Empty Bed, Full Heart- A Single Mother's Journey

Today started like many days in my house. I hit the snooze button too many times, trying to squeeze out as much pretend sleep as possible. When I did wake up, I hurried to get ready before the kids got up, but to no avail. I believe that my children have an internal mommy tracker that immediately rings in their ears when I turn on the bathroom light, no matter how quiet I try to be. I had to shower downstairs today, because the upstairs bathtub needs to be replaced (of course) and has started leaking. I'm not sure how long this has been going on or how long I'll need to shower in the weird, dark, laminated shower stall in my basement, but I am sure that I'm digressing. The point being (I did have a point), that even when I tiptoe downstairs and very softly turn on the light, my kids still instinctively know that I'm no longer hiding  curling under the covers hoping for an unanticipated snow day. In mid-October. Shortly before all of this unfolded, I remembered that y...

I have somewhat of a love/hate relationship with the month of October. Fall is, without a doubt, my favorite season. I love the kaleidoscope of colored leaves; I love the sun lighting up the cool afternoons; I love the gray clouded skies and the chill air; I love wearing scarves, sweaters, and boots; I love cuddling under blankets, in front of fires, next to my babies, watching movies and drinking hot cocoa. I love listening to spooky music; I love going to the Pumpkin Patch and preparing for Halloween. It's the most wonderful time of the year. Five years ago, in  October, I lay on the cold, hard earth with the leaves whistling around me and breathed foolish prayers to God. I prayed because I had just found out that I was pregnant; I had filed for divorce and now I had a little life growing inside of me. I prayed because, like the natural world around me, I was transitioning to a new season of life, and before I had my spring, I'd need to go through the isolating winter. I wa...

One of the things I do in my spare time (lol) is teach faith formation for second graders at my church. Because they are second graders, they get to participate in two milestone sacraments: First Reconciliation and First Communion. Teaching kids about these two sacraments is a blessing for me more so than them, because they often get it better than myself or any adults that I know. So, as I imperfectly stumble through teaching them about confession, the examination of conscience comes up and we talk about what we confess in front of the priest; number one is, "Do I put God first?" Let's take a break for a moment and take a moment to consider that none of us does this. We may want to, we may strive to, but often, life comes first, jobs come first, obligations come first, busy-ness comes first, and then we squeeze our schedules to fit God in somewhere. None of us excels at this. But one example I use is, "Do you go to church on Sundays, even if you'd rather do ...

Yesterday, I went to the grocery store without my kids. This is not  a common occurrence, but I happened to have a few extra minutes between school and picking up my son, and since I hadn't been to the grocery store in about a month and we'd been living on jars of spaghetti sauce and canned green beans, I eagerly jumped at the opportunity. I blissfully (but not too blissfully. because I was still on a deadline), waltzed through the doors of the grocery store, a lilt in my step and joy in my heart. Woo-hoo! Milk and bread! It's the little things, truly. I walked into the store at the same time as another mother. As I was pulling into the parking lot, I had seen her walking up the hill to the store with her three children in tow, skipping happily along (the children were skipping. The mother was gently encouraging them not to fall off the curb into traffic.) They were probably all younger than 6; one maybe 2 or 3 and the other two looked closer in age, maybe 5 and 6, if tha...

It's spring! You can always tell it's springtime in North Dakota because people start wearing shorts. It will be 60 degrees out and someone (or maybe half a dozen someones) will be traipsing down main street in a tank top, shorts, and flip flops. While this may seem insane to outsiders, most people in the Midwest understand that shorts are a harbinger of hope. We've just endured 9 months of bone chilling, frost-biting, witches teat cold and 60 degrees seems downright balmy. This year, our spring has been unusually warm, likely because global warming is definitely not a thing and just because it was 90 degrees out the first week in May doesn't mean that summer is going to be hot and miserable (but it probably will be). Because of this, virtual hordes of North Dakotans were walking around shirtless and summery, hands outstretched to the prairie sky in ecstasy. Not me. Is it because I am bitter and devoid of all hope? Is it because I was grouchy that my kids were runni...

This morning, I had a realization. Like most epiphanies of value, it came to me while I was in the shower. My little boy was playing in the living room while I was quickly rinsing off the night's cobwebs, and I heard a 'thump' and his tearful voice cry out. He rushed into the bathroom and pulled back the shower curtain. "Owie, mama!" he hiccuped and pointed at his knee. I noticed it was red, but not bruised and knelt down gently next to him and kissed it. "Ouch, baby." I said. "Are you ok?" He looked up at my face, gave me a sweet smile and darted back out to play. I often think to myself how silly and endearing it is that first aid for a child is so simple. He didn't need a band-aid or an ice pack. Just a kiss and a little bit of empathy and he was as good as new. Back to the blocks, as though nothing had happened at all. So why even interrupt his play for such a minor bump? Normally, I attribute this kind of thing to a mother's ...

How cliched, I know. When I was young, I was not fussy about relationships. I was low maintenance if there ever was such a thing, in part because of my fierce independent (read: stubborn) streak and a complete aversion to frivolity. I was never the girl who got highlights in her hair and spent hours on clothes and makeup each morning. I shopped at thrift stores and went to school with my hair wet 50% of the time. My requirements for "boyfriend" material were that they hold my hand sometimes and be smart enough to talk to for hours on end. I didn't seek out the best looking, I didn't expect gifts or showering, I understood not being top priority and I didn't need someone to  emotionally support me. I was a tough chick who could take care of herself, thank you very much. It should come as no surprise then, that I married a man who allowed me to take care of everything in our lives. My teenage self would have loved that, being responsible for the house, the bills,...