As I write this, I am sat in my brother’s old bedroom, which I now share with Piglet, in my mother’s house. My brother’s snowboard is still in the corner and there is a promotional flyer on the wall for a club in Ibiza which I suspect he has never been to.
I am 35 years old, and this wasn’t meant to happen.
At swimming class, I am the only person who parks their buggy outside, because everyone else can drive and therefore doesn’t need to catch the bus to swimming and leave home an hour early so that they can organise their day around the bus timetable.
Also at swimming today, I was the only mother in the pool. All the other mothers at swimming were stood on the poolside, watching their husbands take the babies for their swimming lesson (almost all those mothers still felt the need to change the babies out of their swimming costumes afterwards, as presumably the husbands couldn’t manage it, which from a feminist perspective I find OUTRAGEOUS, but I have previously written about that here). I do not have a husband. Piglet does not have a daddy to fail spectacularly at changing him. I will not be writing any blog posts with titles like “our love story,” or “why I love my husband even more now he’s a father,” because, guess what folks, I DO NOT HAVE A HUSBAND. In fact, I failed at this milestone of life so spectacularly, that I had to import sperm from America in order to have a baby.
Sometimes I am a bit worried that I am Failing At Life.
I mean, if someone had told the teenage me that I would be living with my mother in my mid-thirties, having failed to get married despite having had the wedding pretty much planned since the age of fifteen and the baby names all picked out, I would probably go and throw myself off the nearest cliff, but, sometimes, when life gives you lemons, you have to make lemonade.
My lemonade is called Piglet.