I had the most disarmingly honest conversation with the director of Anna’s new preschool yesterday. Like all good preschools around here, there had been a long waiting list. I didn’t have a hope of getting in. But I lamented to a mom friend about my hopeless hunt for good childcare, and, God bless her, she leaned in and said “You know, I might be able to help.” There might be a spot, she said, at her daughter’s preschool, as she graduated to public school. Did I want her to put a word in? Oh yes, please.
The next day, a few rapid exchanges of texts, a phone call, and we were in. I hurried to get the paperwork done, the deposit paid. I don’t believe in anything until the cheque is cashed. And then yesterday I sat down with the director to pick a start date for Anna. I’d met her once before, when I toured the space, and we’d spoken on the phone. But I really hadn’t known what had helped get me in until she told me she was a single parent, too. A single older mother – she’d had her daughter 22 years ago, at age 35. By herself. She gestured to the paintings on the wall behind her – art school paintings by her daughter. “You are the same as me,” she said. “You know. We are strong, mothers. And women, too. Two separate things, women and mothers.”
So my friend had introduced me as a single mother. I’m not sure what else she said – an OLD single mother? My friend had attended my 40th birthday when I moved into the neighbourhood – I invited anyone I’d met at the playground where we congregated every night after dinner. So she knew how old I was. She knew my girls. Whatever she’d said, however she’d sold me, it got me into this preschool, where the director had an eye for kindred spirits, strong women, independent mothers with lovely daughters.
We talked at least 20 minutes. Or rather, she talked, and I listened. This happens all the time with relative strangers – they tell me the most intimate things, bestow their most personal thoughts. I don’t know if it is the era for it – the confessional culture of Oprah – or my two decades as a reporter. But I’ve generally found if you listen, you can make a connection with anyone. I just listened to this mother’s heavily accented English as she doled out sex advice and bestowed sisterhood on me, drawing me into her confidence.
She told me that motherhood is the first priority, but you have to take care of yourself as a woman, too. You can’t just pour your life, every effort, into the children. Sometimes, you need to hire a babysitter and go out and, well. Then she told me about her experiences in early childhood education and her love for children and the problem with parents these days. My mom was a teacher – all my friends are teachers – and so I know this speech well. There are no bad children. But oh my, the parents. You would not believe.
I left the preschool feeling on top of the world. I rarely feel sorry for myself for being a single mother – I chose this path, and it was made for me. But I never expected for it to be a benefit, a bonus. I never expected someone to sit with me and share admiration for older mothers who are strong and independent, to welcome me into a club and then overlook a waiting list for me. But some days I feel a little tired, a little bit alone among the young marrieds at the playground, and I have to admit that yesterday, I felt neither. I left that preschool feeling like a chosen one, a member of a club old enough to wait and strong enough to know. With a new friend and mentor who is happy to have me.