Life as a Single Mom: Some call it Bravery, Some call it Stupidity, #1

By Deirdre Sparboski

Can Daphne navigate this unchartered path as a single mom?

Daphne Maison – a 35-year-old Project Analyst from Melbourne – and her best friends love to adorn and swoon and gossip over every daily occurrence of each other's successful lives. That is, until Daphne makes a pivotal change to her life: a decision that is sometimes considered bravery, while mostly labelled as stupidity. Can Daphne navigate this unchartered path as a single mom? Is she brave enough to conquer the myriad of unexpected emotions that she feels toward her ex-husband, Ben?

Life as a Single Mom is a humorous and thought-provoking insight into the daily challenges that Daphne must face alone. These challenges invite Daphne (and you, the reader) to embark on a journey of self-discovery and personal growth. Some Call it Bravery, Some Call it Stupidity, is book one of this three-part series.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Deirdre Sparboski
• Release date: Apr 23, 2019
• ISBN: 9781386194156

Book preview

Life as a Single Mom

Some Call it Bravery, Some Call it Stupidity

Deirdre Sparboski

For my Mom and Dad

Mom - for being my biggest cheerleader through life's ups and downs. And for being such an inspiration to what can be achieved through hard work, determination and a positive attitude.

Dad - for always believing in me and protecting me no matter what. And for instilling paramount values in me like honesty, integrity and loyalty.

Contents

Introductions

Before Motherhood

Meet the Girls

Meet Ben

The Early Months

Divorce + Court = Bankruptcy

The Five Stages of Grief

And Suddenly They Can Walk!

The Abuse

The Terrible Two’s

Is Divorce the Only Option?

The Self-Sufficiency Stage

Where is my Dad?

My Letters to Ben

Is My Child Really Five?

Where is my Dad – Answer Redefined

Forgiveness

References

About the Author

© Deirdre Sparboski 2019

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All Rights Reserved.

No part of this book or any of its contents may be reproduced, copied, modified or adapted, without the prior written consent of the author. Commercial use and distribution of the title, contents and/or main plot is not allowed without express and prior written consent of the author.

Introductions

My name is Daphne Rebecca Maison. My previous nicknames/referrals/unofficial titles used to include Dazzling Daphne, Determined Daphne and Decided Daphne. I’m in a group of vibrant friends who love to adorn and swoon and gossip and ooh and ah over every daily occurrence of each other’s successful lives. It’s fun – hilarious at times – as we natter and chide over the latest intrigue or dilemma that one of us is facing.

But of late… I have become brazenly aware of the fact that… well… my ever-supportive other four counterparts have all synonymously agreed that none of these previously dashing titles suit me quite as aptly as my current title – which might I add, they candidly bestow on me at unannounced moments, usually at social gatherings or when I’m already feeling just a little ashamedly vulnerable. Yes, my new title – despite my desperate efforts to replace it – is Daft Daph. Not even Daphne anymore mind you. Just Daph. Like my name itself has dwindled in sparkle too. Like saying my full name just requires too much effort or lacks the importance to even be uttered. And maybe ‘Just Daph’ would be slightly less chiselling than Daft Daph. Arrgghhh I hate to even say it myself. And like anything, if you hear it enough times, you begin to say it yourself, like it’s totally normal, and was always just a natural part of your daily vocabulary.

And just to add salt to my wounds, Daphne isn’t really a popular 21 st Century name either. It’s synonymous with Old-English and 19 th Century ball gowns. My Mother named me after her favourite novelist and playwright, Daphne du Maurier; as well as this writer’s most acclaimed novel (or maybe just Mom’s personal favourite), Rebecca. After curiously researching one day, I discovered that Rebecca sold 2,829,313 copies between its publication in 1938 and 1965, and Daphne was subsequently given the title of Dame Commander in the Order of the British Empire in 1969. How wonderful it would be if I could be designated the title of Dame Daphne instead of Daft Daph? But what’s in a title anyway? Does it really define who I am? Am I really daft? Am I really that unimportant and insignificant that saying my full name requires too much effort? Well… if I’m totally frank with you, yes… that’s exactly how I feel. On almost every day of the week, month and year, I feel too exhausted to even say my own full name. The second syllable, once uttered almost leaves me breathless. And energy is such a scarcity in my existence right now that I really need to conserve every ounce of it where I possibly can. So you can call me Daph, because if I introduce myself to you, I’ll be saying Daph – not because I prefer the shortened name better, but simply because it requires less energy for me to say. And it’s energy that I’ll desperately need when you start darting fifty fast-flying questions at me… which you will do by the way… everybody does… as soon as they receive a response to that first dreaded question… they just simply cannot restrain themselves… like hungry tadpoles, blindly flashing around, grabbing any morsel of food (in this case gossip) that they can claim as their own.

So why am I called Daft Daph by my most beloved friends? We’ll get to that in a minute. But first, don’t you want to ask me that insatiable question that is dripping from your lips like decadent chocolate sauce? Yes of course you do. You don’t even have to try to be polite about it, honestly, it’s okay, nobody else bothers to apply any sensitivity or tactful restraint before spraying their regurgitated chocolate in my face. Oh and just for the record, chocolate only tastes decadent the first time round. When it’s diluted with socialite saliva, stingy judgement and stale wine, believe me, it really loses its sweet, indulgent appeal.

Go on… I know you want to… just ask… you definitely won’t be the first, not even the first one hundred.

Where is your child’s father?

And once that question is answered, there’s really no turning back. I’ve often contemplated fabricating an elaborate tale of where he is, but that again, just requires energy that I simply do not possess. Life as a single mom is exhausting enough as it is without all the frills of trying to paint a fairy tale for my over-indulgent listeners. I also know that my goldfish brain would hardly be able to remember which elaborate tale I’ve told to whom. And what for? Just so that the listener could relish in a delightful tale? Would that in any way alter my reality? No. Would it make my fairy tale any more likely to fall into fruition? No. Would it leave me yearning for a life I already miss enough? Yes. Would it whisk me off to the land of what-ifs and if-onlys? Absolutely yes! And believe me when I tell you, that I spend far more lonely hours in that land of dismal hope than I care to admit. My mind is a constant sea of questions, rebukes and wonderings.

So where is my child’s father? Well I can tell you where he’s not. He’s not here. He’s not here when I’ve been soothing a sick child throughout the night. He’s not here when I am so tired from a long day at work and just need somebody to help cook dinner while I bath my child, simply so that I don’t have to do both, like I do every night. He’s not here when I’m emotionally fraught and need some quiet time, only to be confronted with a screaming meltdown all because I merely suggested that we bath before eating dinner; and said suggestion was only made because I have not yet prepared any food to eat. But all the gossip-hungry mongers aren’t concerned with where he’s not. They’re more intrigued by why he’s not here. See I told you the regurgitated chocolate just cannot help itself. So why is he not here? Yes exactly, now the fun begins. The reason why he is not here really is the pinnacle of how people perceive me. Have you ever noticed that? No of course not, but I have. I have because I’ve encountered other single moms. I have because I’ve become acutely aware of the two distinct thought leaders, and how like it or not, as a single mom, you’re automatically categorised into one of two groups.

Scenario 1

Me and my adoring husband are proud new parents. We cuddle and coo over our newest addition to our perfect home. But like any honeymoon period, the bliss is soon replaced with sleepless nights, projectile vomit, countless diapers, and zero time for couple intimacy. Adoring husband battles to cope with not being the cherry of my eye and constantly being rebutted every time he sheepishly makes any type of sexual advance. Husband decides this isn’t what he signed up for and leaves.

The Result: My friends fill my home on a structured roster, so that I am never alone. They console me, they bath my baby, they lambast my spineless husband. They make me feel better. I’m the victim in the situation. Poor me, poor me, poor me. How could my husband leave me to do this all on my own? My friends shower me with pity and comfort. Together they say. We’ll get through this together. And me… after the initial shock has subsided and my tears have dried, the hurt becomes a bit duller as it’s replaced with a growing resentment. Poor me! How could he do this to me?! How could he leave me?! Oh yes, when the pain is too great to handle, remedy it with a good dose of resentment. It’s the best Band-Aid ever!

Scenario 2

Naïve me always believes things will change. They’ll get better, of course they will. And then one day, something finally clicks. The penny finally drops. How can I allow this precious child to experience the abuse that I’ve been condoning all these years? So… call it hormones… call it a major lapse in logic… call it a mother’s dying will to eternally defend her child. Whatever it’s termed who cares. The point is that I wilfully choose to leave my husband.

The Result: I’m selfish. How can I deprive my child of her father? What kind of mother would do that? And the around-the-clock comforting friends in scenario 1? Ooh no, they’re too busy lashing me with judgement and up-turned noses to possibly fit a visit into their busy schedules. So I’m left alone – just me and my child – and a lot of time to blame myself, scold myself, lavish in a guilt that is too thick to escape from.

So does that explain why my current nickname is Daft Daph? Yip that’s me. The daft wife who was dumb enough to leave her husband. The daft mom who was stupid enough to think she can handle this single motherhood thing all on her own. I mean seriously! Who does that?! Well, in all honestly, if I had’ve known at the time what I was wilfully embarking on I most certainly would not have left my husband. So I do not for one second ever judge anyone who chooses to tolerate abuse, and definitely not someone with children. As an outsider, it’s so easy for us to cloister in our little groups and criticise a girl for not being brave enough to leave an abusive partner. But what you have to realise is that the flipside of the abuse is unknown and scary. Yes often more scary than the abuse itself. How easy it would’ve been for me to justify the abuse instead of having to endure the sacrifice of single motherhood. The irony of it all is that while I was already pregnant when I filed for Seperation, I didn’t yet know I was pregnant. I was instinctively propelled by this innate knowing that it was time to leave Ben, unbeknown as to the real why. At first, Ben begged and pleaded for me to change my mind. He really was devastated by my decision. But I was resolute. Nothing he did or said was able to persuade me to stay. And now, in hindsight, I understand why I had such conviction in my decision. It was a subconscious sense of urgency that I had to protect my child; the one I didn’t even know I was carrying at the time. And of course, when I did discover that I was pregnant, I was engulfed by fear and guilt and regret. What have I done? I cried. I sheepishly contacted Ben to share the wonderful news. But the fury that he bellowed was like hot coals, searing my skin and my heart. And I knew then that things would never ever be the same again. I had made a very brave or a very stupid decision, and either way, I couldn’t retract it.

And yet, amidst all the craziness that is my life, I am blessed with Genna, the most perfect little gift in the whole world. I can say that now in a far more affectionate tone than what I sometimes have while being smacked and kicked during an unexpected temper tantrum. But yes, for the most part, given our set of circumstances, I can confidently say that I think Genna and I have survived the worst together and are building a solid, happy life together – just the two of us.

Before Motherhood

It’s hard to believe I know, but once upon a time, I really was Dazzling Daphne. Me and my four best friends were glamourous, successful, dedicated women. Oh, my friends are still all of these things by the way. And three of them are mothers now too just like me, except only completely different. I’m now the Ugly Duckling that veered off our picture-perfect path. But before my reprehensible decision, life was amazing, and dazzling, and perfect.

For eight years of marriage, I grovelled like a penniless beggar. We’d fight. I’d cry. We’d separate. I’d beg. Not once, not twice, but more times than I care to admit. Ben really was my perfect man. He was my fairy tale come true. He was every girl’s dream husband, every day until he was not. I’m not really sure – even now all these years later – what changed or when, but it did. Maybe we were just so addicted to the honeymoon phase that we needed to swing to the extreme of ugliness in order to rekindle the honeymoon all over again. Time and time again. His acceptance of taking me back was always conditional. I promised to change. I promised to not be so emotional, so needy, so erratic, so pathetic. And what I was silently promising myself was that I would work harder at being less of me and more of what Ben wanted me to be. Needed me to be. I would be less outspoken and more dependent. I would be less empowered and more subservient. I would effortlessly mould myself in any direction, any shape that was required in order to receive just a morsel of the emotional abuse that I so desperately craved. Woah! What!? Craved?? Did I honestly crave abuse? Well… yes… on a subliminal level, every relationship is effectively symbiotic. Some relationships just end up being more parasitic or more co-dependent. But either way, as human beings, complex things that we are, we need unexplainable things in life. And the only way for me to truly break free from this abusive relationship was to critically assess my needs. Ouch! It was a very brutal process. Revealing our shadow side is never pretty, and again, if anyone had forewarned me on what I was about to embark on by scratching this hornet’s nest, I would have gladly remained in my blissful bubble of ignorance. It really was quite a happy place most of the time.

And I’m still not sure if it was bravery or stupidity that prompted me to poke and prod at something that really didn’t need