My match.com experience

When my son was about six months old in 1998, I packed up my possessions in Florida and with the help of my mom, drove a 28' rental truck (ironically noted it was the same size as the boat I lost after my fiance died) from Florida to Chicago. We were proud of our female trucker selves, making a cross-country trip in a truck nearly the size of a semi with an infant. We laughed and felt like brethren to the semi drivers we encountered along I-75 and other interstates along the way.

How I got to that point as a single mother of an infant feeling the need to leave the state I'd made my home and move back to my "birth home" is another story. I was so young too -- 25. See, my fiance was killed when I was seven months pregnant. I thought moving back home to my family (but away from my friends) would provide the emotional and family support I desperately needed at the time, as well as get me out of the environment where ghosts haunted my every move. I also thought my son needed the influence of grandparents in the way my grandparents positively influenced me growing up, and he wasn't going to get that living 900 miles away.

I initially moved in with my dad in the suburbs and found a job with an independent Chicago franchise of the medical software company I had worked for in Florida. My son's crib took up residence in my brother's old room, replacing the bed. I occupied my sister's old room and had ISDN installed. At 25 years old, I felt funny living with my dad. What if I wanted to date? Would someone judge me for "living with my parents" after I had been independent for so long? Plus, the commute from Crystal Lake to an office near O'Hare airport was brutal, costing me over two hours of each day that I would have rather spent with my baby.

So I bought a car (sold my impractical 2-seater Florida car to my babysitter before leaving) and rented a house the owners were waiting to bulldoze and rebuild in Park Ridge, IL, mere miles from my office. Also mere pennies from affordable for me -- I mean, the guy in the mansion across the street had a Ferrari day at his house! And then the loneliness set in and about a year after being widowed, I decided I was ready to date again. But I had a child and wasn't really in on the bar scene. So where does one in my situation meet people?

That's where the relatively new-at-the-time site match.com came in. I lived the internet life, so sure, why not? I'd been on CompuServ since 1994. I designed a website for the ticketing software company I worked for in 1995. I frequently inhabited IRC chat rooms. How different could it be?

Vastly.

I signed up and set up my profile. The first few potential matches did nothing for me and I didn't even grace them with a response. One, however, caught my eye. The guy's photo was gorgeous and his profile was perfect. Until that point, I had not sent anyone a message, only received (and rebuffed) them. But this one... I summoned my courage and sent out a feeler message.

We spent the next several weeks chatting on the phone every night after my son was in bed. He was funny, charming and a little bold. Eventually we set up a first date. He said he'd take me to the restaurant on the top floor of the Hancock building in Chicago. I mean, wow! Fancy! So I dropped my son of at my mom's and squeezed myself into my old homecoming dress for a fancy night out on the town in the windy city. I had given him my address to come pick me up.

So I applied makeup I hadn't done in a year. I dressed up. And then I sat at my kitchen counter on my laptop and eagerly waited my first date in a year, jumping every time headlights swept across my living room. But they all drove on by. And time ticked on.

He didn't show up. He didn't answer his phone. And he had my home address. And I had a baby to protect. After a couple hours, paranoia set in and I fled to my mom's house and spent the night there, shedding the dress, and suddenly afraid to return to my "grown up" rental in the near 'burbs of Chicago. So *this* was what I had been warned about the internet.

The guy never answered his phone again. I became pretty confident his profile pic was a magazine model scan. But nothing bad ever happened from it. He just disappeared. Eventually I got sick of the Chicago winter and traffic and not being close enough to family for that help I thought I'd get, so I returned to my friends and familiar Florida where I'd made my adult life. A friend set me up with an IT contractor she had worked with in DC who owned a house near me. We've now been married 11 years (next week) and ended up moving to DC. He adopted my son and we have a daughter together. So a happy ending after all.

After we met, his brother met a woman on match.com. While I was initially skeptical that anything good could come from that site, they eventually married and had two kids together and are happily married to this day.

10 Fingers and 10 Toes

10 fingers and toes. No complications during labor. Takes to breastfeeding easily. That's all a mother hopes for when the birth of a child is imminent. Frankly, I'd rather my daughter was born with a missing digit than the hell she seems to live in (and takes us into with her).

For eight or so months, a mother-to-be eagerly awaits her child-to-be, carefully planning and dreaming. Will the baby be colicky or have a sparkling happy personality? What outfit should be worn first when we bring the new bundle of joy home from the hospital? The next few years are spent fretting over breastfeeding long enough, when to start solid foods, milestones like rolling over, sitting up and standing. Every parent dreams of having the perfect and healthy child who meets (or maybe beats) those milestones. Mothers envision their progeny breezing through school, going to college and stepping out into the world as a productive well-adjusted adult, if they even look that far into the future.

Until it doesn't happen. Parenting is never easy, but adding a possible mental illness to an otherwise beautiful child is heart-wrenching and unexpected. The prospect isn't even on the radar screen of new-child fears.

I've had to remove my daughter from play dates by carrying her out kicking and screaming after a mother calls me saying she doesn't know what to do with this out of control child, please come get her. I've had a hired car driver stop and turn the dome light on "just to get a look at her" after an hour long ride complete with tirade. She has flustered me with her grown-up arguments and emotional blackmail during these episodes, and most recently, stunned me with her sailor language. The best part? She wants me dead.

Perfect child? Not by a long shot - at least not perfect in the sense of what an expectant mother fantasizes. She's brilliant - dare I say a genius, artistic, loves animals and writing. She can work a room full of adults with ease, charming them all. But there's something wrong. If only she used her gifts and talents for good.

I remember her refusing as a toddler to get into the car seat compliantly. She would thrust her hips out and scream so much she'd make herself throw up. We would have to push her down to get the thing buckled. And then when she was old enough to undo the buckles herself? Oh boy! I can't count how many times we had to pull over to secure her back in the seat while she laughed triumphantly. Then came the hitting and biting of peers at daycare. She was "expelled" from two daycares before she finally finished out the last two years before kindergarten at a Catholic preschool.

These sound like normal childhood issues, right? We didn't suspect anything was seriously wrong until....

In first grade (at six years old!), the school said she couldn't return until she was under counseling care and tested. Her crime? She threatened a boy in after care that she was going to go get her brother's BB gun and come back and shoot him. As you know, schools take gun threats very seriously these days. But at 6? Really. She wasn't a threat to anybody. But we had to prove it. In the meantime, we grew more and more concerned that her continuing temper tantrums were not normal. Most kids outgrow those before they begin attending school. Not A.

We've put her through a 42 week group skills and socialization program and had her psychologically tested (both required by the school system after the gun incident). All the psychologist found was that she was incredibly intelligent and highly ADHD. Huh. That didn't jive with my own experience with family members (and a son) with ADHD. She has no problem doing homework and chores. No complaining. She'll just sit down and do it. She wasn't forgetful or scatterbrained. So I resisted the recommendation for medication since I've always grappled with the decision to medicate my son (though he clearly needs it) and she didn't have any of the same issues he did. He was so hyper and careless, he was likely to hurt himself or others accidentally and could not focus enough to do homework. Not so in her case.

We've rearranged our work schedules so that after care is no longer necessary and a parent is always home after school.

Her issue has been rages. Big kid temper tantrums. And now at 9 she's so big and I can no longer physically pick her up and make her get dressed or go downstairs for breakfast so she doesn't miss the bus. She doesn't understand that those rages and behavior are unacceptable and her responsibility to keep under control. She'll blame me for "yelling" at her (which may have just been me raising my voice saying you need to be downstairs in 2 minutes or you will miss your bus). Or last night, "You need to get ready for bed and should start before 9:30." Boom! Nuclear war. She wants to kill me. Literally. She says so.

She has kicked me hard enough to leave a bruise on my stomach. She has bit me multiple times, bit her beloved grandmother as we were trying to remove her from a restaurant before she pulled the tablecloth off the table and threw utensils at other people. She has said the most horrible awful things to me.

So it's time for a child psychiatrist to find out once and for all what is going on. And the prospects terrify me. My heart is broken for that imagined child she did not become and the pain she must be in herself when the "other self" takes over. She really seems to have no control over it. I would rather she was born with 9 fingers or toes than have to struggle with this. But here we go.

We met with the child psychiatrist yesterday. He is already talking about bipolar disorder and her requiring mood stabilizer medication. He said his diagnosis will say "Mood Disorder NOS" so she doesn't run into road blocks later in life with a bipolar diagnosis. And my heart still breaks. Where did this come from? Isn't it genetic? Since both DH and I are clueless about half of our biological families, I guess it's entirely possible.

A will see him in five days, then us the following day for the official diagnosis. It can't come soon enough, yet terrifies me at the same time. But this is killing me. I don't have the strength (physical or emotional) to continue these struggles with her. My usual energy and optimistic view have been crushed for the time being. I've questioned my parenting, my DNA, my patience, wondering if the time she fell off the bed as an infant maybe broke her brain... Or the asthma meds as an infant? In the face of these rages, it's really hard to keep your cool and maintain control as the parent. And my heart breaks. But I have to gather my strength because now we have to find the med combo that works for her. I just want her to grow up a happy adult who can have lasting healthy relationships.

In the meantime, I depressed the hell out of myself last night reading the forums on bpkids.org. People post with signature lines worn like badges with their kids' diagnosis and medication.