ParentDish http://www.parentdish.com ParentDish http://www.parentdish.com/media/feedlogo.gif ParentDish http://www.parentdish.com en-us Copyright 2013 Weblogs, Inc. The contents of this feed are available for non-commercial use only. Blogsmith http://www.blogsmith.com/Starter Home, Starter Marriagehttp://www.parentdish.com/2011/04/06/starter-home/http://www.parentdish.com/2011/04/06/starter-home/http://www.parentdish.com/2011/04/06/starter-home/#commentsFiled under:

starter home

Illustration by Dori Hartley


Apparently, my house has realized that the girls and I will be leaving it sooner rather than later.

Within the past 24 hours, the toilet has begun leaking copiously from its base. In addition, the washing machine -- my go-to appliance, the appliance I clung to while in labor with my second child, the appliance I use more often than my stove -- now refuses to drain.

They are in cahoots, clearly, my toilet and my washer. I am holding my breath, just waiting for the dryer to get in on the passive-aggressive shenanigans.

As I mopped up water from the bathroom floor last night, I found myself muttering, "Dear Old House, let's work on some productive coping skills, please?" Neither the toilet nor the washing machine answered. Silent treatment.

They are not happy, not at all.

I moved into this house with a husband and a 2-month-old in the summer of 2001. In realtor-speak, it's the quintessential "starter home," a term I despise. True, it's nothing fancy, not even close.

Built in 1903, the house looks like most of the other modest homes that line the streets of our New England town. Bland, vaguely gray aluminum siding. Two floors. Inside, two-and-a-half bedrooms. One-and-a-half baths. Splintering pine floors. Cracking plaster. Terrible paneling. Always-damp dirt and stone basement. Unusable attic full of pink insulation and, occasionally, mice.

At barely 1,200 square-feet, our home was small by plenty of people's standards, but in 2001, it was just right for us. We were fleeing the astronomical prices and exhausting bustle of Manhattan, after all. We couldn't believe our luck: A home in the country!

Compared to our $1250-a-month New York City apartment, this was a castle. We were two adults, two dogs and a baby, and we'd managed to snag this little house for a song. Life was good. We'd find our way, we figured. We'd find work, eventually.

Love would conquer all.

We worried about surprisingly little, in retrospect. I marvel now at the sweetness of our hope, our optimism.

In the decade after our move to New England, we watched many of our friends move up, trade up, to bigger homes, with big-ticket home renovations. But we stayed put -- certainly there was no choice, financially. Still, I had high hopes, grand hopes, for this decidedly un-grand little home.

I imagined we would live in our hillside cottage for decades, getting by, making do with less space as we slowly restored the house to something resembling its original state. I longed to tear down the aluminum siding and repair the mustard-gold wood beneath. "We'll get there," I kept telling myself. "We'll get there. It's just not the time."

We did not get there. We will never get there, because there is no longer a "we."

I did not expect my washing machine -- or my mortgage -- to outlast my marriage. I remember years ago coming across the phrase "starter marriage," and thinking it was one of the most crass pairing of words I'd ever encountered. "Starter home" and "starter marriage:" I hate both concepts, because "starter" negates the goodness, the hope, of both ventures. "Starter" implies, "I know I'll be done with you eventually."

I never felt that way, about my husband or my house. I would never want to feel that way, about any home, about any partner. I want to see the possibilities for growth, for expansion, for evolution -- always. People and places are beautiful, profoundly so, and I have no intention of forgetting why, not ever.

I don't mind if that makes me a fool.

I do mind, however, if all of my appliances mutiny before I can move on to the next place, the next beautiful possibilities.

House, I will always love you. Now behave.

Permalink | Email this | Comments

]]>starter homeJennifer MatternWed, 06 Apr 2011 15:00:00 ESTOn Single Life, Sickness and Safety Netshttp://www.parentdish.com/2011/04/01/on-single-life/http://www.parentdish.com/2011/04/01/on-single-life/http://www.parentdish.com/2011/04/01/on-single-life/#commentsFiled under: ,

the single life

Illustration by Dori Hartley


I wake up just before dawn with a sledgehammer headache.

Aghhh. I mince to the bathroom, head pounding merrily down the hall and back. I dig myself a new cave in my flannel sheets, shivering. My throat wants in on the action: Hey! Check me out! I'm sore!

The girls are with their dad and his family until tomorrow, which means I have 24 hours to try to kick this.

And two articles to write, critical in my underemployed existence. Two litter boxes to clean, also critical. A house sorely in need of scrubbing. A dog-fur choked vacuum to empty. A backyard to pooper-scoop. A mound of laundry that's grown so high, it's insulating the bathroom ceiling. Bills that hiss at me from the desk whenever I walk by.

I am not in the mood to be a grown-up, not today.

Where is my butler? Where is my mommy? Where is my hot, smoldering-eyed cabana boy also trained in healing herbs and potions?

Without the girls in the house, though, there's a bit of a reprieve. I can cut myself some slack, tell myself the chores will wait, peck out the articles between cups of tea. Some single parents (heck, some married parents!) never get a time-out for themselves. I get a breather, from time to time, when I need it.

I'm lucky. I know it.

I have a single friend with young daughters, ages 3 and 7. Their father is not in the picture. Both my friend and her daughters have been sick near constantly this winter, a round-robin of colds and pneumonia and strep. My friend is a teacher. Between both her illnesses and her daughters', she's had to stay home from her job to care for herself and for them.

They've been too sick for daycare, and she has no family nearby. Now the school she teaches for wants her to pony up for the fees they've paid to substitute teachers. She can barely afford groceries as it is.

"C'est la vie," she tells me, with an exhausted shrug. She is pale, with dark circles under her eyes.

She's done all she could do, and it's still not enough.

Which makes me wonder: What safety nets exist in your community for single parents?

If you're a single parent with a chronic disease, or with a child who's chronically ill, what safety nets do you rely on?

What options do you have for daycare?

Where do you find support?

Permalink | Email this | Comments

]]>the single lifeJennifer MatternFri, 01 Apr 2011 13:30:00 ESTTips for a Future Stepdad Who Doesn't Know a Lot About Girls Yethttp://www.parentdish.com/2011/03/25/tips-for-a-future-stepdad-who-doesnt-know-a-lot-about-girls-yet/http://www.parentdish.com/2011/03/25/tips-for-a-future-stepdad-who-doesnt-know-a-lot-about-girls-yet/http://www.parentdish.com/2011/03/25/tips-for-a-future-stepdad-who-doesnt-know-a-lot-about-girls-yet/#commentsFiled under: ,

Watch This Video and Take Some Tips On Co-Parenting From AdviceMama
tips for future stepdad

Illustration by Dori Hartley


When it comes to love, I've always believed if it's right, it's right, and that I'd know it. But a good checklist never hurts, either.

A while back, my daughters and I made a list of qualities that were must-haves in any fellow who dared brave our castle:

  • Gentle
  • Funny
  • Kind
  • Proactive
  • Warm
  • Loves Kids
  • Likes Travel
  • Honest
  • Compatible (day-to-day, easygoing)
  • Forgiving
  • Fun
Enter one very good, very unexpected man. This chap scored high marks on all counts, and a few other counts that Mommy, uh, will be keeping to herself, thankyouverymuch.

To my delight and amazement, he is as right as can be -- not just for me, but for our Girl Posse. As Daughter No. 1 said early on about him, "This one has potential."

It's official.

I choose him. He chooses me, and -- most importantly -- he chooses my girls.

We have begun planning a future, this man of "potential" and I -- a future full of little girls, big dogs, stray cats, juggled schedules, combined households and cluttered bathroom counters. He's in this for all the right reasons, I can tell. And, so far, he's barely flinched, even when I've tried to paint a picture for him of the pink, frilly, froufy, ballerina tutu chaos that will infiltrate his life. Brave, intrepid man!

Note to self: Excellent wedding gift -- look up builders who specialize in add-on "man caves."

The girls have given their blessing. So, now, we enter a new phase: we three girls getting oriented. My daughters and I have had several girl-power pancake summits this past week, trying to come up with useful tips and wisdom to offer to this new man in our lives, a man who looks like he will be around for a very, very long time.

"What does he need to know?" we keep asking each other, scratching our heads. After all, we are used to our messy, funny, active life. He has no kids of his own, so this will be a wild roller coaster ride for him.

We've compiled a new list, one we hope will be useful to him, and to other good men in the same situation. The girls came up with the title, which I quite like.

Tips for a Future Stepdad Who Doesn't Know a Lot About Girls Yet

  • If you are a person who marries a lady who has two girls, start to get used to the girlie songs, like Lady Gaga and Hannah Montana. (Daughter No. 2)
  • He must not act like an evil stepmother, i.e., make us do chores every single second of the day. (Daughter No. 1)
  • Don't yell at us. Only Mommy can do that. Unless we're in danger and about to run out in the street. (Daughter No. 2)
  • Don't be too soft on us, or else we'll be miserable. Because then we won't have any discipline, and some discipline is good. (Daughter No. 1)
  • Don't act like a baby. Don't whine if you don't get something you want. We all have to compromise. (Daughter No. 2)
  • Don't hog Mommy, because then you'll make us very sad and you'll seem evil. Mwah-ha-ha-ha! (Daughter No. 1)
  • You should always listen to Mommy. (Daughter No. 2)
  • Don't ruin girlie sleepovers by asking us to do boy things like Legos. Legos are fine, just not for sleepovers with our friends. (Daughter No. 1)
  • You should be very careful of when the dogs chew up the toys because I don't want your feet to get soggy. (Daughter No. 2)
  • Don't try and act like a replacement for our father, but treat us and protect us like we are your kids. And we will treat you with respect, too. (Daughter No. 1)
  • Help us with our homework if we need it. (Daughter No. 2)
  • Help us laugh if we cry. (Daughter No. 1)
  • Treat our mother like she is a mother, and also try to make her laugh. P.S. Beware of my squeaky laugh! (Daughter No. 2)
  • I want you to share lots of stories, so we can get to know you better. And you don't have to say anything you don't want to. (Daughter No. 1)
  • He also needs to know about little girls that ... sometimes ... they have FITS. But not all the time. (Daughter No. 2)
  • Drive us places when our mom can't. (Daughter No. )
  • Whenever we need to talk to someone on Skype, you should always let us. And always be there for us. (Daughter No. 2)
Want to get the latest ParentDish news and advice? Sign up for our newsletter!


Check out more from Advice Mama!

Permalink | Email this | Comments

]]>blended familykidsstep parentsstepdadstepfatherJennifer MatternFri, 25 Mar 2011 11:00:00 ESTMommy Is Dating After Divorce: Do Tell, Do Askhttp://www.parentdish.com/2011/03/18/mom-is-dating/http://www.parentdish.com/2011/03/18/mom-is-dating/http://www.parentdish.com/2011/03/18/mom-is-dating/#commentsFiled under: ,

Illustration by Dori Hartley


"So ... did you KISS him?"

My inquisitor is my 7-year-old daughter. The Spanish Inquisition could have used her. This one, she's persistent.

"What do you think?" I ask, stalling for time.

"YES. I think YES," she says confidently.

My 9-year-old pipes up. "But was it on the cheek or on the lips?"

Details, details. I squirm. "Ummm ..."

"ON THE LIPS! THEY TOTALLY KISSED ON THE LIPS!" Miss 7 yells.

"I KNEW it," smirks Miss 9.

"Can we just please go inside the restaurant now?" I say, blushing furiously.

I thought it was my job to embarrass my children, not the other way around.

I've always tried to be forthright with my kids about the fact that, yes, Mommy is dating post-divorce. We're three years out from my split with their father, and we're all in a much better place.

One popular line of conventional wisdom on dating post-divorce is the "Don't Tell, Don't Let Them Ask" thinking that holds divorced parents should say zip, nada, zero, squat to the kids about their dating lives until they are on the verge of remarrying.

This has never felt like the right strategy for our little estrogen posse. I want my daughters to know their mama is not just a mama. I want them to know I am a woman, as well, and that I am open to the possibility of finding someone special and lovely and true, someone who may stay in our lives. I want my daughters to know I keep my eyes wide open and that I'm careful with my affections, because anyone I choose must be worthy of all three of us.

So, we talk. We talk in a simple, straightforward way they can understand. We talk about the old goodness between their father and me, and how he and I agree they will forever be the best collaboration of our lives. We talk about the value that lies in remembering the good that came before. We mourn the loss of who we once were as a family, but we talk about the possibility that, someday, our family will be bigger, full of more love than we could have imagined.

Our frank talks demystify "dating," make it less precious, defuse it. I've never introduced casual dates to the girls. But when there's been a serious relationship, I let them know.

They don't get details -- they don't need details -- but they get the basics. Communication stays open, not compartmentalized. It's been a good tactic for us. Talking about Mommy dating has offered opportunities for discussions about self-worth, boundaries, goals, values, what compatibility is and why sharing our hearts and lives with others is not the same thing as giving our hearts away.

Someone mighty special has come along. I couldn't hide the grin on my face if I wanted to. I don't want to. This one, they will be meeting.

Miss 9 has prepared a list of questions for him. "Tell him we can go out for hot chocolate and I'm going to check him out for you. Don't worry, I'll be polite. He sounds like he has potential."

Miss 7 wants to tell him about princess dresses and tiaras and her favorite game, Apples to Apples. She says she wants to see how he smiles.

I love how he smiles. I hope so much they do, too.

It is as nerve-wracking as meeting the parents used to be, if not more.

I'd choose to go without a partner rather than bring someone into our lives who is not right. Life is good now, peaceful. We speak of this.

"I'd like to have a partner, but I don't need one, if that makes sense," I said, over dinner the other week. "Our life is solid. It would have to be the very, very rightest person for us all."

"Yeah. It's kind of like we're a puzzle that's already finished," Miss 9 observed.

"True. It's not like there's a hole we need to patch," I replied.

"But it's OK to want to have somebody special," said Miss 9. "Even grownups get lonely sometimes."

"It's more like our puzzle is good, but you can get an extra pack to build onto the puzzle, make it bigger with more colors," said Miss 7, excitedly.

"Yes," I said, marveling again at how much more they teach me than I can ever teach them. "It's kind of like that."

Want to get the latest ParentDish news and advice? Sign up for our newsletter!

Permalink | Email this | Comments

]]>dating after divorceDatingAfterDivorcedivorceJennifer MatternFri, 18 Mar 2011 10:00:00 ESTDivorced? Follow This One-Step Co-Parenting Planhttp://www.parentdish.com/2011/03/17/co-parenting-divorce/http://www.parentdish.com/2011/03/17/co-parenting-divorce/http://www.parentdish.com/2011/03/17/co-parenting-divorce/#commentsFiled under: ,


co-parenting divorce

Divorce doesn't mean you can't still work together for your children. Illustration by Dori Hartley

This month, I've learned about four new divorces-in-progress -- with children involved in each situation.

My gut twists, thinking of the difficult path ahead for these families. I want to sneak into their still-shared homes at night and place hot water bottles over their hearts. And maybe stash some red wine in the fridge, while I'm at it. They're going to need it.

There are plenty of reasons for divorce. No one, absolutely no one, can guess at what happens behind closed doors. I will never dare to assume I know what brought them to this point. I know how much it stings, being on the receiving end of that jabbing, that speculating. The only thing I know for sure is there sure as hell are always two sides worth considering.

As a marriage sputters and dives, the reasons to leave become more compelling than the reasons to stay. It's simple physics. The downward momentum is deadly.

A few years out, when the ink has dried, the once razor-sharp reasons for divorce become pretty darn foggy. Often, the reasons become downright moot. The relationship is over. It was what is was, and now it isn't what it isn't. Period.

"Justification" and "validity" and "grounds" are perfectly satisfactory legal terms, but I've found none of them come close to the soul's painful vocabulary for the ending of a marriage. Attempting to build a brand-spankin' new, separate life for yourself while you're knee-deep in the scorched, smoking crater of all that you once believed to be true -- of all that you once hoped would be true -- is no task for the faint of heart.

Trying to parent wisely and compassionately while you rebuild yourself and recalibrate your compass (when you're not sobbing on the bathroom floor) is then, perhaps, the greatest and most daunting challenge of all, especially if custody is shared.

If you poke around into the etymology of divorce, you'll find the word means "a turning away," rather than a separation or a severing. This is never more apparent than when a divorce happens to a family, rather than a couple. There can be no complete separation, no true and final division.

Children bind two people -- no matter how desperately they wish to be unbound -- inexorably, permanently. Parents can turn their backs on each other, but they still must share the same heart space: the love of the wonderful, confounding, curious creatures they brought into this world.

Loving long and loving true is a Herculean task without the strain that children can cause -- through absolutely no fault of their own -- in a partnership. Someone once said to me, "Having a child is like tossing a grenade into a marriage." I admire the partners who are able to defuse the danger, plant flowers instead and stay the course.

But many of us can't make that happen. And if, while married, you can't get your collective crap together to agree on a solid, mutually satisfactory and satisfying game plan for raising the kids, agreeing on a strategy for raising them post-divorce is about as daunting as a one-armed, one-legged search for the Holy Grail.

Co-parenting after divorce is a precarious business at best, even when there are two good, loving parents who are invested in their children. For all of our problems and lurchy communication, I'd still count my ex and me in that category. We've been at it for three years, and God knows, we are still learning -- and smarting and wincing and biting our tongues.

Sometimes, we celebrate the little victories in passing. We recognize the beauty of these children of ours, after all. But communication is painful, often veiled and anything but simple.

After several years of thought, much stupidity, much angst, much frustration and too much useless wishing, I've come up with this handy-dandy one-step plan to co-parenting. Please hold your applause:

1. Extend the benefit of the doubt to the other parent.

Lather, rinse, repeat -- forever -- as necessary. Make this the rule of your co-parenting relationship; not the exception.

There will be many times when you think -- make that, you know -- they've dropped the damn ball. Newsflash: There will be just many times when they're thinking -- no, knowing -- the same damn thing. There will be teeth-gnashing, brow-slapping, private eye-rolling on both sides.

Please get over it; for the sake of the kids.

Huge Honkin' Disclaimer, So Don't Get All Up In Mah Grill: I recognize this one-step co-parenting plan is only useful if you dare to believe your co-parent is -- like you -- simply a flawed, loving, messy, imperfect human being who genuinely is trying to do his or her best with the tools he or she has.

I realize that is a big if. Feel free to exit this advice using the emergency exit to your left if you are not/can not be in that head space. I'll wait.

Oh, good. You're still here. We're lucky. It's true.

Mindful co-parenting doesn't mean you're perma-blissed out with multiple, daily respect-gasms for your ex-partner. It simply means you are willing to extend courtesy and respect to your ex daily, even when you don't always understand or agree with that person's point of view; even when your ex is not present.

As far as love-that-is-no-longer-love goes, this is a pretty radical concept, but the rewards are massive.

If you can set aside your own crap, and do your darndest to see the best in your co-parent, your kids will have more than a fighting chance to become their most amazing authentic selves -- compassionate people who breathe easy because they were able to grow up loving both parents openly, without needing to hide or deny the love that makes them whole.

So, when you can, bite your tongue. Ask yourself if it's worth it. If you are truly concerned about something, speak up to your co-parent, but kindly. Ask to understand, not to judge. Listen before you condemn, accuse, blame.

The fact is, you are no longer one household. There are two homes now, with different rules, different expectations, different needs. It is unfair and realistic and absolutely crazy to expect your rules to be implemented in a home that is no longer yours.

Your ex-partner does not love you anymore, but, if you're lucky, you know deep down that he or she loves the kids as much as you do. Return to that, again and again. Nurture the love you see in your kids for their other parent. Kids do fine, if they know upfront that their two homes have different expectations. They just need to be let in on that.

Be the head of your own household. Make clear rules. Delineate expectations. Talk to the kids about what is important to you, the home you'd like to create with them. Let them in on your thinking process and your feeling process. They are more resilient than you guess and more thirsty to understand than you know.

If you loved the person enough to dare to have children together, chances are good your children see the same good you once saw.

Extend the benefit of the doubt, and maybe you will find it coming your way more often, too. No promises, but the universe has a funny way of rewarding compassion and humility -- if you just get out of your own damn way and give it a chance to do its business.

OK, now you're gonna get all up in mah grill. I can feel it. But I'm just going to zap super-heroine rays of loving kindness and compassion your way.

Permalink | Email this | Comments

]]>co-parentingdivorceJennifer MatternThu, 17 Mar 2011 15:00:00 ESTTemper Tantrums: Mama Don't Play That Gamehttp://www.parentdish.com/2011/03/04/temper-tantrums/http://www.parentdish.com/2011/03/04/temper-tantrums/http://www.parentdish.com/2011/03/04/temper-tantrums/#commentsFiled under: , ,

kids temper tantrums

When temper tantrums hit, this mom doesn't back down. Illustration by Dori Hartley




It's one of those mornings. I try not to take them personally.

There's no rhyme or reason to it. Daughter #2 had gone to bed at a sensible 8:15 the night before. She'd slept through the night. I'd set out her school clothes for her at the foot of her bed, within easy reach.

I wake up both daughters as usual (gently and cheerfully! half-Mary Poppins, half-Caroline Ingalls!) at 6:40 a.m.. Daughter #1 climbs out of bed to ferret out the perfect pair of jeggings from a tangle of clothes in her closet.

Daughter #2 ignores me. This is not a good omen. I pop my head through her doorway. I ask her pointedly to please get dressed, use the bathroom, brush her teeth and come down for breakfast. Odd whimpering and growling commence from under her pillow. I head downstairs to make coffee, pack lunches and release the hounds, hoping Daughter #2 will sort herself out.

I am not sure what it is exactly that flips the switch. But at some terribly unfortunate point between 6:40 and 6:43 a.m., my post-modern Shirley Temple morphs into the full-blown raging spawn of Satan. She refuses to get dressed. She refuses to get out of bed. She refuses to acknowledge the existence of hairbrush, toothbrush, toothpaste, or toilet. From her room comes monstrous groans and terrifying howls: SHE WOULD NOT, SHE COULD NOT, SHE WOULD NEVER. If I do not wait on her hand and foot, as she demands, getting ready for school is not happening.

These are the times that try single mothers' souls. These are the times when it would be nice to have their father here -- a partner in exhaustion, willing to share responsibility for the creation of the rampaging beast upstairs.

I gulp my coffee like a beer. I sigh. Single Mama don't play this game.

I return to The Den of Fury. I tell Demon Spawn that she has exactly 40 minutes to get her shiz together and show some serious respect for her sister and me. I tell her we are not going to make her sister late for school, under any circumstance. I tell her if she does not get dressed, I will be taking her to school in her PJs -- end of story.

Forty ear-splitting, wall-pounding, bed-thrashing minutes pass. I nearly grind my molars into splinters, trying to maintain my Caroline Cool. The dogs cower under the dining room table. The cats take cover behind the couch.

Reasoning does not work. Scolding does not work.

There is no negotiating with a first-grade terrorist. One must be prepared to make a spectacle.

7:40: Time to leave. Daughter #1 gathers up her things and waits by the front door, mute. The siblings of Demon Spawn must also be prepared to sacrifice dignity if they are to get to school on time.

7:45: Now I am forced to take action. I gather up my PJ-wearing, shrieking 7-year-old. She has transformed into an invertebrate, which now makes it impossible to put her coat on over her PJs. Fine. Coat, clothing, shoes: I stuff them all into a plastic bag. I wedge Demon Spawn under my left arm, and carry her bag of belongings in my other arm. We three head down the hill to the car, in the chill winter air. Two neighbors glance our way, alarmed. I smile as if this is perfectly normal morning behavior for our family. Daughter #1 is grim, but quietly impressed. Daughter #2 thrashes and shrieks from where she is clamped in my armpit. "I'M COLD I'M COLD YOU'RE MEAN I'M COOOOOLD!"

In the car, the Patron Saint of Seatbelts takes pity on us and heeds my prayers. Miraculously, we are all belted in and on our way.

"I WANT TO HAVE MY PLAYDATES!" yells Daughter #2, then, knowing full well I am just about to tell her the week's playdates have been revoked.

"NOT HAPPENING," I say. "NO PLAYDATES THIS WEEK. UH-UH. NO WAY, HO-ZAY."

Daughter #2 spazzes, ad nauseum. In the rearview mirror, Daughter #1 smirks with something resembling vindication.

At school, before hopping out of the car, Daughter #1 whispers into my ear with great awe: "Can I tell my class about this morning?"

"Sure," I say. "This was the equivalent of walking three miles to school in the snow. Go for it."

When Daughter #2 and I pull up in front of the Lower School, she is no longer spazzing but sniffling. She meekly pulls on pants and a coat. We hold hands and head to her classroom.

I ask her first-grade teacher if we can have a word with her in the hallway. I am that mean. Daughter #2 stares at me, horrified. She adores her teacher.

"Miss C.," I say. "H has made some unfortunate choices this morning. If she continues making unfortunate choices, please let me know, because there will have to be further consequences."

I may love her first-grade teacher even more than she does. Miss C. gets it.

"Oh, dear," says Miss C. "I'm sorry to hear that. But I'm sure H is going to make good choices today. Right, H?"

H nods. She looks like she's been through a war. Her hair is pure tumbleweed. She is wearing a bedraggled PJ top with her leggings. She has had no breakfast. My heart aches for her. She doesn't want to be in that headspace any more than I want her to be.

It's hard, being 7. But I don't know what to do other than be her wall, sometimes. If I'm not saying, 'Uh-uh, no way,' who will?

I hug her goodbye. I tell her I know it's been a rough morning, and I love her very much. I tell her we can start over later. I tell her I am hard on her, sometimes, because I know she can do better.

She hugs me back tightly, a smile lighting up her elfin face again. We shake on the promise of a better afternoon, a better week.

We're all still learning.

Want to get the latest ParentDish news and advice? Sign up for our newsletter!

Permalink | Email this | Comments

]]>single motherhoodSingleMotherhoodtemper tantrumsTemperTantrumsJennifer MatternFri, 04 Mar 2011 11:00:00 ESTYoung Lady, You Look Like a Brick Poopyhousehttp://www.parentdish.com/2011/02/25/young-lady-you-look-like-a-brick-poopyhouse/http://www.parentdish.com/2011/02/25/young-lady-you-look-like-a-brick-poopyhouse/http://www.parentdish.com/2011/02/25/young-lady-you-look-like-a-brick-poopyhouse/#commentsFiled under:

Illustration by Dori Hartley

What do you do when you realize your children are acting just like you did as a kid? Illustration by Dori Hartley


Recently, Daughter #1 (age 10) asked for a blue streak in her hair. Not the Halloween variety that washes out in a week, either. She'd done her homework, too.

"Because my hair's dark, we'd have to bleach it for the streak," she said, regarding me hopefully. "I could pay for it with Tooth Fairy money."

"Holy crap," said I, who nearly wept the day she had her ears pierced.

"You said CRAP," Daughter #2 (age 7) helpfully pointed out. "You should have said 'BEEEEEEEP.' " She paused, then added, "I think I want a pink streak."

"HOLY BEEP," I said.




My mother was not a cusser. But even she had a breaking point.

When I was 16, I thought it would be an absolutely groundbreaking idea to walk around for a entire day with a thick lock of my permed hair submerged in a Dixie cup of hydrogen peroxide. This resulted in a shock of completely white hair fluttering by my left ear -- not at all the coy blonde streak I was hoping for. To remedy the situation, I went out and bought a box of hair dye, a glorious auburn that I figured would erase all traces of my Bride of Frankenstein hair experiment.

An hour later, I wound up with a stunning coif of fried, crunchy orange hair -- with a conspicuous cotton-candy pink swatch, as big as a tumbleweed, dangling by my left temple. I decided it was just the lighting. It would look better in the morning.

Let me assure you, it did not look better in the morning. I do believe the phrase "hot mess" originated that day -- latitude Jenny, longitude Scalp -- but I can't document it. As I attempted to rake the whole catastrophe into submission before school, my mother passed by the bathroom. She glanced idly at me, as I stood squinting at the disaster in the mirror. My visage stopped her dead in her tracks. Her mouth fell open in utter horror.

This was not going to be good. I could feel it.

"What?" I said, with practiced teenage nonchalance. "I LIKE it."

My mother's volcano rarely erupted, but now I could see lava bubbling. "YOU LOOK LIKE-" she hesitated, "-A BRICK SHITHOUSE."

Neither one of us had the slightest idea what a "brick shithouse" was, then. To this day, I don't think my mother could define "brick shithouse" for you, or use the phrase correctly in a sentence. But she had said "shit," a word I'd never heard from her lips. She had flung a bad word squarely at my tragic head.

This was, well ... kind of awesome.

I stormed out of the house to school with my flaming mess of orange hair, feeling persecuted, misunderstood, and exhilarated. I had finally managed to Cross A Line. If my mother had said, "You look like a brick poopyhouse," it wouldn't have had the same effect. "Brick shithouse" meant that she was finally putting her foot down. Though I would have denied it at the time, I was impressed.

My mother and my father were bizarrely laid-back parents. My brother and I, unlike most of our peers, had virtually no rules, no limits, no boundaries, no curfews. We could have used more limits, some lines drawn in the sand, a few good talking-tos. Our parents thought we were special. They thought we had better judgment than most teens.

We didn't. We were just lucky, for the most part.

At school, I managed to convince my classmates that, in fact, I had completely intended this particular hair aesthetic. But on the way home that afternoon, I was nervous. I'd really, truly done it this time. What would happen?

Turns out, nothing. My mother was and is a softie, after all. We didn't speak of the Brick Shithouse morning -- at least, not for years. She'd said what she needed to say, and that was that.

Even Caroline Ingalls would have lost her, uh -- poopy -- had she awakened to a pink-haired Mary or Laura.

I left my hair alone after that. The color eventually faded, and the bleached streak eventually grew out. My hair reverted to its normal state, "normal" being a debatable adjective for teen hair of the 1980s.

But I remained impressed. I liked the line my mother had drawn, that day, with one simple four-letter prefix. I respected her for her awkward, "I've finally had it" epithet.

I think I know what phrase is going to be on the tip of my tongue when Daughter #1 or Daughter #2 surprises me with a nest of hot pink hair. I might not use it, but I'll sure think it. And you can bet I'll smile.

Shh. Don't tell my mother. I've got a rep to maintain.

Want to get the latest ParentDish news and advice? Sign up for our newsletter!

Permalink | Email this | Comments

]]>Jennifer MatternFri, 25 Feb 2011 11:02:00 ESTMy Inner 8-Year-Old Thinks I'm a Rock Starhttp://www.parentdish.com/2011/02/18/my-inner-8-year-old-thinks-im-a-rock-star/http://www.parentdish.com/2011/02/18/my-inner-8-year-old-thinks-im-a-rock-star/http://www.parentdish.com/2011/02/18/my-inner-8-year-old-thinks-im-a-rock-star/#commentsFiled under: , ,

Keep on rockin' in the me world. Illustration by Dori Hartley


At 8, I assumed I had plenty of time. Plenty of time to get it all right.

I'm not sure I ever knew what this mysterious "it" was, or how to define "right." But I was sure that I'd figure it all out by 40. By 40, I'd have "it" in the bag.

When 30 came around, I was newly married and newly knocked up. I'd had a play published and several more produced. I'd been invited to a corner office at 30 Rockefeller Center, to discuss transitioning from playwriting to screenwriting at NBC.

The world was my yummy, chewy oyster. Money was tight at 30, but man, my future was bright. I was on track.

I figured my 40s would center around a terrific kitchen with a built-in dishwasher, an overhead chandelier of copper cookware and some kind of gorgeous, perpetually clean flooring underfoot. The rest of my 40-something-self's house would be equally killer -- full of light and air and charmingly painted antique tables and overstuffed couches and roaring fireplaces and iron claw foot tubs. (I was desperately unoriginal in my wishes, but in defense of my 30-year-old self, I have to say the scenario still sounds awfully nice.)

I also thought my 40s would be privy to a terrific view every morning: a rocky, windswept coast, perhaps. Or a meadow full of wildflowers, with a picturesque creek snaking its way through. Maine? Nova Scotia? British Columbia?

I'd be in top demand in L.A. and New York, of course. My 40-something screenwriting career would be fab and varied -- jetting coast-to-coast for meetings, visiting movie sets in Europe and South America. I'd manage it while also making a name for myself as a superb character actress in various highly acclaimed indie films, being an absurdly fantastic mother to my three or four angelic offspring AND running several nonprofit animal rescue organizations.

Oprah would have me on speed-dial, natch.

Cue the laugh track. Go ahead. I'll wait.



We tell our kids to dream big. The messages run rampant in our culture: Reach for the moon! If you don't make it, you'll still land in the stars! If you can dream it, you can become it! Believe in yourself, and nothing can stop you!

Nothing can stop you, except maybe ... uh, life. Life has a funny way of mucking up the best-laid plans.

I did what I was told: I dreamed big. I put in the work. I had a few lovely highs along the way, but for the most part, the failures have been just as colossal as the dreams once were. And I wonder sometimes if I should've expected a little less from myself or made sure others expected less of me.

I'm wondering if there's a middle ground. I wonder sometimes if we shouldn't be encouraging our children to dream moderately, to dream realistically, to prepare for stagnation and disappointment. But nobody wants to think that way, especially about their own kids. Heck, it's downright un-American. Folks went ballistic recently over Tiger Mom, but I think a Sloth Mom ("Let's watch Scooby Doo, honey. No point in practicing that violin, sweetie. Trust me, Mommy's heard you play.") would provoke even more vitriol from the American masses.



In case you hadn't guessed, things didn't quite work out the way Thirty had hoped. Thirty is no longer speaking to Forty; Thirty is downright pissed off at Forty, who's pointing the finger at Thirty-Five. And now, Thirty-Five refuses to talk unless she has her own lawyer. It's a stalemate.

But my 8-year-old self adores Forty. Eight thinks Forty is pretty awesome. After all, Forty has a little house in the country, full of little girls and dogs and cats and toys and NO BOYS and a super-cool thing called a computer. Forty writes stories for a living. Forty can drive a car and have Cocoa Puffs for dinner. Like, whenever she wants.

Eight thinks Forty is a ROCK STAR.

Forty can work with that.

Permalink | Email this | Comments

]]>Jennifer MatternFri, 18 Feb 2011 12:10:00 ESTGreater Than or Less Than? Dating as a Single Motherhttp://www.parentdish.com/2011/02/11/dating-single-mother/http://www.parentdish.com/2011/02/11/dating-single-mother/http://www.parentdish.com/2011/02/11/dating-single-mother/#commentsFiled under: , ,

dating single mother

When you're dating as a single mother, it's about the kids, too. Illustration by Dori Hartley




I'm not dating anyone right now.

More often than not in my life, there's been someone. And I'm grateful for that.

I don't buy the concept that being in a relationship subtracts from one's development as an individual. I bristle at the self-help variety of suggestion that serial monogamy is pathological, a clear sign of someone who can't stand on his or her own two feet. Much of who I am comes from the wisdom -- often painful, but just as often beautiful -- gleaned from my relationships. I've learned what I can handle and what I can't. I've learned about boundaries, about drawing lines in the sand. The lessons have frequently been brutal, but they've also been necessary.

"Maybe you just need time on your own right now," a couple of married-for-years acquaintances suggested recently -- as if their status of "married" rendered them exempt from scrutiny, as if "married" means they've gotten it "right." I try to steer clear of the smug marrieds, who believe they've found the perfect balance of self and other, which authorizes them to assess the unfortunate singles of the world and their relationship choices.

I like down-to-earth married folks, the ones who 'fess up to the hard work of union. It's no picnic. I know. I've been there. And because of it, I know better what I have to offer, and what I need in another person.

I was dating someone until just very recently. It was a serious relationship, as serious as I'd allowed myself to get since my marriage. He's a good man, but I had fears that would not subside. My gut refused to let my brain run circles around it this time. My concerns were valid, my gut insisted. My concerns were growing, not lessening, over time. Although my brain came up with no less than 50 different reasons why I should stick with the relationship, my intuition finally sat down with a big red flag and refused to budge.

If there's one thing I've learned from my relationships, it's that ignoring my intuition is a slippery slope. It becomes a bad, bad habit. Intuition doesn't suffer fools lightly. When I turn away from what I know and try to talk myself into a different reality -- one that would be "easier" for others, one that I persuade myself I could figure out how to accept, if only I tried "harder" -- it only prolongs the inevitable. It makes for a nasty, snarled mess in the long run, hurting everyone involved all the more.

There is something to be said for dating as a single mother of two young daughters. In the B.C. (Before Children) era, I could skirt my intuition more easily -- give it the slip, for a while. "I can make this work." "This isn't so bad." "I'm sure he didn't mean it." "We're all flawed."

It's not that these statements aren't true. The question is merely this: Proceed in this relationship at what cost?

Before kids, my cost-and-risk-assessment process for any relationship was murkier, colored in shades of gray. After all, I would be the only one paying the price, I figured. I could cheat intuition, if I needed to. There was wiggle room.

That's no longer the case. Anyone I invite into my life, I'm inviting into my daughters' lives as well.

The other week, as I was wrestling with my intuition over concerns about this relationship -- one I had invested in quite dearly with a man I still care about, very much -- my younger daughter asked for help with her math homework.

I sat down with her at the dining room table, grateful for the distraction. She was laboring over a worksheet with familiar symbols: greater than or less than.

Ah.

I realized at that instant that if I ignored my gut, kept swallowing my fears, trying to explain them away, I would be Less Than. Less of a woman. Less of a mother. Less of everything I wanted to teach my daughters about self-worth, and always trusting their instincts.

Less than.

Finally, it was simple. Not easy, but simple.

Want to get the latest ParentDish news and advice? Sign up for our newsletter!

Permalink | Email this | Comments

]]>datingdivorcerelationshipssingle parent datingSingleParentDatingJennifer MatternFri, 11 Feb 2011 11:00:00 ESTMy Family Is Broke, but Not Brokenhttp://www.parentdish.com/2011/02/04/family-is-broke/http://www.parentdish.com/2011/02/04/family-is-broke/http://www.parentdish.com/2011/02/04/family-is-broke/#commentsFiled under: ,

family is broke

Fairy Godmother, where are you? Illustration by Dori Hartley


My daughters and I make our way down the Walmart frozen food and cereal aisle. I cast furtive glances around me, hoping not to see anyone we know from the girls' school. I am ashamed that I feel ashamed. Organic greens, gluten-free rice bread, locally grown heirloom turnips -- that's the usual fare for their classmates and their families.

Here, the offerings are cheap, hormone-pumped, chemically laced, and processed. I figure I am also cheap, hormone-pumped and chemically laced. And my hair is processed. We will survive a week of bottom-rung food, I decide. I ate Twinkies for breakfast as a kid and lived to tell.

I do the best I can, as much as I can, in the nutrition department. It's a thankless task: I don't enjoy cooking, because I can't stop thinking about the dollar value of what I'm shoving around in the pot. Will they eat it? How many dollars will go to waste this time? I try to stick with tried and true. I'm the queen of lentil soup, made with discounted vegetables pushing their expiration dates. I can live on cabbage, oil and vinegar. Apples and bananas are staples, along with frozen berries for smoothies. Green beans and carrots make frequent appearances on our table.

This week, though, we are broke. Broke broke. This morning I had to borrow $400 cash from my mother to shock my DOA checking account into a still-flatlining $250. I can't remember the last time the account dipped below zero. But I screwed up. The real estate tax bill smacked me upside the head at the same time as the overdue oil bill. I paid both, not realizing how depleted the checking account had gotten. There's no income on the way for at least another week, if not longer.

As the girls try to find the most virtuous cereal, a petite elderly woman wearing a striped pink hat shuffles past with a cart. She pauses to grin at them.

"Are you helping your mother, girls?" she asks, with a lilt. There is something downright elfin about her.

The girls smile politely and say "Yes, yes we are." They know if you're going to talk to a stranger, a little old lady is usually a pretty safe bet.

The old woman turns her head to me. "Are they? A big help?" She studies my face carefully. There is something behind her questioning, something more than polite chit-chat.

I wonder for a moment if she's a fairy godmother, roaming the aisles of Walmart, scouting for the family most down on their luck, her wand carefully concealed in her purse.

I realize we are not that family, not even close. I smile, and place a hand on each daughter's head: a frozen-food aisle benediction.

"They are a huge help," I say. "I have the most wonderful girls. I'm about as lucky as you can get."

Fairy Godmother nods approvingly and continues on her way, humming.

When I look back at my daughters, they are smiling at me, their eyes clear, bright and unworried.



It's tough on the girls, having to switch homes every week. Homework goes missing. Clothing gets lost. They return to my home only to find that pants that fit two weeks ago are too short. Today at Walmart, we also need to find Daughter #1 new jeans, stat, and a long-sleeved T. Socks and underwear: also a must. Cat food, too, because Daughter #2's "birthday miracle kitten" eats like a Clydesdale.

My father never talked about money. "Money is no object," he liked to say, but my brother and I knew damn well it was an issue. I still feel pangs of guilt with every purchase I make, as if there is some free alternative to shoes and underwear that I am choosing to ignore.

I tell the girls to look for a few pairs of pants on clearance racks. I tell them money is tight this week, but I know we can't go another day without underwear and some new pants.

"How much money do we have?" asks Daughter #2. "Like, exactly how many dollars."

WWCID: What Would Caroline Ingalls Do?

I decide that Caroline would not beat around the bush.

"We've got $250, and it has to last us at least a week. Maybe more."

"That sounds like a lot, to a kid," comments Daughter #2.

"It's not," says Daughter #1. "Is that even ... normal?"

Normal. I don't know what's normal, for other families. "We just ... have to be really smart today. Wise with our resources."

Daughter #1 finds a $14 pair of jeans. They fit perfectly.

"Let's grab another pair in another color, since we know they fit," I say.

"Really?" One word. I realize I need to say something my father used to say. This phrase of his, I did believe.

"Don't panic," I say. "I'll tell you when it's time to panic. And I promise, it's not. We're going to be fine -- we just have to be smart."

"We can be smart," they say.

"I know. And being smart with money is a good lesson. You guys just have to learn it a little earlier than most kids."

We pay for our careful pile of items: about $120 of necessities.

"So that means we have ... $130 left?" Daughter #2 looks a little concerned.

"Yup," I say. I channel my inner Caroline. "We've got what we need, and a little money left over until I get paid again."

When we get home, we split the bags and their backpacks and haul our supplies up the hill to the house. Daughter #1 thanks me for her new clothes.

"You're a great mom," she says, simply.

"Yeah," says Daughter #2. "If I got mad, I might pretend I was going to run away, but I would never do it, because you're a good, strict, funny, GREAT mom, even if we're poor."

I think Caroline Ingalls would be pleased with that assessment. I'll take it.

Want to get the latest ParentDish news and advice? Sign up for our newsletter!

Permalink | Email this | Comments

]]>childhood obesitynutritionpoorpovertysingle motherhoodSingleMotherhoodJennifer MatternFri, 04 Feb 2011 11:00:00 ESTFML: The New and Improved Versionhttp://www.parentdish.com/2011/01/28/fml/http://www.parentdish.com/2011/01/28/fml/http://www.parentdish.com/2011/01/28/fml/#commentsFiled under:

FML picture

Say BYE to FML. Illustration by Dori Hartley


As part of the 2011 Own Your Beauty movement advocated by BlogHer.com, Missy Germain recently wrote about her aversion to the phrase "FML":

"In 2011, I will delete each and every 'friend' who writes the words FML (F**k My Life) on their Facebook or Twitter pages. I want to surround myself with people who think positively and are willing to make the changes that need to be made without quitting -- even when life gets really hard ... Each and every time I read those letters (FML), the hair on my arms stands straight up and it's not a 'feel good' moment."

Hmm. Guilty.

I hadn't given much thought to those three little letters before. "FML" pops up frequently in these 140-characters-or-less times we're living in, as a nice zippy tag to get the point across to your peeps that things just aren't going your way. I've used "FML" to punctuate events as small as an unpleasant surprise beside the couch (for the record, some old dogs cannot be taught new tricks) to Parenting Fail moments (say, collaring and scolding the wrong child) to the sadness that I just can't shake, the melancholy that just won't let up.

Daily, as both writer and mother, I work hard to teach my daughters that words have power -- the power to change our thinking, our behavior, the way we define ourselves. So, what the hell am I doing, muttering "FML" under my breath? "FML" is not a mantra I want to pass on to my girls. There's no strength or fight in "FML," just self-bashing and defeat.

Why bash ourselves, when others are plenty ready to do the bashing for us? I've never bought the line about sticks and stones. Words hurt, and hurt badly. I thought my last post here at First-Parent Singular -- a piece on stumbling across my ex-husband during a foray into online dating -- was about as controversial as a bar of Ivory soap. I've written online for years, but the nasty comments ("picky bitch," "twit," "f*cking women ruin everything") still make me wince.

I'm pretty sure I could serve up a brilliant piece on curing cancer, erectile dysfunction, and bad hair days -- and throw in a recipe for world peace -- and I'd still get comments telling me I need to get laid and shut the eff up. As my 7-year-old likes to point out, "Even grownups can be bullies." They thrive online, flinging heavy words like rocks and fists. Any first-grader out there can tell you it's one thing to disagree; it's another thing entirely to throw a cheap punch from behind the anon@anon.com mask.

I can't do a damn thing about the words anyone else chooses to define me. But, like Germain, I'm going to pay closer attention from now on to the words and phrases I'm using in my own mind.

So I've got a few ideas for the recasting of FML. Feel free to borrow, unless you think I'm a twit, in which case, feel free to go FYL.

Sayonara, F*ck My Life. Introducing the New and Improved FML Team: Forgiving My Life. Friending My Life. Finding My Life.

I'm fascinated by people who profess to have no regrets, who say they are absolutely certain of every decision they've made. I'd like to be one of those people, but I don't know how to stop missing our four plates at the table, our four toothbrushes in the bathroom, our four voices at bedtime. I'm finding my way by writing about a life that doesn't quite fit me, not yet. I am still breaking in this new life, like a pair of stubborn shoes.

In the meantime? I'll work on breaking in a new vocabulary.

Want to get the latest ParentDish news and advice? Sign up for our newsletter!

Permalink | Email this | Comments

]]>fmlJennifer MatternFri, 28 Jan 2011 11:00:00 ESTSingle Mom Delves Into World of Online Dating to Find ... Her Ex-Husbandhttp://www.parentdish.com/2011/01/21/single-mom-delves-into-world-of-online-dating-to-find-her-ex/http://www.parentdish.com/2011/01/21/single-mom-delves-into-world-of-online-dating-to-find-her-ex/http://www.parentdish.com/2011/01/21/single-mom-delves-into-world-of-online-dating-to-find-her-ex/#commentsFiled under: ,

Date? What's that? Illustration by Dori Hartley

Fact: I never dated.

I kissed. I made out. I fooled around. I messed around. I saw. I slept with. I went with. I went out with. I broke up with. I got back together with. I was exclusive with. I got engaged. I eloped. I married. I separated. I divorced. Period. "Dating" was not a word my generation used to describe ourselves in any phase of the lurchy, messy love dance.

"Dating" always conjured up images of my mother in faded Kodaks from the '50s, shellacked in a cloud of tulle and and hairspray, topped off with heavy cat-eye glasses, perennially ready for prom. My mom knew how to date. Even when she and Frank were going steady, they had movie dates, soda shop dates, Scrabble dates. "You have no idea how hard it is to try to lose at Scrabble," she likes to say, still.

I got booted from my cocoon of marriage to find that "dating" was back, with a horde of impatient, hot-but-not-so-heavy subcategories. Speed-dating. Online dating. Sexting. Naughty Skyping.

Modern times. At first, I resisted the development. I'm a twisted addict to my past. I reconnected with former flames, tried to fix what didn't work the first time around.

This brilliant maneuver resulted in some spectacular, epic failures worthy of NBC dramedy. I began researching "single mothers who enter convents." This yielded few helpful results.

I decided to bite the bullet. I gulped down two glasses of Shiraz before I crafted my first online profile. I cringed as I tried to describe myself authentically, to choose pics that were the perfect combo of attractive, smart, possibly sexy. Cleavage or nay? Gahhh.

I met a lily farmer first, 13 years my senior. We had two "dates," if you count the afternoon I helped him organize his dirty bulbs for shipping. Hawt. I liked his smile, the sure way he dug his fingers into the earth. His Border Collies adored me, but he seemed ambivalent, as confused by post-divorce dating expectations as I did. On our second date, he made me a stir-fry with vegetables from his garden, then seemed miffed that I didn't want to be dessert.

Next up: A psychologist who worked at a camp for kids with cancer. Awww. I was impressed by our "by the books" approach: Our first dinner at a neutral location, a Mexican restaurant we'd both wanted to try. I liked his crisp white shirt, his Billy Crystal wisecracking, the way he talked about his sons. There were a few decent "dates" before I received an email from him out of the blue, saying he was in a dark place. When he was with me, he said, he felt like he was "overcompensating."

I feel like there must be a fantastic punchline there. When you find it, let me know.


Third time was not a charm. I joined a new online dating site. It searched its entire database of potential lovahs and enthusiastically offered me my "Top Match Within 250 Miles!" YES! I clicked through to see the new love of my life: My ex-husband.

Knife, meet Heart. I had taken his profile pic in our kitchen, a photo of him grinning in front of the cabinets he'd painted blue for me. The smile was no longer for me, but for WillowPussy74 and Purrfekt4u and SizzleGrrl1.

Top match within 250 miles: I am not ashamed to say that I puked. I am ashamed to say that -- after I puked up my invisible hairball of heartache, humiliation and regret -- I made a fantastic freaking arse of myself, by rewriting my profile as a letter to him. I knew the next time he logged in, I'd be coming up as his top match. If we had one last shot, I didn't want to blow it. I told him that I already loved his daughters. I told him I loved the blue cabinets, still. I told him real love was messy as f*ck, but maybe we owed it to ourselves and the girls to try to find our way back to each other. I told him I'd even learn to cook a chicken, if we could simply sit down and talk.

He declined the roast chicken. And me.

However, I received 47 heartfelt messages from other men, many of whom said they thought it was the most romantic overture they'd ever seen online. Several said my ex would be an idiot not to consider my proposal.

Aw, hell. What's a little cleavage between total strangers?

Date this, baby.

Want to get the latest ParentDish news and advice? Sign up for our newsletter!

Permalink | Email this | Comments

]]>Jennifer MatternFri, 21 Jan 2011 11:00:00 ESTThe Vat of Failhttp://www.parentdish.com/2011/01/14/the-vat-of-fail/http://www.parentdish.com/2011/01/14/the-vat-of-fail/http://www.parentdish.com/2011/01/14/the-vat-of-fail/#commentsFiled under: ,

divorce

Who loses the most in a divorce? Illustration by Dori Hartley




I have a book on my nightstand, "On Becoming Fearless" by Arianna Huffington.

I use it as a coaster. I hate water rings on wood. The cloudy circles remind me of wedding rings. I want to take a Sharpie and fill them in with skulls and bloodied hearts.

Sometimes, though, I open "On Becoming Fearless" to a random page. This is always a terrible mistake. My eyeballs always steamroll straight into a paragraph about how Arianna and her ex navigated their divorce fabulously, or about the fabulous bouquet of fabulous yellow roses her ex sent her on what would have been their 20th anniversary -- along with a fabulously handwritten, fabulously touching note thanking her for coparenting fabulously for two decades. Arianna, above all, is certain that Everything Happened as it Should Have.

I always wind up throwing up a little into my sinuses and sliding the book back under my sweating can of decidedly unfabulous seltzer. Then I hide under my quilt and try to count my blessings. Loving family and friends. New gig here at ParentDish. A very small carbon footprint (the upside of not being able to pay that oil bill). An unexpected all-expenses-paid New Year's getaway with an exotic surfer dude who has brains, a good job and visible abs.

That last bit alone should win me at least a day pass out of the Vat of General Life Fail.

But I can't escape the feeling of Parent Fail, post-divorce. And that pain supercedes everything. It's been three years since he moved out, and I worry about the kids still. There's a sadness in them both now that I can't seem to touch, no matter what I do. They've changed. We've all changed.

Unlike Ms. Huffington, I am not at all certain everything has, in fact, happened as it should have. I know I am supposed to think this. This is the code, the motto to be shared among divorcees, I have learned. But I doubt very much I will ever be convinced of it -- that divorce was the only option, that he and I and the girls will all be better people for it.

I know we're all lonelier for it. Daughter #2 still asks, "Why can't Daddy sleep here anymore?" The answers I offer don't stick. She can't feel the sense in my calm, practiced words. Often, I can't either.



Tonight, I turn down Daughter #1's simple request: She doesn't want much. Just a snuggle at bedtime, some chatting, our usual routine -- a half hour. I don't have it to give. My email program has flatlined, I've lost critical info, and I have to get back the missing data, ASAP, so I can meet a deadline. We need income.

"Just a hug, tonight," I said. "My email is busted and I have to fix it ..."

Her face falls, but she holds her tongue. What does she care about email, about writing assignments other than her own fourth-grade ones? Why should she have to care? I think.

In the past, there would have been another parent here for bedtime snuggles. My older daughter remembers only that it was good when Daddy was here. She still observes her parents closely, scrutinizing our friendly exchanges for clues. Time and time again, I think we did them absolutely no favors by hiding our disagreements, our frictions as a couple. For the girls, the divorce descended upon our family out of nowhere. They never saw it coming. In truth, we didn't see it coming either, until it was far too late.



"I'll make it up to you tomorrow night, I promise," I say to Daughter #1.

She studies my face. "You just seem ... really busy these days," she says.

"I am busy," I concede. "But I'm trying hard to find a balance, I promise."

She nods and picks up a book. Something always has to give. Tonight, it's her, and we both know it.

I have long despised the sentiment of "Women can have it all!" I resent the insinuation, that there is simply some code to be cracked, if only one works hard enough, if only one wants it badly enough. Motherhood, friendship, a fab career and love life -- it's all there, waiting to be plucked like sexy, low-hanging tree fruit.

There's no way a single mother can have it all -- whatever she used to think "it" might look like. Worse, there's no way the kids of divorced parents can have it all, not even close. They wobble, they wince, they wish -- with one foot in each world. They have no say in the matter of their circumstances, yet they give up the most, over and over.

Permalink | Email this | Comments

]]>cant do it allCantDoItAllchildren of divorChildrenOfDivordivorcedivorced-parentssingle mosingle motherhoodsingle mothersSingleMoJennifer MatternFri, 14 Jan 2011 11:00:00 ESTMy New Year's Resolutionhttp://www.parentdish.com/2010/12/29/my-new-years-resolution/http://www.parentdish.com/2010/12/29/my-new-years-resolution/http://www.parentdish.com/2010/12/29/my-new-years-resolution/#commentsFiled under:

I resolve to ... Illustration by Dori Hartley


'Tis the season for everyone to be a pain in the ass, especially Mommy and Dan Fogelberg.

This single mommy is particularly Grinchy the week before the New Year. It is a dangerous period: The Muzak version of Fogelberg's "Same Old Lang Syne" is everywhere.

A divorcee has to tread lightly and keep her wits about her at all times. She must avoid lingering at the post-holiday sale bra rack at JCPenney. The new underwire can wait, lest The Fogelberg strikes, and all forward progress be lost.

Deadlines are especially tricky to manage during the holidays, when the girls are home from school. I can't afford child care this week, so my creatures wander the house listlessly, poking at each other with invisible sticks, hissing at each other like deranged Komodo dragons, and generally competing for the title of Who Can Be the Most Irritating. So far, it's a tie.

"I'm bored," whines Daughter #2.

"I got you a kitten," I say. "GO LOVE IT."

"I did that already." She flops on my bed, nearly knocking my laptop on the floor. "And he just pooped. He smells. This is boooooooring."

"This is vacation. You have 400 toys and books and shows. And a thing called imagination. Children are starving in Ethiopia. Or India. Somewhere, children are too hungry to have a good imagination."

She squints at me. "Whaaat?"

"Mommy has to work. You are fortunate. GO FORTH AND PROSPER." I am yelling.

I go back to typing. She sighs tragically, and slowly points one ballerina toe at the ceiling. She busts out a line from a Scissor Sisters song: "'We're gonna take your mama out tonight, get her jeeped up on some cheap champagne.'"

I stop typing. "Jacked up. Not jeeped up."

She resumes. "'Jacked up on some cheap champaaagne.' What are they doing to their mama?"

Her older sister slumps into the room. The girls exchange spectacularly fierce Komodo dragon looks for absolutely no reason, then resume their bored sighing in unison. They kick stockinged feet at each other, aiming for shins.

Now it is my turn to growl like a possessed reptile. I feel a whine coming on. Not the nice red variety. That will come later.

"GIRLS," I bark. "I have a deadline."

They hate this word. "Deadline" equals "Mommy is dead to us."

It is not a blast, being the offspring of a single freelance-writer mama. Mommy is either anxious because there is no work, or anxious because there is.

"What's this one about?" asks Daughter #1.

"I have to write a piece about my New Year's resolutions."

"How about being less tense?" Daughter #1 suggests. "That's a good one."

"Yes," I concede. "Good one. Now, go stare at some TV so Mommy can work on that resolution."

They stalk off, grumbling.

Less tense. I realize that is exactly what I want for 2011. I hate being Tense Mommy, and yet I find myself there again and again. I'd like to care less, be more relaxed, let things slide, be more fun, find balance. But how does a single mama manage that, exactly?

Let me get back to you on that one. I have a little jeeping up to do on New Year's Eve first.

Happy 2011, all.

Permalink | Email this | Comments

]]>new yearsNew Years ResolutionsNewYearsNewYearsResolutionsJennifer MatternWed, 29 Dec 2010 11:00:00 ESTBlinging the Tree, Girl Stylehttp://www.parentdish.com/2010/12/22/blinging-the-tree-girl-style/http://www.parentdish.com/2010/12/22/blinging-the-tree-girl-style/http://www.parentdish.com/2010/12/22/blinging-the-tree-girl-style/#commentsFiled under: , ,

Illustration by Dori Hartley


"We don't have to add more bling to the tree," says my mother.

"Uh, yes, we do," I say. "God gave the world Christmas trees for the express purpose of blinging. It's in Genesis. I'm sure of it."

"It's already blung," says Daughter #2. "It's enough already."

"I still see some bare spots," I say. "Get in there, A-Team! GO, GO, GO! Plastic and wood near the bottom, glass near the top. Where do we put clear ones?"

"IN FRONT OF LIGHTS," drone my well-programmed holiday robots.

"Why do we do that, troops?"

"TO MAXIMIZE SPARKLE."

Good little apprentices. What would Christmas be without Mommy's tree-trimming control issues?

My mother is staring at the tree. She is skeptical. "I really don't think it needs any more."

I haul out another box of ornaments and hand it to her. "Get with the program, Elf."

She sighs and sits at the dining room table with the ornaments. She begins dusting them, one by one, although they have been in sealed storage for a year. Polishing the ornaments seems to soothe her, so I let it go.

I stand back and survey the scene. Once, before the divorce, there was a papa bear here, decorating with us. Now, decorating the tree is a girls-only activity. I realize that this is the first year I haven't missed his presence during the procuring of the tree, the stringing of the lights. I am simultaneously man- and woman-of-the-house, and right now, it feels pretty good.

The girls are laughing, cooperating. They joke with my friend Shelly, who's visiting from D.C., and helped us lug home the tree. Although she's Jewish, Shelly loves our Christmas prep.

The dogs and the cats laze nearby, surveying the tree action. Everyone's been fed. The mortgage is paid for another month. We are home and we have each other: family, both chosen and luck of the draw.

We are definitely lucky.

My mother stands, holding a pair of shiny jingle bells.

"These look like KAH-JOANIES," she stage-whispers.

"I think you mean cojones," I say.

"Ka-Joanies. Yes."

"UH-OH. BLANK SPOT ON OUR TREE CANVAS," I yell. "THREE O' CLOCK, RIGHT BY UNCLE JOE'S OLD POPSICLE-STICK STAR."

My elves rush in with bling. "What's a Ka-Joanie?" asks Daughter #1.

Shelly falls off the couch, laughing.

"Um. You know how boys have a-" I gesture downward.

"Jennifer!" My mother narrows her eyes. Daughter #1 is still looking at me quizzically.

"Cojones is the Spanish word for, um, the-"

"JENNIFER!"

"-let's just say it's the word for ... the boy parts directly behind the boy parts. Kind of."

"Oh." Daughter #1 is neither impressed, nor traumatized. My mother, however, is traumatized.

"HONESTLY, Jennifer," she hisses.

"You brought up the Ka-Joanies. Not me. I was busy blinging."

"Blunging," shouts Daughter #2.

"That's not a word," retorts Daughter #1.

"Yes it is. We blunged it up. We blunged up the tree." Daughter #2 pumps her fist at the evergreen in victory. She knows what she knows.

I know what I know. I love these women, old and young. We have girl Ka-Joanies. And each other.

Best Christmas gift of all.

For more fun at the Matterns, watch Jennifer and her mom jam it up, Christmas carol style.

Permalink | Email this | Comments

]]>divorcesingle parentingsingle parentsSingleParentingSingleParentsJennifer MatternWed, 22 Dec 2010 09:00:00 ESTWhat, We're Poor?http://www.parentdish.com/2010/12/20/what-were-poor/http://www.parentdish.com/2010/12/20/what-were-poor/http://www.parentdish.com/2010/12/20/what-were-poor/#commentsFiled under: , ,

Grocery shopping picture

Illustration by Dori Hartley


"Are you poor?"

One of my daughter's schoolmates recently asked her this question. Still thwacking about in my brain, the question is doing collateral damage, as I scurry around the supermarket.

Post-divorce, I find grocery shopping excruciating. I preferred the old days of shopping for four. I liked being a nuclear family. I admit it. One menu plan. Now I create two menus in my head: an inexpensive-but-healthy-enough menu for the weeks the girls are with me; a cheaper, bachelorette-style menu for the weeks I am alone.

The sinister juice box aisle awaits me. I tend to weep in the juice-box aisle. I don't know why. But the girls like juice boxes. Everybody at school has juice boxes. Juice boxes make them feel normal, average. We all like to feel normal, average, once in a while.

The juice box aisle is also the sale aisle -- another reason I must traverse this treacherous row. Fifty-cent boxes of pasta. Dollar bottles of shampoo. Generic mac-and-cheese, six boxes for $2. A steal, really.

Someone is crooning, "I'll have a bluuuuuuuue Christmas without yoooooooouuuuu" over the supermarket speakers. Loudly. I wince. Christmas gifts. Crap.

"It's the beginning of the Just Kill Me Now season," I joke to a woman standing next to me in front of the discounted salad dressings.

She squints at me over her cart, unsmiling, then walks away.

Are you poor?

Heck, yes.

parentdish logo

We fall below the poverty line by any study's definition of "poverty line" in the U.S. We are an unexpected statistic, living precariously on the fringes of a fairly affluent, if rural, area. Few people know the details of our situation -- just the basics, which are, admittedly, doozies. Bankruptcy. Divorce. Serious medical issues. Layoffs. Unemployment. Government assistance. Shared custody. There's no quick fix, no matter how I try to MacGyver it. There's no fast track to a bank account with four (or, dare I dream, five?) digits. I can't just pack up my girls and head to a big city, stat. Change is going to take some time here.

Ironically, my ex and I are going to have to learn to communicate better than we ever did, if positive change is going to happen in our separate lives. Funny how kids of broken families have a way of making their disconnected parents into better people.

I believe poverty is the last great American taboo. It sure isn't the sort of thing one tweets about to friends, or "Likes" on Facebook. We use euphemisms consistently: A little strapped. Need to tighten our belts. Here in the U.S., our culture is still churning out lyrics from the classic American dream: You can be a success if you just want it badly enough! Pull yourself up by your bootstraps! Go back to school! Take any job! Get on TV! Write a children's book!

I'm not saying those things aren't helpful for some folks. Jamie Lee Curtis and Madonna did very well with their children's books.

From the outside, my situation seems black and white -- dee-vor-SAY, the single mother of two daughters, underemployed. The anonymous comments at my blog are harsh variations of "Poor? Work more!"

These anonymous comments are not usually followed up by job offers, promises of free childcare, student loan repayment, free home repairs, low-interest lines of credit or the gifting of a new Social Security number and squeaky-clean credit report.

I'm moving as fast as I can. But rags-to-riches only happens on TV. I am no express train.

parentdish logo

"Can you believe she asked me that?" my daughter says. "Out of nowhere. Are you poor?"

"What did you say?" I ask.

"I said I didn't know."

"That was a good answer."

"Are we?" She scrutinizes my face. "Are we poor?"

I try to normalize our experience. After all, it is normal. For us.

"We're definitely poorer than most of the families we know in our area, but we're certainly not as bad off as many families across the country or around the world. You and your sister will never have to worry about having a roof over your heads."

"Are you worried?" she asks me.

I don't want to say no. I want her to know her perception is keen, that her intuition is spot-on, that she can trust her gut. In the long run, that's worth more than money. But I don't want to frighten her.

"Do I seem worried?" I ask.

"Yeah. Sometimes," she admits.

"Yeah. I guess I am sometimes. I'm really sorry about that," I tell her. "But trust me when I tell you I'm working hard to figure things out and get us into a better situation. We're going to be okay. We are ... okay enough."

She nods and sinks down in her covers, snuggling up to me.

"I'd like a closet someday," she says. "And a bed that's not a table on wheels. That's all."

"That's all?"

"Maybe ... a room big enough for sleepovers. Maybe."

I can hear the hesitation in her voice. Already, she's afraid to dream too big.

We're okay enough, but not okay, not yet.

Permalink | Email this | Comments

]]>divorcepoor after divorcePoorAfterDivorcesingle parentingSingleParentingJennifer MatternMon, 20 Dec 2010 12:30:00 EST