When I am a young girl, there is one thing that I never want to be: a single parent. Poof! the Universe says...Single Parent—here ya go. That’s the mantra going ‘round my head, obviously: Single Parent, Single Parent, Single Parent. And so it is.

Now I admit that I bring the whole thingy unto myself, in a way because I am the one who asks my daughter’s dad to leave. Not that there aren’t good reasons to do so. (One of the most obvious was that we don’t have sex for over three years, after our daughter is conceived.) A minor point, there.

Although I meet my soul mate within the next year, remarry and we combine our three children together, it still feels as if I am a married Single Parent. Just ask any stepparent about that. And when hubby number two is tossed to the wind, because I have “outgrown” him and need to strike out on my own, there I have it, again: a Single Parent. It can be tough being an independent Aries. And so it is.

I find that being a Single Parent has its amaaazing and beautiful moments, like when Hayley is younger and as a homebody, she is constantly “chatting me up” to her friends, long after they have tossed their own parents to the wind. “My mom says....”or, “My mom does this...” Sometimes I cringe, wondering if her friends are judging her for being a mama’s girl. It also makes me feel proud: I am blessed that Hayley still holds my hand when we cross the street, long after she needs to; that she still sits in my lap, to be close; and the way she tells me she loves me before we part...and sometimes in-between, “just because.” She also wants me to tuck her into bed, at times reading to her from our fabulous collection of children’s books. There are many nights when I feel too tired and end up either being snarky to her, abrupt, or make up a quick ridiculous story that doesn’t go any place, yet always features a little girl named Hayley who needs to go to sleep—now...in this immediate moment.

There are times I think that I would love to have a partner, not just for myself as a companion, someone who cares for Hayley, also and only wants the best for her, sharing his enlightened thoughts about issues that pop up, suggestions on how to handle certain situations or just for support.

...Especially as she grows older, quicker and snarkier, during certain times of the month. Like in our car, today, at one point she completely ignores me, absolutely doesn’t respond and I park the car and tell her, “If you can’t be respectful then you need to get out.” After awhile, she begins to pull her backpack off the floor of the car and stuff her water bottle and keys into it. I can’t believe she is choosing this. I ask her, “You would rather get out and walk from the middle of nowhere than communicate with me?” “Yes,” she barely whispers. I grab her shoulder strap and pull, gently yet firmly.  “C’mon, Hayley. Let’s not do this,” and I reach over her to shut her door and start the car, again.

“I just want a hot dog!” she suddenly blurts out.  This, from a recent vegetarian. That’s when I realize: she’s hungry—really hungry.  She skips breakfast so that we can go on errands—no wonder she’s so grumpy-snarky-poopy. I would be, too. Still, she decides to ignore me, for the most part, even though we go to Home Depot where she piles her hot dog with onions galore and the whole thingy disappears in minutes.

When we get home, suddenly we are the best of friends, again... “Mama? Would you do me a favor, puleeeze?” in her sweetest voice. And of course, my job is set in motion, again, and everything is honkey-dorey. “Yes, sweetie?” “Would you call the library and see if they have a movie?” She names the movie and since she is yelling it from her bedroom and I am downstairs, in the kitchen, I don’t hear the name. “Rich?” I ask back. “Nooo, it’s ....” Still, I can’t make it out.  “Niche?” I ask. Sounding like she’s talking to my 90-year-old mom and spelling it out, she says, “Noooo, it’s w-r-i-s-t.” “Oh...wrist putters? As in playing golf?” “Noooo,” she says, getting frustrated. (By this time she easily could have called the library herself and skipped the yelling and time it takes me to understand what she is saying.) But nooooo. “Why don’t you call them yourself?” I naively ask, since I am eating lunch. “Because I’m doing something.” I hear her plunk a few times on her newest musical instrument, the tabla. Ahhh, there’s the key: she’s doing something/busy/can’t take the time. Makes sense to mwah.

So although I am finishing lunch, I am also writing a story in my head, remembering the movie title to order and writing a second story in my head, not forgetting the first one. Then she talks to me, which is dangerous because then I might forget both stories and the movie title.  “Mom?” “Yes, sweetie-pie?” I feel my teeth clench just slightly. “Could you also.....?” This time I tell her she’s on her own, as I have enough to remember as it is.

Amaaazingly enough, I sit down at the computer, write up at least one of the stories I have in mind, make the call to the library (remembering the movie title) and even make the time to answer the doorbell when one of her friends arrives, offering sparkling water and a slice of lemon. I’m such the hostess...