On Why I Suck at Being a Feminist

Barefoot and in a dress, I spent two hours this evening hosing down and sweeping the world's dirtiest patio, all while muttering obscenities under my breath that would likely send my Pastor into cardiac arrest.

About an hour into the job, a little old man (one of many in this 'snowbird' suburban hell), passed behind my house on the golf course path, walking a dog that looked even older than he did. He hovered for a long while, watching me closely, and I started to think that perhaps he was a perv with a fetish for young barefoot moms in mini-dresses with garden hoses in their hands, and I wondered if the words, "What the f*ck are you leering at you f*cking geriatric creeper?!" could be construed as disrespecting my elders. Finally, he spoke. "Darlin', that's a big job for a little lady. Perhaps your husband would be better suited for the manual labor."

Ergh. Gritted teeth. Resisted the overwhelming urge to fire a straight stream of water into his dentures and storm away into the confines of my single-parent home.

I know this is where you ladies want to hear that I struck a Rosie the Riveter pose, declaring "Husbands are for pansies who can't stand on their own! Girl Power!" threw in a high kick for S's and G's, and continued hosing, sweeping and scrubbing that patio 'til it shone like the top of the Chrysler Building. (We love you, Miss Hannigan.)

But all I could do was smile (very artificially) and inform this southern gentleman that my husband was "altogether unavailable." Luckily, he was a quick one, and I think he understood, because his next step was to stare back at me with the combined look of sympathy and horror that tells me that back in his day, divorced women who didn't remarry someone to hose down their patios were either stoned to death in public, or declared lesbians by way of a scarlet "L" emblazoned across their chests. I thanked him for his concern, feigned confidence in the job I was doing, and continued on with the chore feeling rather defeated by life.

I lived alone before I was married. ALONE. As in, without a roommate. In fact, I did a whole helluva lot on my own, except for automobile maintenance, which to this day my father is damn-near insistent that I don't try to do on my own. But standing out there in that heat, with a giant circus broom, with two little faces pressed against the glass sliding doors, whining about wanting to come outside and why wasn't I done yet?!, I would've given just about anything to be able to hand that broom to someone else. Anyone at all. Pathetic, right? I concur. I am pathetic. Pathetic, tired and overwhelmed by having to re-learn that I should only count on myself, and disheartened by the realization that it. freaking. SUCKS. Period.

I grew up with a mother who, in seeing my sisters and I cry or even pout over a "boy," would literally smack us upside our heads and tell us that we should never invest all of our happiness, self-worth, confidence, or faith in any man. This from the woman who was married to the same man (my dad) for more than 30 years. Well, point, counter-point, and you win once again, mom. I failed. I put all of my eggs in the "'Til Death Do Us Part" basket and completely forgot how to be myself or stand alone. And while I was doing my darnedest to balance "Through Sickness and Health" and "In Richer or Poorer" and "In Good Times and Bad," I failed to realize that the eggs had begun to rot, and that I had begun to die on the inside. Some feminist you raised, mom. I failed you. I failed myself. I failed the 24-year-old newlywed version of myself that swore she would never change or put all of her eggs in anyone else's basket.

I would like to pretend that I am a neo-feminist and/or an inspiration to struggling divorcees and single moms, but I am nowhere near worthy of that kind of praise. I would like to pretend that I am so exhilerated by the sight of a clean patio or well-maintained car or delicious dinner that it motivates me to want to do more and do better, but the truth is, I wouldn't mind seeing someone else take care of it all. I did finish that patio, and while I'm glad that it's clean, I'm not excited about having done it, and I'm sure as hell not excited about having to do it again. It sucked.

I fought the To Do List, and the To Do List won.

I like that I'm figuring things out and reviving my spirit every day, but I cannot lie...it would sure be nice to have some help. So, I'm not really the feminist you want me to be, I guess. I'm just a girl who does what she has to do, when she has to, because she hasn't the option to do otherwise. And that's the best you get from me right now. But the good news is, I'm more ME today in a soaking wet mini-dress, dirty feet and bad attitude, than I have been in a long time. Progress? Perhaps.

Girl power!

Plan A FAIL

I could begin every blog with the words, “The hardest part about being a divorced single mom is…,” and I would have a different “hardest part” every time, depending on what kind of day I’m having. So I guess that really is the hardest part about it - that there isn’t just one “hardest part.” And what was hardest for me yesterday might be a piece of cake tomorrow, and something even harder might be looming on the horizon. So I guess essentially the hardest part of being a divorced single mom (or of life in general) is really the unknown…not knowing what’s coming or how you’re going to feel about it or get it behind you. You remain in a perpetual state of planning; planning that never really seems to make it past the basic stages of “This is what I need to do in order to not sit in my bed, eating ice cream and feeling sorry for myself for the rest of my life.” Planning that begins (and sometimes ends) with that one moment every morning when you say to yourself, “Okay, I need to get out of bed today and feed my children. Step 1.”

So clearly my Plan A didn’t work out. As a matter of fact, my Plan A crashed and burned much like the Hindenburg, leaving me staring upward, mouth agape, wondering how in the hell I’m supposed to react, and whether or not I should care if people are watching me for the “right” reaction. Rest in pieces, Plan A.

Now what?

Plan B. Hmmm…now what was Plan B again? Ruh roh…

Divorce brings you face-to-face with a Plan B that you never really PLANNED to employ. Nobody really PLANS a life after a theoretical divorce. Oh, sure, we all declare that we can and would survive any hiccup in the road, and when we’re confronted with other people’s realities and other possibilities, we’re very staunch in proclaiming exactly how we would feel, react and overcome the situation. “If my man ever hit me, I would…” “If my husband died unexpectedly, I would…” “If I ever caught him cheating, I would…” Oh, reallllyyyy? Would you? You may find someday that you surprise yourself. I have.

At any rate, when you wrap so many of your life goals and dreams into finding and keeping the “love of your life," planning a life without him or her is a buzzkill to say the least. With Plan A checklist in hand, most women spend a number of months trying to decide on a shade of purple for their bridesmaids gowns or on whether or not they will wear their hair up or down on their wedding day, but nobody really puts much thought into what could happen or what they would do if none of it works out. What if every one of your biggest fears and nightmares actually becomes your reality? What would you do? How would you go on? Ick. I dunno. But I know that I want an open bar at the reception! Tulips or roses, beef tips or chicken, up-do or down-do…No matter how many distractions you seek, Plan B is going to be there loitering in the outskirts of your mind, neglected in the hopes that it will never be needed.

I am no different from the blushing brides at whom I poke fun. I never really made a Plan B either. In fact, I never actually even considered that my marriage would end. Considering the grim statistics waving in my face at every turn, this is actually pathetically funny to me now. No more Nicholas Sparks novels for me, kids. Unwavering optimism and faith in human honor completely blinded the part of my brain that has always known that people fuck up. A lot. And like it or not, the average person secretly doesn’t mind running over whoever is in the way on their path to personal happiness. After 7 1/2 years of marriage, 1 stepchild, 2 young children, 2 dogs, 2 apartments, 3 houses, 14,987 futile arguments, 5 metric shit-tons of unpaid bills and one of the most painful, but quick divorces in history, my Plan B is simply this: Survive. Set those gauges on Auto-Pilot, breathe deeply, count my blessings, and figure it out as I go.

At the moment, I have a job and my bills are mostly paid. My sons are loved, happy, healthy, fed, and have a roof over their beautiful heads. I am dating a really great guy who is sweet to my kids, loves me in spite of my circumstances, and gives me plenty of space to be clueless, chaotic and crazy. I have the world’s greatest family and amazing friends who I wish I could say I truly deserved. I don’t have much, but I have something. Something to get out of bed for. A reason to survive.

I don’t know if I will ever expand upon Plan B. Maybe because I know now that plans are for fools who don’t know what it’s like to watch the bottom drop out. Or maybe it’s because if my only objective is to survive, then I have a significantly higher success rate. Maybe it’s because I’m a little bit scared of being hurt again. Or maybe it’s just that, after all of these years and after watching almost everything I wanted get taken away from me piece by piece, I don’t really know what I want or who I am anymore. I had nearly 25 years to formulate my Plan A, and 7 1/2 years to watch it fall apart. I am less than a year into Plan B. Tick. Tock.

Blind planning…the hardest part.

Redux

Two years ago, after the birth of my second son, I started this blog under the moniker, "A Girl Gone Mom." While blogging about the day-to-day stresses, joys, and complete chaos of trying to raise three children, I met other mommy bloggers in my same boat:Each of us longing for the balance of being happy, effective moms of happy, adjusted children...Each of us longing to stay connected to the version of ourselves that we were before our bundles of joy were even twinkles in our sleepy eyes. Sisterhoods were forged, and I made lifelong friends.

But then life changed for me. And fast. In a nutshell, my ex-spouse engaged in a months-long affair, I uncovered the text messages that revealed it all, confronted him about it, and then he left. Less than four months later, we finalized our divorce, and he has since gone on to live happily ever after with his mistress. Sounds like a movie on the Oxygen Network, right? In the midst of all of the divorce/child custody madness, I removed my blog and its history at the advice of legal counsel. Seems that my deep thoughts, rantings and silly quips could paint me as an "unfit mother" in a courtroom. Pshaw! As if any one of us is truly "fit" to do a damn thing, let alone groom tiny human beings to function in the universe's biggest cesspool.

But I digress...

Two years later, I am divorced and one of the children I raised no longer lives with me. I kiss my sons goodbye every other weekend, and lose sleep wondering if they're okay at their dad's house. I am dating. I am broke. I am a single mom. I am back at square one, reinventing myself and my dreams and doing everything I can to let my boys know that, no matter what, they are part of a family who loves them and would do anything to keep them safe and healthy.

Every day is a mystery for me. My fellow control freaks understand why this is bloody terrifying.

So A Girl Gone Mom has been reborn. Notsomuch with a vengeance, as with a purpose. I want all of the moms out there to know that we are hopeless if we do not stand in support of each other. I want all of you to know that, even on the days when you're feeling embarassed by how you are handling yourself and your adversities, you have "sisters" out there who "get" you, and don't judge you by your emotions.

I am here to high-five you, hug you, shake some sense into you, laugh at you, laugh with you and tell you that you're gonna make it. Because at the end of the day, have ANY of us really figured it all out?

It's good to be back, ladies.