Bad Parent: Party Mom
I got my act together, and so can you, Britney.
by Kris Vagner
December 13, 2007
Don't worry, Britney, I know it's been a trying couple years. Sounds like you're going a little overboard blowing red lights with the kids in the Mercedes and all, but there's hope. You're not the only one who's ever welcomed the challenges of parenting by partying like a rock star. I came out the other end of a mad-dash, welcome-to-motherhood party spree intact, and you can too.
True, I have the advantage of not actually being a star, so my antics as a clueless, parentally suspect diva never made the tabloids. But, just like me, you're an ambitious girl who could surely pull off even such a feat as becoming a decent parent. So, here's my story. You might relate.
First, I became a mother, just as I'd always planned. Then, not at all as planned, seven months after our son was born, my husband and I split.
If this were a Lifetime special, this would be where the tough got going. But the tough did not get going. The tough drank heavily, lost two dress sizes and dyed her hair blond.
On my "on" nights, I changed diapers, read Goodnight Moon and laughed with The sweetness of motherhood did nothing to fortify me against the loneliness of being on my own with a baby in an empty rental. my son while he made rubber ducks dive-bomb into the tub. I loved the warmth and sweetness of motherhood, but it did nothing to fortify me against the loneliness of being on my own with a baby in an empty rental. Nor did it help me handle the head-spinning confusion of a collapsed marriage, or the always-pressing guilt over having potentially failed my child by starting him off in a two-household family.
I spent most of that year — the year I'd always imagined would be filled with the renewed marital closeness I'd thought you were entitled to upon starting a family — learning how to juggle three out-of-town lovers at a time and how to perform a left-handed cartwheel without spilling the beer in my right hand.
Maybe I should have just joined a single-moms' support group. Maybe I should have sued for enough alimony to soothe the sting I felt every time I wrote a month-late rent check. Instead, I used the only coping skill I could think of. I made it my goal to milk as much fun and excitement as I could from the limited resources on hand.
Most of the time, I felt so ripped off, so off-kilter, so stressed out, that when the opportunity arose to jump headfirst into some kind of hedonistic adventure (and wow, does it ever arise when you're looking for it), I sure as hell was going to take it. I danced until dawn whenever possible. If there was a rave in the desert, a meteor shower after midnight, or a clothing-optional hot-tub party, I was the first to know about it and the last to leave. I'm glad I shot some cool pictures at Burning Man, because I barely remember it.
©2007 Kris Vagner and Nerve Media
About the Author
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For three years, Kris Vagner covered arts and culture (and accidentally became an award-winning sportswriter) for magazines and alt-newsweeklies in Reno. She recently resettled in San Francisco, where she and her almost-four-year-old son can't get enough of those scary-steep cable-car rides. |
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