So. It transpires that an old bird needn't necessarily really struggle with the technicalities of a blog such as this, as much as first attempts would indicate.
Having about two years of journal notes, attempted columns of funny and embarrassing stories and quips etc., it seemed simply too awful to contemplate not being able to simply transfer some of it over here, but this is what was looming at me.
Feeling totally inadequate - more, even, than on a normal day - complying with various requests for 'URLs (?)' and taking wild guesses at file format selections, the soreness of frustration and failure was seeping into my soul.
A marvellous friend - the least computer literate one of all - suggested old fashioned Copying and Pasting and hey presto, hooray for her, because it works!
Yes. It can sometimes be woeful to be me and getting photos over alone is still flummoxing!
Anyway, appreciating that the blogosphere hadn't even emerged when I started all this stuff and that 'Diaries of a Middle Aged Single Mum' are not aptly named to appeal to the masses, now 'Twitter' is where it's at. How on earth are we supposed to keep up when the TV remote controls can defeat us?
But here is what I wrote April 2009:
Column 1 - 'It's terrifying!'
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| Who can blame a girl? |
IT’S not what you expect – having a baby at 45.
Neither is it what you expect to tell your husband you’re divorcing him, followed by such news. And that’s how it started. Nothing could change my mind. Matters would merely be delayed. Three miscarriages is enough for any woman to contend with. It would be foolish to risk a further one. This would mean having to put up with him for a while yet, as long as it was bearable. However it was not to be. Things would eventually and naturally prove intolerable.
We already have a delightful son who was approaching 4. It was important to me and I was glad that they were full siblings, same blood etc . Secretly, that is sort of the only reason I’d had sex with my husband in the first place. Shamefully, despite pretending such shenanigans were with Daniel Craig, abstaining had still been preferable for quite some time, yet there was a consistent feeling of another child to come yet. And so, miraculously, he did. This once-off timing was incredible.
And so, as well, I would become a single mum with full parental contact for their Dad, which is the hardest bit to cope with! He’s brilliant with what money he has, yet it’s still a struggle to make ends meet and, furthermore, he is of the opinion it buys him things it doesn’t. Fortunately, he works away, lives there and is nonetheless devoted to our two boys, Robson and Baby Aiden.
It’s rather confusing at times and although I feel independence is overrated, I miss it terribly. It is ridiculous to find myself presently truly grateful for any small mercies whatsoever - such as someone else hanging the washing on the line, a job usually undertaken by one of my visiting friends, the impact of which is immeasurably and preposterously disproportionate to the gesture - as my hands are blessed with being full of a tiny bundle of bouncing baby joy.
This, however, is the life of a single parent. If you know any – and there are plenty of us about, so, indeed, there is a great likelihood you might - do try to be a little kinder, as any miniscule amount of help will go further than you could fathom!
High points of the week – Robson’s mate tunefully teaching him and them both very loudly singing ‘God the Builder, can we fix it? God the Builder, yes we can!’ Robson telling me he loves me ‘To the roofs of buses, all round the town and through everywhere!’ Enjoying the most utterly divine experience of massaging a freshly bathed beautiful baby Aiden, while trying not to let Robson know and avoiding my own secret feelings of jealousy.
Very low point - being whacked on the ankle with a proper cricket bat.
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| All things must change... |
Major achievements – getting the Alphabet frieze out of its packet, on the wall, spirit level straight, but 6 months after it was given to us, however managing to open the NEXT parcels only five days after they had arrived, plus the bargain adjustable waist jeans were perfect for Robson. Also, managed to refrain from punching a chatty man, who was innocently and politely discussing the price of a demonstration gazebo in M&S with me, seemingly oblivious that I was sat, obviously rather too discreetly, breastfeeding Aiden under it at the time.
Unfortunately, the little one’s subsequent blissful slumber would be a bit short lived, for while I
mindfully perused their school uniform stuff, pleasantly unencumbered by either offspring at the time and piling up my basket, he was rudely disturbed by a packet of vests falling from it onto his head and all hell broke loose. He screamed. We scarpered. O.M.G. Had to get out of there.
Left the lovely so-called shopping and went to collect eldest from Nursery, muttering away about never getting anything done and how likely it is Aiden’s first word will be Bo**ocks!’
Sometimes it’s terrifying being a single mother. Even when you’re 45!
Read Diary 2 - HERE.
Read Diary 3 HERE.
Read Diary 4 HERE.
