When Pigs Fly

Confession: When I, the Coastal Single Mom, made the somewhat radical decision to pack up all my belongings (read: one or two clothing items and my kids) and move to the coast two years ago, I had an ulterior motive.

I was going to give it one more brilliant shot at a love life.

Not for me, silly geese. For my children. With their father.

Of course I would never admit it outright to anyone, least of all The Trolls, but I, the last great hopeless romantic of our time, having seen my boys turn into incredible young men from being toddlers, wanted so badly to shoot my own Cupid’s bow and give them the one love connection they never had – a relationship with their dad.

Why would this otherwise adult woman of reasonable sanity and wit harbour such flighty ideals? Because I truly believed in my heart and mind that bygones were finally bygones.

A million years had passed since he had walked away from his relationship with me and his responsibilities towards them, and old Father Time, being that great healer, had well and truly delivered.

It took more than a decade for me to settle into this crazy, fabulous single-mom version of myself.

And my boys, having laughed, played and wrestled, had slowly but surely worked their way through their abandonment angst.

The Trolls and I had grown.

Our hearts were fine. We had healed. We had moved on.

And because we had moved on, I had the courage to invite their father for a cup of coffee and extend whatever branch it is which says: “I ‘m not mad at you any more. The kids don ‘t hate you. Troll 1 walks like you and has all of your interests. Troll 2 looks like you, but unfortunately has my personality. They are growing up super fast, so you need to reach out to them before you walk into two grown men who are exactly as tall as you and you can ‘t flake your way out of it.”

He accepted my branch of whatever colour and consistency, and I thought to myself: “Well done, you. Look at you being the bigger person.”

That was three years ago. Months before we moved here.

And in this time of us being, living and making this little coastal town our home, The Trolls have seen, met and spoken to their biological father (who also calls this little coastal town his home) a total of . . . zero times.

My children’s father and I have a text exchange once a month when I remind him that he has to contribute financially, and he often alludes (hate that word and what it stands for) that he would love to meet them.

But he never does.

In fact, The Trolls ‘ dad has said so much and done so little so many times in these three years that by now I have all but put my inner Cupid to rest.

I feel absolutely torn about it . . . and my boys feel absolutely nothing.

They are blissfully unaware of my botched matchmaking schemes. They have never known a dad, and I ‘m sure by now have stopped trying to imagine what having one would be like.

And so, fellow single mommies, I don ‘t speak of my failure to my kids, and neither do I allude (ha!) to my disappointment.

Instead, I just do what I ‘ve always done. I wake up and love them enough for the both of us.

– urbansinglemom@gmail.com

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