by Christina Frank
Back when R & I were following the American Dream instruction manual–that is, mom, dad and the kids all living under the same roof–it was pretty clear which two of us were the parents and which two were the kids. When that manual was taken in the night and replaced by the Mid-Life Crisis Manifesto–which instructed R to move out asap–the family dynamics changed.
I’m technically still the mom, but the lines between myself and my daughters have blurred considerably, especially as we head into Day Five of our bi-monthly five-day 50/50 custody stretch. Here are some common scenarios that occur when it’s just the three of us gals at home:
•Older Daughter (OD) is Younger Daughter’s (YD) mom. Love this one. Suddenly OD will announce that she wants to give YD her bath, or put her to bed, or make her dinner, or pick her up from the school bus. I never protest and, in fact, sometimes go too far–like when I recently asked if she’d mind raising YD for a few years so I could see what it’s like to live in Costa Rica.
•Older Daughter thinks she’s my spouse. Not into this one at all. OD thinks she can scold me for forgetting to pack Pirate’s Booty in YD’s lunch? I don’t think so.
•Younger Daughter thinks she’s my mom. YD thinks she can shout from the back seat that there’s a red light so I need to put my foot on the brakes? I don’t think so.
•I’m the third sister. Sometimes I’m misunderstood and left out like Jan Brady, but usually I get to be Marcia, the groovy oldest one who knows about boys and bikini waxes and is worshiped for that. The flip side is that as the capricious big sis, I often want the kids to leave me alone so I can go on Facebook and/or exchange emails with my far-out boyfriend. Also, I will howl if one of my baby sisters tries to replace my David Bowie CD with anything by someone named Taylor or Miley.
•I’m a neglectful mom, who has spent the entire f***ing weekend getting the girls snacks (my god, do they ever stop wanting snacks??), combing out their head lice, driving them places, reminding them to do homework, doing laundry, and vacuuming up the snack crumbs. As Neglectful Mom, I have to sit down with a glass (or two) of wine and pretend I don’t know that the girls are upstairs watching TV for the fourth hour in a row. In fact, even if YD wants to cuddle in my lap and have me read to her, I am prone to saying something like “Hey, isn’t Wizards of Waverly Place on now?”
But before you dial Social Services, remember that these are the exceptions and that I tend to exaggerate. Mostly I’m the Perfect Mom, and I’m sure that’s how my girls will remember me.
Christina Frank lives in Brooklyn, NY, with her two daughters. She has written hundreds of articles for magazines, including Parenting, Health, Redbook, Good Housekeeping and Working Mother. Check out her blog Living in Splitsville: Notes on a Midlife Makeover.
For 15 years, I stayed in a marriage doomed from the start. Failing to do my homework beforehand, I went through with it in spite of friend’s vocal doubts. I married a man who didn’t know the meaning of the word “work ethic.” Although he had promised me the life of a stay at home Mom, it soon became clear he had married me because I had a good corporate job with great benefits. His version of going to work included tee times at the local golf course, seeing the latest blockbuster movie and closing a real estate deal when his funds ran low. Within 2 short years, we had two wonderful boys. The marriage had ended however during my second pregnancy. I resented the fact he refused to become gainfully employed.
Our boys grew up with two parents residing under the same roof who never did anything together: eating dinner together, dining out, church, going to friends, etc. I could count on one hand the number of times their father and I rode in the same car together during 15 years. When the boys played Little League and other sports, we both attended their games sitting as far away from each other as possible. I was frequently asked by other parents if we were divorced.
After borrowing money from my parents and getting them to buy me a car, it finally dawned on me that I was going to have to go back to work if I wanted to support my children and myself. When my income generated tax liability, my ex-spouse informed me that he would no longer file joint income tax returns with me. To this day, I continue making monthly IRS payments after being forced to file “married filing separately.”
After 15 years, we finally filed for divorce. Within weeks of filing, I lost my job. A job that had required me to travel 3 to 4 days a week and supported the boys and me for the duration of this “marriage.” I had not been able to save anything during this 15 years of hell and when my first round of unemployment ran out, my lawyer withdrew from my case. Before doing so, he informed me that my ex-spouse had never put our home (it was his separate property before we married) in my name. Without an attorney, no discovery was filed and I ended up in court representing myself. Big mistake!
Since my former attorney had never filed the necessary documentation showing my destitute financial position, I was not allowed to prove my interest in the home equity during trial. And because I had no job, the Judge decided to allow the boys to remain in the “family” home and gave me 30 days to move out. He ordered me to pay child support and gave me 90 days to find a job.
For two years, I have been living in near poverty. Aftet the divorce, I was forced to find a one-bedroom place where my children, now teenagers, have no desire to spend any length of time. Teenagers need their own space and privacy something I am unable to provide for them until I can find a job. Be glad that you have the 50/50 arrangement you have. Recently, I was served court papers. Seems my ex-spouse needs more child support aka an additional income stream. This came on the heals of my unemployment being reduced by $1,000 a month due to earnings from part-time and temp employment being significantly lower than what I had originally made.
Hug your children every day. That’s something I am unable to do.