Of course I’ve known this was coming for a long time. I’ve made plans with my family and The Ex to take care of Bean when I can’t (which is most of the time). I did a lot of pre-prep with Bean so she knows Mommy won’t be around for the next little while, and have little treats planned through the next three weeks. When I spoke to her the other night about it, she only asked, “But you’re coming back, right?” When I assured her I was, she was totally fine.

It’s the first time since I’ve been back to work, and therefore since the split, where work really does come first. By choice. I’m not working hours I don’t want to work, and I’m doing a job that I am incredibly excited about.

I have very little guilt about this, even though we’ve never been apart for this much time. It actually feels great to be able to make my career a priority for a change.

I know that we’re going to be okay because I’ve put so much work into our relationship. She feels okay about this because she knows I’m not going anywhere. I’m not saying it’s going to be easy. I’m going to miss her. She’s going to wonder what’s up.

So I guess it’s okay to be imbalanced sometimes, for us. With neither of the members of our two-member family particularly stressed, we’re in good shape for the challenge to come. I can enjoy the reward of knowing that I can do this. I can have my career and be a good mum. I can be a great mum, and still have a rewarding career.

Because in my head, when I’m feeling sorry for my situation, and myself, these people are perfect. Happy and blissful in a way I could never be in my one-parent one-child household. The people love each other. They love their children. Their children love them. The children love each other. They make enough money, kids get straight A-s, they have time, resources, family, community and comfort. Any stress evaporates in the glow of the family. They eat pizza and chips and don’t get fat.

Of course, this is not true. Each happy family has a story. Many ‘happy families’ aren’t happy at all.

I mentioned in an earlier post that I seem to have become some kind of divining rod for people getting separated and divorced. I still find this a huge compliment, and have a healthy appreciation for the idea that what I’ve been through could help someone go through it a little more smoothly. I had so many missteps, knew so few people ‘like me’, that I often felt hopeless, stupid and isolated. Now I feel I can help other people through this process, as a friend and part of their support system. It also means that I hear a lot of behind-the-scenes stories that make the grass look a lot less green.

As much as I miss my vision of a married life that never was, and torture myself with the fantasy of the perfect family, I like not fighting. I like doing things on my own without the push and pull (read: shouting) of division of duties. I like setting things up how I like them. I especially like being able to focus on my daughter without the distraction of a challenging marriage pulling on my attention. Because anyone who has gone through it can tell you, if your marriage if seriously failing, you have little attention for much else.

Also, it’s worth mentioning, that weekends are getting better. I’m starting to appreciate the time I have when Bean is with her father. Fact is, I still miss her. So much I cry sometimes. But I also get that it does let me recharge. I have some freedom that my friends, even the ones on the green grass, don’t have.

That is some nice green grass, no?

I’m not saying definitively that being on one’s own as a solo is better. But I can say for sure it is better than misery and suspicion eating holes through your soul and feeling helpless to stop it. It’s way better than fighting about the same things over and over, and wondering how you’re just such a crap partner and communicator that no matter what you say, you can not get this person to understand your basic needs while trying to decipher the shifting sands of theirs. It’s better than the general unhappiness that comes from knowing something is wrong and being the only one fighting the good fight to save your relationship. It’s better than the death throws of marriage, which are heartbreaking in a way that can not be described, and surround you in a shroud of sadness that takes months, years, to shed.

There are other stresses that come with being a solo parent. Yes, indeed. But maybe it doesn’t just even out. Good God. Could it be that the grass isn’t always greener on the side of two parent families, no matter what? Maybe my faded little patch of earth is kind of greenish? Even to me? I guess I am on the other side.

Another part of the reason it was a great weekend was because I didn’t say no.

$22 plastic toy

When she wanted the ridiculously expensive plasticy useless souvenir, she got it. When she asked for absurdly expensive popcorn and cotton candy, she got it. She danced, she laughed, and she waved at Pooh, Tigger and the Little Einsteins. Went full-on apeshit joyful at Mickey and Minnie.

How much money did this ‘happy’ experience cost? Not including dinner afterward, it was well over $150 (CDN). Or groceries for a week. Hydro or transit for a month and a half. Less than a week of daycare, but more than double my monthly gym membership. Easily classifiable as money we don’t really have and I’ll have to extra careful for the next two months so that I don’t totally regret it.

But for me, it’s sooo worth it. I say no so much. All the time. I’m not a minimalist; I just think kids don’t need a lot of stuff. Of all of her toys, she gets the most use out of her three-dollar watercolours, five-dollar crayon collection, and a large collection of glitter glue.  When we go shopping she’s always asking me for pop, chips, sugary fatty junk that kids seem to like so much, and I say no.  She asks me for cheap plastic toys, and I say no.

I don’t just say no, I explain why. Because you have lots of toys. Because we’re healthy and we want to stay healthy. Because we love the earth and long after you don’t like that toy, even after you grow up like Mommy, that toy will still be here. Because we don’t waste. Because because because. She’s on board for the most part. And she even will tell me sometimes, my three year old, when she sees me tossing out a Ziploc bag, that it can probably be reused.

$22 plastic toy in action. If you're three, this is the sh*t.

Even with all of this, she was so HAPPY. Just to have the ridiculous spinney light toy. I can’t feel it’s wrong. I don’t feel like it shouldn’t have been bought.

Having said that, next time we go somewhere like this, I’m going to do some pre-planning. Let Bean know well in advance that the treat is the show, not the stuff. Let her know that there will be no stuff. Weather the disappointment at the show. Get something related at a cheaper shop after if she’s still interested.

Another side note, I let Bean buy the spinney toy with her own money. I told her it was her own money, and today, I logged into my bank accounts, and she and I transferred the money from her bank account into mine. She thought it was grand.

She doesn’t regret it either.

We’re moved. It’s done.

In the month of November, work wasn’t all that busy. I mean, it was busy enough, but not total-ass crazy. For some reason, the week before I moved – the biggest move of my life – where I moved a full house, on my own, with not much lead time, with my folks (who, frankly are the backbone of most successful endeavours in my life) in China visiting my brother and his family, work got all-fired busy.

I packed while on Blackberry, and carried boxes while on conference calls.  All our stuff was moved from Place A to Place B, without any of the drama of the last move.

Good, right?

BUT, the next morning as I was trying to figure out just how I was going to unpack a colossal mountain of boxes, The Ex called to tell me, “It started.” What? What started? “Labour.”

So, as I’m unpacking boxes in my new home, Ex’s new baby is coming. It’s not the baby’s fault. Or even Ex’s, as much as I’d like to pin it on him. But here I was, unpacking, knowing that Bean could be brought home any time as all the guts of our existence is blurthing out all over the place. And a baby that I’d been dreading for months, one which would be – at least verbally – brought regularly into my home as a reminder of a life I so sincerely wanted and painfully lost, was on its way.

And so I lost it. And by lost, I mean eyes rolling back in my head, crying so hard I couldn’t breathe or see, Qurathsy.*  And I was sick (bronchitis), my brand new appliances weren’t working properly and NOBODY from the company called me back despite numerous calls. AND my HD PVR didn’t work (and frankly, if you know me in real life, you know what a punch to the gut that is).  Somewhere in there, I ended up having a conversation with a person who tried to convince me what a lovely and generous person Ex’s partner is (#timingfail). Then, that first weekend after the move, Bean didn’t go to bed until after 11 p.m. on a Sunday, which put us on a crap track for the week to come.

And Bean’s sibling is the world. At the time, Bean was not yet 3-years-old.

That was just eight weeks ago. Since then, I got a Christmas tree, and I decorated it. I had a third birthday celebration for Bean. Took Bean to her first Ballet with friends. I got all my shopping done and hosted Christmas at my new place. I also hosted a (if I do say so) pretty fun New Year’s Eve party with all the awesome kids in our life, and we counted down at 8 p.m. so that we could all be with our kids. I righted myself at work from faltering a little in December. We’ve been working on Bean’s sleep, which is still a bit wonky.  We’ve also been working on some behaviorial stuff – which I’ll blog about in a separate post – which I think has come up for her as all of the dust settles on all of this monumental change. I’ve started back to the gym.

I have accepted that I’m an okay mum. Why? Because I didn’t have a nervous breakdown. I had a choice. As a parent, if you have a choice to have a nervous breakdown or persevere (and that’s not always the case), you persevere. You make positive choices. As a close friend told me over the holidays, you choose joy.

Not a word about the cake, K? We just moved. Stop judging.

Choosing joy doesn’t mean that things don’t hurt. They do. A lot. These are real events with bald consequences. I cry regularly. I feel the pain as it creeps in and out. But I find that the more I choose joy, the less it creeps. I may not feel sometimes like it’s less, but I know it is.

Once again, strength found me when I felt I had none.  My life with Bean has hit some kind of cruise control where everything is working and working well. Where stress is coming from other places, but not from how we’re coping and getting from Monday to Friday. These things have settled. They work. We’re now, at very least (and it does feel small and scary), at a place from which we can rebuild. Where we – I, really – am not being clobbered with weekly emotional upsets, and even if I do, I have a good foundation. I can cope. I can still breathe.

Hallelujah

*While I was teaching in Japan, this is how a student spelled crazy. I feel it phonetically explains the word really well.

It’s under my skin, this one.  You’d think my ninth move in six years would be a cinch. I’d have it all figured out. Unfortunately, no. It’s not the case. Let me tell you about it.

Move #1 – From Japan, back in with my parents while I finished my post-grad. It was a new life, means to an end.

Move #2 – In with Now-Ex, then potential love of my life. We’d been together a year. Happy. In love. First great job after finishing school. One of my best moves ever.

Move #3 – Ex and I decided to move in with friends to save some money so he could go back to school. Bit rough. We had to store a bunch of stuff, fit into a much smaller space. Also where we were living when he proposed, and we got married. That house is so special to me still, since great friends still live there, and I have so many happy memories in this house.

Move #4 – Ex and I decided we needed our own place since we were married an’ all. We unpacked our wedding presents and it was like getting everything all over again. BUT, a month after we moved in we were told the landlords were selling and if the new buyers wanted to occupy, we’d have to move. Then, we found out we were pregnant. Then the new buyers wanted to occupy. So we moved.

Move #5 – We were incredibly lucky and found a great place in a great neighbourhood and it was a fairly smooth transition and our daughter was born while we lived there and it was good. But then we decided to maybe buy a house. And we did.

Move #6 – Into the new place. Great neighbourhood. Down the street from a great elementary school that Bean could go to. I painted. I built shelves. I planned. I dreamed, I noticed through this process that maybe ‘we’ weren’t into this as much ad ‘I’ was. And then I….

Move #7 – …moved. Out. Threw things into boxes. Didn’t pay much attention. Saw everything through tears and anger and confusion and a strange clarity that this was it.

Move #8 – You know about this, right?

Move #9 – I’m tired. With each move, I need new stuff. I need shelves or less shelves. I have to force my stuff into boxes and no matter how little I think I have, it fills a heckload of boxes. I have to budget. And this one is on me. It’s my first step in the new life. It’s my choice. It’s in reaction to environmental considerations, but it’s my choice. For me. For my future. Ours, Bean’s and mine.

She’s already in the new Day Care, and loves it. She’s thriving.  I managed to find a great place in a great neighbourhood. While a good friend sent me the listing, and another confirmed it was a great place, I negotiated the terms myself. I got the stuff for it myself. I have planned and packed and figured this out in the space of the new reality.

But I’m tired. I need it over. Moved in. No next step.  THE END. Not, like, the end The End. Just the end of big stress. I want regular stress. I would be so glad to stress about garden-variety finances.  Family. I want to spoil my nieces and nephews.  I want to pay attention to my career again. I want to pay attention to my friends.

And I want to do this all without asking people to help me move, or give me added consideration for my ‘circumstances’.

If three is a lucky number, than 3×3 is, like, super-extra-lucky. Move number nine. Fingers crossed.

Now that the custodial arrangements have evolved, she spends more time with her father. Full weekends every second weekend, soon to be joined by a few weeknight overnights.

This, as it happens, seems to have coincided with a general settling in of routine. A normalization and acceptance of the pace of our weekday mornings and evenings.  Somehow, it’s starting to fit.  Feel comfortable, if not necessarily easy. It took almost 15 months for me to be able to say this, and it feels great that we’re finally adjusted enough that every day doesn’t feel like one fast-forward unwanted chore after another.

Here is the thing though, now when she isn’t with me, I have no idea what to do with myself. In the early days, when she wasn’t gone for very long stretches, I had to clean, cook, do laundry, and run errands. Days ‘off’ were comfortably used up in the business of getting from one day or week to the next.

Now, especially when she’s gone for two full nights, by the Sunday I’m starving for her company. I’ve spent so long trying to just cope, I am at a total loss as to what to do with my time when I’m not in survival mode.

Right now, it seems as though the times she isn’t with me are marked by loss. Loss of precious free time when we can just hang out and have fun together to balance the frantic week days.  I can’t quite seem to fill up all the time so that I don’t feel this loss acutely.

I even worry that my sadness at her being gone and ravenous attention to her when she returns home will become a burden to her. That she will somehow feel like she is responsible for my happiness.

So again, I’m trying a perspective change. I’m not a part-time Mommy. I’m a full-time Mommy with a really wonderful opportunity to pursue some interests and extra time to build a wonderful life. I think that turning the time of loss into a time of growth is totally possible. In fact, it’s my pre-New Year’s resolution.

Shortly after I’d returned to work from maternity leave, I discovered my husband had been having an affair. The initial confrontation detonated an emotional atom bomb. After several months of heart-wrenching negotiations, things between us were actually over-over by the end of the summer, and we have now been officially separated for just over a year

Flash forward to the present – The Ex is still with this woman, living in the home that he and I shared, and they are expecting a child next month. ‘The Other Woman’ (who is no longer Other) is part of my daughter’s reality, and Bean speaks of her and the coming brother or sister often.

So it affects me. It forces me to into a situation where I am supporting my daughter’s relationship, not only with her father, but also with his new family. I listen to her stories, and encourage a positive relationship. In my heart, I know this is the right thing to do. And having to do it breaks my heart a little, every time.

I am still going through the process of grieving. I have had to adapt quickly to many changes in the internal and external environment. I’ve had to move twice, and have another move coming up. I’ve been mothering Bean through transitions to new daycares and changes in the parenting schedule. Balancing a career that is very important to me. Trying to make sense of a marriage that failed so horribly, while witnessing my Ex – a man I had loved and believed I would grow old with – move on so quickly and bindingly, and letting go of the illusion of what I thought was real. And in the very small, rare, spaces between, trying to build a new and vibrant life for Bean and I. I don’t want to just ‘get past this’.  My dearest wish is to thrive.

So many things have to happen on time. Getting to work, for example. Bedtime (within reason). Often in the mornings or evenings I’m hurrying my little angel to move a little faster. Finish what she’s doing. More than often I’m telling her: Hurry, sweetie. We’re late. Not because I’ve gotten up late or because I’m inherently disorganized, but because things just take time.

Weekends are similar. Since we only have every second one together, I try to fit the fun and goodness, all of the experiences I want to have with my daughter, into something akin to a screenplay trying not to be an insult to the book, which may have been longer.

To some extent, this works. The urging for swiftness. Keeping a staccato pace with good humour and lots of silly jokes with my kid to make it a game, to distract her from her dawdling, to keep pace with our animated life.

I’ve often felt, however, that even though I’ve tricked, coaxed, bribed, led her into whatever-it-is we’re doing, I’m kind of never letting her finish a train of thought. I’m interrupting her flow, even if her flow is just to dawdle, I’m jumping in to bring her into my world of stuff that has to happen about five minutes ago.

So on Monday – Thanksgiving day (in Canada) – I tried a whole day of non-rushing. I let her jump in a puddle until the puddle was splashed right out. I let her stay in the bath long after the water had cooled. I didn’t make her eat any more bites of her dinner than she wanted, and I didn’t rush her on our evening walk, even when she was inspecting every slab of the sidewalk looking for ‘signs’.

I will not lie. There were a couple of things I would have liked to do yesterday in lieu of lengthy navel gazing. I felt myself get frustrated more than once as I stood at puddle’s edge for going on 30-minutes or stopped for a particularly fascinating divot in a paving stone. Even with the breathtaking cuteness of my imaginative daughter, I became just a bit bored here and there.

For Bean, the day was magic. She told me she loved me about half a dozen times before bed, and went to sleep without a peep. For her this was The Bliss. She had a whole day with me. With my full attention. Doing stuff she wanted. Without being rushed or interrupted. Playing through her games and imaginings.

It made me vow to myself that once a month, at least, we’ll do this. Bean day. Where I follow her for a change, and let her play out her thoughts.

It also occurs to me that maybe this is one of the gifts of being a solo parent with one kid, for both her and I. While there are pockets of time that are circumstantially more frantic – like most things – there is some balance in which there is also, just maybe, a little more room. And in that space we can practice non-rushing. It’s an art; at least for one of us.

Even knowing this, I understand that the day to day stuff is not the whole story. In the big picture, I have a lot for which to be thankful.

I’m thankful for Bean. For her smiles and spontaneous affection. For her child’s ability to force a soul to be patient when inclined to haste. For providing context for everything I do. For her shimmering fairy goodness. For teaching me so much about life, myself and the kind of person I want to be.

I’m thankful for my parents, my brother and his family, and the unconditional support they always offer. I take it for granted way too much. But if I try to picture my life without them, it’s terrifying to think how desperate and lonely things would be.

And an extension of my family, my friends.

I’m thankful that I have a job I love. For all my winging whingeing in the first paragraph, I love what I do and feel that I grow every day through my work. I know I’m not saving or changing the world the way I once thought I might, but I do know that what I do is important to me and lets me think and write and talk to people about things I think are cool.

I’ve been trying to think of something I’m thankful for which is a result of the fallout from the divorce and these faltering steps forward in the New Life.  I spend so much time worrying about how this will affect Bean (though I try not to), and juggling the new financial reality (the world is not set up for Solo Parents. Ask one), and dealing generally with the negative stuff, I have a hard time keeping an eye on the good stuff. And there is fertile ground.

Okay, here it is. I’m thankful for the opportunity this has given me to explore who I really am. I don’t think I know yet, but I have looked at myself and my life in ways that I never would have. I’m thankful for the chance I have to know my child on our own terms. I was only a two-parent family for one year of her life, but I remember it being very different. I am thankful for the bond we have and the intensity of our relationship. It’s not always great to have no backup, but it does force me to deal with parenting challenges and find creative solutions by myself, and sometimes that’s kind of awesome.

Mine started the second Bean started eating finger foods, and was not totally breastfed. The second that first bit of avocado hit her system at around six months, she was unable to poop without strain. As more foods where introduced, the worse it got.

I talked to her Ped about it, and was told she didn’t drink enough, so I proceeded to flood her with fluids. My apartment constantly has several cups of half-drunk water all over. Though I asked the doctor about this a few times, I had never gotten a satisfactory answer, and nothing that addressed what I felt was a pretty serious problem.

I upped her fibre, fruits and vegetables, almost eliminated any kind of over-processed carbs, and kept track of poos like sports scores. I asked the Ex to tell me how many times she may have gone over a weekend, which was often not at all.

By the time she was ready to go, they were so hard and difficult to pass she had episodes of terror when she felt the urge coming on. I have cried more than once as I watch her strain and struggle trying to make a poo, sympathizing with the pain she must be in.

It got to the point, just before she started using the toilet full time, that the only time she would poop was in the middle of the night when her body took over and she was somewhat unconscious of the act.  She would still wake up crying, but usually when it was already over.

As much as I tried to tell my little two-year-old, there was nothing I could say to convince her that pooing on the potty was going to be easier. Without the limited space of a diaper, and aided by gravity, she would be able to push the poo out without so much pain and effort. But she would not buy it.

Finally, when she started peeing on the potty, I became a doula for poo. When I read on her face that the urge to push was coming on, I’d plead with her, encourage her, to PUSH! C’mon sweetheart, push!! I’d make the faces and pretend to push with her. But nothing doing. She would not be told that pooping in the potty was anything she wanted to be part of, and poop once again in the still of night.

Around this time, I did two other things. The first was dietary. I eliminated cows’ milk from her home-diet. She still has milk at school, and cheese from time to time, but not at home. We have either soy or almond milk, we (or rather, she) doesn’t eat cheese, and I opt for dairy-free options of frozen desserts. Also, I cut out wheat to a large extent. Again, not entirely, but drastically.

This helped with the consistency of the poo, and the frequency, but not with the desire to poo where she ought, and didn’t change the fact that pooping grown up poos in a diaper is simply an uncomfortable thing to do, again adding to the phobia.

The other thing, was that I made her poo on the toilet. I’m sure that in every parenting book in the world, this is not recommended. For me, I felt so out of options, and so sorry for Bean that I felt that it was the only way. It started out slowly, just using my newfound doula skills to get her to push a couple of times, and ended with us being locked into the bathroom until a poo came out. It was tricky since I had to be perfectly sure she HAD to poo, and challenging because I really wasn’t sure this was the right thing to do.

And finally, it happened. One day, she looked at me with total terror and said gravely, “Mummy, poo’s coming out.” Before the pushing even started, she was crying. She put her little arms around my neck and I put my arms around her, and then I heard that golden ‘plop’, and it was done.

She looked up at me and said, happy as anything, “I made a big brown poo in the potty.”  And we’ve never looked back.

Now, making ‘big brown poos’ is her favourite thing in the world. Every single time she goes to the toilet, she gives a good push or two and tries to make one. Whenever she does, she gives a little clap and dance.

It took two years from the time we started having problems to the final solution, and I’m so glad it’s resolved. It seems funny now, just a few weeks after it’s no longer a worry, even though I know it wasn’t.