JNP
Here are excerpts from my chick-lit novella, Sins, Hims, and Whims of a Single Mother (some of you might remember in 2012 when these were blog posts):
Prologue
I’m sure you’re acquainted with the statistics: In the United States, 45–50% of first marriages end in divorce. Twenty-seven percent of American women who marry under the age of 20 end up divorced. Today there are 14 million single parents, divorced or otherwise, residing in the States. Of the latter, the overwhelming majority—a whopping 83% (11.6 million)—are single mothers. I’m one of each of those; a percent, a number. I contribute to the 45–50%, the 27%, and the 83%.
You may have seen me at church years ago sitting on a back row, just me and my baby girl. You might have wondered where my husband was—or if I ever had one. Or maybe you see me on Sunday now and you think my daughter is my sister. Then, upon learning the truth, you tell me that I look too young to have a child her age. You smile, but there’s a question in your eyes: “What’s her story?”
You might have been the person who assisted me when I registered my daughter for elementary school. Perhaps you recall when I handed you the protective order. I warned that her father was never allowed to pick her up, lest he run away with her and I never see her again. You politely explained that you would need a photocopy of the protective order to file alongside her shot records.
Maybe you were the guard who kept watch over me and my five-year-old when we came to the jail. Though secretly I wished to have nothing to do with my child’s father ever again, shamefully I succumbed to the incessant assertions of my ex-mother-in-law, wanting to remain on good terms with her. With hesitation, I brought my daughter to see the convict-father she barely knew. I never returned after she begged me not to take her back there, and even though I never wanted to go in the first place, I couldn’t help but notice the way you, the guard, shook your head and turned your gaze after our eyes met. It’s understandable if you had a preconceived notion about why I had come. Perhaps, you presumed I was only there out of loyalty or feelings for my ex.
It could be you’re one of the social workers who supervised the handful of visits between my daughter and her father after he served his time. Sometimes he didn’t show up. There were huge gaps between each visit. He was never consistent, though neither you nor I were the least bit surprised. You told me that you saw this sort of thing all the time, which sadly, was a relief to me.
You might be the lawyer to whom I paid thousands or the family court commissioner with slight patience. You witness the same relentless battle day in and day out. Maybe you’re the manager at my job who was irritated at the hours I spent in court. The one who told me my personal life was interfering with work.
Maybe you’re that girl who talked about me behind my back. You told people that I have issues and that I don’t dress right, or act right, so I attract the wrong guys. You said that’s probably why I’m divorced now. Or you could be that nice girl who tried to befriend me when you saw me sitting alone. But when you called to invite me out, I rarely had a babysitter. One time, when I did, there was that dilemma of me needing to leave early, and it turned into a huge hassle for you. Remember? It was the last time we hung out.
Maybe you did more than see me or befriend me; you might have dated me. Maybe you were the guy who thought I would be easy because I have a kid. Or perhaps you’re the one who played it cool, saying you cared about me and my little girl…until things got complicated. You might be one of the many who wouldn’t date me because of my child and my meddlesome ex. Of course, you never said it so plainly to me; you didn’t have to.
You might be the guy I called when I was lonely, the one who was using me too. Or maybe you’re the one I loved, the one who broke my heart. You told me you weren’t ready to get married, but what you really meant was that you didn’t want to marry me. Instead, you married that other girl, the one without the child, without the ex.
Whoever you are, were you curious as to how I ended up like this or with someone like my ex? Did you speculate what was wrong with me, wondering if I was gullible, wicked, or delusional? Did you feel sorry for me? Or did you only feel sorry for my child, the innocent involved? It’s okay if you did. I get it. I wondered all the same things too and felt just as sorry, if not more.
I have a past— things I regret, people I wish I never knew. Not everyone’s past has tangible proof, constant evidence of impulsive decisions, whims, failures, and mistakes, all hovering like a dark gray cloud overhead. Unfortunately, mine does. My present is tainted by my past; even my future appears to be scathed. Yet, I still hope, I still dream. One day things will be different. I’ll be part of a positive statistic. My name is Cena Flores . . .
Excerpt from Chapter Seven
Difficult decisions present themselves daily. Crying comes later. The crisis at hand must be addressed now. This outlook is indubitably accurate in relation to work, but it’s also my philosophy at home. I will keep a straight face when I look my daughter in the eyes and say with fervor in my voice, “Everything is going to be all right,” even though I’m far from certain.
You see, something happened today. Something I haven’t told anyone about. Perhaps it’s because I’m still hoping to have a pleasant evening despite my tumultuous afternoon. I wanted Biz to have a good practice, so I didn’t let on that I was worried. I might have shared with the girls at book club, but then Diana was so distraught. There’s nothing like the face of a battered woman to put things in perspective for me and remind me of what I’m not missing. If Diana ever has a shot at staying away from Tim, she needs to know she’s important to us. I didn’t want to draw support away from her by unloading my minor baggage. I’d rather have my problem than her problem. Besides, this is what I do. I’m a seasoned pro, a bulletproof gladiator. I suck up my pain and deal with it privately. A stone face protecting a sponge heart. Like I said before, it’s how I do whatever needs doing.
I react the same way—hold back tears, carry on as though the day is unmarred by gloom—every time a vested relationship meets a bitter end, whenever someone threatens to destroy my peace or circumstances escape my control, whenever I want to scream and shout at the word ALONE.
Ooh, I hate it. It’s so ugly, the way it stands out in large, bold letters, painted on the canvas of my mind. I see it now, dark and smoking, this time branded on my brain. I close my eyes. I force away that nasty formation of letters by shaking my head ferociously. I take a deep breath and say, “No. I will not cry. Not here, not now.” I choose not to give in to that frenemy, who welcomes me with its appealing simplicity and then turns against me with its wicked burden. That traitor will not make off with my tears. Too much is riding on me now. Too much depends on my ability to withstand this new storm. If I wallow or succumb to sadness, it will only interfere with what I must do, with all that is required of me. Crying it out, despite what people say, doesn’t help.
I am clay. Life is the mold or the cast that shapes me. I imagine God’s hands hard at work, pressing, contorting, gently pushing and bearing down upon me—the clay—so as to fill the mold, this life. He uses every inch of the cast, which meticulously transforms me. When a gust of wind blows, it hardens my exterior too soon. God’s hands go to work on me, softening me with water, pinching and pulling, breaking down my solidity. My base forms, then my center. All of a sudden, an unforeseeable flood of rain beats down upon me, drenching the cast, soaking me. My body of clay softens, turns to mush. I fold in on myself. After the rain, I resemble nothing close to the masterpiece I all but became. Even still, God’s hands go to work on me, though all I am is sludge. I slither. I slide. I slip through the cracks of the fingers that refuse to toss me away, fingers that instead sprinkle bits and flakes of dry clay over me, mixing, stirring. Building me up again to what I once was. When, finally, I am the perfect consistency, my clay mixture adequately balanced, those loving hands will press me back into my mold, filling every crevice. The cast, an intricate design, a unique shape, and something beautiful to behold, will be my final stage. This masterful and marvelous work of art can only be achieved by intense flame. Into the fire I will go.
I’m not sure I’ve reached the latter stage of this process yet. I feel like I’m somewhere in the middle. Like I’ve been broken down by the storms of life—time after time after time—and I’m still being shaped and molded. Have I truly been tested? I’m not sure. There are moments when I think I have. When I know without a doubt what I’m capable of, but then I surprise myself. Sometimes I’m surprised by the amount of strength that lies within me. Other times I’m ashamed at the weakness I find still lingering. Perhaps I am in that final stage. Only I’m pulled from the painful, strengthening blaze momentarily.
“Is she finished yet?”
“Not yet.”
“Then back into the fire she must go.”
I haven’t dated anyone in years. At least I haven’t ventured beyond the second date. I suppose I’m worried that I’ll slip up, make a mistake, undo all the work that has been done, and turn this clay to mush. Mostly, I think I have a firm foundation, that my house is built upon the good, solid rock, and I can easily withstand the storms. But doubt is difficult to evict once it has settled. That evil doubt—it’s a vicious basement dweller inside my house. Usually I keep it locked up, but…
You have to be careful who you let into your life, especially who you let linger. People have power to create storms, hurricanes even. They can tear your house down in a matter of seconds. I’m very choosey about the people I let into my life now. Especially since…wait…
There I go again, my scattered thoughts veering off, jumping from one worry to the next. You’re probably annoyed at this tangent. I apologize. I never fully explained the source of my angst.
You see, something happened today. Something that out bids, overshadows, and staves off any other concerns I have. Just thinking of what happened at 4:11 p.m.—that rude awakening, that uncomfortable moment when I had to bite my tongue and feign politeness to maintain dignity in the face of degradation and the vindictive kind of shady—quickly locks away my fears of ending up alone. These fears are forced back into the chest from which they sprung. Who has time to worry about dating?
Right now, as I approach the school and see Biz smiling, looking flushed, evidence of a rigorous practice, I wonder, How do I tell her I’ve lost my job?
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