In 1959, about 1% of American women were divorced; about 9% of children were raised by single mothers. Imagine how daring it was for three divorced single moms to move into a three-story house and raise their kids together. Now imagine that these women are also accomplished, ambitious artists who convert each floor into its own separate studio. Finally, consider that the house is in New York's (then) gritty Bowery district.
However, as I neared my 40s, I thought the longer I wait, the less possible it might be from a biological perspective. I knew I didn't have all the stamina I did in my 20s and 30s. I did a lot of thinking and, after conversations with my doctor, at 38 years old, I made a choice to have my son through IVF.
When my son was younger, I shielded him from the reality of our financial situation. As a lower-income family, he always had everything he needed, and then some, so he didn't seem to notice. But now that he's almost 12, my son's requests for things have outpaced me. I used to be able to find some roundabout way to get him what he wanted, but as a single mother, I can't afford it anymore.
It wasn't helpful. It didn't make me feel any better about my situation, nor did it make me feel stronger. All it did was make me feel guilty. Guilty that I had given my daughter this man as a father, guilty that I had fallen for his tricks when clearly everybody else knew he was bad news, guilty that I was bad at picking partners.
Iâve had to find a new path to celebrate Mother's Day... instead of a leisurely breakfast in bed, I'm likely to be woken at 6 a.m.