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Single Mom Meets True Love

Today I’d like to welcome a new Mom blogger friend of mine Tisha Matthews. She is a Behavior Management/Life Coach who is an active member with Mom Bloggers Club. One of the things that we found we had in common was that, as single moms, we were both searching for someone and we both found that we had to look for him a little differently than we originally thought.

Maybe we were getting in our own way. Maybe someone else was getting in the way. Maybe our big, fat, ugly self-images were getting in the way. Maybe we needed to educate ourselves about the craziness that is the male species. Maybe our Christmas Barbie collection or weird Rubik's Cube fascination was getting in the way. Here is her story of how she found true love (and I know, I know, I promise to quit being sappy and go back to my normal sarcastic self very soon--cut me some slack ya big whiners!):

 

Yes it can happen to you!

Every little girl’s dream is to marry their true love, which is the strong brave knight or prince that they see in the Disney princess films. And then I woke up in a nightmare with my son’s father. We were the extreme opposites, but not in a good way. I had a kind and gentle heart and he tried to destroy it. Thank God I only dealt with that devil for a year. I was blessed with a beautiful baby boy from that horrid relationship. During my pregnancy he proposed to me. I said no and moved on with my life as a single mom.

That terrible relationship brought my self-esteem to an all time low. My dreams of meeting my soul mate had been crushed, but deep down inside I did not want to accept that. From the moment my son was born amazing women came into my life that had amazing husbands. The brief moment they were in my life they taught me how to love myself again and that it was still possible to meet my soul mate even with my child.

A few years passed, my son is about three years old. My friend had her first child and about a month later one of her guy friends came over to her house with a gift for her baby. She introduced us. That moment I literally fell into my soul mate’s lap. We became very good friends from that day on. Eventually we developed romantic feelings for each other and began dating; a year later we got into a relationship, which was extremely intense, but we ended the relationship the next year.

I truly believed in my heart that he was my soul mate. He not only treated me like a princess, I felt like we belonged together in my soul. The feeling I have for him is a sense of belonging, like we fit perfectly together, I feel safe with him and I can be myself around him without feeling any insecurities. During the time-out separation I felt like my world came to an end. Thank God for my son! He helped me keep my head above water, also I have to thank my best friend for doing the same.

But the trophy goes to my dad. He also believed that he was the love of my life and that he and I were meant to be together. So my dad decided to prepare me just in case he wanted to come back to me. My dad told me all the secrets about men and what women should and should not do to foster successful relationships. Furthermore; I continued my studies on the opposite sex by reading a lot of books and following the gurus of love.

Three years later my guy came back to me. I did not make it easy for him. About two years into our renewed courtship we got back together and our relationship has been wonderful ever since. By the way, my son loved him the first time he met him. I knew this because he did not throw any toys at him like he did with the other guys who tried to date me! Rule of thumb, your kid knows best (not in all cases) but they do. If they like the guy, he is the one for you.

I have perfected the art of single parent dating! And so can you.

I hope you all like my little life story. If you have any questions on how to attract and keep your soul mate you can contact me at [email protected] and/or you can go to my website: http://tishamatthews.vpweb.com/

I'm a Bad First Date Sport

You’ve heard me talk before about Bad First Date Ideas and, specifically why one of those was a Wine Fest. However, there have been so many bad first dates involving sports that I thought they deserved their own separate story. It’s especially appropriate for the summer which is where these dates keep occurring.

I am not much good at sports. No, seriously, I suck. I played on a softball league once when I was married and I am virtually certain it is one of the reasons The Ex and I got a divorce (the other teams nicknamed me “The Strike-Out Queen” which, though it wasn’t very athletic, was at least regal). I took tennis in college. My father came to one of my tennis classes, and while I flitted “queenlike” across the court shouting “Love-This!” and “Love-That!” he looked like he was wondering where his money for a private university education was going. The instructor recommended I not take the intermediate class—please.

Don’t even get me started on pool… I like more esoteric athletic events like interpretive dance, aerobics, and cheerleading. But sports with balls are not my thing. **Insert crude, sexual innuendo here.**

However, no matter how many times you tell men this, bless their testosterone-laden hearts, they don’t listen. They tell you they don’t care if you aren’t any good and that it doesn’t matter to them. They lie.

Take batting cages. Raul wanted me to go to the batting cages. The balls are coming at me at about 500 million miles an hour. I am supposed to swing the bat, which seems like an unwise idea to me. He says that the balls are going slow, but they don’t seem slow; they seem fast…and hard. **Don't even get me started.** If I just move out of the way, close my eyes, and wait, surely they will stop coming at me eventually. Except he keeps screaming at me to “swing.” They do stop eventually, but he was frustrated and disbelieving of my lack of athletic ability.

Then there is Putt Putt. Actually, I like miniature golf. I take my daughter, Leah, and my nephews often. The problem is, my idea of Putt Putt and a man’s idea of Putt Putt are not at all the same thing. I think Putt Putt should be FUN. I know, silly me. So Alex took me to play Putt Putt. I should have known better, and in fact I did know better. But I am not the most assertive person—working on it—so there I was.

By definition, Putt Putt is kind of a silly game. Take giant giraffes, little bitty windmills, an ogre with a mouth that opens and closes, life-size mushrooms, and a hole in one resembling a pin the tail on the donkey, and it is not exactly the envy of Tiger Woods (who, incidentally recently presented the "Kevin Awards for Worst Online Dates"). So I have a hard time taking it seriously. I tend to walk around making comments like, “Fore!” and “That was a birdie for sure,” “Hmmm…which club should I use?” “What’s your handicap?” “Play it where it lies,” and “I don’t like the way my ball is lying on this shot—sandtrap.”

Plus, I completely advocate do-overs. Do-overs are important in miniature golf, and maybe in life. I think they should also be allowed in the Olympics but that’s just me. So if the people with whom I am playing deserve another shot, I’ll go ahead and move the ball back for them. Sometimes, I’ll even help them out a little bit and move it closer to the hole. Occasionally, I help out people I don’t even know. 

I’ve found that, while this works out fine with young children, this does not go over well with dates. Men in general seem to WANT to play the game r i g h t. As if playing Putt Putt had a right and a wrong. Alex ended the date by storming off and telling me I was a bad sport. I did finish my game first with a bunch of kids I knew from school. They let me help them out, and we had a grand ole’ time, do-overs and all.

But then, what do I know?  I’m a bad sport.

copyright © 2010  Tiia Jones

Why I Don't Date Men Without Children

I am very honored today to be featured as a guest blogger on the very talented Swati Bharteey’s wonderful blog The Single Mother's Chronicles with a story called The Incident of the Wagon or Why I Don’t Date Men Without Children.

I’ve enjoyed Swati’s Blog very much as it features a variety of articles, both about her life and about the lives of other single moms. I especially like how she frequently gives you a snapshot about a poignant moment in a single mother’s life. Take a look—you won’t be sorry you did. There is also a link to her blog on my home page (in addition to the link above).

So when she asked me to give her a guest post, I decided to tell a story of my own. It involves a childless lawyer, a red wagon, a broken arm, and a ravine. Please check it out and let me know your thoughts.

 http://tiny.cc/2yrcr

Thanks Swati for the invitation.

Booty Call Man--Strings Attached

PROFILE    Denny1968 Enjoying all that life has to offer! Active within 2 days  30-year-old-man Colorado Springs, CO United States Seeking women 25-35 Within 30 miles of Albuquerque, NM, United States Relationships: Divorced Have Kids: No Want Kids: Not sure Ethnicity: Caucasian Body type: About average  Height: 6’0” Hair Color: Light brown  Eye Color: Blue Smoke: No way Drink: Regularly Education Level:  High School My Job: Labor/construction Interests: Music & concerts, , fishing and hunting, reading, watching sports, camping, hiking, woodcarving, travel (US)

My friend Wombat at Kiss & Blog recently posted on the idea that women sometimes have difficulty allowing themselves pleasure because they tend to self-flagellate and there are double standards. It sparked off an interesting discussion from both men and women about how differently the two genders perceive sexual encounters. That got me to thinking about booty calls.

A word on booty calls. There is nothing wrong with booty calls. Casual sex for the sake of casual sex has its time and place. In fact, I am all for it if done safely and sanely and, preferably, somewhat soberly. The problem with booty calls is that from a woman’s perspective, it is frequently difficult to limit the sex to its impersonal nature. I don’t know if this is because society dictates that women are not allowed to have booty calls or if we as women begin to project some deeper emotion than is warranted by the detached nature of the dirty deed.

But I decided to find myself a booty call man. Call it comfort food. I deserve it, I told myself. Leah’s anxiety had become so bad that I couldn’t even leave her in the nursery while I worked out at the gym; they’d come and find me because she was hyperventilating. On the other hand, when we would pray together at night before bed, she’d say, “Dear Jesus, please send me a new Daddy so I won’t be scared anymore.” I’d stand in the doorway of her room so she wouldn’t see me crying. I wanted to produce one. If only it were that easy.

But I found myself wanting something totally different. I wanted someone I could have sex with for a couple of hours and never see again. I found a guy whose picture looked really good, but his narrative revealed that he was none too intelligent. He met very few of my rules, and we had almost nothing in common (I mean, camping, woodcarving, labor/construction?). He was perfect! I shipped Leah off to the babysitter’s house—and I was ready for action.

My first major mistake in this booty call catastrophe was that I had him come to my house. This goes against every rule of safe Internet dating that I now know and that is available for anyone who has a computer. Those guidelines simply did not exist then. Actually, now that I think about it, it doesn’t even make good common sense so I must have really wanted to get laid.

As I was waiting for him to arrive, I was trying to concentrate on the book I was reading while at the same time maintaining a seductive pose lying on the couch (think Cleopatra). Finally, I could see car lights approaching the back gate of my townhouse and I glanced up to see a camper trailer parking in the free visitor space. Now this was an interesting development. I didn’t really anticipate the hot booty call guy would be driving a camper trailer, but what was I to do now?

He parked and knocked at the back door and I let him in. We wasted little time on small talk and informalities, but got right down to business. I guess when you email someone to come over to your house at 9:00 on a Friday night they know what you are interested in. The casual sex was, well, casual. It was quick and expedient and less than satisfying. Kind of like those Slimfast shakes you’re supposed to drink to replace meals.

Then either society or my sensitive woman side kicked in and I wanted it to be more than it was. “Can’t you stay the night,” I said and I wasn’t even sure if I could believe the words were coming out of my own mouth. Did I remember this guy drove a camper trailer which he very likely lived in?

He looked at me steadily as he pulled on his Levi’s. “I don’t think so. I have to get back to the campground or I’ll lose my spot.”

I knew it! What the hell was I thinking? My head had no control over my mouth at this point. “Well can we see each other again?” and even I could hear a bit of a plaintive whine creeping into my voice.

“I thought this was just sex,” he said and now he looked away as he buttoned his shirt.

Yeah me too buddy but apparently my mouth didn’t get the message. “Yeah OK,” I said. It sounded flat, however, and he looked at me with the slightest tinge of sympathy before giving me a quick hug.

As he drove away, I silently prayed to the gods of dating that he would forget where I lived and never, ever tell anyone what had transpired here tonight.

copyright © 2010  Tiia Jones

Happy Father's Day to Me!

As I was reading a recent post on Singlemommyhood.com about Jackie’s Father's Day Drama, I couldn’t help but think of that day ten years ago when I became, not a single parent, but a solo parent. Yes, there is a difference.

Every year about this time, I reflect on what it means to be both father and mother to my child. Reading Jackie’s heartfelt and eloquent thoughts about dealing with a “deadbeat” father, caused my mind to drift back ten years to the day I got that fateful letter from the court. I had received so many court notices from The Ex that it wasn’t unusual. I opened it while Leah was riding her little pink tricycle in the courtyard of our townhouse complex. Distractedly watching her and the other neighborhood children on bikes, trikes, and big wheels, the words grabbed me out of my distraction.

“Relinquishment of Rights and Responsibility. Respondent (that was him) agrees Petitioner (that was me even though I didn’t remember ever petitioning for anything) shall make all major decisions regarding the child. Respondent relinquishes and surrenders further rights to the child. Respondent agrees to abatement of Parenting Time.”

I called my best friend and lawyer Arianna and read her the contents of the legal notice.

“Well,” she said matter-of-factly, “he has decided not to be her father.”

“Can he do this?” I wailed.

“Yes, he can do this. He may think he’ll get out of paying child support, but that isn’t the case. We could tell the judge we want to deny the motion, but it probably won’t do any good.”

I looked up to where one of the neighborhood girls was pushing Leah on her trike. She hadn’t gotten the hang of the business of peddling.

“The hearing is Tuesday,” I said flatly.

“I’ll be there.”

“I know.”

The Ex didn’t come for the hearing, and his attorney seemed apologetic when he said that it should be a rather simple procedure and that The Ex wasn’t required to even be there. You can go to court, decide not to be someone’s father, all without even showing up. How do you like them apples? It was all very anticlimactic. We didn’t even see the judge.

As we were leaving, The Ex’s attorney said he was sorry for the whole thing. “Yeah, me too,” I replied. “Do you know why he did this?”

“No,” he answered. “I merely file the motions my clients ask me to file. I can’t make him want to be a parent.”

Arianna shook her head.

When I got home, my already rotten day got even worse. The UPS man came to the door with a large box. Leah exclaimed, “presents!”

Fortunately, I had a notion that maybe the contents weren’t from Toys R Us or Baby Gap. I had seen that the return address was from The Ex. I told Leah to play in the other room while I opened the box. The box, as it turned out, was only a gift in the most macabre sense of the word, packed I assume by The Ex’s new wife.

It had every toy that had been over at The Ex’s house, every scrap of clothing including every little sock and hair bow. It even had pants and panties that had been soiled during her toilet training accidents that had never been washed and were returned these months later completely filthy and covered with, well, filth. It had pictures drawn by Leah, crayon drawings made while waiting at restaurants, stuffed animals, and Happy Meal toys. It was, in short, every tangible memory of Leah that had remained in his life. Effectively, he had relinquished his rights and responsibilities, and sent them to me in a cardboard box.

I closed my eyes for a few seconds and took a deep breath. That’s one thing I know for sure about being a single mother, and in particular a “solo” mother. There is never anyone to take over, never anyone to give you a break. When you are tired or stressed or upset or sad or sick, you just deal with it. So I threw out the clothes that were too gross to salvage and boxed up the memories.

Every year on Father’s Day, I have an urge to send myself a card or a gift. Just to say, “Hey, you’re doing a great job. Maybe not a perfect job and probably not the best job, but a great job nonetheless. You’ve raised a good kid who made it to the age of thirteen without any major mishaps. Everyone says she’s beautiful and fun to be around and you love each other. Happy Father’s Day to me!”

copyright © 2009  Tiia Jones