No one sets out to get divorced or separate from the
father/mother of their children. If only there was a box one could tick to stop
it happening, but happen it does, every day. I bore three kids in quick
succession and by the time my marriage dissolved into a sticky mess, I was left
holding three children under five. It was a dark time, a private agonising
dystopia fuelled by grief of the like I had never experienced before. Every day
felt like someone had died as I forced myself to function for the sake of the
children. No one else understood, how could they when they had a husband who
was present, being part of a family and sharing your life? I felt like the only
person to ever suffer this level of brokenness.
However, as
time dragged by and I poked my head above the parapet of small children trench
warfare, I found a new world out there. There were other broken people too. A
dear friend of mine, Vicki, was left holding a four-day old baby with the house
being sold from under her feet in the worst recession London had seen for
years. ‘We will have strength in numbers!’ I sang to her as her house finally
came under offer months later. With nowhere else to go, only staying with me
until she found somewhere else, she moved in to my spare attic room at the top
of the house. And that’s when the fun began!
We swiftly settled into a routine
of shared childcare, cooking, food shopping, wine drinking, parties, men
bashing and adopted another single mum into our fold. Nicola and I had been
acquaintances from a baby music group but never swapped numbers or even names,
so when I bumped into her on the school run branded with the same mark of Cain
as myself, ravaged by the heartbreak diet rendering us with lollipop heads and
scrawny necks, I knew she needed to join in with the commune on day release.
Christmas would ordinarily be an
emotional minefield for a recently single parent. The gap left by the missing
other half is difficult to fill on a day traditionally geared towards families.
But when you live in a commune with six children and three mums, that gap
doesn’t feel as huge. Our first Christmas in the Single Mum Mansion (as we
jokingly nicknamed it) was full of laughter, joy, wine, food, presents and a
genuine feeling that things were going to be OK. As all three of us navigated
through the divorce process, the paper work and lawyers’ meetings didn’t feel
as daunting knowing we could ask each other questions, compare notes and not
feel isolated in such an emotionally corrosive time.
During her two years in our
house, Baby Daisy learned to walk and talk, to sleep through the night, eat
finger food, wee on the potty and learn how to share with her commune brothers
and sisters. As Daisy developed awareness of her surroundings in the only home
she had ever known, so we all gradually moved forward, sometimes taking a few
steps backwards when one of the ex-husbands got engaged, had a baby, got remarried,
carelessly erasing us from their lives while we felt fleetingly stuck where
they had dumped us. On those bleak days, we would remind each other we were
still alive, that the feeling was temporary, and that we could go out and party
hard on the synchronised kid-free weekends, blow the cob webs from our heads
and sink enough Sambuca shots to capsize a ship.
Collectively dipping our toes in
the dating pool after years of being institutionalized was like going on an
Eighteen Thirties holiday to Magaluf when you really wanted to be on a Saga
holiday in Tuscany. I had no problem with dating per se, but what I had no
tolerance for was the ‘exciting’ time at the beginning when you were getting to
know someone. I had small children that took up all of my energy, a book that I
was attempting to complete before my agent lost patience with me and no time to
consider anyone else’s needs. All the things I was looking for in a man were
already available in the Single Mum Mansion – friendship; someone to share
experiences with; someone to be in a family with; someone to hold my hair back
when I’d drunk too much wine on my period; someone my kids felt comfortable
with; someone who would fit into my life and me in theirs without a load of
unnecessary drama. Sex was the only box the Single Mum Mansion couldn’t tick,
but I was willing to let my libido take a back seat for a while; it would have
to be someone extremely worthwhile to turn my head away from the commune.
The Single Mum Mansion wrapped up
quite a few years ago after I unexpectedly met my new husband; I hadn’t really
believed I would ever be ready for marriage again. He was special enough to go
exclusive with, but he knew by marrying me, he was marrying Vicki and Nicola
too as well as my three children. We may no longer live in each other’s’
pockets (just round the corner instead), but all three of us constantly
reminisce about our time together, when married friends in not so happy
marriages would look on enviously at us living how we wanted to, not answering
to anyone (apart from the children – not more wine, Mummy!), co-parenting and
supporting without judgement. Of course things weren’t perfect, we were very
low a lot of the time, distraught some days, the children suffered broken
hearts just like us and there are war wounds still visible even now. But what
could have been a harsh solitary experience, was hugely buffeted by three of us
united holding hands, weathering the storm and showing the children that female
solidarity and friendship is something worth its weight in gold.
The Single Mums’ Mansion House book will be out in 2018.
Janet Hoggarth @janet_hoggarth_author
Wow! This sounds amazing! I love it! I look forward to the book!
ReplyDeleteThanks! It comes out on June 1st xxx
ReplyDelete