now we are having a healthy conversation. Finally, I am enjoying my son’s company. I want to open up the world for Conor. More than anything, I want to enjoy being with him. But for every easy hour I spend with my son, I have to slog through three hard ones. I drove four hours to get to Chicago and checked us into the Chicago Hilton and Towers for two nights. Besides doing this tour and seeing exhibits about architecture and the Chicago World’s Fair at the Chicago Museum, we plan to see the Shedd Aquarium, go through Navy Pier, and look at the

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Christmas windows at Marshall Fields. I wonder if he realizes how I knock myself out for him. Today is Burger Buddy Day at Enos Middle School. One Friday each month, the fifth- and sixthgraders invite their parents and other significant people in their lives to eat lunch with them. The principal, Dr. Tadlock, always works the lunch line so parents can meet her. After lunch, students and their buddies can visit with teachers or go to the computer lab for the rest of the noon break. Today I meet Conor at the broad stairway leading to the cafeteria in the basement. He mumbles a greeting, and I follow him through the lunch line. Dr. Tadlock and two lunch ladies place a thin hamburger, tater tots, corn, and peaches into little compartments on my tray. The long tables with attached benches are too low for both of us. I sit and swing my legs together over the bench as gracefully as possible. Conor and I talk in starts and stops and eat quickly. We dump our trays and walk up two flights to the computer lab. Conor chooses a computer near a window, and we sit in metal folding chairs. I have never operated a computer. I watch while Conor chooses a game called “The Oregon Trail.” In the beginning he purchases supplies—flour, sugar, potatoes, dried meat—and chooses the people who will



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make the trip from Independence, Missouri, to Oregon. He kills off all the pioneers on the Oregon Trail in record time—with smallpox, Indian attacks, and starvation. I don’t think this is the objective of the game and suggest we switch to a math game. I wonder if this is what Dr. Tadlock had in mind when she instituted Burger Buddy Day. Puberty is a tearful, tough time for girls; I know this from personal experience. I didn’t know it would be so hard for an eleven-year-old boy. Conor sends mixed signals, and I don’t know how to decode them. His teacher tells me Conor is proud of me, that he tells her things about me often. He wanted me to talk to his class about my trip to Egypt. He invited me to come watch the report he gave about his cockatiel, Einstein. This is the year I began a relationship with a man, Randy. Conor says he likes Randy but wants him to come around less. We have lived, just the two of us, for eight years in our little house. Now, Conor is pushing away and becoming more independent; yet, at the same time, he seems to want to cling to me. He is emotional over small things and mature about big things. He is affectionate when we are not out in public. When we’re walking together, he’s several steps ahead of me. Sometimes I think he wishes he had a different mother.

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The bell signals the end of Burger Buddy Day. Conor and I walk unattached down the stairs, and before we split off—him to social studies class and me to work—he asks if I’ll come to Burger Buddy Day again next month. Perhaps he’s not so embarrassed to be with me after all. Reelfoot Lake is a huge swamp in northwestern Tennessee that was formed when an earthquake caused the Mississippi River to flow backward and cover the cypress forest with water. The lake is shallow. My new husband, Randy, cuts the motor and carefully maneuvers the johnboat to a better position among the lily pads. The boat rocks as it bumps over the cypress stumps crowded below the water’s surface. These stumps provide habitat for crappie, largemouth bass, catfish, bream, and blue gill. Randy and his two teenaged sons have fished here many times. It’s the first time for Conor and me. We all have cane poles and are using live crickets for bait. I watch my fifteen-year-old son and am embarrassed by his lack of engagement. He throws out his line a few times, then gives up. I think he should act more interested in this activity. He should try harder to have something in common with his stepbrothers. They are content to stay out here for hours on this windy, chilly day in May, casting their poles and



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pulling in our dinner. I think Conor wishes he was at home playing video games. Back at the cabin, there is no television and, therefore, no video games. Conor stretches out for a nap on the Hide-A-Bed in the living room, while Randy and the boys clean the fish. I am disappointed by Conor’s antisocial behavior. He should be learning how to gut a fish just in case he might need to someday. He could be bonding with the boys. After dinner, Randy and his sons reminisce about years past; they tell exaggerated fish stories and talk about people we don’t know. We turn in early, because they want to fish at dawn. Conor and I decide to sleep in. The next morning—midmorning, that is—I invite Conor to walk down to the lake’s edge. We sit in Adirondack chairs. The landscape is perfectly flat—water as far as you can see, surrounded by cypress forest. The cypress trees cast their lacy shadows over us. Conor acknowledges the place is beautiful. We watch blue herons wading at the water’s edge and listen to birdsongs we can’t identify. We both admit that fishing isn’t our thing, that we’re out of our element. “Randy is a good guy, but sometimes he gets on my nerves,” Conor says.

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“He gets on my nerves, too, sometimes. But that’s part of life and living with other people. “I guess this isn’t a very comfortable situation for you, is it?” I ask, already over my disappointment in him. “Can you at least enjoy the lake and being here?” He agrees he can endure it, and we relax and enjoy the moment. We talk about the future. We talk about what it means to be successful. I say that, to me, it means working at something you love doing. He says he knows I work hard and he appreciates it. I say his opinion of me is important to me. We talk about high school and how he likes it much better than junior high. I tell him it was worth the trip just to spend this time with him. The twenty-six-foot moving van has an automatic transmission, a radio, a pretty good heater, and a trailer hauling my car. When we pass semis on the interstate, the wind pushes against the truck and the trailer wags behind it. Conor is the driver. At twentyone, he is delivering me to a new home, a new life. My second marriage is over, and I am moving to Denver. It is an amazing freedom to choose where you want to live first and then find work. Six months ago I moved out of my house, took early retirement from the State of Illinois, got a job at the Colorado Department of Health, and rented an apartment.



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Conor plans to move to Denver when he graduates next year with a degree in architecture. It’s December 28, exactly ten years since our Chicago Architecture Tour. We are headed in the same direction. As we drive away from Illinois, I shed the leaving-behind feelings like a snake sheds its skin. I have a feeling of rightness, anticipation, and energy. We have made this trip many times over the fourteen years since my brothers moved to Colorado. But this time, we are going home. Though it is winter, the sun warms the brown hills and plains. I relax and stitch the pieces of a new quilt I’m making for my nephew’s wedding. I watch my son’s face—so much like mine thirty years ago—as he steers the truck. His face lights up as he talks about his professors, environmental design, and precast concrete. We talk about new cars and family and skiing and everyday things. Not once in the two-day trip do we turn on the radio. I don’t have to wonder if he’s happy today. We are in sync, without tension. I am not trying to influence him; he is not trying to gain control of the situation. We are having a great time just being together. Finally, I have what I’ve always wanted. Lois Britton

Your Children, Line One

I

was in the middle of a meeting, but the receptionist knew I would always take a call from my children. Debbie, Jill, and Jim had all been warned that only the most important reasons justified calling me at work. Any call I received from my kids required an abrupt shift in thinking (the crises at home were so much more emotional than what constituted a problem at work). My kids’ sense of urgency was consistent, and a problem at home could be anything. But this one really caught me off guard. . . .

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“Mom?” “Yes.” “Charlotte’s got nips!” Charlotte was our cat. She’d come to us as a stray, so we didn’t know how old she was, but apparently she’d matured to kitten-bearing age while in



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our brief care. We’d installed a cat door to give her ready access to the garage, but she spent most of her time wandering around in the great outdoors. Obviously, we didn’t always know what she was doing. “What do you mean, ‘nips’?” “Nipples! She’s got nipples.” “Okay. I’ll check it out when I get home. I’m sure she’s fine for now.” Charlotte had her litter of kittens—fortunately, while I was home, averting at least one SOS call to my office. Of course, the “nips” call was not the first, or the last, such call. “Mom?” “Yes.” “Something happened.” These are words to make the heart of any parent skip a beat. I held my breath and tried to respond calmly. “What happened?” “You’re not going to like it.” “Is anyone hurt?” “No. It’s not that bad. Something got broken.” When I got home, I discovered the “something” that had broken: The ceramic soap dish had been pulled from the tile wall in the bathroom. My son, especially dirty from recess that day, thought to surprise me and be all clean when I arrived home. With

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the help of an older sister, he’d filled the tub with bubble bath. When a particularly tricky submarine maneuver had gotten out of control and he’d grabbed the soap dish for balance, off the wall it came. “Mom?” “Yes.” “You know that big pile of leaves?” “Yes.” I visualized the pile of leaves in the vacant lot, trying to anticipate how it could possibly impact our family. “Well. Jim kinda lost his shoe.” Aha. More clues. In some way the pile of leaves and the lost shoe must be connected. “Oh, no.” “Yes, it’s in the pile somewhere.” “Find it before I get home.” Finances, as they are for many single moms, were tight. The children understood that the budget allowed for buying shoes only when they were worn out or too small. So this call had fulfilled the criterion of being important. As they’ve done so many times, my children adopted the role of management and discussed different approaches to the problem. Debbie wanted to methodically sort through the pile. (She is now



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an attorney.) Fearing that I might get home before the pile was exhausted, Jill suggested offering a onedollar reward to any child who found the shoe—an incentive that did, in fact, expedite the shoe’s ultimate recovery. (She now works in public relations.) While Jim continued his enthusiastic romping in the leaves with his friends, one vigilant little boy spotted the lost shoe. (Today, Jim’s work allows him to be out of doors.) I was happy to pay the dollar to make the shoes a pair again. “Mom?” “Yes.” “Can you stop at the store on the way home?” I did a quick review of the preparations I’d made for dinner and our supply of food and other essentials. Things were under control. The Crock-Pot had been cooking all day. All the basics were in stock. “What do you need?” “Poster board.” “What color?” “It’s for a project in English.” “What color?” “Blue.” “Okay. See ya soon.” We’d been through the last-minute-project routine too many times to launch into it on the phone

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again. I managed to get the floppy piece of cardboard into the hands of my waiting child before the wind snatched it away. The oft-repeated monologue about planning ahead was delivered to the unhearing back of my honor-roll student. In the interest of conserving energy, I had learned to pick my battles, and this wasn’t one of them. “Mohhhm.” “Yes.” “She hit me.” Every parent has to deal with sibling conflicts from time to time. When the oldest child is “in charge” of the younger siblings, it’s a sure-fire recipe for squabbles. The fracas usually begins as a verbal disagreement and then escalates. Often, parents don’t witness the exchange firsthand—whether because they’re in another room or away at the time—and so must rely on the accounts of the participants. “What happened?” The ensuing verbal deluge may or may not have a dissenting chorus. Actually, it’s a bit unnerving if only one voice is heard—what happened to the other combatant? “We’ll talk about it when I get home.” Sometimes, I had the advantage of a witness— the child not directly involved in the disagreement.



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Other times, the ruckus involved all three siblings or was “two against one,” making it impossible to get an unbiased account of the goings-on. Ironically, as I would attempt to sort through the incident fairly, a sense of the children’s cohesiveness would emerge. Between the time of the frantic call and the time to discuss the reason for it, the children would appear to have resolved the most pressing of the issues. Now, so many years later, when they reminisce as adults, the earth-shattering has become hilarious. Yes, my children knew that calls at work were only for important issues. But I learned that the parameters of “important” were apparently open to interpretation. I came home one Wednesday to find that the mail had been retrieved from the mailbox, Charlotte’s water bowl had been filled, and the newspaper was on the kitchen table. Small alarms in my head grew louder when the children’s absence became deafening. Responding to my greeting, they meekly emerged from their rooms. The smallest of the three was wearing a bandage on his head. As the story unfolded, reenactment of a circus performance had resulted in my son’s head succumbing to the fireplace hearth’s certainty. Rather than call me for instructions, he’d been hustled into the shower in an effort to erase all bloody evidence of

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the unfortunate climax to their acrobatics. The children had colluded, the result being that the girls would apply the antibiotic and bandage, and their little brother would assure me, as he most certainly did, that he was fine. In both obvious and subtle ways, belonging to a single-parent family set my children apart. Discretionary funds were meager; they understood that the grocery store was having a sale on ice cream if it appeared in the freezer. Instead of a booming male voice cheering them on at track meets and football games, they heard mine. It also gave them an opportunity to be an active part of our family team. Together, we cried and we laughed. We stumbled and found our way again. The lessons about resilience have served them well. The ability to find humor rather than wait for it to be delivered continues to delight. My children were wonderful teammates. Today they are wonderful friends. They can and do call me any time. I remind them at the end of each call that I love them—just as I did at the end of every “crisis” call of their youth. Susan Brandenburg

Mending Shattered Bonds

W

hen I asked my twenty-three-year-old daughter if she’d like to go on a vacation with me, her voice cracked a little. “I can’t go anywhere until I visit Grandpa and Dad. I haven’t seen them in six years. Grandma’s gone now, and Grandpa’s almost ninety. I’m afraid if I don’t visit Connecticut soon, Grandpa won’t be there . . .” Her voice faded as she turned her back to me. Juli’s words haunted me. I’d divorced her father nineteen years before, and I hadn’t seen her grandpa since. Though I’d loved his gentle ways, it had seemed easier to cut off communication with my inlaws after the divorce. Two years later, helpless to control her dad’s waning interest in being a father, I moved Juli from Connecticut to California, where I’d grown up. At first, my daughter flew three thousand miles every year to

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spend time with her dad’s family. He traveled west only once. But eventually these trips dwindled to nothing and so did their phone calls. Now I wrestled with the stirrings in my soul. I knew Juli would never make the first move and pick up the phone to contact her dad and grandpa. They rarely called anymore, even on her birthday. Nor would she travel to the Northeast alone. She was scared and angry after so many years of sporadic communication. I didn’t blame her. I was furious at her dad. So I struggled with my emotions and prayed. Fractured family bonds are common these days. It still makes me sad—especially since my own daughter is a victim too. Over the years I’d tried to prevent it by putting my daughter’s needs first. Even when disappointment and regret enraged me, I quelled my anger toward my ex and made Juli’s security, stability, and emotional health my primary goals. I initiated activities to help Juli connect with her dad. I wrote him letters, trying to keep him informed of her health and progress at school. I took her shopping to buy Christmas and birthday presents for her dad, his new wife, and his parents. I gave him her teachers’ phone numbers, so he could discuss Juli’s progress. Once, I opened my house to him while I was away, so he could visit Juli for a week in her own home, meet her friends, and visit her school. Another time



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I met him at JFK airport, flying Juli with me to the Northeast, at my expense, so she could visit her dad while I vacationed in Puerto Rico. Nonetheless, despite all my efforts, a silent chasm gradually developed between my daughter and her father and his family. Now Juli was telling me she needed to see them again. The last thing I wanted was to see my ex-husband, but, I had to admit, I wanted to see her grandpa before it was too late. I’d missed him all these years. After a heart-to-heart talk, Juli and I decided that a six-day trip of tourist excursions in between reconnecting with her dad and grandpa might alleviate the tense, emotional moments we both feared. I hadn’t traveled with Juli in years. Secretly, I hoped that retracing our past together as adults would forge new understandings between us. Perhaps it would enable her to assess what had caused her mom and dad’s marriage to fail—insight that I hoped would help her in her own life. After all, she’d been dating Jason for over a year. I knew they were serious, that she was on the brink of deciding whether he was the Right One. If she could see the differences that had driven her parents apart, it might influence her future. Eight weeks later, we arrived in Boston. Trying to remain calm, I drove down interminable one-way

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streets while Juli scoured the map, giving me directions to our hotel. Finally I drove back to my starting point, turned left, and voilà, we found it in minutes! Juli smiled. “Just call it our introductory tour of Boston, Mom.” The next day, the rain poured, then sprinkled, so we hopped on the Red Trolley. Using it, we could stay dry while sightseeing. Juli’s grandfather is Italian-American and I’m Irish-American, so I chose Little Italy’s North End stop to show Juli her ethnic roots. Sunday services were ending, and members filed out of the white, steepled Catholic church that Rose Kennedy attended every Sunday. Kneeling in the back, I asked God to mend Juli’s family bonds and to help me forgive my ex-husband so that this trip could heal me too. In Paul Revere’s square, I pointed out plaques of Italian-American World War II veterans, reminding Juli of her grandfather’s service in the U. S. military in the 1940s. We gathered with Italian tourists around graves more than 400 years old in Copp’s Hill cemetery. We strolled through Boston’s Public Gardens, where I’d taken Juli as a little girl. Mallard ducks still hovered near the swan boats we’d ridden twenty years before. I’d read Robert McCloskey’s picture book Make Way for Ducklings countless times to her.



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This was its setting. When we found the duckling statues in the park, she humored me. “Yes, Mom, I do remember that story.” Then we turned to the passions Juli and I both have—dress shops and art galleries—on famous Newbury Street. At Galerie d’Orsay, we admired the bronze sculptors of M. L. Snowden, who won the International Rodin competition in the 1990s. We learned she’d sculpted the main altar of the new Los Angeles Catholic cathedral back home. As wonderful as it was to retrace our footsteps, the next day, in spite of our apprehension, we ventured closer to where Juli’s grandpa and dad live. First, though, we stayed in a cozy bed-and-breakfast inn on Cape Cod, followed by a whirlwind afternoon visiting Newport, Rhode Island. We drove around the spectacular rocky coastline and visited Rosecliff mansion, where Juli inquired about wedding costs, and I gave her a look that said, Yeah, right! Later, she said, “It’s going to be tough deciding who will take me down the aisle, Mom.” My throat tightened, and I could not reply. That evening as we settled into a charming 1843 Connecticut inn, Juli confided, “Mom, it’s so beautiful and quaint here. I know it was a big decision for you, but I’m so glad you moved us to California. I wanted you to know.” She hugged me tight. After

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years of worrying whether I’d done the right thing, she’d given me the gift of reassurance. Then she nervously phoned her dad, so we could all meet for dinner. Jittery and silent, we rushed to get ready. Sometimes the moments we fear most turn out calm and normal, and we wonder why we dreaded them so much. That’s how it was when we strode down the stairs and found Juli’s dad in the sitting room. He gave her a big bear hug and even offered one to me. I was grateful that he was so natural, and I could tell his smile was brighter because he was holding back tears too. When we picked up Juli’s grandpa, it was a good thing it was dark. I couldn’t stop the tears that welled in my eyes when he said, “You’ve done a great job raising Juli; she’s beautiful. It’s so good to see you.” We went to a pizza parlor we’d frequented years before. Grandpa ordered a large pepperoni and beers for all and then fastened his gaze on Juli, listening to her every word. When I tried to take a photo, Grandpa insisted, “No, you have to be in the photo too.” He handed the camera to the waitress. In the days that followed, Juli went to work with Grandpa. He still manages apartments every day. After showing her off to his secretary, he drove her to the old neighborhood, to see the house where she



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grew up, her nursery school, the church she attended, and finally, to visit Grandma’s grave. While Juli was with her dad, I drove around Stratford trying to find a restaurant, Knapp’s Landing on Long Island Sound. So much time had elapsed, I didn’t recognize most streets, but as I turned into the parking lot, memories came flooding back. How many times had I come here with Juli and her dad? The quiet Japanese restaurant I remembered was now a raucous boaters’ haven. As I settled in to feast on lobster rolls with wine, I mused over how much my life had changed. I realized that I’d locked away most of my treasured memories of our life here along with my anguish over the divorce. Now, I allowed myself to remember experiences that had enriched me, both before and after my marriage ended. I’d struck out on my own and moved to Connecticut at twenty-four, nearly the age Juli was now. There, I’d entered corporate professional life, married and borne a child, and weathered a divorce without my family to lean on. Then I’d obtained a job transfer to California and, alone, moved my fiveyear-old child across country. All these experiences had molded me into a strong, self-reliant woman, determined to be the best mother I could be. Later, when Juli arrived back at the inn, I listened, fascinated, as she shared her experiences and

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observations with me. It seemed as though her past, too, had lain shrouded and misshapen in her memory all these years. “Mom, the town and our house and Grandpa’s house are so close together and so much smaller than I remember. . . . “Grandpa can’t hear very well, but he still works with all his customers, even on the phone, and he introduced me to everybody. . . . “It was sad going to Grandma’s grave. I was so scared to visit Grandpa’s house, knowing Grandma wouldn’t be there. Now I feel much better. Grandpa says he still goes to the cemetery every week. . . . “Mom, I see everything so much more clearly. I couldn’t really remember how it was. Now I’m old enough to look at you and Dad and Grandpa as human beings. It’s like the pieces of a gigantic puzzle finally have their correct shapes. The pieces were always separate before, but now I can put them all together.” A day later, in New York City, after we’d visited Central Park, Juli blurted out during lunch, “It was so great to have dinner, all of us, last night. I can’t remember a meal when you and Dad were ever both there with me. Watching and listening to you talk together made me realize how much I take after each of you.”



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When we finished eating, she looked intently at me. “Mom, why did you marry Dad? What were you thinking? You’re so completely different from one another.” I had to laugh. “That’s the trouble,” I said. “I wasn’t thinking. I hope you’ll learn from my mistakes.” Then I reached for her hand. “Even though my marriage failed, the best thing to come out of it was you.” Later I looked on as Juli said good-bye to her dad, exchanging e-mail addresses and promising to keep in touch. Weeks later she sent her grandfather photos of our pizza dinner together. During our return flight to California Juli told me that next time she visited her dad and grandpa, she wanted to take a road trip to Connecticut herself. And she did—a few years later, with her new husband, Jason, and her new baby boy, Jaxson. Yes, shattered family bonds are sadly common these days, but there are ways to mend and strengthen them. Katherine Burns Sartori

A Family of Two

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ut we’re not a family. We’re just a little boy and a mom.” My son’s face reflects anger, yearning, sadness, and confusion. My heart squeezes with the pain and guilt of not being able to protect my baby from a supersized hurt that I cannot make all better. I pull Gunnar into my arms, tuck his head into my neck, and hold him close, rocking him while I search for soothing words that are not empty promises. There is no way to put a good spin on a daddy who left us to start a new life a couple of states away. There is no good way to explain, and no way for me to fully compensate for, a daddy who doesn’t call or visit and misses soccer games, Cub Scout badges, and all eight birthdays. Gunnar is old enough now to notice and subconsciously catalog the accumulating lapses and omissions that began at his birth.



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“You know, baby,” I say softly, “we may not look like some of the other families you know, but a family doesn’t need to have a mommy and daddy and brothers and sisters. A family is people who share a home and their lives. They work and play and sometimes cry together, and they love each other more than anyone else.” My son shifts his shoulders and settles closer, accepting the small comfort of my strong mama arms. I rest my cheek on his sweet damp hair and take as deep a breath as I can with his full weight on my chest. I gently tip up his chin so that I can look into his eyes, so like mine. “You and I are a team,” I remind him. “We love each other all the way to the moon and back. And that makes us a family.” He studies my face silently, his long, curly, Raggedy-Andy lashes wet with tears. “I still wish we had a dad,” he says tentatively. “So do I. It’s not wrong to wish for a daddy, honey. Daddies are really neat, and they can do all sorts of cool things. Maybe someday we’ll have a daddy who lives with us. But for now, our family is you and me, and that’s okay. . . . It’s more than okay. We’re an awesome family!” Gunnar is unconvinced. His eyes are focused on a vision I know he is not ready to give up on, but he

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nods silently and burrows back into the comfort of my shoulder. “Hey,” I say, “let’s think of all the great things we’ve done together as the dynamic duo.” I struggle to sit up straight, my strained neck and shoulders aching, and pull him up to sit across my lap. “Like when we dug up the grass for our new deck, and you built the ‘Great Wall of China’ out of the sod? That thing was amazing, a masterpiece!” From his slump on my lap, he just shrugs. “Remember when we built the arbor?” I try again. “Cruising through Lowe’s on that rolly cart full of lumber and nails? All those big, strong men in the store looked at us like we were nuts. And no one could believe that we built that whole thing ourselves.” I could see the memory reflected on his face as he surrendered to a smile. “And what about our trip to Disney?” Gunnar lifts his head with a crooked grin, and I rush to continue. “Your first trip on a plane, first taxi ride, and four freezing-cold days of pouring rain. We had a total blast!” He sits up straight, and his smile broadens. “Remember the Mission to Mars ride when you almost threw up?” he asks with a laugh. “Like you will ever let me forget, Gunnar Paul!” I say, tickling him.



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He squirms and squeals, but doesn’t try to leave my lap. “And what about our canoe trip last summer?” I ask. He turns to face me and almost slips between my knees, but I catch him and he hauls himself back up, laughing. “Oh, yeah! And we both ended up with that itchy caterpillar rash,” he says. “See if we ever try to save a couple of furry little stowaways from the river again!” A smile transforms Gunnar’s face, his eyes are bright and sparkling. “And remember when we went downtown and served Christmas dinner to the homeless people in that church basement?” I say. His face lights up as he nods. “You were absolutely amazing that day, offering drinks and dessert to people we didn’t know, who look pretty different from us, and being so helpful and friendly. You were the bomb, and I was so proud of you!” I give him a quick, crushing hug. “Yeah,” he agrees, positively beaming now. “That was pretty cool.” My heart is full as I say, “Honey, it’s okay for you to wish for a dad, and it doesn’t hurt my feelings, but I don’t want you to lose track of all the great things we’ve shared and done for each other.

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“I taught you to ride a bike, use power tools, make spaghetti supremo, and organize stuff. You taught me how to throw a football in a perfect spiral, to laugh at goofy third-grade jokes, names of dinosaurs and what they like to eat, and the secret to learning the nines multiplication table. “We have the same favorite color and the same favorite ice cream. We have pitched tents, pitched fits, buried Levi the hamster under the weeping willow tree, and learned to say, ‘I was wrong and I am sorry.’ “Things like that are what make us a family.” Gunnar listened to me telling our story and sharing our touchstones without fidgeting, his eyes wide and wise. Now, I can tell by his expression that he has something to say and that he is searching, as I had, for just the right words. Finally, he leans back into the safe harbor of my arms and says, “I sure do love you, Mama.” “I sure do love you, sweet boy.” And that really does make us a family. Lori L. Vogel

Things I Will and Won’t Do Now That I’m Single

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ver the years I have received countless postcards and Christmas newsletters bragging of other children’s scholarships, expeditions to Nepal, vineyard purchases, and svelte new figures. Needless to say, it all sounds very breathtaking and exhilarating. Of course, none of it comes close to the exhilarating lives we lead here at Chez Archer. My three children—Sequoia, Noah, and Lilli— continue to grow in ways that were unimaginable when they were infants. Lilli, the baby, has just turned thirteen and is now attending high school. Unless her classes involve drawing animals, she is not really interested. “Cafeteria” is her favorite subject and “hot boys” is a close second. Recently, Lilli has decided to torment me by joining the swim team, an activity that begins well before dawn. I have already bought a one-way ticket

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to the nursing home by forgetting her at the pool, not once, but twice, in a single midwinter week, forcing her to walk to school, arriving not unlike a popsicled Methuselah. Noah is a strapping young man of fifteen, who is conversant on any topic—as long as it involves Rollerblades, paintball, or hockey. Grunting is his preferred method of communication, while simultaneously scratching different body parts, cramming huge amounts of food into his mouth, and keeping one eye on the sports channel at all times. An affectionate boy, he expresses his love with repeated jabs to my arm accompanied by terms of endearment such as, “You know, Mom, you don’t suck all that much,” and “I got you a cool mug for your birthday. It was like fifteen bucks marked down to ten, then five, then, like, three bucks. I hope you like it, ’cause I can’t return it.” Sequoia, the eldest at seventeen, is eager to get her driver’s license, which, of course, coincides with the purchase of my new car. This is the same girl who, when she decided it was time to learn to ride a bicycle like all the other kids here on Scollard Drive, wobbled for thirty seconds before launching herself headfirst into a ditch, whereby the bike was abandoned because “there’s something wrong with it.” She is now willing to take a crack at learning how



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to drive my new car, though, adventurous little spirit that she is. I think it will really help build her selfconfidence, even more than the weekend drinking and body piercing. Unlike other teenage daughters and their mothers, I am fortunate in that we continue to communicate regularly. Conversations of, “Where’s my clean laundry? I’m, like, totally out of thongs—hello?” continue to bring us closer together. Alex, my boyfriend and lifelong friend is, at the ripe old age of forty-eight, in the midst of his (hotly denied) midlife crisis. This has been assuaged by the purchase of a shiny new electric guitar, two amps (one of which is practically bigger than his dining room), bongo drums (last year’s Christmas gift to me), a conga drum, a keyboard, a microphone, a complete collection of Billy Joel’s sheet music, a harmonica, and a boxed set of “You Too Can Play the Blues.” My friends and close relatives have continually reassured me that this is far better than having a young blonde sitting in the front seat of a new sports car. Watching him sulk after I returned the drum set I discovered he’d bought me this Christmas, I’m not so sure I wouldn’t prefer the blonde. After all, she could do half the swim meets. As for me, I stagger around in a perimenopausal fog half the time. To those individuals who continue to ask me every blessed year at the annual Christmas

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bash if I’ve arranged an interior decorator yet or joined a gym, because “You’re not getting any younger, Lorraine (tee hee),” the answer is still and always will be “no” and “no!” I continue to take delight in my daily morning walks in the woods to clear out my internal cobwebs. I lift weights by lugging home the groceries and increase my upper body strength by shot-putting out the trash. I believe that a strong mind and a soft body are far more important than the reverse, and I will always read a book before attacking the housework or decorating—and not feel guilty about my decision. I will continue to bake chocolate-chunk cookies for my kids and their friends to scarf down when they come home from school. I will help them to feel at home while they lounge for hours in our family room, feet up, unburdening their secrets and fears with a grownup who listens, really listens, to what is important to them. I will eat those cookies I baked. I will not care what the house looks like now or ten years from now. It is my understanding that no one has ever died from a lonely wet circle left behind from a perspiring glass or from rabbit hair accumulating into a true dust bunny.



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I will continue to applaud Alex’s musical talents, because, after single-handedly raising three beautiful and brilliant children on my own, he remains supportive and understanding of a middle-aged single mother’s needs. He continues to hold my hand in public, gives me flowers for no reason whatsoever, and still grabs me in my (ahem) kitchen to smother me in passionate kisses, despite a chorus of groans from the kids. This year, just as in years past, instead of writing a Christmas letter bragging about my wonderful children, I will gather them around our Christmas tree. As always, it will be the saddest, most crooked, and sparsest in the lot, because we’ll want to give it one last glorious Christmas before it meets the wood chipper. And I will thank God that we’re all here together again. Lorraine Archer

A Soft Place to Fall

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know my limits. I know I’m getting close to them when my jaw begins to clench and my pulse begins to race. That’s when I know I have to breathe and visualize a happy place. Unfortunately, there isn’t always time in the real world for seemingly indulgent things like mental vacations. Ideally, every grownup should have some time to decompress after a long day at work. I, however, do not live in an ideal world. As soon as I leave work, I head straight to the preschool to pick up my daughters: Sailor (age five, going on thirty) and Hailey (four, the baby). The drive home is always exhausting for me, having just survived eight hours of teaching fourth-graders. The girls have missed me; they’re tired, hungry, and vying for attention. I, however, am completely out of energy and trying not to think about the crazy second half of my day. While driving from work to preschool to



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home, I mentally plan the order in which I’m going to defrost the meat, cook the meal, feed and bathe the girls, spend “quality time” with them, supervise the completing of homework, wash laundry, iron clothes, grade papers, and, if I’m lucky, squeeze in a workout or read a chapter of that new book on my nightstand. I do all of this with a degree of detachment (how would I stay sane otherwise?) and, though I hate to admit it, a degree of resentment. I do all this without any help; Daddy’s at work. “Well, at least you have help,” my sister, Jackie, always reminds me when I complain. “Help? What help? I do it all by myself.” “At least you have a husband, a soft place to fall when you need it. Plus, whenever you’re at that breaking point you’re always talking about, you can say, ‘Here. Take them. I’m going jogging.’ Or whatever. Try doing it alone.” This infuriates me, every time. So does my mother saying, as she often does, how hard my sister has it being a single mother. My sister didn’t go through a terrifying bout of postpartum depression, like I did. She didn’t have her pregnancy ruined because her younger, unmarried, nineteenyear-old sister got pregnant too. She didn’t work her way through school with two babies at home. She has only one kid, for crying out loud. Yet, everyone is always saying, “Poor Jackie. Poor Jackie.”

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This past Christmas, per our family tradition, my father dressed as Santa and passed out Christmas gifts. When all the gifts had been passed around and it was time to start opening them, I noticed how much smaller Jackie’s pile was. (She is the only one of my four sisters without a significant other.) I felt terrible that we opened gifts while she watched, pretending that it didn’t bother her to be “alone.” Last month she called me to ask if I would babysit while she went to class. The sitter had canceled, and this is Jackie’s third attempt to go to college. I love my nephew, Sebastian, but he’s a handful. I begrudgingly acquiesced. She came back three hours later to pick up Sebastian, exhaustion seeping out of every pore in her body. I knew that look, that posture. I lived it almost every day. But she was right. I had a soft place to fall, a significant other, someone who would get up in the middle of the night when the girls wake up crying from a bad dream. “Thanks,” she said, grabbing her sleeping son from the couch. “No problem,” I said, grabbing Sebastian’s Buzz Lightyear toy and sticking it in his backpack. “I hate to ask you,” she started. I knew what was coming. I saw the strain on her face, the circumstances thrust at her at such a young age. How do you



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do it? I wanted to ask. How do you hold your son’s world on your shoulders, all by yourself, without buckling? “Don’t worry about it,” I said instead, before she could ask. “If the sitter can’t watch him next week, just drop him off. He’s good.” Her shoulders straightened with relief. “Can I bring him over?” she asked me the next Monday. “The sitter was available, but I’d rather he spend time with you and the girls.” This time when she showed up to pick up Sebastian, he was awake, so we had time for a late-night cup of coffee and some good old-fashioned girl talk. “I met someone. His name is Al. He’s in the military.” “Really? Where’d you meet him?” “An online dating site,” she said, looking down at her mug, gauging my reaction. “Cool,” I said, silently thanking God that she wasn’t picking up guys in bars or clubs. “He’s a dietician. Going for his master’s.” “And?” I asked, waiting. “Totally hot.” “Ah,” I smiled, sipping my coffee. “He knows about Sebastian.” “And?” “He doesn’t mind. He’s a grownup,” she said, taking a jab at Sebastian’s biological father.

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“Good for you. I hope it works out.” “Yeah. Well, we’ll see.” We went on to discuss other things: school, work, kids. And I realized how grown up my baby sister had become. It certainly isn’t easy to raise a child. And for her to have done it at twenty with zero help from anyone astounds me. Even though it sometimes seems that my husband is never there, he is there. My sister doesn’t have that. Yet, she does it—every day, one day at a time. And I see how much my sister has matured, how far she’s come as a person and as a mother. “Mommy?” Sebastian asks, pulling on her sleeve with one hand, rubbing his sleepy eyes with the other. “Yes?” she asks. “I love you.” I see her melt. “I love you, too, Buggy.” She smiles, hugging him. “Same time next week?” I ask her as she makes her way to the door. She nods, happy with our new arrangement. I love my sister, and I’m proud of her. So, until she finds it somewhere else, I’ve decided: I’ll be her soft place to fall. Nanette Guadiano-Campos

It’s Glad

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t’s been nearly a year since my husband left me. We had been married for almost a decade, and what I remember most about those first days and nights after we separated was a feeling of disorientation and an absolutely dizzying sense of disbelief. The key to my emotional survival was to try and make time pass by filling it. My sadness surfaced mostly at night, so that’s when I got busy. I rearranged the furniture into the wee hours and clung to my friends who’d been through it, keeping them on the phone much later than I should have. Once my appetite returned, I ate huge quantities of sweets. None of my shapeless dysfunction surprised me. What did surprise me was the growing awareness that things weren’t really that bad. My son, Ethan, who was three at the time, had tangled a couple of idioms and come up with a wonderful expression:

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“It’s glad.” He seemed to find cause to say it all the time, and his ability to see the “glad” side of things at this particular period in our family’s life was startling to me. Startling . . . but, ever so slowly, contagious. When Ethan’s favorite toy Volkswagen fell off the table, losing a wheel, he said, “It’s glad it wasn’t both wheels.” When I thought he’d be devastated to learn that a long-awaited play date with his best friend was canceled because she had a stomach virus, he said, “It’s glad it wasn’t my tummy.” And when we talked about his father having left, Ethan’s response was as on-the-mark as it could be: “It’s glad it’s not me who doesn’t live here anymore.” In the face of such optimism, how could I not know in my disoriented little soul that we were going to be okay? One of my favorite time-killing techniques was to take long, hot baths. Unfortunately, I spent many of them arguing with my husband in my head. I’m not sure when or how it happened—perhaps Ethan had been particularly “glad” earlier that day—but during one particular 3:00 a.m. soak, I began the new and much more nourishing ritual of making my own mental list of “it’s glads”: It’s glad that if my marriage had to end, it happened while Ethan still thought I was the most amazing woman in the world. It’s glad that, on the contrary, he wasn’t thirteen.



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It’s glad that Richard left during spring playground days rather than the cold dark indoor days of winter. It’s glad that, unlike him, I still live my daily life in the world of brightly colored plastic toys and Sippy Cups, bedtime stories, and unfunny nonsensical knock-knock jokes. It’s glad that Richard was not more present as a husband and father, so that it’s really the idea of him, rather than the day-to-day reality of him, that Ethan and I miss. It’s glad that Ethan’s enormous and joyful personality fills this otherwise quiet house. It’s glad that it’s an otherwise quiet house. It’s glad it’s no longer a house filled with fighting. It’s glad that Ethan is young enough that this will soon feel completely normal. It’s glad that so am I. Now, a year later, my strength was coming back, and to a large extent, I could credit that to the example and good company of my lively, unflappable little boy. We were making a life for ourselves, and though it wasn’t the one I’d planned, it worked for us. We had good friends and silly private jokes, and if the house got too quiet, we simply blasted the music. On my tenth wedding anniversary, I went to Greenwich Village and bought myself a silver thumb ring as a gift. I felt fine, even on this painful milestone of a day. Richard was going to take Ethan for the evening, and I had dinner plans with a friend.

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A half hour before Richard was expected, he called, crying. All he wanted, he said, was to come home. The truth is, I expected it to happen eventually. I also expected to feel triumphant, especially since, by then, my answer was so clearly no. In the months that followed, Richard kept calling, often in tears, and asking to come home. I remained clear and firm, but there was nothing triumphant about it. It hurt worse than being left. Before, I could say that this painful thing had happened to me and feel proud of how well I was handling it. But now, I was put in the position of choosing over and over again that our family remain apart. Once more, my bath-time arguments with Richard grew loud and insistent in my head. And as Ethan’s command of the language grew more sophisticated and he dropped “It’s glad” from his vocabulary, I forgot about keeping up my list. Add the pain and expense of legally divorcing, and that’s pretty much where we are today. Richard still asks to come back. I still know the right answer. And I still feel awful every time I have to give it to him. But perhaps, because spring is returning and I’ve survived that dreaded first year of landmarks and anniversaries, there have been moments lately when I’m actually seeing the glad side again. Just



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this morning, I woke up to find my room flooded with sunlight. Ethan had snuck into my bed at some point during the night and was curled so close to me that there was enough room for two people next to him. I climbed out of bed to get the day started, then thought better of it. Smiling, I crawled back in on the roomier side. Richard used to wake me up some mornings by singing “Rise and Shine” dearly off key. There have been moments when I’ve really missed that. But when I was awakened for the second time this morning, it was with the following words. “Knock, knock. . . . Mommy, say who’s there?” “Ummm. Who’s there?” “Apple.” “Apple who?” “Apple, orange you glad I didn’t say banana?” “Yeah,” I answered, hugging Ethan’s sweet little pajama-ed body. “I’m glad.” I’m really glad. Ona Gritz

Contributors

Beth Andrews (“Bedtime Battles”) is a social worker, program manager for a mental health center in Colorado, college professor, and single mother. She is the author of two self-help books for children, Why Are You So Sad? A Child’s Book about Parental Depression and I Miss You! A Military Kid’s Book about Deployment. Lorraine Archer (“Things I Will and Won’t Do Now That I’m Single”) is a full-time freelance writer and mother from Peterborough, Canada. She has been published in more than twenty publications, including Critters USA, Air Jamaica’s SkyWritings, and The Globe and Mail. She is currently working on a collection of short fiction. Rose-Marie Barbeau (“My Perfect Partner”) is originally from California but has lived abroad for the past eighteen years. Now based in Scotland, she writes and edits publications for a university in Glasgow.

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Cynthia Borris (“Recipe of Memories”), a 2005 USA BookNews humor finalist, resides in the San Francisco Bay Area. A member of the National Society of Newspaper



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Columnists, she is a speaker, humor columnist, and frequent Chicken Soup for the Soul contributor. The author of No More Bobs, she is working on her next novel, To Serve Duck.

Susan Brandenburg (“Your Children, Line One”), the mother of three children, lives in Chattanooga, Tennessee. Retired from her practice of clinical psychology, she enjoys time with her grandchildren and delights in observing her children as parents. Lois Britton (“In Good Company”) lives in Boulder County, Colorado, and owns a communications business. She trains, manages projects, and facilitates meetings for clients across the country. Her son, Conor, now works for an architectural firm in Boulder. More important, he is a delightful young man whose company she enjoys. Chryss Cada (“A Choice, but First a Promise”), a freelance journalist, covers the news for a dizzying array of magazines and newspapers. Her passion is writing in first person, which she believes is not a single voice, but the echo of like-minded people. She lives in her native Colorado with her husband (the avowed bachelor in her story changed his mind) and their two young daughters. Shae Cooke (“We’ll Think of ‘Sumpin’”) was born in Montreal and now resides in the beautiful village of Anmore, near Vancouver, British Columbia, with her son. She has a post-graduate degree in snot removal, but now works from home as a full-time ghostwriter and writer. J. M. Cornwell (“Chili Night”) is a nationally syndicated freelance writer, editor, award-winning author, and book reviewer. Her work has appeared in Columbus Monthly, New Woman, Ohio Magazine, New York Times, Haunted Encounters: Departed Family and Friends, and Life’s Spices

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for Seasoned Sistahs. She lives in a converted Victorian in the Colorado Rockies among ghosts and books.

Cathy Craig (“A Single Mother’s Gift List”) lives in New York City. After stints on Wall Street and in the corporate world, she moved into education, where she has been happily teaching fifth-graders for close to twenty years. She recently published a mystery for young adult readers, Death of a Dog Walker. LouAnn Edwards (“You Never Know until You Try”) is a freelance writer and mother of six, residing in Beaverton, Oregon. She is the 2007 recipient of the Erma Bombeck Humor Award and has had humorous essays published in national, regional, and online publications. She currently hosts the cable television show Woman 2 Woman. Chris Fabian (“A Life of One’s Own”) is a pseudonym for this author, who resides in Pewaukee, Wisconsin, and works as a project manager for a software company. Her daughter Cathy is a recent college graduate, and her daughter Annie is a junior in college. She started dating Bob in 2006, five years after she was widowed. Paul Alan Fahey (“Gypsy in My Soul”) is a learning disabilities specialist at Allan Hancock College in Santa Maria, California. He is the editor of Mindprints: A Literary Journal, an online creative forum for writers and artists with disabilities. He lives in Nipomo, California, with his life partner of thirty-three years, Bob. Tammy Goodsell Freise (“What Goes Around”) is a single mother who supports her freelance writing habit by juggling several jobs. She garnered her first paid writing award in high school and has a degree in secondary English and psychology education. She lives with her two teenagers near St. Louis, Missouri.



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Nancy Lowell George (“Boys Will Be Boys”) is a university editor and freelance writer in Richardson, Texas. Her work has been published in numerous publications, including Angels on Earth, the Dallas Morning News, and Bark Magazine. She is the proud single parent of a daughter and two sons. Katie Allison Granju (“Flying Solo”) is a writer and mother living in East Tennessee. She is the author of Attachment Parenting (Simon and Schuster). Her work has also appeared in the New York Times, Salon.com, and Babble.com, among others. Ona Gritz (“It’s Glad”), who resides in Hoboken, New Jersey, writes a monthly column about motherhood and disability for the online journal Literary Mama. Her second book for children, Tangerines and Tea: My Grandparents and Me, was named Best Alphabet Book of 2005 by Nick Jr. Family Magazine, and her prize-winning poetry has been published in numerous anthologies and journals. Nanette Guadiano-Campos (“A Soft Place to Fall”) is a writer, mother, and fourth-grade teacher. Her poetry has appeared in several literary magazines and journals, and her first novel is nearly completed. She lives in San Antonio, Texas, with her husband and two daughters. Andrea Harris (“Left Turn”) teaches English composition at Wright State University in Dayton and writes a weekly humor column for a local publisher. She lives in West Milton, Ohio, with her two favorite people—her sons, William and Joshua. They call themselves “The Three Musketeers.” Debra Hodgkins (“I Was Rich”) lives in Northwood, New Hampshire, with her husband of twenty-five years, two

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teenage sons, two dogs, and two cats. She also has two married sons, two wonderful daughters-in-law, and three grandchildren. Debra drives a school bus, paints houses, and writes whenever she can find the time.

Amy Hudock (“Altars of Sacrifice”) teaches English at Pinewood Preparatory School in Summerville, South Carolina. She is also a freelance writer and the founding editor-inchief of Literary Mama, an online publication that has been a Writer’s Digest pick for the “101 Best Web Sites for Writers” and a Forbes selection for “100 Best Web Sites for 2005.” Theresa Jacobs (“Like Water for Taffy”) recently left her career with the Hennepin County library system to focus on motherhood. She is exploring freelance writing from her home in Minnesota. Her book, Women’s Wisdom: A Gift for Generations to Come, is a collection of essays about motherhood that she compiled to celebrate the birth of her daughter. Elaine Greensmith Jordan (“Brave Hearts”) has remarried, retired from teaching, and lives in Arizona. She writes essays and enjoys time with her son and daughter, now grown. Tommy mourned the death of his extravagant father but is now a happy young man, and Maryann has found her birth family, closing an emptiness that saddened her childhood. Annie Kassof (“His Sister, Her Brother, and Me”) is a freelance writer whose articles and essays have appeared in many publications, including the L.A. Times and Adoptive Families magazine. She is currently at work on a memoir chronicling her seven years as a foster parent to more than twenty babies and children. She lives in Berkeley, California, with her son and daughter.



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Kimila Kay (“The Apology”) balances her love of writing with meeting the needs of her investment-company clients. She lives with her husband, Randy, and Boston terrier, Maggie, in Woodburn, a rural bedroom community of Portland, Oregon. Between the two of them, the couple has four grown sons. Elizabeth Klanac (“Maslow, Everest, and Life with the Boy”) resides in North Ridgeville, Ohio, and is employed in the printing industry. A recent graduate of Cleveland State University, she plans a career in the nonprofit sector as an adult literacy advocate. She is currently writing her memoir, Denying the X Factor. Tina Lincer (“The Coparenting Tango”), when not ferrying kids’ stuff between houses, writes for Union College and exhibits her paintings. A freelance essayist, she has also written “puck-lit” for Canadian anthologies. Her recently completed novel, Journey’s End, chronicles the misadventures of a young mother at the brink of the millennium. A “hockey mom,” Tina lives in upstate New York. Barbara Marshak (“A Home Built for Three”) is in the midst of transitioning from part-time freelancer to fulltime author. Her first book, Hidden Heritage: The Story of Paul LaRoche, tells the inspiring story of the awardwinning Native American musician. Barbara has published more than one hundred of her stories and articles. She resides in Minneapolis with her husband and family. Anne McCrady (“Father’s Day”) is a poet, storyteller, and speaker whose writing appears internationally in journals, anthologies, and her own prize-winning poetry collection, Along Greathouse Road. Anne lives with her husband in Henderson, Texas.

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Minnette Meador (“Sunday Breakfast”) has been a professional musician and actress, a freelance newspaper writer, and a cranberry farmer. She writes children’s books, novels, and musicals. She resides in Beaverton, Oregon, with her husband, having replaced their six children with four cats, one dog, and one very large colony of fish. Paula Munier (“Halo Man”) is a veteran writer and editor whose stories have appeared in such diverse anthologies as Horse Crazy, Raging Gracefully, Tour of Duty, Scriptures to Live By, Letters to My Mother, and A Cup of Comfort® for Writers. The author of Emerald’s Desire and On Being Blonde, she lives on the South Shore of Boston with her family. Donna Paulson (“My Mom Will Be at the Game”) lives in Vineyard Haven, Massachusetts, with her four children, a dog, and a cat. A single mother, she has worked at a variety of jobs and is currently an office assistant at a landscape company. She credits her faith, along with a sense of humor, for keeping her family strong. Maria Pistone (“An Unsung Hero”) is the pseudonym of a sixth-grade teacher and writer who lives with her husband and gigantic cat in Collingwood, Ontario, Canada. She spends her days learning about laughter from her students, and she warms a regular seat in the local coffee shop, where she does most of her writing on Saturday mornings. Kathy L. Reed (“Friends Don’t Let Friends Single-Parent Alone”) lives with her husband, Bruce, in Decatur, Alabama. She retired from teaching high-school mathematics to follow her dream of writing. Many of her published stories have been inspired by the strong women she has known. She also enjoys travel and playing the mountain dulcimer.



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Diana Rowe (“Dating with Children”) has two daughters, two stepdaughters, and two grandchildren. A member of the Society of American Travel Writers (SATW), she produces travel content as a freelance writer based in Denver, Colorado. Her writing credits include Caribbean Escapes, Discovery Channel, TravelGolf, ESPN, and Corporate & Incentive Travel. Rachel Sarah (“Single Mom Seeking”) lives with her young daughter in the San Francisco Bay Area. Her dating memoir, Single Mom Seeking: Play Dates, Blind Dates, and Other Dispatches from the Dating World, was published in 2007 (Seal Press/Avalon). Her writing has appeared in Family Circle, Pregnancy, Parenting, and Ms., and her column “Single Mom Seeking” is online at Literary Mama. Katherine Burns Sartori (“Mending Shattered Bonds”) lives in California. She spent her career teaching and writing for corporations. She has published several articles, enjoys her children and grandchildren, and is always ready to travel worldwide with her husband. Her novel, The Chosen Shell, follows a nun’s turbulent inner journey in the1960s. Suzanne Schryver (“Losing Myself, Finding Myself” and “Keeper of the Peace”) is a freelance writer of fiction and nonfiction, a teacher, and a single mother. Her stories have appeared in various anthologies, and she is currently working on a novel. She works in a college writing center and teaches writing online. She lives with her family in New Hampshire. Lisa J. Solomon (“Passing Storms”) of Austin, Texas, is a freelance writer specializing in food writing. Her work has appeared in thirty publications, including the Atlanta

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Journal-Constitution, Vegetarian Times, the Cleveland Plain Dealer, Walking Magazine, the Oregonian, and the Canadian Jewish News. She has been a finalist for the Soul-Making Literary Prize, the Writer’s International Forum, and the Maui Writers Conference Screenwriting Competition.

Melissa Sovey (“Number One Son”) is a writer living in the beautiful north woods of Wisconsin. She is the author of the award-winning book If I Had a Horse, How Different Life Would Be and the anthologist/author of four other books on horses. She is the mother of three incredible boys, Michael, Parker, and Drew, who never cease to make her proud. Marilee Stark (“On a Wing, a Prayer, and a Mortgage”) is a psychotherapist in Lafayette, California. She also teaches psychology classes at John F. Kennedy University and writing to high school students through the University of California Bay Area Writing Project. Her passions include traveling, hiking, biking, writing, and her two daughters, who have both graduated from college. Marlena Thompson (“Youngish Widow, Oldish Single Mom”) lives in Falls Church, Virginia. She is a writer and storyteller. Her novel, A Rare & Deadly Issue, was published by Pearl Street Publishing in 2004. Her articles and essays have appeared in nationally circulated magazines and in Chicken Soup for the Golden Soul. Lori L. Vogel (“A Family of Two”) lives in Columbus, Ohio, where she works as a child-care provider in her home-based business. She loves gardening, coffee with girlfriends, reading books that challenge and inspire, stimulating conversation, and long bike rides with Gunnar Paul. She is passionate about intentional parenting and her faith in God.



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Nancy Vogl (“No One Makes It Alone”) is an author, speaker, lyricist, and aspiring screenwriter. Among her published works is the award-winning children’s book Am I a Color Too?, written with daughter Heidi and inspired by the oldest of her eleven grandchildren, Tyler. Nancy resides in beautiful Traverse City, Michigan, where the water, sand dunes, and orchards provide endless inspiration. Samantha Ducloux Waltz (“The Ties That Heal”) and her husband, Ray, live in Portland, Oregon. Her personal essays can be seen in the Christian Science Monitor and a number of anthologies, including Cup of Comfort® and Chicken Soup. She has also published fiction and nonfiction under the name Samellyn Wood. Her son, Ben, lives in Portland with his wife, Alicia, where he owns his own successful remodeling business. Marylin N. Warner (“Mommie Proudest”) lives near the Garden of the Gods in Colorado Springs. A retired highschool English and creative-writing teacher, she now leads adult-writing classes and writes short stories, articles, and essays for numerous publications. Her two grandbabies have inspired a new writing adventure—writing for children. Jennifer Eyre White (“Muscle Memory”) is an electrical engineer and writer, who lives with her husband and three children in the San Francisco Bay Area. Her writing has appeared in Literary Mama, Wondertime magazine, and EE Times, among other places. Michelle R. Yankee (“The Greatest Juggling Act on Earth”), a military brat while growing up, now makes her home in Rogersville, Tennessee. She is fortunate to be a stay-at-home single mother of two beautiful little girls. Her passion for the written word is second only to her passion for raising her daughters.

About the Editor

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olleen Sell has compiled twenty volumes of the Cup of Comfort® book series. A veteran writer and editor, she has authored, ghostwritten, or edited more than a hundred books; published scores of magazine articles and essays; served as editor-in-chief of two award-winning magazines, associate editor of a national business magazine, and home and garden columnist of a regional newsmagazine; and used her way with words in whatever means necessary—including working as a copywriter, corporate communications specialist, and technical writer—to raise her three magnificent children single-handedly. Now that her kids are all grown, she wordsings for her own supper—and to spoil her four practically perfect grandchildren, whom she shares, along with a turn-of-the-century farmhouse on a future lavender farm in the Pacific Northwest, with the love of her midlife, T. N. Trudeau.