Today I am honored to invite Mari Gallion, author and advocate for the rights of single mothers, to share with us her experience as a single, dating mother. We’ve never met and she lives miles away; but I’ve come to consider her a friend and someone I admire. I hope you enjoy reading her post as much as I did.
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When I reflect back on the first months of my last relationship, I have only positive things to say: My boyfriend had seen me once and sought me out, stuffing a note with his name and contact information through the cracked driver’s side window of my car while I watched my friend’s band play late into the night at a fishing festival.
“I am camping in the back of my truck tonight,” it said. “But I’ve been tossing and turning, and I know I’ll never get to sleep if I don’t make sure that you have a way of getting ahold of me… if you want to.”
How romantic.
After briefly corresponding via Facebook, I found out that we had quite a few things in common, including two casual friends who spoke highly of him. On our first date, his didn’t hesitate to pick up the check– nor did he ever hesitate to invite, pay, thank, open doors, listen, drive, gift, compliment, carry, text me first thing in the morning and last thing at night, and refer to me as his “girlfriend” after three wonderful dates.
Happily, the chemistry was there too. And although he’d make a humorous ritual of “manscaping” in anticipation of the times we could spend alone, when I’d ask if there was anything comparable I could do for him, he’d answer like a pro: “There’s nothing you can do that would make you better than you already are.”
Can I get an “Aw…?”
Most importantly, as a single parent with full custody of his two boys (and my sharing custody for my one), I found him to be culturally relatable: Dinner tonight at Red Robin? Count us in! Saturday afternoon at the waterpark? Great! A discount PG-13 movie is playing at the theater pub? Good for the grown-ups and good for the kids. Grandma comes down with the flu and can’t watch the kids tonight? Happens to us all.
“We will have fun, kids or no kids, yours or mine, no matter what we do.”
Hey–I could get used to this!
Furthermore, I could listen to–and understand—his challenges as a custodial parent: The boys’ mother was two hours late picking them up for visitation today. She didn’t get the younger one to his Summer school on time, and he is on the brink of being kicked out due to tardiness. She gets paid under the table, so there’s no way those thousands of dollars of back child support will ever be paid. She promised she’d take them fishing, so we rushed home, but she didn’t show up at all.
Wow, could I relate! For the first time as a partnered mother, I could be completely honest about my entire set of life challenges without a (typically childless) date or partner looking bored, rolling his eyes, implying that I needed to get over it, or asking me what I might have done to contribute to this problem. Suddenly, I was no longer the booby prize with the big pile of unrelatable and exhausting challenges. Best of all, I had proof that this was not an issue of women versus men—holy catharsis!
So was this it? Had I found my man? Was it finally my turn to experience this illusive domestic bliss?
Not so fast. There was one thing lurking from the shadows—one VERY IMPORTANT component, one dealbreaker that was soon to peek, peek again, and then come raging out from under the bed tear this relation-ship from stem to stern (yes, that was a “Gallion” metaphor: hyphen intended)–but first, some background is necessary in order to understand the scope of this coming rift:
Me and my Shadow
Since my son’s birth in 1998, he has been my only roommate. For three years, it was just him and me, living in a one-bedroom, one-bathroom condo until we re-joined society (well, kind of) by purchasing a humble two-bedroom house on the edge of the state park. Since his birth we shared—literally—everything. Heck, within those first three years of his life, it was not unheard of for my kid to barge into the bathroom while I was shaving my bikini line to tell me that he had found a potato bug under the stepping stone.
To the horror of my more traditional relatives, privacy—secrecy, rather– between me and my son was simply impractical, both physically (these walls are thin—he hears everything) and emotionally (he can see that I am upset about something—why deny it?). Practically speaking, this logic-wielding Gemini could certainly glean some balance from the emotional intelligence of this little Scorpio person. His intrusion into the more personal reaches of my existence seemed only—complimentarily–natural. Together, we were a family dream team.
And at the risk of sounding un-feministic (which, I assure you, would be an inaccurate assessment), my son has always been the “man of the house.” Not that he has any authority over me or any weird archaic gender role nonsense, but since an early age, he has embraced his role as the car washer, tire changer, garbage manager, weapons expert, and defender of the realm. All gender expectations aside, I have given him the freedom to show me who he is. This is his personal nature, and it is welcome. Hell, who wants to change tires? Not me!
During my own childhood, I was confused by a credo I had been introduced to again and again—but have yet to understand: “Just because it’s true doesn’t mean you have to ‘say’ it…”
It was the confusion of this hypocrisy, as well as significant time cleansing my throat chakra, that helped me to develop a family value of my own: mutual, say-anything honesty and transparency.
When my son was 12, his college fund was stolen by one of those more traditional relatives. Fearing the warnings of pop parenting psychologists and the “decency” tenets of the court system, I did my best to hide this from him–but what can I say? He is intuitive and smart. When he started to grill me, I had a choice: I could lie once, twice, and lie some more; I could hide in the garage to take phone calls from my attorney, I could try to slip his bank statements between the driver’s seat and the console of the car before he noticed he got mail… or I could tell the truth. To the chagrin of my attorney, he got it out of me.
Thankfully, this was a truth that set him free: While forgiving the relative for his trespass, he learned that not everyone has financial integrity. Surprisingly, and to my relief, our judge didn’t regard our communication as alienation of the relative, and the court ruled in our favor. I can’t imagine how much more stressful our journey had been if I had lied.
Mom’s got a Boyfriend
Back to the boyfriend: We’ll call him Dillon, ‘cause I don’t know any Dillons.
The reason for Dillon’s full-custody status—his ex-wife’s decline into hardcore substance abuse–was no secret, at least not to the residents of the small town in which he lived. Nor was it a secret to my son, as it had been discussed openly in his presence during date number five or six that almost got canceled due to a last-minute father no-show, but Dillon said “Let’s go anyway—we’ll bring him along.”
His ex-wife’s challenges were discussed maturely and blamelessly. How refreshing it was that this man could separate the person from the problem, and could see that it was ultimately his choice to take full responsibility for the safety of his kids—to pay thousands of dollars for it, no less– and still recognize the good in the mother of his children. My son was also impressed, later referring to Dillon as “a winner.”
However, Dillon’s ex-wife’s issues were indeed a secret—from his children.
I learned this while we were at a party: The adults were in the living room, drinking and dancing, the young children were in the back yard jumping on the trampoline, and the teens and tweens (including my son and Dillon’s older son) were in the den watching TV. When one parent warned us that the kids were watching a certain episode of the Chappelle Show and wanted to make sure every parent was “okay with that,” Dillon said it was fine.
I asked, “Are you sure? They’re joking about people with drug problems. Don’t you think that might make your son feel a little bad?”
“I guess it’s fine,” he said. He shrugged. “I don’t know.”
“I’ve seen that episode,” I said. “I would feel weird if it were me. If you want to pull him out of there, I will take my son out too so he doesn’t feel singled out.”
“No, it’s fine,” he said.
I asked, “Does your son know about his mother?”
He answered, “I don’t know.”
He doesn’t know? I was shocked. How could he not know?
“He’s twelve,” I said. “Don’t you think that’s old enough for him to know?”
“No,” he said. “It’s not for me to tell them these things about their mother.”
“But it wouldn’t be like telling him something that was not true. It can explain a lot. He’s seen a lot.”
Indeed he had: fights with the neighbors, fights with his mother’s current husband, staying the night at stranger’s houses until his dad showed up and pulled him out of there, dangerous driving, the kids waiting for hours in the car and being sent back to their father’s house in the middle of the night…
“To not know why these things are happening must be confusing. And I think it might be important for him to know why she does the things she does. You can do it compassionately and blamelessly, helping him to see that she is a good person with a bad problem.”
He shrugged again.
“What about getting into a car with her? Can he tell when it’s safe?”
Another shrug. I’d hit a wall.
Building a Bigger Wall
A few days later, my son had a talk with me. He was concerned. Dillon’s son didn’t “like his dad.”
“He thinks his dad has full custody because his mother punched a guy who was giving her a hard time in Safeway. He really resents him. I wanted to tell him the truth, but I didn’t know if it was a good idea.”
I didn’t know what to say. Do I tell my son what I would do in this situation? Furthermore, is what I would do the healthiest choice he could make for himself?
“It’s for them to work out between themselves,” I said. “We should do our best to stay out of it.”
And so it passed to my family: My son was holding a secret that was not even his own to hold. He had never asked to be put in this position, yet he was carrying a burden.
At the same time, I was carrying a burden too. I knew that my boyfriend’s son “didn’t like” his father. I knew that Dillon loved his son, and saw how much he did to try to show it. Yet all the energy he put into this child was flushed. After all, the child perceived him as the man who had arbitrarily separated him from his mother, the main woman in his life. Who wouldn’t be angry? He didn’t know any better.
Being close in age, my son spent a lot of time with Dillon’s son, and it was getting hard for him to listen to Dillon’s son say hateful things about his father, police, teachers… people in general. It was becoming recreational for Dillon’s son to sabotage any fun plans his dad had made, alone or with us along for the ride, simply because he “didn’t like him.”
“It’s not because he’s not having fun,” my son said. “It’s because he hates his dad. But we all have to suffer for it.”
The sabotage continued, as did my son’s discomfort: After having purchased tickets to a long-anticipated movie, Dillon’s son came down with a violent migraine, which magically disappeared as soon as we were half-way home.
“He faked it,” my son said. “I saw him smiling more than once. He ruined everyone’s evening. He just wanted to stick it to his dad.”
On another night, Dillon’s son refused to eat dinner. What I cooked was “weird,” he wasn’t hungry, and he picked at his food with an exaggeratedly disgusted look on his face. He later complained that he was starving, and that if he didn’t eat soon, he would get a headache.
“Do you want cereal?”
“No.”
“Do you want chips and salsa? Quesadilla? Salad? Apples and cheese? Smoked salmon and crackers? Pirate’s Booty? BLT? Orange juice? Leftovers? Vegetables? Strawberries? Yogurt?”
He wanted to go to the store and look for something he would like. His father refused. Headache to commence as soon as we all sat down to watch SNL, the only TV show my son and I watch together. Normally my son and I would laugh ourselves to sleep, and lament over the possible hilarious skits we had missed—but this time, it was noise and drama. For my son, this was almost the last straw.
Even opening birthday presents was a spectacle of Dillon’s son’s disappointment, shrugging and rolling eyes, pouting and treating gifts as though they were somehow insults.
“You know what?” My son snapped after an hour of rejected celebration attempts, “I don’t even get gifts. My mom takes me on a week-long vacation every year, and that’s my Christmas and my birthday.”
“My dad doesn’t take me on vacation,” Dillon’s son responded with a sneer. He turned away, and I could see his reflection in the window behind him. He was smiling. My son saw it too–he shot me a knowing glance, as if urging me to call him on it—but I couldn’t do that.
At this time, it should be noted that my son gets along with most people: adults and children, teachers, authority figures, and even (gasp) girls his age. At the beginning of my relationship with Dillon, he was excited at the prospect of sharing his life and space with other boys who—if all worked out—could eventually become family. But at this time, the “man of the house” was getting pissed. But what could he do? Is it fair for a 13 year-old boy to sacrifice his own peace so that his mother could have a romance disconnected from his happiness?
Some might say yes–that since mom was holding it all down, mom got to make the rules. Codependents and—as author Bella De Paulo calls them—“matrimaniacs” might think that a kid is just along for the ride defined by mom’s life–that if a single mom, whose choices are “naturally” limited by what some perceive to be her “baggage,” is lucky enough to initially turn a man’s head, she should yield to his wishes and authority if she wants to keep him–but this mom…
… this mom was missing what was at one time a happy and stable relationship with her true and beloved family: A relationship of mutual respect and honesty, easy and simple joy. And it only took two or three requests to go hang out with grandpa rather than join us for dinners, movies and waterpark visits in order for me to see that I was losing my own family relationship, trading him for another family’s happiness, although it was apparent to everyone except them that they weren’t happy.
“So he doesn’t want to go,” Dillon once said. “He’s lucky he has that option. Saves me a little money anyway, and he will have fun with his grandpa.”
But I wasn’t having fun.
“He’s just being a kid. He’s a teenager. They all act like that. He’s just growing up, and hanging out with mom isn’t so fun anymore.”
I would have accepted that explanation if I had believed it to be true. In this case, and at this time in our lives, I knew it wasn’t true. And rather than a mother who truly knew her son, Dillon perceived me as an unrealistic and controlling woman who simply couldn’t let go. In his view, I was expecting way too much of my child that he be joyful. Talk about shifting the focus!
Did I try to talk to Dillon about our parenting differences? Yes, I did. Did I mention countless times that I thought there was a better way to address his son’s behavior? Yes, I did. Was it productive? No, it wasn’t. The go-to response was “he’s just being a kid. I was the same way.”
“But how is a child supposed to choose a better way when he doesn’t have all the information?”
I wanted so badly to say more: “Maybe if you were to be honest with him, he would realize that you’re not the enemy. Maybe he would treat you with respect and love, and wouldn’t try to sabotage every nice thing you do for him. Maybe that could be the solution to everything, and how will you know whether or not it works if you don’t try?”
I just kept hitting that cold wall of silence, that phalanx of shrugs, the fog of “I don’t know,” and eventually, the condescending subject change, or the flat-out “I’m not going to dignify that with an acknowledgment that I heard you, even though we both know that I did.”
The wall seemed to pervade every aspect of our relationship: He was waiting for me to comply with his way of doing things. To him, it was natural to give me the dinners and movies, and carry my bags—but he wasn’t going to give me any actual power. And if those perks proved tempting enough, I’d turn my back on the one person who was truly mine, and wanted to be mine as much as I wanted to be his. I would exchange the perks of the original man of the house for this new one.
Over a period of about three weeks, the dates, the dinners, the movies, the company… didn’t seem to quite do it for me anymore. It was like frosting–but where was the cake?
Sending Back the Dessert
As I lay awake in my bed on many a night, I imagined how I could diplomatically express that children are people too, and that a person is bound to draw the wrong conclusion if they don’t have access to the truth (He’s just being a kid); that I had learned, through being single and pregnant and seeking help at that time, the blocking of truth and resources can turn one’s destiny in a direction that is wrong for them (Yeah, but what if it just makes him want to be a druggie like his mom?), and that we must not stand in the way of another person’s free will (Children make bad decisions—that’s why they don’t have free will until they’re 18). I wanted to remind him that there was a perfect child in the body of his son (He’s been through a lot—of course he’s going to have issues), but that he just didn’t know how to find his way to the surface (let’s not get into who is a better swimmer—we both know who would win that contest). I imagined how good this outpouring would feel, that our families would be healed and then we could take a step towards a future together…
… but there was that impenetrable wall, and my fantasies would bounce back: return to sender.
On one such night, on the brink of sleep, I visualized my son’s chakra system: his throat and his third eye dimmed and flickering, the suffocated energy illuminating his lower chakras in a desperate, rebellious way. He seemed to say, “I am still counting on you to protect the self that I am. I want to be free and clear again. Please help me.”
Brusquely awakened by a hammer of determination, I could see my situation clearly: Dillon’s choices were hurting not only his son, but mine as well—and this single-mom-since-pregnancy didn’t suffer through an unsupported pregnancy, a forceps birth, a decade of underemployment, exorbitant prices for organic food, undeserved ostracism, judgment, and negative single-mom projections just to let my son get hurt—for what? Because I don’t have the confidence to believe that anyone else would like to take me out and treat me right? Because I don’t believe that any other man would accept my beautiful family enough to grow with us in a healthy way? Because I don’t believe that I am good enough on my own? Sure, my surface gets bruised a little bit here and there, but no, I’m not that wimpy!
Worst of all, if I let this go on, I was NOT the strong single mom I prided myself in being. I was trading my son’s well-being for the company of a person who was not making a priority of either of us: not my style!
And just like that–I was done.
By noon the next day it was settled. In a combination of celebration and mourning, my son and I made plans to go to our favorite steak house, just me, him, and an organic filet mignon (nothing’s too good for my son), cut in half (but yes, we can always watch our pennies).
“I did really think he was a good guy,” he said. “But after a while, it was like he was just there, and we were working harder at all the important stuff.”
“We” were working…
And so together, as family, “we” said goodbye to the invite, pay, thank, open doors, listen, drive, gift, compliment, carry, text me first thing in the morning and last thing at night boyfriend and all the other frosting… we’ll hold out for cake.
Mari Gallion is the author of The Single Woman’s Guide to a Happy Pregnancy, 2010 Edition (singlepregnancy.com), and the president and founder of Single Mothers-to-be, Inc. (sm2b.org).
