Me & You

In these quiet moments, it's just you and I.

There is no one else around to hear your incredibly brilliant jokes, or catch the naughty twinkle in your eye as you begin to learn how to ignore me. We sit quietly in our apartment, Christmas lights sparkling, a candle softly burning, and you turn to me and decide to whisper "Thank you, mommy" as I push some broccoli onto your plate. You seem to understand that it's just the two of us. You seem to like it as much as I do.

I used to feel that it was always better to have someone else there to help witness the moments in life that were worth remembering. Then, when it was just me, alone, I learned to experience the world on my own and cherish the life snapshots that were particularly poignant, or funny. I could always write about them. But I could always not write about them, and they were still just as wonderful, and I didn't have to share. It was an amazing thing to learn - how to be the only one watching an amazing thing take place.

Now, I am the sole keeper of the Kid's moments. I know her secrets. I get to watch her grow, from chrysalis to butterfly.

I love to brag. I love to tell her funny stories and stick her weird, feather- and glitter-covered creations up on my cubicle wall. But I also love these funny moments just between the two of us, parent and child. I love this gossamer thread that connects us.

TV is better when you're drunk

Sometimes, my two worlds collide. For dinner this evening, I am having 4 Cosmos, and the Kid and I are sharing a .33 cent box of Publix macaroni and cheese.

I bought the martini glasses at Takashimaya. (Sometimes, when you peel back a tiny corner of my white trash wrapper, a little bit of my fabulous peeks through.)

Sometimes I forget that I'm a broke single mom at a dead end job in Florida. Although I needed to go grocery shopping for dinner this evening, I came back with vodka, white lillies, and pomegranate juice.

Can you say "delusions of grandeur"? I think you can.

Now I'm watching "Fairly Odd Parents". I don't get this show. But the pyrotechnics are fantastic.

Shut off your ringers, ladies, I feel a drink and dial coming on....

I'll smoke your marijuanica

This morning, while reinacting The Fast and the Furious on the way to work, I heard The Hanukkah Song, followed by Fuel. I don't know what's better than that. Except maybe not going to work at all.

On Monday, I went to a class on memory with Rich Israel - and I thought it was fantastic. Initially, I signed up for a bunch of county-supported classes to get away from my desk, but I really thought the class was great. He taught us that the brain shuts down about 50 minutes into a meeting, and that you should get up and go for a quick walk. Also, you can keep your mind active by switching the hand that you normally write or brush your teeth with, by taking a new route to work, and by paying attention to keywords to get the most out of spoken content.

Today I went to a training meeting where the program was taught by a rambling mumbler in a very linear manner, and I wound up walking out.

I can't wait to take "Dealing with Difficult People". That's a resignation waiting to happen.

The Kid let me put braids in her hair this week. They have a Hanukkah party at her school on Friday, and parents are invited. I hope I get to do the braids again. She came home singing "Dreidle, dreidle". She made me sing it with her all the way home from the supermarket tonight. After the 17th round, she just started shouting, "SING, MOMMY! COME ON!".

Good thing those four lines don't get old quickly.

Heh.

Scared clean.

I got up this morning, vented, then cleaned in a mad fury. The apartment even stayed reasonably clean. I think I may have instilled terror in the dirt molecules.

It's quietly raining, the candles are burning, the cats are snuggled up next to me, and I'm mentally letting go of all the things I didn't get to do today. I love being productive, but watching the Kid dance around a giant fountain while I maniacally snap my camera around her trying to get a Christmas photo is so much better than working on a giant stinky PowerPoint presentation.

I wish there was someone here so I could run to Target, pick up Christmas cards, put gas in the car, go for a run in the light rain, and then go see The Holiday, but there isn't. So I won't. Sometimes I hate dragging the Kid shopping, especially if the stores are crowded and I'm in a rush. (If your card's late, please know the Kid had a great and unrushed weekend.)

My cell phone and my cordless are behaving really weirdly lately. The batteries are dying out, and I think it's because I charge them both relatively close to each other. During the day, my cell phone is either dead, or two milimeters to the left of "range" so that when I walk out to my car in the evening, I suddenly have three voicemails. They're all from Oana.
I love you, Oana! Îmi lipseşti.

Each day, I wonder when the cable company is going to put an end to my free TV. They haven't noticed that my neighbor moved out yet, and for some reason, the cable in my apartment connects to his old signal. I miss having the box, though, and the DVR. I've been sleeping through Medium, and now that I'm back living in the olden days, without DVR, I just miss it. I think it's a great show, but I really like the relationship between Alison and her grounded & fiercely intelligent engineer husband. I like the way he patiently listens to her at 3am and gives a calm and understanding opinion.

I need Tivo.

I'll probably delete this in a minute

You get/requested one morning per week with your daughter. She gets up at 6am and starts to need a nap around 11:30. You could have more time with her on the one day you choose to see her, but you prefer to sleep through it.

Well, we all need our rest.

You owe me money. Not child support, although you haven't been contributing your half of day care since October, but you owe money from your share of the expenses of the apartment we shared when you chose to hold out for a job in your field. Me, I'd scrub toilets if I had to. You couldn't bag groceries because you have your pride and needed to be available for interviews. You didn't have an interview and were out of work for four months. You then decided that when you did finally get a job, you would give me $50 a week until the debt was paid. That's 24 weeks that I, with my incredibly shitty County paycheck, need to wait until you have paid me back in full. Because you need to catch up on your debts. I need to buy diapers and food. But let's be completely sure this isn't too uncomfortable for you. Obviously, I'm an established financial institution, and not a broke single mom who has $200 of crazy money left over every month after I pay the rent, the total daycare bill, and the electric bill. Then I juggle food, gas, phones until another paycheck comes through. Thanks for the $50. I'm looking forward to it.

It's 8:50am. I need to run errands after being sick for a week and am out of sick days. Perhaps you could come over a little earlier - but you're not picking up your phone. And once you get here, you don't really pay that much attention to your kid, unless she's laughing at the same Sponge Bob episode that you are. And if I try to get something done in the apartment, you can't keep her entertained for the two hours you grace us with your presence - I have to keep asking her to go into the next room and play with you. I take care of her 24 hours a day, 7 days a week, and you can't do a thing to give me a break, ever. You can't even see what a gift she is. You just have absolutely no concept of how lucky you are to be her father. Maybe I can tie a Game Boy around her neck so you find her interesting.

Three weeks ago I had to give you $20 for gas so you could get to a job that never worked out. Then when you needed a new tire, I told you there was $50 in the joint account that I kept open, hoping it would facilitate you paying me back. I see me giving you money to get to a job as an investment. It hasn't panned out yet, but I'm hopeful.

You got a job last week and are now making $16,000 more a year than I am. I have $80 until next Friday.

How does it feel to be living off of a single mom, big man?

Some days, I wish your kid never learned the word "Daddy".

This is one of them.

Insomnia and the Disgruntled Single Mom

Back when life was As Good As It Could Be (as opposed to now, which is Excellent, With Two or Three Areas That Could Be Improved), things were a lot cleaner.

I had a beautiful, two-bedroom apartment in Queens for under $1,000. Unheard of! Hardwood floors. Stop the insanity! Storage space. Fetch my nitroglycerine pills!

Every Saturday morning, I would wake up, happy to be me, and put all of my plants in three inches of water in my giant kitchen sink. Then I would dust all surfaces, clean all glass, take out the trash, get my laundry together, and wash my floors. Then I'd head down to the laundromat, get all my laundry done in an hour, come home, and have almost two full days to twirl my hair and ponder. I loved my apartment. It was so CLEAN. My bedroom was dark gray and moody. I had service for 12. I had a clothesline out my guest room window. It always smelled light and floral. From flowers.

Today I clean in circles. Dirty sock. Catbox. Who pooped on the floor? What's that smell? Why are there always handprints on the TV when I just cleaned that five minutes ago? Seriously, what's that smell? Holy crap, I wish someone would do laundry. When was the last time I paid a bill? Do I have any money? I wonder if there's any tread left on my tires.... Oh, man, I'm wandering again. OK, I should probably clean this floor. Where the hell is my dustpan. "HEY, KID, WHERE'S MY DUSTPAN?"

"Where dustpan?"

"Yes, mommy's dustpan. Where is it?"

(Holding up both hands and shrugging) "Where is it?"

"Yes, that's what I'm asking you. Dustpan. Sweep, sweep. Where's the dustpan?"

"No go sweep."

"Not sleep, sweep. Where'd you put the thingy that.... why am I asking you?"

"Why ask me? Hug, mommy."

"Ok, here's a hug. I'll give you another one if you find my dustpan." Meanwhile, get me a whisky sour and an ashtray. I've lost my motivation.

It's 1am, and I can't sleep because my life sucks. In small, concentric circles. Jump down, spin around, pick up a dirty sock. Jump down, spin around, find a rotten tangerine. I imagine there must be single-parent households that have more of an imaginative, or at least, better-organized daily routine. I'm laying here thinking that in 5 hours, a blast of hot water will be hitting me in the face, and I will try to systematize my thoughts before I become completely distracted by a wad of Pantene in my eye. My once meticulously-organized brain has become an Etch-a-Sketch, requiring only a small shake to completely erase itself.

The good news is, tomorrow's Friday. The bad news is, the weekend only brings the Kid's dad (Saturday) and my parents (Sunday) to deal with, plus a four-hour shift in the terminals. And I still have to get through an entire Friday at my job. Twitch, twitch. Where is the hair twisting and the pondering? Where's the Pledge, and the Windex, and the things that stayed relatively clean from Saturday to Saturday? Where are the days I would lay in bed with a complete pile of library books and READ four books from sunup to sundown? Dammit, I think I still owe the library $50 in late fees from the time I decided I could be a mom and still read books for myself, and I just couldn't find the time to actually return them.

OK, motivational moment. I need a schedule. I need lists. I need oversized calendars and large, stinky markers. I need to throw out more stuff.

I need to go to bed. I think I will dab some fabric softener under my nostrils and dream of cleaner times.

Never completely alone

No matter how strong we think we are, no matter how desperately we want to be someone's mother, no matter how much love we have, it is impossible to be a single parent without help.

I always knew the love I would have for my child would far outweigh the need for a mediocre man in my life. Without question, I was certain that raising a child by myself was something I was willing to do. I just don't think that while I was making all of these deep, philosophical decisions for myself, that I took a stomach virus into account.

This weekend just completely knocked me on my butt. I think I've had this bug since last Friday, when things started tasting like sawdust. If my parents hadn't been able to take the Kid, I really don't know what I would have done.

Something inside me tells me that 2 years old will be gone in a flash, and that it is so important that she not lose this beautiful smile. The Kid says hello to everyone, and laughs so easily. When she falls, she yells "I'm ok!" and then comes over for a kiss to make it all better. When I'm feeling under the weather, and I can't give her all of my attention, and I just want to sleep, and my patience is short, I am so worried that I will do something to fade her beautiful, joyful smile.

She came back to me today, proud to have ponytails, and chirping away about the soup her grandmother made for her. She kept crawling into my lap, happy to be near me, giving me hugs.

I felt so grateful for the time to lay on the sofa and be grouchy, and run for the bathroom at will, and not have to cook, or even eat, much less worry about keeping the Kid busy and entertained. She came back to me, and I was able to hold her, and laugh, and take her to the store for cookies. We ate the cookies while sitting in the car wash, watching soap and the water cover the car, singing "Twinkle, twinkle, little star".

What a sucky weekend. And what a joy to have my beautiful baby back!!

Mary, Mary

Last March, a friend was contemplating two names for her baby. Her first choice was Mary. Her second choice was the ever-so-sucky Katherine. She asked for my opinion on what my experience was with the name Mary, and my response is below. To the right is the very beautiful, fingers in her mouth, sticky hair, baby-sweet smelling Mary. This recent photo inspired me to pull out this email:

Why I Love My Own Name
Mary is a wonderful name, and Mary is everyone's best friend, favorite sister, or saint of a mom.

Mary can play touch football and isn't afraid to get dirty, she makes a mean martini, and she'll sit next to you and blow your nose when your ex-boyfriend of 7 years marries a girl he's known for 3 weeks.

Mary makes excellent cookies.

Mary can easily transition from a challenging week as a resident neurosurgeon, to dinner with the family in her favorite pair of jeans.

Mary has an amazing laugh.

Mary will whisper in your ear and make you giggle and push you out of the way when she sees a softball headed for your face.

Mary has good hair.

And on the playground, when a big boy yells "HAIRY MARY FAIRY!!", she has no trouble pulling him off of the see-saw and making him eat dirt.

When old people hear that your name is Mary, they smile and grab your hands and sing you songs from their youth, and it's very sweet.

Everyone can spell Mary (except for Indian tech support guys, who spell it Marry, but that can change in 20 years).

Every language has a Mary. You get called Mare, Marí, Maria, Mariooch, Marushka, and oh, when those English boys call your name, it makes your toes curl. Woo!

The incredibly popular and beautiful crown princess of Denmark is an Australian named Mary, who met the Danish prince at a bar.

No one ever forgets your name. (Seriously).

Mary is humble, and solid, and kind, and timeless.

Katherine has limp hair and her eyes are too close together, and she needs years of therapy from being Catherine, Kathryn, Katie, Cathy, Kathie and Kate. Katherine is thrice-divorced and lives in a van, down by the river.

Mary is the Mother of God. I don't know what's more compelling. I win.

(Sorry, Sonya. I love you!)

For it was Mary, Mary, plain as any name can be
But with propriety, society will say “Marie”
But it was Mary, Mary, long before the fashions came
And there is something there that sounds so fair
It’s a grand old name

"Grand Old Name", George M. Cohan

That's it. I would like to be shot.

Oh, Saturday. I love you, Saturday.

I just watched Shaun of the Dead for the 1,700th time.

The Kid is down for a nap, and I am going to make couch angels and count the number of Mexicans coming out of the 2-bedroom apartment across the way. I think eight people live there. Today I've seen a girl, four different guys, two cases of beer, a lot of staggering, and one drunken argument. Andale!

They're more entertaining than counting sheep.

I think we're going to need a trip to Target for some toys. It's cold and rainy outside (and by cold, I mean, it's 66F/21C, but shut up, I have a fever) and I have no energy whatsoever. I feel bad that the Kid is so bored, but me laying on the floor and letting her jump on me can only go on for so long...

Tea. I need tea.

Praying to the porcelain gods

Driving the big white bus.

Talking on the big white phone.

And thus was my Friday.

Apart from one of the secretaries calling me to ask if, when the boss flew to Boston about two months ago, did I put that on my credit card, or did he pay for it, because his wife just found some charge on the bill....?

My head is in a toilet. Does he remember paying for it? If he did, that would be his first clue. Must flush now. Thank you for calling.

The last two hours have been rough. The Kid obviously senses something is wrong, and keeps wanting to crawl on me to make sure everything is ok. I don't want her right in front of me, because I have this horrible feeling we're going to keep endlessly passing this back and forth. Plus, the 30lbs. of squirmy pressure on my diaphragm is killa. I was counting down the seconds until bedtime.

I think the only thing I really and truly hate about single parenting is illness. Hers sucks, because I lose sleep. Then she passes it to me, and I'm already out of sick days from her bout with bronchitis in September. Then we're all cranky and miserable, and there's no one around to make soup.

Whine, whine, whine, ok, I'm done.

The thing that I truly love about single parenting is all the friends that are there to support me along the way and who constantly send love and kisses.

You guys rock.

I love you. I'd kiss you, but I'm carrying the plague.

(Plus, you know where my head's been all day).

and then, the inevitable happens.

I have officially caught the Kid's bug.

I'm off to sleep. Hopefully, for a few days.

Feel free to stop by and change the Kid's diaper, or wave at her through the window or something.

Failure

I’m not particularly good at it.

When I was growing up, it was great to be the best. I don’t remember hearing about anyone that just enjoyed doing something. Someone was always first, or the fastest, or just got into Yale, or got a 1600 on the SAT.

For whatever reason, I carried this with me.

I was really competitive as a kid, constantly trying to get better grades than the two boys ahead of me. Sometimes I did. In the winter, I rode my bike to the local Y and went to swim team winter practice, and in the summers, I dove into the freezing cold water every morning, determined to be faster. Things sort of fell apart when we moved to another state, and I spent a lot of years wondering who I really was. It was almost painful to be the smart adopted kid, because teachers always told my beaming parents about my potential, but by high school, I just wanted to crawl out my bedroom window and have the freedom to be myself without having my future carved out by an IQ test and the dreams of my parents. Eventually, my parents were just hopeful that I would graduate high school.

When the rest of my friends were going to grad school, my mom was so proud to tell people that I moved to Denmark, learned to speak fluent Danish, and worked as a teacher. I had always been very individualistic, and I believe she was proud that I was able to channel this into something positive. I never told my parents that in reality, my immature Danish husband had developed anger management issues, and used to hide my shoes so that I couldn’t leave him in the middle of the snowy winters. Or that one day, I walked across the street to the local crisis center, barefoot, when he tried to lift me up against a wall by my neck and told me the only way I was going back to the US was in a body bag. I don’t talk about this, because of my overwhelming fear that people will see this experience as a part of who I am, and will look at me like someone to be pitied. I have a hard time owning my weaknesses, because I have always felt that weaknesses were meant to be overcome. And I think I can only talk about this now, because I was able to successfully walk away from my marriage.

One night, while he was away, I packed up my clothes and my books and moved into an apartment in the town where I was working. The apartment belonged to a girl who would be studying in Australia for 6 months, and while I had planned this months in advance, I constantly worried that I would never be able to pull it off.

Six months later, I moved back to New York, and took three part-time jobs in Manhattan. It was easy to convince my family (and myself) that I was ok, because I was the busy working girl in the city.

Fast forward to now.

It’s the end of the semester, and I will have to repeat at least two of my classes. I am so completely angry at myself. I am angry for taking too much on, and I am angry for not succeeding. The reason I talked myself into taking the lowest-paying job of my life is that it would give me the ability to finish my education, and now that my education is no further towards being finished, I’m angry that I’ve spent the last five months at a job that I can’t stand.

Sometimes I feel that this existence in Florida is time in purgatory for a crime I don’t remember committing.

I know that I’m ok, and I’m just having a pity party, but my single, childless neighbor with the job as a journalist just walked out to her car with a towel and a bathing suit. She said she’s hoping to leave work early and get to the beach. Girl, it’s 10:30. When were you planning on going to work?

This fear of failure is definately something I don't want to pass on to the Kid. I think I hear a trip to the self-help section of my local bookstore coming on.

Here's a little mood music. It's the only song that would calm the Kid down when she was an infant. I honestly believe it's because I listened to it while I was pregnant. She's jumping up and down on the bed right now and laughing.

And really, I know that's all that matters.

Sad baby

As I write this, the Kid is laying next to me in my bed, wrapped in her gigantic fringey blanket with the hot air balloons on it. She's been coughing for three hours, and no amount of cough syrup will quiet her hacking.

I wish I had some Airborne in the house. I just couldn't leave her in her room all by her tiny, hacking, diseased self.

My bedroom is in a sad state of disarray. Due to the Kid's recent head injuries (she seems to be falling a lot lately, and went winging out of a shopping cart at Target last night) I decided to push my bed against a wall. I also had an inspired closet-cleaning weekend, which ended in me heading to the store determined to buy a new dresser, and not coming home with one. In disgust, I blatantly refused (to myself, that is) to move all the clothes I had moved out of the closet. All I need now is a U2 poster, and this is my bedroom, circa 1984. I love you, Bono!!!

Where the hell is an Ikea when you need one.

And my second question, which just occurred to me, is why the heck am I spending money every month on Flinstone vitamins with Immunity Support? What sort of support am I getting, here??

Gah.

I'm off to bed with a pair of small feet in my back.

That day, for no particular reason, I decided to go for a little run.

Last night, I came home from the nail salon and realized I could leave my house.

My parents had taken the Kid for the night, and I had the opportunity to actually.... walk away from the house. Unbelievable.

So I put on my sneakers (which suck, by the way) and walked out the door and in the direction of Away. It was beautiful outside. It was about 70 degrees, with a slight breeze, and the air smelled soft, if soft is actually an olfactory descriptor. Which I doubt it is. But there it was, the air smelled soft. Slightly fragrant, a little warm, coming in small gusts. Soft.

I had no idea where I was going. I just felt like walking. Then I started running. Then it started raining. And since there's major roadwork going on in my neighborhood, I stopped running to be able to avoid the clay they're digging up. Walking allowed me to observe deep footprints in the clay that looked like a lost shoe and a muddy sock waiting to happen. I was glad I was walking.

I thought the rain would pass, but it just got harder. My clothes were drenched in a few minutes. For whatever reason, I just kept walking. I passed houses covered in Christmas lights, and many, many flowering bushes, and cats and racoons and a frog. It was amazing to just walk and not think about anything, and just clear my head and look at new things. Eventually, the rain stopped and I headed home. I think I was gone about an hour. One of my toes has a red spot from my horrid shoe. I lit some sandalwood incense and put my feet up.

I think one of the reasons I needed to walk is because I decided to give someone another chance to work through a divorce and see where we stand at the end. I'm not entirely sure I'm doing the right thing, but nothing ventured, nothing gained. Plus, I am sick and tired of Karma kicking my ass for a past mistake, and so I am crawling up on the block and offering myself to Karma for the taking. Come and git it. But after this, Karma, you and I are straight.

I'm not sure I'm doing the right thing because I'm perfectly aware of the ache during a divorce that makes you wish you weren't so terribly alone. And the fact that if someone does happen to be there, you cling to them like a buoy in a storm, but when the storm's over and the sun is shining, you suddenly realize you need some alone time.

Read this. I'm leaving it in print. Feel free to do the "I told you so" dance later.

(sigh).

Dating and the single mom

Sucks.

The rules change completely once you hit the dating scene as a single mom.

You're no longer the stage-diving, tequila shot-tossing, expensive-shoe-having, just-don't-give-a-shit-girl you used to be.

(Then again, you might be. But I'm not. )

It was hard enough facing the outside world again in those first early moments that you were able to escape to the grocery store with spit-up stains on every shirt you owned and hair that hadn't seen a stylist in 11 months. But you got used to it.

Maybe your spirit broke a little with the kid who wouldn't sleep through the night, long after your friends with babies the same age were waking up refreshed.

Maybe, in the middle of it all, your partner started dating (people other than you). And you found it a little incredulous that he was trying to attract women when he had no job, was still living with you, and clearly couldn't remember who was buttering his bread, but hey, if anyone would want that, more power to 'em.

Please come pick him and his dirty laundry up, post-haste. PS, the only woman he'll ever really love is his mother. Good luck, girl! (Step-baby momma, that was a freebie).

Eventually, you pull yourself together. You're spinning a million plates in the air. You drop your kid off at a daycare where the rest of the moms are in their yoga outfits, holding up a fat-free latte with a hand that has an enormous diamond on a perfectly manicured fingertip, and chatting like women that have all day to stand around and chat. If only manicurists were open at midnight - I could surely squeeze that in between laundry and lunch prep. You do 90 on your way to your 8am meeting, driving with your knees, eating an apple and putting on makeup, because it's on your Outlook calendar that this is what you're supposed to be doing from 7:30 - 7:55am. Sorry, officer. Lookie here: "7:30 - Do 90 while driving with knees, eat an apple, put on eye makeup."

Either you meet men who have no children and while they greatly admire you, keep you at arm's distance while they scope around for someone just as great as you with no kids, or they have kids, but are just looking for that partner to put in the slot where the last one used to be.

Possibly, there are alternatives. I haven't found them yet.

It's Saturday morning, & I find myself nursing a heart from a gorgeous and amazing man who forgot to tell me he was still wearing a wedding ring. I thought he really saw me, but I don't think he saw below all these spinning plates, and behind this steering wheel that I'm driving with my knees, and from underneath all these textbooks that I'm reading so that I can give my kid something better all by myself, the part of me that says hey, I've got enough going on. I'm not as strong as you think I am.

I'm going to go have a waffle and listen to that whiny bastard James Blunt and make some carpet angels in my living room floor. Then I'm going to pull myself out of my pajamas and take my kid for a walk and show her the world.

On another note, that new computer that I ordered for T. finally came in, and he now has two monitors on his desk, like a complete, raging geek.

And I had to post a photo.

He said "I'm not looking at the camera". And I said, "What?" And he turned to repeat himself, because he really is that dumb, god love him.










Please note the photo of the crew of the Starship Enterprise that I taped to the top of his new monitor.

He promptly sent me this email:

From: TGLETSITCAFM
Sent: Thursday, November 30, 2006 3:19 PM
To: Mary
Subject: um

Just thought I’d say hi