Meanwhile, you’re sure that the singles are eating and laughing in fabulous restaurants with a new interesting man every week. When they choose to stay in, at least they only have to deal with their own mess. Any balancing act they have to do is made so much easier by not having to factor someone else into the equation. You remember it fondly (and inaccurately).
Of course, when you’ve been single longer than you’d like, you start to want the “guaranteed” stability of marriage. No more having to audition for strangers, no more having to hold your farts back in bed. Someone to share the balancing act with. You want a 50/50 partnership and the meaningful, mutually supportive conversations that your married friends are surely having in the calm of their clean, organized homes every single night.
The grass is always greener.
In some circles, being a single mom is some kind of evil syndrome, a status to be avoided at all costs—even the costs of staying in a bad marriage. But I get the feeling that some of my married mom friends envy my single motherhood. Do they really think my lack of a husband gives me loads of extra time for Evan or for myself (which is the order of priorities for moms everywhere, no matter what the airlines tell us about tending to our own oxygen mask first)? Ha! Look up any of the following terms in the dictionary and I’ll bet there’s a picture of a single mom in the margin: “winging it,” “improvising,” “juggling balls,” “dropping balls,” “hanging on by a thread.”
Obviously, some people (my married mom friends among them) fantasize about having a quiet, well-behaved family unit. But I grew up in a house full of chirpy girls: me and three sisters. No dinner was ever without chatter unless Dad just wasn’t having it and ordered us all to shut up. In which case one of us would inevitably shoot milk out a nostril and onto the roast while trying to suppress a giggle. There was no keeping the McCarthy girls quiet for long. Maybe my memory has glamorized the big family meal. And in the same way, my married mom friends have probably glamorized the mother-child twosome.
One friend told me she imagines me and Evan sitting in our sweats, eating out of takeout containers, me with no makeup on, no bra, and no worries, him never whining or talking back, always content to be with me. She imagines us laughing together at movies we have enthusiastically agreed to watch together. Shrek, Cars, or The Incredibles now, and maybe in a few years he’ll want to see more grown-up romantic comedies (because those kids’ movies are all romantic comedies at heart, did you notice that?) and laugh, roll his eyes, or tear up in all the right places. A mother, a child, no dishes, a movie, synchronized giggling: this is her idea of a heavenly evening.
Whatever that says about her married life, that’s my idea of a good night, too. But it’s not a frequent scene around my house. And neither is the scene from my own childhood—Evan’s not going to have any siblings!
It’s true that husbands do tend to take up a lot of time and energy when you’re having trouble getting along with them, they do generate a lot of dishes, and they don’t always want to watch our favorite shows. But not having one hasn’t exactly turned every night into a cozy popcorn-and-a-movie sleepover for me and Evan.
I’ll give my friend the takeout in her imagined scene. That’s pretty accurate. In my fridge right now: almond milk, capers, and five leftover tater tots. Any ideas for how to whip that nasty combination into a meal? Me neither. That’s why I have several delivery places on speed dial. But even when the food has arrived, or while we’re waiting for it, Evan’s usually got homework, which can quickly put a cloud over the house, or he’d rather be at a friend’s house, or he wants to watch the dreaded SpongeBob or a show with lots of car wrecks—the kind I really can’t stand.
And I’ve always got work I have to do at home, which can make me cranky. Phone calls to return, emails to write, and Internet surfing to do (which I know I should be doing less of; didn’t you see my acknowledgment of my addiction on this page?). And that’s a recipe for a certain kind of disaster right there: the two of us just sort of staring at our plates, keeping our busy thoughts in our own busy little heads, while lukewarm gluten-free nuggets congeal in their own juices or lame salad wilts in its Styrofoam.
Turning on the TV doesn’t solve anything (and I know, I know, you shouldn’t eat in front of the TV, but come on, you’ve never done it?) because when that commercial for the large, smiling “normal” family—two parents, at least two kids, and Grandma along for the ride—eating that heart-clogging Bloomin’ Onion at Outback comes on, I’m likely to get kind of jealous of all that boisterous noise and big-family fun (memories of my own childhood again, I guess).
There are other situations where being the single mom can make a girl feel bad for herself. I’m not too proud to admit that at the park I’ve jealously watched couples picnicking with their kids from where I’m stuck in the curve on the burning-hot aluminum kiddy slide. Those curves are not made for mom asses. When Evan and I are snackless and starving (hey, I can’t think of everything!), the foresight they had to load plastic snap-top tubs to the gills with neatly julienned veggies and pan-fried chicken parts says happiness to me. The only comfort I take in watching those scenes of family “bliss” is knowing that couples who spend that much time on food preparation definitely don’t make much time for sex.
Neighborhood functions can also be a test of my mettle. I was recently asked to bring a dessert to a potluck, but of course my day was from hell and I’d forgotten to get anything from the bakery before it closed. Making something was never in the cards. Evan and I only had time to stop at the package store on the way, so I dashed in and bought three bags of Chips Ahoy and a bottle of vodka. What? I brought something, didn’t I? The kids seemed psyched about the cookies (kids are much less picky than we give them credit for sometimes), and the beefy father of six who grabbed the vodka and hightailed it to the bathroom to top off his fruit punch was clearly appreciative. I’m pretty sure I got the stink eye from most of the other parents, though. And in that moment, in addition to feeling a tad sorry for myself, I felt bad for poor Evan: stuck with the single, working, odd mom out, the lady who doesn’t cook that often and apparently doesn’t give a shit.
Then I remember there’s a dad drinking my vodka in the bathroom to escape the chaos of his life. And I remember that the parents at the park seemed more concerned with disinfecting the slide than going down it. And I think of all those really peaceful, quiet, and special meals that Evan and I have had in front of Shrek and Cars and The Incredibles. And I remember lots of evenings where being cozied up next to him in a restaurant booth has been better than any date I’ve ever been on. (Turns out we aren’t fans of the Bloomin’ Onion after all, though.) Of course, sometimes the conversation isn’t all that electrifying and you find yourself thinking about a romantic table for two instead. Those combo tic-tac-toe/menu placemats really do come in handy. But when we’re just together, when we’re talking and listening to each other, it’s way better than the supposed comfort of a married conversation at home.
When I’m starting to long for the grass over there—the well-watered, nicely cut, and bright green stuff that those picnickers are sitting on, for instance—I only have to remind myself of all the things Evan and I do have and share and I am cheered right up. We have our own well-honed special thing. We really enjoy each other’s company. It’s during quiet and even noncommunicative meals that we learn to just be together. We get to be alone in our own little bubble. We have our own private jokes; we can crack each other up. If he happens to be drinking milk, he has been known to shoot it out his nostril—a beautiful thing to see. We are not “normal” or “conventional” in the way advertisers would have you believe is ideal, but we are us.
Balance is so overrated. Imbalance challenges you but can bring out your best. (An aside: did you know that most women have boobs that are slightly different sizes? That’s Mother Nature acknowledging right there that balance isn’t all it’s cracked up to be. Yes—I really read that somewhere. Maybe not in Psychology Today, but p
robably in an old Cosmo I picked up while waiting in the doctor’s office. Not that I told my plastic surgeon to go for imbalanced implants, though.)
We all know that parenting can be challenging, whether you’re single or partnered up. And being the sole carpooler, discipliner, Band-Aid applier, nightmare calmer, and chef in your household gets old, even if it’s nice to never have your authority challenged by your spouse. I know I’ll get enough of that when Evan hits adolescence (and it’d only be karmic justice if he gives it to me as bad as I dished it out to my parents).
But here’s what I urge: stop making it harder by beating yourself up for not being the one who can manage those massive casseroles at the potluck. Stop jonesing for some imagined perfection. This is not a scenario you can dream to achieve; it’s not one you should put on your fantasy playlist (see this page for better ideas). Remember that just by providing a space to be with your kids, you are feeding them. You’re nourishing their souls with your presence, their hearts with your understanding, and their bellies with whatever the hell you can cook up.
Remember the word “mom” in the phrase “single mom,” okay? It doesn’t matter how hitched you are; you are some little person’s universe. Me, I give way more than a shit, and Evan knows it. I give great piles of it.
Giving the Bird
MASTERING THE ART OF THE FAMILY HOLIDAY MEAL
Step 1: Put turkey in the oven the day before the gathering. See Grandma’s recipe below.
Step 2: Refill your Xanax prescription.
Step 3: Be strategic about the seating chart—make sure that you are not next to Aunt Becky. Let your husband or boyfriend do the honors.
Step 4: Pop a Xanax before your guests arrive.
Step 5: Retain easy and subtle access to the booze.
Step 6: Let someone else do the dishes.
I mentioned earlier that I have great memories of McCarthy family meals—the noise, the giggles, the camaraderie. When it comes to holiday meals, however, I have to revise the imagery a little for you.
My father has nine siblings. They all had four or five or six kids each. In other words, the McCarthy clan is enormous. When I was growing up, no one had much money, so holiday meals with his side of the family had the feel of a soup kitchen—sixty or more people shuffling in line toward a buffet of too little food.
I have vivid memories of being kissed by aunts with giant cold sores. I remember the nightmare of the “kids’ table” and the cousins who could fart on command—and also when you commanded them not to.
We kids were basically left to fend for ourselves. One year, my cousins dared me to plug in the iron and press my hand on it to test how hot it could get. It’s a wonder to me now that I have continued to choose the “dare” option in life, but I guess anything is a cakewalk after second-degree burns on your hands.
In my memory, Grandma McCarthy is always sitting (after pushing out ten kids, I don’t blame her one bit) and some drunk is always singing an Irish tune. Someone else is often screaming at the drunk to shut up. Looking back, I’m grateful I wasn’t tortured by being dry humped in a closet by a first cousin. Second or third cousin, maybe, but not a first.
As unappetizing as any of this may seem to an outsider, I have to admit that to me these are very soothing memories. My family is imperfect, but it’s mine, you know? From talking with friends, I’m aware that this is a pretty universal weirdness, so maybe you feel the same way. Everyone’s brand of family insanity is sacred and we are all a little biased toward our family skeletons.
Which makes it hard, as we grow older and pair up, to create new family traditions or to adapt to your spouse’s (or anyone else’s) ideal of the family holiday meal. Add in-laws or, worse, divorce to this mix and the importance of your own traditions ratchets up even more. Not to mention that your children become like the wishbone you fought over when you were a kid.
I’m not proud to say that when I was married I had trouble adapting to the blended-family holiday. I may not have liked Grandma’s bird, but I loved my mom’s recipe for stuffing and had been trained for years on how to make it exactly like hers. When my mother-in-law brought her traditional stuffing to the party, I got irrationally uppity. I didn’t like the way she imposed her past onto my present. I’m a Scorpio, so the revenge I took came naturally: I snuck into the kitchen and oversalted her dish. I took it to a criminal level. People were thirsty for days and no one but me knew why. Now they do!
Now that I’m more “mature” and evolved (I can admit to what I did, after all), I’ve come to realize what only our loved ones can teach us. You don’t see your own assets or your own faults in any kind of perspective until you’ve seen them operating in a relative. (And good or bad, you can’t quite see your spouse clearly until you see him reflected in one of his blood relatives across the dining room table. Whether or not he sees himself as well is anyone’s guess.)
Do you think you are an amazingly funny storyteller? Well, when you see Uncle Harold holding court, you might be humbled by his ability, and it’s a good thing to be a little humbled.
Are you always right? Inevitably you’re going to sit next to someone who has the same righteous streak, so right back atcha.
Is your cousin acting like a control freak? It probably bothers you because you could be described the same way.
I can now see that if I have a problem with anyone at my Thanksgiving dinner, it’s a blessing. Your annoying relatives give you a glimpse of what annoys others about you. Identifying what you have to work on and being given the chance to do it with people who have to love you anyway is something to be truly thankful for!
Thank you, Aunt Becky, for showing me what it means to be a real asshole.
GRANDMA’S RECIPE FOR THANKSGIVING SUCCESS
Ingredients:
120-pound turkey to feed 70 hungry guests
Giblets in their plastic bag
1 stick butter
Directions:
Leave all giblets in plastic and keep inside the bird.
Do not rub the butter on the bird. Leave dry.
Keep the stick of butter in its wrapper and shove inside the bird cavity.
Set oven to 200 degrees and cook the bird low and slow for 24 hours. Do not baste.
When bird ignites, it is almost done.
Serve with cold mashed potatoes and Jell-O shots.
Expect no leftovers.
Happy Thanksgiving!
Pep Talk
RECIPE FOR SUCCESS
Ingredients:
1 brand-new day
1 brand-new attitude
1 brand-new you
1 brand-new bathing suit
I’ve said earlier that some fantasizing is healthy and primes your mind for success. (And don’t forget about the way it also primes your crotch muscles to be able to have that orgasm when what he’s doing down there isn’t really working.) But when we don’t want to do the hard work that goes along with getting the dream job or finding the dream man or creating the dream life—when we’d really like those opportunities to knock on the door with the Chinese takeout or come wrapped in a blue Tiffany box and white satin bow, thank you very much—we are in trouble. Warning: When you catch yourself feeling underappreciated, take notice. Feeling underappreciated is just a psychological cover for feeling sorry for yourself. Were you not paying attention at all during my “Reverse Psychology” lecture? Let me spell it out one more time:
Your Dream + Taking Steps to Make Good Things Happen = Success
Your Dream + Entitlement = Big Fat Fucking Failure (plus, no one will really like you)
If I had a dollar for every time I felt sorry for myself because something wasn’t going my way, I’d be richer than Donald Trump. (I already have better boobs than him, but richer would be nice, too. You thought I was going to go with better hair, didn’t you? Too easy a target.) What an easy way to make money that would be!
I’ve tried every feeling-sorry-for-myself approach in the book. I’ve tried keeping my sel
f-pity to myself, and I’ve also complained loudly to my friends and loved ones. I’ve sat around on my lazy ass quietly whining, moping, and binge-eating myself into my fat pants. I’ve done it all loudly as well. I’ve vowed to be patient and think happy thoughts and wait my turn, and I’ve also called my manager and agent begging, pleading, and crying about wanting better things to float my way.
And, of course, none of these strategies changed a damn thing. Know what did? I think it was something in the hoping-something-would-float-my-way imagery that clicked for me. This single-sentence realization finally did the trick: If your ship doesn’t come in, swim out to it!
In other words, if the life you want doesn’t magically come to you (which it rarely does, though see Paris Hilton and Kim Kardashian references, this page), you have to go out and get it. Then live the shit out of the opportunities you create for yourself!
When the float-vs.-swim-out-to-your-ship idea first dawned on me, I couldn’t wait to start making a list. There’s nothing like a list to focus your energy, and it feels so great when you accomplish something and can cross it off the list.
At the top of the page I wrote “On My Ship” and then listed all the things I wished for and wanted. I’m talking everything: a new boyfriend, a new career, more time for Evan, a new stove, smaller pants, copper plumbing, landscaping in my yard, et cetera. No matter how trivial it was, if I wanted it, I put it on my list.
Then I created a sub-list—the ship that had the things I couldn’t buy (when I had the money), the less tangible, less easily accomplished goals that I really wanted to try for. These were the things that would better my life, my spirit, and my well-being (the stove, copper plumbing, and the services of a gardener were obviously not on it). This was the ship I made it a priority to swim for first. Then, one by one, I found a way to go after these big wants.
Stirring the Pot Page 8
