Well, I’m not exactly hiding it from my parents. Oh, they KNOW. Or my friends. I’m talking about the social media pages that should be flush with my son’s image, my smiling face, hash tags, cute comments and likes and all that shit. My ex does it for me by plastering my son, Andrew’s picture all over Google+ exactly like a Disneyland dad. I don’t mention him on Linkedin, Google+, or Twitter (I don’t have Facebook). Maybe that makes me a bad mom.
It’s not that I feel ashamed that I accidentally got pregnant by a guy I knew for three months, lived with for less than a year, officially engaged to for a week, and then disastrously split from almost a year ago. No, no, I just think that shamelessly announcing to the world, “Hey! I’m a single mom, everyone-from-high-school-who-tormented-me-like-Regina-George,” is not how I want to present myself in the next reunion. Before becoming preggo, I was successful, making a nice chunk of change, on my way to grad school, in love with an amazing guy — on top of the world. Suddenly, that amazing guy and I split and I drank and dated online to numb singledom. Enter “He Who Shall Not Be Named.” I end up shagging “He Who Shall Not Be Named” (HWSNBN- I need a better acronym) and on the fifth or sixth try, he lets his wild oats spray everything. Me + Shhhit Head (HS) + (ovulation + sperm) – birth control = baby. I’m fucked.
So, my story isn’t one about love or trying for years to have a kid. I literally fell into it (or on it). My life is playing out like a B-list version of “Knocked-Up.” Only, I don’t get to drive into the sunset with my quirky, curly-headed spouse and cute, cuddly baby. Instead, I get to lug around a 50 pound stroller, a diaper bag, a laptop bag, my purse, Andrew’s Tonka truck and keys in my mouth. Plenty of people give me those pitiful Bambi eyes that say, “Oh, look, that’s sad. She needs to find a man to help her.”
No, really I’m fine, just sit there and watch me open the door with all this crap. Pity my lack of a man while I struggle to locate Andrew’s favorite bottle. Seriously, I don’t have time for a man and even if I did, I’d just ask him to move out of the way. That’s why we invented “shaky” things. If I needed a man, it would be to unclog my drain. Seriously, my drain is clogged with some kind of hairy creature from the black lagoon.
So all my old high school chums, past boyfriends, previous coworkers, and softball buddies would be shocked, dumbfound and astounded that this brass-balls bitch got knocked-up. Until I get over the societal shame (it comes and goes in fits of SUPERMOM to making excuses as a SINGLE MOM), I will climb the mountain of trying to “own it.”