Self-sufficient single mum

I like to think of myself as pretty self-sufficient. I’ve shared my domestic ambitions with you already although we’re all still waiting for my first jar of home made jam. But being a single mum means that I can’t just swan about the kitchen in my heels, and little frilly apron with perfect hair. No, I also need to do practical jobs too.

I don’t believe in gender stereotypes (not that I’m going to admit to anyway), but in my last relationship my ex would do anything practical. He would get very masculine about certain jobs, and of course I would play the helpless princess, which I happened to be very good at. We did have a wobble when our new flat needed painting and he expected me to help, so after an hour I developed an allergy to paint, and hung up my paintbrush.

However now, the house, the car, the shopping and everything else in my life I am solely in charge of.  And until Xavier is old enough (when can a child cook me dinner and make me coffee?), I will continue to do so. I even have to deal with spiders and I’m so terrified of them that I look at them, and ask them nicely to leave. They generally do so actually.

I think I have adjusted to this role quite well. I have a tool box, and my own screwdrivers, (I know he difference between a Phillips head and a flat), and so on. I built furniture, I painted furniture, (funny how I am no longer allergic), I put up pictures almost straight, and although I don’t yet own a drill I harbour ambitions of not only owning one but knowing how to use it. I am also wondering if Vivienne Westwood designs a tool belt.

Since having Xavier I have done many things that I thought I never would and things that in the past I would have pretended I couldn’t; but the thing about being a single mum is that you have to get on with it, and when you (I) want to be dramatic about it there is no one but an unsympathetic child to listen to you. So instead of moaning (oh I love a good moan), I get on with it. Or more accurately I do get on with it but I moan a lot afterwards.

This week I had a lot of tasks to do. In fact so many that I’m wasn’t sure there would be any energy left to complain afterwards.

The pushchair had a squeaky wheel; no problem I got out my DW40 and fixed it. I built a house for Xavier. OK, so it was a playhouse for the garden but it needed lots of screwdrivering and I got calluses and a broken nail as a result. But I was ever so pleased with myself when Xav went in it and it didn’t fall down.  I also cleaned out the shed, and organised for a friend to take the rubbish to the tip (but only because my car wasn’t big enough).

I painted a vintage child’s chair a lovely bright blue for Xavier’s room, (something I’d been meaning to do for ages), and bought some wire wool so I could rub down an old metal trunk ready for painting.  

And with every task I completed the more smug I became. See how (nearly) self-sufficient I was.

But my work was not done. Oh no. I had to do stuff with the car. We’re going on a long journey next week so I needed to fill up the screen wash, check the tyre pressure, and clean it inside and out. No problem for someone as capable as me.

I filled up the screen wash, easy. I cleaned the inside, easy. But then I needed to take it to the carwash. I’m a tiny bit scared of car washes. Not quite on the same scale as escalators or spiders but I have a slight fear of getting stuck in one with those vicious looking brush things blocking out the light and crushing me to death. I could have used a jet wash but they look like hard work so I took a deep breath and decided to bite the bullet.

I bought my ticket from the garage and proceeded. I can’t really remember the last time I’d been in a carwash but I put my fears aside and when the display told me to move forward I did. When it told me to stop I did. Then the vicious washing began. I took many deep breaths, it was soon over. Then it told me to move forward, I did. Then it told me to stop, I did.

There seemed to be a few more things going on and then the brushes lifted, but the display was still on STOP. So I sat there. I turned up the radio, I decicded  the carwash was doing an invisible drying thing or something.  I wondered if it would wax my car. Would the wheels be nice and shiny? After a while I saw a man staring at me. He came over and I put down the window, worried that he might get injured in the scary carwash.

‘Have you broken down?’ He asked.

‘I’m in a carwash.’

‘I know but it’s washed your car,’ he laughed.

‘Yes it has but it says ‘stop’ so I stopped.’ He laughed at me again, not unkindly, and said he’d seen me sitting here for ages and was a bit concerned. Apparently (he explained very slowly), once your car was washed that was it. The invisible magic I was expecting didn’t exist.

I thanked him for his help, feeling less smug, less self-sufficient and much more like an idiot. I drove off, resolving to find another garage to check my tyres in once I’d recovered from the humiliation. And next time I’ll use the jet wash. It might take more work but I’m never going in a car wash again.