I had dinner the other night with some old friends. I guess you could say they were friends, even though I rarely speak to them. I use to gather with them, at a time in my life that was whole, and acceptable. I say this with sardonic tones because at that time of my life I was married, and playing by the rules. It seemed the logical thing to do was to have friends that looked the part, as well. We all sent our children to a private school, we drove the SUV’s that drank too much gas, and sat too many children: all equipped with airbags and television screens. We helped out at the annual school auction, and attended the Christmas Choir Program that usually would bring us to tears, as our little one’s gathered on stage, and sang with their hearts full of hope. Red and green sweaters adorned the risers, and matching mom and daughter dresses filled the aisles. It was a magical time, the early years of parenting, and we all believed our children were bound for glory. We were smug in our chatter of accomplishments, and awards that our children were receiving. Casual mention of the praise “Little Tyler, or McKenzie” received from the most loved teachers would float in the air. Happy to spend whatever it cost to make sure that Connor, or Jimmy, or Bailey was able to be “Principal for a Day” or that they received front row seats at the annual “Donkey Basketball” Extravaganza. We had no idea that years later, we’d gather around a small coffee table filled with wine, gourmet cheese, and sadness. We’d sit and divvy up the disappointments of body piercings, tattoos, sexual promiscuities, and lost innocence-wondering where we’d gone wrong. Still talking without listening. Sharing war stories; recognizing that some had fared better than others.
I sat there and listened to my old friends, as I began remembering the sadness of my divorce. I remembered the envy of leaving the school and being thrown into a different bracket. I was a working single mom, and I somehow didn’t belong. Private school was a luxury I no longer could entertain. I left my apron on the counter, and put on a suit and went to work. There were days that I grieved over the missed bake sales, and special birthday parties that my children would miss out on. Dropping my children off in a rush, and realizing that “Room Mom” and “the linger” in the hallways, that were adorned with the art work of our children, were no longer experiences I had time for. I was thrown into the world of derogatory statements, sideways glances, and global statistics. Things like “Broken Home”, “Single Mom”, and “60% of daughters from a divorced home are promiscuous, and suffer teen pregnancy” these were now my passageways. I no longer attended the end of the school carnivals, and most likely seemed altogether forgotten. One of the fathers at the dinner was kind enough to remind me of my forgottenness with his remark, “What are you doing here?” And I do remember feeling lost so much of the time, and believed that my path and mistakes of marrying the wrong man would become the burden my children would carry for the rest of their lives. At the time, I was so engrossed in this way of thinking; I was unable to let the shining light ahead of me peek through. What I didn’t know was that my strength, and willingness to let go of what I held so dear would be the key that released my girls and me into a new reality.
As I sipped my wine, and laughed and reminisced, I began to speak softly about my girls: their jobs, their schooling, and their lives. One of the dads turned to me and said, “Wow-I wish my daughter would do something like that.” I was surprised. I realized that all my worries had been false. The girls and I weren’t destined for doom. We took a different path, is all. We did what we needed to do.
Later that night I crawled into bed with my youngest and said “I am sorry I had to go to work. Sorry, I couldn’t help out in your classrooms more.” She looked at me surprised, and said “I hate moms like that!” then hugged me, “I love that you have a life outside of us, Mom. That you aren’t so wrapped up in us, and let us breathe.” I started to cry and said, “Really?” All this time I have been feeling guilty for nothing.
