The not-so-secret life of a single mother..

Being a single mum wasn’t exactly my dream. In fact, if I’m honest my ideal future Laura was a wife, soccer mum and preferably an attorney (specifically Reece Witherspoon in Legally Blonde). Future Laura’s husband had a well paying job, took the weekends off to drive the kids to karate, and wore Calvin Klein loungewear around the house while he made me pancakes every Sunday. For those of you who know the actual present-day-2018- Laura, you’ll know that the closest thing I’ve got to that fantasy is that I’ve hired an attorney for my divorce and I LOOK like I eat pancakes every Sunday.

My teenage years sent my Dad bald, and I’m pretty sure gave my poor Mother some kind of PTSD. They’ve bailed me out countless times, resisted the urge for many well deserved “I told you so’s and let me tell you they’re running some pretty competitive interest rates out of ‘The Bank of Greg & Rosie.’ Having grown up in such a strong nuclear family, I saw the love and support that happily married parents can provide for their children; and because of this I didn’t take my decision to separate from my husband lightly. However, I would make the same decision 100 times over – because I want Henry to grow up seeing me happy, and knowing that no matter what life throws our way, we always have a choice.

So, that being said – let’s talk about where I’m at now. I’m lying on my bed, made with $1000 worth of Sheridan linen drinking a cup of tea. Not bad right? Now add in the toddler snoring into my armpit, and the half eaten sausage I just spotted squished into the carpet under the couch. My life as both a single 26 year old girl and a divorced mother is a constant juxtaposition, and in the bid to find the perfect balance I’m finding myself more or less picking Cheerios out of my hair on my way to Friday night cocktails.

Don’t get me wrong, I can’t imagine motherhood is easy for anyone – married or not. Some nights when Henry is refusing to sleep I get all empowered like “I will not negotiate with terrorists” – but let me tell you if Saddam Hussain has kept you up til 2am four nights in a row and has thrown a vase at your television you’re going to give up and let him in your bed. When I get to work at 06:30am, catch my reflection in the kitchen window and realise my face looks like a dropped pie, I give myself a pat on the back for getting through the night without committing a homicide and get on with my morning.

Now, I guess in the spirit of baring all – a few of my lovely fellow bloggers have been asking for updates on my dating life. First of all, let’s be clear I’m literally THE last person on earth you should be looking to for boy advice. I mean really, if the fact that I basically blew up the institution of marriage with a hand grenade within three short years doesn’t speak for itself I don’t know what will. But as everyone (including the postman and the girl that does my lashes) knows, I met a cute boy sometime in January (OK fine – 5th Jan 08:28pm).

Pros: Makes me laugh without trying, abs for days, witty, wears a fireman’s uniform, not clingy.

Cons: Not clingy.

Now I’ll be honest, I spent a bit of time getting all worked up about the semantics of labelling my relationship because movies and society and my girly feelings told me it was important. But I’ve given myself a good strong talking to, and decided that “officially dating” or not, doesn’t change much. Realistically if I can successfully navigate the emotional roller coaster of dealing with a two year old and a thirty two year old without bashing my head against a wall, and still remember to wear underwear to daycare drop off – I’m killing it.

So to wrap up – I love my son more than anything else in this world. He tests my patience, and he’s a freaking expensive toy, but when his tiny little hand slips into mine and he looks up at me with those giant blue lady killers it’s all worth it. Cute boy is still around; still cute, still fights fires and is still pushing me one step closer to a mental asylum every day. But I’m all about glass half full, and in the big picture I consider myself pretty damn lucky.