I know what you're thinking: You're going to hate me by the end of this confession. Perhaps. But it won't be because I hurt my children.
See, I am not confessing my own parenting sin, which was simply being poor. I am confessing nursing hurt feelings for far too long.
The charges were ...
I'll get right to the point. The following were the causes of concern:
- Our children wore hand-me-down and thrift-store clothing, plus well-worn shoes, while I wore professional clothes.
- Our children slept together on a full-size mattress on the floor, instead of in twin beds on frames.
- Our children were fed peanut butter-and-jelly sandwiches for dinner on occasion.
Later, the charges were amended to reflect the possibility that I was having an affair on my hard-working hubby.
At this stage, I would like to point out that my husband was not a target of these charges. The women who made these charges knew that I was the one making the day-to-day decisions about child rearing. They also didn't know me very well, as I had married into their family.
Further, I am well aware that these three women love me and, more importantly, love my children. They also decided against reporting me after my husband intervened.
But ... they did me — and my children (and the hubby) — a great disservice by jumping to conclusions.
My defense was ...
I admit it: I could not afford better clothes, or lots of shoes, or three complete twin beds, or an apartment large enough to comfortably fit three twin beds. I was also adverse to cooking. What I did instead was this:
I mastered the art of thrift store shopping for the girls, and I kept a couple "good" outfits — what old-timers would have called the girls' "Sunday best" — tucked away for special occasions. Same with shoes; the girls always had a nice pair, for school, and a beat-up pair for everyday living, plus snowboots. (The requirement that children have a pair of gym shoes to be used only in the gym, only at school, nearly gave me a stroke!) My logic went beyond economics, by the way; I wanted my children to be young explorers, scientists and artists, which meant they needed clothing they could freely dirty up during daily living.
I also mastered the art of thrift store shopping for myself. All that professional clothing I wore? The labels all said Goodwill. And, when I wasn't at work, I wasn't wearing the good stuff. I pulled out tattered jeans and tanks and dirtied them up with abandon, alongside the girls. (Today it's sweats and tanks, much to my hubby's chagrin.)
Yes, my children slept on a full-size mattress on the floor. We had a two-bedroom apartment, which meant the three girls had to share a room. I made the executive decision to give them the master bedroom and to dedicate most of the space to play, not sleep. We considered getting them "real" beds. But the apartment was small, and they were stuck together regardless, so I applied some creativity to a solution. It helped cut down on bedding costs (fewer sheets required) and on injuries; falling off that bed was hardly dangerous. Win-win, I thought.
Interestingly, they had more fun together in that room than in any other living situation we had while they were young. They used the bed as a stage and put their imaginations to work.
And, regarding the butter-and-jelly sandwiches: Yup. I fed my children crap meals — processed foods, in other words — at least once a week. Two or three times a week, if my work week was especially crazy. I still feed my children crap, in fact; Monday is frozen pizza night in our house. I happen to hate cooking. And I knew my children ate well at school lunch, so I was lazy with some dinners. Other nights, however, I did whip out pots and pans and cook up a meal with real protein and random veggies.
This sinful shortcoming of mine has been righted by my husband since then; he is now chef, and I'm the kitchen help.
The ugly specter of an affair was brought up as a possible explanation for all these parenting sins ... and it seemed fitting, as I was often absent at critical times during the day. See, I worked more than 40 hours, often putting in hours at "unusual" times." I was a workaholic. I was also a journalist, which meant I worked when the news happened. That was often evenings, which was one of the reasons cooking dinner was such a struggle for me.
But, to our extended family members, who were used to factory and office jobs with regular schedules, I'm sure the "I have to work" excuses seemed thin.
Need vs. want
Now, you're probably wondering how it is that we were "poor" when I've alluded to the fact that both my husband and I worked. Hard. And long.
Well, that is the reality of our economy. Two parents can work and still struggle to make ends meet. Especially when the goal is to ensure the children are safe and sound. Safe and sound, to us, meant an apartment in a complex with lots of other children, extended family nearby, and a good school district (or, at least, a school district with good individual schools).
We also started out in a very different position than most parents; we were pregnant straight out of high school, which meant we had lots of expenses at a very early age. While I had a college degree, I also had student loan debt and worked in a low-paying field. My hubby didn't have a degree but did have mad mechanical skill; he was subject to the ebb and flow of manufacturing, which was often unkind with layoffs. Frankly, he worked far too many years in jobs he hated — sometimes, more than one at a time — to ensure our needs were met.
And I argue our needs were indeed met.
Do children need brand new clothing? (Note: I have heard people complain, more than once, about how well-dressed the poor children in Milwaukee are. Clearly, the complainers observe, parents are spending WAY too much keeping up appearances. Well, I can assure you that the poor parents of Milwaukee, especially minority parents, know they will be judged unfit if their children wear anything less ... so I guess they're damned if they do, damned if they don't.)
Do children need their own beds (or bedrooms, for that matter)?
Do children need a whole-foods dinner every night?
Well, that last one, I do regret. My children deserved better food, no doubt. So did the hubby. So did I, for that matter!
But I don't believe my children suffered for our lack of money, anymore than I suffered from my mother's lack of money. Yes, I was raised in poverty; my divorced mother collected welfare for six years of my childhood. It was no picnic. But it wasn't all bad, either.
What you learn when you grow up poor:
- Value goods and property, owned by you and borrowed from others (because you can't afford to replace anything, frankly).
- Value your own ability to get stuff done (because you cannot afford to hire someone else to do it, or waste the social capital needed for emergencies to ask the favor of others).
- Value sharing (because you need stuff you cannot afford, as does your neighbor, and because it often exponentially increases the enjoyment of said stuff).
- Value people.
That last one is very important to me — an ethic, so to speak. When you are poor, your network (of other poor people, usually) is all you have. And that network is often the difference between life and death, literally. For example, growing up in rural Upper Michigan, we always stopped to help stranded motorists alongside the road, even if we didn't know them or didn't like them. We could not assume they had other ways of getting out of trouble, such as AAA; being stranded could mean freezing to death. And we knew we might need the favor returned.
This same principle has cost me, though. People matter to me, which is why I've never confronted the women who wanted to report me to Child Protective Services. I don't want to break ties; they are a part of my network.
Proof is in the pudding
Did my children also learn valuable lessons from being poor?
Well, my children share my values. They still shop for used clothing to save money, and they spend big on their work clothes. Makes perfect sense to me. They eat healthier food than my husband and I did at their ages, in part because my husband and I eat better now. And my children learned very early on how to be good roommates, sharing space and property (making them great members of society). In fact, when we deadbeat 'rents finally bought a house, it was four bedrooms and — gasp! — one bathroom. We lived together in relative harmony.
However, my children value people in a different way than I do. They have no desire to spend time with people who judged their parents and jumped to negative conclusions.
They realize there are alternatives. For example, ask the mom or dad about the logic behind seemingly poor decisions. Sometimes, it comes down to simple economics, and they're too proud or independent to admit it without prodding. Sometimes, a lesson in healthy eating or a cooking class is in order. (And, of course, there are cases of actual neglect and abuse ... but, without physical scars, you won't know until you investigate.)
Frankly, you could also quietly step up. If you see a child in worn shoes, consider a trip to the shoe store for a surprise birthday present. Offer up free babysitting to a parent who seems frazzled by crazy work hours. Give away some of your garden-grown veggies or show parents where to get inexpensive or free veggies. Have a conversation with the affected child or children; you might become a part of their network, reducing the likelihood that they will be forever poor.
Now, take everything I have said and apply it to a struggling single mom. I had my husband's shoulder to cry on the day I learned my family believed I was failing as a parent. (I also had his income, THANK GOD.) Had I been on my own, I would have been absolutely devastated.
To some degree, I was. I still don't trust my extended family the way I once did. But I think the family lost out on more than I did. Despite our shortcomings (and, yes, there were other, more-legit, shortcomings), our children grew into fabulous young women who are a constant source of joy and pride for me and my husband. They know the difference between need and want, and they want to spend time with us.
But not so much with the folks who doubted their parents.
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