A Real Man wouldn't Shoplift the Pootie from a Single Mom

says Rod Tidwell in Jerry Maguire

Argh - spare me the Single Mom stereotypes! My kids don't need a father figure, my kids already have a father, and other than being an occasional pain in my divorced ass, he's a pretty damn good father. And I'm a pretty damn good mother and don't need a man in my life to help me raise my kids, financially or otherwise.

What I do need from a man is all the things I can't get from my kids, my friends, my family, my job. I need sex. Preferably wrapped up in a package that includes affection, support, attention to my needs, willingness to care about the things that I care about, and the ability to accept the same in return. For the most part, I can get all those wrappings from my kids, my friends, my family and my job. Which gets me back to - I need sex.

Give me the same credit you give a single girl without kids. Just cause she wants to sleep with you doesn't always mean she wants to marry you. Of course, some girls are the "sleep-to-trap-into-marrying" types. If you're smart you notice the signs (her asking you to meet her parents on a first date is a good indication) and you stay away. Single Moms - no diff. If I start planning my family vacation around your availability, feel free to run the other direction. But until then, you can feel safe in assuming that I'm just into you for a good time.

So go ahead - Shoplift the Pootie. Or at the very least, don't let my having kids keep you from Shoplifting the Pootie. If I want more than sex from you, I'll tell you.

Drops of Jupiter

...She checks out Mozart while she does Taebo / Reminds me that there's room to grow hey hey. (Train)

Me: I haven't decided what I want to be when I grow up.

Kids: <rolling eyes> Mommy, you're already grown up

Me: <with a twinkle in my eyes> No I'm not

My children are growing and changing by leaps and bounds. And I'm growing and changing along with them.

A friend told me the other day "Nothing changes except that which is unreal". If that's true, then my list of things which are unreal include: my friendship and marriage to a man for 11 years, my close relationship with my kids, a list of friends and acquaintances that I rely on for support every day, my involvement in the community, my ability to play keyboards and (sort of) sing along, this blog and other things that I attempt to write, and my newly-moved-in-to apartment (as opposed to my old condo or my old house). All changes and choices I've made in the past 5 years. All seemingly very real changes.

I look back on who I was 20, 10 or even 5 years ago, return to places where I lived in those years, and ... I don't recognize myself in them. I recognize the places, see people I used to interact with, but the person I am today would interact in those communities very differently then I did back then. And I can barely remember who I was in them at that time.

And yet, I understand what my friend is saying. All our surroundings, all the actions we take in those surroundings, are unreal relative to who we are at our core. Who we are, our essence, our soul, doesn't change.

My children were born with a core essence. My job as a parent is to allow their essence to come through in everything they do. To bring out their likes and dislikes, help them discover their strengths and weaknesses, give them the opportunity to discover who they are and how they want to live their life to make it as fulfilling for them as it can be.

Who we are, inside, is what is real. Everything else is just trappings.

But damn it, those trappings seem pretty damn real sometimes. And figuring out who I am, just as my children are figuring out who they are, is pretty damn difficult in amongst all the trappings of homework, work deadlines, chores, friendships and family pressures.

So sometimes, I need to let my mind travel to Jupiter, away from everyone and all the day-to-day pressures, to sail across the sun / dance along the light of day. Until I'm ready to head back towards the Milky Way. In order to re-discover during that journey, who I am. And return, with drops of Jupiter in my hair, to the unreal world, ready to change my unreality as necessary to better be who I really am.

I'm a Bitch, I'm a Mother, I'm a Child...

...I'm a Lover, I'm a Sinner, I'm a Saint, I do not feel ashamed. (Meredith Brooks)

My ten-year-old daughter told me a story the other day. At school, she and 3 friends decided to start a magazine for their school. First order of business was to come up with a Name for their publication, which they did and all agreed to. The next day, 2 of the friends came up with another Name (I honestly can't remember either Name; they both sounded the same to me while I was driving through traffic). My daughter didn't like Name #2, and said so. The vote was of course a two-way split. And in amongst other friends taking sides and the resulting anger and hostility, my normally conciliatory daughter put her foot down with: "That's it! The magazine was MY idea, and now we're fighting over the Name, so NO-ONE'S allowed to make a magazine anymore." So no-one did.

Wow, my ten-year old is a Bitch. And as much as I used the opportunity to discuss potential conflict resolution strategies with her, deep down, I can't help but be proud.

In business, if a man Decisive and Strong-Willed and gets his own way, he's a Leader. If a woman does the same, she's a Bitch. May be a little simplistic, but this analysis is backed up by an April 7 article in the Globe and Mail, which says if you blow up at work, as a man you should be unrepentant and stick to your guns; as a woman, you should apologize to your co-workers and blame PMS (okay, my analogy not the G&M's).

Are you fucking kidding me? Are we still so threatened in our society by strong decisive woman that we need to make excuses for our Anger, while the guys get off scot free? No way Sista!

I have every right to get angry and pissed off and tell people I am as any Man. I'm allowed to state my opinion and ensure it is heard. I'm allowed to get fed up and walk away. And if that makes me a Bitch, then so be it.

So, since I will be labelled a Bitch simply for having and sticking to my opinions, simply for wanting something and working for it, my only choice is to decide what kind of Bitch I want to be. The kind of Bitch I DON'T want to be, is the sneaky, underhanded, back-stabbing kind. The kind that gets ahead by bringing other people down, that gets her own way at the expense of others, then denies the behaviour. Or worse, claims the outcome is for other people's benefit.

I want what's best for me, what's best for my kids, what's best for my friends, and I'm stupid enough to believe that I'm smart enough to know what's best for all of the above. And I'll be a Bitch and fight for it. And if you stand in my way, I'll tell you exactly what I'm fighting for and why. Feel free to tell me I'm wrong, and I'll listen. But in the end, I'll still be a Bitch.

Home is Where the Heart Is, Part 1

I had a home once. One that was all mine, well, me and my kids, but honestly mostly mine. They loved it because they knew it was part of me. A part of me that wouldn't have existed if I had stayed with their Dad. A part of me that I was still figuring out for myself, and was thrilled to be able to share the figuring out with them. I loved my home. The kids loved our home.

And now, it's gone.

6 years ago I bought my first house with my husband, a new house, in the suburbs. I hate the suburbs, have always hated the suburbs. But my husband convinced me that a brand new house in a brand new development in the suburbs was the right place to bring up young kids. Not downtown. Not an older house that needed fixing up. Not a neighborhood where you could walk to stores and restaurants. No, that was wrong.

I let him convince me. And we watched it get built, and we moved in, and I made it a home as best I could for my family. I tried to fall in love with it. But I couldn't. So I hated it. And was starting to hate him, partly because he loved it. So for that and so many other reasons, and with much guilt, I left him and the house 6 months later.

But I didn't want him to lose the house that he loved. Didn't want the kids to lose their home in the midst of watching their parents split up. So as part of our amicable separation agreement, I offered to pay his mortgage for as long as necessary for him and the kids to keep the house. While I also paid my rent in a one-bedroom apartment in a downtown neighborhood that I fell in love with upon my first discovery. Seemed like a fair trade at the time - he and the kids have a home in a neighborhood I hate, I have a crappy apartment in a neighborhood I love, and the financial burden and my increasing debt seemed a fair price to pay to make everyone as happy as possible during an turbulent time.

And the financial burden and turbulence appeared to be temporary. My ex found a new girlfriend, she moved into the house within the year, they took over the mortgage payments, and eventually we came up with a possibly less than fair selling price that gave her my half of the house. The negotitation on the terms of the deal were less than honest, I lost out on every debate, and in the end was told to take the price they offered or go to court. With the debt I was carrying and the crappy one-bedroom getting on my nerves, I didn't feel I had a choice. So I signed the deed of sale, and hoped that that would be the last big negotitation we had to do.

And was happy to pay off some debt, and get into a position where I could find a home, a real home, of my own.

Protect Our Children

I constantly butt my head against the conservative way we protect our children. We all remember the days when at 6 years old we walked alone or with friends the 10 blocks to school, at 8 years old we took the bus without parents across town to piano lessons, at 10 years old we biked wherever we wanted after school. We were given the means and the tools to be alone in the world; we all had some scares, but most of us learned from our scares and survived.

With two kids involved in various activities across my city, I feel more like chauffeur and chaperone than parent. They can't take a public bus by themselves, can't bike more than 2 blocks alone, are just now learning to walk 1 block to the store to buy ice cream. I want to give them more autonomy, but their own fears, their Dad's fears, and society's fears for all children hold them and me back.

I want my girls to grow up to be strong, confident, aware and self-aware, women. I fear we are teaching our kids that it's a big scary world out there, and to see boogy men around every corner whether they are there or not.

There is accidents and violence out there. I know that. I remember seeing my daughter climbing the monkey bars in a park, and getting a sudden gut fear and vision of her falling and landing on her head and taking her unconscious to the hospital. I wanted to scream and drag her off the bars to protect her. But I didn't. I took a deep breath, and prayed it was just irrational fear and not a first-time premonition. And of course she never fell.

As for violence, I've discounted violent stories in the news for years. Not just because they don't touch me directly, but because I'm all too aware how the media sensationalizes every violent act with a child or a pretty girl involved. Scary stories sell more advertising than does discussing actual issues. But right now, I've been seeing or hearing about minor and not so minor acts of violence close to home. Affecting acquaintances. Affecting friends. Which in turn is affecting me.

Protect my kids from harm; protect myself; protect my friends. In that order. And try not to let the need to protect stop any of us from living our lives. From learning.

As parents, we are scared. We wouldn't be loving parents if we weren't scared. But parenting by fear isn't the answer. Protecting our kids from all the world has to offer, including independence and the ability to assess a situation for themselves, is part of living.

Sexy Momma!

I went to an all-women Burlesque show this weekend. All women performers, all women audience, many ages, races, sizes, shapes and sexual orientations represented. And for that night, every single one of the women in that room was SEXY! Embraced being sexy, celebrated their sexiness, hooted and hollered everyone else's sexiness. It was beautiful.

I adore being sexy, acting sexy, feeling sexy. What woman doesn't? And yet, how easy it is to forget to feel sexy. How easy to get caught up in day-to-day life, with kids, with jobs, with responsibilities, with all the things we need to do where feeling sexy isn't a pre-requisite to getting things done. And in places or with people where being sexy may even be viewed as a deterrent. Where we need to be smart, successful, confident women who don't use our sexiness to get by.

Well I for one, am sick of needing to choose whether to be smart or sexy. I want to be both. I want to be a feminist who embraces her sexiness. Who can be sexy in jeans and a t-shirt, or in business attire, or in fishnets and fuck me boots, or in my birthday suit.

Speaking of fishnets...my favourite Burlesque act of the night was two woman in little black dresses, putting on and taking off various colours and styles of fishnet stockings. On themselves, off each other, relishing both acts, both the attirement and the removal. Pointing their toes to the sky to slowly, playfully, pull the stockings up their calves and thighs; grabbing to drag them off, and discard them into the air in lieu for another pair to try. How Fun! How Sexy!

And then - there's my two girls. Who are 8 and 10 years old, and are nowhere yet near encouraged to be sexy. But who I want to grow into woman who are sexy. Who believe they are sexy. So in small ways I try to teach them. Teach them that I am happy with my body and myself. That I take care of myself, dress up in clothes that I feel good in, paint my nails in strange and colourful designs, because it makes me happy. Because if I feel happy, I can make other people feel happy.

Every woman is sexy. Every woman is beautiful. Find the sexy in you and bring it out.

P.S. I love being called a MILF. I loved hearing that acronym for the first time, long after I had became a Mom, and during my journey to re-discovering the sexy in me. Yes, I am a Mother You Would Like to Fuck. Doesn't mean I will. But thanks for the compliment.

I Love My Children

Isn't that just the most inadequate statement ever? How can we use the same structure, the same words, to say "I love my new red car" or "I love mint chocolate chip ice cream", and apply it to the huge, intense, immeasurable feelings we have for our kids?

I adore them. They drive me crazy. I know them inside and out, and yet they constantly surprise and amaze me. They know me better than I know myself: know how to push my buttons; know how best to love me back.

And contrary to the usual fairy tale, I didn't fall immediately in love with my children when I popped them out. Man, newborn babies are weird-looking - all squished and screaming and NEW. Whoever says all babies are beautiful, well, are either lying, or my standard for beauty is completely skewed. The first night of taking care of my first-born daughter in the hospital, I was up all night, and not just because she was screaming and wouldn't let me sleep. I was terrified: that I had no idea what I was doing or what I was getting into; that I didn't know her much less love her; and mostly I was terrified that I never would love her.

But of course, slowly, eventually, I did love her. Fell in love with her. I got to know her, she got to know me, we figured each other out together. And with the figuring each other out, loving her became as automatic as breathing, and yet, more unbelievable.

When expecting my second-born, I couldn't comprehend how I could love a second child as completely as I had grown to love my first. How any human could be capable of even more love than I already had? When I already had more than I ever thought was possible for myself. And yet, you do. You have the reserves. For how many children, I don't know. But for me, for at least two.

Having learned how to love, whole-y, completely, I looked at my husband of 11 years, and realized - not even close. What I thought was love for my decent, hardworking, reliable husband, paled so much in comparison to the love for my children...that I couldn't even honestly say that I loved him. That I had ever loved him. That I even knew what love was when I had said I loved him.

I Love My Children. I have fallen in love with men since my husband, in ways that I really can compare to how I love my children. And thus, My Children have taught me How To Love.