Parenting Solo

My son and I were riding our bikes around the big lake in our town the summer after he lost his dad, and I lost my husband. We passed a group of middle-schoolers, who were going in the opposite direction.

“That’s the kid whose dad died,” one of them said. The words were tossed over his shoulder without a care in the world, followed by waves of laughter. There was something else—another comment flung into the air—but it has disappeared with time, thankfully; I remember the wound of it, not the words. There is a lot of kindness in the forgetting of things that are a part of the rollercoaster’s stomach-dropping dip after someone dies. 

In that moment, their laughter felt like a thousand blades had made their mark in my chest—not for me, but for my son. Grief is already sharp enough.

Heat rushed to my face. My body surged with the protective force of adrenaline. I told my son I was going to turn back and confront the group of boys. I didn’t know what I was going to say; I only knew that my need to make things right in that moment was the strongest emotion other than grief that I had felt in a while. I welcomed the anger, but beside me stood my son–horrified at the thought of me turning around and drawing more attention to the crack in our world.

I hurried us home after that. I planned to drop him off and make some excuse about needing to go to the grocery store. I would be fast enough to catch the boys as they continued around the lake. I tried to temper my anger as I drove and planned what I would say to disgrace the whole lot of them.

And then I saw their group. There were about five of them–middle-schoolers on the small boardwalk, throwing stones into the water. They hadn’t made it far, and I would still be able to confront them. But then I thought of my son at home, not wanting me to step in and make things worse. I swallowed my need to release the strength of emotion that had risen so quickly, and I drove past the boys. 

That moment reminds me of single parenting after loss. There is a balance the solo spouse must maintain, and it will forever be changing, and it will forever require more self-control than you ever thought possible. You are often walking a tightrope, trying to decipher what your child can carry and what is still too heavy. The person with whom you would normally unite when it comes to parenting decisions can no longer provide input or support. I have spent many late nights on the phone with friends or family members, who took the time to offer their thoughtful, objective perspectives and guidance.

It was several months after losing Clinton when I asked my son to please take a walkabout. The area in front of our house was an open field with scattered trees. The weather was favorable, and I didn’t think to take his phone away–an oversight for which I was grateful when I realized that I could track him. He was gone for a couple of hours, and the decision to make him leave the house turned out to be twofold: he was out in nature, forced to reflect, and maybe even connect with his dad.

The firm line I drew surprised even me. For a moment, I questioned whether it was too much, too soon. But deep down, it felt like the right balance—steady, considered, and a decision I could live with. Nature never fails to help shoulder whatever weight you are carrying, and that night, I felt like it worked.  

I learned that the early months of grief require softness and fewer consequences. More grace. But children can grow accustomed to that softness, and to the absence of boundaries. At some point, it must shift–not abruptly or harshly–but deliberately. Otherwise, you risk drifting into a different kind of grief, identified by resentment and confusion.

Some behaviors are born from loss. I imagine this is true in both death and divorce. “Yes, you can order the pizza,” or “Yes, you can have that shirt,” can slowly evolve into “Yes, you can speak to me that way.” There is a fear of pushing back too soon and a fear of waiting too long. Life will grow heavier before it grows lighter. More emotions will surface. I suspect that, too, is normal.

You will make mistakes. You will choose the easy road when you shouldn’t and the hard road when you shouldn’t. But often, if you are paying attention, your children will tell you what they are ready for–just as my son did that day at the lake.