Last night I attempted this recipe and somehow fouled up the crust. It was irredemably sticky, and by that I mean it would have worked well to re-grout my kitchen counter. Needless to say, I’m not feeling all that confident as a cook at the moment, but could still use a little imaginary validation. Imaginary validation occurs when I post something on the internet and imagine that ones if not tens of people read it and think it’s brilliant! So brilliant, in fact, they’re intimidated to leave a comment. Or any trace of their ISP. I have a powerful imagination, so this kind of validation is surprisingly satisfactory. In addition, I promised to post this when my Writing 101 class was over. (It got an A but that’s less impressive than it sounds. Everybody got an A on this assignment.)
Right Path, Wrong Compass
“No problem.” For eight years as a single parent these words were the mantra of my parenting philosophy. It wasn’t true of course; there were many problems. However, I was too busy with the logistics of being a single parent, and I didn’t allow myself time to consider them until after my new husband and I worked out an arrangement of co-parenting that worked for our family. Then, with the luxury of a reliable partner, I could reflect on the challenges I faced and the compromises I made to define success. When the first orders came in our four year marriage that would take Randy away for an extended period, I thought about those eight years of solitary parenting and again thought, “No problem.” What is five months compared to eight years? What I have found is the shocking and confusing realization that far from “no problems,” single parenting in the absence of a partner is a set of different problems — issues that I have not only never faced, but never expected. There is the new task of holding an absent spouse’s place in matters that I did silently and on my own before marriage. Conflict and oftentimes resentment arise from learning how to balance this challenge with my expectations born of previous experience. Such basic child-rearing issues as managing household finances, handling discipline issues and navigating the parent-child dynamic are again my sole responsibility, but this time with a vastly different set of standards and circumstances.
In February of 2003, I called my father in tears. “Daddy,” I said, “I’m scared. My rent check bounced and we’ve been eating eggs for dinner every night for a week because I can’t afford anything else. I swear to you I’m not asking for money, but please just give me some advice. What do I do?” There was a long pause on the other end of the line while my father took a deep breath. “Honey,” he said, “the only thing that is going to help your situation right now is money.” A week later a check came in the mail to cover my rent and buy some groceries. This wasn’t, unfortunately, an isolated instance in my single parenting experience. While I maintained a strict budget with my full time income and did without a lot of things, unexpected or emergency expenditures like car repairs or medical expenses put an unbearable strain on my tiny sliver of discretionary income. I often found myself negotiating with my landlord to pay the rent in two week increments or portioning out meals with painstaking precision. Money — or rather, the lack thereof — was a constant worry.
In stark contrast to those hard times is the relative financial freedom of military life with a fixed income and government paid housing. There is no negotiating with a landlord: either the housing allowance is in the bank on the first of the month, or the government owns the house. Trips to the grocery or commissary are regulated by what is on the list, not what is in my wallet. When the evidence of a two-parent household is in family meals and three-way conversations with both parents present, I see the benefit to all of us. I’m a less stressful mother, and Rowen never goes without, be it food or school supplies or birthday gifts. How could any mother find a downside to that? Easily: while I still maintain the budget, it’s not my income.
As many times as the words “we” and “our” have given me relief and assurance over the last four years, they also are a blatant reminder that it’s not my hard work and sacrifice that gets the bills paid. There is a certain amount of pride in the fact that even though at times I came very close to failing miserably, it was my own efforts that kept us off the streets. When Randy is home, the self-reproach is just a niggling discomfort in the back of my mind, pushed to the rear by his significant presence. When he’s gone, however, the conspicuous reminders of that single-parent time are at complete odds with the money that continues to show up on the first and fifteenth of every month, through no effort of my own. The incongruity of financially stable single parenting flies in the face of all my previous experience, and throws my confidence into a tailspin of condemnation.
One area that I never had any doubts about as a single-parent was in matters of discipline. When Rowen was little, we had a call-and-response routine that followed her mischief and summarized my philosophy in three lines: “What’s Mama’s job?” I’d ask, usually with a stern look and my hands propped on my hips. In a little voice of well-learned catechism, Rowen would respond, “To keep me safe.” In exasperation I’d follow that with, “Well, how can I do that if…,” and insert the appropriate misbehavior. Looking back, it occurs to me to wonder why I thought I could reason with a three year old, but I must have done something right because by the time she was five, Rowen was horrified to learn that some kids still had discipline problems in kindergarten. Although my technique changed over time to accommodate Rowen’s growing repertoire of misconduct, my ideology remained the same: it was my job to keep her safe, and I would do that with whatever means I thought necessary.
However, the addition of a parent means it’s not just my job anymore. It means another adult is just as invested in the safety and development of my child as I. It also means taking into account disciplinary theories that may be different from my own, lest the authority of a two parent household be lost. Randy has earned his place as a father with careful patience and constant support for both Rowen and myself. He’s a valuable sounding board when I’m struggling with the weightier and more complicated aspects of raising a moral child. Leaving him out of the decision making process while he’s gone would be unconscionable and unkind — which makes my resentment at having to keep him informed seem petty if not downright spiteful. Yet, the resentment is there, whispering in my ear like cartoon shoulder-devil that “just mom” did fine for eight years; why should I worry about being both mom and dad when dad’s not around?
Place-holding for an absent parent isn’t just about the disciplinary aspects, though. It’s also about reconciling the need to protect the sanctity of old memories with the knowledge that new memories are being created right now. When Rowen was born someone gave me a plain wooden rocking chair, and I used it everyday for two years. I haven’t rocked her in it for more than ten, but I have hauled it around in six moves between three states and two continents. It’s unwieldy, space consuming, and seems to jump out at unsuspecting toes and knees in passing — and I can’t bear to part with it. I spent my maternity leave in that chair, rocking a languid, nursing baby in my arms, marveling at the way the curve of her head exactly echoed the curve of my breast. I kissed bruises through wispy hair on the head of a toddler from the seat of that chair, and watched a preschooler clamber into it with her favorite book and stuffed bear. Mixed in with those tender moments are the memories of colicky nights when I cried as loud as my fussy baby, or days spent wondering if my child had been replaced with a chatterbox that had no off button. The rocker has been with the two of us since the beginning and I wonder that it doesn’t crumble under the weight of all those memories. There are memories of a closeness so acute as to make me question if Rowen would ever become her own person, or just forever be an extension of my thoughts, feelings, and prejudices. That chair has loomed in my home as a symbol of the tenderness and tenacity and bittersweet pain of what it is to be a solitary parent.
I keep looking for something else to compare it to — some symbol of the family we’ve become, and something that strikes me with as much sentimentality. It’s funny how that never occurs to me when Randy is home, likely because we’re too busy being a family. I remind myself that this was the goal of getting married in the first place. In part, it was an effort to round out the scope of influence on Rowen’s life — to enrich it with the experience of two adults who love her and each other purposefully, attentively, connectedly. I’m not sure how one would measure success in that area, but I do know that without him here it’s immanently harder to gauge our progress. Old attitudes and worries reassert themselves in unexpected places. Waking suddenly after only just drifting off to check if the door is locked is something I haven’t done in over four years. Letting Rowen fall asleep next to me in bed and leaving her there is something else that hasn’t been an option over the same period.
More than semantics, though, it’s the allure of falling into those old habits that lies at the heart of my conflict. I know what it’s like to be a solitary parent, what it costs both financially and emotionally and how to navigate those waters on my own. The comfort of the familiar is a seductive invitation to do what is easiest. On my own doesn’t accurately describe my situation anymore, though, even when I’m the only physical presence. The onus is necessarily on me to keep Randy’s presence tangible in his absence, to keep him from having to earn back his place on his return. Searching for that material symbol of the family we’ve become has proved fruitless because to me, Randy is the symbol. It’s his expansive personality that fills the empty spaces of our home, pushing out the previously “normal” customs of single parenting.
It’s no wonder then that I keep barking my toes on that cumbersome chair. Recently I smashed my foot against the rocker and let loose with a stream of hissing curses. Rowen looked up from her reading and regarded me curiously for a moment before asking casually, “Why don’t you just get rid of it?” I was horrified that she would suggest that, but in a moment of clarity it occurred to me that the memories and habits which crowd my inner space are not — and shouldn’t be — her burden. Getting rid of the chair doesn’t equal purging the memories, but it might keep me from repeatedly crashing into something that my new life has no room for.
It’s also promising that after just 3/4 of an hour of “training” and playing, she’s sleeping like the dead. The best part, though, is that I no longer feel like I’m choosing between suffering an uncontrollable dog and cleaning up husband-brains to the soundtrack of Rowen’s wailing.
