Mr Right

Every girl has a type.

Some like them classy and suave, decked out in a suit and tie (and those strange half pointy, half square shoes), driving a flashy car. Some like the big, bulky, lamb chop-braaiing, rugby-loving type. I, the Urban Single Mom, like the builder, fixer, work with their hands type.

A suit and tie guy is sexy, sure, and nobody gives better hugs than a rugby guy, but it’s the ‘let me fix your leaking tap and check your car tyres’ type of guy that provides my tummy flutters. And if he can braai a good chop and doesn’t look too silly in a suit at family weddings, well, Mister, sign me up.

Let’s change my last name, make a home, pop out some babies, get side-by-side gravestones and rake in those anniversaries. I’m good to go.

Of course My Type has never really materialised for me in the physical. And now I’m pretty sure I know why.

I wouldn’t know how to deal with My Type if ever I should actually meet him in person.

Because I don’t know how to deal with my first-born son, Troll 1.

Because Troll 1… is exactly the type of guy I have always wanted.

It shouldn’t come as such a surprise, of course. Most first-time parents over-parent, over-love and over-compensate. Firstborns get it all. All the attention, all the discipline and all the affection. Because they will become older brothers and older sisters and because they will become the guardians of the household.

Last-borns get it all, in their own way too.

Whereas with a firstborn you are energised and ready to do this damn parenting thing, by the time the last kid rolls around, you’re tired and really couldn’t be all that bothered. Why? Because the lastborn has an older brother or sister to help share the load, that’s why.

See how this all makes sense now?

Anyhoo! Back to my firstborn, Troll 1. And boy, did I over-parent, over-love and over-discipline that kid. Troll 1 went from toddler to Guardian of the House in zero to 60 seconds. He’s sexy in that quiet, contemplative, walking tall and looking good in those skinny jeans kind of way. And he’s outdoorsy in that ‘I learnt how to drive and braai the perfect chop at 12’ kind of way too.

As for the Bob the Builder stuff? Troll 1 fixes everything and anything. He can change a car tyre. He handles the plumbing if it’s iffy. He has his own set of house keys. He’s got bags and bags of weird little broken electronic pieces which he uses to fix things like the kettle. Yep, 14-year-old Troll 1… is my kinda man.

Which should be great… except for the fact that he also refuses to make as much as his own sandwich. He wants to be served. He refuses to wash his own dishes. He wants it done for him. As for making his own bed? Ha! I wish. Troll 1 is all the great things I love, and all the crappy things I despise.

Much like the type of man I have always dreamt of. Methinks it might time to go back to the drawing board!

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