It’s hard to put into words where I am at the moment. But we all know when I’m in that space, it usually means I have to write it out. The rules are usually write what you want but end your blog in hope. I believe in hope. I believe in brighter tomorrows and most of the time I believe people are genuinely good. But sometimes, they just aren’t. Sometimes in a moment, their selfishness and self righteousness is enough of an excuse to fuck your day, your week and sometimes a little bit longer than that.
I’ve spent a lot of time with my psychologist working on boundaries. Working on ways to gather some semblance of self worth that isn’t based on someone else’s approval. It’s important I do it because it’s the one thing I do not want to pass on to Abbie. I never, ever want her to worry that what she wants, thinks, believes is at the mercy of someone else’s opinion. We’re doing ok on that front. She’s already very clear about the things she wants, she will explain and justify and voice her reasons and listen to others. It’s more than most adults will, but as she gets older, she needs to see me do it, not just tell her about it.
She needs to see me set boundaries that are clear. She needs to witness what it looks like to assert what is good for you and what is not and then do something about it. I always thought that where I needed to do this was in the personal relationships I held with other adults. Well, let’s be honest, men. I was worried about modelling this with men. I haven’t done that well in so far in her life. The intention was clear, and I’ve tried, but if I’m honest, I haven’t tried hard enough. But the longer I run this solo mum track, the more I find the relationships I need to worry about come from the places I never expect.
Parenting in general opens you up to quite a lot of unsolicited advice. People, mostly other mums, are happy to share, overshare, give opinions and strategies of something and everything from the minute they’re born. Most of the time it all comes from a place of shared exhaustion. A plea that something, anything can help in moments where as a parent you don’t think anything can. I wish these moments stopped in parenting, but they don’t. You just learn to panic less. On the surface.
As a solo parent, that advice comes more often and from a wider range of sources. There are people that think because I don’t have a partner there must be a thousand things I don’t know about parenting, that maybe I’m just not aware of. There are people who openly comment and ask questions about whether I think she’ll be disadvantaged because she doesn’t have a second parent. There are people who openly question if I could possible have enough time to give her what she needs. There are people who openly suggest that I’ll just have to do the best with what we have. Openly implying that the life I live, the money I make, the home I provide is somewhat lacking. Most of the time my response to this is nothing. I’ve tried and tried to think of one line responses, to educate or to clarify, but in my experience the people asking those questions are not interested in any answer or justification I can provide.
To be honest, I’m quite tired of justifying anything about my choice to be a solo mum to anyone. Strangers are generally excellent. They respond with admiration and pure curiosity usually. The inner circle, my village, strong as they come. Constantly trying to reassure me that I am making good decisions. That I am a good mum. That I am giving her enough and even more than kids in traditional heteronormative families. The acquaintance circle, that’s where things get murky, and this week to a whole next level of fuck off.
In this space this week I received a message from, let’s call him an acquaintance, that read like this.
Anna, we love you … however i must be honest with you as a Sports Professional… i need you to stop with your very poor diet, fast food choices, takeaway, with your most Special Gift d Abbey. she is so innocent and so special it breaks my heart to talk to you about this .. but and there is a but … you’ve broken the most basic parental responsibilities because of your OWN addiction to Food, plz don’t pass this disease to your most Preciuous Gift.
I’ve left the spelling mistakes in for full effect. This from a person who claims to be my support network and part of the village that loves us. In a messenger message on a Thursday night while I’m sitting at the dining room table with a plate of salad, home made quiche with veggies, Abbie with a plate of mince and veggies I’ve made from scratch. Veggies I chopped, cooked and blended and hid in her dinner, like I do most nights, after she’s eaten all of it. For the first time in ages.
It isn’t a secret that my relationship with food has been tumultuous. Just looking at the size of my pants as they shrink and grow over the last four years is enough to notice that I have a few issues. And when I had Abbie, the other thing I wanted to get right, was her relationship with food. She would not grow up demonising carbs, snacks, or dessert. She WILL not grow up thinking food has any emotional value at all. Food, is just that food. We talk about food that helps our body grow stronger and we talk about food that is fun to eat. She is seeing a paediatrician. I have a dietician. She is three and doesn’t want to eat anything but chicken nuggets. It’s a phase, not a lifestyle choice and not an uncommon one either. The peadetrician knows about it. My dietician knows about it. We have a plan, I am trying and unwarranted criticism and labelling my parenting as breaking a fundamental responsibility is probably the most fucked thing that’s happened to me as a parent. And I’m not sure chicken nuggets once a week is so fucking terrible either.
Amongst all of the “but she won’t have a dad”, “of course she has a dad, you’ve just chosen not to involve him”, “it’s a bit selfish though isn’t it?” comments I’ve received in the last three years and eight months, not once has someone had the outright balls to tell me that I have broken my fundamental responsibilities as a parent. And here’s the kicker people, you can think whatever you want about anyone. There are no thought police, you are entitled to think whatever the fuck you like about my body, my life, my family and my choices, I honestly don’t care, but unless I’ve asked you for your opinion on my parenting, my body, my choices or my dinner, you can just keep your mouth shut and mind your own business.
I know that I’ve never been short of an opinion. I’m a talker and a sharer. I have strong feelings and I will share them but always as mine. I am the first to criticise myself and overthink the choices I make. There isn’t a single day in the last three years and eight months that I haven’t doubted myself as a parent. That I haven’t questioned what I’ve done and considered if my actions and my words won’t lead her directly to early therapy and into the classrooms that I currently work in. Every fucking day. And I challenge any parent, solo, paired or commune based, that doesn’t carry that same stress. Parental guilt is real but it is not the responsibility of anyone else outside of your household.
In the past, I would let that comment slide. I would be sad, upset, hurt and angry but I would let it slide, grimace and accept the criticism. But, as my psychologist would remind me, my feelings, my opinions and my choices are my own and I have a right to hold boundaries for the people who do not value them. There have always been people I’ve met along the way who have inferred that I would be prettier, thinner, smarter, taken more seriously if I just did this and this and this and this. I have spent a life time trying to fit into tinier pants. I have spent a lifetime trying to please people and overlooking comments shared in my best interest. But what I’ve been doing is not setting firm boundaries with the people who float in my periphery. What I’ve been doing is accepting that my choice is worth LESS than those telling me to change it.
I am not that person anymore. I have a human to raise, and I promised her the day she arrived and the days before that, that we would always be kind, be brave and be strong. And that starts with us first. It is not kind to us to grimace through and let people literally call me a bad parent. It is not brave to let it slide and not stand up for yourself and it is not strong to shrink in the space that you live in.
I am lucky that my village is strong. They are fiercely loving and fiercely loyal and remind me often that our life is better than me ‘trying’ to be a good parent. I am a good mum. She is a great kid. And if I had to have a baby, a strong willed toddler who knows that it’s not ok to be mean or make people feel small, that our words are used to make us and other people stronger, to set stronger boundaries, then I should have been a solo mum years ago.
life in big frilly knickers 