the owners of the house we’re borrowing called us last night to warn us… offshore storm… watch the undertow. We went to the beach this morning, ocean side, not Bay, and were not surprised to see the waves, heavy with sand, pounding the shore. The mother in me quailed. The memory of me, as a child of my son’s age, fearlessly getting pummeled into the shell bed by waves just like these… put a life jacket on the kid and let him swim in the frigid water.

My heart was leaping out of my mouth most of the time, to watch him get trounced and pop up, sputtering and choking and laughing. How did my parents stand it? How did they ever let me do the same thing When I wasn’t much older than my son is today, my parents used to let me surf the waves, seal-slim and water-ready, with nothing but cupped hands riding just above the pull of a curl. It was my first taste of wild freedom, body surfing. More than once a wave tumbled me so badly I had no idea which end was up, and waited at the end of my breath for a glimpse of sky. I remembered the terror and the thrill of the ocean pulling me under and over. My son can’t swim as well as I could, at five, but he wore a life jacket and raced into the waves with utter abandon. I trusted him to not panic, and I trusted my vigilance–and the fact that we were right in front of the lifeguard chair–to keep him safe.

Such a blast. So tired. We’re off to dinner out and then walking a calmer beach in search of shells and stones to bring home with us.

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There’s an article in the Washington Post today that made me chuckle. A Va Va Voom BOOM! Burlesque is back, baybee. And it’s hetting up significant portions of my home town.

I took a walk on Friday night with a friend, not following the historic tour of the U Street corridor, persay, but glad enough to stop and read the signs, gawk at Duke Ellington’s childhood home, at the hep cat clubs where all the most amazing people used to play; marvel at the sites of once-elegant hotels and businesses that had catered to the folks who lived in that part of town during the segregated years. I love the history of the U Street corridor, though I don’t know as I’d ever be able to imagine what it must have been like then, running on the border between black and white, mingling on that sliver of a strip, in a common love of music or a thrill of the forbidden. I try. I just can’t imagine it. And now, in the ‘Aughts Part Deux’, in this first decade beyond Y2K, we have a revival of a dance that scandalized the world nearly 100 years ago…

I wait, cynically, for someone in my home town to cry foul! at the revival of burlesque, though I confess I’ve been to one of the places mentioned in the article, and witnessed a burlesque show, there.

It seemed in good, clean fun. I know! How could I say such a thing! But the women on stage were fully in control of their bodies, their space, and their sense of humor. Nothing was lewd–if anything, the acts were a wink and a nod to what seems to have been lost in this age of in your face sexuality. There’s a sense of timing, of savoring what’s worth waiting for. A sense of not giving away the good stuff on the cheap. A sense of beauty in a woman’s body, however it comes… slim or stretch marked or rolling with an abundance of flesh. If you read the article, you’ll hear a familiar thread running through these womens’ motivations. They have claimed something for their own, made it powerful, made it fresh, made it wonderful. What’s wrong with that?

I would never take a burlesque class. I’m too self-conscious in public to withstand such a shedding of perceived dignity. But perhaps I get a bit of that sense of value, of myself as a beautiful, joyful, worthy human being, when I dance… especially belly dancing, as I do it just for me, or in the company of women, and don’t need a man to validate my worth.

What do you do, single mothers, to keep yourselves alive and glorious in this too-serious age?

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An interesting article here about soldiers… our heroine? “Capt. Nissen was a single mom with three kids when she enlisted with the Guard 20 years ago. She needed to support her family and wanted the education benefits the military could give her. Then, she started working full time for the Guard. She was an enlisted soldier for 10 years before getting her officer commission in 1997. Now, she is the Guard’s training administrator.”

I don’t know how women and men do it. How do you leave your family, your children, knowing there’s a chance you might not come back?

Come home safe, all of you.

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Camp Weary Parent has been in full swing all summer, but the fearless leaders over at Weary Parent are marching gamely on. Charlene is playing her own game of Survivor and counting down to school (38 days!), while Christine is wondering when her teens decided she was uncool…

Here at SoloMother, the summer seems to be sliding by pretty smoothly. The King of Everything has a great haircut and brand new shoes, thanks to his grandparents (size 13.5 WIDE and he’s only 5 years old). All his best summer memories have been lovingly crafted by his grandmother and grandfather–berry picking, a romp around a working farm that caters to entertaining families, and a couple of amusement parks. He’s been to New York City to watch the Yankees play at Shea Stadium with his best friend. I’ve been working. I know single mothers don’t have the corner on the working world, but it sure is sad to have to work the summer away.

My turn for summer fun with my favorite boy comes on Monday, when we climb into a friend’s car and drive up to Delaware for a few days at the beach. Thanks to the readers of SoloMother, I managed to save enough money, despite a delinquent dad and a non-profit job, for a mini-vacation. Your readership is invaluable, in more ways than one. Thank you.

What are you doing this summer?

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I love Dr. Leah. If ever you need a level-headed perspective on life, go on over to Just Ask Dr. Leah and… ask. Her comment to yesterday’s musings on broken marriages and failing children was so spot on, I asked her if I could post it here for all to see:

Children born to single moms by choice are a whole different category. The outcome datameaning how do these kids turn outis positive and show no meaningful differences between SM - choice kids and kids born to heterosexual couples.

All divorce studies are confoundednot so clear cut like this article made it sound by the sadly inevitable financial woes often experienced by the newly single divorced mother. Poverty is the issue not the divorce itself. Continued acrimony between the parents surely doesnt help. Dads who split both financially and emotionally certainly contribute to the difficulties kids from divorced homes experience.

Lots of times kids get less supervision leading to problems because mom is working extra long hours to compensate for paltry or no child support and to make up for lost time in the work place.

The most important thing to remember is that statistics are not about you and your family. These data dont predict anything about how your kids will turn out.

As Dr. Phil (not a psychologist - BTW) says, It is better to be from a broken home than to live in a broken home. I hate the term broken home, but the idea that living in constant bitterness and fighting like couples do who stay together for the sake of the children in reality do the kids little good and likely some emotional harm.

The only thing we can do is the best we can. And, likely, that what each of us is doing every day.

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