An Unflinching Portrait of Life as a Single Mom
Setting it Straight with No-Holds-Barred
At what point do innocuous “white fibs” shapeshift into patent lies? Can a good parent commit unethical and/or “legally-grey” sins because they are motivated by salt of the earth intentions that are ethically and/or legally moral?
“Oh Mom, can’t we just tell a little fib … no harm no foul right?”. That question seems to be asked with alarming frequency, the precipitating factor being an all-too familiar ethical dilemma between doing the carte blanche “right thing” and surviving. This time the question is asked by my teen daughter and is in context of our quest to find an abode - a rental home. I am no longer able to ignore the glaring truth: that I am an undesirable prospective tenant because I am a single mother. Typical rejections go something like this: “Sorry, but I just don’t think my home is going to be a good fit for you”. The latest rejection included a personalized suggestion that I should find larger accommodations for my girls, eloquently phrased “I really think my home is too small and would not be suitable or appropriate for yourself and two teenagers”. My follow up request for a donation to support our new “suitable lodging fund” was denied.
As a middle-aged Canadian woman, I strive to age with grace and dignity, to model strength, humor, and integrity, for my teen and tween daughters. I am a full-time single mother; you know, the type that rears the youngsters 24/7 for the full 365. What about supports, you may ask. Well, a gaping absence of supports, family and otherwise, complicate practical matters that many parents take for granted, like earning an honest income and showing up for the school run. Or, carrying the burden of being wholly responsible for perceived wrongdoings – the implicit threat of losing parenting rights if one of the eleventy-million balls juggling in the air plops to the ground.
After 18-months of slogging away I was legally permitted to relocate my kids out west, across Canada, and to my old stomping grounds, British Columbia. Friendships built in my teens that survived on text and sporadic calls proved to be fractured and unstable – people were too busy to make time for coffee or quick hello. They did offer a tentative slot 6-weeks down the road. I’ll pass, thanks tho.
Practical items, like a roof over our heads, is found through AirBnB; yes, we move around, a lot. Learning and educating is best done through an online platform, which, overall, is fairly okay, minus the peer groups options.
But, more frequently than I care to acknowledge, I find myself funnelling headfirst into dreaded “decision-makers”, you know, those dead end roads with the fork option: one road glimmers with gold and is the path of truth and integrity; the middle road is dank with potholes and involves doing what it takes to survive, which means borrowing from Peter to pay Paul. And the third road is made of ice, and when I fail to make a decision quick enough, I get stuck here, in the land of procrastination. This is the worst option, because life doesn’t get the memo to pause, so while I shrivel-up and sink in quicksand, so my to-do list multiplies, we lose heat and soon the bing of a text or call symbolizes a late bill and demand for money.
Decision-making is exhausting and I swear that at times I am driven to the brink of decision making burnout. But, as a single parent, one must not burn out, spin out, or unleash wrath on judgey passersby that pontificate about the lack of produce in my grocery bin. Or who yell at me at 11pm, girls in tow, as we dash into Shoppers to grab medicine for a cough and fever.
Candidly, my contingency plan consists of a sacred list of account numbers and passwords, so the kids have money to eat. Which leads me to another frustrating aspect of being an introverted/ambivert style-human that is a loner by circumstance, an “Uncool Momma”, a.k.a. a Momma without friends. The dreaded emergency contact … most forms require an emergency contact. For the most part, listing my eldest goes unnoticed, save for the eagle-eyed storage locker gal that held the key hostage, demanding I name an adult.
Thriving as a middle-aged Canadian woman is complex at the best of times, even when the going is good. For awhile, I was one of the married lots with a home, career, dog, and in-laws. Back then, the recipe for success and happiness dangled on tantalizing threads that always swung just shy from my clutches – like a mirage on the highway on a blistering summer day. Sometimes clues or suggestions would miraculously fall into my lap, fondly regarded as little nuggets from a metaphorical suggestion box. For thirteen long years I panted after those nuggets, the shiny promises of longevity, happiness, joy, security, and safety – what was tantamount to eternal bliss. Which meant I plugged away at grooming, working too hard, cleaning, cooking, fitting into my pre-baby jeans, using manners ... trying to be the All American-Woman. Because, surely I was living the dream as a proud mother of three, a successful lawyer married to a professional that owned a home in a residential neighbourhood that was a stone-throw from a school and park. Unfortunately, the planning and exertion got me as far as my morning workouts on the treadmill – my heart was heavy, my kids were sad, and I could no longer ignore the voice in my head that screamed “Get Out!!!”. Back then, I didn’t know that I was reaching the end of the road, my road, but I sensed I was heading towards leaving a legacy of death by one thousand paper cuts.
After 13-years of “making it work”, I was depleted; a shell of my former self. Most evenings I fell into bed with a novel and bowl of chocolate chips, only to be startled awake as I choked on the melted chocolate that was making its way down my esophagus.
Coincidentally, my daughter was drowning, and I couldn’t fix things this time, not like I used to. My daughter and I operated with synchronicity, and this wasn’t the first time my kid moonlighted as a guardian angel. I careened into the final fork as a married woman: (a) keep doing the same thing and hope the result changes, like osmosis; (b) methodically plot and plan my escape; or (c) get the heck out of dodge. True to form, I went with option C, going from a family unit or twosome, the type respected and quietly coveted by society, to just “me”.
Looking back, I marvel at myself, for doing this, because back then, leaving took herculean effort, the stuff that women lifting cars off kids takes. We left with what we could carry, with 48-hours of planning and prep. It didn’t take long for me to understand that Canadian living is geared for those people that show up in neat little packages, squares. I learnt this because I showed up frazzled, broke, and alone. An Airline attendant wouldn’t book me a flight and store clerks followed us through the aisles. Now that I didn’t fit into the Purdy’s box of chocolates, the world told me, quite obnoxiously, that I wasn’t wanted and didn’t fit pretty much anywhere.
Out of the Chocolate Box and into the Junk Drawer... Now What?
Leaving my marriage coincided with the shattering of long held beliefs – a.k.a. illusions – involving people, places, things, and institutions. Consecutively, buildings and humanity as I knew it crashed to my knees, one after the next, like a row of dominos. For the ensuing four years I developed nasty quirks, like holding my breath too long then making disturbing gasping noises; rocking back and forth to quell anxiety; and speaking too quickly without proper enunciation. My body betrayed me too, with thinning hair, weight loss and gain, but in the wrong places, and sprinkling of grey like the way a tired Christmas tree is bald. Much like bringing the first baby home from hospital, there was no handbook that covered what ensued. And while each person walks their own path, I have a hunch that pretty much most of what caused my eyeballs to toggle doesn’t make me special or unique.
My story went something like this …
PHASE I: I’ve Made a Decision … Now What?
“For better or worse” and “I Do’s” are pledged with the sincerest of intention, and for most married folks, the words “It’s over”, “I cannot do this anymore”, “I’m out”, take as much deliberation and planning as the marital proposal and acquiescence. Calling it quits arrives after intense deliberation, suffering, crying in pillows, shouting into the wee hours of the night. The ending stages are marked by epically cruel silence and polite exchanges. Generally, the last act in a marriage is preceded by 2-3 years of surviving on embers, raw hope, and ostrich in the sand syndrome (a.k.a. “denial”). The symbolic cutting of the ribbon, the separation of one into two, signals arrival at the finish line – many sigh in relief “it is finally over”.
Unfortunately, finally arriving at this monumental decision, the one that started as an embryo 3-years prior, is anti-climactic, because nothing has changed. Each step towards making the decision over the last 1,095 days, give-or-take, caused the release of an insurmountable rash of fears, buried-deep in the subconscious –like wormy cement after a righteous rain, and the slimy wigglers are the reason you stayed married. For many, the magnitude of facing the steps required in separation, causes a retreat, a begging of the sun to shine and make the worms disappear into the bowels of the earth. These folk put their heads back in the sand and gut it out for months, years, sometimes their eternity.
Lodging … there is one house, two adults. Now what? In my case, he was not going to leave, ever, except in a body bag. Which meant I had to kill him or leave. I am not homicidal, so I left. This meant walking away from everything I built and owned and trusting the person I no longer trusted, maybe never did, to share half of what I left in the house. Finding the money to rent a place was tough, because we shared finances and there was never enough money. And the kids…would I lose custody of them to the stability promised by the family home? Would I be able to afford a place big enough to accommodate separate bedrooms? And what would we sleep on? How do I pay for all this?
Phase II: Legalese
This phase is expensive, stressful, and scary: lawyers, parenting orders, not wanting to ask for child support but desperately wanting to beg for it, wanting what is morally owned and legally half owned but not wanting to appear greedy. And the kid…the thought of being a 50% parent, of not experiencing my children growing up for roughly 183 days/year, was horrifying; not what I signed up for, thought about, or ever would have agreed was possible.
My eldest daughter held steadfast in her demand to be with me, and she prevailed. The youngest started on a shared parenting regime, that evaporated over time until she remained with me and her sister. The 50/50 schedule was a disaster, because I was sad in anticipation of the pending goodbye, followed by the excruciating goodbye. Replaced by the chocolate Easter Bunny feeling - feeling hollow and empty – until finally my heart healed when my darling returned. Only for her to leave again nd reignite the cycle.
My eldest is and was precocious, having her with me saved me double-goodbye-grief. After two separations, I was done with dating and romantic optimism. I recall with clarity how it felt to be alone, with my daughter, in our first apartment. The euphoria of living without that man and taking charge of my life in a meaningful way lasted for quite some time. The only regret or doubt I experienced was not leaving sooner. In retrospect, I relied on my kid a little too much. She worried about me, and even though we had many fun nights, I wonder how many moments with friends she missed, because she didn’t want to leave me alone or she was getting groceries, working on our budget or being responsible.
Phase III: Rigorous Moral Inventory
Probably within the first week of moving into my very first apartment, my body chilled over, from the inside out, as I assessed where I was at, in life, and where I had come from. For some reason, it was only at that point that I had clarity and a crystal-clear viewing of the mountain of metaphorical crap, piled all around me. Another fork in the road, with two-prongs: (a) keep ploughing ahead because the cleanup is too great for my skinny shoulders; or (b) step into my big girl panties and get to cleaning out the cobwebs, skeletons, detritus, and familiar patterns of self-destruction.
Phase IV: Goodbye Support System
The outpouring of support I craved and envisioned did not happen. I grieved the lack of phone calls, flowers, drop-ins, or requests to hang. In the words of Bridgette Jones “I was alone, alone alone, alone…alone”. And, to boot, I don’t drink. And long-ago I learnt that work people don’t invite a sober person for Friday at 5 drinks. And friends want to get together with the promise of wine or a night out. Bars are expensive, and I craved real conversations that would be remembered the next day.
Phase V: Falling Behind the Jones
And enter stage five, embracing the divorce – divorce is the antonym of marriage. Divorce is stigmatized by loss and failure; not making it. I was cloaked in failure and could not mistake the smugness on my still married friends-turned acquaintances’ faces, when our paths crossed. Birthdays and holidays were reduced by 98% - just me remained. All my family was in my hometown, two provinces west. All his family lived within a stone throw. While I relished the look and feel of my naked ring finger, I cringed inwardly with shame. I was a single woman, in my late thirties. And then I felt angry that this shamed me.
Phase VI: Employment and Money
The hallmark of phase 6 is logistics – finding ways to work full-time and remain the kind of Mother that I wanted to me and that my kids needed, more than ever.
School run … the Montessori program didn’t have a bus run, and I lived too far for the kids to reasonably walk. My boss wasn’t keen on in-office hours of 9:15 through 2:45 pm. Next came the slow acceptance that going from two-to-one symbolizes cutting back, by at least 50%, on everything.
As a family law lawyer, I can promise you that child support is not a sure thing – it is not a prom date in the 60’s. Frankly, the women who collect what they ought to, per the Guidelines, are the exception to the rule.
Phase VII: Making it Work Because Kids are Worth It, Every time
The greatest challenge, for me, is the endless decision-making, with no one to brainstorm, discuss, or share the burden of the consequences. One afternoon, when court ran long, I asked my co-counsel what she thought about me walking out, because school was over. My co counsel, a married woman with daughters similar ages to mine, scrunched her face in a blend of pity and horror. I walked out and she couldn’t make sense of it. Eventually I was called to task for whether “I was able to manage in my position”.
Fast forward to my next unprompted sit-down, with a ruthless female boss that sat me down to instruct me to not ever call her if court ran late and I found myself needing temporary child - minding. This was followed by a warning of a pending call to social services if I left my kids in the hotel during court for an out-of-town jury trial.
To circle back to lodging and the morality of fudging the numbers on a rental application, this article isn’t close to the tip of the iceberg. During many talks with an eclectic mix of female clients, I became aware that many of us parents have similar tales. And that I am one of the lucky ones.
Being a single adult in the world is scary, and to move forward in the face of fear I remind myself of a tale I heard: a person’s fears have happened already, are happening, or are about to happen – this is true for me, bar none. And I am still here standing and smiling. I worry about other single parents and kids that need food and shelter, and have no money or an unemployed mom. And when I see fancy cars and posh clothing, I wonder if anyone out there is remembering that the next generation is the legacy that matters. And sometimes I think humanity has become more of an uncivilized society than a civilization.
In the words of Albert Einstein: the world will not be destroyed by those who do evil, but by those who watch them without doing anything.
Elysa Casselman is the writer and is also a lawyer and full-time Mother to a tween and teen.