What can I tell you about myself? If we haven’t met before, I can tell you that my life as a pretty newly single mama is OH-SO FAB-U-LOH-SO! I wake up every day, rarin’ to go! I slide into my red stilettos and plop a warm three-course breakfast in front of my perfectly coiffed offspring! In no time at all, we’re laughing and on our way, discussing astronomy, Freud, and the Seven Natural Wonders of the World! What former life?

Okay, so maybe it’s not so pretty, upon first (real) glance, as you might be able to tell by the name of my other blog, Breed ‘Em and Weep. Me: Living the Great American Scream. Single, with pretty cranky kids, 8 and 6. Currently, an out-of-work writer on the skids. Suddenly sportin’ thighs that can crush lawn furniture and trash-can lids. Like the chick in the famous cheap perfume ad, I used to bring home the bacon, fry it up in a pan, and never, ever forgot what a woman I…yeah, that ad.

Now? Honestly, I do cry in the bacon aisle, I lost all my pans in the divorce, and I think I may just be a dude because I laugh too hard at Seth Rogen movies. And, apparently, those children scratching each other’s eyes out in the next room, over a Polly Pockets shoe — wait for it, wait for it — they’re mine. My achey-breaky-heart doesn’t have a catchy melody or a cute line dance to go with it. But over here, I’ve got real talk for real single mamas. It takes a lot to adjust to co-parenting. That’s if you’re lucky enough to be co-parenting. This is just my world: It takes a lot to thaw out a heart that loved someone so deeply it was convinced that that “I do” was forever. The thought of finding someone new…and the thought of welcoming that person into your life with your kids? Well, all of this deserves the kind of curl-up-on-a-couch, confessional talk that your best galpals can provide. But not everybody has single galpals anymore.

You might have a completely different “single” experience. I’d love to hear about it.

At Single Mom at Work — as you know — we may be roughing it, but we’re not alone. Which is good news, especially for me. I’m a real single mom at work: that is to say, under serious construction. I believe sometimes life just sidles off in our preferred direction without us, and it takes a while to wrench our heels out of the sewer grate and plop ‘em back down on the sidewalk. So let’s talk about getting back on track — or finding a new track altogether.

I’m all about real messy work (and no work), real messy kids, real messy single. What are you all about, these days? Got a single-mama survival question? Debating a down-and-dirty dating dilemma? On the hunt for the perfect felted, appliqued wallet to hold those food stamps? Let’s work it out, sistas. I see you. I hear you. I got your back. We’re all in this together — except maybe for the gorgeously happy people flying first-class to Cannes, right overhead, and packing in escargots and truffles with their French lovers. They’ve got their own blog, someplace.

So it’s all good. Or at least, it will be. Someday.

Hope is the new black, baby, and it sure looks nice on you.

Liking you and puttin’ a ring on it,
Jenn

It’s not a situation that any woman enters into with glee and racing anticipation - no little girl grows up with dreams of becoming a Single Mom.

And yet, I can say with full certainty:  I would not trade the last two years for anything.  They taught me more than four years of University, several trips around the world, and four years in a monogamous, committed relationship ever could.

I say this with knowledge of the risk of sounding trite: those two lonely, soul-searching years taught me how to be happy and confident with my tiny party of two.

I don’t think it was coincidence that I found this relationship with Corey at a time in my life that I was finally satisfied with my state of being, with who I was.  I understood, finally, that I was a strong, self-sufficient woman and that I could raise a kind, soft-hearted young man who had much with which to grace the world.

Being his Mom consumed my life: I made our Doctor’s appointments and cooked our meals.  I showed my little boy the stars that shone the same in Greece, in Zimbabwe and I dutifully pretended to usher the Tyrannosaurus Rex out of the closet and into the yard where he could eat apples and not disrupt our sleep.  I took the necessary time to appreciate the sacrifices of my parents and my brother, who were pivotal in my healing.  I took a close look inside myself and examined the dark places that contributed to my part in the demise of the relationship with my son’s Father.

I will never forget these hundreds of days, piled together in tears, hopelessness, and soaring joy.  I watched my barely-speaking toddler become an animated and joyful little boy and I did a damned good job of being his Mother.  We were inseparable, us two, and we still are, even though now we are three.

***

I mentioned in my last column that I would be retiring from this column.  It looks like I will reincarnate on this site in a Blender column, and I hope you’ll keep an eye out for me.

In the meantime, I’m so excited to introduce you to my replacement.  You probably already know Tracey  of Sweetney and MamaPop fame. She is a pioneer of the blog space.  I remember the first time Tracey left a comment on my personal blog, I was inappropriately excited that someone “blog famous” would stoop to read my ramblings, and since then she has become an in-person friend, and I’ve met her several times at various blog conferences and events.  She is edgy but kind, intellectual but approachable, and she is also a new single Mom, tentatively finding her new place in the world.

She will undoubtedly have amazing and provocative insight to share, and I hope you’ll welcome her with open arms.

Thank you all again for reading, commenting, and sharing your own stories.  I think this medium is so important to us all, but especially those of us hoping to find our own path, our rightful confidence.

When I started writing for Work It, Mom!, my little boy was just two years old.  We spent our time mostly alone: on the beach searching for scuttling creatures, in the forest twirling in the rain and stomping mud soaked boots.  Looking at the clouds in the air, searching for the future in a promising ray of light.  I made dinner for him and ate the leftovers off his plate.  My Mom took him while I did my business trips: exhausting day jaunts to San Francisco and LA when I’d leave the house at 4am and return near midnight, my Mom asleep on my couch and my still-wee boy entangled in his blankets, dreaming.  I’d kiss his head and creep to my room and set my alarm for two hours later, when I needed to complete a freelance project.  I supported the two of us with no financial aid from my son’s Father: it compelled, exhausted, and terrified me while simultaneously filling me with a kind of pride.  I could do this, I was doing this, albeit sometimes barely.

About a year into a very solitary existence, and with semi-harsh prodding from my little brother, who predicted I’d end up circling the Walmart aisles with chocolate-stained jogging pants and disgruntled rollers in my hair if I didn’t get out of the house, already — I put my toe tentatively in the dating pool.

It sucked.  One mildly insane man temporarily stole my Jeep and almost ran over an old lady in a road rage fury.  Another professed his undying love after two dates.  Others were nice but not for me.  I focused again on work and home and my wide-eyed sidekick.  We were happy.  I decided: I could do this on my own.  This life was rich, beautiful on its own.  Without a man, we’d be fine.  I had my little one, and he was enough.  He was more than enough.

***

Those of you who read me elsewhere will know about Corey, the man who entered our lives four months ago and spontaneously changed everything.  I was shocked, terrified, and elated to fall in love with him - something I’d always believed was impossible for me.

I was amazed at how I’d forgotten how much richer a shared life is, how everything difficult becomes less of a burden when it is shared.  Corey is amazing with my son and in these last several months, has seamlessly woven into almost every component of our lives.  Nothing in life is certain, but there is something deep inside me that seems to know that this is real and rare.  We’re in this together, fully, and his help in everyday life means I can no longer call myself a Single Mom.

I guess this is a long way  of saying - I’m no longer a Single Mom at Work.  I’m in a committed relationship and therefore uncomfortable writing from the perspective of a woman doing it without a partner.  In the next week, I’ll introduce a new columnist here at Single Mom at Work who can offer fresh perspective and a bird’s eye view of Single Working Motherhood in a whole new tone.

I want to say thank you for your comments and your support here.  I may reappear with a different perspective and if you have any topics for me, feel free to leave me a comment or email me at anytime.  I love to hear from you.

I’m talking to my good friend Tammy, making dinner plans for us and our kids for Thursday night.

“That sounds really good,”I say into the phone and my stomach panics a bit as I think - can I make it out of work and out to dinner by 6?  What about my boyfriend, he’ll be on his own.  I have two columns due and I wanted to work on that freelance stuff Thursday.  Maybe I’ll wake up early Friday instead, get some stuff done.

“It’ll be really good to see you guys,”Tammy says brightly into the phone,”Ash has been asking about Nolan, it’s been weeks and she misses him.”

“Aww,” I say and I think about the fact that my fridge contains only half a container of banana peppers and a handful of blueberries.  There might be a rotten cucumber in the produce department.  Grocery shopping will have to wait too.”We”ll see you Thursday at 6:00.”

When I hang up the phone and close off my IM conversation, I open up my email: 27 unread, 4 requiring immediate action, 2 very important proposals are perilously close to being overdue.  I think about the fact that the towel rack needs to be hung and I have a major ant war going down in the kitchen.  Even though I really do want to see my friend and her daughter, I’m already thinking of ways I can get out of it.  There’s just too much to do.

***

I’ve always had a tendency to overcommit, and I fear I’ve gained a sometimes flaky reputation because of it.  My intentions are good: I don’t want to disappoint people, I want to be a good friend, I want to take on that extra piece of freelance work and do a bang-up job for an acquaintance who’s given me an opportunity.  I want to make a salmon dinner for my boyfriend while engaging my 4-year-old and sporting lean legs. I aspire to be an earnest, reliable friend to all the girlfriends who’ve been so good to me.

I hate saying no.  I feel inherently that I can somehow squish 40 hours worth of stuff into a 24 hour period.  And then I realize, for the umpteenth time, that I cannot.  That I have disappointed someone again.  It’s worse since I became a single Mom, and often I feel like I have to choose one: friends, boyfriend, son, or work.  If I try to spread myself out between all four, I become pretty useless to any of them.

***

On Thursday at 5, I have a 6 figure proposal due in an hour.  I haven’t yet gone to get my son at daycare, and my fridge is still perilously empty.  I’m guilty because I didn’t get to my run yet today, and really I don’t have the excess cash to be spending on dinner in a restaurant for Nolan and I.  I grit my teeth and feel awful and, inevitably, pick up my phone.

“Tammy…”I say.

“I know. It’s OK.  Next week.”she says sweetly, used to my cancellations and perpetually forgiving.  She’s a single Mom too, but somehow she never flakes on me.  I want to know how she does it but I fear it’s simple: she doesn’t over commit.  I have to learn that one, and it might take me some time.

Marketers, more than ever, have realized that Moms are the primary decision makers in household purchasing decisions.  And they know that many of these women have turned away from TV, radio, and newspapers in favor of the Internet.  In particular: Moms have turned to blogs as a way of understanding, absorbing, sharing and relating.  And the big brands, in turn, are looking for a way to reach these women who write blogs, and who read them.  I feel privileged that I have both the knowledge and the opportunity to help connect companies with the audiences of the smart, tech savvy women who are paving new paths with their writing about parenting, products, relationships and life.

But I’m also a little worried about the possibility that these Moms - whose attention is so very coveted by these big brands - might be sabotaging their golden power of influence by overreacting to marketer’s attempts to reach them.

***

I woke up early on Sunday morning at the Conference to respond to email and peruse through the trending topics at Twitter when I saw conversation that made me suck in my breath.  A few tweets told me quickly of a happening at the Conference: a Mom blogger had attempted to take her baby to a Nikon invite-only event, and had been turned away - the event was at a bar: a cocktail party.  The Mom was offended and apparently so were dozens of other Moms - so much so that they initiated a hashtag to aggregate the conversation - #nikonhatesbabies.

As someone who works in the digital ad space to sell marketing on Mom blogs, I obviously have both a bias and a vested interest here.  I want my customers to see Mom bloggers and their audiences as savvy and valuable.  I want them to see Mom bloggers as business women as well as lucrative spokespeople.  When I see stuff like this, I cringe: it makes me wonder if companies will stop attempting to outreach to us, if they will eventually dismiss us as too dangerous, vocal and shrill.  We’re such a diverse group, we Mom bloggers - but I still feel we all have a responsibility to conduct ourselves professionally and with integrity.  Labelling a company as “baby hating” because they denied an infant entry to a cocktail party seems to me a giant mis-step.

***

Chris from Notes from the Trenches has a brilliant post on this subject, and I particularly like Kristen’s, too.  My own opinion is this: Nikon invited Mom bloggers to their event in hope that they would woo the women as writers, as business women, as consumers.  The fact that they did not allow a baby at a cocktail reception was not a personal attack on Motherhood, and I wish the offended parties could have contacted Nikon via email or phone to rectify the situation if it was that offensive to them.  I believe the punishment in this case is much worse than the crime, and has the potential to hurt the reputation of Mommy bloggers as savvy business women - as well as fierce adorers of our babies.

There was a blip as the cashier scanned a white onion and then a loud, startlingly clear voice asked:

“Mommy.  Why are you and my Daddy not friends?”

I froze, vegetable in mid air in my hand, and looked at my clear-eyed son.

“What?” I was numb, and I glanced sidelong at the cashier, looking for help.

“My Daddy,” he said impatiently, obviously wanting to know,”Why are you not friends with my Daddy?”

For the love of Pete.  I didn’t know where this was coming from, the boy is not even four and as far as I know, his Dad and I are pretty civil with each other at pickup and drop off.  But kids are smart, and full of intuition, and yes- I guess it’s obvious that we don’t sit on the beach and have strawberry cake together.

I locked eyes with my boyfriend.  This deserved some kind of answer, but oh dear god, I had no idea what it was.

It was like the entire Safeway had gone silent, and I think seventy billion minutes passed before the cashier muttered quietly, “Kids say the darndest things.”

I gaped at my boyfriend like a fish sucking air, he stared back wideyed, and the man behind me in line pretended to read the Star.  Katie Holmes and Angelina Jolie probably never have to answer these questions.

“Nolan,”I bent close to the cart and touched his hair,”Daddy and I both work together to try to give you the most fun possible.  We both love you so very much.”

He waited, non-plussed, knowing fully I hadn’t really given him an answer.

We walked out of the grocery store and I hugged my son tight as I put him back into the car.  My boyfriend is a very good man, but undoubtedly, his presence has raised some questions with my son about the relationship between his father and me.

At this time, I have no idea how to answer him.

Even though her husband is (in my totally biased opinion), a bit of a jerkwad - she handles him with aplomb.  In fact, she also handles his exes with deft grace: her husband had been married once before he married Lara and my friend is friends with the First Wife of her Ex. What?  I know.

This weekend Lara was telling me with her usual practical intonation that she’d gone for dinner with Cathy, the First Wife of her ex, and I was watching her with my mouth agape and my shoulders slumped a little in defeat.

“Man, I’m not nearly as good a person as you.” I thought of my ex and his ex girlfriends and though we were never married, I am certain I’ll never have any desire to eat artichoke dip on the patio with a woman he’s slept with.

That’s how it’s been, with my ex boyfriends, anyway.  I think of most of them fondly - remember Dale’s ice blue eyes, Jay’s riotous sense of adventure, the earnestness of Derek - but I don’t particularly want to be bosom buddies with any of them, and I’m not overly interested in their current conquests.

But it struck me, over my weekend conversation with Lara - that perhaps the current relationship of your ex is a little more significant when the two of you share a child together.

Yesterday I drove the Jeep along the railway tracks on the lower level highway by our house: we’d just stopped at the Quay to pick up some raspberries and mangoes and for a Spiderman-chaired haircut for my son and I glanced at him in my rearview mirror as I drove.  He’s such a handsome little man now, a little happy person with joys and likes and an inherent sweetness that never fails to crush my heart with its sweet purity.

“I want to call Daddy please,” he said and I rummaged in my purse to hand him my cell phone, dialing the number as I passed it back.

“Hi Daddy!” I stopped at a red light, looking at Nolan’s face as he spoke with his father.”Yeah, I’m good,” he continued.  A pause. “We’re going to pick up Corey and then we’re going to go back to our house.”

My heart flipped around in my stomach a bit and I continued to eye my son in the mirror.

“Yeah,”he continued,”Uh-huh, good.”

I wondered if his Dad was asking him who Corey was, or maybe whether our son liked him.  We’ve never had a conversation about our current relationships - though I am aware of his girlfriend by proxy - and I’ve mentioned my own relationship in a hopefully-casual way a few times.

There’s no charted path here.  I don’t know whether to explain to my ex that, yes, indeed, I have a man in my life and I’m comfortable enough in our relationship to allow him exposure to Nolan.  And yes, I will be cognizant of Nolan’s potential confusion around the issue.  But then a part of me thinks - god, this is not the kind of thing you even discuss with your ex.  Right?

And yet I’d kind of want to know about the woman in my son’s father’s life who might eventually be a stepmom to our son - what kind of woman is she? Is she kind and would she treat him with love?

I can’t exactly see myself pouring tea for my ex and sitting down with him to discuss all of this rationally, and on the other hand it seems absurd to pretend that both of us do not have important adult relationships with another man and another woman.

Ignoring the gigantic pink furry elephant in the room seems to be the easiest option at this point.

I can say this four years after the fact, with a twinge of embarassment, knowing that there are so many women that struggle to conceive, that want nothing more than to brew a new life inside of them.  But I’d be dishonest if I said that I was a glowing, radiant pregnant lady.  The fact is: I was a cantankerous, beligerent, swollen and crotchety preggo, counting down the days until I could just. Get. The. Baby. Out of me.

Part of it was vanity: I’d been slim almost my whole life and my ballooning body parts simultaneously horrified and astonished me.  I didn’t expect the back fat, the swollen feet, the giant hips.  Superficially again, I was disgruntled that men no longer even glanced my way: I felt asexual and totally unsexy.  And finally: I was uncomfortable: gaseous, nauseous, and perpetually headachy.

But.  The moment of my son’s entrance into the world has etched itself into my brain and soul and there has never been a more profound, beautiful, perfect moment in my life.  Suddenly, my heart was outside my body and I felt a love so perfect, sharp and exquisite that it made me gasp, crumpled me, reduced me to overflow capacity with joy.  And in the almost-four years since, I’ve realized that there is nothing more important to my being, than my daily joy, than the fact that I am my son’s Mom.  I’m now forgetting the drudgery of pregnancy.  I’m thinking more about whether I want to have more kids.

***

I am hurtling toward my mid thirties, and realizing with uncomfortable clarity that each day, my fertility declines.  I’m in a fresh relationship, one that is bursting with promise.  If I’m honest, and if you read me elsewhere, you’ll know that I am pretty sure that the man I am with now might be man I end up with.  I’ve fallen pretty hard.

We talk a lot, about everything, and even though we’re only a month and a half into our relationship, the subject of kids has come up, randomly.

People tell us we look alike, my new man and I, and so we were talking lightly one night about whether our potential offspring would look like us, too.  My tone, I think, was blase, but my heart was racing.  Crap: this is no longer an obscure “maybe one day…”   It’s now a real possibility.

And the other day, when my monthly cycle arrived with its prompt efficacy, he jokingly made a remark: “No little munchkins, then.”

“No,”I laughed, and though the chances of that physically were very remote, and though I want nothing less than to be pregnant right now, I sighed a little inwardly.  I only have a few years left of fertility: if I am going to have another baby, I’d better do it in the next three years or so.

My boyfriend has been married and divorced, but he doesn’t have kids, and I can’t imagine denying him that, if it’s what he wants.  But if I do ever have another child, my own son will be at least 6 or 7 years old - and his sibling would be a half-one, and the rammifications of both of those make me sweat a little.

Plus - there’s my career in corporate digital ad sales -  I love it, and I don’t want to pause it when I feel like I’m on my way up, immersed in a career I love.  And really - my cut off is age 37.  I don’t want to try and have babies after that.  I was tired with a newborn at the age of 30 - how much harder would it be seven years later, with a seven year old used to seven years of exclusive attention?

I wonder - do you have a “cutoff” age for additional children? Do you agonize about this as much as I have been?

“Hello?” I say warily, bringing the receiver to my ear.  My friends all tell me they know immediately when Nolan’s father calls, they say a wary tiredness overtakes my voice.  I’m working on that. “Hi!” I try again.

“I’m going away next weekend,”he informs me,”Friday, back Sunday night.”

“Oh,”I say,”Well, OK.”

But it’s not like he was asking my permission.  He was informing me: he’s going away for the weekend so I’d better swap out any plans I may have had: I’ll now have our son for the weekend.

I am silent, willing myself not to be petty.  I don’t ask where he’s going, why he’s giving up his weekend with Nolan.  Our son is not a chore, after all, and I shouldn’t feel any resentment about spending extra time with him.  And yet I’m irritated because it’s not like I could ever do the same thing, be afforded the same luxurious spontaneity.  If I were to call my ex to tell him that I needed a Girlfriend Roadtrip and that he’d better put the bike and the rugby cleats away for next Saturday and Sunday - he’d sputter in disbelief and hang up the phone on me.  And then text me to tell me: no way in hell.

As a single Mom, I’m deemed the Permission Asker.  I don’t ever “tell” my ex I’m going away for the weekend, nor do I assume he’ll assist if Nolan needs to be taken to the Doctor, or kept home from daycare if he’s feeling under the weather.  If I need a slice of time for work, my friends, myself - I need to ask permission and hope I’ll be granted it.  It’s not a given, not as simple as a phone call to say: hey, I’m going away for the weekend.

I’m not an anomoly: every single Mom I know is in the same boat.  Their exes can float in and out at will, taking time for camping trips and week-long vacations, while Mom is left holding the bulk of the responsibility.  If she wants a camping trip - she’s going to have to plead a little - and even then, it’s not a given.  I wonder why this is.

***

My best friend is getting married this summer.  She is 34 years old, and never thought it would happen for her.  Her fiance is beautiful and committed and amazing, and I’m blazing with hope and happiness for both of them.  She’s asked me to be at her wedding, of course, and I want to be at her stagette, too.

I ask permission: can I take off for a weekend in July?

The answer: “I’ll have to check my schedule.”

I don’t expect to hear back anytime soon, and I think my son might be accompanying me at my best friend’s wedding.  I can juggle, of course, and accomodate and make it happen, because that’s what we must do, as single Moms.  But sometimes, honestly, I hate the double standard.  And wonder if there’s anything I can do to negate it.

“You’re not coming home, ever, are you?”

I’d whispered it into the phone but I already knew the answer and though I had asked him to leave, though I needed time, I wasn’t sure that I was ready for the consequences of the inevitable permanent divide.

“I don’t know.  No, I don’t think so.”

I thought about our son: not even 2 years old.  I thought about the past four years: Amsterdam, concerts, beer nights and snowboarding.  I thought about the shrill fighting, alcohol, money, responsibility, pettiness.  I thought about myself: at 30 years old, a single Mom, disengaged, struggling.  A statistic.

Two years ago I’d been engaged to a beautiful man, a baby growing inside me.  Outwardly we were so happy: young, employed, laughing.  The fragility of that glass castle amazed me, and I remember putting my head down on the paper, the tissue, the hardness of the desk, to cry.

***

I worried about my son, of course, about the adjustment to a one-parent home, about a life with a half-time Dad.  But I also stressed about my future.  I foresaw in my bitter glass ball: chinchillas, maybe a few birds, a puffy pink housecoat and a grimy abode.  Maybe, I thought, I’d get lucky and one of my friends would end up solo too, in older age, and we could cook each other feta cheese and pickle sandwiches and lie about the fact that our butts had dissolved into dimpled pancakes.

At the time, I wasn’t thinking about men.  I didn’t want to feel the pain of heartbreak ever again and the thought of it being my son and I for the next 30 years was all right for me.  Painful.  But all right.

But as the years dripped on - one, two - I started to “see” men again.  I started to miss their companionship, humor, and unabashed appreciation for soft clothes and a homemade meal.   But I really believed that I was a pariah - that my son was a breathing indication of the fact that I’d had successful (not to mention unprotected) sex with another man.  What man wants to see that, every time he looks at his woman?  I understood that biologically, and intrinsically.  It made me wistful.

***

I’ve now been juggling work, dating, and my son for over a year and a half.  What I have discovered is this: a child is not necessarily “baggage” to the right man.  In fact: Nolan’s presence in my life has negated the necessity for me to weed out the bad eggs.  Men who are willing to take me on must be willing to take my son on, too - and it serves as an automatic filter, of sorts.

I am attracting a different kind of man these days than I used to - better and kinder and I think my son is the reason.  These men don’t see my son as a manifestation of another man - but rather as a sweeter, more naive extension of me.  The good ones - the awesome one I’m with now - is as eager to be liked by my son as he is by me.

It amazes me that our darkest days often represent the beginning of the pivotal climb to the brightest ones.