Pancakes Taste Like Poverty: And Other Post-Divorce Revelations (7 page)

Then she exhaled and we drew stick figure
versions of Confucius and Herodotus on our maps and rolled around
laughing on the floor of my office. On the way to pick up the younger
kids from school, she drew a cave drawing version of the history of
her life - making room for the stick figure births of her two
siblings, a stick figure marriage, a stick figure divorce, and a
stick figure "Jaya" with giant heart eyeballs ogling a cute
stick figure dress because she loves fashion.

And I felt really proud.

And I felt really proud of my often idiotic but
sometimes useful defiance.

I am a scary, she-wolf mom and I have never been
as passionate about anything in my life more than my passion for
raising my children.

I do not take it lightly. Not for a second.

I have my whole life to be "Jessica Vivian."
I have a very brief and very finite amount of time to be their mommy
and to mold them and create the adults they will become.

And when someone hinders my plans for how I will
raise my children I will listen and then politely flip 'em the
middle. I do what I want.

Love
Languages – August 2011
So we're back
in Tampa and Jaya has been to two counseling sessions.
I
confidently assumed she would tell the counselor how disappointed she
is in her father and the strain of his inconsistency is causing her
stress and strife. But that's not what happened.
She told the
counselor that she wasn't sure I loved her.
I was
flabbergasted.
I started rattling
off all the things I do for my kids:
I work this job. I make them
this or that for dinner. We go to the park. We go to the Science
Museum. I take them swimming. I let them sleep in the bed with me if
they want to. My back is aching because of it. I come every Friday to
their school assembly. How is this possible?
But the more I
thought about it, and imagined myself through her eyes.
Yes I did
those things, but I do so unenthusiastically.
I
managed
my kids. I managed their time. I squeezed in the obligatory “fun”
but was irritable because the fun was keeping me from the laundry or
the bills or some extra sleep.
Through her eyes I had to
admit...
I probably didn't look like a loving mom.
Being a
conscious parent stings. The truth of her disconnection from me felt
like a brick in my stomach.
On the ride home she was chatty and
bubbly, for her it was a relief to “get it out” but it
was fresh and jarring to me so I wasn't a good conversation
partner.
But I decided to change it. I decided to make a
conscious effort to plug in.
To be honest, I'm not sure I've ever
been present even though I was a stay at home mom for all those
years.
I managed events. I managed the schedule. I played with
them and cooed at them because they are my babies and I couldn't help
it but I wasn't particularly snuggly.
There are times when I
rejected snuggles and was too touched-out to deal with it. And here's
what I got now: a nervous, insecure daughter who isn't sure I love
her.
Well
, if I've learned anything
from this whole single parenting schtick is that if I get myself into
a situation I can get myself out. From now on I vow to treat my
children like the souls they are. They are here on a journey just
like I am. I don't have the right to disrespect their time on Earth
in that way by treating them and their needs like an inconvenience.
If I choose to take them to the park, I will not let my mind be at
the Laundromat. If I choose to bring them with me to the Laundromat,
I will enjoy talking with them at the Laundromat. I will not let my
mind worry about dinner. If they want a hug I will relax and accept
it and pour as much love as I can muster into them each time. I will
not squirm and try to get back to my whatever I was doing.
My
kids are resilient and respond quickly to change.
I think she
will be okay.
Fail
You
can't teach what you don't know. For this reason, I will fail them.

I don't know anything about healthy romantic
relationships. Not a thing.

It hurts knowing there is definitely, absolutely
something you will
not
teach your child.

As a parent, I feel like I am supposed to do it
all. I am supposed to make them completely ready for adulthood.

Stranger danger, unsafe touch, don't play with
fire, wear a rubber, don't drink and drive, don't do drugs, clean up
after yourself, please and thank you, apologize, make a list, keep
your word, question authority, fight for others, eat your greens... I
can teach that.

But I can't teach what I don't know and I've
never been in love.

Kelley and the Job
Words
cannot describe how much I dislike having to talk to other moms in
the school environment. That was until Kelley.
I don't quite
remember how she and I came to be friends. We had one mutual friend,
a sort of edgy, mouthy Tiger mom. We sat near each other at the
mandatory-if-your-child-is-attending-the-fancy-math-and-science-charter-school
assemblies every Friday morning and the deep sighs of boredom
mirrored each other and so poof! We were friends.
Or rather, we
were sister wives.
See, Kelley is another single mom. Being
slightly older and more established, however, she had a few luxuries
that my children and I didn't have…like a pool and a washer
and a dryer and a house.
So we teamed up.
When
her friend was looking for employees, Kelley recommended me. In no
time I started working in a small office, making more than minimum
wage and working flexible enough hours that I could still pick the
kids up from school and not have to pay for childcare.
I helped
Kelley by picking up her boys from school and watching them while she
worked at her job as a travel agent. She would buy me dinner. I'd
make sure the homework got done.
Very few single moms, I've
noticed, are able to make these sorts of arrangements but for Kelley
and I it was organic. She absorbed my children and I as if we were
family.
Looking back, she saved us.
She
saved us.
Alone –
September 2011

It's great to have a friend, finally, to connect
to who has absolutely nothing to do with my ex-husband. But, upon
reflection, if I had to give my
thirty
years a theme the word "alone" would be at the top of the
list.

My single mom was at work, bustin' her ass and
working double shifts through
eighty percent
of my childhood. I was a textbook latchkey kid.

Beginning in first grade I was picked up and
dropped off by a variety of random adults related to my mother either
by blood or occupation.

When she was the nurse at the county jail various
police officers pulled through my school's pickup line to get me.
Most I had not seen before the moment they showed up.

They had to say the password for me to get into
the car.

"beetlejuice"

And I was brought to the jail to hang with mom
until the end of her shift, visiting with inmates and showing them my
finger-paintings.

When I was slightly older I was dropped off by
random friends' moms.

By age eight I was proficient in the kitchen. I
could make spaghetti, brownies, Hamburger Helper. I did my own
laundry. I ironed my uniform. I stayed on the phone with Chris until
we both fell asleep and drooled into the receivers. Sometimes we
could stay up long enough to catch some softie porn on Cinemax. Of
course we had TVs in our rooms. "Red Shoe Diaries" was an
early sex education.

Even older still and I wandered the neighborhood
with a slightly rough crowd of other lonely girls. We hated each
other but that never kept us from gluing ourselves together.
Being
alone at home was far less bearable.

Some of us were more lonely than others and fell
prey to charismatic men. It wasn't long before one introduced us to
her boyfriend who was clearly old enough to be her dad. He was
balding.

We were twelve.

High school was no different.

I was never accepted by the unending sea of white
kids at school. I was hated by the jealous and confused black kids
who didn't understand “why I talk white.” I took in every
stray - every broken, lonely person I can sink my claws into. I
possessed them. I filled my empty house with other parentless kids
and we drank. Then that got boring so we chatted online. Then we
talked to the people we met online on the phone. Then we invited them
over. Then we did irresponsible things.

I had some sick, subconscious agenda that I
imagine I must have picked up from all the television because it
literally could not have come from anywhere else:

"I need someone to take care of me. Older
people take care of younger people. Men take care of women."

There was no one around to stop me. I dated men.

Other girls dated boys. And I dated men.

And I felt very powerful but I was
desperate
for someone to see what I was doing and stop me.

To notice.

To show concern.

It didn't happen.

Then I went to college.

I was confused. I didn't want to be there. I had
a hard time relaxing and feeling like myself and finding my place. My
need for male attention ruined my friendships.
I was scared
and insecure and intimidated and lonely.

I did what lonely girls did.

When I found out was pregnant and I told him he
said, "I will take care of you."

It was music to my fucking ears. So I stayed like
a puppy waiting for my reward. But he wasn't capable of keeping his
promise. So I had a baby in a strange town with a strange, lukewarm
family.

Fitting in and being accepted by them felt like
playing a game I'd never learned the rules of and frankly didn't even
realize I was playing.
So I wasn't informed and wasn't invited.

I stayed in an apartment with a baby
.
Alone. For two years.

There was no one to talk to. I didn't know
anybody. And he spent every available minute away from me and my
pathetic, bottomless neediness. I turned off the part of me that
needed attention, or affection, or respect, or acknowledgment.

Then I had another baby.

And there was no one there.

And I cried alone in the shower.

And I cut into my skin.

And then I had another baby and we moved to
my
hometown away from the people who only tolerated me. And for a
moment, I had a family. I had a job I liked. I had a vast circle of
friends. I had my mom. I had my sister. I was happy...

...until I wasn't.

Insecurity seeped into the cracks in our
fractured marriage and everything crumbled. He cheated. I wanted out.
He took the kids to Tampa to visit and convinced me his family was
different and that everything would be different and to give it
another try. So I moved back to Tampa.

But I was alone again.

I filed for divorce. I moved into a tiny
apartment with a pissy mattress. My three kids and I ate, slept and
played on that pissy mattress. I could not cry. I could not fold. I
could not shake. I was all there was. They were all looking to me.
And I stood there alone. And here I still stand.

And part of me is so proud of my independence and
my rough exterior and my giant balls and my reputation. But most of
me is just so tired and so lonely.

And I really really need a hug and I need to be
able to lean on someone. I need a community. I need an extra pair of
hands. I need a fresh set of eyes. I need a fucking high-five at the
end of a tumultuous day. I need to....

...move back home.

Logistics

This is what
I'm dealing with.
“Homeschooling at work” didn't
work. But we tried and I got a taste of it. It was good. It's
definitely something I want to do again in the future once life is
less...just...when it's less. Jaya is back in the Math and Science
school and doing fine.
The job is great. My boss is unbelievable.
She lets me clock in after I've dropped off the kids and she lets me
leave to pick them up from school. It's part time work but with the
cost of after school care my take home pay is actually
forty
bucks
more
working
part time
than it would be
working full time. And I need to take home as much as
possible.
Unfortunately, because I work now the Department of
Human Resources reduced my food assistance.
And then they decided
that since I never had a child support order through the state,
because he gives me cash, that I must be lying and now I'm under
investigation for food assistance fraud and they just cut me off
completely.
This is a major inconvenience.
There is no free
lunch at the kids' charter school so I am paying for that in addition
to gas, laundry, groceries, school stuff, toiletries, clothes and
utilities.
My mom, very graciously, pays my rent. If she didn't
I have no idea what I'd do.
But I run out of gas often when I'm
running errands. I have to call his dad to help because his work is
close. He brings me gas and asks why his son isn't giving me enough
money.
Well, my ex-husband is a massage therapist.
After
we got divorced he decided to go on a tattoo binge and he inked
himself from his neck to his ankles.
He did it all “for
trade” but I was still furious because I knew he was severely
limiting his marketability as an employee and also any time spent in
a tattoo chair is time he
didn't
spend massaging someone for
money.
It's indicative of the sorts of subtle sabotages he
performed throughout his life to keep people's expectations of him
nice and low.
So sure enough, just as expected, the money is no
longer rolling in.
The kids are no longer getting those weekend
visits.
I asked him to pick up the kids from school once a week
so I could work a double shift on those days. If I did that, I could
make enough money to get more groceries or pay part of my rent.
That
turned out to be too inconvenient for him.
He can't find enough
massage work, can't afford the gas to come to north Tampa, and is
always “working on it.”
So now my time is spent
calculating.