Single Parenting

Mae feeding her Grandpa…

At age 29, more than a decade after leaving home, I found myself living with my dad again.

My relationship with my boyfriend was over. But I wasn’t quite prepared to be the single mom of my baby girl.

In Manhattan, I’d been a researcher at Time Inc.’s high rise in mid-town. But I’d left all of that to move back to my home state for more support. Now, I was living back under my father’s roof in San Francisco, in his high rise.

Despite that, I knew that I was not the only one. Today, over five million children live in a household that includes a grandparent, according to the U.S. Census Bureau.

Moreover, a Cornell University study (2005) shows that having “children who live with a single mom and a grandparent fare just as well as children living with married parents.

If you knew me as a kid, however, you’d know this was my worst nightmare come true. I’d always been an independent spirit, the all-honors kid in the suburbs who wore hiking boots under her shiny gold high school graduation gown. I’d supported myself for a decade in the publishing world. I was proud of myself for making it on my own.

But now, I realized, I had to swallow my pride, at least temporarily.

My relationship with my father had never been easy. And now my daughter had no father to speak of.

When I went to college at age 18, my dad had a hard time letting me go. He’d called me everyday. He’d sent me bouquets of flowers. Every time I said, “stop” he said, “go.” While most people saw him as the most generous dad in the world, I’d felt smothered. In vengeance, I dropped my — and his — last name. At first, it was innocent enough: signing my school work as “Rachel Sarah.” My first name and middle name. No last name, no father. I liked it. I was unapologetically standing on my own feet. I soon made my new name official: my bankcard, my driver’s license. Dropping his name was my way of saying, “I want a divorce.”

But now, ten years later, I was a grown-up with a kid in tow. I needed my dad.

I didn’t know how to heal my relationship with him, but I wanted to. Without a doubt, he’d always been supportive of my decision to have a child. Since her birth, he’d tried his best to be helpful and supportive. Dramatic, often, but also caring and loving. I realized that I’d made some dramatic decisions in separating myself from him, but more and more I want to clear the air and have him be a vital part of my daughter’s life.

Today, at age 67, he was a doting, chubby, and red-cheeked retiree. Still, he’d forget to think before he spoke. Case in point: he’d tell me all of a sudden, “You’re a terrible cook.” I didn’t like being dependent on him. I hated asking him to buy my daughter a new pair of shoes because her current ones were pinching her toes. Or asking him to help me apartment-hunt because I didn’t have a car.

But I also realized how blessed I was; maybe I could get over this. At least I could try. I also knew that I as lucky to have his support. Other fathers might have shunned their daughters for having a baby out of wedlock. Or for choosing the wrong man. Not mine.

At age two, my daughter now called him “Pa.”

Every night without fail, she dashed into his bedroom and pulled herself up on his bed.

“Pa!” she yelled.

“Do I hear a monkey in my bed?” he said in his deep monster-voice.

“No!” she giggled.

“I hope there isn’t a monkey in my bed!” he said.

“No!” she said. “Come and see!”

“I better not find a monkey in my bed!” he said.

She dove under his covers with a shriek.

He pulled the blankets back. “I said, ‘No monkeys on my bed!’ ”

She shrieked in joy. He hugged her. “Again!” she said. “Again!”

Yes, I realized how lucky I was.

As much as my Dad could be a pain in the butt — and I still agonize over how to redefine our relationship — I realized that he was the best built-in babysitter a mom could ever ask for.

And still is.

My daughter has a man in her life after all — it’s just that it’s my Dad.