For just a moment I allowed myself to bask in the delusion that my new life in my beautiful blue apartment would be trouble free and filled with joy. I had no one’s energy to think of but mine, no one else’s laundry to do, no one to consider when choosing a restaurant, no one to argue with. No one to drag out of bed, cram breakfast down, force into the car and deposit onto the school lawn, and absolutely no one to take into consideration before making a decision – any decision. This period, referred to as my “no” period, was delicious. The feeling I received from my “nos” was beyond my wildest expectations.
A single mother by my sophomore year in college, the “nos” had eluded me for the past 25 years. Tragically, a DNA mutation had endowed me with an extra guilt chromosome and single motherhood nurtured this malady like a master gardener.
As a single mother I was dutifully all about “yes”. Yes, I’ll pick you up. Yes, I’ll make Belgium waffles at 6:00 a.m. Yes, I’ll drive you to guitar lessons. Yes, I’ll move all the furniture out of the den so you can pitch a tent for the weekend. Yes, the band can take over the garage. Yes, those are the neighbors complaining about the noise. Yes, that is a police officer in our driveway asking us to obey the city noise ordinance. And yes, I’ll take care of it.
It is a given that single mothers constantly say yes out of guilt. What that guilt is about could be anything. The 11th edition of Merriam-Webster’s Dictionary defines it this way: guilt – noun \’gilt\ Feelings of culpability especially for imagined offenses or from a sense of inadequacy. See single mother. It’s a known fact that single mothers feel guilty because there is no father. Guilty because we never have enough time. Guilty because our children have to endure our driving them to school while putting on our make-up, balancing our checkbook, talking to a client and eating breakfast all at the same time. Guilty because we forget to give our child a check for the annual Christmas-wrapping-paper sale on the last day, for the second year in a row.
We are in the middle of a client conference when this reality hits us, and it is already 4:00 and we have forgotten to pick up our child from school. Suddenly we hear the Doublemint Twins’ anthem playing in our heads — two, two, two guilts in one. Overwhelmed with double guilt, we end our meeting prematurely. Fear fills our heart as we dash to the car, confident that we have just sabotaged our relationship with our only client and that our child has been kidnapped from the school yard. Panic adds to the noxious concoction of guilt and fear. We rush through traffic, besieged with anxiety, mentally calculating how much money we have left to pay bills just in case our client fires us. We find our child sitting on the steps of the school, patiently waiting, forlorn and abandoned. We thank God that our child wasn’t abducted while we were busy making money and loosing track of time. “Sorry I’m late,” we call out the window while screeching to a halt in front of the school, simultaneously reaching across the seat to open their door in an attempt to make them feel wanted. “How was your day?” we ask in the most relaxed, happy-to-see-you, I’m-not-freaked-out voice we can muster. They stare out the window, looking miserable.
“Didn’t you have a good day?” We inquire, knowing full well we have caused their despair.
“Not really,” they mumble.
“Why?” we ask innocently.
“You forgot to give me the check,” their small sad voice says.
And there it is, like a serial killer with a knife stabbing us over and over again. We want to scream, “I’m dead already. Stop!” But we don’t. We don’t because we know we screwed up. We know we deserve to feel this horrible shameful guilt because our child is the only ten-year-old in the entire fifth grade class who didn’t turn in one red cent for the Christmas drive. Our own elementary school humiliations flash through our brains. The memory of being mocked in the school cafeteria is too much to take.
Returning to the moment, we realize that our child is scarred for life and it’s our fault. The tender, brave soul who went door to door three weekends in a row, facing ogres of every sort, has just been singled out, humiliated in front of their peers. We realize that post-traumatic stress disorder will now be a part of their life forever, all because we are a bad parent. Suddenly it is crystal clear that this devastating event will doom them to a life filled with self-doubt and shame.
“I could take the check in now,” we offer.
“Everyone’s gone, Mom,” they say as though we don’t already know this.
We drive home in silence. All our failures as a single parent plague us en route. That night we burn dinner (again) while we are going over homework, folding laundry, returning a client’s call, and doing yoga, all at the same time. We know we are in over our heads. We know our lives are unmanageable, but there is no one else in sight to manage them, so we do the best we can.
Living on our last nerve continually makes us keenly aware that if we have to put our foot down one more time, our head will explode. So we say yes. Yes. Yes. Yes. Yes. Yes. Single mothers use this word so often that when asked by our clients, bosses, friends, and complete strangers to do anything, our automatic response is, yes. When we say no we experience more guilt, and our lives are already guilt ridden enough. What difference does it make if we only get two hours of sleep; it’s worth the price if we can keep the hollowing demons of guilt outside the door.
After decades of being a yes girl, I had to develop muscles for saying “no.” I would pace the floor in my living room, pausing in front of the mirror to offer just the right expression before each exercise, “No, I can’t do that today.” Smiling warmly I would be certain not to justify my no with an explanation. “No, that doesn’t work for me.” I shook my head gently in front of my reflection. “No, I won’t do your laundry.” I worked at sounding clear but non-chastising. “No, I won’t buy you a new car,” I said firmly, but unconvincingly.
I practiced a million “nos” before venturing into the real world where I would be called on hourly to put my newfound skill to work. No, I can’t chair the children’s drive this year. No, I won’t be able to make the desserts for the bake sale. No, I can’t make Christmas at your house again this year. No, you can’t leave your three children with me for the weekend while you go out of town with your boyfriend. No. No. No. No.
Truthfully, my sad little co-dependent self seemed unable to say no as long as I was living with someone else. As a single mother, this was a dilemma of the highest magnitude. No matter how much I practiced the “no” word, “yes” always emerged from my lips. My reputation preceded me everywhere I went. Even when I wasn’t asked directly to take on some new responsibility, I could sense other’s expectations. In a room filled with fifty people, whenever volunteers were requested, all heads spun in my direction.
I reached my yes limit during my near-death experience with toxic mold. Suddenly all my “no” training kicked in. I became the Bruce Lee of no, chopping and kicking as I went. I said no to the builder who wanted me to let him slide for forgetting to seal the stucco, patch the toeholds, flash the skylights, seal the windows and raise the thresholds. I said no to the real estate company who listed the home with full knowledge, and no disclosure, of the mold. I said no to my inspector who inanely insisted my home was one of the best built homes he’d ever seen. I said no to my homeowner’s insurer when they wanted to patch up the leak and walk away. I said no to anyone and everyone who refused to take responsibility for their part in destroying my health, my home, my business and my life. It took four years and $600,000 for my no to stick.
One night after the lawsuit was settled, I lay in bed thinking about all the money I had spent to win my case. I concluded I had spent one dollar for all the times in my life I had said yes when I should have said no. At last, at the age of 49, I was living guilt free, yes free and obligation free in my beautiful new apartment.
Enter my future husband. Good God, what was I thinking? After four years of saying no, perhaps I just got tired and said yes. My life had been a series of complicated mazes as long as I could remember. I was ready for simple. That is not what I got.