Posts Tagged ‘single parenting’

SAHAM, part II

Wednesday, July 28th, 2010

Two months later. Husband has pretty much been home since my last post. Now I am getting re-adjusted to married life again. And capable, opinionated Me is having a harder time adjusting. Marriage is not the same as roommates, and it’s not actually a right-or-wrong situation. It’s a give-and-take while still being a part of one another’s lives kind of thing. Ugh. It’s so much more difficult than roommates. But that’s not why I’m writing. Let’s hear about the cost of being at home alone, with kids.

First, there is the obvious: being alone . . . with kids. I have yet to meet a mother who does not occasionally have the desire to leave a child crying in a crib, or maybe propped in front of a tv while she escapes for some fresh, quiet air. And usually this desire multiplies until she perhaps needs not just 10 seconds alone, but perhaps an entire hour alone. And being the good mother that she is, she does not leave a crying child alone while she takes a joy ride down Main Street. But she will hand off the little demon to Daddy the second his feet cross the threshold, and disappear before he can come up with a legitimate reason why he should not be holding the child.

When Daddy is gone, this cannot happen. And listening to the crying, the whining, maybe even just the innocent (but still very annoying), constant chatter can start to fray any sane person’s nerves. Added on top of that is the knowledge that there is no escape, and let’s just say there are times where Zombie Mommy takes over (until even this alter-ego gets worn down by the incessant repetition of “Mommy, why won’t you talk to me?”). This is bad all-around, because the kids only get mothering attention, which is typically the manners-enforcing, life-learning, book-reading, quiet time; versus fathering attention, which is typically tickle-festing, body-wrestling, mess-making, and your basic ruckus-raising time. So the kids are going a little stir-crazy, and Mommy checks out, and now they’re really going stir-crazy, which really doesn’t help Mommy, so it’s quite a vicious circle until Mommy eats some chocolate or something and musters the enthusiasm to play with the kids and get them to bed so that she can finally get a break . . . which, in my case, turns into quite a few hours of doing whatever I can think of that involves not going to bed because it is oh-so-quiet while they are asleep and if I go to bed then I will just wake up again and have to listen to all the noise for another whole day alone. Oy. Next thing I know, it’s 5 a.m. and now on top of my little patience, I will also have little sleep, which saps even more of said little patience.

Whew!

Don’t worry; this wasn’t an everyday occurrence. Maybe like every other day. ;) But what I’m trying to say is, it can be exhausting taking care of two small children without any adult interaction, or assistance. There were certainly some times when I became Zombie Mommy, so I can certainly appreciate Daddy’s presence now, despite all those little beard hairs in the sink. Being alone is great as long as things are going along smoothly; it’s when the troops are restless and there is no immediate reinforcement that it gets a little sticky. I am sure this was an obvious outcome for all of you, though. And it was mostly remedied by going to see a friend, or just getting out of the house. There are other costs that I didn’t quite realize at first.

Touch. Apparently, touch is ridiculously important. I was at a children’s museum today and one piece of information was that the hand has like 15,000 receptors in it (don’t quote me on this; I’m feeling too tired to look it up). The sense of touch is amazing. Babies–animals and humans–all thrive when touched lovingly, but do not do so well in isolation. Having my children around me, I never imagined I would be lacking in touch; after all, III was still nursing and pretty much clinging to me any waking moment. But it’s not the same.

The summer after I graduated high school I went to stay with a past foreign exchange student for a month. The third week I was there I had fallen asleep on the beach and had completely burned my back. Obviously it hurt, and I couldn’t reach to spread any lotion on it, so my host mother spread it on for me. And I realized as she touched me, that I had not touched another human being beyond the cordial handshake/kiss of first meeting someone since I had arrived. My mother wasn’t forcing a hug out of me every night, I wasn’t slouching against anyone on the couch, or even giving a friendly back rub. So when my host mother touched me, I almost began to cry. The touch was so much more comforting than the lotion itself. It is a basic human need.

So I may have had the entire bed to spread out on while Lloyd was gone, but I had no one to hug  me good-night. I may have been able to watch all chick flicks, but I had no one to lean on, or even share the jokes with. Lack of touch disconnects you (and I feel for anyone in a long-distance relationship!), and it’s not the big intimate acts of touch, but the small ones that make you feel alone. After all, don’t we get excited when watching a movie and the guy reaches over to push a stray bit of hair out of the girl’s face? Or reaches to slip the strap of her dress back on her shoulder? I missed the simple things.

I had my own schedule, but no one who wanted me to be anywhere (well, not entirely true; I did stay somewhat busy, but at the end of every day my friends all had their own homes to go back to). There were times when everyone I knew had plans with family or close friends, and I the best I could get was a phone call. At meal time I had to help both kids get fed before I got a chance to eat . . . alone. Instead of having someone help clean up the kitchen with me (not that this is a frequent occurrence), I got asked a hundred times when I would be done and could come play.

I guess what I’m saying is that there are two sides to every story. It is difficult being a parent alone. But that doesn’t mean I have to be miserable. And if I’m not miserable it doesn’t mean I would rather be alone. I think it’s ok to recognize a situation for what it is, but not to wallow in what it isn’t. And when I figure out how to do that, I’ll let you know!

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The Stay-at-Home-Alone-Mom

Wednesday, May 26th, 2010

For the past five months I have been in Nebraska with the kids and without the husband, mostly. He manages to swing through for a few days here and there, and we even had him for over a week once, but for the majority of the time he’s been either in California or traveling. It isn’t exactly what I anticipated, and we’re working on plans to move again so that maybe he can be around a little more, but I have learned a lot.

Most importantly, I have learned how capable I am. I left home at 17, ready to face the big college life, thinking I really knew what I was doing. I even thought once I was in college that I was a grown-up, but while I went to an excellent school that is filled with professors that truly care about and get involved in the students’ lives, to some degree they only serve as a crutch for poor little sheltered preachers’ kids like me. There were still plenty of rules, just like living at home, and no monthly electrical bills to budget for.

So I began dating Lloyd about one month after school started (I was so proud for holding out that long!), two years later we were married, and about 1 year and 9 months later we had our daughter and then graduated college a couple months after that. Being married, going to school, working a job, and having a baby certainly helped me learn responsibility (but honestly, I was always a 4.0 perfectionist; responsibility really wasn’t something I was lacking), but I have never been on my own.

It has been freeing and frustrating. I’m not exactly in the position of a single mother—I don’t have to work, as my husband still makes the money. But I’m not quite in the position of a military wife either—I have little fear for my husband’s safety (but let me just say that I am so much more empathetic to the situation of military wives now). I’m this weird stay-at-home-mother who is alone. So let me share with you a little of what I’ve learned.

I’ve learned how nice it is to not have to work around anyone else’s schedule. I plan our days according to what we want to do, and we don’t have to plan mealtime for anyone else, or wait on anyone else if we want to go somewhere. I don’t need to ask anyone else’s opinion or go through the same, old conversation of “I don’t know; what do you want to do?” I can sleep across the entire bed. I don’t have to clean up tiny hairs around the sink. I can watch all chick flicks. I can dance in my underwear . . . oh wait, I could do that before.

Well, anyway, I’ve learned how to make decisions for myself. I’ve realized how dependent I’d become on my husband’s opinion, which is not to say that I’m now ready to disregard everything he thinks, but too often I find myself changing what I want to do in favor of what he wants to do. And it’s not like he’s bullied me into anything. It’s the subtle nuances of how he responds to my suggestions. When I learned (after 5 years of marriage) that he doesn’t like rice, I pretty much stopped cooking it. But you know what? I love rice. So why should I stop making it? If he asked me to bake a ham (which I really wouldn’t want to eat), I would do it (and, oh, I did do that for Christmas last year). I’ve been in a position of feeling subordinate to him even though he’s done nothing to force his ways over me (well, other than his personality being so very, very convincing). And being without him has let me see myself.

I have opinions too. I have preferences. And I have a voice to share those with. Another very simple, and silly, example showed itself when I was frosting Emma’s birthday cake. I think I was using a plastic knife or something, and was perfectly content using that knife, with no ill effects, when Lloyd suggested I use his beloved “spatula spreader” (there’s a whole other story in that alone!). I responded I didn’t know where it was and was fine using my knife. Wait about 5 seconds, and he’s asking me if I’m sure I don’t know where it is; it really would work better. Long story short, I stop what I’m doing to search for the tool, find it, and use it, with no great improvement on frosting spreading. This is a classic example. He never said I had to do anything; he really was making a suggestion based on what he thought would be in my best interest. But you know what? I wanted to use the darn knife. I didn’t not want to use the spatula spreader, but what I was using was perfectly acceptable. Give me that same scenario today and I’ll just keep using the knife. I’m allowed to have a preference and do things my way.

Freedom. Freedom in being alone. But freedom does come at a cost. And I’ll save that for another day. ;)

By the way, I know I’ve been terribly absent, but along with this freedom I’ve realized how powerful my own motivation can be. And honestly, there are things I’d rather be doing. You want to know who encouraged me (repeatedly) to start blogging in the first place? Take a wild guess . . . It wasn’t a bad suggestion, and his encouragement was sincere in that he thought this is what I need to be happy. And I’m not saying it hasn’t been fulfilling at times, but I’ve been more motivated to make an effort at keeping up with housework (that part’s not really doing so swell though), and following through with my promises to Emma of giving her my undivided attention for art projects or just playing, and making time to focus on my physical well-being by exercising every day. And something’s gotta give, you know. Obviously, I’m no Super Mom, and I don’t yet know how to get it all in—although I’m guessing watching less Grey’s Anatomy would help—but I’m still working on it at least!

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Care and Compassion

Monday, February 1st, 2010

I think one of the reasons it requires two to create life, is that their parenting styles/services are sure to balance each other out. And I’m not just talking the good cop/bad cop discipline routine. I’m talking the I’ll-clean-the-dirty-sheets and you-clean-the-dirty-kid during those middle-of-the-night bouts of sickness.

Parenting singly has made me even more aware than ever of my own weaknesses on the parenting front. This entire last week both kids have been under the weather. The first two days it was just III; his eyes got all goopy, his nose got all drippy, and he only wanted to be held. I did all right with that, but the next day Emma and I also came down with a similar, although lesser, illness. So we took it easy (which is also why I didn’t post on Friday).

Now, nearly a week later, I’m reaching the end of my ability to be caring or at all compassionate. I’m not feeling too weakened by this bug, but Emma has become incredibly distressed. The night before last, she was awake every two hours crying about being hungry or thirsty, and all day yesterday she whined and turned on the waterworks for every little thing that she wanted.

I am not ordinarily an extremely compassionate person. I am more of a “suck it up” kind of advice-giver. This doesn’t work so well with kids. In fact, it sort of makes it worse. So I guess that’s where the other parent typically comes in. When I can’t stand the whining any more, and I’m practically yelling at my child, Lloyd can step in and give a hug while I go off and calm down so that I can return and treat my child with love. So now I’m having to learn to change. It’s been such a long week, and I have been fortunate enough to have a few breaks while a friend stays with the kids, but the more sleep-deprived I get, the quicker my patience and compassion fades.

I don’t think I can completely change, especially not overnight, but this week I’m going to try to reach a mediocre level of compassion, which is still better than none at all. And while that may sound like a horrible thing to do, I also know it is attainable. I am a flawed human, and right now I don’t have a partner filling in my weaknesses. I’m afraid of completely snapping. I know I can meet my children’s needs, and I know that I can find a better solution for my own lack of patience than letting myself shout or become angry at my child for whining that she doesn’t feel well.

So, for all you other flawed moms (or dads), I just wanted to share another of my many weaknesses. I don’t have to be perfect, but I think I’ve got to keep on trying. Here I am, still in progress. . .

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Sunday Best

Monday, January 18th, 2010

I know there’s a bit of a standard in many churches that Sunday mornings require one’s “Sunday best,” meaning you must participate in the unspoken rule of wearing a suit and tie if you’re male, or a dress if you’re female. This is clearly not at all churches—many have a very laid-back, come-as-you-are attitude that is very sincere. And then there are some very staunchly traditional churches that may give you the cold shoulder if you’re wearing even dress pants (I’m talking females here). Anyway, I’m not writing this to get into some semi-political/theological discussion on proper church attire, and how your clothing either brings honor or shame to God—I honestly don’t care to get into such an argument, as it would probably only end in frustration.

I just want to say that I still dress up, and I’d like to explain why, without ever bringing God into it. (Although the mere fact that I’m talking about my attire while going to worship God technically is still centered around Him, but just bear with me here.) As a mother of two small children, and particularly now as a mother who could go for weeks without ever seeing another human being if I chose, I set all my own standards of living. I don’t have a hungry husband coming home at 6 that I need to have dinner prepared for. I don’t have to go to any fancy work parties for my husband’s office. I don’t ever need to be seen with anyone other than my children.

And this state of living is nice, but it is making me more lazy than usual. If my kids stay up way too late and then the baby wakes up and cries for hours in the middle of the night, leaving him exhausted enough to sleep until noon, why should I get up before then? Nobody will know the difference. No one’s coming home at lunch to make me feel guilty for being such a slouch while the “rest of the world” has been productive for 4 hours of the day so far. Does it really matter if I’m still in my pajamas at 2 in the afternoon?

I haven’t started watching soap operas yet, or making grilled cheese with an iron, so I haven’t quite sunk to Mr. Mom levels of stay-at-home parenting, but this lifestyle is why I still dress up on Sundays. Sunday is the one day of the week where I set an alarm. It is the one day that I force myself to care a little more than usual, and by doing so, I am rewarded. Staying in one’s pajamas all day sounds like fun, but in the end, I find myself more drained and feeling gross. Not to mention I seem to way too ready to have a “good” reason for eating massive doses of chocolate, or whatever form of sugar I happen to find.

When I dress up on a Sunday it’s not just throwing on jeans and a t-shirt to make myself presentable to run errands in; it’s taking a little bit of pride in how I look. And I don’t mean pride like, “Oh, everyone look how pretty I am. You all just wish you could look as hot as me!” I mean the type of pride that one gets when dressing for a job, or even a job interview. Perhaps it’s more of just a feeling of self-worth. I get to feel like a person, not just a mommy (which seems to be synonymous with maid, short-order cook, and babysitter, all at once). Once again, I am not saying that a mommy is an unworthy job, only that it can leave said mommy very drained, and I think it’s important that mothers get a chance to feel good about themselves, and to get out of the house looking and feeling confident and happy at least one day a week.

So as long as I’m still dressing up on Sundays, all is not lost; and while I’m semi-shooting for being a productive person with a before-noon schedule for every day of the week, my mediocre goal is to just hang on to Sundays. And I’m pretty confident I will succeed.

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