The "F" Word (conclusion)

When I was a single mother and attempting to date, I was more puckered than ever. I was already behind the eight ball with having four kids to raise. One of my very first dates, I was seeing a guy, also in his early thirties, who had never been married or had kids. I spoke of my kids, but I didn’t like talking about them much until I could see if the guy was worth my time and effort. We were at our first dinner date, when it was time for the check. Fumbling around my giant purse for my wallet, I gave a sigh of despair and emptied the contents of my purse on the table. Most women my then age carried small purses when they were out, its insides consisting of lipsticks, credit cards, tissues, condoms, car keys, grown-up stuff. My purse was G-rated with sing-a-long tapes, diaper wipes, a ripped plastic baggie that had once contained Cheerios that were all now floating around in my purse becoming crumbs. I found the baby’s giant plastic, multi colored keys, an old lip balm with no cap, and my wallet whose change compartment carried Chucky Cheese coins. My hair had fallen in my face and I looked up to see the guy smiling broadly at me. He suggested that the waiter, who had not been very attentive that night, deserved the Chucky Cheese coins as a tip. I dated that guy for about two months when my life became way too complicated for him. Seeing as how difficult it was for me to find dinner companions, I knew I had to keep the rest of my humanity under wraps. Gas leaks are after all, very dangerous.
The kids and I had each other. We were comfortable with just the five of us. I got lonely sometimes, missing the company, the romance of a man. I tried not to think about it, covering up my loneliness with soccer and band practice for the kids. By my thirty-fifth birthday, my nurse friends and I had decided to go out on the town. We were headed to the Flats, a hopping section of town, to have some drinks, have some laughs and dance the night away. We had found a bar that served body shots. I had a designated driver, so I was 100% in. The kids were with their aunt, I was out for the first time in ages and it was my birthday after all. I remember test tubes filled to the brim with brightly colored liquors. There was this guy… … a cute, well built, great smile guy. As it turned out, it was the cute guys’ birthday, too. Being a little tipsy, I insisted I had never met anyone with my birthday before. We started doing body shots, the perfectly legal ones off each other’s neck and arms. Let’s remember, I am the girl who can’t say “fart” so being a total tramp in a bar is not my thing, flirty and fun, yes, but trampy? Uh…no.
By the end of the night I found out the guy was an ex-military, marine guy. He asked for my number, promised to call and he did. We dated for a few weeks when he asked to come over. The kids were at home, so I was really hesitant. Marine guy was only twenty-three. I could not imagine him being anything but fling, a dalliance, a way to feel female again. Marine Guy was pretty insistent about coming to see me saying we could take the kids out for ice-cream. Our house was right down the street from The Dairy View, a soft serve ice cream place. I told him to come on over, but he couldn’t stay long, because I was always a mother first. Soon Marine guy was at my front door. I was nervous wondering what the kids would think of this considerably younger man coming to our house. I looked over at Christy first. Then I saw it, the look of absolute disdain. “How old is this guy?”Christy looked more like my mother than my kid. “He’s twenty-three, don’t worry, I promise not to marry him.” I tried to get her to loosen up so we could go out for some fun. “He’s practically young enough for me to marry him,” She retorted. I gave my sternest Mom look and encouraged everybody out the door, so we could get a move on. We all walked down the street holding hands, well, everybody except Christine, resident scorned parent in training. It was during this time when Marine Guy and my oldest son Dan struck up a conversation. It all started out innocent enough, until Dan decide to “out” me in front of the cute marine. What came out of that boy’s mouth in that moment was nothing short of betrayal. Benedict Arnold couldn’t have ratted me out better. Marine Guy and I were holding hands walking slowly as Dan faced us walking backwards when this is what he said, ”One time my mom got so mad at me, she was yelling so loud and shaking her finger at me, her face got all red and she farted.” My eyes popped out of my head like a cartoon character. Floored, I momentarily stopped as Marine Guy laughed out loud. I had nowhere to run, nowhere to hide, we were in the middle of the sidewalk. If I denied it, the kids would staunchly defend the story, so I stood saying nothing, turning redder and redder and redder in the face, the arms the neck. Blood rose from the ground to fill my body making me look as though I were about to have a stroke. Instantly, Marine Guy diffused the extremely painful and awkward situation by bending down to Dan and saying, “Well, somebody doesn’t have good manners, does she?” And with that the topic was gone, never to be spoken of again. Shortly after the ice cream trip, Marine Guy and I broke up. He was fine with everything, but I never fully recovered. I would always know that he knew I was so mad at Dan, I… well, you know.
When I was single I had single girl behavior. I was able to be utterly and completely myself in every way. I could dance naked in my bedroom, after the kids went to sleep, mind you, if that is what I wanted. I never took advantage of that practice, but I could have done it. When I was tired I spent entire days in my pajamas. I did sing and dance with the kids to loud music in the living room. I spent hours getting ready for dates, wearing curlers in my hair, cream on my face walking around with little spongy things between my freshly painted toes, all because I could. There were many times as a single mom I had privileges that married moms didn’t have. I think most people know how hard it is being a single a mom, but there are lots of benefits, too. Some nights when the kids went to bed, I would take a hot bath soaking for hours, not thinking about anything. My time when I had some, was truly my own. If I didn’t feel like cooking, I didn’t. If the laundry backed up, no one was around to remind me to do it. In as much as things were tough sometimes, making decisions about the kids without the benefit of their dad’s advice, or having to mow the lawn, cook dinner and grocery shop all after work, there were wonderful times of self care, self indulgence that married women don’t often have. When Michael and I got married I had to learn to be a married person all over again. He had never been married, so that in itself was an obstacle at times. I lost most of my personal time. Being happy to be with him, most of the time I was completely content not have my single life. I realized once we were under one roof, that my ability to let go in my digestive system had gone the way of the Do-do. I was back to being uncomfortable after meals. I was guarded during after dinner walks for fear my body might betray me, much as my son had done while getting ice-cream. Michael had no problem adjusting at all. He said “oopsy” every day with thought or apology. I just couldn’t do it. I just couldn’t let go. It was too embarrassing for me to just relax all the way in front of him. My neurotic sensibility prevented me from just being a human. Until…one day while Michael and I were working on our master bedroom, we had moved the furniture toward the center so we could wall paper the walls. We had been surrounded by really bad 1980’s wallpaper which I promptly took down. Our bedroom was our safe place, our haven, so it was time to decorate in something more soothing,neutral away from the wear zone of kid attacks. I was standing next to the bathroom door when Mike said he needed to go to the garage for some tools. My stomach was really acting up, gurgling loudly, causing pressure on my abdominal walls. I was starting to look as though I were bloated like a starving child. It was bad; the feelings were explosive. I did what I always did and held everything in tight. I forced myself to think of anything else. I am sure anybody in their right mind would have just done "it". Not me, my puckered butt, just couldn’t even consider the idea. When Mike said he was leaving the room to get something from the garage, I hatched a plan, so to speak. I waited until I didn’t see him and let it all go. No holds bar, I allowed my intestinal tract to reign free…when up from the behind the dresser Michael’s head popped up with the most surprised look. Again, I froze. Laughing hysterically, he said breathless, “So this is what happens when I am not in the room.” For all intent and purposes, that was last time that ever happened. I dread getting older when I am no longer able to control my body and force my will, like I do now. I know the day is coming when I will have no choice in the matter. Eventually we all become the old person who walks, detonating personal gas attacks at the same time. My oldest recently said, “I don’t understand how saying ‘passing gas’ is any better than some of the other words and phrases out there being used. It’s like we sitting around the dinner table and someone asks to pass the mash potatoes, and by the way, here is some gas for you too. Who would want that?” I know for a fact that I would not.