tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-71339058852446809162024-03-21T13:17:54.088+00:00Single at Home MomAnonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16831267115474474233noreply@blogger.comBlogger35125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7133905885244680916.post-69398288467577772172013-02-19T11:24:00.002+00:002013-02-19T11:24:39.172+00:00A Sticker for Single Mommies<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgg4pM3x-vvLsy9QItawvYI0FK1-JZiS9ua10_6x8KZ87bqMgTVbxEHjICVLWroG-IRg8EQ6pSSb7bB_ZaoO4_yKLjXX7ZN4zM9ivXI_hdYtbjq4ZT5ext0gyYZV7UZFdYdZMfHBxZqQbW-/s1600/mama+merit+badges.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgg4pM3x-vvLsy9QItawvYI0FK1-JZiS9ua10_6x8KZ87bqMgTVbxEHjICVLWroG-IRg8EQ6pSSb7bB_ZaoO4_yKLjXX7ZN4zM9ivXI_hdYtbjq4ZT5ext0gyYZV7UZFdYdZMfHBxZqQbW-/s400/mama+merit+badges.png" width="400" /></a></div>
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<a href="http://www.mamameritbadges.com/shop/">Mama Merit Badges</a> from <a href="http://mamascouts.blogspot.co.uk/">Mamascout</a></div>
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Just home from the doctors. Preschool Booster attempt two. Well, maybe attempt 2.5. Still, we get to back again next month to repeat the ordeal, and they can administer the second injection that got nowhere near my kid before he started hyperventilating. Not even long enough to receive an 'I was Brave Today!' sticker as he ran out of the room sobbing. </div>
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I hate these injections that punctuate our kiddo's early lives. I understand the need for them, which is why I have put my kid through this each time - but since his very first injections I have not been able to go with him. It's not a needle phobia (my collection of piercings and tattoos will testament to that) but a profound hatred of seeing my kid upset. And I'm not talking bratty petulant footstamping, I'm talking screaming, shuddering, hyperventilating, terror. </div>
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I don't know what caused this, he's never had a bad experience with a jab or a doctor or anything. My kid has never cried for more than a minute or two his entire life, before I have attended to his needs*. I think he remembers the trauma of previous injections, the pain, the fake jolly nurse and the sticker bribery. The nurse has other ideas, as my kid is screaming for his daddy - 'maybe he'd be better off coming back next week with dad?' Yeah, not gonna happen lady. I have that thought - the one that comes to me every now and then - oh yeah, I'm doing this all alone. </div>
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All alone. And most days, the regular park-and-play-and-shops-and-cook-dinner kinds of days I don't mind. I don't notice. As a stay at home parent I always did most of the legwork, after the break-up it was just a few more late nights early mornings. But those nights when my kid is sick, or those days when I am struggling - that's when I remember. I am alone in this. Those times I have to take my kid to meetings or when I had to go for my smear and I had noone to babysit and I can't stop giggling as my kid is yelling "mommy, what's she doing to your bits?!" from behind the curtain (don't worry, I'm already saving up for all the therapy he'll need in later life). Those are the times I could really do with a co-parent. A shoulder to cry on. A hand to hold. Another lap for him to sit on as a nurse tries her best to convince my kid to let her stick needles in him. I call the ex after our appointment - partly because I wanted to vent partly because I planned to insist on him taking Vin to his next appointment (for the other round of jabs he was too upset to receive today). I figured he might be concerned as to how it went, silly me. Another reminder, there is just you Charlotte. I am parenting alongside myself. Doing both roles and twice as much work. </div>
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...and I don't even get a sticker at the end of it all. </div>
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*Please, no judgements on my parenting skills here, this is how <i>I</i> chose to raise <i>my </i>kid, not a comment on your or yours. </div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16831267115474474233noreply@blogger.com344tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7133905885244680916.post-33642311389569363632013-02-16T12:01:00.000+00:002013-02-16T12:01:47.444+00:00A Holding Pattern<div style="text-align: justify;">
If you walk into my house you might notice that nothing is quite finished. The pictures are washi taped to the walls, there are shelves and cupboards stacked against the walls. There are no curtains in my bedroom and if you try to hang up your jacket you might notice that the coat hanger is balanced on one screw. I don't know the names of any of my neighbours here. I am not registered to vote. My kid's name is not down on any school waiting lists. I don't have a dentist here. There is a reason for all of this. That reason is February 24th 2013.</div>
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That date I wrote in my diary, in tears on 24th August 2012. The morning I left London. I sat broken, with my broken heart in my broken home. My life flatpacked around me. And I wrote 24th February 2013 - I will be coming home.</div>
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My anxiety had peaked. I sat in my best friends house in tears, the day before we moved. I realised why I was so sick at the thought of Birmingham - because I didn't want to leave London. I loved my house there. I loved my life there. I had friends, amazing friends. I had fallen in love with a boy in London. I had this picture of Birmingham, and it was everything I hated about the life I used to live. I don't know how else to describe it, but the first days I moved to London, I realised I was home. I have moved around my whole life, my life pre-Vinnie was always travelling and searching and longing. I came to Crystal Palace and I came home. </div>
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So when my relationship ended, my metaphorical rug was pulled out from under me. I couldn't afford to live in London on one wage, not in the job I was doing at that time. My ex pushed and pushed me, insistent that life would be better for me and Vin if we were in Birmingham, where I wouldn't struggle for money, where I would be around my family, where we could rebuild our lives. My family insisted I would be better off here, where they didn't have to feel so helpless as I struggled so far away. Let me tell you, if you build your life around one relationship for 6 years of your life, when it ends it'll take a lot longer than 6 weeks for you to get over it. Don't make any big life changes in that time. </div>
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But I did. I made that choice, I decided to move to Birmingham. And I did. Less than three months after we split up I was sat in a van with the half of our furniture that my ex didn't take, navigating the streets of South London. Birmingham bound. In tears. But not before I wrote that date. Exactly six months after I left London, I intended to be going home. Birmingham was a holding place for me. To sort things out, so I could work in London, and afford to live there. To heal myself, my fucked up head and my broken heart. To prove to myself that I could be happy, I would be ok, that I could raise my kid and support this family and build this home all on my own. I came to Birmingham to do that. And then I would be coming home. On February 24th 2013. </div>
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Of course, that date is next week. And I still tense up every time I have to see my ex, mostly I just want to throw up. I make the mistake of checking his Instagram feed, to prove to myself how much better I was doing. I haven't saved any money, I am still paying off our old debts, bills we were paying together, the credit I took to pay for our first London flat, three years ago. I can't work here, so I have no proof I can work in London either. Everyday I look at my kid and wonder how he isn't more fucked up by the terrible job I am doing. </div>
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It would appear that when your life is as messy as ours was, it takes longer than six months to sort it all out. So I'm not moving back to London next week. I have crossed that date out of my diary. I have to stay here, at least a little while longer. And while I'm here, I still have to keep going. I am sort of making friends here, I have the beginnings of a life here. I start my work placement in two weeks, I have signed up for a degree course starting in September. I am looking into nursery schools for Vinnie. Still in the back of my mind I am wondering if it's all worth it. When I speak to the people I love every day and I miss them so much. When friends on Facebook still invite me to events in Crystal Palace. Whenever Vin sees Big Ben or the London Eye on the news he yells 'look mommy, there's our London'. </div>
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It was always my intention to go back. I don't know what my life will look like if we stayed in Birmingham. But then I don't know what my life would look like if we went back either. It seems we're stuck in this holding pattern a little while longer. </div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16831267115474474233noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7133905885244680916.post-2202737953258157162013-02-12T13:50:00.002+00:002013-02-12T13:50:35.780+00:00It was never meant to be like this...<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhoglFLnvRk7hNvPctTxxTccZtq3h6RY7-HfFk_rZKLpJPSyjADns9YkhPMuzDzDq37ePcSAoiYv8x4_qrJshoqd8rrF-lplKm3gPJuOGCVGQSOsDlO65y7MIuk0nyL_FFUEgg22TQztd6I/s1600/twitter.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="73" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhoglFLnvRk7hNvPctTxxTccZtq3h6RY7-HfFk_rZKLpJPSyjADns9YkhPMuzDzDq37ePcSAoiYv8x4_qrJshoqd8rrF-lplKm3gPJuOGCVGQSOsDlO65y7MIuk0nyL_FFUEgg22TQztd6I/s400/twitter.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
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Sucks right? It gets worse. V is due to come home around midday. His dad rings my doorbell. Little man does not want to get out of the car. He says he doesn't want to see me. He wants to go home with his daddy. I point out that most mornings I have to bribe this kid to get out of bed. Last week when I suggested we go to softplay he cried. Everytime we get on the train to his dad's house he insists on sitting in my lap, never wants to see his dad, refuses to get off the train. He is three. Every other week his routine is changed. He has two homelifes that are very different. He misses his dad. He misses his mum. He misses his old family. I know that feeling. I feel your pain son. I get this daily, I know how to deal with it. The ex doesn't and instead suggests that they go to the arcade near my house for a while. Give a three year old the option to 'go home with mummy or go shooting with daddy'. Sure. Ex gives me a triumphant smile. I don't know that it is warranted. I bite my lip. I close the front door. The doorbell rings. Now ex and new girlfriend are both standing on my doorstep. Insisting I come to the arcade with them. No. Straight up. Insisting. Seriously, guys, this is weird. I have met this woman a grand total of once. My kid was sleeping over at her house before I even knew she existed. My kid who at that point had never spent a night away from my bed. As much as things were bad between the ex and I, she was still the catalyst that broke up my family. I get in the car. Stupidly. This unhappy foursome drive to the arcade. They have in-jokes. I bite my lip to stop <i style="font-weight: bold;">our</i> old in-jokes spilling out. We play air hockey. Me and the ex. I don't want to remind him of all the times we played this in Dutch sports bars at 3am. I don't want to remind him that I know to let him win. That time he once broke my finger when our competitiveness got the better of us playing pool. They cram into a shoot em up booth. My kid, his father and the new girlfriend. They insist I get in. Why am I making things awkward? She squeals at the zombies, drops her gun, hides her face in the lapels of his coat. I was with him when he bought that coat. I save her life. Twice. The ex decides he needs to leave. Vin does not want to. If they weren't here I would have picked him up, explained that we were leaving, headed home. Ex doesn't understand this. He suggests V and I stay while him and her slip out. I can't get home. She gives me money for a cab. I want to throw up. She opens up her designer purse, with a photobooth pic of the two of them. She gives me a handful of change for a cab. Could I feel any lower. They leave. I am standing in the middle of the Amusement Arcade with my hyped up kid. I look down to realise he is not wearing a coat. I held it in till we got home. Then I collapsed in a heap in the middle of the kitchen floor. Dry-heaving with sadness. Frustration. Humiliation. I wonder how it happened, that this one person who I used to love so passionately deeply excessively can leave me wracked with grief. Every single time. Fuck fuck fuck. Panting in between sobs. This was never meant to happen. My kid should never have to see me cry. </div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16831267115474474233noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7133905885244680916.post-25008442713187898202013-02-07T17:37:00.000+00:002013-02-07T17:43:48.179+00:00The Ultimate Gift Guide for Single Moms<div style="text-align: justify;">
Friends, it was my birthday last week. I mostly spent the passing of my twentyfifth year sleeping, drinking cocktails and sulking a fair bit as the ex had managed to time his trip to Disneyland with the kiddo to land on my actual birthday - a feat I <i>would</i> have considered malicious, till I realised he'd never once remembered my birthday in all the six years we'd been together.</div>
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Anyway, let's face it, birthdays suck as you get older and the only important thing about grown-up birthdays is the presents. Which is mostly where I realised just how old people thought I was as I unwrapped two pairs of cosy pyjamas (because if I didn't already realise that the only person who will be sharing my bed in the near future is my three year old, then a nightshirt emblazoned with a sausage dog wearing reindeer antlers is a pretty decent reminder). For Christmas I am anticipating unwrapping a <a href="http://www.amazon.co.uk/gp/product/B002SQDLUK/ref=as_li_ss_tl?ie=UTF8&camp=1634&creative=19450&creativeASIN=B002SQDLUK&linkCode=as2&tag=madofr-21">Snuggie Wrap Blanket</a><img alt="" border="0" height="1" src="http://www.assoc-amazon.co.uk/e/ir?t=madofr-21&l=as2&o=2&a=B002SQDLUK" style="border: none !important; margin: 0px !important;" width="1" /> (look, they come in <a href="http://www.amazon.co.uk/gp/product/B004DA6E9E/ref=as_li_ss_tl?ie=UTF8&camp=1634&creative=19450&creativeASIN=B004DA6E9E&linkCode=as2&tag=madofr-21">Leopard Print too!</a><img alt="" border="0" height="1" src="http://www.assoc-amazon.co.uk/e/ir?t=madofr-21&l=as2&o=2&a=B004DA6E9E" style="border: none !important; margin: 0px !important;" width="1" />) BTW old people still like <a href="http://www.amazon.co.uk/gp/product/B004EAOO9A/ref=as_li_ss_tl?ie=UTF8&camp=1634&creative=19450&creativeASIN=B004EAOO9A&linkCode=as2&tag=madofr-21">Jack Daniels</a><img alt="" border="0" height="1" src="http://www.assoc-amazon.co.uk/e/ir?t=madofr-21&l=as2&o=2&a=B004EAOO9A" style="border: none !important; margin: 0px !important;" width="1" /> y'know. I wondered if perhaps people had taken my love of warm socks as some sort of predictor of premature ageing and adjusted their gift buying accordingly? Sorry to sound ungrateful but kitchen appliances just remind me of a lifetime of domestic drudgery while a subscription to Netflix pre-loaded with all of Ryan Gosling's back catalogue is pretty much the closest thing I could get to a legal high, given my kid's propensity to wake several times a night. As it is most of my friends made good and I also received gin and Chanel and smutty things and a <a href="http://www.amazon.co.uk/gp/product/0957314833/ref=as_li_ss_tl?ie=UTF8&camp=1634&creative=19450&creativeASIN=0957314833&linkCode=as2&tag=madofr-21">Ryan Gosling Colouring Book</a><img alt="" border="0" height="1" src="http://www.assoc-amazon.co.uk/e/ir?t=madofr-21&l=as2&o=2&a=0957314833" style="border: none !important; margin: 0px !important;" width="1" /> (yep, you're welcome world).</div>
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So I planned to put together a little gift guide for the single mom in your life. Things I might have actually looked upon favourably (or at least seen their uses). Like this <a href="http://www.amazon.co.uk/gp/product/B006DH71RE/ref=as_li_ss_tl?ie=UTF8&camp=1634&creative=19450&creativeASIN=B006DH71RE&linkCode=as2&tag=madofr-21">Bright Pink Toolset</a><img alt="" border="0" height="1" src="http://www.assoc-amazon.co.uk/e/ir?t=madofr-21&l=as2&o=2&a=B006DH71RE" style="border: none !important; margin: 0px !important;" width="1" /> (for all my <a href="http://singleathomemom.blogspot.co.uk/2012/12/screw-this-and-other-thoughts-on-my.html">DIY woes</a> - this way at least I can not put up shelves in style), a <a href="http://www.amazon.co.uk/gp/product/B004NT4GPO/ref=as_li_ss_tl?ie=UTF8&camp=1634&creative=19450&creativeASIN=B004NT4GPO&linkCode=as2&tag=madofr-21">Bumper pack of batteries</a><img alt="" border="0" height="1" src="http://www.assoc-amazon.co.uk/e/ir?t=madofr-21&l=as2&o=2&a=B004NT4GPO" style="border: none !important; margin: 0px !important;" width="1" /> (cos, well... y'know), <a href="http://www.amazon.com/Chocolate-Long-Stem-Rose-Bouquet/dp/B003B97CI0/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1360237618&sr=8-1&keywords=Chocolate+Long+Stem+Rose+Bouquet+-+1+Dozen%2C+for+Valentine%27s+Day%2C+Mother%27s+Day">Roses made out of Chocolate</a> (yep, covered all your bases there), <a href="http://shop.squaremilecoffee.com/products/sweetshop">coffee that tastes like sweets</a> (or a date with a hot barista, my preferred method) or the now iconic 'I'm not with stupid anymore' t-shirt. If there was such a thing as legal sleeping pills for three year olds you can bet they would have been included here.</div>
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But I don't just want to be given over to frivolities like <a href="http://www.amazon.co.uk/gp/product/B003UUUY4O/ref=as_li_ss_tl?ie=UTF8&camp=1634&creative=19450&creativeASIN=B003UUUY4O&linkCode=as2&tag=madofr-21">Pina Colada Flavoured Lubricant</a> when there are actual products out there designed to empower and embolden the single women in your life. </div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj0ClmBTO1CGk_uqD4GbxL4RwKWdwq1I1dF4_QFHOfJOZV_ev3KxWhR89NTWKYQrSuhNPX1uJ1bXuzAnCr76e1fzjyjX2y6psSx1A5To0yORv3EhaPbiY0Uu5N4g0VS1Hsf7beWT8MJ2KCo/s1600/Dead-Man-Pillow.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: justify;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj0ClmBTO1CGk_uqD4GbxL4RwKWdwq1I1dF4_QFHOfJOZV_ev3KxWhR89NTWKYQrSuhNPX1uJ1bXuzAnCr76e1fzjyjX2y6psSx1A5To0yORv3EhaPbiY0Uu5N4g0VS1Hsf7beWT8MJ2KCo/s320/Dead-Man-Pillow.jpg" width="212" /></a></div>
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Products like <a href="http://www.lolpark.com/amazing/dead-man-pillow-funny-picture/">The Husband Pillow</a><img alt="" border="0" height="1" src="http://www.assoc-amazon.co.uk/e/ir?t=madofr-21&l=as2&o=2&a=B003UUUY4O" style="border: none !important; margin: 0px !important;" width="1" />. I'll be honest, it looks creepy as fuck, but I secretly kind of love this idea. Whenever my man friend stays over I always pretend like I'm only snuggling because he wants to because otherwise it would ruin my spiky fierce rep. I'm pretty sure I could make one of these, if it's not too creepy stealing your lover's shirt to make a disembodied version of him to snuggle up to when he;s not around? Wait, you think that <i>is</i> creepy? Well, at least I've found a use for all those plaid nightshirts I got from my grandma. </div>
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<a href="http://www.primaproductions.com/">The ZipHer</a> solves one of those existential problems (namely, to LBD or not to LBD?) that all you smug-married types didn't even realise existed. Heaven forbid the day comes when you are dressing yourself, perhaps another singles night at another seedy bar, or perhaps trying to look kickass the first time you meet your now exes new fling - you are suddenly faced with just how pathetic and useless you are without a man in your life that you cannot even dress yourself. Oh look, this one has pearls on it. I feel just like Audrey Hepburn in Breakfast at Tiffanys... and I can do it one handed? Splendid.</div>
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Along the same lines, only a whole lot worse is <a href="http://www.amazon.co.uk/gp/product/B004S0TVZ8/ref=as_li_ss_tl?ie=UTF8&camp=1634&creative=19450&creativeASIN=B004S0TVZ8&linkCode=as2&tag=madofr-21">The Bracelet Buddy</a><img alt="" border="0" height="1" src="http://www.assoc-amazon.co.uk/e/ir?t=madofr-21&l=as2&o=2&a=B004S0TVZ8" style="border: none !important; margin: 0px !important;" width="1" />.</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjdF_gtrcky4X_PFuRFb1xnFrUbwkSKdq2eHXDP7Kv3lLwVVcwq9n1y3ImuKDwXYdl_S_kIMbeGsYKtxZe5MEL91zMswF8pSN1Ed-SdyBQ4_s-SpZrFibSyubh-ayRwoTjGVj2Xe4oHmM2f/s1600/jaropener.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjdF_gtrcky4X_PFuRFb1xnFrUbwkSKdq2eHXDP7Kv3lLwVVcwq9n1y3ImuKDwXYdl_S_kIMbeGsYKtxZe5MEL91zMswF8pSN1Ed-SdyBQ4_s-SpZrFibSyubh-ayRwoTjGVj2Xe4oHmM2f/s1600/jaropener.jpg" /></a></div>
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If you wanted any more proof of how feeble your weak single ass arms are (I assume cos you're out of practice at carrying other people's bullshit) I came across this <a href="http://www.amazon.co.uk/gp/product/B0018PWOOG/ref=as_li_ss_tl?ie=UTF8&camp=1634&creative=19450&creativeASIN=B0018PWOOG&linkCode=as2&tag=madofr-21">Jar and Bottle Opener</a><img alt="" border="0" height="1" src="http://www.assoc-amazon.co.uk/e/ir?t=madofr-21&l=as2&o=2&a=B0018PWOOG" style="border: none !important; margin: 0px !important;" width="1" /> in several (somewhat more serious than this one) gift guides for single women. I have never, not never struggled so hard to open a jar that I needed a gadget for it. Do I embody some sort of singlemom super power? Have I done away with the need for men altogether? Anyone wanna take me up on the newly revised equal marriage laws?<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjMFWTx74WRHvaIl_RHpPSKoMRseexEHyciR3RXTAOF2x_AAQy2dL8BUfENl07MNOH0Mx-UfjQlsQYo16AUBd9o0YrfppwJn5TliXY07vYkJLjOYFCpCywADO4LWGYS916QuGjm7w2WKGcQ/s1600/voodoo.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjMFWTx74WRHvaIl_RHpPSKoMRseexEHyciR3RXTAOF2x_AAQy2dL8BUfENl07MNOH0Mx-UfjQlsQYo16AUBd9o0YrfppwJn5TliXY07vYkJLjOYFCpCywADO4LWGYS916QuGjm7w2WKGcQ/s320/voodoo.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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The <a href="http://www.amazon.co.uk/gp/product/B002BYQGOW/ref=as_li_ss_tl?ie=UTF8&camp=1634&creative=19450&creativeASIN=B002BYQGOW&linkCode=as2&tag=madofr-21">Ex Boyfriend Voodoo Doll</a><img alt="" border="0" height="1" src="http://www.assoc-amazon.co.uk/e/ir?t=madofr-21&l=as2&o=2&a=B002BYQGOW" style="border: none !important; margin: 0px !important;" width="1" /> - obviously I don't need to explain this one. Of course, it only works as a good gift if say, your ex left you and your kid for a pert blonde dance instructor and her pet chihuahua, for example. If you're more interested in getting him back than getting your own back, I might suggest this <a href="http://www.makeyourowndildo.com/">Make Your Own Dildo Kit</a>.<br />
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p.s. some of these are affiliate links, which means if you buy something on my recommendation then I'll get a few pennies for my <strike>crack habit</strike> pocket money. I will not profit if you go buy one of those ridiculous ZipHers though, do so only at the depths of your own self-loathing. </div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16831267115474474233noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7133905885244680916.post-56178340544357982432013-02-03T22:22:00.002+00:002013-02-03T22:22:53.243+00:00What's Valentines got to do with it?<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEitJMasAtHAxZVc0-k1ABjZX_R6gfEgGw3J-j2YYa7FBDjCzt8_MMzfCeRNkxgLVyvGdgLmUdfaWw68V9eV13Pd30nwb_m4yt-KKK6pkl58ZCFraLZCl2k5hyAloldL52WA8FQYKCWWcUEq/s1600/smear.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="313" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEitJMasAtHAxZVc0-k1ABjZX_R6gfEgGw3J-j2YYa7FBDjCzt8_MMzfCeRNkxgLVyvGdgLmUdfaWw68V9eV13Pd30nwb_m4yt-KKK6pkl58ZCFraLZCl2k5hyAloldL52WA8FQYKCWWcUEq/s320/smear.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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If January marks the month of failed resolutions, (apparently) no updates from me, and celebrating my birthday, then February is known entirely as the month that single people dread, restaurants double their prices and cynics like me bust their load on jaded <a href="https://twitter.com/CharlTaylorPage">Twitter</a> updates. </div>
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I don't actually have a problem with Valentines Day. I love love and romance and nice things like flowers and chocolates and days devoted to those kind of things should come around more often. What I don't like is how Valentines excludes all those people who don't have a 'proper' Valentine. The single people, the ones in casual relationships, we've only been seeing each other for two months and we're not even calling each other boyfriend/girlfriend in public yet relationships, poly-amorous, same sex relationships, fuck buddies, flirtationships, internet soulmates, Craigslist encounters, begrudgingly in the friendzone 21st century kind of relationships.</div>
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It's not just Valentines I've encountered this problem with. As a kid I would often lament the lack of Father's Day cards appropriate to my familial situation ("To my sperm donor", "I feel obliged to get you a card cos you're married to my mom", "To my ex-step-dad", "look, we'll all feel weird if I call you dad so happy third Sunday of June"). This year, for example, I'm wondering if there is an appropriate card for our current family situation ("Happy Father's Day to a wonderful Child Support Payment"?)</div>
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Instead I am offering my services to you Mr Hallmark, I have a degree in Creative Writing, an in-depth knowledge of how fucked up love can be in the 21st century and I'm actually kind of funny when I <strike>have been drinking</strike> put my mind to it. </div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgxu9ta9E5cgR_a717MRdIU0ejk7xbd8cMK7B0f30jkqRUHEX1Ppa3WOupn5pqIRyKyRAyFuQJocnlF-hH2qdV1Ya4SfJ2kY1NzF-Akn-KTowMgF-MGBDiRR5-E2ftd2j9eUAIwVIXSUkmm/s1600/valentinestweets.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgxu9ta9E5cgR_a717MRdIU0ejk7xbd8cMK7B0f30jkqRUHEX1Ppa3WOupn5pqIRyKyRAyFuQJocnlF-hH2qdV1Ya4SfJ2kY1NzF-Akn-KTowMgF-MGBDiRR5-E2ftd2j9eUAIwVIXSUkmm/s640/valentinestweets.jpg" width="433" /></a></div>
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p.s. in case you're wondering, yes, the first photo is actually a photo from my diary. Yes I am going for a smear test on Valentines Day. Insert joke about the only way I could guarantee any action here.Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16831267115474474233noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7133905885244680916.post-33814220122530115502013-01-01T16:13:00.002+00:002013-01-01T16:13:35.355+00:002013<div style="text-align: justify;">
I used to have this theory about New Years - that how you spend it would reflect on the rest of the year to come. Let me rewind a couple of years for you, to prove my point. </div>
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2006-7 - the night of the epic drugs binge. We may have also attempted Halo on various substances that night. I slept on a beanbag chair, most uncomfortable nights sleep ever. I spend the next year experimenting with every substance I can find in order to cure my insomnia. 2007-8 - Disneyworld Florida. We watch the fireworks behind Cinderella's castle. I make a note, no NYE plan will ever top this. We return home, leave for Berlin before my birthday, don't come home, search for an elusive moment. 2008-9 - The night I actually insisted on making a plan, am wearing a fake fur stole, sort tickets for a trendy gig at a disused factory in the hip part of town. Ex and I fight around 11:30pm, he leaves, I rang in the year crying.</div>
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Four days later I conceived Vinnie. And there ends the nights of wild partying, festivals, travelling and all the drugs. 2009-10 I fell asleep, alone before midnight. Ex had gone out with his friends. I sit breastfeeding our three month old son somewhere around midnight. 2010-11 - I manage to stay awake until midnight by listening to the entire Velvet Underground back catalogue. Ex is out with his friends. The fireworks wake Vinnie up and we sit up alone listening to the celebrations. </div>
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2011-12 - Ex and I have not spoken for a week. Not since he asked for a paternity test during Christmas Dinner. He plans to go out for NYE, I plan to rekindle my love affair with Lou Reed. Vin wakes up just before midnight, ex comes home early. We watch the fireworks together silently, before I head to bed in tears. I guess this last one is the one that confirms my theory. It may have taken another six months for the cracks to finally break us, but they were there right from the beginning. </div>
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When I look back at this year, I say to myself 'it mostly has been a crappy one, but in some ways probably one of the best ones too'. I found a hell of a lot of strength this year, I met my best friend, the universe tested me, I started to find myself in those broken tatters of a person I'd become in a destructive relationship. I moved house, all on my own. I parent my kid, all on my own. I'm think I may be kicking ass at a lot of this. I value my friends more, I appreciate my family. I take pleasure in the little things that I wouldn't have even noticed before. The bond between me and my kid is unbreakable. I like to spend time alone. </div>
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So this new years - I meet up with the guy, coffeeshop guy. It may or may not have been a random hookup. I'm not sure how that one is playing out - I might just delete all my internet dating profiles and start referring to him as my boyfriend in public to see if I can freak him out. He leaves, he has a party to go to. I have <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Loaded_(The_Velvet_Underground_album)">Loaded</a> on vinyl. I pick my kid up, hang out with my family a while. My mum is drunk and dancing round the living room - she toasts to '2013 - the year of no more c***s' I have to agree. Vin and I come home, I put him to bed, climb in next to him with my glass of Prosecco. I call all my friends that evening, we have soppy nostalgic, alcohol fuelled heart to hearts. I have one of those long conversations where you're almost sure you're actually connecting, with a guy I used to have a thing for. Midnight chimes. I watch the fireworks from my window. Kiss my sleeping boy on the head. Whisper 'today is a new year, little one'.</div>
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Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16831267115474474233noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7133905885244680916.post-83421140138915528762012-12-24T17:26:00.000+00:002012-12-24T17:26:13.674+00:00Dating Advice from the most Unreliable Source Possible...<div style="text-align: justify;">
"Seriously, did you just ask me for dating advice?" There I was, little old me, sputtering and incredulous in the midst of a pirate themed birthday party for my friend's three year old twins. I get raised eyebrows from the overtly camp neighbour roped in for his facepainting skills - "girl, you're smoking, you must have something to offer her". Her being another friend, the only other single mom in our group of friends. The friend I first confided in when I <a href="http://singleathomemom.blogspot.co.uk/2012/11/the-single-moms-club.html">became a single mom</a>. Who was became single herself, in similar circumstances to my own, almost exactly a year before me. Who was entirely annoyed when, after three months of heartaching, I met someone new (the um, Brazilian, we called him, mostly because he had a silly name and, yeah, was from Brazil). She wasn't subtle about it then - as I recall her first reaction was 'um excuse me, didn't I already tell you not to meet anyone before me?!' - nor was she subtle when I arrived at the party with eyepatch and birthday presents, sans Brazilian. That kind of fake sincerity that made me wonder when did we become such frenemies, what happened to that sisterhood we shared? That made me instantly brush off her comments with 'but I am kind of seeing someone else'. But the kind of friendship that took me by surprise when in all sincerity she asked me 'how do you do it?' It being giving up bitterly resenting your ex. It being finding some balls in amongst all the crises of confidence the aforementioned ex left you with. It being meeting a guy (<a href="http://singleathomemom.blogspot.co.uk/2012/12/on-unsolicited-advice-and-art-of-doing.html">or three</a>) somewhere between playgroup and doctor's visits, finding the time to date as well as all that parenting stuff I'm trying to kick-ass at and not losing your cool while all that is going on. </div>
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They all want the gossip on why it didn't work with Brazil. The answer is probably entirely boring - that he never really let me know he liked me, that he wanted to be a part of my life and my kid's, till I broke it off with him - and while I'm doing all this self-discovery I said 'hey, I'm kinda worth more than that'. And of course they all want to know about new guy, which leads to me the dilemma - am I really the right person to ask? Am I actually in a place to be dishing out relationship advice? I got over the ex so quick because I actually hadn't loved him for a long time before we made our break-up official, but I was pushing and pushing for it to work anyway. I met Brazil because it was four days before I left London and I set out with the intention of having an adventure or at the very least a fling with someone hot. And then I met new guy because umm he makes coffee for a living and I'm a sucker for a guy who can make me laugh? We're calling him 'new guy' since new guy and I aren't quite at that place to have had that conversation about what we are really, and I don't want to be that girl who is going to bring it up either. And I tell my friends I might not be entirely sure about new guy because he is so young - '<i>You're</i> dating a younger man? !How <i>young</i> are we talking?' my friends, all in their late thirties, are picturing 25yo me with a teenager. 'Well umm, he's actually a week older than me... but that is young for me' (having only ever been with guys at least 10 years my senior and being a fully commited <a href="http://thoughtcatalog.com/2012/23-signs-youre-a-premature-old-person/">premature old person</a> myself). </div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEheKq6hvQB-dWWrXuo2rGn_dgUbdciBT_6vugU58jc6TtmH2ii38meHiiMDHb2PfdYlRxgo_0PpaajbuEpJPe9UrsPorhyphenhyphenyVNkgPyD-cdAsPSyBLHRBTlOkSrma-yHiwIAZEdkSJIeTiF9x/s1600/awkward.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEheKq6hvQB-dWWrXuo2rGn_dgUbdciBT_6vugU58jc6TtmH2ii38meHiiMDHb2PfdYlRxgo_0PpaajbuEpJPe9UrsPorhyphenhyphenyVNkgPyD-cdAsPSyBLHRBTlOkSrma-yHiwIAZEdkSJIeTiF9x/s400/awkward.jpg" width="376" /></a></div>
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But there are some things that have led me to this point - things I could share, sure. I believe in <a href="http://www.wikihow.com/Manifest-Reality-Using-the-Law-of-Attraction">manifestation</a>, in using positive thought to attract the things you want and need. Like a couple of months ago I wrote out in my notebook exactly what I thought I wanted in a guy - a poetical sort of Heathcliff figure with passion and art and music in his veins - and the very next day (I kid you not) I meet the Brazilian. And after I realised that awesome guitar skills don't float my boat quite as much as they used to I said 'hey universe, I want to meet someone who accepts me, who makes me laugh and feel comfortable. And thinks I am awesome, natch, and tells me. And can handle the fact I've got a kid and isn't freaked out by it all.' I dunno, maybe the universe responded. There are so many books written on this subject, I don't need to add my voice to all the enigmatic cheering and promotion. But I would suggest you try it, you don't need to create your ideal man just yet, start on something small. I convinced myself by manifesting white feathers, I still find them on days I find myself and my faith testing. </div>
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And self-love. I have touched on it here before. How I realised that no matter what happens in my romantic life, I am pretty much living this life just me and my kid. And between 7pm and 7am (a gross exagerration, but it makes my point) my kid is asleep, and two nights a week he is off at his dad's house - in those brief moments it was just me and I can't keep avoiding eye contact and my own reflection all that much then. I believe that your mind is a tool, and one that we can control. So when I liked myself least I worked on loving myself most (though I'm mostly only at liking myself most days) - I wrote lists about all the awesomeness that I encompass. I talk to myself in the mirror while practising <a href="http://eft.mercola.com/">EFT</a>, if you see me walking down the street you'll mostly likely notice I am muttering to myself - usually affirmations from <a href="http://www.amazon.co.uk/You-Can-Heal-Your-Life/dp/0937611018/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1356366893&sr=8-1">this book</a>, I visit <a href="http://www.tumblr.com/tagged/radical-self-love">this page</a> daily and in a less than ideal situation you can find me thinking 'What would <a href="http://galadarling.com/">Gala Darling</a> do?'</div>
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There's another thing I do, that I would advise my friend and anyone else to do. That is put yourself out there. Whatever that means to you. I'm not suggesting singles bars or <a href="http://singleathomemom.blogspot.co.uk/2012/12/craiglist-personals-where-romance-and.html">internet dating</a> if that kinda stuff makes you cringe. I mean mentally putting yourself out there in the world - not in an 'oh god, I'm going to die alone if I don't meet someone right now' but accepting that you are all kinds of gorgeous awesomeness and realising that at some point you gotta let go of some of those issues you've been packing in amongst all your baggage (I talked about my journey with this <a href="http://singleathomemom.blogspot.co.uk/2012/11/on-post-martial-relations.html">here</a> and <a href="http://singleathomemom.blogspot.co.uk/2012/12/do-guys-really-care-if-youre-single-mom.html">here</a>). </div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjTJZCRa_9wwJDsqyF5hA_513TM9mtuiXQUtZfmnm3RqAafMtDAm9az4TL6_nRikK1c5LYugUt476jW52DmTQUfE2d1HiNXbVIhfjcpYHcp5V3PA5n9HKHCFhNga5toTByL29g26W2eLTD7/s1600/feathers.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjTJZCRa_9wwJDsqyF5hA_513TM9mtuiXQUtZfmnm3RqAafMtDAm9az4TL6_nRikK1c5LYugUt476jW52DmTQUfE2d1HiNXbVIhfjcpYHcp5V3PA5n9HKHCFhNga5toTByL29g26W2eLTD7/s400/feathers.jpg" width="267" /></a></div>
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I've already said, I'm no expert on dating, I mostly sleep with people on the first date, weird people out with my honesty, lose all semblance of cool when I like someone and second guess every other decision I make. But I am an expert on <a href="http://singleathomemom.blogspot.co.uk/2012/12/what-dating-single-mom-looks-like-and.html">being myself</a>, creating a life I love and <a href="http://singleathomemom.blogspot.co.uk/2012/12/on-unsolicited-advice-and-art-of-doing.html">tactfully ignoring other people's advice</a>. Except when that advice comes at a kiddie's birthday party, when an overtly camp neighbour tells me to flaunt my fabulousness, give 25 year olds a chance to be the good guy and always always always believe in my own inner power. </div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16831267115474474233noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7133905885244680916.post-18954199232441037662012-12-22T12:59:00.000+00:002012-12-22T12:59:03.771+00:00What I learned during the Mayan Apocalypse (and how my world already ended once this year)<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjI1fgSCxp8qGJR0nPxyA0Xw75UZAalQoWUL31cNR8GStmKLNrEuxMiQjqEckJHN6QzFlQAQKj80lqBlLLPtPkw3ec8jIGeG-_23i09aLTaSCoKcfwSs9ofLJRHNjfkDtDJl6S-Drkw_a52/s1600/mayan+apocalypse.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="130" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjI1fgSCxp8qGJR0nPxyA0Xw75UZAalQoWUL31cNR8GStmKLNrEuxMiQjqEckJHN6QzFlQAQKj80lqBlLLPtPkw3ec8jIGeG-_23i09aLTaSCoKcfwSs9ofLJRHNjfkDtDJl6S-Drkw_a52/s400/mayan+apocalypse.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
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So, we're still here friends. No zombies. No crazy self-aware computer systems. No flaming skies and thunder. Just the end of Twinkies, the NHL and a stream of hilarious <a href="https://twitter.com/search?q=%23EndOfTheWorldEconfessions&src=hash">End of the World Confessions</a>. </div>
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While the whole world was making Terminator references, I was texting my loved ones 'Just in case the world ends...' because, well, how bad would you feel if the world actually <b>did</b> end, and the last time you called your mom was over a month ago? Life's too short, y'know.</div>
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Here are some other thoughts I had while waiting for Armageddon...</div>
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1. My world already ended once this year. Nearly seven months ago when my relationship ended. And again four months ago when I left London. And it's only after re-building my life that I realise things weren't actually over. My world hadn't exactly ended - I just got the wind knocked out of me. And as one of my favourite poets <a href="http://www.kaysarahsera.com/">Sarah Kay</a> put it "<span style="background-color: white; color: #181818; font-family: georgia, serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 18px;">getting the wind knocked out of you is the only way to remind your lungs how much they like the taste of air". Likewise, that old adage that you know who your true friends are - yeah, those people stepped up this year (they got 'Just in case the world ends...' messages).</span></div>
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2. 'There is no need to delay your good' - I write these words in the front of every notebook I start. To remind myself that nobody promised you tomorrow. Lately I have been telling myself that in the new year I will be better. At pretty much everything. Since I learnt the definition of <a href="http://www.urbandictionary.com/define.php?term=bad+bitch">Bad Bitch</a> I am making that my goal in 2013. But with another week till 2013, what if I died today? Likewise, all those projects you've been putting off? Those dreams you had? There are a hundred inspirational quotes you can pin - my favourite being that all journeys start with that first step - now is the time, get off the internet, go live that future you imagined (<a href="http://www.rethinkcanada.com/rethink-news/opinion/2011-01-20/">here's some inspiration</a>).</div>
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3. Don't let anyone else's dreams overtake your own. I spent the last six years supporting someone else in their goals and dreams and career - while I lost all semblance of myself, my goals, my dreams. If the world had ended yesterday, what would I have achieved? I have an amazing kid, but who am I other than his mama? Now that I know tomorrow is fairly certain, I am making big plans for this year to answer that question.</div>
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4. Appreciate your loved ones. Those beautiful people. The little joys. Because life would suck without them, and you don't realise that until it's sucking pretty bad. Appreciate them, then tell them that you're appreciating them. Don't be <i>that</i> guy saying 'if only I had one last chance to tell them...'</div>
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5. Scary things happen. Bad things happen. To you and me and people all round the world. <a href="http://galadarling.com/article/what-to-do-when-you-feel-like-your-heart-has-been-ripped-out">Dust off Your Shoulders</a> and keep moving, friend. Don't let those things overtake your life, don't let them define you. Let how you rise and re-build after that bad stuff define you. Be <i>that</i> girl. </div>
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So pretty much what I'm saying here (again) is that life really is too short. Too short for broken hearts and fear and shame and body issues. Your future is not a guarantee, your dreams should not be rainchecked. There are cocktails you need to learn how to make. Novels you need to write. Butterflies waiting to flit round your stomach when you see your crush. Red lipstick to be perfected. Songs that will make you wanna get up and dance no matter how low or how embarrassed you may feel. Bubble baths to be taken. Me, I already said <a href="http://singleathomemom.blogspot.co.uk/2012/12/twentythirteen.html">2013</a> is gonna be our year. The year I will actually put my dreams first. The year I will embrace every happy thought and feeling and person who brings that happiness into my life. And when the next Apocalypse is predicted... I won't be texting all my friends because they will already know how much I love them, I will accept my zombie fate knowing I gave it my all and all my end of the world confessions will be of scandalous things I did in the pursuit of joy. </div>
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Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16831267115474474233noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7133905885244680916.post-38718655897763849122012-12-20T11:58:00.002+00:002012-12-20T12:02:21.826+00:00No Parent is an Island<div style="text-align: justify;">
I'm going to say something fairly controversial here, but stick with me friends - I believe that there is a reason it takes two people to make a baby. That reason is because children need two parents. Controversial, I know, when millions of parents around the world, either through choice or misfortune or situation are parenting single-handedly. Hell, I'm one of them. I didn't choose to fly solo, my co-pilot jumped ship with the blonde sitting in 36D and he took my parachute with him. </div>
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There are parents in blended families, and multi-generational families and adopted families and two mommy/two daddy families, or mommy and daddy and their poly-amorous lover families all doing amazing jobs in whatever situation they raise their children in. But at the heart of it, it took two parties to make those children - even if one of those parties was a doctor in a lab coat, a turkey baster and a cooler bag full of swimmers, or a seemingly loving husband looking for the emergency exit. </div>
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Before you go casting me off as a pro-marriage/ 50's throwback/ traitor to my kind/ <a href="http://www.urbandictionary.com/define.php?term=rwnj">RWNJ</a> remember, I come from a family so blended we're practically a collage of disfunctionality (I am the eldest of six kids, yet officially I am an only child). I had a child out of wedlock and now I'm doing this whole single-parenting thing. I never said a child needs their biological father and mother, in a wedded situation, or that children raised in anything other than a nuclear family are lacking anything. What I mean to say is no parent is an island. Mom cannot live of parenting alone. It takes a village...</div>
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One of the best dynamics (admittedly one of the only ones that worked) of the relationship with my son's father, was how different we both were. What we both bought to the genepool and the family tree. Perhaps it was that other platitude of 'opposites attract', perhaps it was our mutually receptive pheromones hooking up to (pro)create our evolution-proof offspring. We completed each other (for a while anyway). So when it came to parenting, our kid got our differing years of experience, strengths and interests. There is a reason my 3yo can write his own name and there is a reason he can perform a three quarter turn headspin - that is what his father and I brought to the parenting table. While I love to read to my kid, explore the world with him, think up elaborate play situations to foster a love of the written word and expand his vocabulary, his father rough-houses, teaches him to throw punches and cartwheel, and creates wild imaginative scenarios as they play. In many ways we couldn't be more different - but together, as a parenting unit our son gets the best (and sometimes, unfortunately, the worst) bits of both of us. </div>
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Likewise, parenting as part of a team means that in those desperate moments, where your arms have not been free all day, the tantrums seem to have no end and there is sick-up in your hair, there is someone there to hand the baby to while you grasp a moment of sanity. Or to vent to, to offer support or words of guidance or to back you up. Parenting is not meant to be a one-woman expedition into the wild unknown. Previous generations parented with their mothers, grandmothers, aunts and sisters around to share and support, often daddy wasn't in the picture at all. We are the first generation to live in an age where parenting is a skill, where your success and failure is measured in your kids behaviour or their school reports or the lifestyles they choose to live as young adults. This is the first time we're expected to parent in isolation, with only childless 'gurus', sleep experts and the media to co-parent with us. </div>
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I am very fortunate that while my ex is less able to be a part of our son's life (through distance, work schedules and the constraints of visitation) there are other people helping me man this flight. Thank goodness for all those aunts and uncles and grandparents and extended family. There are my little brothers, who play with Vin is ways I couldn't have dreamed up. There are my parents who step in, in those moments I <a href="http://singleathomemom.blogspot.co.uk/2012/11/at-breaking-point-nearly-broken.html">think I'm going to break</a>. My best friend who is like my own personal cheering squad and a constant source of inspiration as a parent. My grandparents, married nearly 50 years and examples of unconditional love. Yes, there is a village raising this child. There is a village raising this mama too.</div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16831267115474474233noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7133905885244680916.post-84477522666639350672012-12-18T21:50:00.002+00:002012-12-18T21:50:18.619+00:00Twentythirteen<div style="text-align: justify;">
I wrote in my diary this time last year 'Twentytwelve is gonna be the year of the Taylor-Pages'. We had big plans, that little family of mine. Fate, it seems, has a sick sense of humour. Twentytwelve appears to have been a wasted year, where I spent the first half of it sick with pneumonia, then just before the middle hit, just as I was making plans for the kick-ass Summer of picnics and beachtrips and happy childhood memories, we get ditched. I say we, I mean me. I got ditched. My best friend broke my heart. London broke my heart. But us Taylor-Pages, that dwindling family of mine, we bounce back quick, and less than three months after all those horrible days where I didn't eat or sleep or speak much we were here, in our new home, ready to start a new life. And I'll be honest, I didn't love Birmingham right away, and I fell into a worse depression, and the kind of a depression where you're not even sure if there is a light at the end of that metaphorical tunnel, let alone able to visualise it. But I'm there, friends. At the break of twentytwelve, my feet are just starting to touch the ground and my head is just bobbing above that sink or swim line and things are starting to look somewhat rose-tinted.</div>
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And as we make plans for twentythirteen, and decide that this time we really will kick-ass, have adventures, live our dreams and as I write in another notebook 'Twentythirteen is gonna be the year of the Taylor-Pages' I'm struck by the realisation that that is exactly what this year was about. See, it is only Vin and I in the entire world that go by this name, Taylor-Page. My ex never took on my maiden name, when I took on his. The Taylor-Pages was only ever me, me and Vinnie. So yes, this year <b>was</b> our year. The year we defined what it is to be a Taylor-Page. The year we re-defined what family means to us. The year we took it all, and we took some more too. We fell out of love and into love and we made some amazing friends and appreciated our amazing family. And while none of my dreams for this year were really accomplished, we owned this year, this little family of mine. </div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16831267115474474233noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7133905885244680916.post-34294210925130242762012-12-17T20:29:00.000+00:002012-12-17T20:29:35.577+00:00Craiglist Personals - where romance (and my dreams) go to die<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<span style="background-color: white;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">As part of my ongoing adventures in <strike>self-loathing</strike> online dating and in the name of journalistic integrity, I feel it necessary to pursue every avenue in which the newly initiated could potential find <strike>their serial killer style death</strike> love.</span></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: white;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Readers, I ventured onto Craigslist. Having snubbed the e-mailed offerings of <a href="http://singleathomemom.blogspot.co.uk/2012/12/the-internet-your-new-matchmaker.html">Christian Mingle and Facebook</a> I am not sure I was quite prepared for what I found lurking beyond the <a href="http://london.craigslist.co.uk/i/personals?category=m4w">safe sex reminder</a>, clutching a wine glass (for protection, not courage) one Friday night. And there, of course, I made my first mistake. A site like Craiglist filters ads by recent posts, so looking for love at 10pm on a Friday night you are confronted by a wealth of <strike>sociopaths</strike> lonely hearted souls, who (much like myself, admittedly) find themselves alone while everyone else is out having a wild time and checking in on Facebook to prove it. While I'm contemplating another night of endless, despairing, soul-crushing, desperation versus the tempting little voice that tells me 'crack could be an interesting sidehobby girl',* guys all over the capital are ceasing their frenetic masturbating to Little Mix videos </span></span><span style="background-color: white; font-family: inherit;">long enough to form a vaguely legible sentence, pouring their heart and soul and longing into a personal ad, carefully crafted to engage, excite and ensnare the future </span><strike style="background-color: white; font-family: inherit;">victim</strike><span style="background-color: white; font-family: inherit;"> love of their life. Or as long as a random hookup takes. Which is pretty much all Craigslist is good for. That and offers of paid sex - which is... prostitution. And gross. There is zero room for romance (despite what that picture up there would suggest), all I'm hoping for is to come across someone (not literally, though there are ads requesting that too) who has read a book. I find this dream slowly drifting away as I scan the ads. As a friend puts it "</span><span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: inherit; line-height: 18px;">doesn't Mr Darcy tell Elizabeth he loves her most ardently and 4eva?" Oh yes, I had always intended to fall in love like they do in great literature. I'm not sure I'll find any Austen-ite heroes, I'm just praying I don't catch anything from reading some of these ads. </span></div>
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<span style="background-color: white;">Now, I'm not exactly naive when it comes to things like stranger danger on the net (some of my best friends and worst enemies were found in MSN chatrooms, back when we still relied on a dial-up signal). I'm also the kind of person who found "50 Shades" too vanilla. I've read my fair share of kink, heard enough lewd comments and met enough nutters. I was a model for years where most of the 'photographers' who wanted to work with me were middle-aged guys with a DSLR and a hotel room. I don't shock easily, but Craigslist, man you tested me. </span></div>
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<span style="color: #333333;"><span style="line-height: 17.999998092651367px;">I imagine I'm the contestant on Blind Date, listening to the offerings of my potential suitors from behind a sliding screen... here is what I'm confronted with tonight: <b>"I'd like like meet a woman </b></span></span><span style="background-color: white; font-family: inherit;"><b>who would like to be petted and dressed in different styles"</b> (that would be a Barbie doll, my friend), <b>"</b></span><span style="background-color: white;"><b>Im a normal guy with a desire to latch on to your nipples..lol.."</b> and <b>"</b></span><span style="background-color: white;"><b>Any girls want to try fucking on LSD" </b>- The Choice is Yours... I'll take a hit of </span><span style="background-color: white;">triple bonded acid and a week away in the Maldives please Cilla**</span></div>
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There are the ads I always avoid - those guys looking for heavily pregnant women, for example, on accounts that once you've seen something like that, you can never un-see it. I am always intrigued by the lactating ads though (perhaps I was missing a trick just feeding my child and donating the surplus milk to the hospital, I could have been making a fortune in fetish circles) - guys writing things like "relieving you of painful, engorged, swollen breasts" as though they are offering a handy service. I suggest he advertises in the NCT catalogue alongside the breastpumps and reusable pads. </div>
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<span style="background-color: white;">I do love checking out who has been in touch, wondering what they saw in my ad that sparked their interest... was it my wit and charm? Was it my referencing both Anders Breivik and the Dalai Lama? Was it my intriguing smile and captivating personality that made you get in touch mister "looking for a partner in crime"? (And while I'm sure you mean I'm a cute, quirky John and Yoko style all I keep thinking is <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Natural_Born_Killers">Mickey and Mallory</a>). I do think I found my perfect match in "gay guy seeks exploratory fumble" - seriously babe, I can accommodate. It sounds like you may have some intimacy issues <a href="http://singleathomemom.blogspot.co.uk/2012/11/all-right-lets-talk-about-it.html">ditto, kiddo</a> and you have very little room for comparison, which is good given my <a href="http://singleathomemom.blogspot.co.uk/2012/11/on-post-martial-relations.html">post-partem, post-breastfeeding, post-breakup body issues</a>. I'm pretty sure I am better looking than the average penis (words I never thought I'd type), but I'm not entirely sure I could cope with the soul-crushing prospect that after our romantic 'fumble' you actually decide you do prefer men. </span></div>
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<span style="background-color: white;">Craigslist does have an advantage over more conventional dating sites, and that is that none of the user pictures are moderated. So yeah, this leads to every other ad being posted by what is clearly a prostitution ring, but you also get <strike>a lot of cock pictures</strike> to check out what they really look like (from their crappy webcam pics) and you can make several astute judgements by what they <i>do </i>decide to post. I'm not saying I'll rule out your ad if you <i>don't </i>post a picture, I'll just assume you're ugly. Likewise, if you <i>don't</i> post a photo of your genitals... Exception to this rule is the guy who posted several photos of couples walking hand in hand into the sunset and... a picture of a Disney Princess kissing her handsome prince. I have no doubt you, my friend, <strike>were the original inspiration for Patrick Bateman</strike>, were not inundated with replies. </span></div>
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<span style="background-color: white;">And this is both the beauty and the problem with sites like Craiglist. No moderation, no limits, no posting rules. As my friend "You smoke a joint, then sit on my face and relax" proves. But I'll admit, I do return with an alarming frequency. Some of the ads read better than most clit-lit and there are <strike>all the cock photos</strike> all the hilarious posts that remind me why I'm so in love with <strike>being single</strike> the eccentricity of real people.</span></div>
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But if, like me, you find yourself trying to ignore your lively Facebook feed on a Friday night, I'd urge you to stay away from sites like Craiglist if you're looking for anything other than <strike>your own personal Ed Gein</strike> a giggle. Because when you read enough of this, you get dangerously close to turning your own self-loathing onto all men, everywhere. I'm assured by several lovely male friends that they're not all sociopaths who live with their mothers and treat women like subservient fuck-dolls, just those kinda guys probably don't hang out on sites like Craiglist (no doubt they're not too cheap to sign up to real dating sites, either). If it all gets so lonely and consuming that you would consider venturing onto Craiglist, my friend, I urge you to pick up that crackpipe instead***</div>
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*I've never taken crack, honestly mom, I just reference it for kicks and giggles.</div>
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**yup, this is the second time in a week I've referenced <a href="http://www.ukgameshows.com/ukgs/Blind_Date">Blind Date</a> in a post. It's clearly in a post-modern, self-referencing ironic way, just so we're clear.</div>
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***Seriously guys, don't take crack. Being single is not all that bad.</div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16831267115474474233noreply@blogger.com12tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7133905885244680916.post-32228265392792454232012-12-14T07:00:00.000+00:002012-12-14T21:54:40.616+00:00The Internet, your new matchmaker<div style="text-align: justify;">
I don't know if I mentioned before, but I never really told people when the ex and I broke up. I just updated my relationship status on Facebook and resumed life as usual. Little did I know that after the initial 'so sorry to hear that' comments from ex-colleagues and girls you sat next to in year 8 maths (mutual friends all diplomatically refusing to comment in a public forum, of course) ticking that little box has deeper implications. The Internet now knows you are single. And that my friends, starts a freaky self-aware turn of events in which the Internet has now proclaimed itself your very own Cilla Black (or Paddy McGuinness for those of you who didn't grow up in the 90s). </div>
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Friends and family and their offers of setting you up on blind dates, invites to dinner so you won't be dining by your sad little self and platitudes about fish in the sea (or the local nightclub) are easily dismissed with a martyr-like sniff, a comment about just being there for your kid and maybe a mention of 'when I'm feeling up to it' and then they leave that train of thought and go back to offers of 'anything I can do to help'. But the Internet, our spiritual home, infects every social network you visit with reminders of your sorry ass single status... promising introductions to Mr Right based on your 70% matchability with their online dating algorithms or similar. </div>
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Where once targeted marketing would suggest writing courses and meditation retreats based on my Facebook 'likes', or a tea cannister I had coveted on the Anthropologie online store would systematically crop up in the sidebar as I was checking my e-mails like a retail minded stalker whispering 'I know you looked at me once, now part with your cash bitch' - now I receive daily suggestions of dating sites, potential matches and hundreds of spam e-mail offering me 'hook-ups with singles in your area' (and, believe me, being from this area, is the one thing I will most definitely be avoiding in future hookups or otherwise). </div>
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Most bizarre are the daily onslaught of e-mails from Christian dating sites - ChristianMingle.com being the worst offender. Seriously, who have I pissed off to end up on their mailing list? My friend asks if I've been wearing too much gingham lately. I am sorely tempted to reply, explaining that after years of a dead-end relationship the only kind of man I'm looking for right now is one who is entirely un-christian. And yes, there are dating sites dedicated to that too. They've been in touch. As have several single parent dating sites - including pages that cater for single, childfree men, expressly wishing to date a singlemom (and I shudder at the reasons why that might be), uniform <strike>fetishists</strike> enthusiasts and a charming site that offers to match wannabe vampires with sympathetic donors (not sure about the match criteria for that last site, though I'm sure being on the organ donor list is a positive).</div>
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But it is not the reminders of my unending loneliness or the entirely unsuitable range of suitors sent my way that bothers me, as much as the fact that these sites have taken my 'single' status as though it is something to be fixed. As though it is something I should want to get out of as soon as possible. </div>
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Nevermind the narrow choice between 'single and looking' and 'single-not looking' where is the box that encompasses so many people who are somewhere around 'not actively looking, not put out by my single-ness, wouldn't mind if someone did come along right now, but don't mind terribly if they don't either'. I am writing to FB to offer some suggestions - perhaps 'plans to die alone surrounded by empty bottles of gin and old love letters', they could put that option next to the 'has a 100 cats' tickbox.</div>
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Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16831267115474474233noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7133905885244680916.post-71368279220421742482012-12-13T15:26:00.000+00:002012-12-14T22:05:30.925+00:00Mouse Killer II - Return of the Damsel in Distress<div style="text-align: justify;">
Of all the life changes I've been through in the last six months most of them have been resoundingly positive. I no longer resent the people I spend most of my time with, I have dreams that don't involve fitting around someone else's lifeplan, I can walk comfortably, not worrying about stomping around on anyone else's eggshells or fragile dainty ego. Now I spend less money on food, less time cleaning, more time being happy, being able to do whatever I want to at exactly the time I want to. And never ever having to worry about what someone else will think. In fact, somedays the glass half-empty list mostly contains not having a ready supply of chunky mansize socks to steal and having to do the washing up myself. Which is entirely fine with me if it also means not having to relinquish control of the remote. </div>
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Even taking the bins out, which was my super most awfully hated task pre-breakup is preferable to having to pick up someone else's discarded underwear. That was until I peered into the (supposedly) empty wheelie bin to find two beady eyes peering back at me. What happened next, I'm entirely ashamed to admit was an entirely girly response, which might have included some shrieking, door slamming and the Pankhursts adjusting position in their graves. </div>
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Having lived in London where you are supposedly never more than 10ft from a rodent creature you would think I'd be pretty adept at dealing with unwelcome visitors (and I'm not just talking about my ex-mother-in-law). But in those years in London I never encountered anything more unpleasant than a cheeky squirrel or the occasional bout of fox sex (though I did once get on the tube with Harriet Harman in Elephant and Castle, and that was decidedly unpleasant too). I was woefully unprepared in my new suburban home to deal with this godawful creature who was no doubt plotting my doom as I wondered what the hell I was supposed to do. </div>
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I know I'm supposed to call someone in these circumstances but the only answer I can come up with in my half-shock is 'Ghostbusters' and I'm not sure I have their number. The second alternative, that all the intellect, life experience and feminist politics I have been exposed to in my life shuddered at, was to call the ex. And here lies the problem. My brain automatically assumes 'rescue me' posture as seen in countless movie style heroines. I grew up watching Tank Girl ffs, I should have nuked the freaking thing. Nevermind the irrationality of calling the ex, who <strike>makes my skin crawl worse than an army of rats</strike>, lives over 100 miles away, <strike>useless in an emergency</strike>, never answers my calls and is not exactly vermin baiting strongman type anyway. </div>
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In the end, I did what all single 21st century damsels in distress do, I updated my FB status (where one of my friends offered to send her boyfriend round to get rid of it) and then I called my mom. Who suggests maybe a call to Environmental Health would be more useful (than calling Ghostbusters at least). They issue me with two boxes of council funded rodent poison (which, is reassuringly named 'Mouse Killer II' and comes in a box that looks like the kind of 80's B-movie I used to stay up late on a Saturday night to watch) leaving me more than equipped to deal with this and any further rodent population (jury's out on whether it will help with the rats who replied to my Craiglist Personals ad). </div>
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But this whole experience annoyed the crap out of me. At what point did I get so conditioned into helplessness that my only option was to call a man to come help me? How did I get so programmed that in a crisis I reach for the arms of a rescuer, and why, instinctively does that rescuer have to be a man? At what point have I been single long enough, independent, strong and feisty enough that calling the ex is not my first option? </div>
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p.s. I managed to deal with my furry friend myself, by kicking the bin over from behind a partly closed door, while simultaneously trying not to hyperventilate and attempting to portray calm, cool, collected strong female role-model in front of my son. I did not use the poison, of course, it scared the crap out of me just having it in the house and I love all furry creatures (just not in such close proximity to my face).</div>
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Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16831267115474474233noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7133905885244680916.post-7976474451573801522012-12-11T07:00:00.000+00:002012-12-14T22:08:59.753+00:00What dating a single-mom looks like (and why it's probably all worth it)<div style="text-align: justify;">
After I wrote <a href="http://singleathomemom.blogspot.co.uk/2012/12/do-guys-really-care-if-youre-single-mom.html">this post</a> and read (and cried and felt disheartened by) all those websites that made out like dating a single-parent was the worst thing a guy could imagine, I tried to write a list of my own. On why <strike>I'm such a catch</strike> you might actually <i>want </i>to date a woman who is also a single-mom. But I couldn't quite pull my serious face on long enough to write a serious list - carries a ready supply of snacks (if raisins in those little red boxes are your kind of thing)? Will probably be really impressed with your toy collection? Has an in depth knowledge of Pixar movies? Can assemble a Transformer singlehanded and thrives on zero hours sleep? Clearly I know what rocks a man's world, no?</div>
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Complete lack of seriousness aside, I know there <i>are</i> good things about dating a single-mom. We're talking about a person who has been through it<b> all </b>and come out of it stronger (and only slightly jaded and cynical). Someone who probably knows what they want - or at least has been in a crappy relationship long enough to know what they <i>don't</i> want. She has her own money, knows her own mind, has probably come to the conclusion she doesn't really <i>need</i> a man, and is therefore choosing to be with you, because she <i>wants</i> to. No doubt, they don't quite realise their own strength and courage and are fiercely independent. You get the best of both worlds - all the good stuff about being in a relationship but without the drama, insecurity or co-dependency. If you both decide that you're going to be part of the kiddo's life then you get a whole lotta joy that comes with being a part of a family - but avoid things like sleepless nights and the unending parenting worries.</div>
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I haven't been doing this single-mom thing for long, and I'm even less experienced with this dating thing. Maybe I'm not the one to be telling you what dating a single-mom is like - because like every other woman, single or not, mother or not, we're unique and so are our situations. Unique, special, messy, fucked up and beautiful. I often get e-mails and comments on my writing, saying lovely things like how I summed up what someone was thinking, they couldn't have written it better themselves etc. So I can tell you what dating me looks like, and maybe someone will relate and or <strike>run screaming</strike> empathise.</div>
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1. I have two nights a fortnight when my kid is with his dad - if I'm using that time to go out with you it means I like you more than I like the idea of 'me-time', bubble baths and sleep. The rest of the week I co-sleep, which means if I'm letting you share my bed know that I am giving up a whole night of blissful, lie in the middle of the bed, uninterrupted sleep for you. Also, since I have to work around visitation, 3pm on a Wednesday afternoon is sometimes an entirely appropriate time for a date. </div>
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2. I don't play games. I don't have the time, energy or headspace. My time is precious and so is my heart. If I like something, someone, I will say so, you will know it. If you piss me off, you will know that too. I'm forward and a chronic oversharer, I have this thing about living honestly with myself and somedays it all looks a bit crazy, but I'm always being myself (and I'll try to reign in the crazy at least at first). </div>
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3. I may not play games, but I will test you. It's not as scary as it sounds, if you're being tested it's because I like you enough to <i>want </i>you to pass, I just need to check you're not about to turn out a total jerk-off. Chances are you won't notice, so just be yourself and I'll handle any anything you wanna throw my way too (illegitimate children, wives in the attic, latent alcoholism and chronic OCD kind of thing). </div>
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4. I mostly make decisions based on signs from the universe, instinct and striving to do the best for my kid. Things won't always make sense to other people, but I have faith in my craziness.</div>
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5. My phone is always always on, because no matter how much fun we're having I always have to be available to my kid. Along the same lines, I will often receive a message, get distracted, cook dinner and build a city from Lego before I remember to reply, it's nothing personal, but if you get an instant response I'm either keen on you or my kid is napping. </div>
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6. I absolutely loathe being told what to do. I spent entirely too long in a controlling relationship to let anyone tell me what to do, say or think.</div>
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7. The above only applies in situations other than the bedroom. Just fyi. </div>
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8. I have lived with a guy for pretty much my whole adult life - I am an expert in compromise, diplomatic decision making and finding the good in people. That said, I now live in a world where my word is the only word and I quite love it - so if you move stuff in my fridge or touch my remote control you're getting ditched faster than you can say 'control issues'.</div>
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9. This is the longest time I've been single since I was 16 years old - I am woefully out of practise in being cool and impressive around people I think are cool and impressive. I get nervous easily, which throws off my spatial awareness and my sense of humour - so if I act like a dork, spill a drink on you and make jokes about daddy issues it's because really I was hoping to be charming and alluring. </div>
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...oh, and the most important thing you should know about girls like me? Anything you say or do on a date can and will be blogged. </div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16831267115474474233noreply@blogger.com117tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7133905885244680916.post-29958824621134280892012-12-10T10:27:00.002+00:002012-12-10T10:27:57.331+00:00On Gratitude...<div style="text-align: justify;">
Lately I've been very fortunate to be part of <a href="http://awesomelyawake.com/the-abundant-mama-project/">The Abundant Mama Project</a> with my friend Shawn over at <a href="http://awesomelyawake.com/">Awesomely Awake</a> - I truly believe in the power of the universe to provide just what you need at the time you are most craving it, and this little project came to me a couple of weeks ago when I was feeling <a href="http://singleathomemom.blogspot.co.uk/2012/11/at-breaking-point-nearly-broken.html">particularly low</a> and <a href="http://singleathomemom.blogspot.co.uk/2012/11/when-im-so-lonesome.html">particularly alone</a>. The aim of the project is to focus on gratitude, to recognize beauty and joy, to notice and give thanks for all the wonderful things in your life. It's kind of special, I tell you friends, you can <a href="http://awesomelyawake.us4.list-manage2.com/subscribe?u=266ac29f77e5de0ddba758ea8&id=2bd23b3290">sign up for the next round here</a>.</div>
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This week in the project we are focussing on people we love. Not things or places or situations, but those special people around you. I have set myself a challenge to write about one person each day, and to keep going and going, even when the obvious immediate friends and family have been covered. Today, I wanted to share a few notes I wrote this morning for my first day...</div>
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Vinnie. You knew I would say that right? The easiest one. The first one and the only one. In a life of always putting myself first, he became the number one and at that moment his life was the beginning of mine. I am grateful every day that he chose me to be his mama, that I was blessed enough to be that person to him. I am grateful for every change and challenge and lesson I undertake each day, as a result of him being in my life - patience, kindness, strength, trust, joy, faith, hope, power. I am grateful for every way I get to prove myself to him each day, I am grateful that I get to teach him joy and warmth and all those lessons little boys need to learn. I am grateful that while my life was turned on it's head this year, his face and his heart were the things that kept me going and I am grateful for the strength I find to keep going for him. </div>
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Mostly, I am grateful for every moment we've had together and for every moment we will have together - sleepless nights, unending worry, giggling tickle fights, high fives, building lego towers, hours of cajoling to get him to eat anything other than crackers and dry cereal, teaching him about the world, wet kisses, splashing in the bath, walking hand in hand, seeing magical things reflected in his eyes - I feel gratitude for all these moments, every one of them. </div>
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Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16831267115474474233noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7133905885244680916.post-2746940711738406242012-12-08T08:00:00.000+00:002012-12-08T08:00:03.116+00:00Do Guys Really Care if You're a Single Mom?<div style="text-align: justify;">
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">...This is something I stressed and got sick over so much in those early first weeks - in those moments I felt ok enough to imagine the prospect of dating again at some point. Interspersed with 'how exactly am I going to meet someone when my entire life is pretty much a trip to softplay and the supermarket?' and 'how could I imagine a guy would ever look at me while I was mostly looking down at my kid to avoid glancing at my own reflection' was 'wouldn't a man just run screaming if he asked for my number and I have to root around the spare pull-ups and Transformer toys in my handbag to retrieve my phone (which would no doubt have at least one dried up Cheerio stuck to the screen)?' Pre-kiddo I had this terrible habit that I charmingly described as 'eyeball-fucking' - now I could barely make eye contact with the waiter in the Italian deli who always called me 'Bella Donna' when he took my order. I stopped looking, and I stopped letting people look at me. I wished myself into invisibility. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">And then came a time when I had to leave the house without a spare pair of training pants and half a toy box full of distractions - I spent whole days alone, while my son was with his dad, and I didn't see or speak to anyone for hours, if at all. So I practised walking with my head held high, I worked on making eye contact, smiling, allowing myself to be just a little visible. I wasn't quite at eye-fucking stage, but I was getting pretty good at eyeball-flirting.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">And as my confidence crept back little by little, slightly softer round the edges and re-shaped by life and love and loss - I started to lift my head when I was out with my kid too. And as I looked around, people weren't looking straight through me, they weren't even recoiling in horror as I had expected. Some of those guys looked back at me, some of them might have tried a little eye-flirt of their own. </span></div>
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #111111; font-family: inherit; line-height: 19.983333587646484px;">I knew deep down that there are men out there who aren't put off by my having a kid - my own amazing father is actually officially my ex-step-dad having met my mum and me when he was in his late teens, got married and had my brother, then divorced and still wanted to be very much a part of my life. There must be some good guys out there I wondered, as I read page upon page of internet forums like <a href="http://dontmarry.wordpress.com/2007/05/13/6-reasons-to-never-date-a-single-mother/">this one</a> with such charming lines as <b>"</b></span><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: inherit; line-height: 19px;"><b>She decided to have a kid without a husband. This demonstrates terrible, selfish values..." </b>and <a href="http://survivingdating.com/why-men-hate-dating-single-mothers">this one</a> and <a href="http://uk.answers.yahoo.com/question/index?qid=20090720071955AAnkBc4">this one</a> (<b>"</b></span><span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: inherit; line-height: 16px;"><b>The last thing any guy should be is a meal ticket for any woman stupid enough to have kids before shes 25") </b>and there are more, many many more. It seems my fear wasn't entirely unfounded.</span></div>
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I read two blog posts this week that have brought me to this point, to writing this post. The first was another <a href="http://mssinglemama.com/">singlemom blog</a> who had written a post with a title <a href="http://mssinglemama.com/2008/01/17/do-men-really-care-if-youre-a-single-mom/">just like this one</a>. And the first line of that post said <span style="background-color: white; color: #111111; line-height: 19.983333587646484px;">“Do </span><em style="background-color: white; color: #111111; line-height: 19.983333587646484px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;"><b>you</b></em><strong style="background-color: white; color: #111111; line-height: 19.983333587646484px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;"> </strong><span style="background-color: white; color: #111111; line-height: 19.983333587646484px;">think men really care if you’re a single mom?” Oh right, I forgot about that. Mostly I've realised, it's only an issue when I make it one - lately there have been a couple of guys in my life (that have gone no further than eyeball-flirting, I assure you), all of them know about Vin, some of them I actually met when I was out with him - they saw me, kid and all and they didn't bolt for the door faster than you can say 'daddy issues'.Of all those guys (I say all, I don't mean like there's a lot at <i style="font-weight: bold;">all) </i>only one of them seemed to have an issue with my situation and when I realised that he might have been using my kid and my situation as an excuse not to completely be with me he started to look a lot less of a catch right about then.</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #111111; line-height: 19.983333587646484px;">The other thing I read was a feminist reaction to a quote that Lady Gaga had made in that feminist handbook, Cosmo magazine, that a career would never wake up one day and decide it didn't love you anymore. The blog outlined exactly my thoughts (only wish I could find the original post and tell you all to go read it!) - they are not mutually exclusive - your dreams/career/life (my kid) and having a great relationship with a great man. Because when you find a good guy who loves you for your dreams and strength and the way you live your life he will want to be a part of that, to support and live and thrive right alongside you.</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #111111; line-height: 19.983333587646484px;">I have no expectations when it comes to men, to dating, to my future in that respect. I don't need a man to support me or complete me or play daddy. I'm not using "love me, love my kid" as a chat-up line. But I know that I will never be with someone who doesn't at least accept my life, my situation and my kid - someone who wants me <i>because</i> of those things I go through, not in spite of them. All I want right now is acceptance, understanding and maybe the <b>ability</b> to one day fall in love with it all. </span><br />
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Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16831267115474474233noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7133905885244680916.post-90305579430263771312012-12-07T06:55:00.000+00:002012-12-07T07:59:23.263+00:00Screw This (and other thoughts on my imminent doom)<div style="text-align: justify;">
I'm pretty sure my kid is plotting my doom. He's a smart boy, I have no doubt he's inherited that streak of evil genius I loved in his father. I always knew that one day he would grow to be taller than me, he would speak down to me and he would break my heart in a million little ways. I just was not expecting it so soon. He cracks me up day after day - it's one of my most favourite things about him, if you can make me laugh you have my heart - when he asks me to bite the top off his banana because it's too sharp, when he yells for a mouseketool any time I'm struggling with carrying the shopping, when he tells me I'm a good boy for letting him eat Nutella on toast for dinner or he shares a single M&M with me because it has a 'm for mommy' on it, but then the rest of the pack are apparently blank. </div>
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Lately though, I'm laughing out of mortification. Actual dear-ground-open-up-why-don't-you moments. Like when we were having coffee with a friend, Vin insisted on asking his name eight hundred times, asked me to spell it out for him, then repeatedly called him by another name. That other name being the last guy I was seeing (Vin never actually met him, but he was particularly taken with his name). I guess I should be grateful he didn't call him daddy right?</div>
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And today, after watching 32 consecutive episodes of Handy Manny (who may or may not be Dora the Explorer's illegitimate father/uncle/meth dealer) and the dancing screwdrivers reminded me I should probably get round to putting those shelves up in the kitchen (you know the ones I promised I <a href="http://singleathomemom.blogspot.co.uk/2012/11/on-taking-power-back.html">could do myself</a>?) I don't have any tools, dancing or otherwise, and while Vin is very insistent we should just call daddy and tell him we need him to come help us with the shelves, I explain that daddy took his tools with him when he moved out and that mommy is going to buy her own tools. So we head out in search of pointy things and bangy things and drillbit type things. </div>
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While I'm <strike>wondering what the hell I'm doing</strike> shopping Vin gets chatting to the shop assistant - she asks him his name, he tells her he is Handy Manny, "Oh Andy, lovely to meet you" she replies, and for once he doesn't correct the mistake (seriously, we're talking about the kid who kicked off at Santa for full-naming him). Nice lady asks Vinnie what he's looking for, and my kid comes out with the following diatribe as I simultaneously plan my shuffle off this mortal coil: </div>
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<b>"Mommy needs a screw. She did have a screw but then daddy went to live with {new girlfriend} and mommy can't screw anymore. But she does have a friend called {coffeeshop guy} and he might help her screw her shelf in the kitchen".</b></div>
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DIY lady shoots me a look that burns me right to my core and hands my kid a pack of 3.5mm drywall screws. Meanwhile I wonder if throwing myself upon them in the hope of impaling myself would end this before he gets any smarter. </div>
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Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16831267115474474233noreply@blogger.com11tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7133905885244680916.post-89990600417138288352012-12-06T15:46:00.001+00:002012-12-06T18:34:06.889+00:00On Unsolicited Advice and the Art of Just Doing What Feels Right<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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Friends, I'm right in the middle of unchartered territories right now. The unknown waters of having people in your life, who want to know all the intimate moments of your personal life, the innermost workings of your brain and a minute by minute blow of every minute detail - I'm not talking about my newly rekindled <strike>oversharing</strike> love affair with Twitter - no, for the first time in years I am living in close proximity to my family, and for the first time in forever I am actually engaged in conversation with these people on an almost daily basis. As I wander round the other untrodden path that is my life right now, my family and my friends are right there through each up and down and decision to be made, they are their with their advice and their stories and their never ending advice.</div>
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And there is that other new phenomenon I am faced with - of seeming not to have everything all under control - having before always had a plan, a destination and a dream. Having been some sort of supermom-housewife-power-couple who wrote a dissertation while on maternity leave, attended every church prayer group meeting while attachment parenting a high-energy child, set up a business, worked a 50 hour week while having a <strike>happy and fulfilling</strike> relationship, learning lines with the ex while massaging out his hamstring and baking my own bread at the same time. Yeah, that was kind of my life. Unrecognisable from the crying mess you see now, wandering round a house full of shelves I <a href="http://singleathomemom.blogspot.co.uk/2012/11/on-taking-power-back.html">couldn't put up</a>, mourning my <a href="http://singleathomemom.blogspot.co.uk/2012/11/the-future-i-had-imagined.html">empty future</a> and not knowing how to set my own hot water to come on before I get up. I was vulnerable as fuck to all that well-meaning advice - my life obviously needed fixing and clearly, I didn't know how to do that. Enter those helpful helpful loved ones. </div>
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It was the same right after Vinnie was born, everyone - parents or not - had some gem of wisdom for me. From not carrying him so much in case he never learned to walk to supplementing his milk with whiskey to help him sleep (I heard this more than once!!) I was a new mum and therefore needed someone to tell me what to do with my kid and how I should be doing it. Except when it turned out, I pretty much got that newborn parenting thing down - my kid was happy, I was happy and people realised I wasn't listening to their <strike>dodgy</strike> advice anyway. </div>
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And now as I step into further unknown waters - of single-parenting, raising a boy as a lone woman, dating with a kid at home - the advice comes flooding in so quick, I struggle to keep afloat. Unsolicited, mostly unfounded (like my grandma who has been married since she was 19 telling me a woman doesn't really need a man around) and driving me absolutely batshit crazy.</div>
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I tried a new philosophy after the break-up - to take advantage of every opportunity that presented itself, not to deny myself or talk myself out of things that could potentially bring joy and fun and excitement. But this 'just say yes' approach led me to another unchartered situation - where I had somehow said yes to going on a date with three different guys in one week. Which I know, is not exactly a ground-breaking, life-changing kind of situation - more mildly hilarious and somewhat ridiculous given that I have only ever been on maybe one date my entire adult life (and that one led to him moving in with me two weeks later). But it was a situation I didn't really want to be in - not least because the prospect of dating one guy scared the actual crap out of me- and besides my life is far too busy and babysitters far too short in supply to be juggling guys like that. So of course, I found myself faced with a barrage of advice - none of which I had asked for or particularly cared to hear. But dishing out words of wisdom is particularly gratifying for other people - and in keeping with my new 'yes-man' status there was only one answer to the question 'do you want to know what I think?' </div>
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Everyone had an opinion on what I should be doing, which of those unwitting suitors I should be standing up and who I should or shouldn't be sleeping with. I heard it all from a suggestion to try lesbianism for a while (which I have no doubt would not have solved my love triangle dilemma) to a friend suggesting I 'save myself' while things are so fucked up and complicated for me right now - and this option sounded entirely appealing until he added that I only save myself until he had got round to ditching his current girlfriend. Ahem. Most popular in the unsolicited words of wisdom seemingly coming from every direction, including my best friend and my own mother was to go out with all of them, drink a lot and sleep with all of them. I'm also pretty sure I heard the phrase 'YOLO' at least once (which, of course, I had to Google because I am pretty much a 25yo commie version of a Tory politician). I responded to most of these 'you're only young once'/'go sow your wild seed' types by reminding people I mostly get my kicks wearing warm socks, churning my own butter and living vicariously through my 3yo's social life - apparently this only furthered their point that getting drunk and getting laid was exactly what I neeeded. </div>
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I'm pleased to say that although I had intended to say 'yes' more often, I also realised that sometimes I should probably choose what I say 'yes' to and that includes dating advice from people who should know better. It also led to a somewhat healthier philosophy of just doing what feels right - which sometimes means I'm too nervous to do something I know I probably should do, and sometimes means I have to turn down entirely beautiful boys who I can't bring myself to attempt to juggle. There was a reason I opened myself up to other people's opinions like that, and that was because that situation I found myself in <b>didn't</b> feel right to me - I looked around for a clue and everyone threw their own answers at me. </div>
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So now as I tread water in this life I am living, learning to float with the weight of my situation and everyone around me reaches out a hand to 'help', I am going to trust my own judgement when deciding which liferaft I should be holding on to. </div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16831267115474474233noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7133905885244680916.post-65924313800709316232012-11-27T14:28:00.004+00:002012-12-06T18:41:42.238+00:00On Post-Martial Relations<div style="text-align: justify;">
... I should probably clarify, I'm not talking about getting down to it after you get married, I talked about that (and the <a href="http://singleathomemom.blogspot.co.uk/2012/11/all-right-lets-talk-about-it.html">lack of that</a> before). No, I'm talking about the post-marriage sex that, unless you are Miss Havisham-ing it, you might end up facing one day. Imagine your first time ever - <b>sweaty-fumbling-too soon-are my boobs big enough-what if I do it wrong-oh god something going to break-will he still love me in the morning</b> and that first time after giving birth - <b>sweaty-fumbling-too soon-are my breastpads leaking-what if I do it wrong-oh god don't bust open my stitches-will he get up to do the expressed feed in the morning</b> - rolled into one. Post-break-up coitus is pretty much <b>sweaty-fumbling-too soon-did my boobs always disappear when I lay on my back-what if I do it wrong-am <i>I</i> broken-will he still be here in the cold light of the morning.</b></div>
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Sex was a big part of my identity, my growing up, my body politics and my self-esteem - no it wasn't all great stuff, and some of it I don't identify with now - but I got to a place where I was pretty sex positive and pretty happy with myself and my place in the world. Sex was a big part of my relationship with my ex, at least at the beginning, and then it wasn't. My transformation into a mother was a sudden start and a gradual process, one that I am still undergoing now and probably will be every day for the rest of my life. But the way I felt about my body, how I felt about sex, that was almost instantaneous. Suddenly my body was not mine anymore, it was mine and not just mine. I was that metaphorical temple and there was a baby buddha in side of there. My body was not mine to give to anyone else at this point. I know that sex during pregnancy is mostly safe and mostly recommended, and I definitely would never condemn anyone for choosing that, but I just felt different. While the other expectant mums were discussing comfortable positions to accommodate their bumps and whether or not sex was effective in inducing labour - I just felt... different. My body was changing in marvellous and miraculous ways, the relationship with my ex was deepening, I achieved my first ever transcendence at an ante-natal yoga class - I was happy and excited and a rush of hormones and planning, but sex was just a tiny blip on my radar at that point. </div>
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Fast forward a couple of months, I had had a 46 hour drug-free intervention free labour, a second degree tear, 12 stitches... I had spent weeks curling my toes and gritting my teeth as I tried to breastfeed my baby with an incorrect latch and months more, exhausted as my constant feeder never never never slept. Somewhere in amongst all that, sex fell off the radar completely. </div>
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I lost the 'baby-weight', I wore my skinny jeans, I learnt how to paint my nails while feeding - but my body was just not the same, the way I felt about myself was not the same. Yes, I had undergone massive transformations, things you could not imagine possible had happened to me and inside of me and because of me, I felt pretty great about the birth and everything that came after it. But myself, I was not pleased when I looked in the mirror (still three years later it is not *the same* and I am only now coming to terms and acceptance with that). </div>
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I breastfed my son till he was 19 months, by that time I had given up so much of my body and I had changed so unrecognisably I stopped seeing myself as a sexual being. I had no desire, lust or passion or anything else. I got my kicks in entirely more mediocre ways than in the bedroom. And over time my relationship died, and the only person who remembered that girl I used to be, nineteen years old, confident, sexy and wild - the way I used to look, the body I used to have, they were gone too. I had been with one person for the whole of that six year period, my entire adult life - I had stopped flirting, stopped dressing up, I didn't fantasise. I had stopped seeing myself as anyone but housewife, mother, partner, friend. </div>
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And sometime after the break-up I admitted to myself that I might have to possibly consider the prospect of maybe one day meeting someone who I like enough to unleash that whole bunch of crap on in the hopes he won't run screaming from my chronic oversharing and still find me endearing enough to want to bump uglies while simultaneously not talking myself out of liking him Marxist style (Groucho not Karl) if after all the aforementioned oversharing and esteem issues, he still does. You know, in the far far off future.<br />
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I couldn't even imagine it at that point, but I kinda knew it would happen eventually - as much as I wanted to wail how I would never love again, how my confidence and my heart had been trampled on entirely too often and consign myself to a lifetime of mourning - I was somewhat realistic. And optimistic. The all-encompassing love is only encompassing while you're in that 'all' - after that it is just was-encompassing. I was ready to accept that it would happen, at some point (in the far off future). I'm not going to go into detail about how crippling my anxiety was at this thought, I spent entirely far too many nights losing sleep - and not for the right reasons, I tell you.<br />
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So with the distant prospect of the s word, the l word, the f word and all sorts of other words I'm sure they'd introduced in my years out of the game (not the prostitution one, mind) I figured time was about right to work on some of my 'issues'. I got my groove back, a little at a time. I worked on those body confidence issues, I gave myself a metaphorical slap in the face somedays. I practised self-love - in more of a telling your reflection you love them, than the kind of self-love I know you're thinking about right now, I assure you. I read my old body positive writing. I read a bunch of dirty stories. I read '50 Shades' (albeit through gritted teeth and not without the occasional Twitter rant on feminism, poorly constructed plotlines and the over-hyping of bad erotica) mostly to prove to myself I could still get turned on, to realise no, my mind or my body were not broken, to remember all those things I used to love about sex and check that they hadn't somehow changed it in those six years of fidelity and frigidity (they hadn't).<br />
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And while I was trying to 'cure' myself, I met someone. Someone who was wild and passionate in all those ways I used to be, those ways I had forgotten how to be. Someone who could drive me crazy and made me feel like I drove him crazy too. Someone who didn't see those stretchmarks I agonised over, who didn't baulk when I took off my push-up bra, who didn't see the fact that some parts of my body are bigger than and some parts of my body are smaller than that girl I was when I was 19. Someone who didn't notice all those bags I'd packed for myself over the years of losing a part of me, finding another part of me, losing my heart, finding some courage. He didn't look at me and see "used to be", "this many months of this or that", "ditched in favour of a blonde dance instructor who dresses her pet chihuahua in sparkly pink hoodies"or anything else I had come to identify myself as. He saw strong, independent, graceful, sometimes shy, sometimes self-conscious. He saw my legs and arms and hair and body and face - mine now, not who I used to be, not who I thought of myself as.<br />
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And yeah, then came the sex. I was nervous as all hell. I was convinced I had forgotten, that it would go wrong somehow. I was more nervous than my first time - back then I was cocky, fierce and I felt powerful - I didn't know fear or shame or pain or guilt and I had no point of reference. In amongst all that lying back and thinking of England I realised something, I re-learnt something. Something I had learnt in all those formative years of exploration and explicitness... sex is just sex. All the other stuff, kink, romance, hang-ups, self-consciousness, love, shame - that's all the shit we bring to the table, or the bedroom in this case. All those bad words I thought about my body, I could forget them, at least for half an hour (I'm lying it was way more than half an hour, at least like a yearlong or something). My new found phobia of intimacy - that didn't have to be a part of it. I could make a decision to. Just. Have. Sex.<br />
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And like I said, sex is just sex. They hadn't changed what felt good (or very very bad) in that 6 years. The male anatomy is pretty much the same as it was six years ago or ten years ago or when the Vitruvian Man got his first modelling job. The logistics, semantics, mechanics of how someone responds when you do just this or that here or in that spot (or both with alternating pressure). It was like riding a bike, except, you know, it wasn't quite.<br />
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Sex can be everything and it can mean nothing. It can be a part of you or your relationship or not. It's just you, on your own, with someone, with a whole group of someones if you like. But really, it's just sex. We've all been there, we've mostly done that and it's really not worth losing sleep over (except, y'know, when it is).<br />
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Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16831267115474474233noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7133905885244680916.post-43758193810023308222012-11-23T08:00:00.000+00:002012-11-23T08:00:01.236+00:00lately...<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<br />Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16831267115474474233noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7133905885244680916.post-48094780139689584262012-11-22T12:04:00.000+00:002012-11-22T12:04:06.407+00:00At Breaking Point, Nearly Broken<div style="text-align: justify;">
Last week nearly broke me. The exhaustion nearly broke me. Loneliness nearly broke me. Doing this, single parenting thing, it nearly broke me. My kid and his insane energy nearly broke me. Looking at my finances nearly broke me. Being the sole source of <u>everything</u><i> everything</i> for this little family nearly broke me. </div>
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I got to a point and I told myself 'this is it, this is my breaking point'. I can't remember when I have felt so low or so alone, but that was it. I felt as if one more demand was place on me, one more thought I had to think or need for my attention, my energy, I would break. I was at that point where a question like 'what's wrong?' had an impossible answer. Where one more person in my headspace would have tipped it over. Where when my family asked me how my week had been I couldn't answer for choking back the tears and they knew in that moment and forced me to rest and took care of my kid for a few hours while I did. </div>
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And I stepped back a little. Back from that breaking point. And I realised, I couldn't break. I wouldn't shatter into a million tiny pieces. I thought I was at breaking point - but you're a parent, you can't ever be there. You can't let yourself lie broken on the floor, some tiny feet would come and step on the mess and someone would need to pick out those tiny splinters. Someone would need to sweep up. Someone would need to stick everything back together and someone would need to kiss it all better again. </div>
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Last week I didn't let myself break. I wasn't at my breaking point. I was being pushed and pulled and tugged at, but I wouldn't break. I know that now. That was just my stretching point. </div>
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Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16831267115474474233noreply@blogger.com20tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7133905885244680916.post-90399955430579921272012-11-19T21:39:00.000+00:002012-11-19T21:39:21.583+00:00Something to be Proud Of...<div style="text-align: justify;">
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Do you ever think about all the labels we wear; as women, as mothers - some of them self-declarations, some of them imposed upon us by others. All a result of decisions we have made. I remember back when I was pregnant and frequented Babycentre and other parenting forums, people would list their decisions in their signature 'co-sleeping, cloth bumming, baby wearing, anti-cio, blw-ing, attached parent to 6mo little angel' and similar. I think the biggest ones were always to do with how you chose or had to feed your baby (bottle, breast, express, combination etc) and whether or not you were willing to let your little one 'cry it out' or Gina Ford-it. </div>
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Now our kids are older, our decisions are probably less cut, maybe they have less significance now. There are still big labels, stereotypes and identities we face - working mother/ stay at home mom being the biggest two that spring to mind. For me I face another label, I have talked before about my new role as a Single Mother.</div>
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And in my attempts to make this situation feel 'ok' and not just ok, but something I truly accept and embrace I think back to all those labels I have worn so far in my parenting 'career'. Those are all decisions I made at the time, decisions I am proud of and that I mostly stuck to and still believe in. They are things that have caused massive debates in the media - the case for and the argument against extended breastfeeding or breastfeeding in public for example, the decision to co-sleep, the choice not to return to work after maternity leave. Those were my choices and those are my labels. I was proud to breastfeed my son, not because I felt superior to anyone who chose not to, or couldn't breastfeed, but because that was right for my family. I am proud that through my decisions to co-sleep and babywear and not to let my son cry, Vinnie and I have a great attachment - I'm not proud because I think my way was the 'right' way, but it was the right thing for my family. I am proud every day of my son, and as much as society loves modesty and humbleness, I am proud of myself, for making informed decisions, fighting for what I believe in, doing the right thing by my son and my family - for having done an ok job so far.</div>
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I didn't exactly make the decision to become a Single Mom, it was a situation brought upon me, and one I was not prepared for. But now I face a decision, I can be confined by my labels, I can live up to stereotypes or I can live in my new role. I define myself, here in this space, as a Single Mom, and while I am not limited to that label, it is one of the biggest challenges, roles, plates to step up to, in my life right now. I can make it something I am proud of. </div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16831267115474474233noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7133905885244680916.post-90204376434638442182012-11-17T19:00:00.000+00:002012-11-28T19:41:40.524+00:00On Taking the Power Back<center>
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This week I started getting my house straight. All those little jobs you know you should do, but for whatever reason you don't. I say whatever reason - I know exactly the reason, these would be the little jobs I would have asked my ex to do. Like hanging pictures and fixing door handles, sweeping the bin cupboard and tightening that loose hinge. Little things that bug you each day, things that are easy enough to accomplish, but for some reason it's easier just to ask (and ask and nag) someone else to do it. </div>
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And I know that some of those tasks, I could have done easily, and it would have been a good job and I didn't do them, because I just couldn't be bothered. But some of those things, I handed over responsibility, because I didn't know how to - like hanging pictures, which involves drilling holes and funny little rawplugs and in my life it has been ingrained that those are jobs for men to do. And some of those jobs - those jobs were taken from me. See my ex was a perfectionist. He could be a major control freak. And little by little I was told that I was doing things wrong, that things that weren't done his way were the wrong ways. Like how I used the vacuum cleaner or how I washed up. Things that in the grand scheme of things didn't seem worth pointing out, or fighting over. So I said fine, and I did things his way, or I didn't do them at all. I handed my power over. </div>
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And you might be thinking that by handing them over, by not doing things I was doing myself a favour - because who likes chores anyway? But when I nodded and accepted and mumbled what I was doing was affirming my in-capability to do that thing. I was saying 'yes, you're right, so by default, I'm wrong'. And when eventually that doormat behaviour got boring and he left, I am now surrounded by things I <i>could</i> have done, but for some reason I don't. My confidence was undermined. My ability to cope and achieve and thrive was called into question, and every mumbled acquiesce has only served to further that. I talked earlier this week about <a href="http://singleathomemom.blogspot.co.uk/2012/11/after-co-dependency.html">co-dependency</a> and this goes way further than that. To the point of plain dependency. </div>
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I realise, through some therapy and some soul-searching and a lot of journalling how much power I gave away. Day after day. To save arguments and to save our relationship. Now I face all those tasks, the ones I didn't do because he was there, he was better than me or he was more capable than me. Those things now I have to learn and re-learn and drill and hammer and screw things to other things. I'm not going to call on someone else to come fix those things, those tasks are mine, that power is mine, the sense of accomplishment will be mine. Though I might have to call someone to borrow their drill. </div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16831267115474474233noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7133905885244680916.post-9447882495554247672012-11-16T19:00:00.000+00:002012-11-17T11:30:53.943+00:00The Same but Different<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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We do handover - a few brief minutes in a train station waiting room. And in those minutes I try to impart every piece of important information, all the new words, new routines, potty training, favourite foods and recent accomplishments, every first, every proud or cute and vital moment of our child's last two weeks. And I am always shocked sideways by how cold these moments have become - we who were once so crazy in love we were living together within weeks of meeting, squashed into a single bed, because that was all we had to be together. He looks at me now without recognition or understanding. He calls me old nicknames but they sound wrong coming from a hard cold mouth, the one that once held so many kisses and whispered promises. The same mouth, but different. </div>
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Today we are softer with each other, we have promised to be better at communicating, promised to 'try'. We have coffee, I tell him about my family - some of them are sick, some of them are old - and for a moment his compassion changes his face and I want to reach out to his hand to comfort and be comforted - but I stop myself. Things are different now, but for a second it was the same. </div>
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When we talk we use only half-sentences, we know each other's mind so well we don't need all the words. We talk about our mutual friends and he has had the same thoughts, the same opinions - he gives me the same look and I see it in our same raised eyebrow. The same, but different.</div>
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I notice those new grey hairs, he notices a millimetre change in me. We are different, and still the same. </div>
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And now, I lie with a new lover and he with his. I don't know how things got so different. I crave that same-ness, I wonder if I will ever have it again? I feel passion and joy and electric sparks when I meet those lover's eyes and it's the same kind of feelings. But different. </div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16831267115474474233noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7133905885244680916.post-81224043441995082362012-11-14T20:00:00.000+00:002012-11-15T07:54:46.027+00:00The Single Moms Club<div style="text-align: justify;">
The day I took that positive pregnancy test my life changed, my whole life - I have talked about it many times before, and I think about it every single day. The most immediate change was not actually that tiny life inside - just a few days old and a tiny collection of cells at that point - the biggest change right then was how I thought of myself. I remember walking through a crowd the next day thinking "don't bump into me - I am <i>with child</i>." When a guy smiled at me I wanted to tell him off, I was going to be somebody's <i>mother</i> after all! Once the news spread I was suddenly no longer allowed to reach things on high shelves or stand on public transport. I had joined that (sometimes) exclusive club of motherhood. I smiled at other pregnant women, they smiled back with that satisfied dreamy smile that only pregnant women can encompass - 'yes, I feel it too mama'. I stared at tiny babies and little children, I recognised my future self in their parents. I had arrived.</div>
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I moved to London with 6 month old Vinnie, to a place I couldn't have pointed out on a map, where I knew a grand total of two people - my kid and my ex. I had to make friends, so I sought out other mamas. Anyone with a buggy or an ergo wrap - 'hey lady, I have a kid too, let's be friends!' And it worked, I made lots of friends, people I might never have met had it not been for the fact we had kids around the same time. I built relationships and a community there, based around the mutual fact we were parents. We could swap stories and tips and empathise and giggle together all because we knew, we all felt the same.</div>
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And then I joined a new club. One that is not so esteemed. I gained a new label the 'Single Mom'. Really, nothing had changed, my ex moved out, I got a little less sleep. But I was still the same woman, the same mother. But everything had changed. I started to feel isolated. I looked at my kid like <a href="http://singleathomemom.blogspot.co.uk/2012/11/when-im-so-lonesome.html">"it's just me and you now kiddo"</a>, we were all we'd got. I didn't tell my friends or my family about my break-up for over a fortnight, the first person I did reach out to was another single mom. She knew. She could empathise. She had known that taste of bitterness and frustration. She had the fear. I felt it too.</div>
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Eventually I told people (actually, I updated my relationship status on Facebook and ignored my phone when it started to ring) - but after that a shift happened. I was recognised as a single mom. And anyone who was there, or had been there, suddenly they identified with me. My relationship with my own mom - herself a single mom for most of my childhood - strengthened and deepened in our mutual understanding and experience. Old workmates, my dad's girlfriend, a friend of the family all reached out their arms and they welcomed me into their club. The one that said, 'We know it too'. They knew the pain and the anger I was feeling, they had felt it too and let me tell you, there is no fury like a single mother scorned.</div>
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Recently something has changed in me too. As I come to terms with my new life, roles and <a href="http://singleathomemom.blogspot.co.uk/2012/11/reclaiming-single-mom.html">labels</a> and as I share my thoughts and my hopes and my fears and my dreams here - people are reaching out to me to tell me their stories - of troubled marriages and first husbands and thoughts of separation and the fear we both know.</div>
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I have talked before about how motherhood changes you, how you walk and talk and think of yourself. And I think single motherhood does too. How I approach my kid and any more kids I may have, every path I choose and every relationship I have and the way I relate to every other mother, it will always be different. Now that I have seen motherhood from this side, it will always be different.</div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16831267115474474233noreply@blogger.com1