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This Single Mom’s Survival Guide

May 1, 2012 by step.

I have been a single mom for most of my daughter’s life, and there were a lot of things I used to do when I only had fifty bucks in spending money a month (that included various toiletries).  I thought I’d list them.  Living well under the poverty level requires a lot of creativity.

My life has been well-funded for the last four months or so, via grants, loans and scholarships for school, and the ever-so-wonderful tax refund.  Unfortunately, a huge chunk of my funding for school has run dry, which is what I was basically living off of, so now I am scrambling to find resources wherever I can.

This is reason for a significant amount of stress, when I am faced with this blaring noise in my mind of feeling like I cannot provide for my child.  To help with this, I’ve been reminding myself of little things I did in my not-so-distant past:  


1.  Know your grocery stores.  Seriously.  Know who’s having a sale, who has lower prices on a certain item, and where you can buy something in bulk.  My grocery budget isn’t big, and I am committed to feeding my child good-quality products, which often means less for me.  A good sale at Safeway can mean twenty bucks you could save.

2.  Allow yourself two things to splurge on with food.  For me, this is Greek God’s Honey Yogurt and good coffee.

3.  Learn how to make a really good-quality loaf of bread and muffin.  This will save you tons of money, and it’s really healthy and filling.

4.  Use food money wisely.  Seriously.  It’s your lifeline.  Don’t waste it.

5.  Go “out to eat” in your grocery store.  Once a month or so, Mia and me would walk down to the local Co-Op and select a few things.  Me: an Odwalla juice and a discounted deli sandwich.  Her: a chocolate milk, some chips, hummus, an apple, or whatever.  We would purchase this food, get a nice window seat, and happily munch away.  Sometimes I’d get a coffee, if I had enough change.

6.  McDonald’s Playland is actually pretty awesome on a rainy day.  I realize some people will be thoroughly against this, but when you’re this poor, you do what you must do.

7.  Find a really good consignment store.  Hang out with the owner if you can and shoot the shit for a while, or better yet offer to help out a bit.  They’ll often give you better deals on your clothing.  For a while, my daughter’s wardrobe was funded almost completely by a local consignment store, and her socks, underwear and sometimes shoes (and other must-needed items like leggings or whatever) were from Walmart.

8.  Know your parks!  Find one with a good bench that sits in the sun, and enclosed area that doesn’t have lot of hiding spaces, and park yourself with a book for the afternoon.  Bring snacks.

9.  Forage.  Learn your local flora and fauna.  Pick berries, dig up mushrooms, snag apples.  Find a community garden.  Grow gardens wherever you can.

10.  Find a really good, high protein granola bar.  For me, this has been the Cranberry “Luna” bar.  When these go on sale, buy a case if you can.

11.  Connect with a local therapist. Either through a local Domestic Violence Chapter or Community Health Center. If anything, it’s good to unload for an hour, and it comes at no cost.  Other counseling centers will also have a sliding scale fee.  Call around.  It’s worth it.

13.  If you have any single mom friends, hold on to them like precious jewels.  These ladies know how it is, and that is valuable.  They are your lifeline, and your cohort.  Make groups.  Have play dates.  Help each other out.  Create a village.

14.  Meditate on moments.  Stop and breathe.  Take mental pictures of your kid laughing.  Enjoy a minute to yourself.  I mean, really enjoy.  Even if it’s sitting in your car before you go into the store and your kid is dozing in their car seat, relish it.  Embellish it.

15.  Always ask for bartering.  A lot of people might not be able to pay you, but if you offer to clean their house, weed their lawn, or watch their dogs while they’re away, you can often get a lot more for your buck/time.  Massage practices would be an excellent place to start with this.  Also landlords.  Always always offer to work off your rent.

16.  Make the most of your kid-free time.  Being a co-parent isn’t easy, especially if the relationship is not a good one.  When your kid’s away at the other parent’s house, it’s hard.  I know it is.  But use this time to connect with yourself.  Give yourself time to relax.  You’ve earned it, Super Mom.

17.  You will look back on this time with a ton of nostalgia.  Trust me.  You have been given an opportunity to get to know yourself and your child(ren) without the benefits that a lot of money brings.  Without the distraction of electronics or fancy shiny things.  It’s just you, your kid, and a puzzle that you found for twenty-five cents at a garage sale.  Many people don’t have this luxury.  And trust me, it is one.

18.  Dating.  This could be a whole other blog.  Don’t give up hope.  Dating as a single mother in itself is a really good way to weed out the men from the boys.  Try not to waste your kid’s time (and heart) with this.  If they seem like they’re a keeper, that’s one thing.  If they’re a fling, keep the worlds separate as much as you can.

19.  Create routines that are a little on the weird side.  Like listening to a certain song in the morning.  Kissing a certain way at night or when you say goodbye.  The way you cut up pancakes or warm up towels in the dryer after a bath could be the one thing your kid will look back on and sigh with a feeling of comfort.  But it’s important to create that comfort now.  These little things are the ones you fall back on when you’re needing that reassurance that you’re gonna make it.

20.  You will make it!  This too shall pass.  Nothing is permanent.  Carpe Diem.  Find your mantra, and listen to it.  My personal one was “I love you, I’m here for you,” because really, you are all you have.  And, when it comes down to it, YOU and your mental and physical health are what’s important.  Take care of them before you take care of your kid whenever you can.  Nobody likes to scrape bottoms of barrels all the time.   Find your moments of peace, your happy places, and your own little mantras.  Love on your kids, and they will return the gesture ten-fold.

step.

Posted in Co-Parenting, College, Financial Struggles, Friends, Parenting, Single Mom, Single Woman | 1 Comment »

Admission Granted

April 28, 2012 by step.

I forgot to mention in the last entry–I was granted a seat in the fall upper-class writing workshop!  Though this is so incredibly exciting, and completely humbles me with gratitude and awe, it is still not a sure thing.  I think I need to work on celebrating things.  Usually, I just have a moment of saying “YAY!!!” in my mind, and then I get back to what I was doing.  I really need to step back and give myself some credit and let the achievement soak in a bit.  I’m still not sure I’ll be able to attend the workshop, though.  In order to go, I need to take the classes I am enrolled in this summer.  Coming up with tuition is now a feeling of urgency.

My friend wrote a list of things she would have liked to have told her 18-year-old self, and #13 has been running through my head a lot:

You have the potential to take authorship over your life. If you have a dream? You gotta pursue it with as much vigor as you can muster. Even if you’re broke. Even if you’re fucked up. Even if you fail all the time. If you are lucky enough to have your physical and mental health, you can make it happen. Run towards what makes you feel alive and take risks when it feels right.

Until I know the result of my scholarship renewal application, and how much I’ll be awarded for tuition, I still feel like being granted a seat in the workshop is bittersweet.  That’s the thing about dreams, I guess.  If you hit a large bump in the road, you find a way to work your way around it.  Or, you speed up, hit it head on, and soar.

Since the entry I submitted was two combined blog entries, I thought I’d share it here.  When I told Mia what I wrote about, she didn’t like it.  ”Mom, I only want you to write about happy things.”

I’ll work on that, kid.

***

ON BEING A SINGLE MOM

After four whole days of sleeping through the night and being pain-free, my daughter Mia woke up one morning complaining that her ear was hurting again. I sucked in air through my teeth and once again gave her some ibuprofen. She’d gone through the entire bottle the week before, taking the maximum dose every five to six hours, at all hours of the day.

A week before, I had taken her to see the Ear, Nose, and Throat specialist that had removed her adenoids and inserted ear tubes in her ear drums the previous summer. He put an “ear wick” in her left ear canal.  It was a hard piece of cotton, much like a wick for a candle, which went from her ear drum to the opening. Its purpose, he said, was to help the ear drain fluid. He also told me to put antibiotic drops in my daughter’s ears, even though she was already taking antibiotics, something she was sensitive to.  I’d given her eardrops before, having to actually hold her down to do it, and for a few minutes afterwards, she couldn’t walk straight, and even stumbled and fell.  I told the specialist this, and he said it was normal.  He said to continue holding her down and put them in anyway.  “You’re the mom,” he told me. I actually threw the prescription away.

Now her ears hurt again. Mia fell asleep on my chest later that afternoon, something she hadn’t done in quite a while. I held her for three hours. Before the recent break, it had been a long week of tossing and turning for her, and sleep still wasn’t coming easy. Her ear was continuously draining brown, orange and yellowish fluid, often soaking her hair and pillow at night. When she woke up later in the afternoon, she was not happy.  My three and a half year old daughter was screaming, and I felt completely helpless, not being able to console her.

We had an appointment in an hour at The Country Clinic, a naturopathic chiropractic clinic in the next town that offered, on their good graces, to see us at no charge.  I knew we wouldn’t make it with Mia screaming like this, so I called to tell them so. Dr. Nate, the chiropractor who usually adjusted Mia, called me back immediately after canceling our appointments. After a few questions, he told me he’d be over that evening… like… to my house… which was twenty miles away from his.

Eventually, Mia fell back asleep in my arms again, and Dr. Nate showed up, just like he said he would. He did what he called “low level laser therapy” on my little girl’s ear, to help with pain.  In almost a loving way, he smiled at her, telling me this would be exactly what he would do to his own girls.

When Mia woke up an hour later, she was almost back to her little self again. She started picking up her toys, telling me she was cleaning the apartment for bedtime. That night, though she still woke up crying, asking for her medicine, she seemed to sleep better in between the bouts of pain.  Over the next couple of days she seemed to even be recovering quickly as her body worked the infection out…but there was one thing it couldn’t work out… the piece of hard cotton the ENT specialist had lodged in her ear canal.

When I brought Mia to the ENT clinic the next day, the specialist came in, in his usual fashion. He was a quiet man with glasses, tall and slender, who spoke softly but with firm verbiage. My daughter did not want to be there. Her doctor barely nodded in her direction, just asked me to put Mia on her back on the table, under all the special viewing instruments hanging from the ceiling. She didn’t want to do this, and I didn’t blame her. At the last appointment, the same man had used some kind of tool to suck the goop out of her ear while tears silently rolled down her face, her grip tightening on my hand while a nurse held her legs and torso down. This time, Mia wasn’t having it.

“You’ll have to put your whole body across her legs, because she’ll kick, and hold down her arms,” he told me, and illustrated what he meant. Mia was already crying in fear and confusion. He’d obviously instructed many parents to do this, and, like them, I agreeably held my daughter down while the nurse firmly grabbed Mia’s cheeks with latex-gloved hands to position her head.

The specialist stuck one of those funnel-shaped caps in Mia’s ear quickly, without a word. Mia opened her mouth and eyes wide in shock, and let out a noiseless cry. She bit her lip as tears started to slide down her face. Her body turned hot and she writhed under my arms and body. She cried out to me, begging me to let her go, and I couldn’t.  I had to turn my head away from watching her face scrunch up in so much fear and agony. I just wanted him to get that stupid piece of cotton out of her ear so we could be done with this place.

Despite trying a few times, the specialist couldn’t get the wick out at first, tugging a little harder each time. He had to go for different tools, while his grip on the pointed cap in her ear moved, causing her to cry out in pain again. Finally, the wick came out with some effort, and was five times bigger than it originally was. He put some ear drops in her ear, “pumping” in the medicine by pushing repeatedly with his finger on the tragus, the little part that partially covers the opening to the canal. Mia continued to cry out in an animalistic way that I’d never heard before. She was truly in pain.

Once the infected ear was cleared out and pumped with antibiotics, the specialist asked the nurse to position Mia so he could look in her other ear, which was completely fine. Again, the nurse held my daughter’s head in place, with me draped across her body, holding down her arms and legs, while Mia cried out in fear.

“Well, both of those ears look fine. The tubes that I put in are still in place and they look clear. Continue the medication for a week and then come back to see me in two weeks.” He looked at me, waiting for a response, but I just stared at him. Mia’s arms and legs were wrapped around me so tightly I barely had to hold her. He stood up straighter and gave a soft, “Have a good couple of weeks.” I gave him a flat, “Yeah” in response, and he was gone.

Instead of pausing to schedule a follow-up appointment I rushed out, mumbling that I would give them a call. It took Mia a while before she was ready to get buckled in her car seat. I held her for a while in the parking lot while she whimpered into my shoulder. I told her how sorry I was that I had to hold her down, that I needed to do it so the doctor could get the cotton out of her ear. I apologized over and over, and told her we’d never see that doctor again. Eventually, she released her grip and was willing to sit in her seat. Once we were both buckled I fumed in my driver’s seat, clutching the steering wheel. I stared at the sign in front of the office, reached for my phone, and dialed the number.

I proceeded to tell the poor woman who answered the phone that my daughter, Emilia Land, would not be returning to their office. I said I didn’t know how she could work at a practice that treated children with such disrespect. I told her the doctor hardly said two words to us, and then forced instruments in my daughter’s ears, causing her enough pain and fear that two people had to hold her thirty-five-pound body down. I said if Mia ever had problems with her ear that were sufficient enough to see a specialist, I would seek out a different office in another town that hopefully had better bedside manner.

The woman tried to refer me to a different doctor in the same office. She asked me to please speak with the office manager. I declined, and said I just wanted them to know we were never coming back. She sighed, said “OK,” though offered no apologies.

We had an appointment at The Country Clinic immediately following this one, and in the thirty minute drive there, Mia happily ate snacks and drank from a juice box. She appeared to be back to herself, acting as if the last appointment didn’t happen. I could only imagine how it felt to have that piece of cotton lodged in her ear, what a relief she must have felt to have it out.

By the time we got to the clinic, Mia was the happiest I’d seen her in almost two weeks. She bounded into the office, bringing her bunny to get adjusted as well. Dr. Nate gave her a warm smile and a big hug. I told him about the appointment, and he couldn’t believe the specialist wanted me to continue the antibiotic ear drops, even though there was no longer any sign of infection.

Mia’s bunny checked out perfect, and Dr. Nate said it was the kiddo’s turn. She laid on her belly without hesitation—and notably without anyone having to hold her down. Dr. Nate checked her over, and said he didn’t feel any inflamed areas in her nerves. Mia even let him look at her ear (something she didn’t let me do without promising up and down I was only going to look and NOT touch). Dr. Nate asked her to flip over on her back and she did that too. She was talkative with him, which was new, and it seemed like she was finally coming out of her shell in that office. Dr. Nate kept laughing at her comments, and I smiled at her, amazed at how her mood could brighten so quickly and completely.

Before we left the clinic, Dr. Nate called Mia to him, and she ran over. He squatted down, and asked for another hug, which she gladly gave. He smiled at me, and I could tell he was so happy to finally gain her trust and love. She amazes me. After going through what she did at the first appointment, it was like she was so relieved to be in a place where she was seen and respected as an individual.

When we got home, she was excited to take a bath, asking to be in charge of the soap. I left her in there on her own for a bit, checking emails and job listings. After an hour or so, I saw her standing in the doorway of the bathroom, completely covered in bubbles. She smiled at me, proclaiming, “I certainly got clean, Mom!”

Putting her to bed was a breeze. She proudly stood on the bed, completely naked, with her hands on her hips, singing a made-up song for a few minutes. She stopped abruptly, and shrugged, saying “It’s kind of a long song.” I laughed and said, “I like it when you sing, Mia.”

We’ve been reading longer stories, with fewer pictures, which has been exciting to me. Tonight, we read The Velveteen Rabbit as she snuggled her bunny. Soon, she was asleep with no problems in getting comfortable. No tossing and turning or crying out from laying horizontal. Before she fell asleep, she kissed me, and put her little arm around my neck, and told me she loved me over and over. I sang a few songs. “I like it when you sing, Mom” was the last thing she said before drifting off to sleep.

I laid there for a while, thinking about how I’d held her down. How I had looked away, and mumbled that she was OK. But she wasn’t OK. Some man that didn’t even take the time to ask how she was doing was hurting her, and she had no idea what was going on. I wondered how this man felt at night. I wondered if he felt like a good doctor, or even a good human being. Any other doctor or nurse I’d experienced at least gave my child the respect of looking her in the eye and talking to her directly, explaining what they’re about to do beforehand, and often allowed her to inspect the tools and instruments they were about to use. How could he not?

Eventually, I drifted off to sleep, exhausted from the events of the day. Mia slept well that night, meaning I also did. The next day I drove my usual three hour route to deliver her to her dad for the weekend. I brought instructions, medications, ibuprofen, and hugged her tight, sending her off for three days, hoping she would continue to get better. Her dad grumbled at me about her being sick, blaming the “awful daycare” I had her in. I tried to shrug it off, and waved goodbye happily, though inside I fought urges to grab her back and drive away as fast as my old car could.

A few nights later, I had a dream I was at work, cleaning a house, where my cell phone had poor reception. I had been there all day, and it was getting dark. I kept feeling like I was forgetting something but shrugged it off, finished my work and went to class. Parking my car on campus, I took out my phone to silence it, and was surprised to see five voicemail messages, with ten missed calls, most from a number I didn’t recognize. Panic started to creep in as I dialed the number of my mailbox. I’d forgotten to pick up Mia at daycare an hour ago. No, wait, I didn’t forget…the babysitter forgot. This was a school night. Who was watching her again? Where was she going to school? In my dream, I started to panic…I couldn’t remember where we lived, where I needed to go to get my daughter, or who was supposed to be watching her while I was in class for the evening. I woke up with a start as the sky was getting light. It was clear. There wasn’t a cloud in sight.

I sit on the couch for a little while, drinking coffee and gazing out the window. Eventually, I go to the computer, check want ads, email my resume to a few places and watch the time tick by slowly. Finally, I make a call, asking if Mia could stay at her dad’s an extra day. I never like doing this. It makes me feel weak, like I can’t handle my own life. I don’t like admitting that to him. But really, I should be thankful, grateful, and appreciative that I am able to say, “Can Mia stay at your place an extra day? I’m feeling really overwhelmed.”

It’s hard for me to admit that I need help with something. It’s hard for me to focus on my needs and how to fulfill them. I have a hard time relaxing, cooking and eating a good meal, putting my feet up, watching TV or movies, sleeping in, or doing something with a single purpose, instead of constantly multi-tasking. I feel like I ask for too much already, just being a single mom. It’s hard for me to reach out and even make an attempt at new friendships. I feel like I don’t have anything to offer. I don’t have the mental or physical time to invest, but I need to find a way to clear the space in my mind and on my calendar. Accomplishing all that I am without the help of friends and family is starting to take its toll.

There’s a small mountain of laundry I must conquer at the Laundromat this weekend. I am meeting with my new landlords for dinner to put all our rental agreements on the table and in writing. I am moving my stuff out of storage and into my new place. I am going to my Aunt’s where she’s going to give me hand-me-down professional wear for my upcoming internship. I have piles of dishes, papers, bills, toys, books, and stuffed animals that I need to sort and put away. I need to purchase a long list of heavily budgeted groceries and supplies for moving. I suppose I should look and see what sort of books I will need to buy once the new quarter at school begins. I am taking twelve credits next quarter. I need to prepare myself for an interview on Monday, and the work week ahead, which will be my last for an unknown amount of time.

As the stress of moving to a new apartment fifteen miles out of town starts to build before I am able to fully process the last three weeks of Mia’s horrible ear infection, I find myself blankly staring at nothing, and not being fully present for Mia. I think about how she’s been repeating herself a lot lately, and I figure it’s just her age, but I realize that I’m not listening to her. Her constant chatter has turned to background noise, and my response has been a look of approval with an “Mmmm-hmmm!” and not much else.

But the sun is out today. The sky is completely blue. I go to the bedroom area of our studio apartment to make the bed, tidy up, collect laundry, and pull back the curtains. I let the sun in, sit on the freshly-made bed, close my eyes, and breathe. And breathe. And. Breathe.

***

step.

Posted in Allergies & Illnesses, College, Financial Struggles, Writing | Leave a Comment »

On Being a Lazy Writer

April 27, 2012 by step.

Five minutes have passed since beginning this entry.  I’ve written first sentences and erased them.  All of them have noted how incredibly busy the last few weeks have been since making this huge decision to embrace this dream of being a writer, actively pursuing it by submitting pieces to gain entry into upper-class writing workshops and planning my education surrounding that.  But it’s all for naught if I’m not actually writing.

And I haven’t been.  Not in the slightest.

This pains me, because I know I should be.  I have been processing so much mentally.  I’ve had these moments of clarity, of realization, and I haven’t written about them.  My mind goes all linear instead of being creative and writing a story.  I want to organize this whole blog entry in categories and lists with bullet points while trying not to bore my readers to clicking on the little “x” to close the tab.  So here goes nothing:

OK.  (deep breath, straighten my posture, prepare to write.)  I mean, it should be easy enough, right?  I’m a WRITER for crying out loud.  But god damn I’ve been trudging through mountains and valleys.

A mountain:  sitting in the writing center on campus, my fingers nervously playing with my lower lip, watching a recent MFA Non-Fiction graduate read my four-page, single-spaced piece that I was to submit for the fall upper-class writing workshop.  Something I’d been told was very difficult to get into.  My sweet Lucas had marked up my draft with a red pen, I’d made corrections, and here I was, watching someone read it.

He nodded at the end, and made a grunt, and said, “Wow.  So what do you want me to tell you?”

“Well,” I said, “it’s been years since someone has critiqued my stuff.  I guess I really just want to know if it’s good or not.”

He smiled, and eased up a bit, leaning back in his chair, gazing at my piece.  It was a revision of a couple of blog entries from when Mia was experiencing a terrible ear infection:  Two Very Different Docs and Moments of Sun and Breath.

“Technically,” he began, “your writing is superb.  I mean, really excellent.  I don’t find any errors in this.  Your grammar and content are spot on.”  He went on to explain that there wasn’t much of a story.  There wasn’t a reason for a reader to care about what was happening.  There were no cliff-hangers, or sentences that grabbed you with suspense in the beginning.

I admitted rather sheepishly that I kept a blog, and that was where the piece was from.  ”This is the way my mind works,” I explained.  ”I’ve been a journal writer most of my life, and this is how I normally write.”

“Your mind works very well, but you do need to add some creativity to it.”  He looked at the ending again and added, “It’s a refreshing piece.  I think the way you write will be refreshing to a Non-Fiction professor.  A lot of people write about what they did last summer, or when their grandfather died.  This is speaking of your life, but it’s not in a way that is detailing an amazing trip or misery, it’s very real.”

We went on to talk about the program, and tattoos, and what he’s doing with his life now that he’s an MFA grad.  ”You’re lookin’ at it,” he said glumly.  He directed me to the director of the program.  ”I think you two will have a lot in common.  Go see if she has a minute to talk.  But don’t mention the blog,” he added.  ”She’s kind of old-school.”

I walked down the hall and poked my head into a published author’s office.  She’s a single mom.  She’s written a memoir, and she had a seat open, which I willingly took for twenty minutes or so.

We talked books.  She made a phone call to get my four semesters of American Sign Language counted as a foreign language in the program, saving me from having to start all over again in another.  She feverishly wrote book titles, genres, and tips on how to write my cover letter to the professor running the fall workshop.  I gazed at the bookshelf in her office, smiling at titles that were on mine at home.  My heart was completely falling in love with this program.

I walked off campus about two feet off the ground.  It wasn’t until another week or so that I stumbled and fell again.

The University of Montana tags on summer session, financial aid speaking.  My old college had started with it, meaning your aid monies opened up with the summer.  Here it ends.  I’d already taken out the maximum amount in loans.  There aren’t any left for my tuition for summer, which is nearly five thousand dollars, minus the gracious Pell Grant.  I learned this after taking the Upper Class Writing Proficiency Assessment (which I just checked my score, and I passed *whew*), and before I was going to speak with my new boss at Mia’s gymnastics preschool.  I was to start cleaning the gym six hours a week to barter for her tuition.

I’d thrown out my back the day before, and was in a haze of ibuprofen, something my body kind of rejects after three or four 800mg doses.  I was on my sixth.  Here I was, now completely broke, barely employed, in tremendous pain, and begging to clean toilets.  Again.

There are times that I hit the bottom of my emotional, self-worth barrel.  Chronic pain is not an easy thing to deal with.  It screams LIMITATIONS at you.  It forces, “I can’t” into your constant vocabulary.  I had an evening that weekend where I just sat at the kitchen table and cried huge tears, wallowing in my little woe-is-me misery.  Fortunately, I have an amazing partner who patiently sees me through this.  Lucas has watched me struggle through some fierce mental battles since I’ve moved here.  This transition into this life hasn’t been an easy one for me, to say the least.  My broken mind constantly battles a fear of the floor dropping out from under me.  I am constantly going into “survival mode” because I’ve been in that place for the last five years.  It’s uncomfortable to feel safe all the time.  I don’t trust it.  My abused mind tells me that it’s not real.  I constantly battle negative thoughts that have been implanted.  With one trigger, I am sent down a death spiral of self and doubt and anxiety and stress.  But with the stress, my body sighs with relief.  It’s like I don’t know how to handle just being happy and content.  Because what is contentment?  Being happy with where you are?  NO, my mind says.  You’re THIS, and you should be doing THAT.  You FAILED HERE, and you should feel guilty for THIS.  YOU..  CAAAAAN’T!!!  Don’t you see that??

It’s after these episodes of inner monsters coming out to scream at me that I wake up the next morning, take in a huge breath, and get to work.  After months of feeling so elated of not being on government assistance, I picked up applications to apply for grants with child care and food.  My total child care costs for the semester were nearly $3,000.00 alone.  I still had no idea how I’d pay for tuition, let alone rent, child care and groceries.

This has been my last few weeks:  applying for funding while continuing to apply for any job that might work with my school schedule and parenting duties.  Through the WISP scholarship, I’m hoping they’ll cover my tuition.  Whatever they don’t, I’ve applied to raise my credit card limits.  I am going full-speed ahead into debt for the sake of a good education, hoping someday I’ll be a paid writer, but that still feels like a fantasy.

I’ve been cleaning the gym in the early mornings, often after only a handful of hours’ worth of sleep.  I’ve been cleaning other houses as well while attending interviews and submitting numerous applications.  I’m grateful for the work I do have, and still working towards finding more kind of constantly.  My few cleaning clients are starting to grow in numbers and time, and I hope to find more.  My days revolve around going to class, sometimes doing homework, working, looking for work, and caring for my daughter.  I don’t stop to sit down, really.  And neither does Mia.

Last Monday, Lucas and me were sitting in our little driveway.  He was working on his motorcycle, and I was reading a book that the head of the English Department had suggested.  We talked about how nice it would be to just take it easy, drink a few beers, and hang out.  It was nearly 80 degrees out, and the day was just asking for burgers, beer, and lounge chairs.

Mia came out with her backpack full of supplies, ready to go on the hike we’d talked about doing that day.  She was totally gung-ho, and encouraged us to slap on some sunscreen, fill our water bottles, and head out.

What happened over the next four hours was by far the most incredible experience I’ve had in Missoula thus far.  And that really says a lot.  Every day, walking to campus or even driving around town, I gaze up at this MOUNTAIN with a huge “M” on it.  It’s Mount Sentinel.  5,200 feet in elevation, with its huge, red, windsock on the top, taunting me.

We made it up to the “M,” a huge, concrete letter plastered on the side displaying love for all things Missoula and its University, and Lucas said, “Well, should we go to the top?”

Mia and me gave a hearty “Yeah!”

Lucas carried Mia probably a third of the way up, either on his shoulders or his back.  People passing us on the trail in the opposite direction kept giving my daughter high fives and telling her what a good job she was doing.

Lucas made a run for the top with Mia on his back, and soon collapsed, with her hugging his bent legs.  We stayed on the top for quite a while.  I took so many pictures, Lucas finally turned to me and said, “Really?”

“Yes!” I answered!  ”I have these images in my head that I want to get recorded…”

One was this:

I mean…just look at this.  Mia and me.  On top of this mountain.  Overlooking Missoula and its surrounding hills.

Through all of these mental mountains and the valleys that I’ve been struggling with, it all seems trivial.  If that’s not a mountain to be proud of reaching to the top of, I don’t know what is.

step.

Posted in Adventures!, College, Financial Struggles, Montana!, Personal Growth, Work, Writing | Leave a Comment »

David James Duncan on Paper:

April 4, 2012 by step.

“Love Paper.

A tree gave its life for what you are about to attempt. Don’t let the silicon chip or computer monitor cause you to forget this. That ex-tree material stacked in your printer is so dead as you begin to write that its bark-skinned, earth-eating, oxygen-producing, bird-supporting, squirrel-housing body has been reduced to an inert blank expanse of white. To find the life of language and lay that life down on the paper is to redeem the sacrificed life of the tree.

In order to do this, we must see paper as clearly as Inuits see snow. Our language is the second greatest living proof (actions being the greatest) of what we do and do not see. Listen to how Inuit people see: apun (snow); apingaut (first snowfall); aput (spread-out snow); ayak(snow on clothes); kannik (snowflake); nutagak (powder snow); aniu (flat, hard-packed snow); aniuvak (packed snowbank); natigvik (snowdrift); kimaugruk (snowdrift that blocks something); perksertok (drifting snow); akelrorak (newly drifted snow); mavsa (snowdrift overhead, about to fall); kaiyuglak (the rippled surface of snow); pukak (sugar-like snow); pokaktok (salt-like snow); misulik (sleet); massak (snow mixed with water); auksalak(melting snow); aniuk (snow for melting into water); akillukkak (soft snow); milik (very soft snow); mitailak (soft snow that covers an opening in an ice flow); sillik (old hard crusty snow); kiksrukak (glazed snow in a thaw); mauya (snow that can be broken through);katiksunik (light snow); katiksugnik (light snow that is deep for walking).

Love paper. Paper is writer’s snow (apun).

Paper is the blank white element we live upon: element that receives and records our every step. The receptacle of our lives and nuances deserves an Inuit depth of respect. I lack names for the many kinds of pages I see here in my study, but looking through drawers, shelves, wastebasket, manuscript boxes, I find:

virgin paper, still in the ream. (Apingaut—first snowfall.)

I find paper at which I stare long, unable to write a word. (aniuvak—packed snowbank.)

I find a scrap of paper upon which, in the middle of the night, I write down an urgent message from the heart, but leave the light off so as not to wake my wife, only to find in the morning that after the words, “And when a prayer fails to…” my pen ran out of ink. (auksalak—melting snow.)

I find paper at which I am staring when, between the words, a door opens, and inside is an imaginary Room, and inside the Room are People; I find paper on which I write what the People are doing in the Room, and paper in which the People lure me clear into the Room, addressing me now as one of their own. (mauya– snow that can be broken through.)

I find paper upon which, in the midst of an intimate disclosure from an elegant Room Woman, a phone rings (my phone, not hers), and then a neighbor stops by (my neighbor, not hers), and I am so long distracted that when I return to the paper and Room Woman I begin to spill my own thoughts, not hers, failing to notice that for hours I have not only cut her off in mid-disclosure, stood her up, treated her terribly, I have lost the way back to her wonderful Room. (kimaugruk—snowdrift that blocks something.)

I find paper on which I write so stupidly, aimlessly, roomlessly and unimaginatively that at the end of the day I wad it up and throw it across my study, then wad and throw a few blank sheets for good measure. (mitailak—soft snow that covers an opening in an ice flow.)

I find blank sheets unwadded in shame, and spoken to rather than written upon, paper I audibly promise that—during the hours and in the place foresworn to the People of the Imaginary Room—I will spill only their thoughts, not my own. (aniuk—snow for melting into water.)

I find paper at which I stare long and stupidly, unable to write a word—paper that at day’s end leaves me filled with shame even though, by not writing upon it, I have kept my solemn promise to the Room People. (aniu—flat, hard-packed snow.)

I find the dismayingly small stack of computer-printed pages on which I earlier wrote with self-effacing skill of the Room People, pages I begin to idly edit, after the People once again refuse to appear. (sillik—old hard crusty snow.)

I find, on these same computer-printed pages, a space between two words—a space no wider than the head of an ant—yet as I trying to smooth an awkward phrase in that space(kannik—snowflake), two tiny hands rise up out of the paper, a new Room Person climbs into sight, and this Person begins singing—to the glorious ruin of my earlier draft—the true and living story hidden behind everything I had written and not written so far.

I find paper on which I have so faithfully written not what I want but what is there to be told(be it ayak, nutagak, or akillukkak) that when I read it again days later its doors still open, the People in its Rooms still laugh/struggle/shout/hate/love/die, and a silent voice hidden in the next sheet of white tells me as I touch it whether it is kiksrukak or auksulak we must watch for now.

Addenda:

A straight line in the right place can bring you to tears. – Frederick Sommer (as overheard by Emmet Gowin)

If you are a poet, you will see clearly that there is a cloud floating in this sheet of paper. Without a cloud, there will be no rain; without rain, the trees cannot grow; and without trees, we cannot make paper. The cloud is essential for the paper to exist. If the cloud is not here, the sheet of paper cannot be here either. So we can say that the cloud and the paper inter-are. “Interbeing” is a word that is not in the dictionary yet, but if we combine the prefix ‘inter-’ with the verb ‘to be,’ we have a new verb, inter-be. – Thich Nhat Hanh, Peace is Every Step”

step.

Posted in Misc., Writing | Leave a Comment »

“A writer should say to himself, not, ‘How can I get more money?,’ but ‘How can I reach more readers (without lowering standards)?’” – Brian Aldiss

March 31, 2012 by step.

Years ago, a friend of mine gave me this beautiful journal.  It was leather, tightly bound, orange, and had a dreadful quote on the cover:

“If you want to be a writer, WRITE!”

It was as if the book was reminding me of the simplest thing any writer should do, and to this day, the pages are blank, though I carried that journal in my bag for over a year.  Natalie Goldman, in her book “Wild Mind” spoke of keeping notebooks simple.  Nothing fancy, because there will be too much pressure in writing something to equal the binding and cover.  My journals were always the “Five Star” brand, five subject, in various sizes, depending on what sort of bag I was carrying at the time.  I have two shelves of a bookcase, completely filled with these, in my bedroom.  Writing was a constant habit for me, and I was always pulling out a notebook to scribble in for a bit on a bench, a beach, in a tree, a coffee shop, a bar…anywhere.  It was my faithful companion, and release.

Somewhat abruptly, I stopped this habit around the time I discovered I was pregnant.  For a few months, my arm had begun to hurt whenever I held a pen to write with, or a phone to my ear.  Eventually, it got to the point where it was too painful to write.  I thought for a while that I had “cell phone tendinitis” or some sort of carpal tunnel from writing and tamping espresso for ten years.  In the Spring of 2009, my right arm went completely numb for a few weeks, and it became obvious that the scoliosis in my spine had caused nerve damage enough to cause pain, weakness, and now complete numbness.

I did physical therapy.  I went to a chiropractor for months.  At this point, I still can’t write more than a page.  My handwriting is terrible, which I cannot bear to create unless I absolutely must.  But I miss my notebooks.  I miss my journal.  A blog is wonderful, and it keeps me focused and structured, but I miss blathering on and on about boys, love, and anything that happens to come to mind.

For example, let me go to the shelf and pull out a random book, open a page, and transcribe whatever is legible and makes sense:

“Wednesday, January 26, 2005….Chetzemoka Park, Port Townsend…around 2 or so…
I’m too lazy to glance at my watch…sitting in a tree in the park down the road…my feet are bare and chilled…pink toes freshly washed and trimmed.  This poor tree has been sat upon by many lovers, it seems, the etches they leave in the worn branches professes their love…I think the “I <3 Jill” may be my favorite.  I think Jillian may be the destined name for my daughter…or dog, if no daughters come.  People walking down to the ocean with their dogs.  I see the leash law doesn’t apply in this park.  I think the German Shepherd can sense me…perhaps hear my music blaring so loudly in my ears…ah, this song…the ocean…it was a bad decision to not wear socks.  This Alaskan Girl complaining of chilly toes…I guess even if I get a cold, it would be worth it.  Just to sit in bare feet is worth it.  Sitting here in a winter garden of green…people walking and keeping their dogs close by.  There are two bird nests in this tree…I wonder how it is that birds first begin the nest.  How do they begin the weaving of twigs that will soon become their home?  Perhaps that’s what S__ and I have been trying to figure out.  Two eagles just flew overhead…there’s also what sounds like a parade in the streets.  Weird.  This place is weird.  Everyone seems so desperate to entertain themselves…I’ve discovered a book and a cup of tea to be all I need.  People in the park walk out to see what the commotion is with the blaring sirens, drums and horns…I turn on my music again.  Those eagles were amazing.  I don’t know how many times I’ve said that…amazing.  Stupid marching band.  But, I guess that’s something you hardly see in Fairbanks.”

That was written a couple of weeks before I decided to move out of Alaska.  I was visiting my brother in Port Townsend, trying to decide what to do.  I hadn’t slept hardly at all in months.  I had a horrible boyfriend.  I moved to Washington in full sprint to get out of that situation, in escape, calling Port Townsend “a jumping pad” to collect my sanity on my way to Montana.  Instead, I drank myself into a tizzy for a year and a half, got married, split up, got knocked up, got divorced, had a baby, was a single mom, and six years later, here I am.  Not too shabby, if I say so myself.  At least I got here.

I’ve been missing the notebooks.  I’ve been missing the portable writing.  My laptop could probably be more mobile than I give it credit for, but I’m always worried about it getting stolen or damaged.  So, today, I gathered my little credit card balance and walked into Best Buy.  They only had one Netbook, but it was $250.  SOLD!  I bought a padded case, a wireless mouse, and their “even if my kid spills a glass of milk on it” insurance.  It’s so wee, and shiny.  I want to name it…like…Paper.  Or Charlie.  Or Randy.  All good computers need names.  It’ll come to me, I’m sure.

The young salesman asked me what I was using it for, and I heard myself say that it was for school.  ”Oh, what are you studying?” he asks.  I look at him with surprising confidence and tell him I’m pursuing my MFA in Creative Writing.  As we were walking to the entrance so he could remove the security device, he asked me, “So what does a person do with an MFA in Creative Writing?”  I answered without a beat, “Write the Great American Novel, of course.”

Lucas jokingly turned to me today and said, “You know, I’m counting on you to get all famous and write the Great American Novel so I can relax…”

What *is* the Great American Novel??  I had to Google “The Hunger Games” last night.  I’ve never read the “Twilight” or Harry Potter series.  Usually, I avoid mainstream if at all possible.  If I read something that is mainstream, it is without my knowing.  Granted, I have read “Eat, Pray, Love” numerous times, but this was after seeing Elizabeth Gilbert on Oprah while I was breastfeeding a five-month-old, and I was desperate.  Not saying…I mean, I loved that book.  I still love that book.  Maybe I could love other mainstream books.  I don’t know.

If I have the mindset, I turn to Jean-Paul Sartre, or Antoine de Saint-Exupery, or whatever strikes my fancy.  Lately it’s been French literature, for some reason.  If I don’t, I usually grab the first novel of a female author, in a narrative voice.  I love memoirs.  Moon Unit Zappa wrote a wonderful book titled “America the Beautiful” that I have loaned out and bought again numerous times.  (Never, ever, loan out a book that you expect to get back.)  I love Anne Lamott.  And Pam Houston, whom I met.  *beams*  Melissa Bank is another favorite.  I usually read “The Girl’s Guide to Hunting and Fishing” whenever a relationship ends.  It’s funny…or maybe it’s not.  Every time I break up with someone, or get my heart broken, I read this book, underlining passages with a different colored pen each time.  It’s become a journal in itself.

So in the beginnings of this self-proclaimed quest…this time in my life where I tell myself (and others, apparently) that I am a writer…a “real” writer…I find myself asking…what the fuck does that mean?

I suppose this would be where I do one of those smiles that’s the cross of Dwight Schrute from “The Office U.S.” and “The Grinch,” and say…

It means everything.


step.

Posted in College, Montana!, Writing | Leave a Comment »

“Education is what remains after one has forgotten everything he learned in school.” -Albert Einstein

March 29, 2012 by step.

I first enrolled in college when I was sixteen years old.  My high school had a running start program, offering courses at the local community college at no charge other than the cost of books.  One of the regrets of my life is that I didn’t take full advantage of this like some of my classmates, who received both their high school diploma and their Associate of Arts degree on the same day.

Since then, I have accrued over one hundred credits, and thousands of dollars in student loans.  I always wanted to be an English major, or Literature, or even History.  I wanted to go to college to devour and discuss books.  I wanted to go to college to write, and to learn how to be a better writer.

But I could never justify going to college for these sorts of things.  One, because I felt like most of what I’d learn with a Literature or History degree I could acquire on my own in a Library.  Two, it just wasn’t practical.  I often heard, “What are you going to do with an English degree?  Teach English?”

So, most of my college career has been a struggle: me trying to fit into some sort of what I deemed “a respectable degree,” having a good go at it, getting frustrated that my degree required me to take Physical Education, Math 151 and other classes I had absolutely no interest in, yet had to spend hundreds (and sometimes thousands) of dollars to take in order to earn a piece of paper.  I began a degree program full of hope and aspirations, and usually ended up walking away from it, scoffing at the college institution for being nothing but a money-making scheme.

In all of these pursuits, I would always choose the classes that had the “W” next to them, for being “writing intensive.”  I’d sometimes indulge in a Creative Writing class or take an extra English class here and there.  These classes were like rays of sunshine through the dreariness that was muddling through Math and Communications.  I longed to take only writing classes, and go to college to learn what I wanted to learn, not earn a degree.

For the past two or three days, I’ve spent a lot of time drifting through the online catalog for my new degree program.  Every class that is required for my Bachelor’s is incredible.  American Literature, Women in Literature, Shakespeare, Creative Nonfiction, Writing Workshops, Craft of Revision, and Literary Criticism are just a few samples.  These are all classes that I have only read about through all these years of attending college and have only dreamed about registering for.  I even envied the people who could sign up for these classes!

I’m not sure why it suddenly dawned on me that I could obtain this degree.  It never seemed like an option to me.

Then again, moving to Missoula never seemed like an option, either.  And, well, look at how that turned out.  *grin*

step.

Posted in College | Leave a Comment »

“You’re not a woman until people come out of your vagina and step on your dreams.” -Louis C.K.

March 26, 2012 by step.

Montana began wooing me through the words of John Steinbeck:

“I’m in love with Montana. For other states I have admiration, respect, recognition, even some affection. But with Montana it is love. And it’s difficult to analyze love when you’re in it…”  

David James Duncan turned my focus to Missoula when he said during a book signing that he taught creative writing classes at the University.  He laughed at this, though, saying you cannot teach someone how to write.  They are either a writer, or they are not.  If you wanted to learn how to be a better writer, read the great ones.

Almost exactly six years ago, in the Spring of 2006, I made the decision to pursue writing.  I was going to enroll at the University of Montana in Missoula as a Literature major with a minor in Creative Writing.

I remember almost the exact moment I knew I wanted to be a writer.  It was in Mr. Birdsall’s fourth grade class at Scenic Park Elementary in Anchorage, Alaska.  He encouraged us to keep journals, write stories, and draw pictures to illustrate them.  I began keeping a journal when I was nine or ten, and didn’t stop.  Writing became a way to process my thoughts, and a way to keep them to myself.  My journals grew in numbers, as did my books, and I fondly referred to them as my precious “paper collection.”  Now, twenty years later, I can easily say that being a writer is really the only thing I’ve ever wanted to be.

Though I never considered being a writer as being an artist, it does fall into that realm.  Wanting to be an artist as a single person is very admirable, but wanting to be an artist as a single mom?  Not so much.  My friends and family encouraged me to pursue a technical degree, or any sort of job where I could find reliable employment with benefits.  Eventually, I found a career path that I felt good about, and have been working very hard to make that happen.

I’ve fulfilled my dream of moving to Missoula.  I am attending classes at the University.  I am getting out and hiking mountains with this man that I am completely in love with who I still catch gazing at me all lovey-eyed when I’m not looking.  He encourages me to pursue my dreams, and be true to them.  So, last night, we had a serious talk about a nagging voice I’ve been hearing.

It happens quite often.  I’ll be walking on campus, into buildings that were built in the late 1800s, up stairs to lecture halls, and sitting down in a class that puts me one step closer to a degree, and I’ll hear it:  but it’s not what you’re here for.

Taking out thousands of dollars in student loans has brought this decision even closer to my attention.  I’m investing a large sum of money into a degree that, you know, I think is admirable and I will probably be pretty fulfilled doing.  Admirable because I won’t make a lot of money doing it, and fulfilling because I’ll be advocating for women and families who are victims of violence.  But there’s always a but, a nagging voice, and a desire to fulfill my dreams.

Having a supportive partner that is committed to and invested in our future together is totally a new thing to me.  He is also someone who, a couple of years ago, decided to pursue his dreams in Missoula, and moved here from Seattle to do just that, exactly a year before I did.  Nearly a year after being here, he is literally fulfilling his dreams as an artist through his career and hobbies.  Watching him do this is incredibly inspiring.  So inspiring, that I’m really starting to consider pursuing mine.

Last night, over our delicious martinis and appetizers, I discussed the possibility of changing my major yet again to fulfill my dream of being a writer with the person I’ve chosen to share my life with.  Maybe it was my blurb being published that finally pushed me to think about it seriously.  Maybe it was Lucas continuously encouraging and believing in me.  Maybe it was gaining back some confidence and faith in myself to accomplish this dream I’ve had for most of my life, instead of putting it off while I slowly lose my grasp on knowledge of vocabulary, grammar, and punctuation.  All I know is I’ve been staring at this page in a local magazine with my name printed on it for the last week, remembering the night I wrote the 150 words in about five minutes after getting off work at three in the morning…and there it is…one of three selected submissions.

Lucas didn’t hesitate in supporting me, even though it’s potentially a huge financial risk.  Next is discussing my plans with academic advisors, program heads, scholarship committees, and financial aid departments.  Maybe I’ll end up deciding that it’s not worth the risk.  I have a family to think about and support.  And, yeah, I hear that I’m a good writer a lot, but when it comes down to it, am I really?  Am I letting a little blurb in a local magazine get to my head?

Maybe.

But I made it this far, after believing it was nearly impossible…maybe being a writer isn’t all that impossible, either.  I just need to…you know…check.

step.

Posted in College, Family, Friends, Montana!, Personal Growth, Single Mom, Work, Writing | 4 Comments »

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