Tag: single mom

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An INFJ’s Take on Trust and Optimism

How about those holidays? Raise your hand if you’re glad they are over. Reminds me of a quote I ran across a couple years ago: Tradition is our ancestors’ way of controlling us. Then I think of all the traditions I’ve created that my kids will probably feel like they have to perpetuate – the Advent Calendar for one. What was I thinking?

Anyway, I’d gotten Will a nice shirt for Christmas. After opening it, he held it up and Jen and I both said, “Oh! A date shirt!” He didn’t respond. Never mentioned it at all until a couple nights ago. (Often our best chats happen in a text stream.) While he was out with friends, he sent me a text saying that he wasn’t ignoring our comment about it being a date shirt, but that he doesn’t want to disappoint me by not dating.

We back-and-forth texted for quite a while. At one point I told him that I didn’t care if he dated or not but that I wanted him to be happy. If dating is part of what makes him happy, then I’d be thrilled for him. More importantly, I’m not disappointed either way! He explained that he’s still hesitant after his last attempt – 3 years ago. (I wonder where he gets it.)

Then I texted something about how trust is certainly an issue, but that I really think the bigger issue is trusting yourself. “Trust yourself to not get in too deep with a wrong person. If you can trust yourself, you can navigate anything. By now you’ve certainly learned that you can recuperate from a broken heart.”

I reminded Will (myself?) that all “the experts” say that the real learning happens within a relationship. (Excuse me?! Have I not been learning a ton about how to be a happy, functioning, fulfilled, capable single person? How many of these so-called experts are in happy, committed relationships?)

I talk a big game.

I sound pretty optimistic for someone who is still hesitant to get out there after not having tried for almost 7 years.

I laugh at myself for developing this side story with Hank. Where do I think this could go, knowing all my reservations and my lack of trust? Still, my inner optimist wants to think there could be someone out there, even if he’s fictitious and I’m the one who made him up! Hell, maybe that’s the best kind of partner. He’d be there when I need him, but there wouldn’t be any of the messy stuff like schedule conflicts, lack of alone time or having to sleep together. Ick. Hank is the guy to go out to dinner with, have the deep conversations with, go for walks with and catch a movie with. He’s also the guy who doesn’t get bent out of shape if I don’t want him to spend the night, or move in, or co-mingle bank accounts. He’s a travel partner and ski partner who is like-minded when it comes to politics and open-minded about philosophy, reading and art.

Yeah. He’s definitely a unicorn, but he’s my unicorn.

But, wait?! Aren’t I also describing a best girlfriend? Wouldn’t she check all the boxes?

As I write this, I realize that there’s this tiny part of me that still wants to be attracted to – and attractive to – a guy. Is it my age (mortality?) telling me I’m running out of time? Is this a Crone’s Relationship Biological Clock? Hell, no! The little I’ve read about Crones tells me they wouldn’t give a shit about whether they are attractive to anyone. They are too busy inhabiting their skin and being glorious in their own Crone-y way to worry about whether a relationship would fulfill them or not!

Unicorn Hank isn’t going to expect me to pick up his socks, cook his dinner (and complain about the food), demand back rubs and be too busy to go to a movie with me. But history tells me (at least my history) that an IRL Hank comes with expectations. Thoughts of those expectations start the stress and the physical manifestations of that stress. That’s when I know I can’t really be an optimist, that I do have trust issues (even with myself), and that relationships are fine for other people, and I’m fine NOT being in one.

When Will asks me why I don’t take my own advice and trust myself, or why I don’t get back out there and try again, I’ll explain that I’m really busy with projects. I’ve got to finish recovering the couch because Pansy “loved” it up too much. (Clearly, I’m an optimist if I’m taking the time to recover the couch without attempting to discourage Pansy’s fondness for scratching.) Oh, and I’ve got to get the shelves up in the new bathroom. I’m sure Jen will be coming home soon, so I better plan menus and bake her favorite things. I should really get some seeds ordered and figure out what I’ll be planting where, come May. I’ve got some blog housekeeping to do, and I’m still ruminating on that novel I pretend to be writing. Doesn’t the popcorn on the ceiling in the hallway need to come down? There’s always work and meetings and classes.

Oh! I have to finish those slacks I found at Goodwill. I let the hem out and now there’s a faded line where the old hem used to be. I found a Prismacolor – Light Umber. It’s a close match. (Luckily, Jen didn’t take all her art supplies with her.) After applying the Light Umber, I’ll sketch over top a bit with a black Sharpie to blend it and … Who am I kidding? I don’t let anyone close enough to see a faded hemline on my slacks.

Anyway, I’m entirely too busy. Besides, why would I want to mess up this good thing I’ve got going.

p.s. Will says the couch looks like the 70s – in a good way. Pansy won’t go near it. Yet.

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The Boat

That humming sound you hear is coming from the bilge pump on my boat.  The pump has been running a lot lately.

When Jen and I watch TV while eating dinner (go ahead and judge – this is a crucial part of our Pandemic Survival Plan), I will often ask Jen to turn up the volume to drown out the sound of my bilge pump working in overdrive.  For the length of an episode of our current favorite series, I blissfully forget that the pump is running.

 

I once Googled what that humming sound was – the (real, not metaphorical) sound I hear in the middle of the night when sleep is a stranger.  They call it the earth’s hum or the world’s hum.  It’s a thing.  Look it up.

Anyway, last night I noticed the hum.  It’s had a different pitch to it for about a year now.  I’m convinced it was an octave created by all the bilge pumps in all the boats of the world.  They are pumping as fast as they can, as all the boats try to steer through this pandemic.

Can you hear it?

Every single boat must be taking on more water than usual.

 

I’ve charted some rough seas.  I’ve even had to replace the pump.  But lately, I find myself fantasizing about calm waters.  I crave the sound of gentle waves lapping a deserted shoreline.  I see the waves go out and leave a trail of foam.  Maybe a seagull can be heard off in the distance.  There isn’t another “boat” for miles.

Jen likes calm waters, too.

Will?  He likes the rapids.  The rougher the better.  He gets crabby in the calm waters.  Oh, he’ll tell me that he likes things to settle down, but about the time he says that, something in his life creates a tidal wave that inevitably sends a wall of water right for my boat.

Jen and I used to say that things would be too boring without Will’s tidal waves but, with the pandemic and the economic and political strains of late, my boat can’t take on any more water.

I’ve noticed that I am becoming adept at avoiding anything else that looks like a potential storm.  This avoidance skill is also in our Pandemic Survival Plan.  I’m saving my energy for the storms on my immediate radar.  Apparently, there is only enough room for the three of us (and a cat) in my boat.

 

I recently told Will that if he had two married parental units, he’d know which one to go to with a new drama.  You wrap your truck around a pole?  Go to your dad, and he’ll prepare me for the news.  You get your heart broken?  Come to me.  Poor Will is stuck with only me, so he brings me everything.  And I’m grateful for that, even if it doesn’t sound like it.

My boat is on the plains.  Nothing blocks my view.  I can see when a storm is coming.  But Will’s storms seem to come out of nowhere.  Well, not really.  I know where they come from.  (Because I know where they come from, you’d think I’d be better prepared.)  As long as he likes that kind of choppy sea, there will be more coming from that direction.

After he and I (and often times, Jen) finish bailing the water from the most recent storm, we can laugh about it.  I’ll say, “Geez, you’d think that, by now, I might have learned to not over-react.”  He’ll say, “You’d think by now, I’d figure out a better way to tell you this stuff.”  And then I think to myself, “Or you might figure out that life is so much better without all that stuff.”

 

And so the Universe laughs at me while I search for ways to keep a calm center in the midst of these storms.  The Universe laughs harder when I dare to tell Will that life is better without the rough seas.

Look at that!

The Universe left me a note in the sand on that quiet stretch of beach:  “Let him steer his own boat, Jesse.”

And once again, I am reminded that I learn more from Jen and Will than they will ever learn from me.  In the meantime, I’ll prepare myself to have to replace the pump.

 

There’s a meme that says something about, “You don’t know what someone else is dealing with, so just be kind.”  I like that.  Let’s assume that everyone’s boat has taken on too much water, their pump needs to be replaced, and they are doing their best to stay afloat. 

 

 

 

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Love Like That

On the eve of Mother’s Day, I was standing at the kitchen sink finishing the dinner dishes.  (Appropriate?)  I looked out the window, and in the setting sun I could just barely see a small grayish blob on the grass.  When I realized it was a baby bird, I called for Jen.  We immediately went into nurture mode.  “Should we move it to the backyard where it will be safer?”  “Will it need water?”  “Maybe we shouldn’t move it.  We don’t want to startle it.”  “Yeah, and the mom might not find it.”

We brought out a jar lid filled with water.  (Initially, we’d grabbed a small dish, but Jen was afraid the wee bird wouldn’t be big enough to scale the side of the dish.)  We didn’t approach too closely.   We could be heard “oohing” and “ahhing” at the sweet little blob of feathers with the seemingly too large beak.

We went back inside so as not to scare it.  We stood side by side at the kitchen window and kept vigil.  I worried (because that’s what moms do) about neighbor cats and squirrels.  (Would squirrels go after our wee blob?  When did it become ours?)

Just then, we saw a robin (either a mom or a dad, as both feed their babies, and I can’t tell the difference in robins) swoop in and feed the baby.  Jen and I hugged each other and exclaimed at the sweetness.    We stood and watched as it got darker and harder to see.  The baby wobbled across the grass and approached the fence.  Would the mom/dad be able to find it?  Clearly, it had been in a hurry to leave the nest (reminds me of someone I know), as it only seemed able to wobble, not hop or fly.

We were relieved to see that wherever that baby went, the mom or dad could find it and feed it.

The baby was still snuggled next to the fence post when we turned off the lights and went to bed.

 

(The day before, Jen and I had delivered a batch of groceries to the house where Will is living.  There are six of them – young, working, testing their wings, and struggling between paychecks.  They live on mac and cheese and grilled cheese sandwiches and too much coffee.  My momness was in overdrive, and I needed to fill their fridge with other options.)

 

This morning, I found the baby had made it to the other side of the driveway.  I could follow the trail of droppings and see the gray blob from the kitchen window.  I went out, in robe and bare feet (which reminded me that back in February, barefoot season seemed so very far away), to see if it was alive and well.  It’s a wonder that those little hearts can beat so fast.  That tiny thing breathes so quickly.  It was fine.  My mom brain went to, “Oh, you must have been cold last night?  Weren’t you afraid?  Have you eaten?”

I went back inside to assume my position at the sink.  Jen still sleeps and doesn’t know, yet, that the baby is fine.  I can’t wait to tell her.  Just then, I saw one of the parents bring breakfast.

 

Thank you to all who love like that.  You make the world go ’round.

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“You’re Difficult To Live With”

“What did you say?”  She must have misunderstood.  The house was clean, she’d paid down some of his bills, and dinner was about to be served.  What more could she be doing?

They’d been sitting, sipping whiskey, waiting for the timer to let them know that the lasagna would be ready.   This moment before dinner was when they discussed the day, the schedule, projects and weekend plans.

“You’re difficult to live with.”

He repeated the words and there it was, that taste in the mouth she got whenever she was about to vomit.

She swallowed hard to keep from throwing up and proceeded to defend herself.  She gave examples of how she wasn’t difficult.  “See?  I do this for you.  I’ve done that for you.  I try to keep my feelings to myself, for you.  I know your job is hard and I try not to burden you with my stuff when you get home.  I’m anything but difficult.”

He said, “It’s okay that you are difficult.  I love you anyway.  I know how to handle you.”

 

The taste in her mouth did not go away.

 

Her first thought was, maybe he’s right.  She wondered if it was true that she was difficult.  Could she be nicer?  Could she be less of an inconvenience?  Could she facilitate better without needing anything from him?  Could she contort herself in a way that would make her invisible, or at least less difficult?

She thought back over instances, in other relationships, when her just being in the same room would elicit a heavy, irritated sigh from the other.  She was no stranger to feeling like an inconvenience.  She’d had to defend herself before, or at least she thought she had to.

 

The timer rang.  She walked out of the room to pull the lasagna out of the oven and let the kids know that dinner would be ready soon.  She tried to keep from crying.  The last thing she wanted was food.  As she set the table, the need to vomit was replaced with fear.  How could she stay here?  Where would she go?  How could she have dragged her kids into this mess?

Should she stay?  He did say he still loved her.  Who else could possibly love her, if she was so difficult to live with.

She faked small talk during dinner.  After dishes, the four of them watched a show that he selected.  While she stared at the TV, her mind raced with what to do.

Later, in the dark, under the covers, shaking and trying to take a deep breath to steady her voice, she rolled over and said, “I need to tell you that it really hurt my feelings when you told me that I’m difficult to live with.”

He said, “Do we have to do this now?  I have to be to work early.  You know that.”

She rolled back to her side and tried to stay as quiet as humanly possible.

 

The next evening, he returned home to whiskey poured, and dinner in the oven.  She tried to bring up the subject.  He dismissed her, saying he’d had a long day.

Over the next week, she made several more attempts to get clarification from him.  He would continue to dismiss her, or justify his words.

That taste in her mouth was there more than not.  The fear prevented sleep.  The more she tried to understand, the less she was able to breathe.

 

Within the month, she and the kids would pack their things and move.

 

 

 

 

 

 

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The Courageous Bartender

Except for one lone stool, the bar was full, most likely due to the fact that Hank was working.  She grabbed the stool and looked around to see if she recognized any faces.

“Jesse!  Welcome!  How are things?”

“Good, Hank!  How are you?  Nice and busy in here!”

“What brings you out on this snowy night?”

“I came for some of your legendary advice.”  Hank laughed as the guy seated next to Jesse said, “That’s why I’m here!”

“Wine or beer tonight, Jesse?”

“Surprise me with something hot, Hank.  My bones are getting too old for this climate.”

Hank slid a mug across the bar and said, “Cider and Fireball – the only thing that’ll do the trick.  As far as advice, I dunno about that, but what’s on your mind?”

Jesse sighed and said, “Of course this is about my kids, particularly the 20 year old.  I want to encourage, not discourage.  I’d like to motivate without pissing him off.  I wrote a little bit about courage, but before I send it to him, I wanted your take.”

“Sure.  Let me see what you’ve got.”

 

Hank held her phone as he read:

I am no expert, but I think one of THE important aspects of a good life is courage.  Have courage to try new things, meet new people, go new places.

That’s what keeps a person moving along their path.

You have courage in spades!!!

I think the saddest lives are lived by folks who are stuck because they don’t have the courage to try something new.

With courage you might try something and hate it, or try something else and mess up.  That’s not failure, that’s experience!  The real important thing is that you have tried, and that you keep trying.  It’s so much better to have a long list of things tried, places seen, foods eaten, people met ….   than a short, boring list of STUCK.

I love you.

 

“What would you add, Hank?  What do you think I should take out?”

“Well, let’s put it up to the group!”  Hank looked to the other end of the bar.  “Sam, how do you define courage?”

A woman at the end of the bar put down her wine glass, looked Hank in the eye and said, “Courage is deciding to be single and staying that way!”

The guy next to Jesse slowly shook his head.

Hank looked at the guy next to Sam and said, “How about you, Ron.  What’s your take on courage?”

Ron didn’t hesitate before saying, “Giving up the great paying job for the job that doesn’t crush my soul!”  He raised his beer glass in salute.  The others clapped in agreement.

Hank looked at the couple seated next to Ron.  “What’s courage to you two?”  She looked at Hank and said, “Ignoring what my dad said about who to date.”  The couple looked at each other and laughed.  He said, “Meeting her dad,” and they all laughed.

Hank said, “It’s your turn, John.  How do you define courage?”

John paused a moment before responding.  He looked at his glass and said, “Getting the diagnosis that changed my life, undergoing chemo and beating cancer.”  Everyone at the bar raised a glass in honor of John.

Hank turned to Tom.  “Good luck beating that one, Tom.”  Tom looked a little nervous before he said, “Making my wife and kids a priority over my job.”  Ron raised his glass in Tom’s direction.

There were two folks left at the bar, Jesse and the guy to her left, who had appeared downtrodden when Sam declared her status.

Hank skipped over Jesse, smiled and said to Jim, “So now that you aren’t going to approach Sam, tell us how you define courage.”  The group laughed.  Jim cleared his throat and looked at Jesse.  “Courage is parenting a 20 year old.”  They all raised their glasses to Jesse.

 

Jim said, “Wait a darn minute!  What about you, Hank?  It’s your turn.  How do you define courage?”

“Well, it was one thing when I was 20.  Skiing the cliff.  Skiing out of bounds.  Any risk I could take on skis.  As I got older, it was having the courage to end one relationship and start another.  Now that I’m in my 50s, well, courage is knowing when to keep my mouth shut, and doing just that.”  He grinned and winked at Jesse.  “Now what do you think about courage, Jesse?”

“It’s pretty clear that courage is different to everyone.  I ‘spose I need the courage to let him figure it out himself.”  The group nodded their heads in agreement and Jim said, “Great idea, Jesse.”  Jesse stood up from her stool.  “I’ll still send the message, but then I need to have the courage to leave him alone while he figures things out.”

Hank smiled at Jesse, “Good plan, Jesse, and you think I’m the one with good advice!”

 

As Jesse put her coat on she saw Jim gulp the last of his beer.  He shouted, “Here’s to liquid courage!”  Then he got off his stool and walked over to approach Sam.

 

 

 

 

 

 

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Dear 19 Year Old

Dear 19 Year Old:

We regret to inform you that the function of your frontal lobe will be provided by that of a 55 year old woman, until such time that yours will be fully operational.

This could take as long as six years.

We realize that this is not an ideal situation for you.

 

You will be told to “slow the hell down!”  You will be cautioned to look both ways for oncoming traffic.  You will be warned to chew all your food before swallowing, and to be careful of what you post on social media.

You will be reminded to be vigilant when selecting friends, and told horror stories about peer pressure.

You will be interrogated, harassed and micro-managed in ways that only a loving mom would consider.

These episodes will be interspersed with hugs, encouragements and proclamations of undying love.  DO NOT, for one second, relax and start to think that she’s given up on her attempts to keep you safe.

You are entitled to roll your eyes, exhale loudly, and stomp out of the room.  Remember, it’s because of her efforts that you are even alive to do any of those things.

She is not being a pain in the ass when she texts to ask where you are.  She wants to know you are alive.  Text her back to lessen the repercussions.  Don’t wait until she’s beyond worried, to send that text.

 

Be patient, 19 year old.

You will have more fun than you can imagine.  You will go on amazing adventures, make lasting friendships and create an exciting future while enjoying your own journey.  However, none of these fine things will happen if you die before you get the chance.

 

We remind you that it is her job to keep you alive.

 

 

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Playing Nice

As you methodically tied the bunny ears of your shoe laces, you heard your kindergarten teacher say, “Play nice, children.”  You raced out to the playground to grab a ball,  getting there before everyone else, and heard the playground aid yell, “Play nice!”  You dropped the ball and backed away to let the others have the first crack at Four Square.  You stood by hoping they would play nice and invite you.  Sometimes they did.  Most times they “forgot” to play nice.

You’d been hearing the words, “Play nice!” since your sibling arrived.  You learned quickly about sharing and taking turns.  That’s also when you learned that everything wasn’t about you.

Those are hard lessons to learn, and when you’d complain that you hadn’t had your turn in awhile, you were reminded to play nice.

Daughters come with a handbook.  If you’re lucky, your folks pitched the book and gave it their best shot.   Sons come with handbooks, too, but the first page of their book does not start with, “Must always play nice.”

 

Throughout your schooling years, playing nice became a habit – your default setting.  When the teacher asked for someone to go up to the board to diagram a sentence, you played nice and stayed in your seat.   When the art instructor announced that 8 lucky students could have their work displayed at the public library, you didn’t submit yours, because you were playing nice.

Somewhere toward the end of high school, playing nice turned into not standing up for yourself.  The habit of playing nice became more and more self-defeating.

You took the shittier shifts at work, including the extra shifts made available by co-workers’ hangovers or missed alarm clocks.  You finished the group project in the marketing class, to save your grade.  They were out chugging beers while you were saving their grades, too.

Never mind all the crap you put up with from guys, because you were busy playing nice.

 

Years later, you have made playing nice your super power.

You are the first one called when they need a warm body for the PTA’s Circus Night, down at the school.  You always host the annual neighborhood yard sale.  You never fail to bring two dishes to the holiday pot luck, and you always stay late to clean up.  You shuttle all the other kids to soccer, but wouldn’t dare ask someone to give your kid a ride.  You just hope they’ll remember to play nice and offer.

You handle rude comments as if Miss Manners had tattooed the inside of your arm with the code for “How to Respond When Others Forget to Play Nice.”

You put up with more than your fair share in your marriage because playing nice has become your second skin.

 

Now where are you?

 

You have casserole dishes for pot lucks, enough for all the churches in the Midwest.  You have memories of the customers’ faces who picked up sandwiches on their way to the football game you skipped so you could work an extra shift.  You have too many miles on your old beater from shuttling other people’s kids.

You wonder if anyone would like you if you stopped playing nice.

You don’t know how to NOT play nice.

 

Your spirit has been snuffed.

You are bone-deep tired.

You are sick of the comments, the excuses, the fakes and the users.

You couldn’t play nice if it meant saving your soul.

You couldn’t play nice if they paid you.

Where has playing nice ever gotten you?

 

 

Don’t you dare tell your daughter to play nice.

 

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When 2018 Looks Like 1953

There’s a guy I work with who asks a lot of questions – some are work related, some are of a personal nature.  He has told me that he feels comfortable around me so he asks for parenting and relationship advice, as well as suggestions on how to properly fill out documents.  He also shares too much about his wife and kids

It can get exhausting.

He’s a nice enough fellow.  You know the type – earnest, polite, inquisitive, lacking in self-confidence and completely unaware of personal space, but basically harmless.

We share a large, open office area.  I know when he’s about to ask me something personal because I’ll hear him wheeling his chair across the expanse of industrial grey carpet between us, and park at the side of my desk.   This particular day I heard the squeaking wheels and turned around in time to see him plant his can of Mountain Dew on my desk, next to the forms I was attempting to complete.  He was rubbing some sort of ointment on his shoulder as he told me of his injury.  He then placed the tube of smelly, greasy ointment on my stack of forms.

Some people are tragically unaware.

He says, “Jesse, I’ve a question for you.”  I extracted my forms from under his shoulder potion and said, “What’s up?”

He took a loud swig from his can of pop and said, “You know how you mentioned that you are a single mom and that’s why you’re only in the office in the mornings?”

“Mm hm,” as I tried to keep working.

“Well, it’s like this,” he stammered and continued.  “I notice that you wear rings on that finger,” he said while pointing to the ring finger on my left hand.  “So, are you single or what?”

 

At first, I wasn’t sure I’d heard him correctly.  I glanced at the motivational calendar showing a picture of a hot air balloon, and checked the date.

Yep, 2018.

Then I looked up at him to see if his expression would tell me that he was kidding.  I stifled a laugh when I saw the serious look on his face.

I composed myself, smiled and talked to him like a third grade teacher might address the boy in class, who can’t get his point across without hitting.  That teacher is frustrated and has to keep from yelling.  She looks the kid straight in the eye and calmly explains why he needs to keep his hands to himself.

Like that teacher, I wanted to yell.  “Are you kidding me!?  This is 2018!  Get your ointment and your sticky pop out of my space!  Wake up and look around you!”

Instead I took a breath and said, “Dan, I have some rings I like to wear, and they fit this finger.  I think of these rings as a promise I made to myself to stay single.”

He looked from my finger to my face and said, “Oh …”  He picked up his can of Dew and started to wheel back to his desk.

“Hey, Dan,” I tossed his tube of ointment to him, “you forgot something.”

 

 

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The Problem With My Teenage Son

He texts at 8:30 p.m. asking if it’s okay to stay the night at his friend’s house.  (I’m irritated that he didn’t text earlier in the evening, but remind myself that he doesn’t need to ask permission.  After all, he’s 19 now, and he’s asking permission to spend the night with a friend whose parents are home.)  I text back and ask if it’s okay with the friend’s parents.  He texts and says, “We already asked.  It’s okay.”

Then he texts, “Love you.”

 

I ask him to chop some wood and get us stocked up on kindling.  He does so without grumbling.  (I’m irritated that he doesn’t notice that we are out of kindling and that I have to ask, but remind myself that he was quick to get the job done.)

 

I ask him how classes are going.  We sip coffee as he discusses his frustrations with this new semester.  He mentions that his grades are good.  (I’m relieved and somewhat surprised that he checks his grades, and then wonder why I am surprised.)

 

I grumble at him for always being on his phone.  “You seem so disconnected from us,” I say.  “It feels like you don’t want to be here.”  He says, “I do want to be here,” as he goes off to his room to get ready for school.  (I wonder if I would want to be here if someone was always bitching at me about chopping wood and being on my phone.)

 

The day the bank statement arrives, we heatedly discuss his finances and whether there will be enough left in his account to pay for the next semester.  “I see how often you stop at Taco Bell.  Why?  Is that what all your friends do?”  He says, “I’m a homeschool kid, mom.  It’s good I have friends to hang out with.  We’re not buying beer and cigarettes.”

“I know I’m blowing through the money,” he says.  “I’ve picked up several job applications.  It’s all gonna work out.  You’ll see.”

He has said this before.

When I worried about whether it was a good idea to homeschool he said, “It will work out.”

 

The problem is that I worry.  I worry that I’ve not done my job.

Have I taught him financial responsibility?  Have I showed him what it is to be a good friend?  Have I taught him the importance of doing well in school?  Will he avoid the choices that get him in trouble?  Did I miss the window of opportunity to teach him the stuff he needs to know to be independent?

Did I do enough?

Is he prepared for the real world?

Shouldn’t he be here more so I can make sure we’ve covered absolutely everything?

Shouldn’t he be here …  more?

That’s the real problem, isn’t it?  The problem is that I’m not ready for him to leave.  It’s not about whether he’s ready or not.

I’m not ready.

 

The problem with my teenage son is me.

 

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Yet Another Post About Self-care

As you stand at the kitchen counter eating toast and chugging coffee while paying the electric bill, the clock on the stove says you need to be in the car in 15 minutes if you are going to be at the office on time.  You still have to figure out what to take out of the freezer for dinner, run the curling iron through your hair, feed the cat, take out the garbage, finish the 15 year old’s school list and wake the 19 year old to remind him that he promised grandpa he’d mow the lawn today.

You’ve been up since 5:30 making lists, crossing things off lists, and doing the work you can from home.

What doesn’t get done this morning can be done on your lunch hour, unless you’re lucky enough to work far enough away from home that it isn’t practical to drive home for lunch.  In that case, I want to be you.

On your lunch hour you schedule appointments, return emails, check in with the kids to see how they are doing on their lists.  You make sure you have enough milk for tomorrow morning so that you don’t have to stop at the store on the way home.  Then you realize that you are out of spaghetti, and you’ve already taken the sauce out of the freezer.  Before jumping in the car to head back to the office, you rummage through the pantry and find some macaroni.  Spaghetti sauce and macaroni make goulash, for the win!  You still don’t have to stop at the store.

 

It’s the small victories that get you through the day.

 

After work there will be World History, polynomials, and helping with the sewing of the Halloween costume.  You will discuss what kind of tires his truck will need for winter and where to find the money for tires.  You’ve checked the forecast and know that snow is coming, so you’ll need to move firewood into the garage.  You’ll have to make a couple work calls that you were supposed to make earlier in the day.  Oh, and then there’s cooking dinner, too.

You stop for a second to check social media while the water comes to a boil for the macaroni.  You see a post about how important it is to take care of yourself – more on that tired old line about putting the oxygen mask on yourself first.  Your eye roll is audible.  You think to yourself, “Who has time for self-care?  If I take time to take care of myself, how will everything else get done?”  And then you realize that you take several minutes a few times a day to check in on Facebook, and kick yourself because those groupings of a few minutes here and there could easily turn into a solid half-hour of self-care.

As you pour the bag of macaroni into the boiling water, you picture yourself lounging somewhere for 30 whole minutes.  It feels icky.  It feels self-centered.  It feels like you don’t deserve it.

As you stir the macaroni and turn down the heat to keep the pot from boiling over, you picture your kids taking time out of their day for some self-care.  Maybe she sketches or plays with the cat.  Perhaps he grabs a pole and heads for a fishing hole or plays pool with his friends.  It occurs to you that you wouldn’t think they were being at all selfish.  You would be glad to see them making their mental health a priority.

As you take turns stirring the sauce in one pan and the macaroni in another, you realize that they won’t learn to make themselves a priority if you don’t show them.