It’s coming…It’s so close you can almost hear it. For single mothers everywhere, it nearly deserves its own Jaws type theme song. “Duunnn dunnn… duuuunnnn duun …” Father’s Day is nearly upon us, and with it comes the inevitable “boo-hoo” comments and questions for single moms.
“Oh, are you just going to stay home and ignore the day?”
“Oh, your poor buddy. Father’s Day must be so sad for him.”
“Oh, poor you. Father’s Day must bum you out.”
Father’s Day is not a day of mourning in my house; it’s a day of celebrating.
As a single mother by choice, let me put your hearts, minds and “ohs” to rest. Father’s Day is not a day of mourning in my house; it’s a day of celebrating. It’s a day of steaks-on-the-grill-hold-my-beer-let’s-mow-the-lawn-together celebrating, and it’s mine…all mine!
It’s a day when I take an additional 24 hours out of the 8,760 of the year to say yay to me, to say thank you to my son’s anonymous sperm donor, and to celebrate this wonderful and wild life I worked so hard for.
Becoming a single mother by choice isn’t a life I stumbled into; it’s one I wanted—and wanted badly. It’s a life that was made possible because of science, my stubbornness and the gift of an amazing stranger. It’s a life I went into knowing that “easy” wouldn’t be a thing, and that back-up would be a luxury. It’s also a life I wouldn’t change for anything.
Sure, there are days it would be great if someone else tagged in to tackle the “threenager” temper tantrum. Of course, there are afternoons I would love to go on a walk by myself. And absolutely, there are early mornings when it would be awesome to fall back asleep knowing it was someone else’s turn to go on the paci run.
Sharing responsibilities isn’t something that happens on the regular when you are a single mom.
I’ll tip my cap to myself and to other mothers like me who continue to make it happen day after day after day.
What is on the regular, is that I am the one who gets all the joy of seeing my boy’s smiley-smushy face pressed against the glass door when I pick him up from school. I am the one who hears all the calls when his toy dinosaur takes a spill and needs the doctor. I am the one who gets all the excitement when he finally figures out how to use the pedals on his bike, or properly finds his stance in the batter’s box. Most importantly, I am the one who gets the front row VIP seat in watching this wild boy become a phenomenal man.
That’s the gig. I am the mother of all fathers, and the mother of all mothers to my son. This isn’t an Inception-esque riddle; it’s just the fact of the matter, and the matter of my facts. Okay, maybe it’s a little bit Inception.
I am not expecting Hallmark, or anyone for that matter, to tip their cap to me on Mother’s Day or on Father’s Day. I’ll tip my cap to myself and to other mothers like me who continue to make it happen day after day after day. The mothers who have the strength to put in the work for two people, and the enormous heart and love for a 1,000.
I don’t need the world to see me on Father’s Day, but I hope for a world that wants to appreciate me on Father’s Day.
Maybe this Narnia eutopia I dream of will magically appear on Father’s Day; maybe it won’t. But either way, if you are looking for me this Father’s Day and every Father’s Day to come I will be the one sitting on my patio chair tooting my own horn, encouraging my son to sign my Father’s Day card and grilling myself a delicious Omaha Steak. Why? Because I am both Mama and Dada, and I deserve it.