Last month, I wrote my first divorce-related feature for October’s OC Family magazine. It’s a quick “what to expect” for those considering or experiencing a divorce. Statistics show that many of the magazine’s reader are, or have been through, a divorce so it seemed like a good fit. Being a single parent is hard. Adjusting to being newly single sucks, so the article offers a sort of guide through the process and important things to think about.

You can find the online edition here. My “Suddenly Single” article is on page 82. Because I’m responsible for health content and editorial, you also can find me on page 44 of the same issue.

Check out page 40 of this month’s OC Family Magazine–it’s my latest Kid Health column.

Hands down, the hardest thing about being a single mom is leaving my girls on a somewhat regular basis. I have to get in my car and drive away from them. With an empty heart and empty car seats in the back. It hurts. Bad. Every single time.

For a while, I tried to distract myself on the drive home. You can read about my “99 problems” theory here. It works for the most part, but it didn’t help all the time.

I would tell myself that God was there, dutifully watching over them. They are, after all, His precious daughters too. There wasn’t anything that God wasn’t in control of. That was comforting and helped. But it couldn’t quell the knot in my stomach.

Then, one afternoon, it hit me. A very tangible solution.

You see, from an early age, I was reminded regularly that Jesus was always watching me. No matter what I was doing, according to my parents and Sunday School teachers, Jesus was always there. And instead of accepting it as a loving sentiment, it just plain freaked me out. I didn’t like that at all. Just another set of eyes to stare at me while I slept, along with the puppets and dolls in my room.

My little mind deduced that this Jesus MUST be hiding in my closet; since there was nowhere else a grown man in a flowing white robe could possibly fit in my little bedroom.  I’d insist that my mother close the closet door promptly upon tucking me in. That way, I could sleep in peace without those eyes ALWAYS WATCHING.

What I imagined as a child wasn’t the typical imagery of Michelangelo’s Pieta. My Cartoon Jesus was way more brawny and way less bony. He was a larger than life super hero. You didn’t mess with Cartoon Jesus. He was enormous. Draped upon his broad and sturdy shoulders was a flowing white robe—his enormous feet always sporting massive leather mandals. He was intimidating. It wasn’t until I truly believed that he was there to protect me and not get me, that I could tolerate the idea of Cartoon Jesus following me around all day. Only then did I picture his huge, capable, loving, hands and warm, friendly smile.

As I’ve grown up, my mental picture of God has shifted away from that of a cartoon super hero. It’s to be expected as I’ve learned more about faith and life and love. But I’ve realized that there is a lot to be said for the Cartoon Jesus of my youth. So maybe I’m not with my girls all the time. Whether they are at daycare or with their dad—no doubt Cartoon Jesus is there. Protecting them. Watching over them. Loving them.

And when I’m able to picture it that way, the knot in my stomach subsides. Just like that.

These days, I think of Cartoon Jesus often—like when there has been an uncomfortable exchange with you-know-who. I imagine answering the door with the 8-foot-tall, mega-savior behind me. Who’s gonna mess with me then? There’s nothing I can’t face with him in my corner. When I’m lonely or just plain sad—I imagine Him right there with me, protecting me, watching me, loving me.

Except now, at night, there is no closet door to shut and nowhere to hide. And I wouldn’t have it any other way.

As the divorce proceedings wind down, I had to make a BIG decision—one that I had been thinking about for a long, long time. I needed to figure out who the heck I was going to be.

When I got married, I changed my last name. At that time, it was unnerving to think that Pam Brashear, newbie (but published) writer would just evaporate. The girl once that pounded the pavement and got herself a job on Capitol Hill would be gone. Forever.

I’m from a close-knit nuclear family. It made me sad to let go of my maiden name. I love my family. But he felt strongly about it, so I changed my middle name to my maiden name. Done and done.

Now that we’ve split, the answer seems simple right? Just go back to the maiden name. But nothing is ever that easy. Many things swirled through my head as I weighed the options.

For example, I have primary custody of the girls. Will it be weird for them if mommy has a different last name? Will it make us all feel like less of a family if our names are different? Will it cause confusion for them and/or school administrators/doctors/Girl Scout Troops if we aren’t all De Jongs?

Also, it’s natural for a woman to announce a name change at work when she gets married. But I can’t remember ONE woman that did a name change because of a divorce. What would I do then, announce at every meeting that I am once again a Brashear? And have to face the tilted head and unwanted pity for months? And all the related issues of people not remembering what the new name was or how to email or find me?

And what if I remarry someday? Yes, even after all this drama I’m hopeful that “the one” is out there somewhere. So what then? Someday I might change my name to match his. Especially if it’s Mrs. Bradley Cooper. But I digress. What if I keep it and he remarries and then there are two, wait, THREE Mrs. De Jongs if you count his mom? What is this? Big Love?

I was trapped. With a bad case of analysis paralysis.

I’ve worked REALLY hard at  my career as Pam De Jong. For more than 10 years in heathcare communications, and as a freelance writer, and blogger here at OC Family. Several months ago, I was offered an AMAZING opportunity with OC Family. And all of the sudden it was crystal clear to me that there was only one woman for the job: Pam Brashear. 

In fact, when April’s OC Family and Inland Empire Magazines hit the stands tomorrow, you’ll see what Pam Brashear had up her sleeve. She wrote the COVER STORY. For both magazines.

Pammie Sue is back, baby.

Disney Princess-palooza has officially hit my toddlers like a freight train. The movies are constantly running, the songs are being sung, and the licenced dolls and toys are a-whirl. All the time. It never ends. It is waltzing right over all over my nerves these days.

I worked for Mr. Mouse in college, so it’s nearly impossible me to overdo it on Disney. I love all things Disney. But I am so tired of these cartoon women running my life. I’m teetering on the edge of TOO MUCH.

But I have found a few clever ways to make this mania work to my advantage. I invented, mostly out of desperation, some princess-themed games to play with the girls. I use the term “games” loosely. You’ll see.

First of all, I’d like to thank Cinderella for making cleaning (and apparently indentured servitude) cool for my girls. They adore her and have become obsessed with cleaning along with “Cinderellie” as she sings her happy tunes. I found a Cinderella-themed broom and dustpan at my local Big Lots, which was honestly the best ten bucks I’ve ever spent. So when the place starts looking like a toy-store-bomb hit it, which is pretty much every night, all I have to do is pop in the DVD and we play “Cinderella.”

The girls slip on their cheapy, plastic, princess dress-up heels (or clip-clops, as Abby calls them) and get right to work. Ellie sweeps, Abby swiffers, mommy wins.

Often, I’ll give Ellie a small dish towel, with just plain water on it. It’s her favorite way to clean. She’ll drop down on her hands and knees and furiously wipe-down the floors and anything else within reach. If it wouldn’t get me reported to CPS, I would totally invent kid-safe cleaning products.

Then, my mom got me a lightweight, rechargeable stick-style vacuum. Now, they FIGHT over who gets to vacuum during “Cinderella.” And of course, you can’t vacuum with junk all over the floor, so they race to see who can put the books and toys away the fastest. It has given me back at least an hour of “mommy” time each day, since I’m not trying to pick up and clean after they are in bed.

The other game we play is “Sleeping Beauty.” For this one, I lay on the couch (or floor) with my eyes closed and pretend to sleep, while the girls “style” my hair and apply fake make-up. For some reason, it’s some big treat to dress me up and put clips in my hair.

They pamper me with the full-service spa treatment including a thorough hair brushing, faux shampoo and blow dry, application of imaginary fake nails (applied with crayons), a complete pretend facial and make-up application. And when it’s over, I even get a back massage. To be honest, the massage part feels like it’s being done by actual Fraggles–teeny hands bouncing around aimlessly on my back as if propped up on sticks. But who’s complaining? NOT ME!

They have a blast and I get to actually relax BEFORE they are in bed. On weeknight! It’s a win-win.

What sanity-saving games have you invented to make life with little ones easier? Go ahead, I won’t judge.

My whole world revolves around a well-coordinated routine. As a single mom, I find it provides my girls with a critical sense of stability. They benefit from knowing exactly what to expect when they are with me.

Of all the things we do as part of this routine, reading together is the most important. We read all the time. And every night they spend with me, when I tuck them in, we sing songs and read. It’s such a special time for us. Ellie hums along from her crib and Abby sings loudly and off-key. Have you ever heard a two-year-old belt out “Somewhere Over the Rainbow?” It will melt you into a puddle.

But Monday night, I was extra exhausted and extra desperate. So I laid in bed with Abby (Ellie was already fast asleep) and I read, out loud, the brand new Spring 2011 Pottery Barn catalog. I was so happy. Talk about two birds and one stone, right?

Because my girls are fortunate to be from a family of literary nerds* we have a ton of kids’ books. So it wasn’t for lack of material. It was just that the catalog had been sitting on my counter for over a week and I hadn’t so much as thumbed through it. The cover read “Comfortable Style,” promising “a designer guide to casual living.” Sounds like the holy grail for a busy but sorta stylish girl like myself, right?

I expected Abby to see right through it as I began to read, as she does with most of my shortcuts. But she LOVED it. As we turned the pages, she would point out shapes and colors with glee in her eyes.

She’d exclaim “budderfwhy piw-whoah” as I admired the new line of media storage. She’d pretend to eat the red sorbet right out of the footed dessert bowls I was pining after. She even tried to blow out the pillar candles, placed on the mantle under beveled mirror I adored.

But then she started looking at the pages more carefully. She began asking some pretty obvious questions.

“Why so many piw-whoahs on dat bed mama?”

“AN MOMMY why you need a lotta lotta cups for?”

“Why you put BIG BIG scissors on dat wall?”

She made a pretty good point. Why DID we need so many useless pillows on our beds, enough glasses for THREE different types of drinks at a dinner table, and why WOULD you place a GIANT pair of scissors on the wall as decoration?

That night, she taught me two very important lessons. First, I need to stop daydreaming about decorating my place with expensive crap that we really don’t need. What I have here with my girls is perfect and complete.

And second, I might actually be able to get away with this whole reading-what-I-want thing once in a while. Tonight, I’m going to try the February Oprah magazine. 

*Don’t tell my mom what I’ve done, she’s an early childhood literacy expert and would probably have a cow.

Photo credit http://www.potterybarn.com/.

It’s an extra-tough time of year to be a single mom. Especially the first year post-split, working out details like Christmastime visitation really sucks. These days, I find myself feeling very Scrooge-like. I guess it’s to be expected.

Typically, I love giving and receiving holiday cards. It’s a great excuse to get some high-quality shots of the girls all dolled up. But this year, I couldn’t make up my mind. Should I send out a holiday card anyway, with just the girls? Or better yet, send one from HIM featuring a lump of coal?

So I was stuck. Like I mentioned in my last post , things can get awkward real quick when some folks don’t know about the divorce.

So this year, I’m finally cutting myself a break. I went online in search of a Holiday e-card that would save time, money and AWKWARDNESS. Then I found it. Click on the thumbnail to watch it on YouTube:

It’s a sanity saver for many reasons. I don’t have to mess with a mailing list and the dividing up thereof. I can just email it to MY people. There was no envelope stuffing or postage, and the cost was minimal. While technically you can email it for free, for $4.99 I was able to save and downloaded this video so that I own it forever, can it send to whomever I wish, and even repost on this blog. I can also share it on FaceBook.

Jib Jab officially solved the Great Christmas Card Conundrum of 2010.

(I wasn’t in any way compensated by Jib Jab for this post, they have no idea who I am and probably don’t care.)

 
Getting divorced is awkward. Not just for the parties involved, but for everyone around them too.
You see, from the moment you start dating HIM, you are shouting it from the rooftops that you are in love. That he is THE ONE. And as soon as the big sparkly ring slides on that finger—there are engagement announcements, save-the-dates, wedding websites, blog posts, facebook status updates, tweets and texts. Then there is the big white dress, an expensive party and an announcement printed in the paper.

So how exactly do you break the not-so-good news that it didn’t work out? That maybe your knight in shining armor turned out to just be some guy in tin foil?

Insert awkward silent pause, am I right?

It comes up regularly. Someone asks me about HIM. If you were to see my reaction to this dreaded line of questioning, it would land somewhere between a totally blank stare and an overwhelming urge to sprint the other direction.

What I really need is a concise and easy response. But there isn’t one. I’d love to simply stick my hand into my purse, pull out the appropriate cliff-notes version of what happened (depending on who’s asking) and smile knowingly. As a writer, this is my favorite option.

It usually ends with me rambling on and on about how great I am doing. Like a used car salesman trying to unload a lemon. Nobody is buying it.

I’m left with some unsavory, real-world options. Do I make a Facebook announcement? Mail an I’m-telling-you-this-to-avoid-an-awkward-conversation-later postcard? Send a singing telegram to those who attended our wedding? Email an always in poor taste, yet REALLY funny, e-card from Someecards.com?
Naturally, I’ve decided to go with a super-private and nondescript way to share the news. This way, I figure I pretty much hit everyone. So here goes.

Yes, we split up. A long time ago.  And I didn’t tell you because you didn’t ask.

I’m pretty sure I just used up of six minutes of my allotted fifteen minutes of fame. In May, I was interviewed by OC Family magazine (see it here on page 82) about being a working mom.

And then the editor Susan Belknapp (see her blog here) asked me to be part of a panel interview on “Cox Forum.”  It’s a local show about issues facing the heart of Orange County–actually, I don’t know what their shtick is–I just made that up. But I am sure it’s something like that.

I was nervous. It was the first time that I was “coming out” that I worked at CHOC Children’s. Up until that point, I only ever wrote about “working for a hospital.” That meant that I’d have to put on my PR hat and say the right thing–about one of the most hot-button issues ever. In the history of motherhood. No pressure. Now, I am no stranger to the debate between the working moms and the stay-at-homers.  But I do, obviously, have my own opinions and was nervous about whst “work Pam” could have to say about all of this. 

The good news is I was paired up with Trinka–a VP at a well-known bank, and a mother of a two-year-old. It turned out that it wasn’t even a debate. We were pretty much on the same page. There wasn’t anybody there yelling at us or pointing fingers. Just an honest discussion about the issues facing working moms.

We both answered some pretty loaded questions, and think we did okay, considering that we are amateurs.

You can see the video below. I am used to writing speaking points for people going in front of the camera, not actually being in front of it. And please be kind, I was so nervous that I wasn’t sure what to do with my hands. So I sat on them. Can you say awkward?

And the real highlight of the night? Once Trinka and realized that our little ones were fast asleep at home and there was no need to hurry home. Susan, Trinka and I went out for a yummy meal and an even yummier and much-needed drink.

 In case you wanted to know, I plan to use the last nine minutes toward a windfall lottery mega win and when I am interviewed by Oprah. And in case you want to see me at OC Family, click here.

The healthcare reform bill that passed yesterday included VERY important, but mostly overlooked, language advocating for moms suffering from postpartum depression. Take a look at my write-up for OC Family.