“Many’s the time I’ve been mistaken / And many times confused
Yes, and I’ve often felt forsaken / And certainly misused” -Paul Simon, “American Tune”
In January, I had this idea that I would write a blog post about how this was the year when it finally all came together. I was going to wait until November or December – right as the decade was ending – and I was going to brag about how all the hard work and sacrifices of the past 15 years were finally coming to fruition; were finally paying off in the best of ways.
I was going to say something like this:
It’s very, very hard to get by on a single income. Plenty of websites offer asinine suggestions about how to get the most for your dollar: shop at second-hand stores, buy used vehicles, carpool, don’t eat out very often, don’t go on expensive vacations. Yeah, yeah, yeah. All true. But even after doing that, there still wasn’t enough money.
From 2004-2019, I lived in a single-income household. Besides the above obvious maneuvers to save money, I did things like recharging my phone and computer at work, showering at work, taking leftover food from meetings home for my family, getting rid of my trash in random places instead of paying for trash service, only buying stuff at thrift stores if I had an additional coupon (such as “50% any one item”), getting all of my books, music, and movies from the library, buying reusable water filters, dryer sheets, and furnace air filters so that I didn’t have to keep buying new ones, asking for discounts at stores that really didn’t apply to me (lots of places offer AAA discounts, and rarely do they ask for proof), lying to museums and amusements parks and theaters about my kids’ ages in order to get them in for free, and taking found metal to recyclers for money. I rented out my workshop and garage to garner more income. I performed wedding services. Took a vacation day from work to go work at another job. And Jennifer worked from home at various jobs, and diligently kept our expenses down. Nothing, it seemed, was wasted: Isla’s pajamas became Emmett’s pajamas. My threadbare t-shirts became rags for cleaning. I collected sticks from the neighborhood until I had enough to burn in the fire pit so that I could enjoy a fire in the evening without having to buy firewood.
And, in a way, it paid off. Jennifer was a stay-at-home parent. The kids had a parent with them all the time – they learned to walk and talk, not from daycare providers, but from their mom. Jennifer was there to notice signs where they needed help, and the early interventions they (particularly Owen) received have helped them succeed in ways that I am, frankly, jealous of. She had the time to take them to the special preschools, special classes, and doctor’s appointments that they needed.
I’m also proud that the stuff of norm these days: formula feeding, bottle feeding, and daycare, only happened to each of our kids once: Owen only ever had baby formula once (and that was against my wishes – thanks, and fuck you, HCMC). Isla spent exactly one day at daycare, and Emmett was fed from a bottle exactly one time. Otherwise, my kids were being raised, not by some corporation, but by the people who brought them into this world. They were also fed directly by their mother and she, meanwhile, was able to nurse her babies directly, instead of sitting in a sterile corporate lactation room hooked up to a machine.
A few times, Jennifer told me not to say these things, because it can make other moms and dads feel bad. Some women can’t nurse. Some women don’t have the option to stay home. Some women could stay home, but it would mean losing out on the career they schooled and fought for. Which…yeah, I get that.
But also: too bad. I feel bad that my coworkers took their vacation days to actually go on vacations. I used mine to work on my century-old house, or because my 15-yr-old car wouldn’t start. I feel bad my coworkers have big homes with big yards, cars that were manufactured in this decade, and viable savings accounts for their kids to go to college one day. I feel bad I took my kids to local community centers for free meals. I feel bad my coworkers have families that support them – their kids know their grandparents – and they have the degrees and the networks to live comfortably.
So, I feel bad too. Different lives, I guess.
Anyway, I was going to talk about how all that stuff from the past 15 years was finally going to pay off. With Emmett heading to kindergarten this fall, Jennifer was going to get a job, and we’d finally have some disposable income. I was planning on going to more college to get further ahead at my job and, heck, I was even going to get a new job. I was excited to not be so strapped for cash. I was excited that the days of diapers and spending hours putting children to bed were finally done and now I’d have more free time and money to enjoy life. 2019 was poised to be a year of transitions that would surely lead to the best decade I’d had so far.
Instead, here’s what I’ll say about the year:
My year can be evenly divided into three trimesters, each lasting four months.
January-April: Get your shit together, James!
May-August: Keep you shit together, James!
September-December: I’m changing all this shit.
