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.

Single Moms Come in All Shapes and Sizes...

...and I don't just mean height, weight, race or age, although all the above applies as well. There are Single Moms with or without family support, with or without a Dad or other parent contributing time and/or money, with or without financial means, with or without physical or emotional health, with or without whatever resources we as human beings may or may not have. And we are Single Moms regardless.

Everyone has a Mom - okay, that's a silly truism. What I mean is: everyone's Mom did the best she could, with the skills, support, and other resources she had, whether Non-Single, Single, or Absent. Knowing that being a Mom is the hardest job in the world, the most heart-breaking, the least forgiving, with the harshest penalties for failure. Knowing all that, knowing society's high ideals for motherhood, and knowing yourself, sometimes the best you can do for your children, is to be Absent. And believe someone else is more capable of raising your children than you are.

But that's not My Story. It could have been my story. It was almost my story. My Story is Part-Time Single Mom, with family support, with a Dad who has our kids 50% of the time, with a stable full-time job, with my physical health and (mostly) my emotional health, with such numerous and sundry resources behind me that being a Mom, being a Person who is a Mom, should be a walk in the park. And I'm still exhausted. I'm still being pulled in a several directions at once and wondering how I'm going to get through today, much less an entire week of todays. And yet, I wouldn't trade my kids, my life, my chaos, for all the tea in China.

So I'm one of the Lucky ones. And as such, kudos to all Single Moms, of All Shapes and Sizes and Situations. I intend this Blog, in some way shape or form, to be the story of just One Single Mom. Who gets by. As we all do.