Being a single mom was never anything I saw coming, but here we are and what the entire fuck?
I always aspired to what my imagination had spun as the picture perfect representation of a family. Married to some man who undoubtedly loved me just as much out loud as he did behind closed doors while I was obsessed with him in ways only a 90s R&B song could really express. We’d have: two babies, no pets until the kids were old enough to care for them, a house and two cars (I’d trade one for a set of really nice bicycles if that house was a brownstone in Bedstuy), vacation as a squad to family friendly yet picturesque locations. We’d decorate our social feeds with obscure shots of the kids decked out in everything from Little Giants to Osh Kosh. We’d trade off on bath time and let the little people get in our bed, but just to fall asleep. We’d clean up after dinner and fall asleep watching each other’s shows and promise to never leave the house without a kiss goodbye.
We’d both work creative jobs that paid well. Me more so creative adjacent with the boat that is my career careening smoothly in corporate media waters while skimming my toes into pools of creative outlets when the slow moments allowed. Maybe we’d even launch a venture of our own together: an agency, or we could write a show, or we could create a festival. Something of our own born out of that thing that drew us together in the first place. We’d have each other, all of us, to remind us why. To keep each other lifted. The keep each other anchored. To get through life together.
But no. (We’ll cover later how I realized this vision was a concoction of force fed idealistic views on love and relationships I happily took in as a girl and romanticizations of others who appeared to be “couple goals” , compounded by an internal clock that told me I needed to make something work so that I could get to this version of happy no later than 30. But anyway.)
My days begin and end with me as the sole adult in my home and my four-year-old daughter who keeps me on my toes more than I’d ever imagined a kid could. I pry her from my bed where she magically ends up every night without fail, because, at this point, I do not have the will power to discipline her on staying in her own bed while also getting adequate sleep myself. Whatever, she can sleep with me til she’s 18, who cares.
Some mornings we get it right, others we can’t get out of the house without a fight over how much syrup accompanies her waffle, the proper amount of tooth brushing time, shoes (all shoes should be velcro until kids go to college), the proper mask, scooter vs. walking, honestly it could be anything but these are the landmines we trip over most mornings.
And then come the evenings. After I’ve spent the day attempting to be my best self by getting in a workout, cooking meals and not Uber Eats-ing them, tidying, working (right, yes WORKING), drinking a gallon of water and remembering to breathe, I hike back across Bedstuy to retrieve the kiddo from her after school program.
After she’s spent the day dazzling her teachers and classmates with her charming eyes, hilariousness and overall warm nature, we hop in an Uber together where I’m often met with attitude because I insist that she wears a seatbelt or simply sit down for her own safety.
Christ, help.
I’d always promised myself I’d be different than my parents. I wouldn’t spank. No physical punishment. But dammit I absolutely get the appeal. Though I’ve given in to those primal urges on occasion it’s not my primary form of discipline. I talk way more than I’d ever think I could to explain what’s happening in moments of frustration, in an attempt to guide her to good choices and not make her into a complaint robot.
The evenings can be sweet or sour, Melody’s choice. These days I’m prying us away from the comfort of screens. For her it’s entertainment and for me it’s solitude, I don’t have to worry about a kid bouncing around my feet as I get a few things done. But that isn’t setting us up to build the bond I hope we have forever. Instead I let her spill cheese on the floor while we make her a quesadilla for dinner. I watch as she sprays Swiffer cleaning solution in the wrong direction and proceeds to “clean”. She drags her step stool into the kitchen, watching her food cook and gets way too close to the stove. We talk about her day, she’s currently constantly asking why everyone else has a brother (oh girl, don’t even).
After she’s tucked into the toddler bed she’s rapidly outgrowing with her sound machine on, I retreat to the couch. This is when the “singledom” and the loneliness looms over me the most. There’s often a sink full of dishes (shout out to me for cooking, but also screw me for cooking), work could use another hour of concentration but that’s truly laughable, a shower would feel nice but I can’t even scrape myself off the couch to turn the water on and who has the energy to lotion down afterwards. The trash needs to go out. Did I check her backpack to ensure homework is getting done in after school? The laundry that got folded 3 days ago needs to actually be put away. When will I tackle that pile of mail that keeps growing? I should call a friend but I don’t want to pour my problems onto my people and I’m the only one with a kid. In this moment I’m reminded of what I imagined it would be like and I’m terrorized by what it really is.
Being a single mom was never anything I saw coming, but here we are and this is my life.
Welcome to the chaos.