My Oxygen Mask

This past holiday weekend the ex took the children for FOUR days straight. While I still feel a tug at my heart, I have passed the stage of crying when I see them go with their father.  Yes, I miss them when they are gone, but I now welcome the freedom, even if it is brief and sporadic. I could use the break and I know that they benefit too.  Of course time with their father is important as well.

Since the divorce I have repeatedly read and heard others say that it is essential to care for myself during this difficult transition.  When the plane is going down, first apply the oxygen to your own face before assisting others I am constantly being reminded. I get it and it makes perfect sense, but I simply have not figured out how this translates in real life.

Am I supposed to hit the bars and start looking for men, because I am quite confident that is not what I want at this stage of my life. I do not know if I ever truly enjoyed that scene. Besides, I have three babies and they are my priority. Nor do I have money to burn on nail salons or other beauty treatments.  Similarly, shopping is not an option and walking around a mall penny-less is a drag. Frankly I cannot think of anything I even want if I had money. And while a movie would be a much-needed mental escape, paying for a movie ticket these days leaves me riddled with guilt when the money could be spent on necessities.

So I continue to do what I have done since the first time the children went away. I clean, I purge closets…I go OCD on the entire house and it makes me feel good. I grocery shop, taking my time in each aisle, considering every purchase instead of racing through the store as quickly as humanly possible with three kids in tow. I get a head start on the next week by wrapping presents for upcoming birthday parties and taking care of other errands that would make for a stressful lunch hour. I am grateful for this opportunity to just do what needs to be done without the added chaos of getting kids in and out of car seats.

Yes, I could spend time with friends and I do on occasion. However, on these rare weekends I am not anxious to commit to anything or follow a schedule and my ex is not exactly predictable with his visitation making it difficult to plan ahead. Besides, my friends all have children and being with other peoples’ kids without my own is not easy. And no, I do not know any divorced women in my situation, nor do I know how to search for new friends (hmmm…I wonder if there is a website for this yet?).

An observant Jew once told me that we are commanded to feed and care for our animals before we feed ourselves. While I am certainly not calling our children animals (though I often comment that they follow instructions like cats) I absolutely agree that since they are dependent upon me for everything, I must put them first. So as I sit here awaiting an oil change, I have no regrets about how I spend my free time. Am I living the dream?...probably not by others’ standards, but I know that like everything, this is temporary. By making the children my focus I am also doing for me as well as them. I like to think that I am providing oxygen for us all simultaneously. 

Our Artist

Since he could speak, our first-born child has confidently proclaimed that he will be an artist when he is grown. Recently he laid out his detailed plan of how he will reach his goal…finish kindergarten, go to high school, then college and finally art school.

I think it sounds like a grand idea and I am completely supportive of anything he wants to do, with the exception of riding motorcycles and playing football of course. (But he knows these two activities are off limits already). Though I am clearly biased, I am sure he has a good shot at achieving his dream…he is a talented, creative kid with art in his genes.

But he received his first rejection the other day and I saw another side of him. The child who is quick to talk back to me, who often appears cocky at times, strutting around the playground as if he is ruler of the world, showed a softer side when his classmates misinterpreted his Thanksgiving turkey project.

The assignment was to disguise the black and white turkey so that the bird could escape being eaten on Thanksgiving Day. His twin brother decided the best camouflage was the planet Earth and he successfully transformed his turkey into a sphere of blue and green. 

The aspiring artist however, decided to turn his turkey into a baseball by drawing red lines vertically through the turkey. I admit that like his classmates, I failed to see a baseball and I struggled with whether or not to tell him, for fear he might be upset. I also had to fight the inclination to “fix” his work. I knew with a few minor changes we could create a baseball out of the red lines. But ultimately I kept silent and he submitted his project as it was.

The day his work was shared with his class, he came home, climbed on my lap (a very rare sign of affection) and shared that everyone thought his turkey was bleeding. No one saw a baseball. I hugged him, like any parent would do, and tried to absorb all his pain. The damage was done though.

So yesterday I checked out a massive book on art from the library. Together we flipped through it, randomly stopping on pages to consider whether we liked the work or not. We talked about why some paintings and sculpture appeal to us, while we dislike others and I tried to explain that there would always be people who misunderstand our work or who say not nice words that hurt us. 

I am not sure whether my message was received. He was so engrossed in the book and the diversity of the art that he lost interest in our conversation. But as I watched his eyes widen in astonishment at one particular picture, I had a feeling that he was not making any career change just yet.

Someday

Oh blog....I had such hopes for you, alas, I have let us both down. I simply do not have time for you. The ex rarely takes the boys these days and if I am not working I am caring for them. Someday soon I hope we can catch up, as there is much to say.

Someday.

Sigh.

I can do better

 

The oldest child asked if he could help me cook dinner tonight and it was with a great deal of reluctance that I finally agreed (yes family...sometimes I cook...please focus).

Since he almost never expresses interest in assisting me I was sure to acknowledge and thank him for his thoughtfulness.

But truthfully, I still did not want his involvement and here is way....

1. It would cost me time and it is so much easier to do it myself.
2. There would inevitably be more cleanup involved, as he is certain to spill something.
3. Gas stoves scare me and I do not want the children anywhere near the flame. (I am forever haunted by the Soprano's episode where Tony's lover catches fire from her stove).

And most importantly....

4. His assistance would require a level of patience (for all of the reasons listed above) I am not sure I possess by the end of the day.

Still, in an effort to be a better, more conscientious parent, I relented and I am glad I did. We had a fun moment together...just the one twin....something that rarely happens.  In fact, I almost never get time alone with any of the three unless you count the toddler sleeping next to me each night. (One day I will write about how I finally got him in his own bed).

I am so consumed with survival and just making it through the day...insuring that all three kids are safe, fed, clean and where they need to be on time that I miss the opportunities to share and engage with them and enjoy their company. However, unless something monumental happens (striking oil in the backyard for example) this is how life is going to be for many years to come and I have to find ways to make it meaningful and joyful despite the challenges. I must remember that when a son wants to help me he is not costing me time, but gifting me the opportunity to spend it with him (duh). Instead of doing what is easiest like putting them in front of the television so I can prepare dinner in peace, I need to embrace the chaos and recognize it will not always be so damn hard.

On a separate note, maybe it is time that they are charged with some responsibilities around the house. If he wants to cook, he might also enjoy cleaning. That sure would make for a less grumpy mommy.

I know I am not stating anything here that is profound or that has not been said already by countless other parents....I am just hopeful that by recounting and recording the experience I will be closer to becoming the mommy I want to be. Let this be a sticky note to remind me to always try harder.

Today I'm Kvetching

 

Teachers Convention is fast approaching and I have no childcare, nor can I afford it. The event, intended to provide professional development for public school teachers in New Jersey, is scheduled for a Thursday and Friday when I am expected at my job.

I simply can not understand why this annual event takes place without consideration for single, working parents.

What am I supposed to do? Seriously.

Hiring a sitter will cost $135 a day...more than I make in a single day. That's a total of $270 for two days of coverage. This money will come directly out of the grocery line, as there is no other place from which to deduct. (I can't avoid buying gas, skipping the car insurance or ignoring the the utility or phone bills).

The alternative is that I take two days off of work, thus putting my job in jeopardy, since my vacation days are supposed to be utilized during the summer months when the workload is substantially less. (There is an idea....schedule the teachers convention during the summer).

I could lie of course and say I have a sick child, but that is not my style.

What adds to my frustration is that I have yet to speak with one public school teacher who is attending the convention. The public school teachers with whom I have consulted however, are using the four days to take family vacations.  I honestly do not blame them. I recognize how hard teachers work. I see their struggles and I know that it is largely a thankless job.

My anger is not directed at the teachers. They deserve a break.

While the convention is the target of my resentment now, it goes way beyond these two days. Though it is only November, I have missed several opportunities to attend events at my children's school because I work. The guilt I shoulder for the challenges in our children's lives caused by the divorce is only compounded because I am not present when other moms are there. I will most likely never be the class mom chaperoning field trips or assisting with class projects.

I know I am not alone. There must be others like me, but I have yet to find them.

And no, I don't have a village. I have no family, extended or otherwise to help me, as they are all across the country. And while I do have several close friends in the area, I am not able to call upon any of them to take my children for nine hours a day for two days. Please tell me how I can find a village.

This Friday is Halloween. Parents have been invited to pick their kids up at 11:30, take them for lunch and return them an hour later dressed in their Halloween costumes. My plan is to drive as fast I can on my lunch hour to their school, see them for five minutes in the Halloween parade before driving like hell to get back to my desk. Happy Halloween kids. Tell me, will someone be there to help the children dress in their customs if their parents are unable to pick them up because they have to work like me?

And I know this is just the beginning...the kids are only in kindergarten. I've got years of missed events and guilt ahead of me.

Yes, I know it could always be worse. I am fortunate. My kids are healthy and I have a job to go to each day. We have all that we need.

I just want empathy for those of us who are trying to do it all, but always falling short in one area or another.

Thanks for letting me kvetch.

 

Uncontrollable Blessings

 

I recently developed a tick, likely a result of my divorce and other turmoil in my life. It was not until a teacher gave me an approving nod on carline the other day at our kids' school that I really gave it much thought though.

I have become a blesser or one who bestows blessings.

As a native of Texas, I think the blessing gene was probably cultivated early, though it manifested only recently. Blessings are rather common in that part of the country...less so up here.

Since I am not from a religious home, I think my family might find my behavior awkward and  I have no doubt that I appear silly and/or naive to many others who happen to catch me in the act. (Luckily I have learned to care less about what people think with age).

So I bless our kids when we part in the morning and I bless our kids when we are reunited in the evening. I bless them when I tuck them in bed each night and even when I get angry and lose my patience. I bless our children constantly and my blessings are not limited to them either. I bless strangers, though not audibly, as I know many people find the practice uncomfortable, except perhaps when it follows a sneeze. Bottom line, when I see someone who appears to be struggling and I think they might benefit from a little help from above, I bless them.

I do have my limit however. I do not bless those who cross our kids or me. I am not capable of that kind of benevolence yet… far from it actually. My ex is the one exception. I bless him because I believe it is in our children’s best interest that he prospers.

Blessing others gets me through the day by giving me a sense that I can somehow help to control the uncontrollable in this world. Ebola, ISIS, the frightening rise in anti-Semitism…danger seems to be lurking around every corner. So I do the only thing I can. I bless our kids, I bless my friends and family, and I bless strangers. 

I do not know if there is any efficacy in my blessings, but I figure there is no harm. Besides, I do not think I could stop now if I wanted to.

Illuminating the Crawl Space

I did not have a basement in my home as a kid, but I do have fond memories of dancing around my grandparents’ basement during our annual family road trips to Nebraska. Many of my favorite television shows also featured loving families playing in basements. So when I moved to the East Coast where basements are rather standard, I assumed my family would make happy memories below ground too.

Instead of a basement however, our house came with a crawl space located behind the laundry room, accessible only by moving the washing machine. A crawl space was a foreign concept to me. Though our real estate agent pointed out the strange area during our tour, I hesitated to explore it even after the house became ours.

For months after we moved into the house I feared this crawl space, especially when I was home alone with our young children. Just the sound of it…crawl space…gave me anxiety. I had visions of evil, little creatures climbing out of the darkness after we went to bed, eager to steal our breath or blood. Every horror film scenario played out in my mind with each creak and groan the house made on those nights.

One day the fear became intolerable, so I grabbed a flashlight and went to our laundry room ready to battle the demons inhabiting our house. However, when I shined a light upon the crawl space I discovered that it was simply a large vacant area under the main level of our home. The floor was immaculate, clearly maintained by the previous homeowner.

Sometimes the fear becomes crippling in my life. At those times I try to recall the crawl space and remember to shine a light on the situation. Nothing ever seems quite as bad in the light.

Nothing Gold Can Stay

When I reached into the back of my closet and tugged on the tweed coat sleeve as I did regularly, I heard silence instead of the comforting jingle of my rings. Then I felt an explosion in my head as I frantically searched the contents of my closet. I swept the hardwood floor beneath my clothes hoping the rings had fallen out of hiding somehow, but I knew better.  I prayed, I cried and then I picked myself up off the floor and vowed I would not let the disappearance of my rings defeat me either. I have survived too much in the last few years. 

It turns out that my engagement and wedding rings were stolen from my house along with several other pieces of jewelry shortly after I filed for divorce.  Though I ceased wearing the diamond rings when I finally admitted my marriage was over, I did not expect to part with them and certainly not in this painful way. I had hoped that someday our boys would give them to their significant others and the tradition would continue.

My ex-husband proposed with a beautiful ring he spent hours shopping for on-line. As fate would have it though, my Bubbe died as I began making plans for our wedding. There was no question that we would return his ring and I would wear the rings my Zayde gave to my Bubbe decades earlier in a small Nebraska farming town where they fell in love. My Bubbe's rings had a beautiful history and they were my inheritance, but the rings were also exquisite in my eyes and I was proud to wear them. (Perhaps that was why I had to endure this lesson).

Diamonds may last forever, but nothing is really ours in this life. I hope the person who has the rings is enjoying them now at least half as much as I did during the seven short years that they were mine. Thankfully I have the precious memory of my Bubbe wearing the dim and dirty rings while she rested in bed towards the end of her life. And I will always remember the exhilaration of opening the jewelry box my father sent me from Texas after she died to discover the same rings, freshly cleaned and shimmering in all their glory. 

   

Woman of My Dreams

I have this reoccurring fantasy about a woman.  She is patient and loving, organized and tidy. She likes cooking and scrapbooking and especially enjoys caring for young children. She greets me every Friday evening with a smiling face, her hair the scent of freshly baked challah.

She is my wife and at the risk of offending…I really want one…a Jewish one more specifically.

I was spoiled when my mother came to town to watch the kids for three weeks this past summer. It was glorious! (For me anyway… I am not sure how she would describe the visit.) I returned home from work each day to find happy children, a clean house, a real meal, and all of the laundry washed, folded and sorted. The best part about having another woman in the house though was that I could relax after work and truly enjoy the children since the housework and cooking was already done.

I know I am not alone in my challenges as a single, working mom and I know that there are those who have it much harder than I do.  I am not complaining (well, maybe just a little.)  Thank God for my children. Thank God for my life. Thank God, thank God, thank God…

But by the time I have reached my desk at 8 am (when all the stars are aligned) I have already worked what feels like a full day. I made three breakfasts, three lunches, dressed three generally uncooperative kids and delivered them and all of their necessities to two separate locations before racing to my other job. If I am especially lucky, I enjoyed a 30 second shower and with the exception of the Oreo smudged on my sleeve, I am dressed in clean clothes.  (Yes, breakfast sometimes translates to Oreos and I dare you to judge me). Like the old army commercial, I feel as if I do more before 7 am than most people do in a day, or is it a lifetime? I am an army of one now with three little recruits who take orders as well as cats.

So I was thinking of simply ignoring the High Holidays entirely this year to be honest. The older children are registered for religious school after all and the little one clearly absorbs some Yidishkeyt from daycare based on the songs I hear him singing in the backseat.

But then I received TWO separate invitations for Rosh Hashanah meals and I was overjoyed and relieved. It was a sweet New Year for my family and particularly for me, thanks to these two thoughtful Jewish women who obviously recognize my struggles. So I guess in a small way I got what I desire, if only briefly for the holidays.

You know who you are ladies. You rock!

Temporary Dwelling

In the beginning

In honor of the seven-day Jewish festival of Sukkot that begins today, my tribe of three and I are building a sukkah out of Legos. As a divorced, working mama with limited time, money or skills in the construction department, a Lego sukkah is the best I can offer the boys. Luckily we live in a neighborhood with no shortage of sukkahs, so we will meander through the streets before dinner this evening surveying the structures and seeking our favorite.

The huts are meant to remind us of our ancestors' forty years of wandering in the desert prior to reaching the Land of Israel. However, with our home in foreclosure as a result of very bad luck, poor choices and a costly divorce, this year the sukkah represents so much more to me. I have discovered that everything in life is temporary...jobs, money, homes etc. All that matters to me now are the three little men in my world and ensuring that they thrive despite the hardships and unanticipated changes in our lifestyle.

My divorce attorney (to whom I owe my life as well as thousands of dollars) guesstimates that the children and I have approximately a year in our house before the bank finally gives us the boot.  I have yet to find a solution to save us from homelessness, but I am hoping by blogging about our trials and the good times as well, I might discover a village of individuals who have traveled a similar journey, made it to the Promised Land and can offer much needed guidance and emotional support.

No, I do not expect blogging to save our house, but I am hopeful that it will help this Mama gain perspective and forge ahead.

You can read more about our mishaps on Kveller at http://www.kveller.com/blog/parenting/my-exodus-emerging-from-the-financial-ruin-of-divorce-better-and-stronger/ 

 Chag sameach! Happy holiday. Here's to a much better year.