how we talk about the absent father

Ah, yes. Father's Day.

As a single mom of a burgeoning little girl, I forget that our situation in life holds unexpected potholes. I only know *this* life. The one I have. I don't know otherwise. So I don't think about her experience with Father's Day, or her asking about it, or her witnessing it in other families.

I'm still tackling this one, and I think this will be a topic of discussion throughout the next 20+ years of life. Mostly because she asks. She's two for heaven's sake. TWO. I thought I had until at least 4.

A bit of back story for you: Madeleine's father (my former husband) is in another state right now. No, we don't see him. It's best to say at this point, their interactions are sparse. Distance + life + different ideas of how things should work. I'll leave it at that.

(Side note: You will not find a bitter ex-wife tirade here. Or a "men are jerks" rant. 

Nor will you find me saying, "I am superwoman." I will say that being a single mom has some incredible, beautiful, hard, challenging moments... just as I know "regular" family situations have.

Mothering is mothering. 

There is no guide book for it. And whether you're single or with someone, us moms are still figuring this thing out...day by day, sometimes minute by minute.)

She often mistakes strangers for him, or musicians on stage who have dark hair hanging over their eyes. She'll sometimes ask my guy friends if they're her dad. Or she'll start calling her uncles "dad", or her grandfather "dad". She's even been known to walk up to a male friend and ask them to marry me. (*dying of embarrassment over here*)

I do correct her, and never leave a doubt in her mind. Her father is real, just not here.

At night, when I'm tucking her tiny body into bed, and her arms wrap tight around my arm, she'll ask:
"Where's Daddy? I miss him."

I usually pause, and pull myself down to my knees next to her.

"Daddy doesn't live here," she says and looks at the ceiling of silk scarves and green glowing stars. "Daddy lives in his house in Texas."

"Yup, that's right," I say, stroking her feathery curls behind her ears.

(Side note #2: I don't talk trash about him, especially to her. I just don't.

Not at all,

not ever,

and by God's grace, never will.

I have my own issues, but hurting her by speaking things, and hurting him back by dragging his name through the mud does nothing good.

There is no freedom in that. There is no spirit of redemption in that. And by redemption I mean, I am not going to sling mud at his invisible presence until she's 18. She will grow up and decide for herself how she feels about it. Him. Them. I will not lie, but I will not grow hard to her tender, searching heart. The story that exploded into a million shards between him and I does not need to gut her out before she has a chance to see it for herself.)

"Your father lives far away, but he loves you very much," I say.

"I want a daddy," she says, her eyelids drooping heavy. "I want two daddies."

I tell her about the men who love her who she sees all the time.
My dad.
My brothers.
Her older cousins.

Boys and men who love God, and love her like their own. I tell her that God will take care of us, and what He has given us now is good for us now. And should He decide someday to bring another Daddy, then we will be happy.

But even if he doesn't, we will be happy then too. 

She smiles, "I love you." And her eyes drift off to the side wall, marking the stars that glow with her fingers.

I can't fix the hole that is gaping in her. I'm not to fill it with wishful thinking for a future I don't know, or burning ashes of a past I can't change.

I'm not supposed to be her hero. That's not my job. That's not her father's job. That's not the job of some man who could be another father in her life.

That belongs to God. Just like the air in her lungs, and the rhythm of her heart. The song on her lips and the tears on her cheeks. She is not mine to own, fix or mold.

I close the door as she drifts off to sleep, one small speed bump gone under our feet and into the dark.

His grace is good.

-----

{linking up with these girls today}

Finding Moments to Breathe

(reposting from the Fall 2010 edition of Women on the Move, http://momsmoments.ca/) 

 

“Mama?
“Yeah baby.”
“Mom?”
“Yes sweetie.”
“Mama?”
“What is it love?”
“Mom!”

Seriously? I turn to see her, my almost 2-year-old, who has now turned the entire carton of goldfish upside down on the couch and is dancing on the tiny pieces underneath her feet.

“Mama. Yook.” She points at the scattered yellow crackers, grinning from ear to ear. “Uh oh, Mom.”

This is typical for me, a working, stay-at-home single mom. It’s times like these I really wish I could call on someone else to have an extra measure of grace. I search for the teachable moment, but instead my pure exhaustion is just under the surface, grating against my nerves.

“You’re kidding.” She blinks. “Do you realize how tired I am?”

The dancing stops and she blinks again and points at the mound. “Mama, yook!”

You know that old saying, “Don’t cry over spilled milk?” I’m pretty sure it exists because we all know it’s inevitable the milk will spill and we will find that it is the one thing that makes life feel simply unbearable. It will be that spastic moment we’re weeping and not even sure why.

I bend low to help pick up the pieces. She watches me, and in a moment follows my movement. One goldfish at a time.

Being a single mom is hard. Anyone who says otherwise must be paying a Nanny. It’s hard work. It’s wearisome. Being the only one in the game without a relief will wear anyone down fast, and sometimes without warning. I don’t think any single moms imagined that this would be part of our story. I had dreams. Hopes. Plans.

But things happen. Our dreams scatter into stormy gales, and we’re left grasping at pieces of what we once held so dearly.

Next thing you know, you’re standing in a kitchen, looking at blinking eyes and a pile of goldfish, wondering how you’re going to breathe deep enough to get through the next moment.

I don’t know much, but I know it starts with bending low, and starting with one fish. Putting one thing back where it belongs. In the bowl. In the garbage. In your heart. Before you know it, those little people who watch quietly at your side, will bend next to you. They’ll pick up their pieces. You work together and teach.

“Mama?”
“Yeah baby.”
Her tiny arms wrap around my neck, and I breathe.

The mess will disappear. Hurts do heal.





{p.s. just a reminder that we are migrating over to theorganicbirdblog.com. please update your feeds and readers!! thank you!}

Low-Hanging Fruit

"We just don't want you to feel alone." She says these words as we walk past funnel cake booths and parents chasing their over-tired children through the empty streets of Southlake. She's opted to take the walk back to my car with me from the other side of a still festive town center.

I value those words. They are like pieces of fruit that never die and sustain me through long nights.

"But I am. You realize that right?"

She walks along side of me, through crowds who are weaving in and out of traffic. The fireworks have long ended and remnants of childhood and summer cover the park grounds. Sprinklers shower us and the sidewalk, a funny reminder that in Texas, everything needs water.

"I have amazing friends. I'd be in awful shape without you guys." We walk past a few cops who are quietly watching a group of rowdy teens. "But at the end of the day, it's just me. I'm doing this alone. And if I never come to terms with that, I'm in serious denial of my current situation."

Traffic buzzes by and we wait for the tiny hand on the opposite side of the street to turn green.

"I wish I knew what to say. Or how to give you support." She shrugs and looks my way. That look of I feel just as helpless as you.

I wish too. I try to explain to her that having never been through this, I'm not entirely sure what I need... or even the full scope of emotions I'm experiencing. Sometimes they feel a lot like relief. Sometimes a lot like grief. Mostly both.

"Days like today remind me I'm a single mom." Tears burn the rims of my eyes as we get closer to my car. "But it's ok. I need the reminder. I just need to learn these lessons."

She says she'll pray. Pray that I learn quickly. Pray that I have extra grace and patience dangling as ripe fruit from my branches. The low-hanging ones. The ones I can just pick without standing on my tiptoes or needing a ladder.

Fruit that tastes sweet. That sustains. That doesn't wither.

learning the tricks of the trade

in case anyone tells you otherwise, you should know: sometimes being a single mom really really sucks.

i would like to pretend that i'm figuring this all out with such bravado and super-human strength. the truth is sometimes i stomp my feet as much as my nine month old. i selfishly want company just so i don't have to deal with the devasting loneliness. sometimes madeleine is downright boring.

so i cope.

the library, where i can rent movies for two weeks at a time and books that help me escape when i don't feel like dealing with reality. and no, i'm not taking out "eight steps to surviving divorce" or "how to marry a millionaire in 90 days". i'm reading about teenage angst and love stories that probably wouldn't last in reality.

the kitchen, where i concoct new recipes and test Madeleine's developing palate out (not with my new recipes). looking for some good recipes that work for a single working mom? just ask me.

painting, where i can splash a white or used canvas with colors to reflect my soul. i believe everyone can paint. just like everyone can sing. not everyone is van gogh. i'm on the "not everyone" list, but still i love it.

and my coping mechanisms are developing and changing.

however, in case anyone tells you otherwise, sometimes it's not all that bad.

6:29 a.m.

a little early morning coffee mixed with crumbled apple & oatmeal muffin. the mornings have become treasured time — some of the only time I see her during my frenzied days.

the morning holds such promise. no shortcomings yet, except for those within my fears. no deadlines missed yet, except perhaps the perpetual hitting of "snooze" on the alarm clock.

on sunday, a member of our Care Team approached me after dozens of people had given me their funeral-like condolences. he simply put one arm around my shoulder and said, "the nights are the hardest, aren't they?" i nodded, tears brimming up faster than i was ready to admit. later that afternoon, he and his wife wrapped their arms around me. arms of knowing. arms of experience. arms of been-there-done-that. arms of you can do this.

and he prayed for the night. that everything that my Father spoke to me during the day wouldn't be forgotten or stolen at night.

and i think this is the other reason i love the morning. the night as pulled in her cloak, the final colors of her shadow sneaking away on the horizon. morning comes quietly but not to be ignored. she sings of new things... and of the end of night. every day this happens. how can we ignore His principles in such basic elements of nature? daylight is not forever. but the night is not a forever thing either.

unless you live in the arctic... and at that i say... why are you living there?

an afternoon in my head:

• i wonder when Maddie is going to poop.
• if i put my pajamas on at 3 p.m., does that make me lazy?
• will i ever exercise again?
• ...does it matter if i do, since i'm lazy enough to put pjs on at 3 p.m.?
• since i'm admitting laziness, when will i finish unpacking from moving?
• maybe that's where my missing stuff is.
• i should write. paint. sing. draw. crochet. sew.
• i need a sewing machine. the sewing machine is in the mail.
• oh yeah. dishes.
  
• i wonder when madeleine will be old enough to help with dishes.
• god. i'm a terrible parent.
• i wonder if i'll screw her up.
• who am i kidding, of course i will.
• hmm. i should go kiss her and tell her i love her.
• oh yeah. laundry.
• i wonder if i'll be doing this by myself for the rest of my life.
• that would suck.
• or would it?
• maybe i should put some real clothes on and exercise.
• or go to bed.

I'm adding this... as a friend of mine replied. I just had to share this with everyone else. Gotta love friends who "get" you. (This dear friend is expecting her first baby!!):

· i wonder when Maddie is going to poop. I can’t wait until this becomes a primary concern of mine.
· if i put my pajamas on at 3 p.m., does that make me lazy? What if I don’t get out of them until 3 p.m?
· will i ever exercise again? I wonder this myself…I think its okay if “baby” serves as excuse for like 3 years
· ...does it matter if i do, since i'm lazy enough to put pjs on at 3 p.m.?
· since i'm admitting laziness, when will i finish unpacking from moving? Going on two years here…have two pictures up
· maybe that's where my missing stuff is. You probably threw it away when “nesting”
· i should write. paint. sing. draw. crochet. sew. Ditto…except I am not good at any of those nor do I know how to do the last two.
· i need a sewing machine. the sewing machine is in the mail. I love crossed off things!
· oh yeah. dishes. Buy paper plates…biodegradable of course…I don’t think I spelled that word right but no squiggly line is showing up…
· i wonder when madeleine will be old enough to help with dishes. Umm doesn’t walking=vacuuming (if not my master plan may be threatened)
· god. i'm a terrible parent. I promise you are better than I am going to be
· i wonder if i'll screw her up. Just love. And let her know that she is loved. By you. And more importantly, by Him.
· who am i kidding, of course i will. That’s why God made counselors.
· hmm. i should go kiss her and tell her i love her.
· oh yeah. laundry. Don’t tell but until last week I hadn’t done laundry in four weeks…I am not kidding. I have no excuse.
· i wonder if i'll be doing this by myself for the rest of my life. I hope not.
· that would suck. You are strong and you let God be your provision.
· or would it? See above.
· maybe i should put some real clothes on and exercise. I don’t really ever have this thought.
· or go to bed. This one on the other hand….

For the record, Christy - you are going to be an AWESOME mom. I tell myself that as long as I think I'll be a bad mom, there's a good chance I'll be a good one. If I think I'll be a good one, I'll probably be to arrogant to admit mistakes.

wednesday wanderings

somewhere deep within me, tears came sputtering out. i reached for her box of tissues, next to her notepad and silent clock that ticked away the hour i had. "i don't know why i'm crying," i sniffled and she nodded with that all-knowing smile.

somehow she managed to gently work her way into my heart, emotions, psyche. the place where i generally avoid. then she began pulling those things out, essentially nudging me to take a look at my heart in its gnarled, busting at the seams with weed roots, bruised and in some places, hard and calloused condition. i feel like tucking it back under my arm or casually denying its ownership.

instead we discuss. pray. ponder. and she verbally gently wraps it again in gauze, and i gently place it back in my core. then the thinking begins. the walk back from my weekly counseling session forces me to pull up my britches and acknowledge that maybe i don't have this all figured out like i hoped i would.

because didn't we all dream of different things when we were little? i know for myself, i imagined a far more glamorous, in-control, money-makin', sexy-man totin' woman at 26. not this sniveling, plump, single mom, how-the-heck-did-i-get-here girl.

the laundry is tossing in the dryer. the dishwasher is loaded. baby clothes folded. diapers treated. new book is waiting bedside. and i'm grappling with the silence once again. my heart is aching a bit, like a stubbed toe ... a brief wince of pain in the middle of normal routine. a little reminder from this afternoon that it's time to heal. and sometimes healing requires this...

time

random sunday

how things have changed:

:: i'm in my PJ's at 7:15 p.m., watching a movie at 8 and getting drowsy by 9.

:: dinner is no longer at a table. rather it's me and my plate, standing beside her high chair in the kitchen.

:: the dishwasher doesn't fill up by the end of the day.


on the horizon:

:: when Em is old enough to appreciate "story hour."

:: when i can eat normal food again (side note: 6 days left, 33.5 lbs down!)

:: september.


things i miss:

:: my friend.

:: not having to do all the housework.

:: cooking for more than one.


here comes the sun:

:: a trip to NY, including a stop in Manhattan, next week.

:: some I Love NY pizza... maybe. (see above)

:: spaghetti dinners and a full house... hopefully coming soon.


p.s. someday i want to learn how to sail.

in the wee small hours of the morning

i think about today. it's all i have really. it's all you have, too. this morning, i woke up to the hum of the ceiling fan, spinning wildly above my bed. from the other side of the apartment, i could hear madeleine's noise machine... swishing and mimicking the ocean's waves.

this is my life now. the early morning hours of solitude. the first cry from her tiny mouth. the duties that fall to me alone now. i allow myself a few moments to either breathe a sigh of relief or whimper out a small cry and plea for an extra measure of grace.

but this is my life.

the past 4 months have been a series of crossroads after crossroads. and with each turn i take, the life i used to know is farther and farther in the distance. i could either walk backwards, looking longingly at that which used to be. or i do what i'm doing, turn around, face forward, take an occasional glance backward to see how far i've come... but trod on with determination.

my life has changed. is changing. will change.

and in these quiet moments between me and the ever-present Spirit in the mornings, i'm grateful for this pain. i ask Him to cradle my bleeding heart, to restore things that were stolen, violated, wounded and in fact... maybe he could just give me a whole new heart. i'm about due.