Troubles at work, struggles in your personal life, health concerns – all add to a lagging libido, nudging the desire for desire to drop off the edge of our daily diaries. And wouldn’t we be so much better off if we could rally our feral forces, and indulge in some quality coupling?

For women, there’s no question that hormonal swings are a cagey culprit, especially as we near middle age. We have ways to combat that, but there are many reasons for a low libido. Just as often, it seems that  “real life” is doing the dirty deed of knocking off our sensual side, slaying our sex drive in the fatigue of caring for kids, fighting for a buck in a tough economy, health issues, and sleep deprivation.

Libido took a plunge when my paychecks stopped (hello, Recession?) and then plummeted farther still, under the combined weight of single parenthood, sleeplessness (over money), and a passel of ensuing concerns that left me emotionally and physically threadbare.

But something, happily, has changed: tangled torsos in my dreams.

Sexy subconscious

I woke this morning after a wildly restless night (covers and pillows tossed about); fresh in my mind were scenes and sensations of intertwined limbs, perfect pecs, lanky legs – bodies tantalizingly tangled, and I imagine mine was somewhere in the fray.

Let’s just say – I feel energized this morning.

And I consider this a good sign. Nothing significant has changed in my professional life, nor my personal life. But I’m getting out more. By myself. Grabbing my laptop or a pen and paper, chatting with strangers, and checking out the world beyond my home office. I’ve even indulged in flirting a little when not too chicken.

I suspect my upswing in dream activity (and libido) signals health. And hopefulness.

Sex is healthy, so is fantasy

Is anyone really going to dispute that the benefits of carnal knowledge outstrip a good book before bed? Human beings need touch. And fantasy. We need them as much in our 40s and 50s and 60s and later, as in our hot-and-heavy high school years. Or perhaps I should say, we need them differently. Not only for the joyful physical sensations, but to participate more fully in a culture that favors its young and vital, and renders those of us of a certain age increasingly invisible.

If we’re single moms and single dads, we may have spent many of our prime years raising children, and under strained circumstances.

We look up, find ourselves a decade or more older, and alone. Tired. Not our best selves, and feeling like we’re no longer marketable. We never signed up for this particular duty, yet here we are.

Future fun?

Is the outlook bleak?

I really couldn’t say. I’m still basking in the glow of a session of sensation, thanks to my subconscious. I’d like to think there are still great men “out there” who are unafraid of women their own age. I’d like to think we can toss off the yoke of Puritanism that strangles us in this country – easier said than done, but easier to accomplish as we mature.

And yes, I’ll take a page from the French, savoring all things sensuous, for as long as possible. Including decades ahead, I hope, of amorous abandon.

…

…

© D A Wolf

Big Little Wolf’s Daily Plate of Crazy

There are great sources of information out there. And terrible sources of information out there. There are great sources of information out there.

When it comes to parenting (mothering in particular), we are our own worst enemies. We are also – potentially – our greatest cheerleaders and sources of shared experience.

• Think that’s true or a lot of crap?
• Think I have experience to share, or I’m full of it?
• Think I think I’ve done it “all right?” Not.

Burst my bubble. Go on. I’ve been through worse.

My parenting has sucked. It has also rocked. And then sucked again.

Clarifications on language and psychology

Yesterday I went off on a tangent dealing with language usage. First – apologies to Sarah if in any way she was miffed that I used her remark out of context, as the jumping off point for my thoughts. I worried all evening about whether or not I had unintentionally offended; my impression of Sarah is that she is a terrific mother of three little ones, and we all know what a talented writer she is.

Damn difficult to find the precise word to please everyone, when you’re pumping out remarkable articles and comments to your readers, which both Sarah and Jen do non-stop, at Momalom.

I also thought about the pop psychologists (the TV personalities with no degrees, much to say, and quick fix solutions to complex problems). And I considered the “non pop” psychologists and others in the counseling profession who spend years studying and in practice, in the service of helping others.

Psychology rocks. Psychology sucks. Psychology rocks.

As with anything else – there are those with a gift, we form the right kind of bond, and through shared work and interaction, we make enormous progress toward living life in more productive ways, and leading our children through a healthier, more satisfying upbringing.

My beef

My intention in yesterday’s writing was not to disparage anyone, but to encourage us to see how much power there is in language, and that power is within our control, free of charge.

Language is critical. Using it, interpreting it, and learning from it. The words we let loose in our heads impact self-esteem. The words we exchange with those we love and with whom we work are far more influential than we realize (work being the location where precise vocabularies are easier).

And my particular beef with women (and mothers) – and thus, myself – is that we second guess and undermine our own  internal guidance systems through self-recrimination, unrealistic expectations, and language. In changing our words, in being more specific, we not only can give ourselves a break (and most of us should), but we can effect change. Positive change.

On being “present”

There’s a great deal of emphasis on “being present” in our lives. I’m reading (and hearing it) everywhere.

If “being present” becomes one more thing heaped onto a precariously overloaded schedule or an overrun daily list of to-do items, then what? Isn’t it just one more burden, and don’t we beat ourselves up if we can’t be more present?

• How can you feel good about your moments when you live in a stream of sleep-deprived diapers, fluids, feedings, and too little adult company?
• How can you feel present when you’ve got three kids fighting incessantly, vying for your attention, and you’re scrambling to pay the basic bills and juggling two jobs?

Sometimes our real “present” is about surviving, not moments of tender togetherness. We may have a fleeting moment of our illusion of “present parenting” – more likely when the clamor dies down and sweet faces are asleep – but let’s not expect miracles of ourselves during periods of time when getting through the day is miracle enough.

Popping the parenting bubble

I have had times when I lived in a parenting bubble. Some of it was the blur of exhaustion. Some of it was before any real “problems” hit.

Mostly, I’ve learned by trial and error, enhanced by expert advice at difficult junctures. My parenting bubble burst with separation 9 years ago, and it’s been a crap shoot every since, along with being guided by my kids through this journey to adolescence. And believe me – I second guessed myself. There were glorious highs (I barely recall in the blur) and terrible lows, and we aren’t done yet. There is no smooth journey; that’s what I’ve come to realize looking at the past, and living in my present.

My parenting has rocked. My parenting has sucked. My parenting has rocked. As it has and will for all of us.

All these years later – still uncertain, still tired, and still aware of my parenting shortcomings – I look at the larger picture and realize I’ve done the best I possibly could. There have been times I’ve been of no help whatsoever to my kids – stressed and exhausted themselves. There have been other times I’ve given them permission to not perform in some way, so they might relax, and be kids.

Choosing words carefully (and listening to the echo)

Through everything – to the best of my ability – I’ve chosen my words as carefully as possible. More so because I am the child of an abusive parent who did not choose her words. If anything, her invective and everyday manipulation of language cut me down and marked me in insidious ways. Indelibly.

Use your words kindly for yourselves, explicitly to better understand what your children may be hearing, and in dealing with each other. Listen to the echo – to the words your children use – and how they absorb what is heard at home.

Parenting can be brutal, but those of us who engage with all our hearts know it is also the most important job there is. I’m way beyond that burst bubble of thinking it was predictable, containable, perfectible – or all within my control. It’s none of those things, a bit of those things, and there’s nothing “just” about any of that.

© D A Wolf

Big Little Wolf’s Daily Plate of Crazy

Too busy to look up?

Now you’re thinking, that’s just silly. Or possibly – oh – I have the same bad habit. You may also be thinking, that’s natural; any parent, especially a single parent, is likely to say that at one point or another.

But sometimes we don’t want to face the obvious. What if ignoring the self is a lifelong habit? What if you never feel deserving of paying attention to a “me” in ways that most people take for granted? A vacation, a weekend off. A good relationship.

I suspect the sentiment of being undeserving is not uncommon among women – at least women of my generation, a transitional generation. Though isn’t every generation of 20th century women transitional?

Careering

I know what it is to throw myself into a job, which becomes a career, and then a way of life that is all about go-go-go at 300% and 300mph, only to lift my head out of the mire of it, years later, realizing that when it comes to a personal life, there’s little to tell. Or, that I’ve lived twenty years of my life only half-aware, partially present; the priority went to my career.

I love to create, to build, to achieve. But I wasn’t accomplishing what I wanted to. I wasn’t living a life I’d set out to live. Not even close.

Still, I was caught up in the game, building a reputation in my field, paying back school loans, traveling and learning. But after 10 years, 11 years, 12 years, the content of my days and nights had lost its luster; it was a means to an end, but no end I could recognize.

Parenting

I was fortunate. Though I married later than most, I had two healthy children.

I was largely a full time mom and also a full time corporate employee, from a home office, for many years. “Balance at last,” I thought to myself. But when we have children, the world shifts irrevocably, and if we are nurturers by nature, we fall into the rhythms of their care rather than our own. The imbalance is necessary at times, but not all the time. It is a weed, taking root quickly, spreading stubbornly, and its pretty blooms – socially acceptable – may convince us that the weed is valuable.

But it is not. This weed, this perpetual imbalance, will ultimately take over the terrain. Tending to marriage, children, and career? No matter what I tried, it was never enough. The weed, strangling whatever else was planted in the garden.

Epiphanies

Sometimes, it takes a hard reminder. A health scare, a personal loss. Sometimes, there is no drama in an epiphany. It drifts into our awareness, in a rare, quiet moment.

Balance must begin somewhere. It may be as simple as saying “no” on a day that is nothing special, but we need to say no. At this moment, a “me” must come before the play date, the drive to study group, dinner on the table, laundry.

Instead: find another ride or don’t go, wear a different shirt, microwave a bowl of soup. Not today, not now, no.

Me. Her return may be as simple as that no, or as simple – and difficult – as yes. Yes, to a soak in the tub. Yes, to an hour with a book. Yes, to a no.

Bad habits

I have a bad habit of forgetting to eat, and eventually I grab whatever is around. I have a bad habit of getting so engrossed in what I’m doing – a project, writing, something for my sons – hours and even days drop away.

I fuel myself on too little sleep and too much caffeine. I push myself beyond reasonable limits. Often, because I’ve had to. Sometimes, because it is habit. The habit of a lifetime.

I love coffee, and I have been unable to drink it for six days. Even a sip burned, and this frightened me, along with unrelenting fatigue. So it has been a week of Tums, milk, vitamins, Pepto-Bismol, and trying to eat better. I need more sleep, more exercise, less worry. I cannot control all of this, but I can control some of it. At the very least, coffee and eating.

This morning I woke early, and my gut burned less. I wanted coffee. It’s one of my small pleasures with no guilt and I’ve missed it.  So I brewed a tiny portion. I poured it into an espresso cup, not quite filled. I took my time, enjoyed its aroma, then sipped slowly and savored. It was wonderful. I genuinely appreciated those few minutes.

Moderation

Moderation? I’m not good at it, but I need to change that. Especially when it comes to taking care of me. I need to learn that I deserve a me to take care of, that if I want to be here as my sons become men, and if I want a me for myself – for the work – writing – that fills me and nourishes me, then I have to change. Change my bad habits. Give myself a me when it comes to the body as well as the mind.

That’s part of the challenge; those of us who live in our heads often focus on our bodies insufficiently or in acts of disconnection that are remiss; the mind and body are not separate. The mind is part of the body.

Appreciation

There are challenges on my plate. Some more manageable than others. I stopped this morning, to appreciate what was manageable. 

It’s so easy to get lost in the hard work of each day – what is valued by society (via a paycheck) and if you’re lucky – valued by a family (parenting). It’s easy to forget what gives pleasure, or we only experience it dimly. We set impossible expectations, and are unkind to ourselves when we cannot meet them.

Maybe we’re already doing more than we realize. Maybe we could do better if we stopped just for a moment, and said “Yes, I need to do this for me” or “no, not today.” Maybe we deserve that.

Appreciation for ourselves is hard. We develop bad habits of pushing beyond reasonable limits in the service of everyone and everything except a small piece of “me.”  Women do this more than men; as a woman and a single parent, I know I am not alone in this struggle. But I also know I must change, and for all the challenges there is much to appreciate. Including, occasionally, a small coffee.

• How do you find your balance when it is lost?
• What do you appreciate – or need to – more often?
• Do you know when to say yes, and when to say no?
• Where can you take some control for a healthier self?

© D A Wolf

Big Little Wolf’s Daily Plate of Crazy

You know what could have gotten me out shopping today, perhaps the most frenetic shopping day of the year? A very old school concept – the kissing booth.

Surely I’m not the only one in my (purposely vague) female demographic who wouldn’t walk a mile for a Camel, but who might venture to an overcrowded mall, queue up for hours to kiss, say… Jon Hamm?

What if marketers went back to a concept of something genuinely fun, human, and simple?

Yes, we all want a bargain, but how many would love a hug, or a fabulous kiss, or even a French kiss? And I mean the kind on two cheeks, mind you… after all, we’re talking strangers here, and no guarantee of Listerine in between each, um, unbridled and commercial display of affection.

The mind reels… avec plaisir

It may be a concept whose time has come. Again. One that popped into mind thanks to Kitchen Witch’s musing on retail.

So, single moms, single dads – oh hell – ANYONE still breathing and sexual! If you were to brave the Black Friday crowds for a kissing booth, who would you like to snuggle up to?

• For a smooch? For a hug?
• Would it be a sexy celebrity? Who?
• How much would you pay for one glorious kiss?
• Or better yet, an après-shopping drink?

Oh, the possibilities…


© D A Wolf

Big Little Wolf’s Daily Plate of Crazy

According to unnamed sources, Ditz herself began exhibiting symptoms of the highly contagious disease, and was removed to a private facility of undisclosed location, against her will. Bystanders at a local mall provided leads to her whereabouts;  scuff marks (indicating a struggle), believed from Roger Vivier or Christian Louboutin heels (size 36) were identified outside an upscale boutique.

The following message was found nearby, scrawled on a paper folded origami-style into the shape of a Louboutin peep-toe pump. It is believed to have been written by Ms. Ditz, providing insight into the symptoms of the disease.

Breaking news, 10:00 a.m. EST November 16, 2009

We recognize the signs you see,
(it may be rain; could it be ME?)
you’ll note the verse itself creep in
whilst weary-bleary heads will spin,

and thus, vertiginous replies
result in crossing, crazy eyes,
inability to read,
worsening the rhyming deed.

Most of all you’ll surely note
speech that’s caught in voice or throat
bumbling, tumbling out of lips
rhyming-criming tawdry quips.

Often known to coincide
with sleepless nights that writers ride
up the crest then into troughs,
winding up with hacking coughs.

Bouts of versing have been known
to elicit teenage groan
whilst the parent drives to school
acting out the rhyming fool.

Also heard in moms and dads –
worse than all parental fads
to handle muddling through a day
of diapers, tantrums, fights and play,

not to mention teens and tweens
full of angst, dramatic scenes,
deafened ear to your requests,
as they get things off their chests…

Worst of all? Pain abounds -
joints on fire, stomach sounds,
and the fingers reach for pen
far beyond its normal ken.

Circling, scribbling doodles flair,
(art it’s not – let’s be fair)
and while wordsmiths wring their hands,
doctors frown and palpate glands,

which, for some, could raise a smile
if the fingers, sleek in style,
knew to drop a tad below
where said patients better show

how they keep “afloat” some days
through a life so full of grays.
Yo, but docs with skills so sweet
would be those to whom our feet

also would be placed before
knowing stroke (or high-end store)!
I’d submit my tippie-toes
decked in ruby red (not rose)

artfully attired to splay
heel and arch in fine display.
That, I think, might offer some
brief relief, albeit dumb,

a little grin (perhaps a smirk)
so we don’t get lost in work
or drown ourselves in worried face
despite the stage, the time, the place,

and after all, even from beds,
told we doth “exhaust your heads”
we are ever more the same
stuck on keyboards, held to blame

for misdeeds, misquotes and more,
needing, wanting raucous roar,
peals of laughter, furrowed brow -
as you wonder “if” and “how,”

and again, we touch on tears,
seek to share your hurts and fears,
writers, yes, an eerie breed,
silent while we write and read,

wanting every well to fill
with our words, as wonders thrill.
Thus it is, susceptible
such wordy souls, receptacle

to dreams (our own), and painting yours
rather than addressing chores…
Ach! Damnation! Where’s my cure???
(Even rhyming, thoughts impure

dally through insipid verse -
Monday morn, it’s so perverse…)
OH MY GOD – men in white coats!
Help me please! (I’m seeing goats!)

Telepathic S.O.S. –
Someone lift me from this mess!
Would that toga-wear they had,
I could be in footwear clad

to better deal with what may come
without being sad or glum!
Eeek! It’s time for quarantine…
CDC – where’s my vaccine!??

© D A Wolf

I make the distinction between divorced dads and single dads of other types because, let’s be honest, divorce is often a long and contentious process. Approaching a new relationship – sexual or otherwise – carries mixed emotions. After all, I’m a divorced woman who’s been through it – from separation to the first year or two in a new “status,” to re-entering those tumultuous dating waters. And having written about sex and the single mom, I wanted to hear from divorced dads.

The data

While I don’t claim to have representative data, I do have input from both sides of the Mississippi and – you guessed it – France.

And my, my, but you dads are discreet! I am impressed. It’s nice to see that most of you do not kiss-and-tell. But you did lend a bit of your experience to my informal queries, which may help some of our single moms know what’s up as we try to decipher your behaviors. So thanks to the dads who provided a few tales and tidbits, which was enough to share what follows.

Booze and booty

• No surprise here, but booty calls are alive and well, including among men in their 40s, 50s, and 60s. And yes,  alcohol is often involved.

• Internet booty calls are very popular as an initial method of meet-and-greet, leading to a cocktail or two, and you-know-what.

• When it comes to Internet dating – the visual still rules! That initial photo makes a big difference – for both sides of the gender divide.

• Men do lie about age, height and relationship status; some figure it’s irrelevant, particularly if booty is the objective. (Women do this, too, from the stories I’ve heard from men.)

• Men don’t care so much about a woman’s lies – if they’re just looking for a hook-up.

• If a man likes a woman, honesty is important, right from the start.

“No thanks” is rare, but not unheard of

• Divorced dads can score pretty easily, if they choose to. Not all do.

• Some men seek emotional attachment, or at least a “liking” for the lady before bedding her, and that may take more than a few dates.

• Sex on the first date often means no seconds – date, that is. And generally, it’s a relationship killer.

• Those initial impressions are indelible – resemblance to a photo (if Internet-introduced), scent, voice, smile.

• Getting back in the game isn’t a given; it takes time for re-entry, both to socialize comfortably, or to score.

Hot in bed, luke warm in life

• For many who are newly divorced, it’s all about the sex; for some, it’s an attempt to heal through relationship. (Guys, the same is true for the women I know.)

• Great sex doesn’t require emotional connection, and a great relationship doesn’t guarantee great sex. No scoop here! But we are reminded that sex and love are not one and the same.

• That aside, many intrepid divorced dads are looking for both!

Kids and privacy

• Separation of church and state seems to be the rule. Divorced dads don’t bring someone around to meet their kids unless there’s a relationship. It needn’t have run-off-to-Vegas in the future, but it’s more than a fling.

• Otherwise, sexual adventures are kept out of sight and out of earshot.

• Age of children and custodial arrangements are significant factors in sleepovers and meetings.

Hearts and parts

• For some, experimentation takes priority – sampling many flowers in a variety of gardens may be the norm, for some time after divorce.

• When a man really likes a woman, he takes his time. Or at least, more time, before making a move.

• Long-term divorced dads have left their share of broken hearts, and had theirs shredded a time or two.

• Repeaters abound (to my surprise) – those who continue to fall for women who are guaranteed to break their hearts. (This is not confined to men, or those who are divorced.)

• Preferred parts of the female form are, of course, a matter of personal preference. There are as many ass men as leg men as boob men and small-of-the-back men… well, you get the picture. And dating younger (women), or wanting to, is still verrrrry common.

• Single dads interested in a relationship, if they’re actively involved with their kids, want to date women who are moms; there’s common ground of the most fundamental sort.

• In the population I sampled – late 30s to mid 60s – when the heart is involved, the rest is secondary. Parts are parts, and hearts rule. Maybe we get better with age in more ways than one!

© D A Wolf

Big Little Wolf’s Daily Plate of Crazy

He’s a single dad. When he mentioned feeling isolated I could relate, particularly as a writer. More than anything, I could feel his loneliness, though he never used the word.

Happy face culture

We live in a land of put-on-your-happy-face. We set the mask in place in the morning, then greet the world. If we want smooth sailing – and a chance at “success” – we maintain it.

Can’t breathe in there under that mask? Suck it up! It’s euphemism time, and that means presenting a chipper tone and your best bright-white smile. If you slip, you may be forgiven if you confess: “I’m a little tired today” or even “I’m a little down.” But that’s as far as it goes. We’re expected to hide our true feelings, especially loneliness.

Granted, there’s a time and place for everything. Don’t spill your emotions to a client, a boss, a nosy colleague, and don’t do it over cocktails on a first date – not if you’d like a second! But we’ve set aside so much authenticity in our culture, including our right to a full spectrum of feelings – and that isn’t progress.

Isolation

Those of us who perform our jobs in isolation – artists, writers, an increasing number of remote workers – may feel cut off. Some of us intentionally close ourselves off; it’s necessary seclusion in order to be productive.

Isolation may also be the result of medical or related restrictions that keep us tied to our homes or bed. We stay at a distance from others, because we must, or so we don’t make them uncomfortable. Living and loving with chronic pain are particularly challenging.

Isolation is not exclusive to adults. Kids can be cruel to each other during those tween and teen years, with the perpetual peer group shuffle, rapidly changing bodies, and searching for who they are – you have fertile ground for isolation, loneliness, and bouts of depression.

Loss

Following divorce, we often cut ourselves off so we can lick our wounds and heal. Sometimes, friends walk away leaving us even more isolated, as we process waves of changes in self-perception, unsettling financial futures, and plenty of worries about our children. It’s hard enough shifting from couple status to single status; the personal and social elements that further isolate us can be devastating.

Coping with job loss involves a special kind of isolation, and a lot more than trying to stretch a dollar across an indefinite period of unemployment.

We lose social acceptance and our network of co-workers. Self-esteem plummets. We may pull away from friends in embarrassment, or due to lack of funds to fully participate in a world we used to inhabit.

And if job loss and marital problems hit at the same time? Is divorce inevitable? Job loss during divorce? Empty nest, too? Then it’s double whammy, triple whammy.

Coping with the loss of a loved one? You’ve got a long process of grieving ahead, and loneliness. I’m not here to compare the pain of losing a spouse to death versus to divorce. But in divorce, you often carry blame and stigma, which adds to the isolation.

Whatever the reason – excessive isolation plays tricks on the mind. It eats away at the spirit. We get lonely.

Solitude

Solitude is not isolation, though it’s root (soli) means alone.

In my harried universe, solitude is good. It’s a rare commodity, and furnishes reflection time, focus, and productivity. Especially with the demands on my schedule as a solo mom, constantly trying to cobble together a living like so many others in our country. In my case, I’m handicapped by the three O’s: Overqualified, Overeducated, and Over… shall we say 45, and leave it at that?

Alone

Alone is not a dirty word any more than loneliness is. It may be a choice, a gift we give to ourselves. Unlike solitude, “alone” has no particular connotation except being by yourself. At times, we choose it, to do as we please. Then it’s terrific! A day off from the usual hectic demands. But when we don’t choose it, or if it lasts too long, then we’ve just taken up residence in Lonelyville.

Lonely

With too much time alone, or even solitude, I feel disconnected. Loneliness sets in. So do other, darker feelings that lead to depression and withdrawal, which in turn leads to more loneliness.

Most of us know what it is to feel lonely in a crowd. Some of us know what it is to feel lonely in a couple. I see the word “one” sitting at the center of “lonely” – as if we can’t help but confront our solo state when all we want is to feel connected.

Loneliness is not shameful

Why are we ashamed to admit we’re lonely? If we always wear the mask that everything is “fine,” how can we let others in, and wouldn’t that ease the loneliness?

And if we are lonely, must we blame ourselves? Can’t we look at contemporary society, and recognize how it reinforces isolation?

Get off the island!

In “isolation” I see the the word isle. We strand ourselves on an island, hoping for rescue.

Get off the island! Leave your house, your apartment, your room! Chat with the dry cleaner, your neighbor puttering in the yard, the woman who makes your latte at Starbucks, the guy at the laundromat. Connect to your online communities. Step outside yourself and back into the world where you are forced to talk, to listen, and to give.

In the meantime, stop blaming yourself for feeling lonely. We all want to share our lives, to trust and experience intimacy, to be part of families and caring communities. It’s nothing to be ashamed of; it’s the most natural thing in the world.

© D A Wolf

These days we move at a frantic pace,  hardly ever slowing down, much less allowing for the possibility of breaking down. Singles, couples, families, single parents – even our kids – we’re all running ourselves ragged with schedules that seem to be running us, instead of the other way around.

The Robot Zone

Sometimes, I feel like a mechanized, millennial version of a mid-century wind-up toy; I’m going through the motions, with my increasingly creaky nuts, bolts and frazzled circuitry – a weary, one-woman production line. Sound familiar?

The amazing thing is – usually, everything functions just fine! We master our own rampant robotics and GPS-generated gyrations. But sometimes, not only do I wind down, I break down. And I’m not the only one. It’s everywhere – tears, angry outbursts, exhaustion, forgetfulness… I see it in friends, in other single parents, in teenagers, and certainly – in the mirror.

What’s going on? We’re dwelling in the Robot Zone – over-committed, overwrought, and overtired.

The Motion and Commotion Zone

It’s the Motion and Commotion Zone that nudges us into the Robot Zone. We’re dropping little ones at day care, dashing to the office, to the supermarket, the pharmacy, the bank, carpool, a night class, an interview, the gym, the bookstore, even hurrying through sex… The list seems endless – because it is!

When do we sleep? When do we talk? Or listen?

Call me retro but…

Wait!!! Did I actually just admit that I don’t do my banking online? Or my shopping?

Call me quaint, but I do some things online, and many things in person, including running to three different markets for the best prices, banking at my local branch, and purchasing books in bookstores – I often put on my (stiletto) sneaks, and even walk – it’s my cardio!

And last I heard, short of mucho moolah to pay for domestic help – chauffeuring duty, cleaning duty, cooking duty, teen driving lesson duty, homework duty, and picking up the dog’s doody are all part of my duties – as a single parent.

Robotic Kids

My kids?

I strive for a No Robot Zone – though it isn’t always possible. But their job description has always been – to be kids. And that means:

• To learn responsibility (yes, they’ve always been given plenty)
• To excel in school (average has not been acceptable)
• To think for themselves (including disagreeing with me)
• And to play, even as teenagers.

They’ve had their robotic moments – tough academic programs, demanding extracurricular schedules. And often, a tight budget that adds to the stress.

It’s bad enough when parents are raging robots. Slowing the pace down for my teens, when I can, helps me slow down, too.

The E-motion Zone

Sometimes e-commerce, e-mail, and e-everything are e-motionally draining! And I just have to turn eeet all off!

Disconnecting from communication is necessary occasionally. Our own constant use of technology bombards us and assists us – with the latest tricks, treats, and trends that are part of parenting and any profession. But sometimes, I just say no to the e-zone. I unplug, eeeeeease up, and take a breath.

Usually that means a walk, a book, my journal and a pen. Maybe just for a few hours – long enough for returning to e-ssentials like conversation, creativity, or just petting the dog and feeling her heartbeat beneath my palm.

Robotic reality (for fun)

I know. Life is nuts. We have too much to do with too few heads, hands, hearts, hours and dollars. So we manage as best we can.

But lest you think I am not a proponent of advances in science and technology – and in particular – personal products that are delightfully domestic – here are a few I just found on the Internet.

Worried that your new lover might be two timing you when he says he’s cooking for his mother? Think your babysitter is dipping into the Jim Beam then playing Tetris on her cell rather than reading to your four-year old? Be a fly on the wall!

Granted, I have powers of invisibility that provide me fly fly fly-on-the-wall advantages, but a little gizmo like this could be fun in a pinch. It’s a listening device that actually looks like a fly!

Domestic delights?

Want a domestic god or goddess to serve you café au lait in bed, or at the very least, take care of the laundry? Check this out – Assistant Robot maid from gadgetophilia.com – a mechanical maid in America to make you smile!   

But my favorite find is the result of a PhD project at MIT – a fascinating construction (named Domo) that leads me to ponder its educational equipment.

Is your man having trouble finding your G-spot? Or any other letter of the alphabet you may be reaching for?

Most likely not the originating purpose of this inspiring invention, the fact that he comes described as an “upper torso humanoid robot” does fill me with awe and pride – that engineers at our leading research institutions are fostering philanthropic robotic erections. Perhaps Domo is designed to help out a harried single mom in a tight spot?

STOP, laugh, and listen

Because most of us don’t have servants – human or robotic – or scads of free time, or freedom from worries, we need to make a point of STOPPING, laughing, and listening. We need to periodically disconnect so we may reconnect in human and spontaneous ways.

Women, especially, forget the need to recharge.

Rampant robotics are helpful, but they’re tools, behaviors, and coping mechanisms in a stressful world. Not a replacement for living in it. That’s something I need to remind myself, on a regular basis.

…

© D A Wolf

Big Little Wolf’s Daily Plate of Crazy

Sometimes it was a small thing; sometimes a tough goal set by the adult, proudly achieved by the child, and then the reward went undelivered. Or worse, the rules of the game to receive the prize were changed, after the initial objective was accomplished.

“But that’s not fair!” was the protest. The reply: “Well Buddy, life’s not fair.”

Fairness and trust

The few fights I remember were over this issue. I thought it was huge; the other parent thought it was a non-event. We were at opposite ends of the values spectrum, not only on this topic.

I believe in keeping my word – to anyone. And keeping our word with children is a critical part of establishing and teaching trust.

To me, that’s Parenting 101, as basic as feeding them, kissing them goodnight, taking them to school. Of course life isn’t fair – some of the time. Whether they’re toddlers or teens, we need to prepare our kids to meet those circumstances. But we don’t have to create them through our own behaviors.

The importance of our word

Parenting is more than just “showing up.” And responsible parenting has nothing to do with age, gender, marital status, geographic location, physical condition, financial resources or anything else.

Is it easier with a partner, in a caring family, when you’ve lived enough of your own life to not resent the compromises? To parent without physical or financial constraints? Sure. But there are challenges in every situation. And whether you’re 20, 30, 40, or 50, in a two room apartment or on a two acre estate, parenting means recognizing the role that little things play in forming our children.

A “simple” thing like keeping your word shapes a child’s world, solidifies it, and enhances its stability.

As a single parent

I knew I never wanted to hear “But Mom – you promised!” And I knew, as a single parent, I’d be hard pressed to deliver both myself and activities that used to be easier under different financial and logistical circumstances.

I have made promises I’ve been unable to keep; mostly to myself. But aloud, I learned to qualify statements – We can go, if possible, but keep in mind that… And more often than not, I have been able to follow through. But by qualifying my statements, I haven’t broken promises – or trust.

I’ve also had some “undoing” to accomplish along this road – the aftermath of occasional time spent with the other parent, who keeps his word 50% of the time, at best. Cleanup duty, as it’s always been. Is it time for me to let go of that? Maybe. But it’s hard, because I’ve always done it. And perhaps I still feel guilty about not being able to provide two trustworthy parents.

Think twice

Whatever role you play in a child’s life – parent, grandparent, caretaker, teacher – think twice before you give your word.

Kids need to know who they can count on. When they have trust in our best intentions and delivery on promises, they learn to give their word, and mean it.


© D A Wolf

Big Little Wolf’s Daily Plate of Crazy

Wouldn’t it be lovely to slide into a steamy bath, linger awhile, then find a satiny underthing or two… How I’d like to take the time to regale in the feel of fine fabric against my skin, then, a slinky little black dress, my favorite strappy stilettos which, under the right circumstances, might be slipped off…

And last – an essential touch – Chanel dotted behind the ears, on the wrists, between my breasts. All the spots that heat and release their heady aromas. Pulse points, and then some.

Mmm…

There’s a little jazz place nearby. I could drive – but that would mean no drinking. And I’d like a full-bodied red, or a real cocktail tonight. Something that burns going down, and spreads its fire through my chest as thoughts drift, and the darkness entertains its own lightness of being. Its possibilities.

No, no need to drive. For a few dollars I could cab it, and spend my evening comfortably, sitting at the bar.

It’s a dark, swanky environment, but not pretentious. The music oozes, especially when they’ve got a certain sexy sax player under the hot spotlight. Perhaps I could sip a dirty martini, close my eyes, listen, and imagine… speak, if spoken to.

And if not, I’d still thrill to the low, spreading vibration of the music, the flood of feeling from the vodka, and the sensation of my own smooth skin beneath my form-fitting dress.

Drifting, and feeling fine, but…

I’ve done it a few times before. There’s been the occasional conversation. The drift of sensual, voluptuous pleasure. A cab ride home, feeling fine and female… filled with it. 

And?

It’s a good plan. The only dilemma… my teenage son seems to think it’s his turn for socializing, for sultry evenings in September, for being out and about. And when he’s out, I’m home and by the phone. Car keys at the ready, and nothing more “burning” than an overheated microwave dinner, as I wait to hear him unlock the front door at midnight, or for a phone call to pick him up.

So whose Saturday night is it, anyway?

Is he too old for a sleepover somewhere? Hmm. Not on such short notice. And certainly not over the next few weekends; he has projects, more projects, a few dates set up, and SATs are on the horizon.

Perhaps late October. It will be Indian summer, and I can hope for another evening like this one, another mood like this one, another opportunity…

A night out, for good behavior. Or better yet, for bad behavior, that’s oh-so-good.

© D A Wolf

Big Little Wolf’s Daily Plate of Crazy