there’s Grace. She just marches to the beat of her own drum and always has. Since birth actually.
They make my world what it is today. A little more than they probably should.
Back to my story.
It was my second year into teaching freshman history when I found out I was pregnant. It was a warmer than average February evening when Drew came home from the office and I shared the news. He was a man with big ideas about what a family should be. Mothers should stay at home with their children because you know everyone believes that kids with a stay at home mother will somehow thrive over those with moms who work outside the home. I called bullshit on it then and I should have stood my ground. I never could when it came to Drew. He just had that personality about him that could charm his way into whatever he pleased. Another reason I continue to avoid him like the plague.
Now, here I am: Thirteen years and three children later, a single mother with no solid job for the past decade and not even the local diner will hire me. Drew isolated me from the world. I became Betty Crocker. The Pinterest Queen of Crafts. And now? None of it is worth a shit when it comes to supporting my children. I’m overqualified since I have a college degree, or under qualified for everything else. I am looked down upon because I left my blossoming career to be a mother. Can you believe that? Never mind, don’t answer that. I’m sure it isn’t news to you.
The measly child support I get isn’t even enough to pay for all the damn sports these kids play. I know, I’m bitter. You would be too if you got to watch your philandering ex-husband walk away with his savings account intact and a brand new surgically enhanced twenty something at his side. What did I get? The house, my dying football mom SUV, and stretch marks. So I guess bitter would be the easy way of putting it.
I throw the stack of newspapers down onto my bed and let out an exaggerated sigh. “I’m never going to find a job. I might as well just give up!” I shouldn’t raise my voice. I shouldn’t let my kids know there is anything wrong. It isn’t their fault. Hell, it isn’t my fault either, but it certainly feels like I am the only one in the world to blame for Drew’s straying.
“Mom, seriously? Who actually reads newspapers anymore?” Trenton says from the doorway. My thirteen year old is going to be the death of me. Puberty is a nasty creature, and now my baby boy thinks he is the new Justin Bieber.
“Lots of people read newspapers, Trenton. I am actually using them for the job listings. Time for Mom to get back to work.” I want to laugh. I should have never stopped working. I wouldn’t be so fucked if I had gone with my original instincts.
“No one uses the newspaper for job listings, Ma. I even know that. Go on Craigslist or one of those internet job sites. Monster, Indeed, CareerBuilder. Time to use the computer and get back into modern age.”
Being schooled by my teen; just what I needed.
“Is your homework done?” As the words slip from my lips, the boy disappears in a trail of too much Axe body spray. Yeah I’ve updated my resume on my laptop but I didn’t think that it was a smart idea using it on the internet. With all this identity theft stuff going around it just seems too risky. Maybe that is why I still can’t find a job? Because I am stuck in the goddamn dinosaur age.
Sitting down at the small black and white Ikea desk in the corner, I type in Craigslist and begin to navigate the help wanted ads. It seems pretty cut and dry, lots of day labor jobs, which I just skip over. No, thank you. I don’t want to be mowing lawns in the hot Florida sun. Every secretary position I come across I apply for, emailing my resume and life story along time after time, saying a silent prayer that some older businessman will take pity on me.
Going back almost an entire month’s worth of help wanted ads, I decide to take a break and explore the rest of the
They make my world what it is today. A little more than they probably should.
Back to my story.
It was my second year into teaching freshman history when I found out I was pregnant. It was a warmer than average February evening when Drew came home from the office and I shared the news. He was a man with big ideas about what a family should be. Mothers should stay at home with their children because you know everyone believes that kids with a stay at home mother will somehow thrive over those with moms who work outside the home. I called bullshit on it then and I should have stood my ground. I never could when it came to Drew. He just had that personality about him that could charm his way into whatever he pleased. Another reason I continue to avoid him like the plague.
Now, here I am: Thirteen years and three children later, a single mother with no solid job for the past decade and not even the local diner will hire me. Drew isolated me from the world. I became Betty Crocker. The Pinterest Queen of Crafts. And now? None of it is worth a shit when it comes to supporting my children. I’m overqualified since I have a college degree, or under qualified for everything else. I am looked down upon because I left my blossoming career to be a mother. Can you believe that? Never mind, don’t answer that. I’m sure it isn’t news to you.
The measly child support I get isn’t even enough to pay for all the damn sports these kids play. I know, I’m bitter. You would be too if you got to watch your philandering ex-husband walk away with his savings account intact and a brand new surgically enhanced twenty something at his side. What did I get? The house, my dying football mom SUV, and stretch marks. So I guess bitter would be the easy way of putting it.
I throw the stack of newspapers down onto my bed and let out an exaggerated sigh. “I’m never going to find a job. I might as well just give up!” I shouldn’t raise my voice. I shouldn’t let my kids know there is anything wrong. It isn’t their fault. Hell, it isn’t my fault either, but it certainly feels like I am the only one in the world to blame for Drew’s straying.
“Mom, seriously? Who actually reads newspapers anymore?” Trenton says from the doorway. My thirteen year old is going to be the death of me. Puberty is a nasty creature, and now my baby boy thinks he is the new Justin Bieber.
“Lots of people read newspapers, Trenton. I am actually using them for the job listings. Time for Mom to get back to work.” I want to laugh. I should have never stopped working. I wouldn’t be so fucked if I had gone with my original instincts.
“No one uses the newspaper for job listings, Ma. I even know that. Go on Craigslist or one of those internet job sites. Monster, Indeed, CareerBuilder. Time to use the computer and get back into modern age.”
Being schooled by my teen; just what I needed.
“Is your homework done?” As the words slip from my lips, the boy disappears in a trail of too much Axe body spray. Yeah I’ve updated my resume on my laptop but I didn’t think that it was a smart idea using it on the internet. With all this identity theft stuff going around it just seems too risky. Maybe that is why I still can’t find a job? Because I am stuck in the goddamn dinosaur age.
Sitting down at the small black and white Ikea desk in the corner, I type in Craigslist and begin to navigate the help wanted ads. It seems pretty cut and dry, lots of day labor jobs, which I just skip over. No, thank you. I don’t want to be mowing lawns in the hot Florida sun. Every secretary position I come across I apply for, emailing my resume and life story along time after time, saying a silent prayer that some older businessman will take pity on me.
Going back almost an entire month’s worth of help wanted ads, I decide to take a break and explore the rest of the
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