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By Mama Paloma, 14/06/2012 00:06

My son is over the moon. This weekend, we get to go camping with about 30 other families from his preschool. Sounds like fun, right?

I have been preparing for weeks. This year, I decided to go ahead and buy us sleeping bags and a tent and to take the opportunity to simultaneously upgrade our emergency preparedness kit by getting things to cook with (I think my original plan was to just put the soup cans directly on the camp stove). I have lists of supplies, a menu, and a travel scrabble kit.

What I can’t prepare for is something more intangible. Can I be honest here? It is sometimes really hard being the single mom in the bunch. I should be used to it by now, I suppose, but I am not.

Occasionally, I am aware of being treated or regarded differently because of my singleness. Sometimes it’s pity, sometimes mistrust…especially on the part of other moms. This makes it hard to just hang out with other families, as there’s this weird vibe like I’m after any good dad that might be around.

Mostly, though, this discomfort is my own. I can almost hear that old Sesame Street song in my head:

One of these things is not like the others.

One of these things doesn’t belong.

Can you tell me which thing is not like the others before I finish this song?

So, the whole pack-way-too-much-in-the-car-to-go-sleep-in-the-dirt part of it aside, I should be excited to be going on this camping expedition. And I am. Really.

I am also dreading it. Other families hang out regularly and already have plans to collaborate on meals. Other families (except one with two moms) have dads who will be there for the Father’s Day activity on Sunday. Other parents will trade off for trips to the loo and showers.

And then there’ll be AJ and me. Which I actually like, in a lot of ways. Except when we’re in a crowd of “real” families. Then, whether I should or not, I can feel like the wallflower in the ugly dress at the prom.

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By Mama Paloma, 08/04/2012 00:20

Today, a friend (and writer in her own right)  posted a piece from Huffington Post entitled “Is God Angry at You?” In it, the author challenges the dominant Christian interpretation of Easter – what is referred to as the ”penal-substitution theory of atonement” – which I won’t go into here other than to say that I really enjoyed the writer’s critique of this taken-for-granted-in-many-circles understanding of God.

And it got me thinking about forgiveness.

Years ago, I wrote about saying prayers with my son. He was a tiny baby then, but this act had taken on some significance for me. Each night, as a part of our ritual, I would say “Please be with Addison’s daddy, wherever he is, keep him safe, and give him everything he needs to be happy.” You see, (and to save you the trouble of reading back for that bit of our story), this guy had dropped off the face of the earth about half-way through my pregnancy and we hadn’t heard from him since.

About three months after baby-daddy went AWOL, I was reading an Anne Lamott book in which the protagonist was facing betrayal and decided that she didn’t want bitterness to consume her – so she started praying for the betrayer. This resonated so strongly with me that I started doing the same. Every time he came to mind, every time someone else made a disparaging comment about his character or intentions, every time I thought of the pain my son would likely experience in his dad’s absence, I repeated this mantra. Well, maybe not every time, but many times, as I caught myself falling into  bitterness – mine or another’s – this little prayer pulled me back from the edge.

After a while, it got to be less hard. With the baby, it was easy, because I could imagine that his dad being happy would likely create the most possibilities for him. When the guy finally called, around the time AJ was two, there was space in my mind and heart to not turn him away from knowing his son.

But then it got real. He hadn’t become a different person. He was still dishonest and manipulative.  And now he’s done it again. After a year and a half of regular correspondence, calls, and some visits, he’s dropped off the face of the earth.

And I am pissed.

It’s one thing to mess with me…and another to mess with your child. It’s heartbreaking to be told, several times a day, “I need my daddy” or “I want my daddy” and know it’s so true and know there is nothing you can do about it.

I am pissed and I am becoming bitter. I want to punish like the God of the penal-substitution theory only I don’t want a substitute. I want retribution because it must be, or maybe it is about substitution…I want him to feel the pain that our son is feeling and going to feel in the future.

Fucker.

And, at the same time, I feel the pull of my heart – the truer, better part of myself that knows what I really want – back to that place of that simple yet profound prayer.

It was easier when he wasn’t real, when I knew nothing about him. When I could imagine he’d never actually come back.

It was easier before I had spent four plus years trying to sort out some reasonable child support situation without going to court, going further and further into debt in an effort to preserve my son’s connection only to come to this place where I can accidentally notice that he is getting along quite well, thank you, with a new life and lots of partying that somehow keeps him from bothering to call or even text his four-year-old kid who remembers that the last time they talked was his birthday two months ago.

It was easier then.

It’s more important now.

For my son, for this guy I have to fight not to despise and wish ill on. For me. I have to do it. I have to keep forgiving and wishing well and holding his safety and happiness in my heart and mind. I have to forgive myself for letting him in and exposing my child to this heartache. I have to let this forgiveness and well wishing peel back my grip on the need for justice and retribution so that I can take steps forward without entirely justifiable  malice.

I have to, as someone in the Twittersphere so eloquently put it today, speak for my anger, but not from my anger. I must speak from love.

Fuck.

Perhaps those who pray can pray for me on that one…”Give her everything she needs to be loving.”

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By Mama Paloma, 31/03/2011 00:30

Am I alone in finding the “Conscious Parenting” thing a bit off-putting, disrespectful, even?

I am not saying that the intentions and practices talked about in “Conscious Parenting” circles are bad or wrong. It’s the concept that bothers me, the implication that pervades parenting information and ideas almost more insidiously than religious ones–that the current guru and her followers have it right and everyone else has it wrong, or at least less-right than those within the circle. It’s also the practice of stating ideas as truths–truths along the lines of “If your toddler annoys you, it’s not about the whining/tantrum/poop on the walls. It’s obviously really about your own unhealed emotional wounds.”

Are you effing kidding me? Tantrums are unpleasant, poop is disgusting, and all of it harder to deal with when I haven’t had enough sleep. It is possible that I am incorrect, but I am fairly certain that my irritation at my three year old deciding not to put on his shoes to walk out the door in the morning but instead removing all of his clothes and running around crowing “I’m naked!” has no connection to how I was or was not hugged as a child.

And if the current mob is “Conscious” (the last was “Attached”), what are the rest of us? Are the 99.99999% of the world’s parents that don’t ascribe to this model religiously, or who might find it absurd, “unconscious”? Not yet “enlightened” enough to grasp what a few privileged, mostly white, mostly quite affluent people have “discovered” is “essential” to healthy emotional development?

Which brings me to another thing that gets my goat–the tendency of gurus of parenting to invoke the “noble savage,” objectifying and appropriating whole cultures in the process. I am talking about another kind of truth statement like “in Africa, women carry their children everywhere and there is no corporal punishment…that’s why they don’t have our social problems.”

First of all, where do people get this information? I worked with child protection staff in one African country who said they couldn’t tell parents not to beat their small children because it’s just part of the culture. Just like anywhere else, parenting styles varied and were shaped by a variety of influences. And, just like everywhere, there were plenty of social problems. Second of all, how were these conclusions reached? I have had a healthy dose of skepticism about anthropological “truths” since living for several years in Papua New Guinea and then reading/watching anthropologists’ commentary and conclusions about certain practices. Many times, the “truths” and “discoveries” of these well-meaning scholars were so off they were funny. Third, Africa is not, I repeat not a country or even a homogenous continent. The diversity there is astounding and generalizations about anything–culture, food, music–obscure its real beauty and complexity. But, I, as often happens, digress.

We are talking here about parenting. American parenting. My understanding is that child-rearing practices occur in complex contexts and serve varying purposes–purposes that are often invisible to those practicing them, let alone observers.

My theory is that the (seemingly primarily Western) drive to identify and commodify “good” parenting occurs in a context of competition, individualism, and perfectionism. “Older” parents seem particularly vulnerable to this drive. I think this is perhaps because someone who comes to parenting at thirty-five or forty in the U.S. has quite likely done so because they have previously been focused on academic and/or career success. We have long histories of being able to do things well excellently.

Everything in our culture pushes us to do better, improve ourselves, strive for the top, constantly compare ourselves to others and ensure that we are winning. So, we become parents and approach it from this angle, to succede in this context. We read the books, research the products, do everything we can to do it better than anyone else ever has in the history of mankind. And if we’re unsure of ourselves, we’ll cite some abstract-enough-exotic-and-almost-kindalike-prehistoric (“Africa” being the go-to) example to verify our more-correctness.

Let me be clear, I honor every parent’s desire and effort to do the best they can for their child. If someone finds the books and gurus helpful, great. I am just wondering if there is anyone else out there consciously deconstructing the more insidious effects of this stuff in our lives and in our relationships to other parents who are also doing the best they can see for their child.

I also kind of hope certain people don’t read this. If they do, I really hope they don’t comment with long explanations/justifications/rationalizations/research to back up their positions. I hope even more that they don’t post patronizingly pacifying/negating ”of course I respect everyone” comments with links to their websites selling parenting perfection.

Because what bugs me most about all of this judgment, this disrespect, is that people don’t own it. They hide their fear behind half-veiled superiority complexes. Sometimes, I wish they’d just come out and say what they really want to believe.

I’d rather hear, clearly, “I think I’m better than you.” than  ”Oh, we’re into conscious parenting so what  I’d do is just let my child run around screaming ‘I’m naked!’ Getting to work on time is not more important than his freedom to express himself.”

Because that just makes me want to say express this. Which, come to think of it, could have something to do with some early childhood experiences.

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By Mama Paloma, 28/01/2011 00:01

Both AJ and I have been stricken with the latest allergy/cold thing–that leaves one feeling fine but coughing like a severe asthmatic with emphysema who smokes two packs a day–since Sunday. So, in place of a coherent, non-sleep-deprived-or-drug-affected piece, I offer these occasionally-ever-so-slightly-whiny snippets:

• Voicing concern about one problem (Murder of gay activist in Uganda or women’s rights, for example.) without concurrent comment on another (Murder of Shia in Iraq or the plight of men, for example) does not need to be justified or explained. You talk about what concerns you and I’ll do the same and between us we should have things covered. Unless your concern is with the validity of my concerns in which case I have a bone to pick!
• What’s with all of the grown ups with life-ADD? “I am so committed to this, you can count on me–look! something shiny! Oohh… Oh, what was it we were talking about?”
• LA DRIVERS!!! No, I won’t go into that.
• After seven weeks away, my mom is back. YAY!
• I am currently prepping for my 2010 taxes. Once again, as I did last year and the year before, I am determined to keep up on this stuff throughout the year…we’ll see how that goes. Gotta go back through 2010 first, ugggg.
• Seriously, am I the only person who doesn’t give a flying ef you see kay about American Idol? All right, I don’t have a TV but I did once, when American Idol was shiny and new, and still never watched an entire episode.
• For anyone tracking my posts on the subject, baby daddy came and went and I am really, really over his nonsense. Once again, we are all grown-ups…honor your commitments and responsibilities and, no, it’s not all right if your commitments and responsibilities to me go to the bottom of your list.
• I am really happy for Tim Heatherington, who I met in Liberia, and Sebastian Junger that their work is being acknowledged with an Oscar Nomination for Restrepo.
• I have noticed that my FaceBook ‘network’ is amazingly diverse…drawing on my missionary kid upbringing, crazy biological family, progressive colleagues and friends collected through the years, international travel and work, and the random people that have come into my life in various ways. Just finished scanning today’s ‘news’ and saw everything from something on the debate over fasting in the Pentecostal church to outrage over the murder of the Ugandan gay rights activist, protests of the wars in Afghanistan and Iraq, celebrations of military service, way too many details of people’s meals and health concerns, pro- and anti-Obama rants, local and national and international politics, and the latest (aforementioned) on American Idol. And more. It’s lovely and lush and inspiring and sometimes infuriating and good company on an evening when my kid is sick and I am sitting alone in the apartment.
• I would like to have a boyfriend. There, I said it. Not an L.A. random ‘thing.’ Not a ‘partner.’ Just a boy who enjoys spending time with me on a regular basis and is 1) not an alcoholic/addict/overly attached to any ‘problem’ 2) not coming out of a long relationship 3) able to relax and let things evolve 4) is interesting, attractive, gainfully engaged in some kind of work. I know, I know…I’m a freaking prima donna…want it all. Fine, I didn’t say I needed this…just would be nice sometimes.
• My kid is the coolest ever. Really. I mean, I know I am not an objective source but…trust me, he is.

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By Mama Paloma, 23/01/2011 14:52

So many times, I have wanted to do what Chris Hoff does here…to capture a moment when the scenery, the song on the radio, the location all combine to form a ‘moment’ that feels somehow significant in its random ordinariness.

Today, AJ and I are both fighting colds. Winning the fight, I think. Ten hours of sleep, ginger tea, and a lazy Sunday are the weapons of choice. To pass the time, we hit up our YouTube account, which has numerous playlists I have created to amuse him and, of course, there’s one of all of the video clips of him I have uploaded for friends and family to enjoy. He asked to watch it and so we did for a while.

Looking at these blips in his development—from this account of his frenetic efforts to grab the camera as a two-month-old to discovering Santa’s leavings on Chrismas morning—I am struck by a couple of things.

One is how much he L O V E loves to watch himself. Without the veneer of expected modesty and self-critique we acquire somewhere along the line, a three-year-old relishes his own reflection and reliving past moments.

Another is  how hard it is to both observe and participate in these moments. It’s something I have struggled with a lot as a single parent. I want to preserve these moments but, at the same time, want to be present and a part of things. Behind the camera, I am slightly removed, engaged in framing the experience–something that can’t be done from within the experience itself.

For me, this challenge extends beyond the realm of documenting our lives. When juggling multiple priorities, time lines, and threads of activity, it isn’t easy to be fully present for any of it. Just this week, I was sitting with a client, also a mom who works outside the home, as she talked about this dilemma. As she said, “I just want to be more present with my kids,” I nodded internally in agreement. Then, also internally, I jumped out of my seat in a panic. I had forgotten to send the address of AJ’s preschool  to my friend who was picking AJ up for me that day! It was about the time she should be going to pick him up. What kind of parent am I?

And what kind of therapist am I? If nothing else, it is my job to be fully present for those who come to consult with me. Containing my panic, I wrestled with these conflicting assessments. I realized that, lame as I was for neglecting to send the needed information, the world was not likely to come to an end as a result. AJ was safe at his school (exorbitant late fees be damned) and this client has been consulting with me long enough to work out that I am, indeed, a real human being. So, I quietly took a deep breath and stayed engaged until the conversation reached a natural point of ‘switching gears’ and then asked her if I could excuse myself for a moment. I explained that her comments had reminded me of something I neglected to do. I called. AJ was fine (my resourceful friend had looked up the school on Google). We laughed. It was not my most shining moment as a parent or a professional but it passed.

I am not sure how to tie this all in but it is connected for me somehow–the threads of our lives and the way we weave them together, the impossibility of completely separating the threads of the professional and personal, the organization of all of these pieces and the holes that develop when we drop a stitch and that then, in time, become part of the pattern and wholeness of a life lived.

And the moments that speak from their ordinary synchronicity of the meaning and beauty of it all.

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By Mama Paloma, 21/08/2010 07:27

So there’s this situation. It wasn’t of my making but has come to affect me. The whole ‘he was single only he wasn’t and kept saying he was when he wasn’t…long after it mattered…until I get an email from the other woman involved who is first ‘so sorry’ and then vindictive and says pretty horrible things about me and my son and his father’s intentions and in the next virtual breath tells me not to contact her again and I ask him to address it but he won’t and I feel, once again, wronged and shat on and I am supposed to just sit here and take it? situation.

Yes, that is a ridiculous run-on sentence. This is a ridiculous run-on situation. I need some punctuation, some way to make sense of the many threads of perception and treachery and accident and intention.

So, I put the onus where it belongs: on the one who started it all by swearing that he was single (indignant that I would lump him in with the all-to-common breed of man who carries on parallel but compartmentalized lives while living overseas), by knocking me up and telling me he was in it for the long haul, by letting me find out the truth when it was too late to take a different path.

And he won’t man up. He won’t own his actions, his untruths. He won’t stop this game of telephone and state the truth, unvarnished, to everyone involved.

Which leaves me with a dilemma. Do I take on his dirty work and set the record straight? And if I have to do that, do I have the right to present my story truly honestly?

Because I want to. I want to say “The love of your life denied you, over and over, even when being with me wasn’t an option. It was and is his default to deny your relationship, to refer to you as his ex, to say that he always knew things would not work out with you.” I want to say, Ha. I don’t want to be in his life. I have, at not insignificant cost to myself, allowed him to be in our lives. At his request.” I want to say, “You self-absorbed little ____, this isn’t all about you. It’s not all about me. It’s not even about him. You and I have been affected…both betrayed, my life turned upside down…but that is not more important than the fact that there is a kid. His kid, our kid. I get that you are still practically (and apparently, emotionally) a kid yourself but you are a much bigger kid than your ex-boyfriend/fiancee/whatever’s son and certainly old enough to understand that a kid comes into the picture, the grown-ups take a step back and that kid’s needs become the priority.”

And, yes, that last bit would be a bitchy retort to her pointed-yet-inaccurate comment on the age difference between the baby-daddy and I.  (1) She added a couple of years to my life and 2) I apparently am supposed to be insulted that he lied about his age because he knew I wouldn’t date him if I knew how young he was.)

And, yes, that last bit is the problem. I want to be bitchy. I want to respond in kind, with unkindness. And I am good at that. It’s 90% not my nature…but, man, that other 10% could rip this poor girl to shreds with my keyboard and enjoy it.

I am angry. With him for creating and sustaining this situation. He wants to move forward, past the wreckage of his past actions. I say that wreckage is piled up in the middle of my house. I have to edge around it, try to minimize it by arranging the furniture different ways…so that we can  move forward, step by step, stubbing my toe now and then, keep space clear for my son’s needs to be the center of our ‘unconventional family.’ I say he needs to clean that shit up.

I am also angry with this girl I don’t know. She dragged me into their drama this time around. Dropped an email on me without knowing anything about me or the situation. I offered to give her information if it would help her and she responded with such a retaliatory flurry I came to see that she doesn’t want to live in reality…she would rather swallow the admitted and repeated liar’s latest treacle than face the fact that her life has been based on these lies, that she knew it and chose to continue, that perhaps she still is. I don’t really know. I don’t really care if they are together or not. I do care to know if I can trust him at all…if I am setting up my son for disaster.

And I do care about being slandered and attacked and maligned. Maybe I shouldn’t but there it is. And any action I take right now will be driven by that…the ‘ego’…the desire to be acknowledged as right…which is the path 10% of me finds irresistible. For now, the other 90% rules and I don’t write my vengeful opus…only say these things in a relatively incoherent way–for anyone to read.

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By Mama Paloma, 08/04/2010 19:33

Many, many checklists/tips/suggestions are available for parents on this topic.  So, I  will skip those and get on to the meat of this piece. Which are the tips I have for other people who are traveling with/in the vicinity of a two year old. Some of these tips could be generalized to all people using a mode of transportation that puts them in close proximity to other people.

————————————–

I am writing this at something like thirty thousand feet, my sedated child awkwardly asleep in the seat next to me. He is sedated because, on the flight to our destination, he experienced fairly severe distress from pain in his ears. This was the first time this has happened. It was awful. Three full hours of him alternately crying and nursing. Made me very glad that I have kept up the nursing past age two. I know that freaks some people out but, seriously, it rocks. Nothing else can make a little guys ears feel better like mama’s ‘ba-bas.’ So get over it.

But I digress. For the trip back, I got the kid some Benadryl. First, the congestion that presumably caused his discomfort on round one of this trip has continued. Second, the return flight involves a stop in Las Vegas and is two, count them, two hours longer than the flight to Houston. Sigh. I know that it is further evidence of my horribleness as a mother that I even considered this in my decision to give my two-year-old  child a medication that has recently been re-classified as inappropriate for children under four. The real deal is that the pharmacist, who ultimately told me “Unfortunately, I can’t recommend that for a two-year-old,” also told me that Benadryl was the best option for  preventing the discomfort that had my baby in tears for the prior flight. My son has taken Benadryl before without a problem so I am rolling the dice and giving it to him again. He is, finally, sleeping soundly next to me, much to the relief of the passengers around us.

Which brings me to what I really want to talk about here. The passengers and flight attendants are relieved in great part due to the scene that preceded his sweet slumber. The kid was tired. The kid was antsy. We were hemmed into the window and center seat and there wasn’t space for him to lay down and sleep as he wanted. At some point in his efforts to settle down/express his frustration at the situation, he kicked my tray table up, dumping the contents of my full cup of juice into my bag below. Yes, folks, into my bag. Had I not invested the $12.99 at Target a few days ago to purchase a netbook sleeve, I would likely not be writing this little rant right now.

Now, my bad for having asked for the juice before he slept. Should have known our cramped quarters made that an unreasonable action. But, seriously, he had already nursed and I was thirsty.

All this could have been avoided had I done better on one thing. As the plane was loading, I got on and took a seat near the back, in an empty row. Now that AJ is over two years old, he has his own seat. It didn’t look like the flight was full and I was hopeful that we would have the row to ourselves so that he could actually lay down and sleep. We were settling in when a woman asked if the aisle seat was taken. I pointedly looked around, scanning for other rows she could fill, but answered honestly, ‘No.’ So she sat.

Hence, I did not have the extra table, out of reach of his tiny but surprisingly powerful feet, on which to put my drink. My son did not have space to stretch out without kicking something (which is stimulating enough to keep a two year old awake). I ended up with a bag full of cranberry juice and a hell of a bad attitude. I called an attendant who asked if I wanted another glass of juice. “No,” I told him, “I need something to clean this up.” He returned with about five paper towels. Great.

“Don’t worry about it, “ my helpful neighbor cooed, as I pushed the attendant call button for the third installment of paper towels, “don’t stress out.”

“Well,” I replied, “it is a little stressful travelling with a two year old.” Yep, I put the blame on my kid when what I wanted to say, what I should have said, was, “What is your problem? Who sits next to the mom with the kid when there are empty seats in two of the rows immediately across the aisle?”

Indeed, there were two seats, four happy travelers with an extra tray table between each pair, working and chatting and relaxing just across the aisle.

I was pissed and I was dealing with a huge mess in a small space and I talked to AJ like a mother never wants to talk to her child. In the presence of dozens of other adults. “Addison, SIT DOWN” I told him, as I desperately mopped juice off my netbook and camera. We struggled for ten minutes or so as I went through a stack of paper towels trying to soak it all up.

It sucked. I sucked. I was mean to my son and passive-aggressive with our row-mate. “We just need more space,” I muttered under my breath, refusing to look in her direction.

Finally, strapped into his seat belt, the Benadryl taking over, AJ crashed. Awkwardly, his head leaning to one side. I tried to prop it up with my jacket. I kissed his head, whispering, “I’m sorry.”

A few minutes later, I pushed the attendant button for what I hoped was the final time. One of the guys who had brought me part of the tree I had consumed in mop-up appeared. “Can I get a vodka cranberry? “ I asked. “Sure,” he replied, returning shortly with the requested beverage. “I’ll take care of this,” he said, “enjoy.”

My faith in humanity was restored. I love that man.

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By Mama Paloma, 29/05/2009 19:32

So, I started a shit storm on the local online mommy message board. To be fair, I didn’t really start it. Another mom posted a question about places in the Eastside where one could go for happy hour with one’s children. I posted back that we are generally at Figaro on Vermont for their happy hour (5:00 – 7:00pm, good ambiance, mediocre service, $4 mini martinis, $6 crab cakes and heaps of other specials) on Mondays. I call it Mommy’s Monday Martinis. People loved this. There were several group posts and I received more direct emails from moms I don’t even know saying they wanted to come.

I warned Figaro of the potential onslaught this coming Monday.

Then, the proverbial shit hit the fan. A mom (who clearly won’t be joining us) wrote and very helpfully informed us that even one drink could put someone over the legal blood alcohol level and that we really shouldn’t drive with our kids in the car after drinking. Really? Hadn’t thought of that! Good think I can WALK to this location. Another mom posted that she, too, hadn’t been “comfortable” with the idea of taking a child to a happy hour. “Why not hire a babysitter to go out every once in a while?” she proposed. OH MY GOD!!! I thought. Again, this had never occurred to me. Of course, this person also could not possibly know that I do hire child care regularly and my budget is more than maxed and so, if I want a quick $4 mini martini, the babe is going along.

I stayed out of the fray…just watched as people debated the undeniable complexities of the happy hour or not decision. There were confessions that some had thought it was a good idea but, on further reflection, had realized what horrible mothers they would be if they participated. There were assertions that one might go and not drink. There were snarky comments, defensive rants, holier-than-thou treatises, and loads of ‘information’ about how alcohol goes into breast milk. All because a couple of moms had connected over the desire to get out of the house for a few minutes in the late afternoon and – gasp – have a drink in the presence of their babies.

Do I sound bitter? I am not. I understand that the culture of parenting in America functions to keep parents guilt-ridden and competitive. The United States is meant to be the home of the free and the brave. Yet, when it comes to parenting, we are all too often the judged and the scared. As a single mom, I have endured far more than my share of inappropriate comments, advice, and judgment. I try to assume that each person’s intentions are good and move on.

But I am no saint. I do sometimes want to defend my choices. Before I even knew the extent of his dishonesty, I had decided that I did not want to be with Addison’s dad–that I would prefer to be a single mom. I love being a single mom. I am in no hurry to bring a ‘dad’ figure into the picture. This is my choice and I really feel it’s a good one. Beyond the logistics and practicalities, I want to take Addison out with me. My son is one of the most well-socialized fifteen month olds I know. When we are out, we practice appropriate behavior (“When we are in a restaurant, we sit on our bottoms.“) and he gets the opportunity to interact with other adults in a different setting. Happy hour is casual enough that I don’t have to worry about ruining the other patrons meal. It is also cheap.

Other people do not see either of these situations as ideal and, indeed, there are drawbacks. I don’t expect endorsements. In the absence of actual grave danger to my child would like to be left the hell alone. I also would like to not have to prove that danger exists to make a choice to protect my child. Which brings me to my next point.

Merck, the manufacturer of a number of childhood vaccines, recently stopped producing measles, mumps, and rubella as separate vaccinations. It’s just not profitable enough for this pharmaceutical giant. At the risk of starting another shit storm here, I will just say that the safety of the standard combined vaccination (the MMR) has been the subject of much debate with assertions of varying scientific reliability that range from its being the cause of autism to it being completely safe. Parents tend to be polarized on this as well–either following the CDC guidelines to a ‘t’ or rejecting vaccinations alltogether. My (admitedly unscientific) position is that the reality lies somewhere in between and that the fact is no one really understands the full complexity how these things work. I have lived in places where vaccinations are not available for all children and I plan to travel, with my son, to some of those places. I want to protect my son from potentially life-threatening or debilitating disease if I can. I also happened to have had a very severe adverse reaction to the combined MMR myself  as a child and have experienced a pattern of health problems (but not autism) that is associated with having such an adverse reaction. I had planned to break up the vaccinations for Addison, giving them separately, over time and thereby theoretically reducing his chances of an adverse reaction.

Now that choice is not available to me. Which is why I am asking everyone I know to go to http://www.thepetitionsite.com/1/moms-for-separated-mmr-vaccines and sign a petition requesting Merck to make the separated vaccines again.

In a culture of conformity and disrespect for varying opinions (a Merck representative was quoted as saying that assertions of the potential for problems with the combined MMR  are ‘hooey’) I just think we can all do what we can to keep more space open for the multiplicity of possibility in parenting and in life.