Not long after posting yesterday's blog about my ex's relative absence from his son's life of late, I got a surprising email from him.
Our son starts school in a few short weeks a private school where uniforms are required. I had mentioned this to my ex sometime back but hadn't thought much more about that conversation since then. His email today was just to ask if our son needed anything to start school and to offer to help get his uniforms or other things he may need.
To be clear, my ex has not been in the habit over the years since our divorce of offering to pay for things in excess of his regular child support, so this communication came as a genuine surprise.
And, of course, it made me feel bad about my rant. In all fairness, sending money for school uniforms and staying in touch with your son are completely unrelated issues, and he's still lacking in the latter. But I got pretty close to accusing him in the blog of not being interested in his son and what's going on in his life, and, particularly in the light of his email today, that was an unfair thing to say.
I still think he needs to work harder at staying in touch with his son, at connecting with him on his level, but perhaps I need to give my son's father more credit for the doing the best he can in the best way he knows how.
Thursday, July 29, 2010
Wednesday, July 28, 2010
Baby daddies and the single mom
OK, so this blog isn't so much about baby daddies as it is about one baby daddy -- my baby's daddy.
Yes, that's right -- buckle up folks, we're in for another bumpy installment of "Amy's ex-files."
My son's father, as some/many/all of you may already be aware, is currently deployed to Afghanistan. I'm sympathetic. I was once an Army wife who's husband was deployed far away to dangerous areas (it was Bosnia and Iraq when we were married).
But that also means that I know it's not prohibitively difficult to stay in touch with the folks back home. There's phone, which is not always reliable. There's email, usually at least accessible. And there's good old-fashioned mail, slow but reliable and free for deployed military members.
My ex-husband, my son's dear father [insert scathing sarcasm here], had availed himself of none of these methods of communication for two months. No calls, no letters, no emails for me to read to our son or even asking how he's doing. No carrier pigeons, no smoke signals, no dream invasion (sorry, I saw "Inception" last night, and I have a dream thing going on right now), nothing. For two months, since our son's birthday in May.
I know there's a struggle with the time difference (the few hours that my son's with me and awake in the evenings is pretty much the middle of the night over there), but there's been a weekend or two -- or eight! -- over the course of the past two months when it'd be easier to make contact.
I know it's tough to make time to call when that can involve standing in lines or when you're so exhausted all you want to do is sleep for the few hours you can. But I also know that my ex has spared no effort to call his wife during his deployment (as he should); would it be so tough to extend that same effort every once in a while for his son?
When I think about it, I'm part infuriated, part disappointed, to be honest. My son misses his father and loves his father and asks about him and talks about him. I want them to have a good relationship, but I can't force it.
My son finally did talk to his father this past weekend while he was visiting with his stepmom for an afternoon. My son told me that she called him somehow; I didn't even know that was possible.
I asked my son about talking to his father, but he said he was "shy," which is his way of saying he didn't want to talk or didn't really have anything to say. I think that's because his father has, of course, been absent for two months and, perhaps more importantly, never learned to talk to his son.
"How you doing, buddy?" is going to get you only so far with a 5 year old.
"Good," he'll say and then wait for the next question.
I've spoken with my ex husband before about his being frustrated that our son doesn't have more to say on the phone, but I know from experience that my son will talk a blue streak to someone who shows an interest in what he has to say.
But for that to work, you've got to know what's going on in his life to ask about it. You've got to figure out how to ask questions that'll get him talking about things that he likes. You've got to just be there -- and I don't mean physically, because I know he can't. You've got to show up with your heart, with your time, with every attempt you can because a long-distance relationship with a 5 year old requires work. You've just gotta do it. It's important.
Yes, that's right -- buckle up folks, we're in for another bumpy installment of "Amy's ex-files."
My son's father, as some/many/all of you may already be aware, is currently deployed to Afghanistan. I'm sympathetic. I was once an Army wife who's husband was deployed far away to dangerous areas (it was Bosnia and Iraq when we were married).
But that also means that I know it's not prohibitively difficult to stay in touch with the folks back home. There's phone, which is not always reliable. There's email, usually at least accessible. And there's good old-fashioned mail, slow but reliable and free for deployed military members.
My ex-husband, my son's dear father [insert scathing sarcasm here], had availed himself of none of these methods of communication for two months. No calls, no letters, no emails for me to read to our son or even asking how he's doing. No carrier pigeons, no smoke signals, no dream invasion (sorry, I saw "Inception" last night, and I have a dream thing going on right now), nothing. For two months, since our son's birthday in May.
I know there's a struggle with the time difference (the few hours that my son's with me and awake in the evenings is pretty much the middle of the night over there), but there's been a weekend or two -- or eight! -- over the course of the past two months when it'd be easier to make contact.
I know it's tough to make time to call when that can involve standing in lines or when you're so exhausted all you want to do is sleep for the few hours you can. But I also know that my ex has spared no effort to call his wife during his deployment (as he should); would it be so tough to extend that same effort every once in a while for his son?
When I think about it, I'm part infuriated, part disappointed, to be honest. My son misses his father and loves his father and asks about him and talks about him. I want them to have a good relationship, but I can't force it.
My son finally did talk to his father this past weekend while he was visiting with his stepmom for an afternoon. My son told me that she called him somehow; I didn't even know that was possible.
I asked my son about talking to his father, but he said he was "shy," which is his way of saying he didn't want to talk or didn't really have anything to say. I think that's because his father has, of course, been absent for two months and, perhaps more importantly, never learned to talk to his son.
"How you doing, buddy?" is going to get you only so far with a 5 year old.
"Good," he'll say and then wait for the next question.
I've spoken with my ex husband before about his being frustrated that our son doesn't have more to say on the phone, but I know from experience that my son will talk a blue streak to someone who shows an interest in what he has to say.
But for that to work, you've got to know what's going on in his life to ask about it. You've got to figure out how to ask questions that'll get him talking about things that he likes. You've got to just be there -- and I don't mean physically, because I know he can't. You've got to show up with your heart, with your time, with every attempt you can because a long-distance relationship with a 5 year old requires work. You've just gotta do it. It's important.
Saturday, July 24, 2010
Emotional satellites and the single mom
A friend of mine and I decided that small children are like some sort of emotional satellite dish: they intensify and reflect any emotion going on around them. Get excited and they start bouncing off the walls. Get frustrated and they become angry, sullen little creatures. Get upset and they end up an inconsolably weeping blob.
That last scenario happened to me last night when I took my son to see "Toy Story 3." I was crying near the end of the movie because (spoiler alert!) Andy -- the kid whose toys we've loved for years now -- had grown up was and heading off to college.
As a mom, I was crying, not because the movie's terribly sad or anything, but because I was envisioning my own 5 year old in years to come packing up his room and driving off with an old car stuffed to the gills with stuff.
(Side note: A woman in front of us in line at the concession stand just before the movie warned me that I was going to cry. Perhaps I should hunt her down and apologize for mentally rolling my eyes and scoffing at the very notion. At the very least, I send out apologetic karma, wherever you are, lady in the purple shirt.)
My son saw the tears streaming down my cheeks and immediately burst into tears himself. He crawled into my lap and cried and cried while my own tears, coming on even harder now that my sweet little son was crying in my lap (OK, maybe I'M the emotional satellite), trickled down onto his hair.
Once the movie was over, I asked him what made him sad, and, predictably, he didn't really have an answer because there wasn't anything in there that would make a child feel sad.
"It just made me sad," he said. And the very act of saying that short sentence would bring on his waterworks again.
Emotional satellite, I'm telling you.
That last scenario happened to me last night when I took my son to see "Toy Story 3." I was crying near the end of the movie because (spoiler alert!) Andy -- the kid whose toys we've loved for years now -- had grown up was and heading off to college.
As a mom, I was crying, not because the movie's terribly sad or anything, but because I was envisioning my own 5 year old in years to come packing up his room and driving off with an old car stuffed to the gills with stuff.
(Side note: A woman in front of us in line at the concession stand just before the movie warned me that I was going to cry. Perhaps I should hunt her down and apologize for mentally rolling my eyes and scoffing at the very notion. At the very least, I send out apologetic karma, wherever you are, lady in the purple shirt.)
My son saw the tears streaming down my cheeks and immediately burst into tears himself. He crawled into my lap and cried and cried while my own tears, coming on even harder now that my sweet little son was crying in my lap (OK, maybe I'M the emotional satellite), trickled down onto his hair.
Once the movie was over, I asked him what made him sad, and, predictably, he didn't really have an answer because there wasn't anything in there that would make a child feel sad.
"It just made me sad," he said. And the very act of saying that short sentence would bring on his waterworks again.
Emotional satellite, I'm telling you.
Friday, July 23, 2010
Twisted memory and the single mom
My son and I were lounging in my bed one lazy morning recently when he commented that he wanted a ceiling fan in his room like I have in mine.
"We'll have to see what we can do about that," I told him.
He then asked why we didn't have that guy who brought our downstairs fan bring another one for his room.
I'm sitting there racking my brain -- the guy who brought our downstairs fan? What in the world is he talking about?
It took only another second or two for me to realize he was referring to my ex-boyfriend who installed a new fan in my living room about three years ago.
"Do you mean Jim?" I ask him.
"Yeah," he said. "The guy who brought the fan."
First of all, I'm impressed that my son remembers anything from when he was 2 years old. Second of all, I'm thoroughly amused by the transformation of Jim's role in his life from a buddy and Mommy's friend to "that guy who brought our downstairs fan."
I was recounting the story to a friend of mine who made me laugh when she said it sounded like it had become a pretty simple equation in my son's mind: "that guy equals cooler air equals thumbs up for me. Let's get him back here."
I had once worried that my break up would upset my son or that he'd have memories of Jim that would make him sad. Clearly I needn't have been concerned since he remains in the wisps my son's memory as little more than a serviceman it would be handy to have around again.
"We'll have to see what we can do about that," I told him.
He then asked why we didn't have that guy who brought our downstairs fan bring another one for his room.
I'm sitting there racking my brain -- the guy who brought our downstairs fan? What in the world is he talking about?
It took only another second or two for me to realize he was referring to my ex-boyfriend who installed a new fan in my living room about three years ago.
"Do you mean Jim?" I ask him.
"Yeah," he said. "The guy who brought the fan."
First of all, I'm impressed that my son remembers anything from when he was 2 years old. Second of all, I'm thoroughly amused by the transformation of Jim's role in his life from a buddy and Mommy's friend to "that guy who brought our downstairs fan."
I was recounting the story to a friend of mine who made me laugh when she said it sounded like it had become a pretty simple equation in my son's mind: "that guy equals cooler air equals thumbs up for me. Let's get him back here."
I had once worried that my break up would upset my son or that he'd have memories of Jim that would make him sad. Clearly I needn't have been concerned since he remains in the wisps my son's memory as little more than a serviceman it would be handy to have around again.
Thursday, July 22, 2010
More questions and the single mom
If you've been a reader of my blog in the past, you've seen my posts (here, here, here and here -- subscription required) about the incessant and rather bizarre questions my son tends to ask.
The other day was the mother of all bizarre question days. We were driving home from the beach, so, granted, he had a lot of free time on his hands for his little mind to wander to diverse and varied topics. But still, some of these are just out there.
Here are the questions I got over the course of a few hours (and these are verbatim -- I wrote them down to be sure):
-Why do grownups have parents?
-Is my daddy dead yet? (To clarify this one a bit -- I asked him why he asked that, and he said, "Because he smokes a lot.")
-Do police never let bad guys go?
-Does God live?
Seriously. Seriously? These are the questions I have to figure out how to answer while driving 75 miles an hour across the heart of the Palmetto State, battling back weariness and fatigue and the growing urge to pee? Seriously?!?
I was recounting this list to a friend and her first question, and perhaps yours as well, is what did I answer. Well, I wish I had spewed forth some awe-inspiring wisdom, but mostly I just fumbled my way through something that would satisfy him.
Little did I know, he had more gems waiting for me in response to my feeble efforts.
"Well, honey, the bad guys can be let go after they get punished for a while. Like when you get a time out, you have to sit for a while but then you can get up and play. Bad guys have a grown-up time out for a while, and then they get a second chance to be good and can go home."
"But bad guys don't have houses," he replied.
What have I wandered into now, I thought.
"Of course they do. They have to go home somewhere just like we do."
He thought about this for a moment and then decided, "They don't have food in their houses like we do."
It wasn't a question. He was stating, for the record, that bad guys' houses don't have food.
I guess he needed to make sure bad guys were different in some way from the rest of us. I guess if I were 5 years old, it would seem awfully scary for bad guys to be just like the rest of us, too.
Still, where does this stuff come from??
The other day was the mother of all bizarre question days. We were driving home from the beach, so, granted, he had a lot of free time on his hands for his little mind to wander to diverse and varied topics. But still, some of these are just out there.
Here are the questions I got over the course of a few hours (and these are verbatim -- I wrote them down to be sure):
-Why do grownups have parents?
-Is my daddy dead yet? (To clarify this one a bit -- I asked him why he asked that, and he said, "Because he smokes a lot.")
-Do police never let bad guys go?
-Does God live?
Seriously. Seriously? These are the questions I have to figure out how to answer while driving 75 miles an hour across the heart of the Palmetto State, battling back weariness and fatigue and the growing urge to pee? Seriously?!?
I was recounting this list to a friend and her first question, and perhaps yours as well, is what did I answer. Well, I wish I had spewed forth some awe-inspiring wisdom, but mostly I just fumbled my way through something that would satisfy him.
Little did I know, he had more gems waiting for me in response to my feeble efforts.
"Well, honey, the bad guys can be let go after they get punished for a while. Like when you get a time out, you have to sit for a while but then you can get up and play. Bad guys have a grown-up time out for a while, and then they get a second chance to be good and can go home."
"But bad guys don't have houses," he replied.
What have I wandered into now, I thought.
"Of course they do. They have to go home somewhere just like we do."
He thought about this for a moment and then decided, "They don't have food in their houses like we do."
It wasn't a question. He was stating, for the record, that bad guys' houses don't have food.
I guess he needed to make sure bad guys were different in some way from the rest of us. I guess if I were 5 years old, it would seem awfully scary for bad guys to be just like the rest of us, too.
Still, where does this stuff come from??
Wednesday, July 21, 2010
Fearlessness and the single mom
My son and I spent this past weekend at Myrtle Beach.
On our first afternoon there, our trip to the beach coincided right with the incoming tide, so the surf had some big waves crashing in.
After watching me swim out beyond the breakers to float over the incoming waves, my son wanted to join me, in which request I happily obliged him. Decked out in his swimmies, he held onto my arms as we made our way through the surf to the calmer waters just beyond.
As we floated around out there, we'd occasionally catch a wave awkwardly or a larger one would come in and break earlier. We'd get splashed pretty good or dunked a little by the crest of the wave, but it was nothing major ... until THE wave.
Have you ever had one of those moments when you saw something bad coming and just couldn't do anything about it? That blink of an eye just before a car crash? The mug teetering on the edge of the counter just before falling? The false step or little stumble at the top of the stairs that sends a kid careening down them? (I know that last one a little too personally.)
That's what it felt like as I saw this wave coming toward us. It was huge (huge by South Carolina standards anyway) and was clearly going to break right on top of us. I grabbed my son, told him to hold his breath and tried to lift him up as high as I could above the wave just as it crashed onto my head, pounding me into the sand and ripping my son from my arms.
After being tumbled around pretty fiercely by the wave, I dug in my feet and stood up as quickly as I possibly could in the retreating surf and immediately looked around for my son, who should have been bobbing close by thanks to his floaties. I can't possibly describe the sinking sensation in my gut, the instant sense of panic that flooded my every cell, when he wasn't anywhere in sight.
I screamed his name and heard my friend call from the shore, "He's beside you." Just then, my son did surface about four feet away from me, spitting and coughing out the sea water but generally unharmed. (My friend said he saw the whole thing from the shore and, from his vantage point, could see my son just below the water's surface when I couldn't.)
Do you know how frustrating it is to try to run through water that's up to your waist? It seemed to take forever to get to my son and get him into my arms, though in reality only a few seconds had surely passed.
I picked him up and headed for the shore, spitting and coughing myself the whole way. We were both fine, but I had had enough of the ocean for the afternoon with that episode.
But here's what gets me -- my son indulged in being held and petted and checked over for a few minutes. He "wow"ed with me over what a doozy that wave was and sat down on the beach -- for a grand total of about 3.7 seconds. And then he was up and headed back to the waves again to splash and play, completely undaunted by the experience that left my adrenaline surging and my heart pumping.
Of course, I should admit that I'm guilty of the same offense in a more protracted form. We did the exact same thing the next day. Again, incoming tide, high surf, battering waves. Again, swim out past the breakers and float over the waves. Again, giant wave slams into us, pounding water into our ears and noses and our bodies into the sand.
The second time, though, might have been even worse. Remembering what happened the last time, I braced myself better and managed to hold onto my son that time. It spared me the panic of the previous day, but because I held onto him, I couldn't stand up easily and we were blasted by a second wave that came right on the heels of the first.
We were really tumbled around under the swirling water pretty fiercely before I could get my footing and get us out of there. I swallowed so much water that I was nauseated for a while, and I had saltwater running out of my nose for 10 minutes as it tried to unflood my sinuses. (I know y'all were eager to learn that.)
But, again, my son proved himself utterly fearless and returned to play in the surf long before I had recovered from the tumble. Some kids are just unstoppable. Seems I got one of them.
On our first afternoon there, our trip to the beach coincided right with the incoming tide, so the surf had some big waves crashing in.
After watching me swim out beyond the breakers to float over the incoming waves, my son wanted to join me, in which request I happily obliged him. Decked out in his swimmies, he held onto my arms as we made our way through the surf to the calmer waters just beyond.
As we floated around out there, we'd occasionally catch a wave awkwardly or a larger one would come in and break earlier. We'd get splashed pretty good or dunked a little by the crest of the wave, but it was nothing major ... until THE wave.
Have you ever had one of those moments when you saw something bad coming and just couldn't do anything about it? That blink of an eye just before a car crash? The mug teetering on the edge of the counter just before falling? The false step or little stumble at the top of the stairs that sends a kid careening down them? (I know that last one a little too personally.)
That's what it felt like as I saw this wave coming toward us. It was huge (huge by South Carolina standards anyway) and was clearly going to break right on top of us. I grabbed my son, told him to hold his breath and tried to lift him up as high as I could above the wave just as it crashed onto my head, pounding me into the sand and ripping my son from my arms.
After being tumbled around pretty fiercely by the wave, I dug in my feet and stood up as quickly as I possibly could in the retreating surf and immediately looked around for my son, who should have been bobbing close by thanks to his floaties. I can't possibly describe the sinking sensation in my gut, the instant sense of panic that flooded my every cell, when he wasn't anywhere in sight.
I screamed his name and heard my friend call from the shore, "He's beside you." Just then, my son did surface about four feet away from me, spitting and coughing out the sea water but generally unharmed. (My friend said he saw the whole thing from the shore and, from his vantage point, could see my son just below the water's surface when I couldn't.)
Do you know how frustrating it is to try to run through water that's up to your waist? It seemed to take forever to get to my son and get him into my arms, though in reality only a few seconds had surely passed.
I picked him up and headed for the shore, spitting and coughing myself the whole way. We were both fine, but I had had enough of the ocean for the afternoon with that episode.
But here's what gets me -- my son indulged in being held and petted and checked over for a few minutes. He "wow"ed with me over what a doozy that wave was and sat down on the beach -- for a grand total of about 3.7 seconds. And then he was up and headed back to the waves again to splash and play, completely undaunted by the experience that left my adrenaline surging and my heart pumping.
Of course, I should admit that I'm guilty of the same offense in a more protracted form. We did the exact same thing the next day. Again, incoming tide, high surf, battering waves. Again, swim out past the breakers and float over the waves. Again, giant wave slams into us, pounding water into our ears and noses and our bodies into the sand.
The second time, though, might have been even worse. Remembering what happened the last time, I braced myself better and managed to hold onto my son that time. It spared me the panic of the previous day, but because I held onto him, I couldn't stand up easily and we were blasted by a second wave that came right on the heels of the first.
We were really tumbled around under the swirling water pretty fiercely before I could get my footing and get us out of there. I swallowed so much water that I was nauseated for a while, and I had saltwater running out of my nose for 10 minutes as it tried to unflood my sinuses. (I know y'all were eager to learn that.)
But, again, my son proved himself utterly fearless and returned to play in the surf long before I had recovered from the tumble. Some kids are just unstoppable. Seems I got one of them.
Monday, July 12, 2010
Texting and the single mom
So my son, quite obviously a child of this technology-driven era, likes to text. He can't read or spell anything really, but he likes to text nevertheless.
It works like this: he tells me he wants to text someone, often Uncle JJ. I get the text feature open on the phone and then hand it to him, at which point he proceeds to ask me how to spell out whatever sentence is on his mind while he painstakingly finds every letter on the little keyboard on my phone.
I have a distinct memory of walking around Bed Bath & Beyond doing some shopping with my mom while my son ambled along behind us texting something about alligators to someone.
"How do you spell "alligator'?"
"A"
"OK, then what?"
"L"
"Where's the 'L'?"
"The middle row of letters."
"OK, then what?"
"L"
"Another L?"
"Yes, another L."
"OK, then what?"
You get the picture of how this goes (and how long it takes!)
Well, we were driving in the car the other day when he said he wanted to text Uncle JJ and asked for my phone.
"How do you spell 'wilt'?"
"Wilt?" I was intrigued by this rather sophisticated word choice and curious about what message he was trying to send.
So, naturally, I asked, "What are you trying to say, sweetheart?"
His response: "Are you sad?"
It's so absurd that there are no words. But, being a writer, I'll try...
First, where did "wilt" come from in the first place? For all I know, maybe he meant "whilt" and he was on the verge of composing a Shakespearean ode.
Second, the obvious question: why do you need to spell "wilt/whilt" in order to write completely unrelated words?
"How do you spell 'breathe'?"
"What are you trying to say?"
"I'm trying to say, 'I'm going to the store.'"
(Insert your own inane scenario here. No, really, try it. It makes a good game.)
I seriously, seriously wish I had a window into what goes in his brain. And that's becoming the case more and more often as he talks and reasons and asks questions more and more. It's certainly entertaining, if nothing else.
It works like this: he tells me he wants to text someone, often Uncle JJ. I get the text feature open on the phone and then hand it to him, at which point he proceeds to ask me how to spell out whatever sentence is on his mind while he painstakingly finds every letter on the little keyboard on my phone.
I have a distinct memory of walking around Bed Bath & Beyond doing some shopping with my mom while my son ambled along behind us texting something about alligators to someone.
"How do you spell "alligator'?"
"A"
"OK, then what?"
"L"
"Where's the 'L'?"
"The middle row of letters."
"OK, then what?"
"L"
"Another L?"
"Yes, another L."
"OK, then what?"
You get the picture of how this goes (and how long it takes!)
Well, we were driving in the car the other day when he said he wanted to text Uncle JJ and asked for my phone.
"How do you spell 'wilt'?"
"Wilt?" I was intrigued by this rather sophisticated word choice and curious about what message he was trying to send.
So, naturally, I asked, "What are you trying to say, sweetheart?"
His response: "Are you sad?"
It's so absurd that there are no words. But, being a writer, I'll try...
First, where did "wilt" come from in the first place? For all I know, maybe he meant "whilt" and he was on the verge of composing a Shakespearean ode.
Second, the obvious question: why do you need to spell "wilt/whilt" in order to write completely unrelated words?
"How do you spell 'breathe'?"
"What are you trying to say?"
"I'm trying to say, 'I'm going to the store.'"
(Insert your own inane scenario here. No, really, try it. It makes a good game.)
I seriously, seriously wish I had a window into what goes in his brain. And that's becoming the case more and more often as he talks and reasons and asks questions more and more. It's certainly entertaining, if nothing else.
A new location for the single mom
Dear readers,
If you've found this blog, it's probably because you're one of my friends and family (or you know one of my friends and family) to whom I sent the link.
I'm relocating my blog to this site since access at my previous site has been restricted. Keep checking back for adventures in parenting.
Thanks for reading!
Amy
If you've found this blog, it's probably because you're one of my friends and family (or you know one of my friends and family) to whom I sent the link.
I'm relocating my blog to this site since access at my previous site has been restricted. Keep checking back for adventures in parenting.
Thanks for reading!
Amy
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)