His parent’s middle names. His social security number. I could list his schools and their associated mascots. I knew the name and breed of every dog his family every owned. I’d sifted through all of his baby pictures, watching the chubby toddler grow into the awkward, skinny boy who finally transformed into the teenager I loved. I knew the family recipes and the family secrets.
But I keep coming back to his mother’s maiden name.
I used to find security in that knowledge, as though it was some talisman against future tragedy. I thought I knew everything about him. That I was so deep within the fold that secrets couldn’t exist between us.
It’s funny sometimes how life works out. The day after the text that ended it all, his mother’s maiden name gained me access into our joint accounts after he changed the password.
The talisman against tragedy became the key to unlocking the scope of the tragedy.
And in the end, that’s really all his mother’s maiden name was good for.
When I married for the first time, I changed my name without thought. I was happy to replace the name that I associated with childhood with one that I related to becoming an adult.
I was young – 22 – and I had not yet accomplished much with my given name. Shedding it caused me no harm, only the hassle of making the changes to accounts and cards.
I embraced my wedded name, had no regrets. And, yet, in court when the judge was finishing the last of the paperwork, I was struck dumb when she said, “And I assume you want to keep your last name of B—-.”
After the mute shock wore off, it took everything in my power not to scream, “$#!@ no!” I wanted away from that name as much as I wanted away from that artificial life. Besides, since he committed bigamy, there was already another Mrs. B—. That’s too many in my book.
My given name was legally restored that day yet I continued to use the other professionally for the remainder of the school year. It was strange time, bridging two worlds and using two names. I worked under one name yet was applying for new jobs using another. I had accounts and cards in both names. I started my first real Facebook account using my maiden name and it suggested that I friend myself that had the married name (I had an unused account that I opened out of curiosity). For a year, I carried my divorce decree in my purse so that I could prove that I was one and the same, even though I felt worlds apart from my former Mrs. I almost felt like a fraud.
Changing my name was different at that point. I was 32. I had made a name for myself professionally and had hundreds of former students who knew me only as Mrs. B—. I almost lost the opportunity for the job I currently hold. Upon receiving my resume, one of the administrators realized that she was close friends with a former coworker of mine.
The administrator called her friend, “Did you used to work with a Lisa Arends?”
“No,” replied the friend, assuming that I was some charlatan.
She was telling the truth. It was my other self that had worked with her. Luckily, she realized the duality of my identity and called the administrator back to clarify.
That was a wake up call for me.
In a time when women married young and operated primarily in the domestic sphere, a name change was harmless. Now, with women marrying later, working outside the home and facing the realities of potential divorce, a name change can have very tangible consequences. Most discussions that I see on issue address it from a philosophical perspective, eschewing the patriarchal origins or talking about embracing the new family.
That’s romantic and everything, but what about the real world?
When my parents divorced, my mom had no real choice but to keep her married name. She had spent years building up a small business and her name was key to the word of mouth. No name = no way to put food on the table. She has since remarried yet retains her prior married name, at least in the professional realm. Ideal? Perhaps not. But practical.
I am choosing to do much the same. Although I refused to keep my former name out of principle, I now am operating out of practicality. When I wed again this fall, I will keep my given name. I simply have too much to lose if I do not.
On a side note, this reminds me of one the nicest gifts I have ever received. I won Teacher of the Year under my old identity. After the divorce, the plaque, which once occupied a place of honor in my classroom, was relegated to a closet since it was no longer in the right name. For my birthday (the first we were together), Brock snuck the plaque out of the closet and had the nameplate redone to match my new identity. Yes, I cried.
I queried my Facebook followers the other day on this topic. Many of them had also faced setbacks and hassles with multiple name changes and do not intend to change it again, regardless of changes in marital status.
Did you change your name? Would you do it again? How do handle (or intend to handle) the kids’ names (an issue I don’t have to worry about:) )?
It’s always funny when my students comment on my former name. When they see Mrs. B— scrawled across a clipboard or emblazoned on a book, they ask, “Who is she?”
“Oh, just someone I used to work with.” She feels like a lifetime ago.
Besides, Tiger doesn’t care what I’m called, as long as I’m still his momma:)
I was one of 18 chaperones on a three-day trip to Savannah with over 200 8th graders.
I love these trips, but they are such a shock to my system as I go from no kids to being completely responsible for a group of 16 and sharing responsibility for the others.
My days started with me trying to grab sips of coffee while I made the rounds, making sure students were awake and appropriately dressed, administering medication and giving sage advice to address the issues that arise overnight when you stick four teenage girls in a room together.
Breakfast, usually my peaceful time in front of the computer, was taken standing up in the lobby of the hotel so that I could direct the girls and strive to keep their voices at a semi-reasonable level. I think I managed two bites of hot oatmeal before it congealed.
Through the day, I lugged a large backpack filled with their medications and the day’s schedule. I was nurse, tour guide and counselor in one. I made sure that sunscreen and bug spray were applied. And then reapplied. I cautioned them about the effects of the overconsumption of sugar and the need to bring a jacket. I even found myself repeating the dreaded mom words, “Just try,” at the limited bathroom opportunities.
I swear the girls knew the moment I stepped into the shower at the end of the long days as the phone would start to ring as soon as I applied the shampoo to my hair – the hotel equivalent of calling “Mom” across the house.
By the time all of the girls were settled in their rooms, I would collapse, exhausted.
Yet unable to sleep.
The details of the days are tiring, but it is nothing compared to the weight of responsibility that motherhood, even of the three-day variety, holds. I saw potential dangers lurking around previously harmless corners. Every stranger was a threat, every body of water a potential drowning and every curb provided an opportunity to fall. At night, I found that I could not enter deep sleep, as I was constantly listening for the kids.
When I was a kid, the pastor at my church would call all of the children up to the steps in front of the pulpit for a brief children’s message embedded within the larger sermon. One year when I was about four, the pastor celebrated Mother’s Day by beginning with the prompt, “Mommies are” and then holding out the microphone for the kids to complete the sentence.
The first few shares were your standard:
“Mommies are nice.”
“Mommies are pretty.”
“Mommies are gentle.”
And then the microphone was put in front of me. My contribution on that Mother’s Day?
“Mommies are tired.”
Yes, they are. Motherhood is a job with the biggest responsibilities possible and no time off. Motherhood is a job that, just when you think you have it figured out, your kid enters a new phase; you’re in perpetual training. Motherhood is a job that requires that your own needs are neglected so that your offspring’s needs are met.
It is tiring.
But is also rewarding beyond belief, as reflected in the faces of the moms as they reunited with their kids at the end of the trip. I’m sure they enjoyed their three days of peace and quiet but they were thrilled to see their kids (even stinky, cranky, hopped-up-on-sugar kids:) )again.
As for me, I enjoyed the test drive but this particular model is not for me. I’ll stick with teaching!
Happy Mother’s Day to all you tired mommies. I am in awe of what you do every day.
Mom. Such a simple word, yet so loaded with meaning and memory. It’s where we all come from. It’s what we simultaneously yearn for and yet try to escape from. My own mother often jokes that the umbilical cord is never fully cut. It just stretches to accommodate.
There’s some truth in that.
Although I’ve only been able to admit that more recently.
For most of my childhood, it was just my mom and I. She worked long hours (Five Ways You Know You’ve Been Raised by a Therapist) so that we could stay in the house and I could stay in the same schools. That consistency provided early security that gave me roots from which to grow. We were close. Sometimes too close. A perimenopausal woman and a hormonal teenager can be quite the powder keg at times!
She tackled a lot as a single mom. She and my dad had purchased a VW Vanagon when I was little. That blue box on wheels became home base for my mom and I as we started our traditions of camping at Lost Maples every Thanksgiving and spending weeks at the Kerrville Folk Festival every summer. I learned the importance of layering against the cold and staying wet in defense of the heat. I learned how to play miniature golf on a closed course using a croquet set (The trick? Spanish moss in the hole so that you can retrieve the ball). I learned that it’s important to secure the screens against the racoons and that butane curling irons let a self-conscious 11 year old girl fix her hair even while she’s camping. I learned the joy of being silly as we played our kazoos on the drives to the campgrounds and invented crazy dances (don’t even ask – not putting the pumpkin dance on YouTube:) ). She instilled in me a love of nature, simple laughter and of quiet escape. I am so thankful to have had those experiences and to be able to continue them forward. Only without the kazoos!
The van:) Notice my fashionable early 90s plaid flannel in the heat of a Texas summer!
She didn’t always have it easy raising me. I was a willful child, prone to impatience and peppered with perfectionism. Some things don’t change:) She did a great job of adjusting her parenting to fit me rather than trying to get me to fit into some standard mold. I may have to only mom who had to get onto her kid about the importance of NOT doing my homework (I would beg to leave some of those camping trips early so that I could get back to my work)!. She knew that I pushed myself hard enough (or even too hard) and that her usual role was to encourage me to ease up, not to push me further. At the same time, she recognized those situations where I needed some encouragement and she would not let me weasel my way out (Vanilla, Please).
Yet still, I spent most of my life trying to separate from my mom, as though I could not find myself while till securely tied to her. That’s the thing with moms – we need them but we don’t always want to need them.
Several years ago, my mom prepared a gift for her own mother. She obtained photographs of the matriarchal line in the family going back 7 generations. She worked to size and crop the images to provide uniformity and then mounted them in a long rectangular frame, each woman’s face peering out from a separate oval cut into the tawny mat.
It took my breath away. That line of mothers and daughters. Beginning with a woman that I had never met yet whose lineage I carried and ending with a picture of me. Each daughter a product of the mother before.
Many of those closest to me have lost their mothers, either through death, distance or dementia. Some had their moms for much of a lifetime, some for only a number of years and others never met them at all. Yet they all still carry the imprint of their mothers on their hearts.
They have taught me to be thankful for my own mother. To be grateful for the moments and memories we share.
She is my biggest cheerleader when things are going well and my biggest supporter when my world collapses.
I love the relationship I now have with my mom. I need her and I’m okay with that. Love you, mom:)
My ex husband came from an alcoholic family. And if there is one thing alcoholic families excel at, it’s keeping secrets.
My ex learned his role from a young age. He didn’t discuss his parents with others. He didn’t invite his friends over to his house. He learned how to keep a low profile and stay out of the line of fire. He learned not to have expectations of his parents and how to survive on his own. He learned to shut his door and shut his mouth.
I thought he could overcome his family.
I was brought into the inner folds of the family within a few short months of dating. He told me the stories of his dad passed out on the couch or drunk at his birthday party. I received a call when his dad was taken by ambulance to the emergency room due to excessive alcohol consumption. He relayed the tales of his mom, weeping and emotional, turning to her son for support in the middle of the night. I saw the endless rum and cokes. I witnessed the change in his parents as they drank to hide their pain. I perceived the unsaid behind the silences.
I still thought he could overcome his family.
When I helped his mom rearrange the living room, she showed me his baby pictures which we had unearthed. I learned some of the family secrets. I discovered that his father had been married before and had technically committed bigamy, since the divorce from wife number one was not yet final. I learned of his father’s disgraceful exit from the military and equally disgraceful exit from what was a very prestigious career. I heard about the mismanagement of money and how they went from earning six figures to living in a crumbling house in a undesirable area.
I still thought he could overcome his family.
My ex husband strove to separate himself from his parents. He was determined not to make their mistakes. He looked to the Boy Scouts to be his surrogate parents. He made friends and joined their families. He was driven to succeed and to escape his lineage. He lived in fear of turning into his father.
I still thought he could overcome his family.
He may not have kept the family secrets from me, but he still applied those lessons to other areas. There was an incident at scout camp shortly before we started dating. An incident that left several long ropey parallel scars across his lower back. He never did reveal what happened. I actually looked for familiar names and locations on the recently released list of scout leaders that had been convicted of sexual crimes. Nothing stood out. But I wonder…
I still thought he could overcome his family.
But apparently those lessons of silence and secrets were too embedded. The skill set just waiting in the wings until the right moment came along. When he began to struggle during our marriage (with money, alcohol, depression, employment…who knows?), his reflexes kicked in and he covered it up. He kept silent and he kept secrets. And through those secrets, he turned his biggest fear into reality. He became his father.
I wish that he had been able to overcome his family. And I hope that it is not too late for him. I hope that he is able to see the truth and no longer be compelled to keep it a secret.
Lessons From the End of a Marriage 