Sunday Evenings in the Trenches: A Memory of Single-Motherhood

Every Sunday evening I go to the grocery store. 

I pick up a couple things I need to start the week: the sandwich meat for my children’s packed lunch, milk for their breakfast, and yogurt for my daily snacks. The truth is, I don’t care for grocery shopping, but I don’t mind going on Sundays because I recognize the crowd, not that that would normally motivate me to do any type of shopping; it's just that the women doing the shopping on Sundays seem to be like me: I find solidarity in being with them at the supermarket, shopping for the same items, and harboring the same secret worries. But, none of us would ever acknowledge or much less talk to one another.

We are too tired, embattled, beleaguered, and exhausted to articulate anything, and we know it. Even standing at the deli counter, we are in the midst of taking action and waging a minor, daily battle in the larger war of our responsibilities, obligations, and duties. In our hearts, we know that we are sisters because we wear the same type of sweat pants, t-shirts, and sneakers. We don‘t have any makeup on and our hairs are disheveled. We stare beyond the deli-counter and its assistants, our minds racing.  We are not present or aware of the pound of ham, baby-Swiss, or salami being sliced for us at the meat slicing machines. We are thinking about what’s going to happen when we leave the supermarket and have to wash another load of clothes, sweep the kitchen, wash the dishes left-over from dinner, and make sure our kids are bathed and off to bed. Added to our frenzied list of mental to-do lists are concerns about what we might wear to work tomorrow. And, all these worries are compounded by fears of looming bills--the yearly property taxes now due, the electrical bill, telephone statement.  It doesn’t matter that we are married or divorced or what level of education we’ve achieved (I myself have a masters from a prominent university). All of us have sacrificed ourselves in order that our children, husbands, and/or elderly parents be fine. Mostly, we have learned that we cannot do it all, but must do it all anyway.

Like my nameless, Sunday-evening, grocery-shopping sisters, I know this is the time for action and not for reading long, cerebral Russian novels, like I once had the luxury of  time to do; or learning how to speak Romance language (learning to speak French was once on my to-do list so that I could one day fulfill a dream of living in Paris); or attending the opera, which I can no longer afford; or learning to dance the Tango, which I started but could not continue. My life is about making sure my children have completed their homework, eaten their vegetables, drank their milk, bathed, and gone to bed at a decent hour. It’s also about taking care of my elderly mother, who I must drive to doctor’s appointments and support financially. Then there are the responsibilities of monthly household accounts and charges for the occasional repairs, which I can never afford. Furthermore, my life is also about attending to the needs of my college students, who expect me to be prepared to discuss works of American literature in class and to grade timely all their assignments. With all these responsibilities there is no room or time left for me -- and this a simple fact of my life.

Before my divorce, six years ago, I was a beautiful woman. My hair was a silky mane of well-kept curls, my clothes were expensive and coordinated in both color and fabric, and my shoes were always new and shiny.  My new fashion philosophy is “grab and go,” and there is no guarantee I will be either color coordinated or tidy. I’m like one of those women you see on the street who makes you think “doesn’t she know that she shouldn’t wear….” or, “if only she would put on some makeup she could be so pretty." I think I would be embarrassed by if it all if I had time to entertain such thoughts. My only consolation is that in the 21^st century grunge and/or hip-hop still represents a rebellious personal fashion statement, which might not be as appropriate for me as I age but might allow me more flexibility in my style of dress.

Even so, I am still beautiful in a way that has been stored and put away for future use, like your grandmother's fine china in need of a  bit of polish before use at that special dinner. Only those who search will see my beauty. I know this because a married, male co-worker once flirtatiously said to me he was going to take me for a day of pampering at a salon so that my beauty would be buffed and shined a la Eliza Doolittle – interesting and truthful observation.

I have chosen to put away certain things including any expenses related to the pursuit of personal beauty regimes: hair-cuts, manicures, pedicures, massages, and waxing are too costly and time-consuming.  Basically, when it comes to beauty, if it can’t be achieved by home kits--and that is when I have the time or inclination to do such things--it can’t be attempted at all. Aside from that, I have substituted any monies in my budget, once allotted for buying pretty shoes and dresses, to utilitarian and useful items like pots, pans, garden hoses, fuses, children’s sneakers and undergarments. Even so, I will never give up my expensive French perfumes--my ultimate act of rebellion.

Mostly, I am having a relationship with my well-cushioned king-size bed (a property acquired in my divorce settlement). Still, sleep is fleeting when racing thoughts speed across the imaginary racetrack of my mind or can be as stone-cold as a shot in the head when I‘ve exhausted every single imaginable worry I can think up. I don‘t even have time for dreaming anymore. 

Lately, all this stress makes me think of my life-long fascination with war movies the likes of Kurosawa’s and Malick’s, two of my favorite directors. I’ve always wondered how a soldier deep in the trials of war could keep his cool. Wouldn’t the violence, blood-shed, and emotional hurly whirl do him in on the field of battle? 


Now I know from my own experiences, which are not comparable to that of a war-time soldier’s, that we are all wired to do what we have to do and know how to do it. In the midst of raw and pure life we can be objective, even while we are in action and not privy to the luxury of time to think through every single one of our moves. And it is our objectivity and our ability to see ourselves even in “extreme” living experiences that grants us the most freedom and independence of all. I know this because even in the midst of all my aforementioned challenges, I also dealt with losing a roof during a hurricane (the aftermaths of which kept me up at night mopping water from the backroom during the rainy summer months); losing my water heater, which made me to boil water the year I could not afford a new water heater; and losing an air-conditioning unit, which in all honesty, almost drove me to insanity since I live in a state where the coolest temperature might reach 80 degrees Fahrenheit in the winter months. And I coped with all and can now write about my challenges.

So my fellow, Sunday-evening, grocery-shopping sisters, do not believe the hype, new-age gurus, and a society that tells you can do and have it all. You can’t… but you will try anyway because you must and that makes your efforts all the more honorable. Mostly, you do what you do for others because you’ve made it your duty and not your obligation. And, like any soldier awarded the Purple Heart, you will sacrifice, give your all to the battle, and always be victorious -- no matter the outcome. So, don’t forget to trust your instincts in all things.  Most importantly, take a long, hot, steaming bath when the world seems too much to bear. 
Read my exciting memoir, "The Continent of Ruby," available at: http://www.amazon.com/dp/B00TT5DDWO