There will be no birthday cards.
That was the response E received from the father of her fifteen-year-old daughter, way back when she first told him she was expecting his baby.
E is fifty-three now, and although I don't know the circumstances of the man involved, I do know it takes two to conceive a child and I know how long it takes to pop a birthday card in the post.
I met E on holiday last week.
You're all single mums! the campsite rep had exclaimed excitedly the day before as she'd indicated the three chalets closest to mine. She'd been showing me around the simple accommodation that was to be mine, and my children's home, for the next week. Perched high atop a mountain, overlooking the wild Catalonian coast - the Mediterranean sparkling below, birdsong in the trees, the site was everything I had expected and wanted from this holiday; this week booked in the immediate aftermath of that surreal time back in April, when I discovered my husband trying to start an affair. A getaway, to get us all away.
Me, my son and my grown-up daughter. My third child was working. No electronics allowed - bar phones, which have become essential as proved by the last time we tried to leave the house without them. (That was my birthday meal, here in Stockholm, with everyone present and only my phone allowed to take photos ...until we arrived and needed an app to pay the parking charge and my daughter whipped out her phone from its hiding place and didn't say, I told you so ...)
I digress.
We took books and cards, and the first night fell asleep early and easily.
The second day, my son met the children of the other three single mums and I met the single mums and the rest is history.
I'll start with D. She had two kids, one of whom was seven and obviously autistic. Little M, I'll call him, always by his mother's side, always cuddling a vibrantly coloured selection of cuddly animals, swaying as he spoke, his dark-lashed eyes fixed on the ground, his voice fragile and lilting. I never saw him swim in the pool with the rest of the kids, I never really saw him with the rest of the kids. And on the second night, sitting by the bar I told D and her sister L, about the holiday rep's comment and rather clumsily asked, were they too, single mums? I'm a widow, D said simply and it wasn't until a few days later, that her sister told me the circumstances ... How he'd been found at home, a mixture (they guess) of his epilepsy and the poor health of a chronic alcoholic. A year ago.
A year ago? And here D was, dry-eyed, holding herself together in a restrained and elegant manner, centring her world around the needs of little M, because whenever he needed to withdraw, she did too. An early night for little M, was an early night for D, holiday or not. What a lucky little boy he is to have her. And what a dignified example of courage shown to me as I venture forth with the changes in my life.
And then D's sister, L. Good fun, and looking for good fun. L had three kids with her, and a fourth, grown-up back at home ... Along with a husband, she told me that first time. Although a couple of nights and three large G & Ts later, she could, she admitted, easily be doing without a husband at home. Had almost embarked upon an affair, so desperate was she for a touch of affection, from the husband … for him to even notice that she was still there.
And finally E, who had always been on her own - from the very beginning. A single mum, in the truest sense of the words.
E was staying the longest. Just over two weeks, as opposed to a week for the rest of us. We needed a break, she explained, a long relaxing time to wind down. But every evening her daughter perched self-consciously at the edge of our group, eavesdropping in upon our adult conversations, limiting her mother just by her presence. Fifteen is such an awkward age. Too old to knock about with the kids, too immature to join in with the grown-ups, they need their own kind. Three days into the stay and it was clear she was bored witless, counting the hours, never mind the days left.
It's getting hard, her mother whispered to me one evening.
No shit, Sherlock, I wanted to say.
Motherhood, I have come to believe is an upward climb that only becomes harder. The first gentle uplands are the sweetest times, when the child is small enough to wrap in your arms, and the days are big enough to fill their world. Those nights when they sleep in the next room and nightmares are manageable. Fifteen years in and the terrain changes, it's prickly and rocky with great boulders, behind which they disappear, shredding you with imagined terrors ... Until the day you summit, and there's a clear view again because just like that, they're off, leaving you to put back the pieces of yourself in a way you hope you will recognise.
Yeah, it's hard.
E doesn't have a tracker or her daughter's phone she told me seriously, but she does insist upon receipts from the cafe her daughter visits, to prove that this is indeed where she has been. What could I say? Because although I sense trouble ahead, for E and her daughter I could be hopelessly wrong. They may move seamlessly through the next few years as fifteen becomes twenty-one, and suddenly E has a lovely young woman on her hands, because to be honest what do I know about trouble ahead? Having failed so spectacularly to see the massive spanner about to fall into the works of my life.
Ah, well … troubles or not, for one week the single mums and their children had joy. Yes we had fun, we had a season in the sun ... and on the last night we pulled our patio tables together and shared a feast of a BBQ. The kids ran wild, the sun dipped behind the mountains and we sat and talked and put many worlds right again.
And now, writing this, a thousand miles north, you know what I'm thinking? I'm thinking who needs an annual birthday card, from an almost stranger anyway?
Now … Before I sign off, I need to go back that spanner …
The last post I sent, Joy and Woe, has been by far the most widely read post I have written. It was also, by far, the most personal. I don’t regret writing it. On the contrary, the responses I had made me appreciate just how much these posts resonate. However I feel now that there is a dissonance - something askew about writing in such a way, and then sending the mail directly to mailboxes. So I’ve created a blog here: Postcards from Midlife
I will be facing big changes this year, the kind of changes millions of middle-aged women face. Of course I’ll be writing about them, not only for my own mental health but for all those reading who recognise aspects of their lives, in my words. It helps, but now it feels more comfortable having readers come to me, via the blog.
You can still subscribe, there’s a box at the bottom of every page. And if you do, you’ll receive the latest post into your mailbox, just like these 5 Minute Reads, which I will eventually phase out.
In the meantime, if you know someone who you think will enjoy this post, do go ahead and share.
Stay well,
Cary
Just wanted to be sure you knew. Wishing you all the luck with this next phase of your life ❤️
Hey. I'm not sure if you know, but there is already a well established and commercialised initiative call Postcards From Midlife. They have a podcast, events and a supporting FB page.