Since I started my blog I’ve had so much amazing feed back from both girls and guys out there, and more recently in particular single mums. I’ve said before that the reason I started posting what is essentially my diary online was to remind people that although the struggle is real it’s also perfectly normal. It was to say I know what it’s like to rock in the corner in the foetal position wondering what the jail term would be for throwing my own baby against a wall, and more recently I’ve wanted to tell people that dating as a single mum (or even dating in general) can sometimes be compared to poking yourself in the eye with a cactus. Of late I’ve received some lovely messages, some of which asking me for advice – and as flattering as it is, it concerns me that perhaps I haven’t properly communicated my main message. So this blog is to confirm that I am in fact a hot mess, and you would be better off asking for life advice from my two year old than you would be from me.
Please find below a list of topics I have absolutely no authority on whatsoever and why;
I spent almost my entire pregnancy spread eagled on my neighbours lounge in front of an industrial fan eating blueberry and lemon glazed scones from Bakers Delight. I developed severe hypertension and a thyroid disorder, which meant I couldn’t go to the gym (shame, I know) and it was such an effort to get myself up that one day I made an extension cord into a lasso to pull the TV remote toward me.
I was so determined to be good at this. I spent $300 on a calm birth class, and watched every episode of One Born Every Minute available on youtube. I read an article on water births and decided it was the most beautiful thing I had ever seen and I just had to have one until my Obstetrician looked me dead in the face and said “Laura, those baths are only as clean as the Nurse who cleans it”. Gross. Not that it mattered anyway because my calm, drug free birth turned into an epidural followed by an emergency caesarean and I may or may not have assaulted a nurse.
Henry has almost choked to death on a rock, rolled down an entire flight of stairs, fallen off a marina into the bay and half drowned, and just last week he licked fly spray off the floor. He has slept through the night maybe 6.5 times in two years, once he ate chocolate for breakfast because I couldn’t be bothered to explain the benefits of weet-bix or deal with his whinging, and please refer to my previous blog about the time he brushed his teeth with toilet cleaner.
Guys, dating and successfully dating are two very different things. I’m living in a studio apartment that was built in 2000BC and the only bedroom is just big enough for Henry’s cot. Not exactly a bachelorette pad. Between full time work and full time keeping Henry alive, I barely have time to shave my legs let alone sit around and swipe on Tinder. Admittedly, I’ve been consistently flirting with an oiled up fireman and his washboard abs but ladies and gentleman I will dead set solve the Da Vinci Code before I can give anyone insight into the inner workings of the male brain.
Now I want to be clear – I’ve got no complaints. I have amazing family and friends, a fabulous son (albeit, bald), and a fling with a fireman who makes me laugh. But please don’t look at my Social Media and make the mistake of thinking I have it together, because while you’re doing that I’m probably lying on the mattress in my lounge room with a toddler foot in my mouth googling “How to tell if a guy likes you”.