Robbing Peter to Pay Paul…

There was a time in my life where I would sit on my slanted living room floor, peeling linoleum beneath me, and counted pennies to make rent.  For many months I sat there rubbing my rounded belly wondering if this would always be the case; if one day I would enlist the help of my son to help me roll quarters in an effort to go get groceries.

Pride and stubborness has always hindered me; still does, if I’m being honest.  But I remember going to my first doctor visit and explaining to them that I didn’t have insurance.  Self-pay cost $1,000 and I knew I would find a way to pay that, even if it meant picking up an extra shift or two at the restaurant where I worked.  Even though they continually told me I could go and get on Medic-aid, I was too proud; there was no way…I thought I was above that.

Five months into my pregnancy, we knew we were having a little boy.  Money was tight and I wasn’t able to wait tables like I used to.  The majority of my shifts, on the weekends anyway, were spent at the hostess station.  While I liked hosting, the pay was minimum wage and much, much less than I could clear on a Saturday night serving.  My finance had been promoted to head server and trainer and while the promotion was great for him, it meant training new people on a Saturday night, and even though his hourly wage was more than the minimum, it was still far less than he could clear serving.

The time came where we had no choice but to go and request government assistance and it pained me.  Living in Philadelphia, the assistance office was in a not-so-great part of town.  Justin took me, and I remember removing my engagement ring before we walked into the building.  It was the only time I took it off, ever, until the day that we separated.

These were the days before Google, but I had a whole staff of servers and customers who told me how to work the system, and while I’m not proud of what I did, it became survival of the fittest.  You see, when you request government assistance (and I’m not sure if it’s the same way now) they want to make sure they are getting what is owed to them.  At least that’s how it was there in the City of Brotherly Love.  In order for me to get on Medic-aid, they wanted to know who the father was so that they could recoup child support - even though we were together and planning on getting married.  It seemed very silly, but it’s the way that it was.

I remember looking around at those that waited to be called, to pick up a check, or to go through the motions of gaining assistance as well.  I remember wondering what their situations were — were they people who truly needed assistance like I did, or if they were the type of person to have another child just to get more welfare money.

I hated being there.  I hated admitting that I couldn’t handle this on my own.  I hated not being able to give my child what he needed, myself.

I’ll also never forget the interview process where the lady asked me who the father was of my baby and I replied with, “I don’t know.”  Sweet Jesus, forgive me for that lie.  I have always wondered what she thought of me; if she thought that I just slept around and how I could get knocked up and not know who the father was.  In reality, she probably heard it alot and was used to it and I was no different than any other.

I walked out of that office that day knowing that the Commonwealth of Pennsylvania would pay for Matthew’s birth.  I declined the offer for food stamps and the welfare checks.  I just wanted to make sure that the hospital would take me in when I came to them in labor.  I just wanted to make sure that they would give my baby the same treatment as the others who were able to pay the real way.  In my 19-year-old mind, I believed that a self-pay baby would be neglected, a medic-aid baby would get a little better treatment, but those with real insurance got the best.  Like I said, I was 19.

I cried all the way home on that SEPTA bus from the “badlands” back to the kinda badlands where I lived.  The bus route drove through Society Hill and as I gazed out of the windows, through the tears, I looked at those brownstones, knowing one day, I would live there.  One day, I wouldn’t have to worry about insurance or money or getting the best care at the hospital. One day I’d also have a car, because it would’ve been alot better to carry on a conversation through the tears in a car, rather than on a public bus with all the germs and people listening to your conversations.

One day…

Here we are almost 12 years later and my how my world has changed.  Yes, I promised myself that one day I would live in a fancy house… but it’s not today, and quite honestly, I’m not sure now that I want to.  My house is the “white trash” house as I like to call it.  It’s not fancy, it needs alot of work, but it’s shelter for the kids and I.

We have insurance that I pay for myself, but quite honestly, the Medic-aid that I had for 2 years with Matthew was 10x better.  But that’s okay.  I can pay for it.  I have the ability to do that.

I have that car.  Again, not the best, but paid for and it runs.

And up until Monday, I wasn’t counting pennies to buy groceries or make rent.

Today?

I’m dealing with the bank trying to take the last of the money that I have and get it into some account, any account, that I can draw from so that I don’t have to carry cash with me.  I’m pleading with the teller as I hand her the last check that I have, one that I, thankfully, forgot to deposit, to make sure that whatever she does with that check that I have access to the money.

All over again, I became aware of what I have — monetarily.

And in that one split second at the bank, I realized at least one reason this has happened to me.

I take for granted what I have.  I live for material items whether they be video game systems for the kids, computer paraphernalia for me, name brand clothes and food.  For so long I desired to have the best of the best because I had nothing.  I’ve worked hard, made a lot of mistakes, but I can tell you that my yearly salary is three times what I was making just 12 years ago.  You would never know it.  I am the typical, spend what you make kinda gal.

The funny thing is, when we were dirt poor, my husband and I were so happy, so close.  It was when we started making money and having money that we began to drift apart.  I’ve noticed now that I’m in this situation with my accounts on hold that the kids and I are drawing closer together.  We’re working together.  They aren’t asking for extra toys at the store and they are okay with it.  They know that we just don’t have the money, not right now.  I’m okay with not stopping by Starbucks for a $4 coffee.  I’m being careful with my money.

See, I have everything that I need, right now.  No, we don’t have any potato chips and it sucks.  But we don’t need them.  And it’s okay.

God’s shown some great favor to me today by way of credits in my accounts, an extrememly cheap rental car to get to my mom’s on Sunday, and things generally just working out.

I am blessed…not because of my net worth, but because I am a child of God.  He will never leave me nor forsake me and I truly believe this is a test and I’m passing with flying colors.

Until next time…

Heather