Confessions of a Single (Irish!) Mother

by Marisa Mackle

  Some women say they bloom during pregnancy. I found the whole experience blooming awful to be quite honest. I slept approximately two to three hours a night throughout the entire duration. My baby had constant hiccups and his head was stuck underneath my ribs causing me huge discomfort. Also, why don’t they tell you about having to wee every five minutes?

  I used to look in the mirror and not recognise myself. A couple of months into the pregnancy I remember thinking I looked like Garfield’s sister. I’d put on so much weight even my pregnancy clothes didn’t fit towards the end.

  They say you forget all about your pregnancy after you give birth, but don’t believe that. You so don’t. Yes, I’m the happiest proudest mother on earth but I would have preferred to find my baby under a cabbage like my mother found me, apparently.

  I met an old man the other day who admired my little boy and asked his age.

  ‘Fifteen months.’ I said.

  ‘Time for another one?’ he suggested.

  I shuddered. ‘No chance of that.’

  He seemed shocked by my firm answer. I almost went onto explain how I’d remained celibate since my child’s conception but thought better of it. Sometimes there’s such a thing as too much information. Which brings me to my point. My point is that pregnancy is a very private experience, when your body becomes a safe house for a growing life. Once you conceive, this little life takes over, disrupting your sleep, your social life, your sex life, your career, everything basically. It’s not easy but you just let nature take over. If you’re like me you go into hibernation for a while, nesting, as you figure out how to prepare for your whole life to turn upside down as it inevitably will.

  But former Eastenders actress Natalie Cassidy has decided it’s not such a private matter really, and is an experience she’d like to share with the world on a new reality TV show focussing on every aspect of her pregnancy. "I want this to be fun, normal and all about real life, not starry, just truthful, great fun with family and friends.”

  Fun? Oh dear. Somebody is badly-advising Natalie. I guess her manager is either a man or a woman who has never been pregnant.

  THE EX-FILES!

  Are you and your ex best buddies? Thought not. It’s not easy to be ‘friends’ with somebody who has dumped you. If somebody hurts you why would you want them to stay in your life? If a regular friend told you they no longer wanted you, would you keep phoning and emailing in the hope that your friendship would one day be rekindled? Hardly.

  So why do people try and remain friends with their ex? If you’ve dumped them you obviously no longer want them hanging around, but sometimes offering to be friends is a way of making yourself feel better.

  For most people, however, a clean break is the only solution. Like ripping a plaster off, if you do it slowly it’s more painful. Best just to do it quickly.

  At first it might seem callous to decide to have nothing to do with somebody you’ve previously done everything with, but it’s definitely easier to move on if you no longer remain in contact with that person. Deleting an ex off Facebook may seem terribly childish but it’s a hell of a lot better than having to read their regular newsfeeds about how happy they are with somebody else and what great weekends they’re having, completed with pictures of them with their arm around their new bird.

  It’s hard letting go because of course you can only remember the good times. The times the two of you laughed together, and it was just both of you against the world. When you say good-bye, you’re losing not only a lover but a best friend. I have friends who move from man to man with relative ease and I can only look on with envy. Do they have some kind of mental ‘delete’ button inside their head? To me it just seems flippant to go ‘see ya’ to somebody you’ve shared your life and dreams with.

  But I do know that sometimes you’ve got to move on or else you’ll drive yourself crazy. If you’re meant to be, if you’re soul mates, you’ll eventually get back together. Fate will play its part.

  I can honestly say I’m friends with just two of my exes but it took some time to reach this point. We didn’t break up and happily meet up again the following week for lunch. No. Both of them got in contact again after years apart and there is a genuine affection between us now. In fact we get on much better now than we did as partners. Sometimes there is no reason to remain friends and you simply outgrow each other. Not every break-up has to be nasty. But there is one reason why couples must stay friends. Or at least pretend to stay friends. And that’s when they are parents to the same children. Remember. It’s. Not. About. You. Any. More.

  YUMMY MUMMY CHICK!

  I like the term ‘yummy mummy’ as much as I like the term ‘chick-lit author’, which of course, is not very much. Being described as a ‘yummy mummy’ puts you under pressure to look effortlessly glamorous, wearing vomit-free trendy clothes, and sporting freshly blow-dried hair every time you leave the house. In short, it’s simply impossible to live up to the hype.

  I’ve also always found the term ‘chick-lit’ a tad bizarre. The word ‘chick’ is American slang for a young woman. But it seems to me that every novelist from Maeve Binchy to Danielle Steele to Amanda Brunker is thrown into a box and labelled as chick lit. Just because you’ve written a book and you’re a woman, certainly does not make you a chick. Although I’ve written romance novels in the past, I’ve also had a history book published and my first children’s book is out next week. I do hope that over the next stage of my career I can be described as simply a writer and no longer be labelled. Incidentally, why is there is no such derogatory term for men who write books for other men? The same goes for ‘yummy mummy’? What’s the male equivalent?

  ‘Yummy mummies’ put pressure on normal women who have just given birth to look fabulous. I put on four stone while I was pregnant. I admit that even by normal standards this is a fair amount but I was so sick the entire duration, I had to eat every hour to combat the nausea.

  I had no intention of losing this weight very fast. It appals me that brand new mothers are hitting the gym soon after their babies are born to get their figures back. If it takes nine months to put on it should take at least nine months to get off. Why the frantic race to lose the pounds? Grant it, if you are on TV, there is more pressure to look well in order to go back to work, but the rest of us should be enjoying watching our babies grow up rather than obsessively counting calories.

  The first time I heard the term ‘yummy mummy’ was when my own mother mentioned it. She was a school teacher and she told me that at a certain time of day all the teenage boys in the class would rush to the window to ogle the ‘yummy mummies’ who were collecting their kids from kindergarten. Scary!

  I hope I’m never competing with other yummy mummies in the school car park painting my nails and lashing on the lipstick. Labels are limiting. Why can’t we just be mummies and authors and leave out the words ‘yummy’ and ‘chick’ altogether? Neither description is particularly flattering. There’s enough pressure on women to try and be superwomen. And it doesn’t help either when celebrity supermodel mums make inane, unhelpful claims that pregnancy actually makes them lose weight. Yes, Claudia Schiffer, I’m talking about you.

  IF MEN HAD BABIES…

  If men had babies there’d be a bar in every delivery room, maternity leave would also be at least five years and the future of the world population would be in grave danger. Luckily they don’t.

  I happen to live right beside where the Leinster rugby team train. I’ve also spent time in a delivery ward, and I can honestly confirm that the noise from a delivery room where the miracle of giving life is being performed, is nothing as dramatic as the lads roaring and screaming as they run across the field after a simple ball. I often think if I was an alien and knew nothing about rugby, I’d watch from space, shaking my head in complete bewilderment over the hysteria that takes place.

  Women’s ability to cope with pain makes them natural mothers. I’ve known men to take to the bed over a dose of flu convinced th
ey are dying. I also believe that in some regions of Africa, the women working in the fields squat down to give birth, wrap their baby in a blanket and then continue on working until it’s time to go home.

  Mind you the traditional roles of men and women are becoming more blurred. Due to the recession many more men are finding themselves at home looking after the kids and becoming househusbands. No longer can they get away with doing chores badly in the hope that they’ll never be asked again.

  When my baby was born in Holles Street the midwife said to my baby’s daddy, ‘come on with me and I’ll show you how to change a nappy,’ and then proceeded to frogmarch him down the corridor to join some new dads who were having a lesson.

  We both had a good laugh about this afterwards, especially since he already has another child and is well used to changing nappies. But I think it’s a great idea that all the new dads are taught how to change nappies immediately so that they are equipped with this very helpful knowledge before they even leave the hospital to go home. This means they can’t shrug their shoulders hopelessly and claim they wouldn’t know one end of a nappy from another.

  My own father was taught no such valuable lesson when I was born because presumably back in the day, such a messy chore was considered a woman’s job. To this day he has changed my baby twice and twice my baby has had his nappy put on back to front. Seriously, how difficult is it?

  I don’t agree with men’s chores and women’s chores. Is it really considered manlier to mow the lawn than to empty a potty? But look, I’m not blaming men for trying to simply get away with not doing ‘women’s jobs’. A female friend of mine has unbelievably never changed a fuse or a car tyre. Why? ‘Oh my boyfriend is better at that kind of stuff,’ she claims. Tut, tut.

  DATELESS IN DUBLIN

  Dateless in Dublin. I always thought that sounded like a pretty good film title. A bit like Sleepless in Seattle, only not as upbeat and feel-good obviously. Dateless in Dublin doesn’t have the same hopeful ring to it at all. In fact it might even be considered depressing.

  There’s no shortage of men in the capital, but many have a lot to learn. I think they should all do compulsory military service. I lived in France near a military school and those boys truly knew how to treat a girl. You see, they didn’t meet very many members of the opposite sex being cooped up most of the week with other blokes, so when they were let out occasionally they were very grateful indeed.

  I’ve only been on one date this year. A friend of mine said a friend of hers was a great guy and suggested I meet him for a drink. It didn’t go well.

  I think it was the ‘I hate kids’ statement as soon as we sat down and ordered drinks that did it for me.

  I’m not particularly child-mad myself, but I do have a son who comes first and any future love interest would have to take that as a given.

  On the whole, life as a single woman is fairly uncomplicated. You’re not wined and dined but there’s a lack of drama which is very welcome. If I am inclined to go searching for drama, I meet up with the girls and get the gossip off them. Then I go off home, and cuddle up with my baby and think to myself how nice it is not to have my head wrecked.

  If I had any doubts about the current dating scene in the capital at the moment, a single friend of mine recently assured me that I was missing nothing.

  ‘If anything it’s getting worse now with the recession,’ she moaned. ‘Men won’t even buy you a drink.’

  ‘Really?’ I was shocked. I mean, most of us are well able to fork out for our own booze but if somebody invites you out on a date, you are essentially their guest so they should at least offer to buy you a tipple.

  My pal went on to tell me about a dinner date she had a month ago. ‘He insisted on paying,’ she said. ‘But a week afterwards the same guy texted me saying I owed him dinner. I was very busy at the time but he kept texting me and ringing me saying I owed him and it was very stressful. All I’d had on the date was a small bowl of pasta and a glass of sparkling water which came to under a tenner. Eventually I texted him telling him to send me an invoice and I would put a cheque for my pasta and water in the post. Then he went mad and sent me a text calling me a ‘condescending cow’.

  You couldn’t make it up.

  NO SEX, I’M OVER THIRTY-FIVE!

  Women over thirty-five don’t have sex. Well, according to a recent survey. I wonder is it because they don’t have the time? And if they don’t have time, then how do they find the time to take part in these so-called surveys?

  Anyway, I’m not really surprised by the findings, and I’m sure motherhood is a lot to do with these statistics. With many women leaving motherhood until later on in life and juggling child minding with careers, it’s a wonder they have time to even wash their face, never mind anything else.

  A thirty-five year old mother with a new-born in one arm, and a toddler in the other, probably spends her life battling a fog of permanent exhaustion. Life moves monotonously from morning feeds to nappy changes to ironing a mountain of baby clothes, to hurried doctor appointments, etc.

  You must have a routine. If you don’t have a routine your life can descend quickly into chaos, as anybody who has ever left the house with a baby and forgotten to bring a couple of spare nappies, baby milk and a full change of clothes, can testify to.

  HELP, I’M OUT OF NAPPIES!

  A former smoker, I remember that horrible panicky feeling of waking up in the middle of the night to discover there were no ciggies left in the house. Well, now I get that same jittery feeling when I’ve run out of nappies. The other morning, having discovered that my stash had run dry I ran to the shops to replenish, cursing myself for being so disorganised. In the check-out queue I saw the newspaper headlines. Another famous man had been caught playing away. And I began to feel a little angry. Do you know why? Because his wife has a baby. And Tiger Woods’ wife has a baby. And Tess Daly, whose husband was recently apparently sending saucy texts to glamour models, is also a new mother. It’s seems like having a baby is something that all these wronged women have in common. And their men, obviously no longer the centre of attention, feel the need to have their massive egos massaged elsewhere. John Terry, father of twin toddlers, was even named ‘Dad of the year’ last year. Maybe if he actually helped with the child minding, he’d have less time and energy to be playing away. These men should put their feet in their partners’ shoes before they decide to publicly humiliate them. Because when you have a small baby, and you still haven’t regained your pre baby bikini bod, and your brain is muddled with extreme tiredness, the last thing you want to do is dress up in lacy lingerie and behave like a sex siren. At least when I go to bed, I can put on a face mask, wear my fleece pyjamas, read a trashy novel and not worry about a cheating partner. Honestly, life as a single mum has its advantages.

  A CHILD AT HEART

  Some people never really grow up, myself included. I still play monopoly and trivial pursuit, and love nothing more than being let loose in amusement arcades. Disneyworld is, naturally, a favourite destination, a place where adults can temporarily become children again and nobody bats an eyelid.

  Before motherhood, when out shopping, I used to glance over enviously at toddlers going up and down on yellow Bob the Builder machines. I used to wonder if I put in a euro coin and slipped in beside Bob, would anybody notice. It wasn’t easy trying to refrain myself. Now, as a mummy I have a legitimate reason for spending hours in toy shops, coveting the new Pegga Pig collection. There’s nothing like having a pushchair to make you feel you belong!

  On holidays, the kiddie pool is often more appealing because it’s warmer and the slide less dangerous. Kids clubs in hotels are also usually more exciting than the dreary talent shows they put on at night to entertain the adults.

  Recently I stayed in one such hotel with baby Gary. On the first day, the girl who was supervising the kids club looked at Gary doubtfully. ‘You have to be four,’ she said.

  I was very disappointed. I mean it looked like such
a fun place with a ball crawl, lots of toy cars and huge beanie bags and funky colourful paintings on the walls.

  ‘He’s only one,’ I said, dejectedly.

  ‘Well, then you’ll have to stay with him,’ the supervisor insisted. ‘All children under four must be accompanied by an adult.’

  I could hardly contain my joy. ‘That’s no problem at all!’

  There was only one other child in the playroom. I’d say he was about seven and he was playing guns with a load of toy soldiers. Gary and I stuck to the less violent Lego collection. After a while I noticed the boy looking over with increased interest. Eventually he wandered over.

  Are you a child or an adult?’ he asked.

  ‘Me?’ I was genuinely flummoxed. I mean it’s nice to be thought of as young-looking but how could anybody mistake me for a child?

  ‘I’m an adult,’ I said, gently.

  His little face fell. ‘So you don’t want to play soldiers?’

  I thought about it for a second. I really didn’t want to let him down. It must be awful to be an only child on holiday.

  ‘Okay then,’ I said, picking up one of the toy swords enthusiastically.

  Then a man wandered in holding a beer. Turns out he was the child’s dad.

  ‘What time is the darts competition on at?’ he asked.

  ‘I don’t know,’ I shrugged. ‘I’m not part of the entertainment team.’

  He gave me a funny look. Maybe he thought I was an oddball. I wouldn’t blame him. Then again, what’s the difference between throwing darts in the bar and brandishing a toy sword around a kids club? I reckon we’re all just big kids at heart.