Introduction.

M and I met in the sparkling summer of 2018. After swiping left right left right over and over on Tinder, I came across this hunk of a man who appeared normal. But do we ever really know? That luminous face of innocence projecting nothing other than an older guy, a SPORTY guy, images of an ice hockey player, a great beard to bury your face into. And that’s it. No baggage… yet.

As the days turn to nights of deep conversation, our hopes, dreams, travels, happy times all fall into those sweet messages. You begin to discuss the flip side, your failures, loss, dreams postponed due to family transgressions and the bond between the two of you deepens and you begin to discuss the next step.

When you meet for the first time, first impressions can either accelerate you into a winding spiral down of finding rubbish things wrong with them, a tick tock time bomb in your head counting down the minutes until it’s over. You can make your excuses and leave.  On this occasion for me, I took the alternate path willingly. Here was this exceptionally handsome 6 foot something crazy man, with no obvious warning signs, tattoo’d, strong, well built, interested in your every word and feature. And I leaped in. We talked until the pub closed, in our own secluded window spot.

When I left that night, I knew I wanted to dive headfirst in. we would take through work, me pondering the reputation of scaffolders, could this guy really be different to that, could he be without the wandering eye, could he be the one?

As a bit of telling background information, I hadn’t had much luck in my long term loves. With a young lad at 15 until 22, on and off, I had the best years of my love life. We could be weird together, intertwining our lives with days of madness, water fights, food fights, families and birthdays. We imagined our lives continuing this way forever, a little house and plenty of children. Until I went to university that is, after which the arrival of my passport and a summer lesson in TEFL set forth a different future, exploring the world leaving everything here to the wind.

When I would return from some far awaited country, I would begin a new long term relationship, last a year and then leap again into the world wilderness. This happened for 7 long years. I often wonder which, if any, I may have settled down with had I decided not to depart once more. Alas my exploring brain would not accept that as my fate at the time, and hence would fizzle away into the boarding security gate as quickly as I had arrived. 

The baby.

My summer with M developed into a long winding one, my job as a teaching assistant in a specialist needs school offering a long open summer living at his home, an hour away from mine. I had asked him to be my boyfriend, in front of 10,000 onlookers, through a tweet sent to the composer at a classical music festival. It was a yes. We would occasionally leave our loving abode, full of cooking dinner for one another, pulling pranks and sipping on summer drinks to visit my friends in the city of London, and it was on one of these occasions that it happened. The sentiment of a child had not escaped us. With M edging into the 36’s and myself making a promise in my journal to become pregnant in the not too distant future, it was something we both had discussed. His response to my coming of birth control was “Yes. I understand. And I have a small room, perfect for a nursery” brought forward so much joy. Yet I had not anticipated the successful conception occurring just 20 days after my last tablet.

Armour down.

My pregnancy did not bring out a great side of us. I had a relatively easy going physical path, but emotionally and mentally, being at least an hour away from all my family and closest friends meant the loneliness and dread of more loneliness to come offered no respite. I was working out at my local gym, and disliking returning to Ms home. I was no longer working, the risks too high working with sporadic, loving but often appearing volatile, children. Our arguments lingered in the air, overnight, often with M storming out on long car drives and returning home to say it was over. I would cry myself to sleep, knowing I had given up my home and had nowhere to go. I would endlessly apologise to him, following phone calls with my mother, who insisted it was always me in the wrong and the necessity of making it work for the babies sake, and to always “be nicer, he’s just being a man”.

When “he’s just being a man” did not suffice behaviour and conflicts any further, we arranged a mediation meeting between our families. I was at such a loss and my emotions were spiralling, the constant reminder of what I could be trapped in, dangling at my stomach. The dislike I had for this possible future for me and my beautiful, growing child drove me right to the edge, and I would consider my life more than once.

Hope.

When my mother eventually allowed me into her home, I set up space in the spare bedroom and got to it, attending the library everyday for long days of studying the help available, where to go, what to do, who to call. I would attend various appointments, spend hours pouring over caps, budgeting, cutting down on various expenditures, having never been in this benefit bubble previously, I would cry openly, at the ample support and guidance given. With the help of a loving close friend, my one bedroomed rental flat hope became an affirmative. 

She’s coming.

My due date was the 13th. And sure enough, at one minutes past midnight, she came knocking. I had messaged my two best 999 friends earlier that evening, who had both been on standby to arrive early the next day, not to come too early as the illusion of babies not coming on their due day was so strong and I hadn’t felt anything thus far. I was under the impression that labour goes on for days, so I would know about her immenency at least a day or two prior. Around 2am, something didn’t feel right, and my mother came swooping in her car to my flat to take me to hospital. Again, my NCT understanding, which yes, I had attended the course alone, surrounded by 4 other loving couples, was that attending the hospital this early surely just meant for a car ride home an hour or two later. So I took only my blanket, bluetooth speaker and pillow. Well, that quickly escalated when the nurse informed me I was 4cm dilated, having contractions every few minutes and needed to be taken straight to my choice of delivery suite.

In a panic flapping around with the contractions and this new information, I had largely managed to withhold my screams to my mother who had endlessly been calling me a bad person for not wanting M in attendance currently. M and I had barely spoken an utterance of nicety since I was pushed out of his home 3 months earlier. He had queried everything, from the meagre minimal child maintenance he could “afford” to only being a father “financially” and not anything else, because “of the difficulties” between us. His decisions to not attend even one antenatal appointment, class or growth scan, even when the fear of her size worried me to not sleep at night, were overwhelming and I had blocked my sadness out. He had blocked me on occasion, choosing to do this rather than respond to my fears and worries. In essence, I did not like the guy. 

So why, when my body had suffered enough and the emotions so heavy, my mother thought this another appropriate time to berate me, was beyond me. I asked the nurses to remove her from the room, and I was alone breathing until my friend Roo appeared. She often recounts having driven wide-eyed down the motorway for an hour in shock at her necessity and sudden requirement at the hospital, after spending the prior evening with me naming house plants, bringing me to tears of laughter. In fact, as soon as I saw her face, I knew this was why I had needed her for this task. She knew me inside and out. She knew my current situation, she knew me. She knew my baby. 

We had spent a few hours at the hospital earlier in my pregnancy, when my asthma and pregnancy had intertwined and caused my breathing abilities to waver. Herself and my other 999, Je, were staying the night with me. I had tried to sleep, but little did I know that neither of these two had, they had essentially been napping in turns, prepping ready for the 3am wake up that did come, me warning, we need to go, and 2 seconds later, being shuttled into the car en route to A&E. At the hospital I blacked out shaking uncontrollably and my 2 best friends had saved me. 

With Roo and the midwife caring for me inside the room, I was becoming relaxed, in mind at least, through a constant hypnobirthing audio blaring from my bluetooth speaker, which I held to my ear throughout. Little did I know that outside the room, my mother was calling M and he was en route to the hospital too. At which point M decided he wanted to be in attendance, I do not know. But I do know that my mother would have forced him, regardless of any wishes on his or my part. 

Later that night, I climbed into the warm birthing pool, and thought about how less than 15 minutes ago the midwife had informed me that my friend Je had also arrived, and that my ex partner M had also arrived. It had at first brought anger, frustration, fury and self worth to the surface. I think about it now, how my mother had done the right thing in theory, or at the very least from her point of view.

When I had climbed into the warm, soothing, pool and relaxed a little more, I asked for the midwife to bring M in. We talked, he kissed my forehead and told me that he had wanted to be here, consuming everything I had pent up and drizzling it away into the bathtub below me. The awkwardness did not escape me, however, that I was currently in the process of giving birth to a baby which half belongs to this man opposite me, that in fact I hardly knew, who just a few months earlier had been berating pregnant me for going to the gym to workout rather than cleaning the house, in preparation for our families arrival to his home. 

When I asked for him to leave a little later and for Jen to come in, I felt every remaining pain and worry ebb away as her face came into view and I saw her. My best friend for over 10 years again, who had also studied me over the years to know me inside and out, who knew how to make me laugh, with just a look , usually of bewilderment, at something I had said or done and was then recounting to her. She had been most excited about my pregnancy and had always seen the promise in what was to come, pulling me out of the constant suctions of upset and disappointments stemming from my failed relationship and imminent birthing. She pat my back, touched me, stroked my hair, soothed my thoughts, tested my laughing gas, and whispered sweetly to me. 

As I write this, the emotions pour out, as barely in your lifetime do you meet what I now refer to as 999 friends, those you can call at any time in your life with something serious, and they are at your side come rain or shine. And there I was, lucky enough to have TWO! 

Roo was playing her part to a fault, listening to my mother endlessly reminiscing her childhood without her own father, and barricading her from entering the room whenever she felt she wanted to come in and disrupt my relaxation with concerns over M not being in with me. I was told that on more than one occasion that my mother has deceivingly said to M to just go in, and that I wanted him there at the hospital and beside me, when in fact those words had not even touched the surface of my mouth and instead were my mother’s own historical need for her father pursuing mine to do the same. I always knew she meant well, however this was not my own wish. I was in every essence extremely lucky that my 999’s would aid the prevention of this forceful behaviour, because I was unable to voice this myself through the contractions I was facing and the extensive, exhaustive nature of birthing.

My wishes were simply to have my two best friends inside, caressing, soothing, attending to my weakening body. When I eventually, 12 hours later, and only then, called out to have everyone inside as I pushed out my tiny daughter, with all the will in the world and nothing, nothing left in my body, I felt every hope I had had for the birthing process had come true. Her magical small being, placed on my chest, will never escape me, and I well up with the memories of her preciousness in my arms, surrounded by my number ones.

Future.

I still have a long way to go. As my daughter grows, the need to reach out to more support systems, help available, consider life with someone new, are all overbearing. Coping with the day to day responsibilities mostly as a solo parent is not to be thought off lightly. The realities are long, often helpless and exhausting days, with little to no spare time. The love I feel for my daughter outweighs everything, however this doesn’t make the emotions any less heavy. What’s to come is a fleeting thought, M owning more, having more, affording more, able to give her the alternate weekend of her dreams. How this makes you feel as the other, stay at home parent, is no small feat. You feel less worthy of being her mother. But my hope is that in time, she will understand the predicament I found myself in, how I battled it and how I devoted my time instead, to raising her beautiful, beautiful, self. 

My 999’s, I owe a portion of my daughter to you. You are the reason I coped. The reason I smiled through the pain that night. The reason I love you both. 

To my daughter, I love you.  

To anyone considering a solo life, you do not have to accept people for “being men”. You are worth more. And if you jump, you may fall. But darling, with help, what if you may fly.