Thanks, guys, for your ongoing encouragement. I want to write well.
Single Parent Extraordinaire
I am sure there were some at my church that wondered about what they had taken on. I came to the church with two little babies and a garbage bag of clothing. As I had recently come from the hippie school of hygiene, a sweet sister took me aside and explained the usefulness of razors and anti-perspirant. After the hygiene lesson the sisters worked on my self-image. I was advised to look in the mirror every morning and tell myself I was beautiful. And to keep my shoulders back. And I was given tons of clothing. And makeup. And furniture. The perm was a mistake, though. What can I say? It was the eighties.
My church life and work life intertwined. A young welfare mom, I volunteered in the church office now and again. That little bit of experience landed me my first clerical job with the government. As a Sunday School teacher to two-year olds, I learned all I needed to know about crowd control. I became a leader at church, working with the other single parents on small helps projects. That experience was invaluable when I became a supervisor. I still cringe when I see my colleagues treat staff poorly; as if all they had to do to keep good people was to threaten them with losing their jobs. Over the years I worked my way off welfare, saved my pennies, and bought a little house.
I realized one day that helping around the house spoke volumes more to my parents than preaching. When my parents finally split, I saw my father in a whole new light. Casing out his basement suite with single bare mattress and bare walls, I felt sorry for him in the first time in my life. Dad, you gotta get some pictures on those walls! Our relationship was restored, and he became my rock again.
Starting out a shy, beaten-down introvert, I found my redemption in helping others. I had no time for feeling sorry for myself, I had a little family to raise. For revenge of the evil done to us, I was going to live full of the grace of God. I strived to live the scriptural life. And made macaroni and cheese from scratch. Lunch was a creative adventure, with mixed success. The mini marshmallow-peanut butter combo was a big hit. My boy played dentist and picked off all the teeth. My boy was intense, deep. We would have late night conversations on the origin of black holes. By the time he was eight, he was begging me to teach him chess. By the time he was twelve, he was beating me. The peanut butter-and-quark sandwich was a flop. My daughter eyed all my sandwiches with suspicion after that. My girl took charge of her own raising, teaching herself to tie her shoes, and making sure her big brother brought home his notes from school. I worked hard, trying to do everything right. There were days I yearned for 40, when the children would be grown and I would have my own life. Now I realize I was living my best days, raising those two.
I have a few regrets. I was too hard over the little things. Candy doesnt really hurt kids. I wish I had taught my children to believe in fairies as well as Jesus. There was a smugness born of ignorance that I am ashamed of now. I truly believed that if I raised my children on biblical principles, that I would be able to avoid the heartache that ordinary parents suffered.