Pancakes Taste Like Poverty: And Other Post-Divorce Revelations (9 page)

Sugar

I don't miss sex. I don't miss dating. But I
can't remember the last time I was good and kissed. And lately it's
all I can think about.

I used to consider myself to be an unnaturally
hot-blooded woman. I was the "Samantha,” if you will,
among my group of friends.

I was guiding my girlfriends through their
personal sexual freedom as young as 17. I had a book about the Kama
Sutra in my trunk and stayed up late every night, hoping to catch an
episode of Real Sex on HBO. I purchased my first *ahem* personal
massager somewhere between my 11th and 12th grades.

College was no different. I worked part time as a
phone sex operator which is way less interesting and sexy than it
sounds. When I was a lonely housewife I wrote smutty short stories
for various erotica websites. Sex was the glue that held my marriage
together as long as it did.

Sex, as it turned out, was a huge part of its
demise.

But sex complicates things. And once you have sex
with someone you are “having sex with them.” You can't
really go back to
not
having sex. Or
I
can't anyway.

And to get to the sex part, you have to make
yourself attractive and actually
talk
to someone else. I
really want no part in that.

And I don't really miss sex enough to do
something stupid and crazy like answer a creepy Craigslist ad. Plus
I'm not keen on being murdered, so I've just forgotten sex
altogether.

I don't miss it. I don't care about having it.
The whole operation just seems like more work than I'm willing to do.
However, I really, really, really, really, really, miss making out.
That long, deep, drugging kind of making out that made the tips of
your ears tingle and your pulse race and all that...

The kind that didn't lead anywhere – just
sugar for sugar's sake.

I'm so out of practice with the whole flirting
and kissing and boy/girl thing that I feel like I need a practice
dummy. I need a good male friend who will make out with me, not try
to get to 2nd base, and not want to bother me with feelings or
dating.

Oh well, it's almost Christmas so I'll just add
it to my Christmas list.

Wired – January
2012

Despite the current trend of the "sensitive,
hands-on, hipster dad" it seems that dads, on the whole, are
still taking a hands-off approach to child-rearing. I haven't decided
yet whether or not I think this is a bad thing.

“I'm not wired for this” is a common
response most of my girlfriends get from their significant others
regarding taking a more proactive role in child care.

Here's an example of this hated phrase in action:

My kids attend a school which required 20 hours
of parent volunteer activity per year. Now, we know I did not
spontaneously produce my offspring alone like some sort of asexual
amoeba. I am not the only parent. And yet, when I went to sign the
kids up and I asked my ex how many hours he thought he would be able
to volunteer at the school he said, "uh, nope...I'm probably not
gonna be able to do that. I'm just not wired for that kind of stuff."

Um, and I am???

I never wanted kids!

I thought I'd be hot and single forever. But I
was lonely and insecure and fertile instead and so I have three
children. And because I had children I learned to take care of them,
and I put my needs and personal desires on the shelf to just handle
muh-fuggin business. I volunteer at the damn school.

That's what you
do
. I had never even
held
a baby before my oldest was born. Now I'm like the child whisperer.

It was the same for Kelley.

She and I went to the school every Friday
morning, reluctantly, and sat through assembly listening to kids read
book reports and sing songs in Chinese. We listened to the
principal's soapbox speeches. Our asses went numb on child-sized
bleachers. It bored the living shit out of us. We could have been in
bed. We could have been out enjoying coffee and catching up. But we
were there because we
had
to be. We had kids and it's just
what you
have
to do.

Now, some would say "Well, then you should
make
the dads participate. You enable them by allowing them to
be deadbeats."

Well, yes and no.

Yes, I know I am probably guilty of enabling. I
also
know you can't squeeze blood from a rock and nagging
someone into submission is just not worth it.

My friend's ex-hubby typically "hangs out"
with the kids by sitting in the room with them and watching TV. My
ex, while delightful and surprisingly hands-on in some respects,
frequently comes to "see the kids" and ends up eating my
food, using my computer and then falling asleep on my couch.

I would like to think that we, as a society, have
done a pretty good job of keeping our expectations low when it comes
to the male role in child rearing. Turn on almost any television show
or commercial and what do you see?

Stupid, bumbling, overweight dads who love their
TVs and their football. Hot, skinny wives who love yogurt and hate
their bodies while condescending to and cleaning up after
aforementioned loser husbands. I mean, seriously, have you seen the
commercial where the idiot dad doesn't know how to clean up spilled
yogurt and the exasperated wife pantomimes instructions from beneath
the glass table while the completely overwhelmed husband smears the
spilled dairy product all over while the toddler looks on and laughs
at him?

Men are not so stupid, but making them
look
stupid sells yogurt and vacuums and paper towels. Jesus, those paper
towel ad execs
love
a stupid, messy husband, don't they? And
making men look stupid gives them a little wiggle room. Some of them
don't want to do the work, so they feign incompetence, and we pick up
the slack.

Then we are stress eating which leads to (AHA!)
self-loathing and yogurt. Look at how that works.

It seems I've traveled way off topic here.

I mean, deep down, many moms think they know
better and micro-manage dads until they are close to self-mutilation
- or at least that what I see in my everyday socializing. So should
we just let dad pop in and do what he
is
"wired to do,"
whatever that looks like?

I mean, I am a single mom.

Is it fair that I break up
all
the fights,
do
all
the laundry,
all
the grocery shopping, have the
dirty house,
never
go
anywhere
alone, sit through the
horrible children's movies, help with all the homework, clean all the
barf and never get laid?

No.

But when were we told life was fair?
Never.

And guess what I get in return for all that crap?

I get
all
the snuggles,
all
the
love notes,
all
the giggles,
all
the living room dance
parties,
all
the "spin 'til you fall down,"
all
the trust,
all
the respect, and
all
the memories.

That seems like a good deal to me.

Punished

That's
what it feels like. Deep down. Behind the smiles and hugs and small
talk.

I feel – no – I
know
I am
being punished.

That's why I locked my feelings away, because
every time I feel crazy things like "hope" the Universe
makes good and sure to knock it right out of me.
I had a plan. I
had an escape strategy. I was going to get the hell out of this town.
I was going to finally find a home, plant some roots and watch them
grow. My family has had to move something like 8 times in five years.

In the partnership between my ex-husband and I,
one of us is not very good at accepting responsibility - particularly
with finances.

I thought that by
removing
that part of
the equation things would change. Nothing has changed. Everything has
gotten much much worse.

I was dealt a blow today that nearly took me out.
Getting out of my lease a little early to move into the place I found
in Mobile is going to cost me a fortune that I do not have.

All my plans are now, again, up in the air. And
the the staggering cost of childcare coupled with the fact that I
didn't finish college places me in a demographic that makes me want
to vomit.

Single, uneducated mom with three kids.

Gross.

And the fact that I
still
can't get my
feet under me, and that I have to rethink the plan
again,
and
that incredibly poor choices I made
over a decade ago
are
still poisoning my life are enough to make me think really, really,
really dark thoughts. And fight really, really, really dark demons.

I have to shut any and all thoughts of my general
failure as an adult out, because the tiniest drop leads to the
bowling ball in my throat, and the quivering words and the thoughts
of knives and razors. Just being honest. I apologize if I'm getting
too scary. I was a cutter, once, many years ago before postpartum
depression was a widely known thing. But then, I only had one child
and one baby and their eyes and ears weren't so big. For now I just
have to hold it. There is no escape.

This is my punishment.

And every
single
day through every
single
struggle – arguing with the Department of Children and
Families, asking my ex-father-in-law for gas money so I can get to
work, sitting in those disgusting government clinics waiting for up
to five hours to deal with these new and interesting ailments that
have cropped up – all I can think is that I am being punished.
And I fight and fight but eventually I go down the list:

I should never have left Mobile. I didn't even
want to go to college.
I should never have introduced myself.
I
should have dumped him the first time he cheated.
I should have
moved back home when I found out I was pregnant.
I should not
have married him.
I should have divorced him sooner.
I should
have known you can't help people who don't want to be helped.
We
should
never
have moved back to Tampa together.
I should
have moved back to Mobile as
soon
as I moved out on my own.

I don't trust my judgment at all anymore; not
with men, not with life.
I just give up.

I know "this too shall pass" and I
"shouldn't look back" and "I'm the captain of my
soul.” I don't need any well-wishing. I am tired of it. It
isn't working.

I cannot hear or believe any of it right now
because I put it in action, take it to heart, and I am still living
in an elephant shit sandwich. I screwed up my life. I screwed it bad.

P.S. No need to put me on suicide watch.
He
would get the kids and that would be the real tragedy, trust me.

Crazy - February 2011

He
apparently started a relationship with some woman he met at one of
the many yoga retreats he goes to.
She is flying to Tampa from
Philadelphia to visit and he intends on introducing her to me and the
kids.
My first response was a firm “no thanks” which
was met with a guilt trip about how
of
course
I
have a problem with him dating and of course I'm using the kids
against him.
I didn't think that was what I was doing.
I
admit it pisses me off that he has the luxury of pursuing a new
relationship but doesn't feel the same tug to
work
for a living.
We are still trying to move away. I don't feel
like the kids need to be invested in his random girlfriend.
He
pushed and pushed and guilted and, second guessing my own judgment, I
gave in.
Her visit, incidentally, was to coincide with my 30
^th
birthday. Salt in the wound. I decided to call my dad for advice.

My
parents were excellent at being divorced. I was two when they split
so I actually have no recollection of them as a couple. It didn't
matter, though, because they co-parented well enough to take me on a
vacation to Disney World together several years later. My parents
were always able to be in a room together and make small talk. When
they both got remarried, they had already set the stage for the
step-parents so then the four of them could be in a room together
interacting easily.

When
I moved into my college dorm, both my moms were decorating while my
dads set up my computer.
“Who are the parents?” my
roommate's parent asked.
“Uh...all of us,” they would
answer.
If anyone could guide me through this new phase of single
parenthood, it's him.
I set the kids up with snacks and a movie
and went down to my car in the parking lot so they couldn't overhear
my conversation. I explained the situation to my dad. He listened
intently and then answered.
“Jessie, unless he is planning
on getting married, you have no obligation to meet some girl he's
screwing. If it's serious, then yeah you're going to have to meet
who's going to be spending time with your kids. But if that's
not
what's
going
on, then
later
for it
.
As for the kids, you really have no control over that. He's going to
date and he's going to want to do the look-I'm-a-dad act on these
women because it works. And it might hurt your feelings, but it is
what it is.”

“Thanks,
Dad. I didn't feel okay with it. I can't explain why. I just didn't
like the idea,” I explained, “I just
didn't
.
And he kept telling me I was being irrational and I guess he's
right.”
“Hooooold on, hold on, hold it, hold it,
hold, hold, hooooooold it,” he interrupted.