Solo

A personal essay about divorce and parenting — solo

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Today, co-editor

Steph Sprenger

is sharing a personal essay she began several years ago, a story whose ending hadn’t yet been written until a difficult season of life this fall: Solo.

My 14- and 9-year-old-daughters and I drove away from the airport in our minivan, leaving my husband standing on the curb with his suitcase. We had never done this before. It seemed unfathomable that he had never traveled without us, but my husband didn’t travel for work or take guys’ snowmobiling weekends or fishing trips. Although I had snidely referred to myself as Parenting Project Manager for many years, I had truly never flown solo until his trip to visit family in Texas. I knew better than to overdramatize my brief foray into going it alone, recalling my introduction to the term “solo parenting.”

“Let’s be clear. Solo parenting is not the same as single parenting." My outspoken single mom friend had commented on a mutual acquaintance’s Facebook complaint about how hard it was to be a single parent while her husband was traveling. Her indignation over the comparison was justifiable: being the only adult at home is different when you are part of a unit. You aren’t technically alone when there is a partner to FaceTime with at the end of the day, a (theoretical) support system with whom to text about the irritations of the school pickup line.

And so, the first day of my husband’s absence, I carefully joked on Facebook about how I wasn’t going to make it flying solo, utilizing the agreed upon terminology to seek sympathy without alienating the single parent cohort. My oldest solemnly proclaimed herself my co-parent for the rest of the week. I felt a simultaneous rush of gratitude for the necessary support and embarrassment at my lack of competence. I shouldn’t need an assistant, but I often felt graceless in my flustered attempts to juggle all that motherhood required and wasn’t particularly excited about my husband’s departure. After the first day, however, my perspective began to shift—it wasn’t as bad as I thought it might be. In fact, I was enjoying myself. It felt easier, somehow.

We greedily watched as much TV as we wanted after school without my action-driven husband present. Over the weekend, we morphed into perpetually pajama-clad sloths with nobody to chastise us or toss sidelong glances laden with silent criticism. We unabashedly said bad words and sang loudly. But aside from the unwitnessed hedonism, there was another unexpected and counterintuitive perk: I had nobody to lean on for meal preparation, housework, errands, or child transportation. If I lost my cool, there was nobody to have my back, so I subsequently lost my cool a whole lot less. Without my uber-competent husband around, I found myself rising to the challenge of being the level-headed, energetic, and patient mom I always dreamed I would be. I was unflappable, whereas, under normal circumstances of juggling work, kids, and home, I was, well, flappable.

My nine-year-old and I snuggled in bed on our last morning without my husband. I was thinking about how soundly I had slept on my last night alone, my dog’s curly head nestled inches from my own. I was going to miss climbing into my own bed right after tucking the girls in, reading for a quiet, blissful hour, and then falling asleep around 9:30. I would also miss wearing my crappiest underwear every day, not shaving for a week, and watching four episodes of Gilmore Girls with my oldest while my youngest played on her iPad and then languished in an hour-long tepid bath. I had enjoyed the change of personnel and felt smug about my ability to feed the kids, keep the house clean, stay present, avoid meltdowns, and do all the solo mom things. I allowed a bit of melancholy that our Girls Week was coming to an end.

Then, as though reading my mind, my daughter sleepily asked, “Do you want to hold Home or hold Daddy?” I panicked. Oh god, I thought, this is a trap. It’s one of those “Would you rather’s?” that my kids are so fond of. And how astute of her to realize that Daddy and Home were dichotomous, that it was impossible for me to have both at once! How did she know I was struggling with my bittersweet conclusion as a solo parent? Kids are so intuitive, I thought, swiftly answering, “Hold Daddy, of course!”

I decided to ask her opinion, feeling a bit anxious about how she would reply. Was she going to miss the estrogen-only vibe? She was happy he was returning, right? “Sophie,” I asked carefully, “Do you want to hold Home or hold Daddy?”

“I’m holding ‘Welcome,’” she explained patiently, as though I were an idiot. Then it dawned on me. The kids had made signs to hold up at the airport when we picked my husband up that evening. I felt utterly ridiculous when I finally grasped that she literally meant holding the sign and not some mind-reading metaphorical woo-woo. Welcome. Home. Daddy.

My reign as Competent Albeit Lazy Queen concluded with ambivalence; I assured myself that its fleeting nature was the reason it felt so good. Clearly the draw of having two parents at home was about more than having a partner to help shuttle kids to activities when it was impossible for me to be two places at once, more than having a clean-up crew to balance my culinary duties. It was about the predictability of daily rituals, the evening “couch time” after the kids went to bed, debriefing and problem-solving before Netflix. When he returned, I would trade my preferred daily rhythms, solitude, and confidence for inside jokes and raised eyebrows, shared irritation and laughter. My hesitation to embrace the trade-off was discomfiting; I felt freer somehow when he was gone.

We drove to the airport on the sixth day of his absence. Usually, our airport reunions were the three of them, holding flowers for me, as I traveled to a conference or a funeral, my two standard solo journeys. Was this really the first time he had flown without us in all these years? Watching him ascend the escalator, I held “Home,” a symbol of my quiet conflict and perhaps even seeds of doubt.

 ***

Just over two years later, I was a month into divorce proceedings. I had begun to feel the weight of maintaining my house as the sole adult like a deep ache in my bones. Usually, the pull of freedom and relief kept my spirits high, but about once a week, I broke down, generally over housework combined with transporting children to various locations at logistically impossible times. During the moments when the heaviness made my thoughts spin and my heart pound, I often found myself sobbing in the kitchen.

Today’s meltdown was about a collection of partially empty, undisposed of juice boxes, a flurry of cheese stick wrappers, an unidentifiable refrigerator smell emanating from an unknown source, a damp load of laundry one of the children had prematurely evacuated from the dryer, a vexing awareness that our vehicle was full of “carbage” that required purging, and the fact that I had tossed and turned all night with one of my daughters as a bedmate. It was the quintessential post-divorce perfect storm. And it broke me.

Photo by Scott Umstattd on Unsplash

I alternately wept, apologized, spouted accusations, and begged for help, all while throwing out questionable refrigerator items at random, wildly hauling bins and bags out to the trash and recycling, and treading a path from kitchen to laundry room to garage with tears streaming down my face. My children’s eyes were wide. I babbled with shame, all the while wondering, “Why am I apologizing to an inhabitant of this home who is currently watching TV on the couch and eating Veggie Straws surrounded by a pile of her own food debris?”

I drove one of the kids home from therapy later that day, fatigue paired with the morning’s tears making my eyes heavy. I sighed heavily as I pulled onto the freeway, and it was there that I had my first ever car accident fantasy. Certainly other burned-out moms have indulged the forbidden and macabre thought that popped into their head, briefly allowing themselves to imagine it? Maybe I even read a book where the author confided it as a “rock bottom” moment or some kind of overwhelm epiphany.

But now the thought was in my head. What if I got into a car accident, not a fatal one, but one that would land me in the hospital for a few days so I could rest?

I felt instantly ashamed, yet simultaneously drawn to the allure of several days without to-do lists, nurturing caregivers circling my bed. The realization that the appeal of this scenario was my new reality brought tears to my eyes. Is this where I am? A car accident sounds less stressful? My eyes burned and I let the tears fall. Yes, this is where I am. Inside my car, Phoebe Bridgers sang, “I want to live at the Holiday Inn where somebody else makes the bed,” and I cried a little harder. Yes, Phoebe. I want somebody else to make the fucking bed. To assist when reality dictates that I be in two places at once, splitting myself into more impossible pieces than I already have.

I do not know how the sprinkler system works. I dutifully pull the trash and recycling cans to the curb on the correct day. I remember to bring the mail in, though I am usually too overwhelmed to look at it. I cry in bathrooms. I tolerate excessive screen time. I ignore the automated text messages telling me it’s time to book six-month dental checkups—who wants to go to the dentist during a time like this?

I imagine the sting of back-to-school night, Halloween, Thanksgiving, Christmas, remember the daily rituals that disappeared in a blink. I worry about who will winterize my swamp cooler in the fall. I worry about my children’s mental health. I worry about my daughter getting her driver’s license. I worry that we are already behind on college applications. There is nobody to wade through this with me. I am alone.

But aside from my weekly chore-related breakdown, I rarely lose my cool. It shocks me, reminding me of my brief expedition into “solo parenting” years back. When there is nobody there to pick up the slack, you tap into strength from the very bottom of your emotional ocean.

That fleeting pleasure of being accountable to only myself returns to me and stays. I do not hear the garage door open and, Pavlov-style, leap to stand at attention before the kitchen sink or tap the Roomba on with my foot. If I am sitting in bed working on my computer or reading a novel at 4:30 pm, I am not concerned about judgment. I talk on the phone more and cook complicated meals less; I create new rituals and turn my bedroom into a sanctuary.

It is the eve of my eldest daughter’s seventeenth birthday. I am not the puke parent, yet I don’t even fucking flinch as I ladle vomit from her bathtub into a bowl. She cried so hard she threw up in the shower; I hold her hair back, bundle her in towels, quietly get to work cleaning up the mess, ask her little sister to bring a ginger ale. I don’t gag, grimace, or cringe as I wipe the tub mechanically, as though it is a task I do every day. Hours earlier, I administered emergency anxiety medication to my youngest after she hyperventilated into a brown lunch bag. I dart between their two crises with an eerie calm that feels inappropriate, otherworldly. I marvel over the fact that I am not weeping, swearing, losing my composure.

After the bathtub is clean and my children settled, I sigh heavily and head downstairs to decorate for my daughter’s birthday. It’s a tradition to adorn the kitchen with balloons and crepe paper for birthdays, and this is the first birthday I’ve tackled the task on my own. My ex-husband, in addition to being the parent in charge of vomit and loose teeth, is also the parent who enjoys decorating late at night for special occasions.

In an effort to assimilate this skill that now befalls me in my own authentic way, I forgo balloons and streamers; I am terrible at tying knots in balloons and crepe paper is an irritating mess that lingers for days until someone finally tears it down with exasperation. I buy bouquets of flowers and small potted plants, a banner and a pre-made rose gold doorway curtain.

I pop in my AirPods and Taylor Swift keeps me company while I arrange flowers in vases. Silently, my 7^th grader appears by my side and begins to help me tape decorations to the wall. I flash her a grateful look; we wordlessly carry on together. At the end of the night, I collapse into bed in bewilderment, wondering what exactly just happened to me.

The next day, I repeat my story with varying tones of seriousness, upping the entertainment value at times to try it on—is the puke soup funny yet? At the end of the evening, I sit on my living room couch with my best friend, another single mom. “How did I do that?” I ask her with wonder. “I mean, I just did it. I just kept going.”

“It’s grace,” she said simply, without any hint of cliché or religiosity. “We just do it. It’s the meaning of grace. You just somehow find the strength within yourself to do whatever you need to do for your kids.”

For exactly seventeen years, I had never believed I possessed what it took to be a strong, competent parent on my own. In fact, for my entire life I have harbored a secret fear that I have no idea what I am doing, that I somehow missed a crucial memo that my peers—first childhood classmates, later, fellow adults—had received. It was essential to my survival that I align myself with others who were strong, stable, knowledgeable, unflappable. I was inadequate on my own.

And yet, here I was, doing it. I was ordering the gifts and decorating the kitchen, buying the birthday cake and cleaning vomit out of the bathtub, I was calmly dispensing anti-nausea meds and homeopathic nerve roll-ons and ginger ale and anxiety medication and advice. Despite the chaos of it all, I had an unprecedented ease in my own skin.

For better or for worse is an oft-touted hallmark of marriage. But as it turns out, it applies equally to divorce. The transitory highs and lows of solo parenting settle into permanence when you are a single parent. The struggles last longer and are more draining; they repeat like Groundhog’s Day and threaten to leech you of your strength. But the virtues, they last, too, and these are the qualities that usually prevail: the relief, the autonomy, the joy, the freedom. And the grace.

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Stephanie Sprenger is the co-founder of the HerStories Project and the co-editor of Midstory Magazine. She is working on a memoir.