Single Parenting

WHEN THE ONLY LANGUAGE I HAVE IS MY TEARS

by Kari West   

              The day I moved into single-parenting I was weighted with more than cardboard boxes. Whose pain do I deal with first? I wondered. I thought back to three months earlier, only fourteen days before Christmas, when I had sorted the mail after work—a stack of seasons’ greetings in one hand, a divorce summons in the other.  With tears coursing down my cheeks, I had told my 12-year-old daughter, “Melanie, this was never my dream for you.”

              “But you promised, Mom, that you and Dad would never get a divorce. You said you could always talk things out,” she screamed. “I hate you. I don’t want to be anything like you. I don’t want to talk like you, dress like you, act like you, or look like you because Daddy left you!”  Out of words and bereft of answers, I sobbed in a silent place beyond words—recalling the day I stood at an altar vowing love for a lifetime, unwanted divorce never entering my mind.  I trusted in a God who could turn evil into good, ever since accepting Jesus into my heart as a young girl.  Now I wondered how He would do it this time.

              As the months wore on, I often thought about giving up. Overwhelmed by the stunning discovery of multiple affairs going back years, the myriad of legal and day-to-day tasks, I soon saw the parenting rules I had relied on no longer worked. It seemed my ex-husband continually tried to throw me off balance. “At Daddy’s place I don’t have to clean my room or dig dandelions,” Melanie often snarled, “And why don’t you have money for pizza?  Daddy buys it for me.” Each day raced further out of control. I felt my child becoming an enemy in my camp as her father used information from her to rearrange my work plans on weekends she was scheduled to stay with him.  Extravagant gifts filled her bedroom—fifty-dollar perfume, a leather jacket, a dozen roses, a TV and stereo system—luxuries my ex-husband had never condoned spoiling our daughter with before the divorce. 

              Soon behavior problems escalated in school as her grades plummeted. I’ve lost her, I thought.  Of course, there were those who advised: “Put her in a foster home.”  Give Melanie to her dad.”  But regardless of those comments and the chaos of being a single working mom, I couldn’t imagine walking away and instead, chose a yearly verse, reading I Peter 5:10 each morning before work and asking God to make me “strong, firm, and steadfast.” Several months later I ran into a business acquaintance I once worked with. “If your daughter makes it,” he said, “It will be with you. You’re the best parent for the job.” 

              That night at the foot of an empty bed, with sleep evading me as the tapes in my brain replayed “should do this” and “could do that,” I knelt and gave God all I had left: my life, my health, my job, my future, my daughter. I prayed for truth and pleaded for courage to commit for the long haul and boldly live out what I believe.

              Within days my commitment was tested; I refused to play the popularity game. “I can’t compete with ‘Popcorn Daddy’ by giving you everything you want,” I told Melanie.  “All I can give you is what I think you need: a love that knows how to say, ‘no’; the stability of a home you can all your own; consistency, whether you think I’m old-fashioned or a meany; and values like taking responsibility and believing that being a good person is more important than feeling good.”

              Keeping my equilibrium was hard. It took days to return to normal living after Melanie came back from Wednesday night outings with her dad and every other weekend at his place. One night, friends had to scrape me off the ceiling with a spatula.  “I want to come home, Mom. Can you pick me up,” she asked—calling from a bar during one visitation. My daughter was often arrogant, authoritarian, and verbally abusive. Like  that first Mother’s Day after dining in a fancy restaurant with her dad and his girlfriend. “She’s so pretty,” Melanie told me. “She’d make a much better mother than you.”

              Over time, I realized that divorce ends a marriage but it does not terminate a family. The resistance I experienced from my daughter started making sense: Her history and past family traditions had crumbled. Nothing stayed the same. Even birthdays and holidays were negotiated. She felt torn between being loyal to me and choosing her dad, who was and always had been, her idol. She was lashing out at me because she felt unsure of his commitment to her. She knew, whatever she said and did, that she could count on my love—even though she dare not admit it. 

              Caught in this puzzling dilemma that I couldn’t change or fix, I kept telling my daughter, “I love you; and I’m being the best parent I can be.” When I no longer had energy to argue over homework, I allowed her to fail high-school algebra the first time through. And when she returned from a sixteenth-birthday trip with her dad and said, “I’m going on a blind date Friday, like it or not,” I arrived at a turning point. Melanie already knew the parameters around her dating: Mom meets the boy and whoever drives. This time she vehemently objected—saying her dad told her she needed to be in a serious relationship by the time she was eighteen; and since he had joint custody, had given her permission. Although I could not rush the settling of her undulating emotions nor hold back the fear that stormed my heart, I refused to be held hostage any longer in my own home.

              I pulled out her suitcase and said: “Then your dad can have total responsibility raising you. I won’t watch you destroy yourself and pick up the pieces afterwards.”  Her door slammed. I trembled. She stayed.   

              Now there is little my daughter and I can’t talk about. She finally saw that home and family aren’t about a big house and perfect people but about listening ears. Open hearts. Warm hugs. I think she caught on that whatever happens, her mom is her biggest fan.

              Not long ago, Melanie and I were driving to the mall, talking about finally becoming friends and reminiscing about all those years she hated me. “Mom, don’t you get it? You were the rock; you never moved,” she said. “While I love my dad a lot, I couldn’t count on him. Sure, I could do anything I wanted at his house. But he never kept his word. I never knew where he stood.”

              Tears filled my eyes. I remembered the many times I had retreated to the sanctuary of my bedroom, out of answer and out of strength. I had lifted my weary arms to the sky, imagining my daughter lying across my open palms, and prayed: “Lord, You’ve got a big problem. I don’t know what to do anymore about Melanie. I’m so tired and so scared. She’s yours; I give her back to You.” In those desperate moments, I was leaning on a strength greater than I knew and on a love broader than I could imagine. Only with hindsight do I really see with the eyes of my heart what was there all along and always will be:  An unchangeable God, who bottles my tears and is my immovable Rock. Jesus, who intercedes for me and is the one and only Lover who will never leave. The Holy Spirit, who leads me into truth and understands all the words when the only language I have is my tears.