Seven Years

I found my divorce papers this past week.  I was cleaning out closets and desks and stuff that had been, well, just stuffed, when we moved in a year ago.  I looked at the dates on the papers.

July 2004.

We were legally married for exactly 5 years, 1 month, and a few days.

That’s not the point.

July 2004 means I have been doing this parenting gig by myself over 7 years now.  Four of those years have been here, 2 hours away from my family, and theirs.

Seven years.  That’s half of Meredith’s life, and more than half of Megan’s.  The girls have known us in separate houses, as long as they knew us in the same house.  They remember the former more clearly than the latter.

Seven years.

I wonder though, if I would have been a different parent if I hadn’t had to do it alone.  If I’m honest, I would tell you our house is a strange but working mixture of sorority house (without the boys and mostly without the alcohol) and boot camp.  A lot of the decisions in this house are made by joint committee.  There are arguments, there is a lot of stealing of my sharing of the clothes.  We keep a huge desk calendar hung on our fridge to keep track of everyone’s schedules.  And we shower in shifts.  At the end of the day, though, I am the disciplinarian.  I am the one who makes the rules, enforces the rules, and doles out the punishment.  Sometimes that’s hard for the girls to reconcile in their heads.  Sure they *know* it, but when you’ve just been laughing and playing around with mom, for her to switch gears and actually BE MOM, wow, I forgot you were in charge here.  I get to be good guy, but I also have to be the bad guy.

Being a single parent means you have to be there, for all of it.  The good and the bad.  You get to be there when things go right in their life, and when things go wrong.  I get the luxury of being the only parent in the house, so I don’t have distractions.  I get to focus my attention on them, whenever they need me.  And sometimes when they don’t.  The good news for me is I know what’s going on in their life.  The bad news for them is I know what’s going on in their life.  At least for now, I haven’t crossed that line that separates the cool concerned mom from the control freak stalker mom.

I have an edge their father doesn’t have.  I have a vagina. I understand female hormones. I remember what junior and senior high were like.  I can help navigate their journey. Also, I now know what bipolar was like, and I watch ever so closely for signs that maybe, they need to talk to a doctor.  I don’t want them to suffer like I have.  But I also don’t want to jump the gun.  So I watch what they do, how they act. I listen to what they tell me, and sometimes to what they don’t.  I talk to them about school, and friends, and boys, and teachers, and classes and homework, and practice and games. I pretend I don’t hear what they are telling their friends when they think I’m not listening. I let them live their life and experience all there is to experience, all while standing in the not so far off background.

Their dad has an edge I don’t have.  He has a penis, and he can tell them exactly what those stupid boys are thinking and why they are acting like total idiots.  He can tell them “Tell that numb nuts to back off or I will drive the 2 hours it takes to get there to have a talk with him.  And if I have to drive 2 hours, it won’t be to have a coke and a smile.”  He can tell them to be aware, to be careful, but not too careful.  He can teach them how to be safe.

I wonder if we would parent the girls as well together as we seem to have managed separately?  I wonder if we would have been able to play to each other’s strengths, and compensate for each other’s weaknesses or if it would have always been a power struggle between us leaving the girls lost, confused, and unguided.  I give them city life, I give them excitement and opportunities and entertainment and fun and flash and pizzazz.  He gives them small town country life, he teaches them loyalty, and family, and hard honest with your hands kind of work.  He teaches them to give to others what you can when you can’t give anything but yourself.  We both have taught them it is possible to provide a safe, warm, full of love home, as single parents.  We both have taught them “You are enough on your own”.

My Our girls both have a strong sense of self, they have moral compasses that they trust and believe in and stand for.  They know exactly who they are, probably better than I do today, and definitely better than I did at their age.  Their looks, their brains, their sense of humor? their father and I have long ago agreed they got those from Target.  But the rest? I’m not sure.

I want to hope it was from both of us.  Separately.  And together.

I live with Bert and Ernie only with vaginas.

People? This is the best Bert and Ernie book. Ever. It was one of my sister’s favorites when she was a child.  Ok, I don’t know that for a fact. It was one of MY favorites when she was a child.

If you haven’t read it, (and clearly most of you probably haven’t) it’s the story of how Ernie bought some cookies but broke the cookie jar, so he has to put the cookies in the sugar bowl, and the sugar in a flower-pot, and one thing leads to another ending with the fish in Bert’s cowboy hat.  So Bert has to wear a pot on his head when he wants to play “Ride ’em cowboy.”   People? That is a direct quote, do not laugh at me.

This weekend, the girls and I stopped at Sonic on our way back from The Lake. (who we were with is a blog post for another day).  A few miles down the road,  the following conversation took place in the back seat of the car.

Newt: Here, Tate, Hold your Sonic food.

Tate:  Why should I hold my Sonic food?

Newt: Because I have to put my food in your Sonic Bag.

Tate:  Why can’t you put your food in your bag?

Newt: Because mine has a soda in it.

Tate: Why does your bag have a soda in it?

Newt: Because the cup holder is full.

Tate: The cup holder is full?  Of what?

Newt: Books.

Tate: What?  Why are their books in the cup holder?

Newt: Because I don’t want them on the floor on my feet.

Tate: So what I supposed to do with my Sonic food if you’re using my bag?

Newt: Hold it on your lap?

People?  I can not make this shit up.

Happy 14th Birthday Taterbug

14 years ago you changed my our lives. Not just my life, but your Dad’s and even your brother’s lives.

14 years ago you took your own sweet time getting here.  You kept me up all night, doing things at your own pace.  Which is never in a hurry.  Unless it’s shopping?  That? You’re a pro. (Get a job, help pay for that shit you think you have to have!)

You look at the world through hopeful eyes.  You believe in the good in everyone.  Except your younger sister. Unless of course you want to borrow some of her clothes.

My time with you is growing short.  Already you are making noise about learning to drive.  Two short years from now.  Don’t rush the next 24 months.  Once we reach 16? It’s just a blink of an eye and you’re gone.  I’m not done with you  yet.

You have made me proud beyond words.  You excel at everything you put your mind to.  Your grades? Honor Roll.  The teachers and staff at school? Sing your praises.  Your phone? Constantly in use talking to your friends.  I have seen a gymnasium full of classmates stop mid conversation to run over and say HI to you.

You have gone above and beyond with our neighbors. Your patience and kindness has opened new doors for our neighbor by helping him learn to read.

Your sense of humor? Kicks my ass.  You make me laugh every day.  You get it.  You are not afraid to laugh and joke, and you’re more than happy to me the clown just to get a laugh.

You feel deeply.  If someone hurts, you hurt with them.  If they are angry, you’ll pick up your sword and fight beside them.  If someone is being a douchenozzle, you’re right there calling them a douchenozzle. Usually not to their face… but still.

In a strange twist of fate, you have an incredible amount of faith and belief in me. Even when I have little for myself.  And living up to your expectations for me as your mother?  Is what keeps me trying and striving and reaching.

Don’t be in a hurry to grow up, Tate, because I’m not in any hurry to let you go.  We’ll have plenty of time to be friends when you’re older.  Enjoy your teen years now.  Be a kid, laugh, play, dance, sing, live and love.

Because, you are loved.

Happy Birthday Taterbug.

Shoe Shopping with Teens. I need a sponsor. Nike I'm available.

I can't afford them, but I am not opposed to accepting samples. Size 8

Scooter needed new shoes this weekend.  He needed tennis shoes, that are actual uh, Tennis shoes.  Like Rafael Nadal would wear. (Not the ones in the picture, I just thought those were awesome and I would love a pair even though I would probably do noting more strenuous in them than shop for more shoes). See, Scoot plays tennis (for fun) with one of his friends two or three times a week.  So he needs shoes to play tennis in.  I get that.

So we all pile into the car and go to lunch (Yummy Mexican, with margaritas because I need sustenance to go shoe shopping with 4 kids, three of which are girls) and then off to the sporting goods store for Tennis tennis shoes.

Flip Flop season is almost over, and the girls need tennis shoes for gym, and they can’t be caught dead wearing last year’s shoes, because they are so last year. Clearly.  Newt got a new pair for her birthday (thanks to a 80% off sale at JC Penny earlier this month) and Tate is getting new shoes for cheerleading but she can only wear them to cheer.  She needed new gym shoes.

While Scooter and Brian are off looking at the Rafael Nadal look-alike shoes that I am oh so glad I wasn’t paying for because we wouldn’t get to eat for a week or more if I had paid for them, Tate and Newt start looking at their shoes.

I finally drag them away from the wall of the latest and greatest must have shoes and drag them kicking and screaming point them in the direction of the “SALE” table because clearly that’s the only language I understand in this store.

Lucky for me Tate was able to fall head over heals (no pun intended) in love with settle for a pair of Nikes that were on sale for $30, which would allow us to eat this week and most of next.

Newt on the other hand had found her heart’s desire in a pair of Nikes with a glorious price tag of $168.  Now, don’t get me wrong, I love my girls, but they have never in their life been $168-for-a-pair-of-shoes active in any kind of sport.  Granted they were pretty awesome and amazing looking and I’m willing to bet they felt like a dream on your feet and not at all like my stilettos.  But $168 for a pair of shoes?  Really Nike?

So, to all you Nike PR people out there who might happen to read my blog, when you come out with a pair of $20 shoes made specifically for laying around the house doing nothing more physically exerting than looking awesome and training to be a diva, I’ve got your spokes person right here.  (She wears a size 5. Just saying)

30 Days of Truth Fail

Yes, I realize I started something that should have given me something to write about for 30 consecutive days without having to think about it much at all.

And then? I failed.

Now, however, I have people linking to my first post and jumping on the bandwagon. Frankly they’re on their own because I suck at being a leader. I like to follow. I’m good at that. Leading? Not so much. And I’ve got kids. Scary thought huh?

Having said all of that, feel the need to sort of follow through with this 30 days of truth.

Day 2: Something you love about yourself

Which is really harder to write than something I hate about myself. I can list chapter and verse things I don’t like about me. But finding acceptance and god forbid, love something about myself, well… are you serious?

I love that I love photography. Of course, right now my photography website is currently under construction so I don’t have any examples of my photos. I hate that it’s been entirely too long since I put anything new on the website, but since it’s under construction I sort of have an excuse.

I love that I am a single mom raising two daughters with very little help from their father, and I am doing a good job at it. I love that I have cultivated the kind of relationship with them that gives them the security to come to me with any problems. We can talk about anything, and everything and that’s a great thing.

I love that I am taking steps to follow my dream of someday being something or somebody online and not just in my head. I don’t have dreams of grandeur of becoming a published author, (although I would never turn down that opportunity should I wake up and find this life is just a bad dream and I really am a famous writer) but I would like to have a blog with a decent following and I would love to be the writer I have always wanted to be. Which is sort of like Carrie Bradshaw with Louboutins instead of Manolos.

I love that I have the opportunity to work with a writer I have admired for several years now. (more on this later) When the opportunity presented itself I crossed my fingers, and jumped at the chance and I can not even put into words how much it means to me to be working with her.

I love that two years ago I was in a really bad place in my life, and now, two years later, I can see the light at the end of the tunnel and will finally be able to put all of that behind me.

I love that in the midst of all of this I finally pulled my head out of my ass and learned a few things and got my shit together and finally, at 42, seem to have a clue, and finally know what it’s all about.

Tomorrow or Day 3 is Something you have to forgive yourself for. You all might want to bring comfy clothes, a comfy chair, or pillowblanket combo, and drinks. We could be here a while with that one.