Dani Writes…

My SUV was packed, the motor was running and Delicious D, my daughter, was strapped in her car seat. She was barely a year old. I stood in a state of disbelief as my soon-to-be ex-husband stood on our front lawn staring at me with tears in his eyes and our black lab, Reilly, sitting next to him.

We’d just started out, so there weren’t many assets to divy up. He took the dog and I got the kid. The pragmatic finality of my marriage hit me like a gravitational force from the earth, sun and moon as I said goodbye to my husband, my home and the life I was proud to share as a wife and new mommy.

Although nothing was going to pull me under, the moment was deep and it was clear I was being thrust into the middle of a bad Lifetime TV movie.

Yet, as I was leaving our home, my strong strides toward my car were the first steps to my new forever (whatever/wherever that may be). And as the life I was comfortable with grew more distant in my rear-view mirror, a myriad of emotions closed in. I felt deceived, hurt, angry, frustrated, guilty and uncertain—oddly enough, fear had no room!

My parents lived 300 miles north of Los Angeles. They offered us their home while I got back on my feet, financially.

Within a month of living with my folks, I found myself employed as a production manager for a successful television production company. Delicious D and I moved into our first two-bedroom, two-bathroom apartment.

The place came equipped with brand-new appliances such as a refrigerator, convection oven, microwave and a washer and dryer in our unit. The apartment complex was set atop acres of beautifully manicured green hills, and had a sparkling, Olympic-size pool and a spa with a full gym. It was a lovely, safe place we could call home, temporarily.

All along, I knew that particular place 300 miles north of Los Angeles would never be my home, and certainly not the place I wanted to raise my daughter. My days were long but I was determined to get back to the city where I left my heart. In 10 months I was able to save a nice chunk of change, sublet our apartment and make a beeline back to Cali!

Over the next 5 1/2 years I continued to live in survivor mode. There wasn’t much room for anything else. I worked even harder to provide for us because the cost of living is much higher here in Los Angeles. Overnight, my rent doubled, my car and health insurance premiums increased, not to mention the utility bills and the astronomical price of gas.

Delicious D was growing up, and I had to pay for her extracurricular activities and after-school care. But more than that, I paid the highest price, because I was not able to spend enough quality time with her. Oh, how I coveted the role of a stay-at-home mom.

Be careful what you wish for…

The impact of being laid off over a year and a half ago, whether I manifested it or not, became deeper than any pocket I could imagine digging into. Yes, the time I spend with Delicious D is incomparable to any amount of money but at the same time I lost a bit of me, and now, quite possibly, our home.

Working from home is isolating, and while I was able to make ends meet by the skin of my teeth with freelance work, I was no longer proud of myself, and due to our weak economy the work stopped coming in as steadily. I also wasn’t using my brain in a way that fulfilled me. I became withdrawn, a bit depressed and I realized making real money helped me feel successful.

Recently my rent was increased (um, who the hell raises rent in this messed-up economy?), and I am now paying more in rent than most of my friends do for their mortgages. I am faced with having to move yet again, only this time without a full-time job or a savings account cushion.

Enter the eighth year of divorce, and the first real feeling of fear. I am no longer standing in a bad Lifetime TV movie. I’ve become one.

Through it all, I’ve never considered myself a victim, and while I may never provide Delicious D with the house on the hill, she will surely learn that the value of perseverance is invaluable.

My plan was to tell you about our great East Coast adventure—from Potomac and Rockland, MD, to Washington, DC, to New Jersey and finally New York, from 33,000 feet in the air, as Delicious D and I were flying back to Sherman Oaks (aka the Shoaks).

It was Christmas Day and the seventh day of Hanukkah, and although our flight landed at 10 p.m., the day in the life of this Jewish divorcee still had a long way to go.

I wanted to hurry up and finish the column before we landed and made our way to my ex-husband’s house to celebrate Xmakkah for Delicious D—that’s my daughter. I was exhausted and yearned for my delectable bed in the Shoaks. Funny, G-d laughs when we plan…

As I watched and helped others grab their luggage off the baggage carousel, I patiently awaited impatiently to hear my ex-husband’s greeting. He’d kindly offered to pick us up from the airport. However, it hasn’t been smooth sailing between us lately and I was unsure how he would react when he saw me.

Turning my head, I noticed he was standing in the sliding-glass door area of the baggage claim area. It was then I realized my greatest fear had come true. The other shoe had dropped: My ex-husband had fallen off the wagon, and in front of his daughter, who had never known her Daddy suffered from the disease of alcoholism.

His eyes weren’t right, his speech (even with his foreign accent) was off and his body language was odd as he lifted his arms above his head, almost spectacle-like, as he made his way across baggage claim to embrace Delicious D.

This did not come as a total surprise. Over the past three months, there had been signs. For one thing, he’d gained weight and his mood swings came hard and fast. A real tell was that during my daughter’s and my East Coast vacation, we’d received an excessive amount of texts from him. This proved disruptive and confusing to Delicious D. As I tucked her into bed one night she said, “Mommy, there has to be more about why you got divorced, more than Daddy liking another girl. Please tell me!”

The missing pieces have puzzled her for some time. But I’d made a promise to my ex-husband that I would not tell her about his alcoholism. We agreed we would not tell her until she inquired. Silly me never prepared for this day.

My inability to predict his mood swings has caused me great anxiety and mistrust over the years. The unpredictability of an alcoholic who is not seeking help is disconcerting, to say the least. This isn’t to say I don’t empathize with his illness or know he doesn’t intend to cause pain. In fact, I firmly believe he is a great father and friend when he’s healthy. But imagine if you were a child having to navigate this unhealthy behavior.

“Turn around, Dani, focus on the luggage. Keep it together, and don’t blow your cool,” I told myself over and over, like a mantra.

As each piece of luggage circled the baggage claim so did the thoughts swirling in my head. How the hell am I going to get my daughter and myself home safely? How am I going to explain that we shouldn’t get in the car with her daddy? Who’s going to pick us up on Christmas night? How much money is it going to cost to taxi home or reserve a car service? Shit! Our lives are going to change, dramatically, again!

I had no tangible evidence my ex-husband was under the influence but I did have the one and only thing that’s never let me down—my gut!

My gut told me he was not legally drunk but that he’d had a few within the last few hours. It also told me not to make a scene, to get in the car and be as quiet as possible. My gut, however, did not tell me that my lack of conversation would enrage him.

I will spare you the emotionally abusive hits he fired off in my direction, mile after mile. Delicious D had never seen her father behave that way. She became scared and pleaded from the back seat for him to stop.

We made it to his home unscathed, physically anyway. But we didn’t go into the house. After he parked the car, I removed our luggage, grabbed Delicious D’s hand and began to walk briskly up the street. He followed, yelling to us to come back and open presents. We walked faster. He stopped following us.

All 100 pounds of me stood on a dark, unfamiliar street in Hollywood in the middle of the night on Christmas with heavy luggage and a tiny hand that had never held mine so tightly. I felt the fear in her grip and saw the sadness in her eyes, which literally brought me to my knees. As cliché as it sounds, I kneeled and began to sing softly, “The sun’ll come out tomorrow, bet yer bottom dollar that tomorrow, they’ll be sun.” (Delicious D’s playing the part of Annie in her school’s musical, Annie Jr., this spring.)

When it comes to protecting my child, great strength permeates my soul. I felt fearless, kneeling in the middle of that street awaiting our taxi, although I’d never felt so alone.

It’s been one week since that crappy night. But some good has come from it.

I took my daughter to see our very dear family friend Siggie Cohen, a child and family specialist with a master’s degree in psychology. Siggie is much better equipped to help my daughter understand alcoholism than I am. Many of Delicious D’s questions have been filled in with the missing pieces to her puzzle. She wrote a beautiful letter to her dad to let him know that even though he has a disease, nothing will ever change the love she has for him. They have already begun to communicate better because there are no more secrets, nothing to hide and nothing to be ashamed of.

Some might say this is a very personal and painful story to share not only for Delicious D and me but for her dad as well—and yes, it is. However, when I originally started writing stories derived from my personal experiences as a divorced single parent I had one goal: to give back.

If my stories can help even one family member, then my struggles, along with my family’s, haven’t been in vain.

In the United States, 17.6 million people, about one in 12 adults, abuse alcohol or are alcohol-dependent. Then there’s the high rate of divorce—53 percent.

My child is more than a statistic, and so is yours, despite the category your family might fall into.

I say it time and time again because I truly believe it: It’s up to each one of us to teach our children that it isn’t about the “fall,” but about the way we get up!

Last year definitely had its challenges, and although I traversed it with as much aplomb as possible it’s no wonder I look forward to 2012. 

Happy NEW Year!

I don’t condone Joe “Pa” Paterno’s choices or lack thereof, however, when I’m looking to hold someone accountable specifically in an event such as the Penn State Football Program’s alleged sexual abuse cover-up, I would start at the top. I would not point my finger solely at the people with popular names associated with the organization in question.

The media has made it clear the alleged victims of Jerry Sandusky are from low-income, at-risk families. It’s as if the media are insinuating that because the alleged victims come from low-income families their parents natural instincts to protect their children were non-existent. I beg to differ. I’m going to assume those parents were not aware of the alleged heinous crimes at the time they were happening. 

As a parent myself, if I witnessed or was aware my child (or any child for that matter) was being harmed, especially by a teacher and/or a coach, I would run as fast as a speeding bullet to the nearest police station, not to a school administrator.

Today I read in the Drudge Report, “The judge who ordered former Penn State Defensive Coordinator Jerry Sandusky be freed on $100,000 unsecured bail on charges he sexually abused eight boys reportedly volunteered for his charity, Second Mile.”

I thought to myself, should we hold her responsible for all of Sandusky’s alleged victims? Should she be fired because she reportedly volunteered for the accused’s charity and hence the entire Pennsylvania Judicial system should be shamed and dismissed? Where does it start and where does it end?

Why does it appear the media is focused on destroying an entire football program when a group of self-serving individuals appear to be the blame?  

According to ESPN two top Penn State officials, Athletic Director Tim Curley and university President Gary Schultz have been charged with covering up allegations of a child sex abuse scandal related to an ex-defensive coordinator, stepped down after an emergency meeting of the university’s board of trustees.

It has also been said that Joe “Pa” Paterno was removed from his position for his alleged failure to act on behalf of the alleged young victims.

In my humble opnion, Penn State football should be held accountable for the alleged horrific crimes, if in fact they are found guilty as charged. However, the students and athletes attending the university currently should not be punished for the alleged crimes committed by former Penn State employees.

My friend Gregg Miller, the host of www.whoshugeinsports.com and a concerned father of 2 young boys who has a deep passion for sports, ethics and character said, “Penn State’s Football program won’t start to heal until this season is over and the accused, if proven quilty, are punished to the fullest extent of the law.

All in all, if the allegations are true, only after the accused have been punished can Penn State start to revamp, restore and rebuild their program with employees who live by/with honor and integrity.

This latest NCAA cover-up is the biggest and most horrifying story ever involving a sports team or figure in any sport in the history of organized sports whether that be at collegiate level or pro.

Joe Paterno’s record breaking 409 wins will not be forgotten nor will his words, “Losing a game is heartbreaking. Losing your sense of excellence or worth is a tragedy.”

The accused if proven guilty will be punished, as time heals the years will pass, another coach will create a legacy but the victims will never regain their innocence. 

The term “soccer mom” broadly refers to a middle-class suburban woman who spends a significant amount of her time transporting her school-age children to their sporting events or other activities. The term came into widespread use in 1996, this according to Wikipedia.

When my daughter was 5 years old, she started playing noncompetitive soccer, which consists of 10 games, a uniform (jersey, shorts, socks), an individual and team picture and a guaranteed trophy—all for the low cost of $100. Noncompetitive divisions are not ranked—the kids literally play for fun and no one keeps track of the wins and losses (wink wink).

Competitive soccer, which also costs around $100, includes a jersey, shorts, socks, pictures and a trophy and starts when a child becomes 8 1/2 years old. The games are played on a field that doubles in size from noncompetitive soccer. It gives children the opportunity to compete for the championship. Throughout the season, August through November, each team is ranked by their wins, losses and tied games. Each player is also ranked individually on all-around performance on the field (those players are eligible to play on all-star teams).

Twenty teams play in divisions categorized by age. If a team wins enough games to stay in the top eight of 20, it plays two games in the playoffs. If that team wins its two playoff games, it then plays for the regional championship game, and if that game is won the team goes on to play another region at a different park, and so on and so on to finally win the championship in their age division (something like that).

While my daughter is a natural athlete and loves the game of soccer, she is not overly competitive. More than anything, she competes with herself to become a more skilled player. This is not to say she hasn’t felt the thrill of victory and the agony of defeat. However, and more importantly, over the years she’s learned valuable lessons about teamwork and commitment; she’s also made great friends and had lots of fun!

Every season I can definitely be heard from the sidelines cheering,

“Go, baby, go!”

“Dribble!”

“Pass!”

“Shoot, shoot, SHOOT!”

And of course, the occasional, “Damn it!” under my breath as the other team scores or when our team misses an opportunity to score. I also have fun cheering on all the girls and kibbitzing with the parents. Some seasons I even make a friend too. Most of all I simply enjoy getting out there and watching my kid have fun!

This year, although not knowing what the job entailed, I volunteered to be the Team Parent, which means I generate a team roster listing player contact information, organize a snack list and game schedule, and send out weekly reminders about game times. A team parent is basically the liaison between the coach and the team. Unbeknownst to me, as the child of the Team Parent, my daughter is automatically eligible to compete in the Turkey Bowl—a consectuive three-day tournament held over Thanksgiving with kids whose parents and/or relatives are a coach, an assistant coach, a referee or a Team Parent volunteering in a competetive division.

Admittedly, watching the competitive games can be more exciting than the noncompetitive games and, of course, we all want our children to win and play the position they most desire, but at the end of the day it’s truly about the whole experience.

This year, the first out of five straight years, is our first experience with competitive soccer and also our first experience with soccer moms, but not the kind referred to by Wikipedia!

These particular moms, “snockered moms” (soccer moms who are intoxicated by their own garbage) clearly do not subscribe to “All for one and one for all.” They pace up and down the field screaming at their kids so loudly the rest of the team can barely hear the directions from their very capable and great coach!

The snockered moms are brash, uber-competitive and simply disingenuous. They stick to one another like glue during the games. They don’t offer a hello to anyone other than each other’s husbands and only then can you hear them shouting orders at them. Every once in a while they applaud other children but not without making sure that child’s parents know they are praising them. Their behavior during practice is no different while making comments about what the coach should or should not do. Funny, I don’t see their asses out there coaching or even picking up a cone to help out when practice is over.

On one occasion one of the snockered moms graced the rest of us soccer moms with her presence as she shared this:

“We’ve been looking to buy a new home. We found one we really like but it’s in a neighborhood that also has apartments nearby and we are concerned the people who live in the apartments are low-income. You know what I mean. Do you think it will be safe for us to move there?”

Did I mention the “neighborhood” is in Sherman Oaks and two of the three moms participating in the conversation reside in apartments/townhomes? We all looked at her in disbelief. I laughed it off, knowing how utterly ignorant she is … or is she?

That night as my daughter and I were walking to our car, the same snockered mom accused me of signing up to be the Team Parent so my daughter can play in the Turkey Bowl, and accused our coach of assigning our assistant coach his AC position for the same reason.

Oh, how I wished I was on the field kicking a penalty shot toward the goal with her as the goal keeper!

In that moment I realized the snockered mom is not ignorant at all, but simply one of those women who color the game ugly and give soccer moms a bad name.

The term, “snockered mom” came into effect during 2011, this according to yours truly.