Pancakes Taste Like Poverty: And Other Post-Divorce Revelations

by Jessica Vivian

  Tears welled up in my eyes.

  I had never experienced anything like this from a stranger...ever.

  I'm not ignorant enough to let pride get in the way of my kids being able to have a full belly.

  I accepted her offer and sure enough, a few hours later they were filling my pantry with all manner of edible things: Pasta, cheese, milk, applesauce...

  It was a much needed break.

  She hugged me tight and said “I used to see him come and go all the time. He don't bring his kids no food or nuthin'?”

  “He does sometimes and he gives us a hundred dollars here and there,” I trailed off.

  “A HUNDRED DOLLARS HERE AND THERE!? Nuh uh, ain't gonna cut it. I see how he is now. He and the rest of 'em. You know, Jessica. I see everything that's going on.”

  You do, Brigitte. Thank God, you do.

  Sugar

  I don't miss sex. I don't miss dating. But I can't remember the last time I was good and kissed. And lately it's all I can think about.

  I used to consider myself to be an unnaturally hot-blooded woman. I was the "Samantha,” if you will, among my group of friends.

  I was guiding my girlfriends through their personal sexual freedom as young as 17. I had a book about the Kama Sutra in my trunk and stayed up late every night, hoping to catch an episode of Real Sex on HBO. I purchased my first *ahem* personal massager somewhere between my 11th and 12th grades.

  College was no different. I worked part time as a phone sex operator which is way less interesting and sexy than it sounds. When I was a lonely housewife I wrote smutty short stories for various erotica websites. Sex was the glue that held my marriage together as long as it did.

  Sex, as it turned out, was a huge part of its demise.

  But sex complicates things. And once you have sex with someone you are “having sex with them.” You can't really go back to not having sex. Or I can't anyway.

  And to get to the sex part, you have to make yourself attractive and actually talk to someone else. I really want no part in that.

  And I don't really miss sex enough to do something stupid and crazy like answer a creepy Craigslist ad. Plus I'm not keen on being murdered, so I've just forgotten sex altogether.

  I don't miss it. I don't care about having it. The whole operation just seems like more work than I'm willing to do. However, I really, really, really, really, really, miss making out. That long, deep, drugging kind of making out that made the tips of your ears tingle and your pulse race and all that...

  The kind that didn't lead anywhere – just sugar for sugar's sake.

  I'm so out of practice with the whole flirting and kissing and boy/girl thing that I feel like I need a practice dummy. I need a good male friend who will make out with me, not try to get to 2nd base, and not want to bother me with feelings or dating.

  Oh well, it's almost Christmas so I'll just add it to my Christmas list.

  Wired – January 2012

  Despite the current trend of the "sensitive, hands-on, hipster dad" it seems that dads, on the whole, are still taking a hands-off approach to child-rearing. I haven't decided yet whether or not I think this is a bad thing.

  “I'm not wired for this” is a common response most of my girlfriends get from their significant others regarding taking a more proactive role in child care.

  Here's an example of this hated phrase in action:

  My kids attend a school which required 20 hours of parent volunteer activity per year. Now, we know I did not spontaneously produce my offspring alone like some sort of asexual amoeba. I am not the only parent. And yet, when I went to sign the kids up and I asked my ex how many hours he thought he would be able to volunteer at the school he said, "uh, nope...I'm probably not gonna be able to do that. I'm just not wired for that kind of stuff."

  Um, and I am???

  I never wanted kids!

  I thought I'd be hot and single forever. But I was lonely and insecure and fertile instead and so I have three children. And because I had children I learned to take care of them, and I put my needs and personal desires on the shelf to just handle muh-fuggin business. I volunteer at the damn school.

  That's what you do. I had never even held a baby before my oldest was born. Now I'm like the child whisperer.

  It was the same for Kelley.

  She and I went to the school every Friday morning, reluctantly, and sat through assembly listening to kids read book reports and sing songs in Chinese. We listened to the principal's soapbox speeches. Our asses went numb on child-sized bleachers. It bored the living shit out of us. We could have been in bed. We could have been out enjoying coffee and catching up. But we were there because we had to be. We had kids and it's just what you have to do.

  Now, some would say "Well, then you should make the dads participate. You enable them by allowing them to be deadbeats."

  Well, yes and no.

  Yes, I know I am probably guilty of enabling. I also know you can't squeeze blood from a rock and nagging someone into submission is just not worth it.

  My friend's ex-hubby typically "hangs out" with the kids by sitting in the room with them and watching TV. My ex, while delightful and surprisingly hands-on in some respects, frequently comes to "see the kids" and ends up eating my food, using my computer and then falling asleep on my couch.

  I would like to think that we, as a society, have done a pretty good job of keeping our expectations low when it comes to the male role in child rearing. Turn on almost any television show or commercial and what do you see?

  Stupid, bumbling, overweight dads who love their TVs and their football. Hot, skinny wives who love yogurt and hate their bodies while condescending to and cleaning up after aforementioned loser husbands. I mean, seriously, have you seen the commercial where the idiot dad doesn't know how to clean up spilled yogurt and the exasperated wife pantomimes instructions from beneath the glass table while the completely overwhelmed husband smears the spilled dairy product all over while the toddler looks on and laughs at him?

  Men are not so stupid, but making them look stupid sells yogurt and vacuums and paper towels. Jesus, those paper towel ad execs love a stupid, messy husband, don't they? And making men look stupid gives them a little wiggle room. Some of them don't want to do the work, so they feign incompetence, and we pick up the slack.

  Then we are stress eating which leads to (AHA!) self-loathing and yogurt. Look at how that works.

  It seems I've traveled way off topic here.

 

  I mean, deep down, many moms think they know better and micro-manage dads until they are close to self-mutilation - or at least that what I see in my everyday socializing. So should we just let dad pop in and do what he is "wired to do," whatever that looks like?

  I mean, I am a single mom.

  Is it fair that I break up all the fights, do all the laundry, all the grocery shopping, have the dirty house, never go anywhere alone, sit through the horrible children's movies, help with all the homework, clean all the barf and never get laid?

  No.

  But when were we told life was fair?

  Never.

  And guess what I get in return for all that crap?

  I get all the snuggles, all the love notes, all the giggles, all the living room dance parties, all the "spin 'til you fall down," all the trust, all the respect, and all the memories.

  That seems like a good deal to me.

  Punished

  That's what it feels like. Deep down. Behind the smiles and hugs and small talk.

  I feel – no – I know I am being punished.

  That's why I locked my feelings away, because every time I feel crazy things like "hope" the Universe makes good and sure to knock it right out of me.

  I had a plan. I had an escape strategy. I was going to get the hell out of this town. I was going to finally find a home, plant some roots and watch them grow. My family has had to move someth
ing like 8 times in five years.

  In the partnership between my ex-husband and I, one of us is not very good at accepting responsibility - particularly with finances.

  I thought that by removing that part of the equation things would change. Nothing has changed. Everything has gotten much much worse.

  I was dealt a blow today that nearly took me out. Getting out of my lease a little early to move into the place I found in Mobile is going to cost me a fortune that I do not have.

  All my plans are now, again, up in the air. And the the staggering cost of childcare coupled with the fact that I didn't finish college places me in a demographic that makes me want to vomit.

  Single, uneducated mom with three kids.

  Gross.

  And the fact that I still can't get my feet under me, and that I have to rethink the plan again, and that incredibly poor choices I made over a decade ago are still poisoning my life are enough to make me think really, really, really dark thoughts. And fight really, really, really dark demons.

  I have to shut any and all thoughts of my general failure as an adult out, because the tiniest drop leads to the bowling ball in my throat, and the quivering words and the thoughts of knives and razors. Just being honest. I apologize if I'm getting too scary. I was a cutter, once, many years ago before postpartum depression was a widely known thing. But then, I only had one child and one baby and their eyes and ears weren't so big. For now I just have to hold it. There is no escape.

  This is my punishment.

  And every single day through every single struggle – arguing with the Department of Children and Families, asking my ex-father-in-law for gas money so I can get to work, sitting in those disgusting government clinics waiting for up to five hours to deal with these new and interesting ailments that have cropped up – all I can think is that I am being punished. And I fight and fight but eventually I go down the list:

  I should never have left Mobile. I didn't even want to go to college.

  I should never have introduced myself.

  I should have dumped him the first time he cheated.

  I should have moved back home when I found out I was pregnant.

  I should not have married him.

  I should have divorced him sooner.

  I should have known you can't help people who don't want to be helped.

  We should never have moved back to Tampa together.

  I should have moved back to Mobile as soon as I moved out on my own.

  I don't trust my judgment at all anymore; not with men, not with life.

  I just give up.

  I know "this too shall pass" and I "shouldn't look back" and "I'm the captain of my soul.” I don't need any well-wishing. I am tired of it. It isn't working.

  I cannot hear or believe any of it right now because I put it in action, take it to heart, and I am still living in an elephant shit sandwich. I screwed up my life. I screwed it bad.

  P.S. No need to put me on suicide watch. He would get the kids and that would be the real tragedy, trust me.

  Crazy - February 2011

  He apparently started a relationship with some woman he met at one of the many yoga retreats he goes to.

  She is flying to Tampa from Philadelphia to visit and he intends on introducing her to me and the kids.

  My first response was a firm “no thanks” which was met with a guilt trip about how of course I have a problem with him dating and of course I'm using the kids against him.

  I didn't think that was what I was doing.

  I admit it pisses me off that he has the luxury of pursuing a new relationship but doesn't feel the same tug to work for a living.

  We are still trying to move away. I don't feel like the kids need to be invested in his random girlfriend.

  He pushed and pushed and guilted and, second guessing my own judgment, I gave in.

  Her visit, incidentally, was to coincide with my 30th birthday. Salt in the wound. I decided to call my dad for advice.

  My parents were excellent at being divorced. I was two when they split so I actually have no recollection of them as a couple. It didn't matter, though, because they co-parented well enough to take me on a vacation to Disney World together several years later. My parents were always able to be in a room together and make small talk. When they both got remarried, they had already set the stage for the step-parents so then the four of them could be in a room together interacting easily.

  When I moved into my college dorm, both my moms were decorating while my dads set up my computer.

  “Who are the parents?” my roommate's parent asked.

  “Uh...all of us,” they would answer.

  If anyone could guide me through this new phase of single parenthood, it's him.

  I set the kids up with snacks and a movie and went down to my car in the parking lot so they couldn't overhear my conversation. I explained the situation to my dad. He listened intently and then answered.

  “Jessie, unless he is planning on getting married, you have no obligation to meet some girl he's screwing. If it's serious, then yeah you're going to have to meet who's going to be spending time with your kids. But if that's not what's going on, then later for it. As for the kids, you really have no control over that. He's going to date and he's going to want to do the look-I'm-a-dad act on these women because it works. And it might hurt your feelings, but it is what it is.”

  “Thanks, Dad. I didn't feel okay with it. I can't explain why. I just didn't like the idea,” I explained, “I just didn't. And he kept telling me I was being irrational and I guess he's right.”

  “Hooooold on, hold on, hold it, hold it, hold, hold, hooooooold it,” he interrupted.

  “Jessie, listen to me. If you never listen to me ever again for the rest of your natural born life listen to me now.”

  I waited.

  “You have every right to be as irrational as you need to be. You just got divorced. You are raising kids on your own with no damn help from his sorry ass. Uh yeah, you're gonna be a little emotional and irrational. Fair, Jessie. You earned it.”

  At this point I was fighting tears.

  “This whole thing, Jess, is painful. It...it just really sucks. Let it hurt. Give yourself room to be a little crazy. You take good care of those kids. As long as you don't drag them into the crazy with you, it's fine. So screw him, Jess. You don't need to meet this woman and you really don't owe him an explanation.”

  Dad is right.

  Dirty Thirty

  I felt like I deserved to have a shitty thirtieth birthday.

  If anyone had given too much of a effort, I would have felt bad about leaving.

  I ironed out the kinks in my exit plan and I'm moving next month for better or for worse. I planned on spending my 30th birthday packing and preparing to leave.

  My ex called, however, and told me to get lost for an hour because he was on his way with a surprise. I did and when I came back to my apartment there were balloons outside. I walked in to find even more balloons and an immediate dousing in that crazy spray-can foamy string.

  It was a sweet gesture.

  “I had to do something for you for your birthday, especially with you leaving and all,” he grinned sheepishly.

  I wasn't particularly moved by the attempt because it was only the second birthday of mine he'd ever acknowledged, but was grateful that he included the kids.

  He made dinner. I don't remember what it was because he also brought a bottle of wine and I drank most of it. It was my birthday wine after all. It was the wine that made me think, “I should have sex with him, since I'm leaving and all.”

  And after the kids went to bed. I did.

  And it was sufficient, I guess. I was too hazy to be present.

  I noticed that he was making himself very comfortable in my bed, which was strange because I thought that perhaps his girlfriend was still in town so I asked.

  “She is,” he said, matter
-of-fact as he readied himself to sleep. That sobered me right up.

  What the fuck was I doing? I don't want this guy. I don't want him back. But I felt some sort of sick, twisted power in the fact that he left her somewhere and spent the day with me and the kids.

  At first I felt like I'd won.

  But then I thought about the fact that this woman felt enough about him to fly here to visit. And I thought about how much he lied to me and slept with women behind my back. And now I was the woman behind her back. Then I felt like I'd lost. I felt super gross and super guilty.

  I kicked him out and debated contacting her and letting her know. I knew he wouldn't. Their relationship wasn't my business. But I felt some sort of moral obligation to warn her that he was a damaged man who would take her down with him if he let her.

  Chris advised me to mind my business. I ignored him and wrote her anyway.

  I knew her name because he'd told me in passing and I'd Facebook-stalked her. I wrote the most honest email I've ever written:

  Hey, so...I'm his ex-wife and I'm a horrible person. He spent the day with me for my birthday and I slept with him. I am only telling you this because I feel so much guilt and shame and I can't believe I disrespected another woman in this way. I know you spent your money to fly here and it was dismissive enough of him to leave you alone all day. I feel disgusting for taking part in it. I'm sorry. I don't want to come off as a scorned ex-wife or a cock-blocker but, without knowing you I can still tell you that you deserve better than that...

  Again I'm sorry.

  Sincerely,

  Jessica

  Shortly after, I received a response but, afraid to read the wrath on the other end of the conversation, I deleted it and blocked her.