Dialing it In

I'm still in a funk. Tired of winter, feeling the burden of single parenthood. Tired of the nonstop planning and strategizing that goes into being moderately successful in my day to day life. I don't like to complain about single parenthood, bc I am profoundly grateful for my sweet, loving, generous, weird Gumball every single day. I am also aware of how tremendously privileged I am, to be able to stay home with her, and to enjoy the lifestyle we live. I am lucky, and blessed. Complaining seems like whining, or taking my privilege for granted. But man, I get tired. I wish someone else would plan a dinner, or cook, or run to the store to get something we need, or read a book to Gumball, or just give me an hug. Or tell me that I'm doing a good job. Or let me sleep in. I'm feeling tired, sad, and lonely. Very lonely. I'm also feeling isolated, bc I don't think anyone who hasn't been a single parent knows what single parenthood is actually like. I don't know what co-parenting is like either, or the profound loneliness of feeling unloved and under-appreciated by a partner. But that's not the point, either. I'm not so much comparing myself to others, as simply missing what I don't have.

Someone whose opinion I value greatly, told me today that he thinks I've been feeling sad and defeated since Mr. Bond (a new nickname) broke up with me. It's true. I miss him terribly, and while I've re-started my diet, and lost the 3 pounds I gained back while trying to eat my broken heart away, my heart just isn't there these days. I'm back on one dating site, and have pleased to receive a few messages. But I don't feel engaged, or enthused about dating. I miss Mr. Bond. Worst part is, I sent him a Valentine's Day card, and a week later, a text. He never responded.

So yeah. To recap, I feel sad, lonely, misunderstood, alienated, tired, and still, broken-hearted.

Advice

I took my troubles and sorrows to Facebook, and was comforted by the kind words of friends. Among other gems were the following:
- with a mom like you who needs a dad, you have two mother's days now, and
- Pretty Girl has so much going for her, people will be waiting in line to be her friend. Rejection will not be a word in her vocabulary!

Their kind words lifted my spirits quite a bit. And someone who I used to be close with during the summer of 1994 sent me a beautiful letter. He explained how his mom hadn't been there for him much during his life. His parents were divorced, and he said that his father never badmouthed his mom at all. When he was older, high school or college age, his father told him the following, "Your mother is very limited- she has trouble taking care of herself - she couldn't possibly take care of you too - she's just wasn't and isn't ABLE. She is not WELL." He wasn't talking about an illness or anything diagnosed. Just her personality. My friend went on to say that he did wish he had heard the following, "IT'S NOT ABOUT YOU. IT'S NOT YOUR FAULT. He's just UNABLE to be here because he has his own stuff to work out. You are wonderful and amazing - it's his loss and has nothing to do with who you are. Anyone who actually knew you would definitely want to spend time with you." 

It did me a world of good to hear this. To get some idea of what I can say to Gumball, when the time comes. I know there are many successful and happy adult children of single moms, who didn't know their dads. I just don't know any of them. What is the magic combination of words to spare her the pain of rejection, and from making the same (poor) choices I've made?  It makes me think of Tina Fey's "Prayer for my Daughter." This part: "May she be Beautiful but not Damaged, for it’s the Damage that draws the creepy soccer coach’s eye, not the the Beauty." I just don't want my baby to start off her tender life with such a tremendous disadvantage.

Here is Tina Fey's letter: 
First, Lord: No tattoos. May neither Chinese symbol for truth nor Winnie-the-Pooh holding the FSU logo stain her tender haunches.
May she be Beautiful but not Damaged, for it’s the Damage that draws the creepy soccer coach’s eye, not the the Beauty.
When the Crystal Meth is offered,
May she remember the parents who cut her grapes in half
And stick with Beer.
Guide her, protect her
When crossing the street, stepping onto boats, swimming in the ocean, swimming in pools, walking near pools, standing on the nearby subway platform, crossing 86th Street, stepping off of boats, using mall restrooms, getting on and off escalators, driving on country roads while arguing, leaning on large windows, walking in parking lots, riding Ferris wheels, roller-coasters, log flumes, or anything called “Hell Drop,” “Tower of Torture,” or “The Death Spiral Rock N’ Zero G Roll featuring Aerosmith,” and standing on any kind of balcony ever, anywhere, at any age.
Lead her away from Acting but not all the way to Finance.
Something where she can make her own hours but still feel intellectually fulfilled and get outside sometimes
And not have to wear high heels.
What would that be, Lord? Architecture? Midwifery? Golf course design? I’m asking You because if I knew, I’d be doing it, Youdammit.
May she play the Drums to the fiery rhythm of her Own Heart with the sinewy strength of her Own Arms, so she need Not Lie With Drummers.
Grant her a Rough Patch from twelve to seventeen. 
Let her draw horses and be interested in Barbies for much too long,
For Childhood is short — a Tiger Flower blooming
Magenta for one day –
And Adulthood is long and Dry-Humping in Cars will wait.
O Lord, break the Internet forever,
That she may be spared the misspelled invective of her peers
And the online marketing campaign for Rape Hostel V: Girls Just Wanna Get Stabbed.
And when she one day turns on me and calls me a Bitch in front of Hollister,
Give me the strength, Lord, to yank her directly into a cab in front of her friends,
For I will not have that Shit. I will not have it.
And should she choose to be a Mother one day, be my eyes, Lord,
That I may see her, lying on a blanket on the floor at 4:50 a.m., all-at-once exhausted, bored, and in love with the little creature whose poop is leaking up its back.
“My mother did this for me once,” she will realize as she cleans feces off her baby’s neck.
“My mother did this for me.” And the delayed gratitude will wash over her as it does each generation and she will make a Mental note to call me. And she will forget.
But I’ll know, because I peeped it with Your God eyes.
Amen.

http://www.parents.com/blogs/goodyblog/2011/05/tina-feys-a-mothers-prayer-for-her-daughter/

Planning

There are many aspects of single motherhood that I was not prepared for. Actually, I wasn't prepared for any of it. That said, there are specific experiences that, so far, have defined this crazy trip for me. A big one is planning. The thing is, when you're a single mom, planning becomes essential. I don't know. Maybe it's just me. I am kind of a planner/hoarder/type A sort of person. Something about being a single mom brings these characteristics out in full force. I live in terror that I won't have something I need. No, not something I need... something the baby needs. What could I possibly need? Food, I have. Clothing too. But the baby? Her needs are much more urgent.

Just to share a few of the necessities. Diapers? I have a case. Wipes? A case. The special, seasonal Earth's Best that she will eat 8oz of for dinner and sleep 6 or 8 hours without waking (Turkey/Cran, in case you were wondering.) I have 40 jars. Pedialyte? Got it. Baby tylenol, advil, butt cream. Yup. And if I forget to buy more, well, I joined Amazon Mom AND Amazon Subscribe and Save to get 30% off diapers and butt cream, so even if I were to forget, or to somehow become incapacitated, diapers and cream will continue to be delivered to my house every 2 months.

The thing is, I hate asking for help. And I've had to do it pretty much constantly for the past 8 months. My mom has saved my life over and over. While dealing with a messed up thyroid. My friends D and S wrote me emails almost every single night when things were the roughest. And they continue to support me in many different ways. J demanded that I get off my exhausted ass and start to feel better, even though it was literally the last thing I could imagine doing. My lovely ex-neighbor J cooked for me, went to doctors appointments with me and the baby, held the baby so I could nap, helped me move. My aunt C came out of no where to help us get by. God, so many people, so much help. I detest being this vulnerable. I don't know if having a partner would change this feeling, but without one, I feel like it is me against the world. And a stockpile of diapers and wipes and Turkey/Cran eases my anxiety. Somewhat.