People generally want children. It’s what we are programmed for. Some people are more keen than others, some plan for parenthood and others have it thrust upon them. I had it thrust upon me. To this day I still hold the fertility statue at Ripley’s in Blackpool responsible for my little boy. His father and I had used every kind of protection possible, obviously guilty sperm is potent sperm because his little swimmers beat their way through a condom, past the inhospitable environment created by the strongest contraceptive pill available and even overcame my infertility caused by polycystic ovaries.
Personally, I had never had a desire for children, I had never even held a baby before, this was not going to be easy! Nine very long months went by and eventually, after bleeding, vomiting, scares, pains, SPD, more vomiting, more pain, carpel tunnel, more vomiting, oh the vomiting, and four days of unbelievably painful labour I was holding my little boy in my arms watching him grope around for my nipple…W.T.F!? Suddenly something that had always been for my pleasure was now serving as a drinks fountain for a little purple boy with ginormous balls, I mean they were HUGE! And no one, not one person tells you that your baby is going to come out purple and shrivelled. In this situation, it appears to be the wrong thing to do to exclaim that he looks like a raisin.
So a brief brush with death later (mine, not my son’s) while I was being fisted by a surgeon with incredibly large arms who was apparently removing the remains of the placenta (seriously, people do this by choice, I could feel her fist in my womb, that shit just is not natural!), a couple of nights in hospital, I was sent off into the big wide world with my little boy to tackle life and all it could throw at us.
The following weeks went by in a blur of people asking me how much he weighed (I knew then, but actually have no idea now, I just know he was big!) and asking if he was a good baby, how can you be a good baby? Babies are bloody boring! They come out looking gross, and they literally do nothing but suck your nipples raw and poop all over you for the first three months, they might occasionally have a kip, but for the most part, they make noise and smell.
After a few months they start to show signs of human life, you might get a smile here and there, but in all honesty, the first six months go by in a bit of a haze of sleep deprivation and tears. Once they hit six months though, they are actually little people. They laugh at things, words start to come out, they start to move for themselves, if they were kittens, this would be the point that they would fend for themselves. We tend to keep hold of them a little bit longer though.#
The first few years are filled with the “oh, he hasn’t started sitting up yet?” parents who judge you with every inflection of that sentence, the ones whose kids were spawned at the same time as yours but who never seem to do anything wrong, always look stunning, have managed to keep hold of the man that helped them spawn their offspring and have nothing but judgement for any mum daring to do it alone. In that time, I joined a group on Facebook for mums like me, some of them were normal, some were batshit crazy, and we all had our own ideas of parenting, but for the most part, we exchanged advice, and support. Those girls got me through many a sleepless night and I will always be thankful to them!
So, for most of my son’s life I have basically been preparing myself for his adolescence. I am in absolutely no illusion that I will be a strict or functional parent, but I fully intend to resort to blackmail. I’m sure this is what other parents do, they just aren’t as honest about it as I am, why else would they dress their kids up in pumpkin outfits or take photos of their bare bottoms? It’s all ammunition for when they turn into evil little gobshites at around 13.
“Beth, get out of bed please it’s time for school.”
“NO!”
“Beth, do you remember the day when you came in the living room wearing nothing but mummy’s shoes and a moustache you had painted on your face with her eyeliner?”
“No?”
“Not to worry, I’ve had decals made out of the photo, you take your time getting up while I go and pop them on the car.”
“I’m up, I’m up!”
I imagine that is how my parenting will be when mine is old enough. It’s already a lot like that now, he just doesn’t quite understand blackmail as he’s only four, and school is still fun enough that he wants to go.
I’m sure all of this makes me sound like I don’t like children, and that is very true…of other people’s. Most people’s children irritate me, not because there is anything wrong with them, just because I don’t understand them. I’m not too good at bringing myself down to their level. This is why having my own child had the potential to cure that. I mentioned that I had never held a baby before, well other than my own, that is still true. I don’t have a maternal bone in my body, but hurt my boy and I swear to Bob and all his minions that I will ruin your life!
Incidentally, there are some other people’s children that I can really get on with. Oscar was at nursery for 3 years and for the whole time he was there he was in love with one person in particular. She is awesome! She’s funny and cheeky and they get on really well, she doesn’t cry just because you look at her (well at least not in front of me) and she plays well with Oscar, this in turn means that I don’t have to. Which is always a blessing because Netflix isn’t going to watch itself.
The joy of having my own child is that I can watch all the kids’ films I haven’t been able to watch since I got too ‘grown-up’ to watch them. As I write this I’m sitting watching Hotel Transylvania and Oscar isn’t even in the house! He’s out playing with our next door neighbour. I could be doing the housework, but that’s a big stretch to be fair.
So, in short, this little blog will be full of my experiences of being a single parent. The good, the bad and the very, very ugly. I want you to read it, laugh at it, cry at it, but most of all, I want you to relate to it, because we all fail at times, there is no shame in admitting it, and there is no point in denying it.