Well, THAT happened.

“That” being vacationing with the girls, as a single mama. Crikey, it’s enough to make you miss the old days, no matter what the old days looked like. Neither woman nor man was meant to vacation with offspring as the sole caretaker—at least not for longer than three days.

I am single mama; hear me whimper. Or roar at my children as they lick the metal bar on the Tilt-a-Hurl.

They had a mostly good time. I think. When their mean mommy wasn’t yelling at them to come out of the pool, get closer to the lifeguard, stay out of the sun, eat at least one item outside of the Deep Fried food group.

I had a mostly exhausted time—with glimmers of goodness, moments of laughter, certainly. But I can’t shake the nagging feeling that I didn’t do enough, wasn’t the best mom I could be, wasn’t the mom they needed to have on vacation with them. That we needed this trip. That we didn’t need this trip. Conflicted emotions.

I like to think that time will scour off the rough edges of our memories of the trip, leaving behind only a sea glass glow.
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It’s becoming what it is.

At the edges of my vision I sense a sort of erosion, a crumbling of the scene of what used to be, and the image of me, standing within that scene. The edges are beginning to blur.

That life will never be erased completely in my mind’s eye.

But it’s going. It’s leaving me. A new space is opening up.

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Vacationing with kids is a daunting enough prospect with two parents on hand. Single parenthood pretty much rules out a vacation feeling like an actual vacation whatsoever. I am okay with this. I am a pragmatist, people, not a pessimist. I like to remind myself to keep my expectations low. Totally works for me. Last year, I pulled it off without completely losing my mind, and this year, I betcha I can do it again.

Consider your average continental U.S. beach vacation. Okay, so I am considering the average continental U.S. beach vacation, done dirty and dirt cheap. You can think about other things. La la la la la you can’t hear me.

It wasn’t always so purty or easy, even with two fairly calm, sturdy adults to drag the four hundred pounds of beach gear two miles to the beach, only to listen to the kids whining about how they like the motel pool better because the ocean is too “squishy.”
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Somewhere on the kitchen table—under a dying crockpot, a rabies vaccination certificate, and a pile of assorted other detritus—are two packets. I hated the two packets on sight two months ago, and I hate them now. They remain untouched. I know we have to do something about that, but I am gritting my teeth.

Summer homework. Summer reading lists. Summer “enrichment” plans.

Yeahhh. Single Mommy don’t play that.
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I lost my last steady writing job just when my ex and I separated. The company was downsizing, like most other companies were two-and-a-half years ago. But I was the senior copywriter, the ONLY writer. I was sure they couldn’t dispense with their only communications person.

Uh, yeah. Not so much. They didn’t lose any sleep over it.

I, on the other hand, lost a lot of sleep. It was the job I had been counting on to see me through the divorce, to be a constant during times of brutal inconstancy.

I switched back into freelance mode, but the only people worse off than writers were freelance writers. Unemployment thankfully saw me through. I don’t know what I would have done without it, I honestly don’t. Unemployment made it possible for me to hold it together, to at least provide some sort of security for the girls as my ex and I tried to navigate the divorce waters.

Now I am considering what I want this new life of mine to look like. Freelance work has dried up completely. Queries go unanswered. Old contacts apologize profusely, say they’re sorry, but there’s just no writing work at the moment.
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The hardest part of this becoming

real, of fighting tooth-and-nail to

see and to be seen? There will

never be answers, clear endings,

agreed-upon statements of fact.

We leave that to the friends, no

longer so mutual.
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My ex and I have a “don’t ask, don’t tell” policy regarding our dating lives post-divorce.

It is not a policy that we discussed beforehand. It is not a policy that we discuss now. It simply is. At some point, it seems like it’s got to change. But for now, for better or for worse, this is where we are.

The girls, of course, carry information back and forth like pollinating bees. I know which names they have mentioned to him; I know which names they have mentioned to me. They speculate as much as I do. I can see them working it out in their heads: their parents will be with other people. Some grownup friends are just friends; some are friends with potential to become much more to Mommy and Daddy.
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Lately, we’ve been garnering some strange looks, the three of us. People smile when we pass them at the supermarket, grin at us from parked cars, chuckle quietly to themselves as they witness our animated conversations.

I know the looks from these strangers. It’s the look of folks observing love at work, love in play.

I am in love with my daughters, more than ever.

We seem to have finally hit our stride. Not to say there are not difficult moments, but for the most part, we have worked out our post-divorce routine as an all-girl unit. We have come to happy terms as a threesome instead of a foursome. There is a fluid give-and-take, with much good humor and lively chatter, but Mama here is definitely alpha. It works. They know exactly where I’ve drawn the lines in the sand. Although they occasionally try to inch a painted toenail past the line, they are good, honest, respectful girls. We all play by the rules, including me: when you screw up, you say you’re sorry, and you say it quickly and earnestly. No excuses.
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This is super.

I am downward-facing Jenny. I am on my belly on the rough porch roof, clinging to an air conditioning unit by its electrical tail. The asphalt shingles scrape my abdomen as I clamor for the slipping appliance. I manage to dig the sweaty fingers of my right hand into the vents, but still, the AC slips some more, precariously close to the edge of the roof. Both the AC and my skull are on a collision course with the sidewalk two stories below, or, possibly worse, the roof of my car.
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My life is shifting.

Tectonic plates of past, present and future do the bump-and-grind, and I have to laugh. There is movement, suddenly, beautifully. And in spite of the churning, as my life redefines itself, I feel more anchored, more grounded to my own earth, than I have in a very, very long time.

I just returned from San Diego, a place I’d never felt compelled to visit. But I have friends and family there. I imagined a 40th birthday bonfire on a beach, right by the surf. Did such things exist? Even wondering if I could make such an event happen was forward motion.

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