Craiglist Personals - where romance (and my dreams) go to die

As part of my ongoing adventures in self-loathing 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 their serial killer style death love.

Readers, I ventured onto Craigslist. Having snubbed the e-mailed offerings of Christian Mingle and Facebook I am not sure I was quite prepared for what I found lurking beyond the safe sex reminder, 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 sociopaths 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 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 victim 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 "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. 

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. 

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: "I'd like like meet a woman who would like to be petted and dressed in different styles" (that would be a Barbie doll, my friend), "Im a normal guy with a desire to latch on to your nipples..lol.." and "Any girls want to try fucking on LSD" - The Choice is Yours... I'll take a hit of triple bonded acid and a week away in the Maldives please Cilla**

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. 

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 Mickey and Mallory). 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 ditto, kiddo and you have very little room for comparison, which is good given my post-partem, post-breastfeeding, post-breakup body issues. 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.  

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 a lot of cock pictures to check out what they really look like (from their crappy webcam pics) and you can make several astute judgements by what they do decide to post. I'm not saying I'll rule out your ad if you don't post a picture, I'll just assume you're ugly. Likewise, if you don't 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, were the original inspiration for Patrick Bateman, were not inundated with replies. 

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 all the cock photos all the hilarious posts that remind me why I'm so in love with being single the eccentricity of real people.

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 your own personal Ed Gein 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***

*I've never taken crack, honestly mom, I just reference it for kicks and giggles.

**yup, this is the second time in a week I've referenced Blind Date in a post. It's clearly in a post-modern, self-referencing ironic way, just so we're clear.

***Seriously guys, don't take crack. Being single is not all that bad.

The Internet, your new matchmaker

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). 

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. 

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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). 

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 fetishists 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).

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. 

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.

Mouse Killer II - Return of the Damsel in Distress

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. 

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. 

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. 

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 makes my skin crawl worse than an army of rats, lives over 100 miles away, useless in an emergency, never answers my calls and is not exactly vermin baiting strongman type anyway. 

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). 

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? 

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).

What dating a single-mom looks like (and why it's probably all worth it)

After I wrote this post 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 I'm such a catch you might actually want 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?

Complete lack of seriousness aside, I know there are good things about dating a single-mom. We're talking about a person who has been through it all 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 don't want. She has her own money, knows her own mind, has probably come to the conclusion she doesn't really need a man, and is therefore choosing to be with you, because she wants 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.

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  run screaming empathise.

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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. 

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). 

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 want 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). 

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.

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. 

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.

7. The above only applies in situations other than the bedroom. Just fyi. 

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'.

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. 

...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. 

On Gratitude...

Lately I've been very fortunate to be part of  The Abundant Mama Project with my friend Shawn over at Awesomely Awake - 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 particularly low and particularly alone. 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 sign up for the next round here.

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...

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. 

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. 

Do Guys Really Care if You're a Single Mom?

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...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. 

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.

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. 

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 this one with such charming lines as "She decided to have a kid without a husband. This demonstrates terrible, selfish values..." and this one and this one ("The last thing any guy should be is a meal ticket for any woman stupid enough to have kids before shes 25") and there are more, many many more. It seems my fear wasn't entirely unfounded.

I read two blog posts this week that have brought me to this point, to writing this post. The first was another singlemom blog who had written a post with a title just like this one. And the first line of that post said “Do you 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 all) 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.

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.

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 because of those things I go through, not in spite of them. All I want right now is acceptance, understanding and maybe the ability to one day fall in love with it all. 

Screw This (and other thoughts on my imminent doom)

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. 

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?

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 could do myself?) 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. 

While I'm wondering what the hell I'm doing 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: 

"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".

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. 

On Unsolicited Advice and the Art of Just Doing What Feels Right

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 oversharing 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.

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 happy and fulfilling 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 couldn't put up, mourning my empty future 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. 

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 dodgy advice anyway. 

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.

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?' 

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. 

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 didn't feel right to me - I looked around for a clue and everyone threw their own answers at me. 

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. 

On Post-Martial Relations

... I should probably clarify, I'm not talking about getting down to it after you get married, I talked about that (and the lack of that 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 - 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 and that first time after giving birth - 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 - rolled into one. Post-break-up coitus is pretty much sweaty-fumbling-too soon-did my boobs always disappear when I lay on my back-what if I do it wrong-am I broken-will he still be here in the cold light of the morning.

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. 

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. 

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). 

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. 

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.

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.

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).

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.

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.

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.

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).

lately...