I have been the only parent of two kiddos for 16 of 18 years. Most of those years have been spent in poverty, which is no secret. Before I had kids, I was content to live like a bachelor. My real responsibilities consisted of a car, a couch, and a dog.
I was singing in the bar scene several nights a week back then and working a full-time job. I remember people making jokes about my lack of kid skills at my baby shower, and all of it was true.
I started to read everything I could get my hands on about pregnancy and child development. I subscribed to the trendiest magazines and filled my gift registry with all of the must-have items. I was as ready as someone like me could have been. And I was determined to show the world I could do this.
Alone.
My first few years of single parenting were filled with shame and guilt. I’ve never been married. I know, looking back, that I wasn’t supposed to be married to either of them, but that’s a whole other story. Once I worked through my guilt and shame, I wore my single-parent status as a badge of honor. We were killing it out here. I was building a career. We were winning on levels.
I was involved in our community, leading the Parent Teacher Organization while my kids were winning essay contests and awards. One kid was the first one labeled “gifted” in at least 10 years in her school. But no one saw the mornings when we were running late and I had to send my kid to school with a sore throat or runny nose because I couldn’t miss work. No one saw me working on a decision of which bill would get paid and which one I’d take a chance on. No one knew I relied on help to purchase Christmas gifts. I was determined that we were not going to become those statistics of single-parent homes. I knew my kids were born for greater than that life, and I was fiercely determined to provide a middle-class lifestyle to my working poor class family.
And I did. Alone.
A month ago, when my child spent 17 hours in a local ER waiting for a bed in a psychiatric stabilization unit, the weight of single parenting came crashing down on me. I called my sister friend from the car, and I was hysterically screaming that I couldn’t “do it by myself! You have to help me!” The hospital wouldn’t let her in. I was there alone, scared, and worried about both of my children, but I was with only one. While I was so grateful for the independence the oldest embraced, I was heartbroken about it at the same time.
Two weeks ago, when my child spent 90 hours in a local ER waiting for a bed in a psychiatric stabilization unit, the weight of single parenting crashed down on me and I was trapped in the rubble. I called another friend when I was three and a half days in and was able to mutter, “I need your help” before completely losing my shit, shaking my head back and forth and sobbing violently, “I can’t do this.”
Because while I was assigned the duty by the hospital staff of being on suicide watch, I had another child at home who needed me in that moment. I was told by a nurse that she couldn’t come in because she was a minor; she’s almost 18. I felt as if I was being forced to choose who needed me most. Who could I hand the glue to and who needed me to make sure we had enough pieces left to glue? I had a house and a family to care for and had to do it from a room in the ER for four days.
I was exhausted and stressed and heartbroken and scared … and I was forced to do it alone because no one else in the world loves these kids as much as I do. I don’t have a partner to tag in when I’m tired. I don’t have a partner to talk things through with. I’m responsible for every decision – and the outcomes.
Why I’ve landed on this to discuss is beyond me. I think it’s because I am so fortunate to know so many people who genuinely want the best for me. But I hope that if you’ve ever judged a single mom because they were late or their kid’s homework wasn’t done or she’s not available, take a pause and consider that she’s probably thinking about how to make 100 miracles happen. And she probably would appreciate a text to let her know that she’s not alone.
Onward,
Amy Jo
