The minute
the ex and I split I promised myself I would never, ever moan about how hard it
is to look after kids on my own. Because frankly, being a mum, not being a mum,
being single or married, stay at home, working, makes no difference. Some
people can’t have kids, so I’m lucky. Some people have a shitty, useless
husband, so I’m lucky again. Tough times come to everyone and you can’t compare
your own tough times to someone else’s, because how can you know?
(And by the
way, I hate the term “single mum”. It has such negative connotations. I prefer
“lone parent”. It has far more cowboy/girl esque grit about it.)
So anyway,
this isn’t a moaning post about being a single mum, ahem, lone parent. But the
other day, I had one of those moments where I, like everyone, parents or not,
single or not, regularly do. There was a moment where I thought, I can’t bloody
well do this.
I had had a
nice day writing while the kids were at the childminders. OK I’ll be honest, it
wasn’t that nice, and I didn’t do that much writing. In the aftermath of a break-up everyone has the odd time when you hear a song that reminds
you of how bloody good things were once, and the true meaning of that song
suddenly dawns on you, and you just sit and cry while listening to it over and
over again, howling into a babywipe because you are too wracked with sobs to
get up and find a tissue. Yep, it’s depressing but it’s all part of the
process. It doesn’t happen to me that often (I’ve got the cowgirl grit) but
after a highly emotionally charged few days and very little sleep I was in the
mood where frankly anything could set me off.
So I had
spent the day crying while the kids were at the childminders, and stuck in the
grips of the blues. I went to the supermarket with puffy eyes (and a noticeably
new grey hair, honestly, this break up has a lot to answer for) because I had
decided just to get one area of my life sorted. You have to start somewhere and
to me the simplest place to start was to just cook a nice meal for me and the
boys. They always eat well. I, on the other hand, have been living off
croissants by day and Cheerios by night. I’m so laden with carbs I could power
a jet engine with the amount of fuel I have to burn off. Sitting down with the
kids and a nice meal would cheer me up, I was sure of it.
After my
healthy eating trip to the shops, I picked the kids up. It was hammering down
with rain. Son Two refused to get in the car because he was intent to play in
the rain, and then refused to get into his car seat. I eventually got him in,
not before I got a soggy bottom which had spent an added seven minutes sticking
out of the car door while I wrestled Son Two into his seat.
We got home,
the kids settled themselves in front of the telly and I started my second
attempt at home made pasta. My first attempt was like chewing through a saddle
and I was determined to get it right this time. Son Two (who’s now nearly
three) wanted to help squidge the little rectangles into bows (we make farfale)
so I sent him off upstairs to wash his hands while I lost myself in the welcome
mindlessness of squidging pasta shapes. About ten minutes later he returned and
took his place beside me. We sat in relative peace for a while squidging away,
when I suddenly heard a drip. It appeared to be raining in my kitchen. I rushed
upstairs to the bathroom to find the plug in the sink, tap running and a
plastic Mr Incredible attached to the plug chain (presumably he was trying to
save himself from certain drowning). I gathered all the towels I could find to
mop up the water (with the help of Son One) and then dashed downstairs
remembering that I had left Son Two alone with the farfale. I turned the
downstairs lights off at the fusebox (thanks to my friend who phoned me up to
tell me to do it), put a bucket under the dripping and powered through. After
we had eaten, the boys started in with their tired mummmmmeeeeeeee whining. Son
Two had gone under the table and found an as yet unnoticed pile of cat sick and
had trodden in it. Son One wanted a drink. The kitchen was covered in flour and
every pot and pan in the house was dirty. There was a bucket in the middle of
the floor catching the drips. Every single towel in the house was sodden, and I
couldn’t hang them out to dry because it was raining and I couldn’t even put
them in the washing machine because my washing machine was broken (over the
weekend my well meaning mum had brought me some three hundred year old feather
pillows (I needed new pillows and couldn’t afford to buy any), attempted to
wash them in my machine and they split, filling the entire thing, including the
motor (if the billowing smoke was anything to go by) with feathers, and will
require a visit from the washing machine man (which likely will take weeks) to
fix it), my landline was ringing (mum wanting to know how the washing machine
was) and my phone was going ten to the dozen with texts from friends in need.
And this was when I had one of those moments where I just thought, I can’t bloody do this.
But tough
times are there to show us how strong we are. And when you’re on your own you
get a chance to really test your mettle. There is absolutely no not being able
to cope. The moment the thought crosses your mind you pull out the grit and put
some tunes on (to drown out the kids whining) and you just get on with it. And
the sheer satisfaction you get two hours later, sitting in the dark with only a
laptop for light (can’t turn the lights on until the ceiling has dried out),
when the kids are asleep, the flour has been cleaned away and the sodden towels
are at least in a neat pile, comes from knowing I did this, all by myself.
When the
going gets tough, enjoy it. This is a rare chance to prove to the world, and
more importantly yourself, what you’re really made of. Relish it and know your
mettle has been tested and found worthy. Big tick, smiley face, gold star for
us all.