Single Parenting

Though I’m probably like the Fiddler on the Roof, striving to strike a balance and teetering on the edge between mothering and other things, I’m without the benefit of a exquisite musical talent and a cast singing and dancing around me in turn-of-the-century peasant finery. Therefore, I fancy myself more like my longtime crush whose musical serenades stir up many-a-starry-eyed fantasy. When J.T. is Up On The Roof in his jeans and flannel shirt, his feet firmly planted on steadfast ground, albeit at a high altitude, he’s gazing at the moon and the city and feeling rejuvenated in an oh-so-folksy rock kind of way. Yes, the music of James Taylor has always made me swoon. But that’s a post for another time. Sigh. In a G-rated blog post I’ll just say that listening to that music usually makes me feel good.

Whether I’m on the edge and teetering, or just escaping to my imaginary roof — the Walgreens around the corner — I wonder if the fact that I go and come back an hour later, leaves my children in a quandary and headed for years of therapy. I’m not going out for a beer and a smoke, I know that. I’m going out for tissues or tampons or a new mascara, but sometimes I just can’t go home too soon. I’m grateful my kids, alone or together can be home on their own. Otherwise I’d have to find a sitter and my sanity just might not keep long enough for that.

Last night it was the pitter patter of twelve paws just about made me scratch my eyes out. Considering it’s probably my best physical feature — hell, my only redeeming physical feature at my current state of overweightedness (my own word, yes) — I might as well leave them in tact and blue (or green sometimes) instead of red.

In the Walgreen’s parking lot I sat in the car and listened to a little Fire and Rain, skipping another song recorded for me by my ex at the end of our adolescence but the beginning of our courtship. Between songs I hoped no one I knew would see me relaxing in my SUV, but then I really didn’t care. Perhaps if they had two kids and three dogs they’d be drinking. I’m merely enjoying some music before scoping out the latest Halloween candy and nail polish shades without kids or dogs.

Then I took the long way home. It was a dark but crystal clear night with a crescent moon that hung low in the sky…and under other circumstances, perhaps on a roof somewhere, I’d have been content to sit and stare. But to avoid a car accident and eventually come full circle to home, I kept driving. And yes, I was singing.

Will my kids end up in therapy because when I did get home I locked myself in my room? I just need to take a bath, I told them. They appeared undaunted, although the dogs are a little more weary when I shoo them away. It wasn’t the first time and it won’t be the last.

Will they ask the doctor why their mom soaked in bubble baths when there were dishes soaking in the kitchen sink? As well as I can figure the dishes will always be there when I’m finished, but my peace of mind? Well, thats contingent on the bath, or the blogging, or the phone call or the rerun of Sex and the City.

Sometimes I just need to get away and since I have no where to go, I get away right here. Seems like a good compromise. I don’t run away, I don’t have a nervous breakdown…but I do lock the door. The kids know they can knock on the door, and they do. They know I’ll always answer. They seem to not take offense especially the times I’ve pointed out that they both go into their own rooms in search of solitude and only the sound of Nickelodeon or ESPN. The fact that I prefer HBO or Dixie Chicks or if I’m brave a rendition or two from Blessid Union of Souls or Eric Clapton if I’m not craving a little J.T.

I think they get it. I hope they get it, at least a little.

No matter the number of books or blogs I read on the emotional cellulite known as mommy guilt, I just can’t help it. I struggle with being the mother and father they need all the time. And I’ve got to tell you, as much as I think I’ll be paying for place in the front of the Zanax line when they leave the nest, is as much as I. can’t. wait.

After reading a phenomenal post by a blogger who is struggling with being a mom and then teaching where she has no links to her motherhood, I realized that I yearn for moments with no links to mothering.

As a new mother, and when my children were young, I revelled in motherhood and mommyness. I wanted to be known simply as my son’s mommy or the mom that looked just like my daughter. I identified as a mother first and foremost and looked for nothing outside the home to break my stride. I was in my element and couldn’t imagine it being any other way.

Then, I leapt reluctantly, and then exhuberantly into the world of being single, where my hands-on mothering moments were lessened by eight nights per month. I actually had friends who didn’t know my children and had never known me married. I have memories of those times tucked safely away in box with a purple bow. It’s full of the almost three years I spent single with a live ex. Yep, those were the days.

So if you ever wonder where the hell the posts are, or where I am, on any given day that you check the blog and think, “oh geez, that Kvetch, she must be living it up over there in Mayberry,” chances are, I’m just around the corner at Walgreen’s.

But I’ll be wishing I was up on the roof.

Don’t go buying any rice or teeny tiny bubbles, no one here is getting married any time soon. Hell, no one here has a date any time soon. But that doesn’t mean I don’t think about the future and what it holds for me and for my kids. In my entire four and a half year career as a single mom I’ve never been on the husband hunt or on a quest for a dad for my kids. Even since their dad died, with my whopping three dates in the past year and a half, I have never even entertained the notion that someone I meet might be their “new” dad.

But the fact is, I did not expect to be full-time mom and dad to my kids as they grew up. I expected to take the good part of divorce — every other weekend off — with the bad — an ex and all that entails. I expected their dad to be doing the fatherly things, not me. And lately I’m realizing that when it comes to doing dad-things with a teenage boy, I’m a just a tad short on the testosterone.

I can handle the sex talks (don’t do it), the internet porn (don’t do it), and the drugs, alcohol and tobacco talks (don’t do it). We’ve pretty much mastered emotional breakdowns and heart-wrenching conversations. But tie a tie or combat some masculine itching and I crumble like a pile of Kinex and am as befuddled as my kid is when I ask him if the clothes on his floor are clean or dirty. Fact is, I have no clue, which would be made clear by the $48.00 worth of “otrimin” products I purchased at the Walgreens that loves me, and the websites and pamphlets I’ve accumulated on how to tie a tie. I liken the challenge of learning to tie a tie from a website to using a tampon for the first time using the illustrated instructions in the box. It’s not happening and it doesn’t matter who drew the roadmap. You need someone to show you, or in terms of the latter, at least be on the other side of the bathroom door cheering you on.

I will give credit where its due. I have male friends who have tried to teach me to tie a tie, to no avail. So, one of them just finally just tied it for me, so I could slip the tie over my son’s head, hold the knot, and pull. Way to get around the issue of the moment, but my son still can’t tie a tie.

And the shaving? That’s next. Because the mustache? I can see it. And there is no one to teach him to shave unless I send my dad a plane ticket. Which I think might be preferable to offering my kid a Lady Schick and scarring him, both literally and figuratively, for life.

So while my social life is non-existent, and I really don’t have the time, energy or interest to pursue a new round of E-dating disasters, I also can’t help but think how great it would be if there was a nice, Gilette-carrying, tie-tying man in my kids’ lives. And in mine.

Sunday morning while my kids slept in I watched The Bridges of Madison County. I read the book years ago, but I don’t think I ever saw the movie in its entirety until now.

In addition to going through an entire box of Kleenex, gasping for air, and wishing that Clint Eastwood a.k.a. Robert Kincaide would come driving down my street lost and looking for, well, anything, I was flabbergasted by the intensity of one short sentence dramatically delivered by his character.

“This kind of certainty comes but once in a lifetime.”

It made me stop in my tracks, blow my nose, and think about the steadfast truths in my own life, and also, what I wish was so. Quite frankly, I was bawling.

Is there anything in my life that I am truly certain of? Without resolve? Without fail? Without any hesitation? 100%? Do most people live their lives with that kind of incredible intensity? Do most not?

Perhaps what I am most certain of is not something of which I am proud, like Francesca in Bridges? Maybe I haven’t realized it yet? Maybe it has not yet occured. Or maybe it has.

I’m not looking for confessions here.

What I’m sure of at this moment is that we can inspire and intrigue one another other by sharing our thoughts. Do it anonymously if that’s easier.

Just think of this as a little blogging bridge into the deep well of serious thought that so often eludes us in the carpool line.

In the midwestern plains winter was behind schedule. Looking up at the day through the kitchen window it could just as easily have been April as December. The sky was bright blue. The sun left a streak across the counter exactly where a cat would have lain, had I one. Looking down, the brown remains of greenery revealed the otherwise clantestine season. The forecast for Philadelphia was perfect. I could sport my fur-trimmed brown leather swing coat and pretend all week long I was an adult without a cumbersome life stuffed into my back pocket, one that would be chomping at the bit upon my return. A momentary respite, embraced because I enjoyed it, and because I had no choice.

The kids were at school and my suitcase was packed. They were eager for their last day before winter break festivities — not much in the junior high unless you count the hyperactive antics of young teens ready for a two week hiatus. I was missing the culturally diverse and politically correct not red and green party at my daughter’s school for the first time ever. I hated the idea that they were leaving for Cabo in the morning with their dad and their other family, the one I wasn’t part of, but traveling alone was one of the perks of divorce that I never expected. I grew accustomed to but never comfortable with my children’s other life, therefore I always traveled when they did. Rambling around in our home without them on my heels for a day or two was novel, for a week, it was morbid. I always knew I would return a week later refreshed and rejuvenated and even ready to hear tales of a magnificent week, sun and sand, steps and halves, all innocently told while sporting their midwinter tans.

So I buried my fear of flying and though took off for only familiar destinations, had startling and unique experiences. I realized early on how much I enjoyed being with my family, without the burden of an unhappy husband and restless children. I reconnected with old friends who knew me only as me.

Last minute clean up before I headed to the airport was a ritual. What if something happened? I didn’t want the house to be messy — but I also had a date for the following week. Oppositional optimism and pessimism at play kept my mind busy, which was always a good thing.

I stepped on the black pedal of the trash compactor, throwing away the last little bits of trash that today are indiscernible. I was working at a clip, the dogs knew I was leaving. They always do. They watched me with their eyes, perhaps knowing how much attention they’d get from the dog-sitter, perhaps wondering only if I was going to drop one of the collected tidbits on the floor in my haste. As the trash compactor drawer popped open, I had a random fleeting thought.

“Well, at least if anything happens, [he] has life insurance. We’ll be fine. We’ll. Be. Fine.”

I mouthed it wide and whispered it softly. “We’ll be fine.”

I shook my head from side to side like a toddler saying no to a spoonful of horrendous cough syrup. I spoke out loud. “Cut that out.”

“Oh my God,” I said to myself, “That’s awful”. I actully hit my cheek as if to knock some sense into myself. I was not a proponent for malicious content in divorce. I shook my head again as if doing so would release the thought out of no where to back from whence it came. Like the sneaked cookie that has no calories, it was gone and forgotten, and didn’t matter until later.

The vacation officially began when I got into the car because I hired a driver. I pampered myself when I was alone, to experience unrivaled independence I’d earned and also to reward myself for not jumping off a bridge in hopes of landing in someone’s else’s life.

Only hours later I enjoyed dinner with father, brother and 86 year old grandfather. I visited a lifelong friend but decided to forego debauchery with a surreptitious East Coast lover in lieu of room service and pay per view. There was time for that and all I wanted was to curl up and revel in the comfort of hotel linens and being alone and wait for my week’s vacation that would begin again with the rise of the morning sun.

So it was through half sleep, with the tv still on, when 15 hours after leaving my home that was 600 miles away, that my cell phone, with one line of charge left, rang and startled me instantaneously into a brand new existence.

My 40 year old ex-husband died suddenly of a heart attack while packing for vacation.

My world ceased to revolve for a millisecond that lasted the length of my entire adult life. I was indescribably altered, never to return to who I was even the moment before or at any time in either my first life or my second. There was much to do. Plans to make. A plane to catch. My children needed me.

And all I could think of was the trash compactor.

Yesterday I went light-fixture shopping with the only other divorced Jewish woman in Mayberry. She and I were fast and furious close friends a few years ago after realizing we both dated the same man.

Lucky for us, but not for him.

Our lives are similar in the sense that our kids are the same ages and neither of us have husbands, but once did. She is always in a relationship, her kids have a dad and she works in banking. I’m not, mine don’t and I can’t balance a checkbook. But, despite our laundry list of differences we have become the Kate to the other’s Allie, and can synchronize the other’s world where she lacks. The fact that we crack each other up doesn’t hurt either. And I know that although our worlds collide only slightly, that she does understand my situation and has reminded me often to be my best self.

So it only stands to reason that when we went shopping, as we’ve done in the past for things like Bar Mitzvah outfits for our sons’ Bar Mitzvahs, we’d be in sync. I kept her daughter out of her hair occupied while she browsed and spoke to the sales person about the flexible track lights, eyeball can-lights, rocking dimmer switches and bathroom, kitchen and bedroom fixtures and ceiling fans for their new home. I offered my opinion when asked, and some times when not. I extolled her good taste, and stoked her when she waivered. Bottom line, it is her house, not mine, and the decisions, as well as the money, are hers and hers alone.

As we left Lights R Us a mere 90 minutes later, she was done, and I’d decided that in lieu of remodeling I can’t afford, that I’d change some lighting in my home as well.

“That was easy,” she said.

We high-fived and did the secret single-mom victory dance.

“Great choices”, I said, reassuring her and wiping her brow because she spent a large amount of money in a short amount of time. I had a paper bag at the ready in case she started hyperventilating. Instead of fainting, we opted for a quick salad.

Then we both remembered one of things we like about being single.

It’s about decisions. As hard as it can be, they are ours and ours alone. And sometimes that is really fun!

Parenting issues and tribulations traversed on my own leave me angry. When I see happy couples I feel a deep-seeded physical ache. When I am removing and replacing screens and changing furnace filters I curse my ex-husband. BUT, when I plan a family vacation where I want to go, buy new bed linens, hire a painter and decorate my bathroom pink and green, well, I do a peacock strut. And yes, although men in my life have slept well under roses, I would redecorate if I ever marry Mr. Rightstein and he finds it just too feminine for his masculine sensibilities.

But in the meantime, it serves me well to realize that the independence thrust upon me with singledom is not all bad.

Decisions are precarious things. Some decisions matter, and truthfully, some really don’t. Some decisions have lasting effects, and many, do not. As much as I wish I had someone to back me up, I’m often glad there is no one looking over my shoulder.

So how many single moms does it take to change a lightbulb?

Undoubtedly, one.

But only if she feels like it.

I know that when my kids leave the nest that I’ll miss them like crazy, like the song says. But for now I’m just itchin’ for a little missin’. I’m figuratively surrounded 24/7 with no loopholes. I don’t want out of the contract, just a clause that gives me time off.

Real time off.

How do YOU get time to yourself when you’re the only or primary caregiver?

Travelling alone with kids can be a nightmare, but doesn’t have to be.  If you have more than one kid and you’re the only adult, it can be daunting.  But that shouldn’t stop you from doing it. After all, memories are made on trips and kids with single parents deserve those memories too.

There is nothing like the “remember when” times whether you take a trip to a local apple orchard or a faraway island.  Getting out of your element gives everyone a new point of view.

If it doesn’t send you to the funny farm.

I always cursed being single, when, away from hom, my kids had to go to the bathroom.  I have a son and a daughter. So, my son had to go into the recesses of a men’s room alone, OR I had to leave him alone to take my younger daughter into the ladies room.  There was no getting around it.

Honestly, when he was younger, I’d have him sit on a suitcase with one on top of him as well.  Just TRY, you crazed kid-snatching maniac, to lift up a boy sandwich on Samsonite and run through the airport.  When he caught on that he didn’t really have to sit that way, I attached him to the luggage like a tag with distinct instruction NOT. TO. MOVE.

And it worked.  He’s almost 15 and still with me. 

As for sending a boy into a men’s room alone, well, you just have to tap your foot, and if he takes too long send someone else’s dad in there to check on him.  Believe me, I’ve had one foot in the men’s room door before, hand over eyes, and - relief - out he comes.

For some great Single Parent Travel tips and trips, check out SingleParentTravel.net.   Even if you’re not in the market for a week in Jamaica or a weekend in the Berkshires, the resource is timeless and invaluable. 

Do you have any tips on travelling alone with children?

The sight of two well-dressed single moms out for dinner in an upscale restaurant on a Saturday night seemed to send little beads of sweat dancing upon the Maitre d’s brow and had the coiffed clientele fanning themselves with the wine list.   It must have been sensory overload. 

Denise* and I, both divorced, were out celebrating my 42nd birthday. I wasn’t dating anyone with whom I cared to share my birthday, but that didn’t mean no celebration. I’d worked hard to be present and accounted for in a life sans-a-man, which for me is like being Sans-A-Belt, only not made of polyester.  It’s a style of being that lets me breathe and look my best without being pinched or having to hold it all together.  But in my case, it is tres chic and does not involve white shoes.
 
Denise and I we were both anxious to get in on the latest trend of the wrap-around porch style salad bar and have faux Brazilian cowboys dropping beef on our plates, no pun intended.  Though surely just pricey masquerades for the all-you-can-eat Sizzler of our youth, we were intrigued to see, and taste the hullabaloo.  We were women and we were roaring – or maybe it was our stomachs growling. Nevertheless we were ready to have a good meal, good wine and a good time. 

We arrived on time for our reservation, perhaps even a bit overdressed, were greeted by the manager, and gave her our name.

“Oh,”  she said. 

She looked at me.  She looked at Denise.  She looked again.  What were we? Playing tennis? 

“Are you waiting for the rest of your party?”

“No, we left the men at home,” Denise offered.

“It’s just two?” she finally asked. 

You’d have thought we up and slaughtered the cows, and chickens and pigs ourselves and stomped in and slammed them on the counter, demanding payment.

We then, in turn, looked at each other.  No spinach between the teeth.  We looked good.

“Yes,” we said in unison. “Just two.”   I leaned over the podium and pointed to the page and spot where Denise’s own name was clearly marked in the 7pm line with a very legible numeral two.  What? They thought we weren’t coming?

A short conference, audible sigh and shoulder shrug later, we were handed off to Hostess Tiffany* who led us to our table in the back of the restaurant, following and passing many empty tables before us.  We were seated at the outside of a table set for four.

“Just two, right?” Hostess Tiffany muttered.

“Yes”, we laughed, “just two”.

The busboy came over, smiling, with a pitcher of water. 

“Just two?”  he asked, already knowing the answer.  I gave the go-ahead for Denise to have a turn at this herself.

“Yes indeed,” she said, “Just two!”

He nodded, said something in Spanish, or perhaps it was much more authentic Portuguese, and clinked and clanked the additional silverware plates and glasses from our midst perhaps annoyed that merely moments before he had meticulously set the table for four. 

Our server came by to explain how we flipped the little icon if we wanted more protein on our plates, and how the gaucho-clad waiters would simply come around and serve us.  We simply needed to ravage the salad bar.

“And it’s just two, right?”

“Right”, we said. We were obviously the talk of the wait staff.

We needed to take a shuttle to the salad bar but were impressed with the selection.  On our way we passed tables of twelve, six, eight and yes, two.  But none were tables of just women.  This concept was obviously some macho secret club where women were supposed to be accompanied by a testosterone toting chaperone.  We dared to be two women alone on a Saturday night, primed to eat beef.

We prevailed.  We ate, we talked, we drank.  The waiters came and went and we didn’t know, or care, if they thought we were an odd couple that night. 

Many tasty tidbits later, we left the restaurant as we had entered it, just two.  Yes, we had some pains in our stomach, but not from too much meat, from too much good girlfriend laughter amidst the absurdity of being thought absurd.

During our departure we passed by tables and saw food we had never been offered.  It didn’t make it to the back of the back room?  We paid full price. Perhaps they didn’t think we were hungry or wanted to taste those baby lamp chops?  They’d have gone nicely with the Pinot we were drinking.  The garlic filet mignon? That would certainly have tickled our palate. 

But it was time to go.  Our humor and friendship overrode the insensibilities.

We’ll never know if they thought the reservation for two was a joke, or if they were really put off by two women eating together, alone.  They had no way to know the party of two wouldn’t be a man and a woman — or two men — or women who were a couple.  This was not a ladies night; we paid the same price two ‘big and tall’ men would have paid.  Yet, we were paid little if any attention and felt slighted in the constant undercurrent noting our lack of numerical prowess.

A few months later I took my family to a similar restaurant to celebrate birthdays, graduations and anniversaries.  I knew my teenage son and his friends would love the idea of getting more simply with the tip of their hand, so to speak.  I knew my parents and friends would enjoy the wall-to-wall windows, wine selection and trendy expanse.  Ok, it might not have been Saturday night, but there I was — a single gal with a party of nine at an extended table in a premier location right near the salad bar, no shuttle needed.

The baby lamb chops? They were delicious.  And yes, I had more than just two.

*names have been changed

Do you think being single makes you more self conscious? 

On the first day of high school my son found his way, and I lost my breath. I hoped the cold rush that permeated my chest, throat and limbs was because I hadn’t yet had coffee; but I knew better. 

I also knew the feelings that washed over me were not because the building he strode toward was big enough to house multiple air craft carriers.  It wasn’t because the metal doors looked like they could swallow him whole. It wasn’t because he walked among beings that looked strangely like adults — with boobs, beards, swaggers, swiveling hips and caramel mochachinos. 

As he walked away from the car, he became increasingly more absorbed in a living Seurat.  The composition, as a whole, was magnificent.  Separately it was a sea of indiscernible, colorful, teenage dots.  I will never forget how it looked as he became part of the big pocket, flip flop and muffin top landscape.  In a strange way, it was strikingly beautiful.

I was unsettled not due to the vastness or the newness.  I was awed because he fit right into it. He belonged.  It’s where he is supposed to be.  I have to keep reminding myself that it’s all good.  At 14 + years old, 5 foot 8 inches tall, with broad shoulders and a stocky build, he is once again and at long last, right where he is supposed to be.  And,  after a year and a half of treading lightly in shallow waters – he dived right in.  I was the one who held my breath.

I wonder if he hadn’t leaned over and let me kiss him goodbye, if this self-proclaimed hardened heart would have cried the whole way home.  Probably.

All I could think of that was in that short 5 minute ride was that in four years I’ll be dropping him off at college and not picking him up at 3pm.  And how the hell am I supposed to get ready for THAT?  Then it will be just me and my daughter at home and then she’ll go to college and I’d be left alone with dogs and a dishwasher that probably only needs to be run once a week.  Now that seems delightful, but something tells me it feels quite dreadful.  Someone should really re-think this focus on education. 

And then I got a grip. He’s fourteen. And she’s eleven.

The biggest waste of time in my adult life was the time I spent looking to and planning for the future and not living completely in the moment.  And while seven thousand of my closest friends have already been kind enough to tell me that the next four years are going to fly by, I need only to look back for a second to be able to look forward with a slow and deliberate gaze.

Four years might feel like it goes quickly, but every day brings a myriad of experiences and emotions.  Each one is worthy of consideration, acknowledgement and careful placement in our lives.  If you experience life and live it minute by minute you never have to wonder where the time has gone.  You’ll know because you were there.
 
And, while I want always to take it moment by moment, I also am on the edge of my seat waiting for my daughter to start school on Thursday so I can have some time alone to write, to think, to breathe or just to watch tv without someone desperately needing a grilled cheese sandwich. Is that too much to ask after a summer that has lasted, oh, approximately, 83 days?

At first he didn’t say much when he walked into the kitchen after his exhaustive and expansive first day as a freshman.  I don’t know what’s in the water over there but I swear he was three inches taller than he was that very morning.

He didn’t bolt to his room. I made him a cup of soup and we both sat down.  I put my elbow on the table, rested my head in my hand, hopeful he would talk.  He did. 

And while he was preoccupied eating and recounting, I stared at his soft green eyes and watched his large expressive gestures. I listened intently to each word, knowing these initimate 14 year old moments are to be coveted and treasured — even, and perhaps especially — on our first day of high school, after 83 days of summer. 

This was one of those times I was both glad, and sad, to be a single parent.  I had no one to share it with, but it was all mine.  Do you have conflicting feelings about being a single parent?
 

If I remember correctly, when I was married I didn’t think about it all the time. Oh, maybe that was one of the problems.  I didn’t traverse my day thinking about the fact that I had a husband and what it meant to have a supposed life long partner, the hazards and helpfullness of it all, the inherent good and the obvious pitfalls.

But as a single parent, I think all the time about what I don’t have. I don’t have a partner. Sort of by choice, but really not. I am overwhelmed almost every moment of every day with the fact that I’m in it on my own, and that no one really understands. It colors every part of my world and has made me view things completely differently than ever before.

I am trying to break out of the shell of being so single-minded. I don’t want to be viewed simply as a single-mom.  I’m so much more than that! Yet, I pigeon hole myself constantly and it evokes not-so-great feelings in me about myself and about others. 

Although being a single mom creeps into every aspect of my life, I’m working to not allow it to define me.  It’s not easy.  It means not doing things because of despite my single parenthood, but just trying to do things as a mom and a woman, a friend, a neighbor, a daughter, a writer.  It all overlaps but it needs to be sorted out. 

I have to re-categorize myself sometimes multiple times daily.  And I’m working on not being so single-minded.

How do you define yourself?

Sometimes being a single parent can make you seem, well, melodramatic.  And aside from school trips to the symphony, being serenaded by violins is just not my thing.  Anyway, who has time for pity parties anyway?  But you and I both know that sometimes, hell, most times, being a single parent (SP) sucks. It’s you all the time, just you. So consider this your respite. A place you can leave a comment to tell it like it is, where no one will judge you or make you feel bad. No one will roll their eyes and tell you how bad it is for them too, when their spouse is on the golf course or working late.

Everyone has a story.  Mine begins with a rather amicable divorce and begins again when my ex-husband dies. Talk about no back-up.

What’s your story?

Single parenting has come a long way, baby, so to speak. 

So whether you’re a single parent - mom, dad, grandparent, foster-parent or caregiver - by choice or not, I’m here I’m to offer you humor, words of wisdom, resources and personal tidbits, all meant to make your life a little easier.

Welcome!