A story for the ages. Beautiful young woman marries the man of her dreams. Both realize their potential through their work and avocations. They have the perfect home, filled with lovely things and every comfort. They raise strong, healthy children as a team. Their retirement is filled with meaningful travel and holidays with grandchildren. As the first departs this world, they hold hands, and soon thereafter, the other joins their life partner.
Many of us would have to admit this was the dream. And for a brief time, this seemed to be where things were headed. Until they weren’t. For some, the sadness and resignation came early on; for others, years were spent trying to fix that which could not be fixed.
Many of us had children by the time we realized the futility of our situation. And primal instincts being what they are, we set aside every dream, every pleasure, the hours that might have gone toward self-care, the social connections we once relished. This we did for our children. And, without regret. We sold the home we could no longer afford; we quit enjoying a meal out, clothes were purchased from the thrift store, the apartment filled with furniture from garage sales. Groceries were purchased on EBT cards or gotten from the local food pantry. Money set aside for our children’s summer camps and sports activities or a pretty dress for homecoming, that ended up going toward legal bills, and the psychotherapists who kept our children from taking a wrong turn or their lives.
And while we were being attacked emotionally, legally, and for many physically, it took every ounce of our being to keep our children’s dreams alive, even as ours were dying a quiet death. For years, we wore the mask. For our children, for our friends, and to protect our jobs. No one could know the depth of our despair.
But… they did know, because no matter how hard we tried to keep it together, our faces and bodies told a different story than the one we spoke. We looked haggard, not put together; we grew thick around the waist, we became red-faced, and our hair turned gray. Men quit smiling at us in line at the store. No one held open a door when our arms were full of groceries. We became invisible.
In short: we were no longer women. That bears repeating. We were no longer women. We were just mothers struggling, a vortex of neediness, someone to avoid. The mirror confirmed this, so we took it down.
Working sixty hours a week and never taking a vacation or even a day off had caught up with us, as did the repetitive, invisible work that is part and parcel of being a woman in this world. Shopping, cleaning, cooking, organizing, laundry, paying the bills. An unending loop of things that had to be done. Tasks that somebody had to do. We were that person, because there was no one else.
And no one wanted to watch us toiling away, not even our children, so we put on some good music because it was going to be a long and tiring day off.
Add to that the things a husband might have done, had there been one. Fixing things, painting, taking the car in for an oil change, cleaning out the gutters. Tasks which we had to do in addition to everything else. Tasks that were a heartbreaking reminder that we were alone, that there was not a man in our lives, and that this might be it for us, how things would continue to the end. Alone with our metastatic breast cancer, our worn-out hips, and livers damaged from years of cortisol overload. No one was going to be there to pick up the slack. No one would be bringing home carry-out after a long day. And never again would there be someone to share our beds. No one to hold us and to touch us, as a person or as a woman.
We had, as single mothers, given up our bodies. They were not ours; they belonged to our children, to the people who paid us, to our aging parents. Our thoughts, our poems, our dreams, our songs, and the things we desired so deeply – there was no room for any of it. Poetry books sat on the shelf, unread, gathering dust. Instruments stayed in their cases, unplayed.
So, the question is this? What happens once our children have flown the coop? How do we put together a life for ourselves, one where we are at the center, and perhaps for the first time in our lives? These are the issues we will explore in the next few weeks.
2/7/24
Readers,
The number of single women raising and supporting children on their own is staggering. Over 90% of the custody arrangements in the U.S. result in the mother being the primary caregiver, while only 70% of fathers are providing adequate financial support to these women and their children. That means the other 30% are either providing no child support, minimal support, or erratic support. Abuse is another factor that continues to challenge single mothers. Between 25% and 40% of women have left their marriages because of abuse, and more often than not, that abuse continues after the divorce.
To those of you who are immersed in the travails of single parenthood, know this: there are many of us out there who share your struggles. Over the next month, I will be exploring ways for us to reclaim the parts of our lives that were sacrificed in the process of seeing our children through to adulthood.
I would love to hear your stories. Don’t hesitate to connect with me in the comments section.
Be proud,
Chris Andrews (one of those single mothers with two kids)