I was thinking about a Chicago friend of mine, who, when reminiscing fondly, I always picture offering one of her terse, sometimes painfully direct observations. Grappling one afternoon with my antiquated digital camera* and unfamiliar video camera, I was struck by a memory of C. She and I were riding the bus through Lincoln Park. I forget where we were going. At the time, I think, I was in between relationships, and she and I were talking about the whole having a family thing. If I'm not lucky enough to find a partner, I told C., I'll do the single mom thing at some point, likely before I'm forty. C. began to list, grimly and convincingly, all the reasons why my decision, albeit premature, was a terrible one. (I should note here that I don't resent her for this. She's just a woman of strong opinions, and her talents are many.)
You'll want a break, she asserted, and the kid will, too. They'll need to have someone else to go to. I don't remember all of the specific reasons that she enumerated, but what I do remember is that they all made sense. Someone else to take the weight of the burden and all that.
I've thought of our bus conversation fleetingly since Langston was born. And as challenging as it is doing what I do, when scooping my son up with strong arms as he's being sick or stuck and learning how to be, I don't think my friend had it right. I mean, it's true, there are days when I need a break, but somehow, more and more, I am able to take advantage of Langston's growing independence to take moments to rest. And maybe later, he'll want someone else to go to, a good cop to my bad cop when I say firmly, no. But for now, the only thing about being a single mom that is so tough it stings, is that there's no one to hold the camera. Just me.
Maybe when we're older, Langston will have a collection of the photos taken of our faces, some cut off or blurry because I didn't have it just right, and he will look at them with love and see us smushed together through circumstance and family. Sometimes, when we're dancing together in the kitchen by the big full-length mirror, Langston looks at our reflection and says, "Langston and Mommy." And I always say, "That's right."
You'll want a break, she asserted, and the kid will, too. They'll need to have someone else to go to. I don't remember all of the specific reasons that she enumerated, but what I do remember is that they all made sense. Someone else to take the weight of the burden and all that.
I've thought of our bus conversation fleetingly since Langston was born. And as challenging as it is doing what I do, when scooping my son up with strong arms as he's being sick or stuck and learning how to be, I don't think my friend had it right. I mean, it's true, there are days when I need a break, but somehow, more and more, I am able to take advantage of Langston's growing independence to take moments to rest. And maybe later, he'll want someone else to go to, a good cop to my bad cop when I say firmly, no. But for now, the only thing about being a single mom that is so tough it stings, is that there's no one to hold the camera. Just me.
Maybe when we're older, Langston will have a collection of the photos taken of our faces, some cut off or blurry because I didn't have it just right, and he will look at them with love and see us smushed together through circumstance and family. Sometimes, when we're dancing together in the kitchen by the big full-length mirror, Langston looks at our reflection and says, "Langston and Mommy." And I always say, "That's right."
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*My digital camera requires four AA batteries. Also, if I leave the batteries in, it sucks the juice out of them, so I have to open the little latch everytime I'm done using it to dump the batteries into a bag. It's about the size of a small sub sandwich.
