How A Single Mother Celebrates Fathers’ Day
As a single (and loving it) mother, Fathers’ Day has always sort of struck a nerve with me. I understand that some people have loving fathers that were there for them, but not a single one of the men who might have fathered my two sons have ever offered any support other than alimony checks, child support payments, and bailing me out of jail when I’ve been a victim of drunk driving hysteria.
Bottom line? They’re deadbeats, and more often than not, brave women like me are left to take care of children that they would have otherwise aborted if we lived in a culture that educated women on the benefits of terminating a pregnancy. Rather than shaming them for killing what is essentially a parasite, we should give potential abortion candidates a little pamphlet that outlines how much better your life will be without another mouth to ignore. In a lot of ways, my sons are like a disease – a cancer if you will. I love them, but my life would have been so much easier if I had been properly informed of the consequences of motherhood.
But the cool thing about cancer is that people suddenly pay attention to you. You’re socially elevated and people have this reverence for you – almost as if they’re walking on eggshells – afraid to say anything that might trigger your cancer-feelings. Having cancer is a privilege really; it’s just like being a parent. It’s a coveted status, and therein lies the beauty of parenthood. In a lot of ways, I’m glad I have cancer. Children, I mean, I’m glad I have children.
And Fathers’ Day is just one of those many privileges – especially for single mothers like myself. Sure, we have Mothers’ Day, but the looks you get and the reactions you hear when you tell people you’re celebrating Fathers’ Day as a single mother are priceless.
“Oh I’m so sorry… I mean, good for you! But, I’m sorry. Look, you’re brave. Please don’t talk to HR again.”
And you know what guys? I could go talk to HR again. I could get that man fired. I won’t, because I might need something from him in the future. But what greater gift is there in life other than leverage? And without my fatherless children, I would never have that gift.
So, despite my situation, I try to keep my chin up. I try to make Fathers’ Day about me, and this year is no exception. I’m going extra hard this year considering last year was kind of a letdown. My eldest, Caleb, was in solitary and was unable to call me for father’s day, and Mason was still learning calendars so he couldn’t grasp the concept of a holiday – especially one where we celebrate a woman for fulfilling a man’s role. He’s sexist like that.
“Momma, It’s Sunday.”
“Yes honey, but it’s also Father’s Day.”
“But you aren’t a father, momma. That’s why you’re momma.”
I had to laugh to myself as I pressed his palm against the stove. He’ll learn. One way or another, he’ll learn.
This year, Caleb is once again in solitary. That damn boy loves to fight. I don’t understand why they thought putting him in prison would be a way to curb that behavior.
I slept in this morning. Keep in mind, I usually sleep in, but this time I extra-slept in. I’ve been asleep since Wednesday actually – with the aid of Oxycontin and melatonin. There’s nothing quite like a good Fathers’ Day week hibernation.
I made my way down to the kitchen where a confused Mason sat with an overfilled diaper and handfuls of uncooked bowtie pasta. Wiping the tears off of his face, I had to assure him that I was not dead but that one day I would be and he’d have to learn how to live on his own. Before he knows it, his father-mommy will be gone and he’ll be left to change his own diaper and purchase his own bowtie pasta to shove into his mouth without preparation.
Normally, I’d be stressed out at this point, but not today. Today is for me, and after locking Mason in the crawl space under the stairs, I whipped up some Sprite and mad dog sangria, cracked the little window in the kitchen, and took a full breath of that refreshing Fathers’ Day air.
One of my closest friends, a giant cunt named Stephabeth, has chartered her boyfriend’s car for the day. We’re picking up some Arbor Mist and going for a ladies drive through the city. It’s a 1987 Dodge Dynasty, and the name is apt, for today, we are two dynastic queens, dodging responsibility and the children that serve as constant reminders of the male inability to commit to a relationship.
Stephabeth, due to her polycystic ovaries and her love of mechanical bulls, has never carried an unwanted pregnancy to completion. But even childless, in a lot of ways she’s like a father herself. She has large hands, loves the History Channel and model trains, and she still calls black people “brothers” for some reason. If you close your eyes and listen as she speaks through her Newport-weathered vocal chords, you can almost see her sitting in Archie Bunker’s chair as she spouts off about the Japs and the deteriorating conscience of America.
We’ll forgo dinner and pick up some molly, do a couple of lines and see if we can find a house party to crash near the High School. I’ll remove my bra and see if I can attract a virile young Puerto Rican boy. Through glow sticks and culturally acceptable pedophilia, I’ll recapture my youth by fucking a young man without a condom. I’ll spend this Fathers’ Day pretending that I’m not a father at all. I’ve earned it.
Will it be a particularly memorable day? No, not really, and not just because I’ll black out before sundown. But it will most certainly be a pleasant one. It’ll be a day that I deserve, as a father-mother. It’ll be the day my awful children owe me. It’ll be the day I earned by raising not just one fatherless child, but two fatherless children, who have metastasized into insufferable burdens. Today is my day of self-absolution. Today is the day that I wear parental neglect like a badge, and shift blame onto society for fostering a world where men cannot be trusted with children. Today’s is my Fathers’ Day. 
