Visit me at The Orange County Register to check out my latest for OC Moms. It’s a weird thing, how little black skirt made such a big impact on my post-divorce state of mind. Read more.

Last month, I wrote my first divorce-related feature for October’s OC Family magazine. It’s a quick “what to expect” for those considering or experiencing a divorce. Statistics show that many of the magazine’s reader are, or have been through, a divorce so it seemed like a good fit. Being a single parent is hard. Adjusting to being newly single sucks, so the article offers a sort of guide through the process and important things to think about.

You can find the online edition here. My “Suddenly Single” article is on page 82. Because I’m responsible for health content and editorial, you also can find me on page 44 of the same issue.

photo credit: Christopher Wren Photography

My TMI prenting column for OC Moms at the Orange County Register is dedicated to my own brother and sister. You. Are. Welcome.

Click here to check it out.

You can read more at ocmoms.com/pam.

I wrote an article for OC Moms last month that stirred up some emotions among OC Register readers. You can read that here. But all of the nonsense aside, it just took an observant three-year-old to figure it all out. She’s been making up some pretty cute songs lately. And in her own simple way, she hit the nail right on the head with this one.

This divorce has taught me a lot, most importantly, how to not be such a wimp. Read my latest for OC Moms.

Hands down, the hardest thing about being a single mom is leaving my girls on a somewhat regular basis. I have to get in my car and drive away from them. With an empty heart and empty car seats in the back. It hurts. Bad. Every single time.

For a while, I tried to distract myself on the drive home. You can read about my “99 problems” theory here. It works for the most part, but it didn’t help all the time.

I would tell myself that God was there, dutifully watching over them. They are, after all, His precious daughters too. There wasn’t anything that God wasn’t in control of. That was comforting and helped. But it couldn’t quell the knot in my stomach.

Then, one afternoon, it hit me. A very tangible solution.

You see, from an early age, I was reminded regularly that Jesus was always watching me. No matter what I was doing, according to my parents and Sunday School teachers, Jesus was always there. And instead of accepting it as a loving sentiment, it just plain freaked me out. I didn’t like that at all. Just another set of eyes to stare at me while I slept, along with the puppets and dolls in my room.

My little mind deduced that this Jesus MUST be hiding in my closet; since there was nowhere else a grown man in a flowing white robe could possibly fit in my little bedroom.  I’d insist that my mother close the closet door promptly upon tucking me in. That way, I could sleep in peace without those eyes ALWAYS WATCHING.

What I imagined as a child wasn’t the typical imagery of Michelangelo’s Pieta. My Cartoon Jesus was way more brawny and way less bony. He was a larger than life super hero. You didn’t mess with Cartoon Jesus. He was enormous. Draped upon his broad and sturdy shoulders was a flowing white robe—his enormous feet always sporting massive leather mandals. He was intimidating. It wasn’t until I truly believed that he was there to protect me and not get me, that I could tolerate the idea of Cartoon Jesus following me around all day. Only then did I picture his huge, capable, loving, hands and warm, friendly smile.

As I’ve grown up, my mental picture of God has shifted away from that of a cartoon super hero. It’s to be expected as I’ve learned more about faith and life and love. But I’ve realized that there is a lot to be said for the Cartoon Jesus of my youth. So maybe I’m not with my girls all the time. Whether they are at daycare or with their dad—no doubt Cartoon Jesus is there. Protecting them. Watching over them. Loving them.

And when I’m able to picture it that way, the knot in my stomach subsides. Just like that.

These days, I think of Cartoon Jesus often—like when there has been an uncomfortable exchange with you-know-who. I imagine answering the door with the 8-foot-tall, mega-savior behind me. Who’s gonna mess with me then? There’s nothing I can’t face with him in my corner. When I’m lonely or just plain sad—I imagine Him right there with me, protecting me, watching me, loving me.

Except now, at night, there is no closet door to shut and nowhere to hide. And I wouldn’t have it any other way.

As the divorce proceedings wind down, I had to make a BIG decision—one that I had been thinking about for a long, long time. I needed to figure out who the heck I was going to be.

When I got married, I changed my last name. At that time, it was unnerving to think that Pam Brashear, newbie (but published) writer would just evaporate. The girl once that pounded the pavement and got herself a job on Capitol Hill would be gone. Forever.

I’m from a close-knit nuclear family. It made me sad to let go of my maiden name. I love my family. But he felt strongly about it, so I changed my middle name to my maiden name. Done and done.

Now that we’ve split, the answer seems simple right? Just go back to the maiden name. But nothing is ever that easy. Many things swirled through my head as I weighed the options.

For example, I have primary custody of the girls. Will it be weird for them if mommy has a different last name? Will it make us all feel like less of a family if our names are different? Will it cause confusion for them and/or school administrators/doctors/Girl Scout Troops if we aren’t all De Jongs?

Also, it’s natural for a woman to announce a name change at work when she gets married. But I can’t remember ONE woman that did a name change because of a divorce. What would I do then, announce at every meeting that I am once again a Brashear? And have to face the tilted head and unwanted pity for months? And all the related issues of people not remembering what the new name was or how to email or find me?

And what if I remarry someday? Yes, even after all this drama I’m hopeful that “the one” is out there somewhere. So what then? Someday I might change my name to match his. Especially if it’s Mrs. Bradley Cooper. But I digress. What if I keep it and he remarries and then there are two, wait, THREE Mrs. De Jongs if you count his mom? What is this? Big Love?

I was trapped. With a bad case of analysis paralysis.

I’ve worked REALLY hard at  my career as Pam De Jong. For more than 10 years in heathcare communications, and as a freelance writer, and blogger here at OC Family. Several months ago, I was offered an AMAZING opportunity with OC Family. And all of the sudden it was crystal clear to me that there was only one woman for the job: Pam Brashear. 

In fact, when April’s OC Family and Inland Empire Magazines hit the stands tomorrow, you’ll see what Pam Brashear had up her sleeve. She wrote the COVER STORY. For both magazines.

Pammie Sue is back, baby.

 
Getting divorced is awkward. Not just for the parties involved, but for everyone around them too.
You see, from the moment you start dating HIM, you are shouting it from the rooftops that you are in love. That he is THE ONE. And as soon as the big sparkly ring slides on that finger—there are engagement announcements, save-the-dates, wedding websites, blog posts, facebook status updates, tweets and texts. Then there is the big white dress, an expensive party and an announcement printed in the paper.

So how exactly do you break the not-so-good news that it didn’t work out? That maybe your knight in shining armor turned out to just be some guy in tin foil?

Insert awkward silent pause, am I right?

It comes up regularly. Someone asks me about HIM. If you were to see my reaction to this dreaded line of questioning, it would land somewhere between a totally blank stare and an overwhelming urge to sprint the other direction.

What I really need is a concise and easy response. But there isn’t one. I’d love to simply stick my hand into my purse, pull out the appropriate cliff-notes version of what happened (depending on who’s asking) and smile knowingly. As a writer, this is my favorite option.

It usually ends with me rambling on and on about how great I am doing. Like a used car salesman trying to unload a lemon. Nobody is buying it.

I’m left with some unsavory, real-world options. Do I make a Facebook announcement? Mail an I’m-telling-you-this-to-avoid-an-awkward-conversation-later postcard? Send a singing telegram to those who attended our wedding? Email an always in poor taste, yet REALLY funny, e-card from Someecards.com?
Naturally, I’ve decided to go with a super-private and nondescript way to share the news. This way, I figure I pretty much hit everyone. So here goes.

Yes, we split up. A long time ago.  And I didn’t tell you because you didn’t ask.