I’m not saying being a single parent during a pandemic is difficult but I seem to be crying in the street with no shoes on

I’m not saying that being a single parent during a pandemic is difficult, I’m just saying that a few weeks ago I sent an SOS to a neighbour to look after my children and walked to my best friend’s house in my socks. It’s not as bad as it sounds. My best friend lives just a 15 minute walk from me and I did notice my lack of footwear once I got to the front gate – I just didn’t want to go back inside and for the children to see me weeping.

Never have I properly understood what being a “lone parent” actually feels like, until this spring when my support network was pulled away from me.  

The children themselves are never a problem. I find my offspring endlessly fascinating and adorable and spend a great deal of time following them about the house and telling them so (something which my 13-year-old son finds less adorable as he grows up). No, it’s those moments when you see another work thing felled by Covid, an unexpected bill or house repair you have to suddenly pay for, or a frantic deadline pushed back by the fact you’ve noticed the children are eating crisps for lunch. 

Most of us have such things to contend with but not having another adult to share these worries with suddenly ambushed me. I say “suddenly” like this has been my only meltdown. It hasn’t. It’s just been the most severe. Usually I have the wherewithal to find footwear.

Oh and did I mention hugs? I get plenty from my children; in fact, I sleep hand in hand with my 7-year-old daughter most nights. I never realised, though, just how much I used to cuddle my mum and my friends. Proper “let-me-hold-you-for-a-while” cuddles with other adults, it turns out, are an essential need for me.  

The loneliness of being a single parent is tricky to express at the best of times. We just get on with it. But when your movements are restricted, it’s on another level. We are aware that our friends and families have a big heap on their plate to deal with, too, and the very last thing you want is to add to it. So “I’m fine!” becomes reassurance rather than truth.

When I have had down days, the worst thing someone can say to me is, “Well, kids can drive you mad, can’t they?” I politely change the subject because these people mean well but they don’t get it. My children don’t drive me mad. If anything, it’s the other way round. Living with a parent on a rollercoaster of emotions without another parent to retreat to, isn’t a picnic for them, either.  

We have had many hugs and chats about how mummy sometimes needs to lock herself in the bathroom and lie in the bath until it gets cold. Of course this is not exclusive to single parents. We all need to have long baths sometimes for reasons that have nothing to do with cleanliness.

Having adjusted to being a single parent after my divorce (and by “adjusted” I mean peeling myself off the floor and rebuilding myself from scratch), giving birth to my daughter six years later knowing there would be no dad in the picture was something entirely manageable. I moved closer to my parents, made friends with everyone on my street and, as every new mum does, built my support network. Do you remember that gaggle of mums with prams who used to clog up coffee shops and annoy people who went to public eateries for peace and quiet? Those meet-ups weren’t just a “catch-up” with friends, they were a survival tool. Human beings weren’t made to raise children in isolation. I had a  posse of grandparents, a brother, aunt, incredible neighbours and friends who were our village. Then… whoosh! Covid took the lot away.

The rules tightened on London last week. Wales is going back into lockdown and I had a series of panic attacks. I pride myself on being a strong person but there I was, in the park, holding on to a bench, desperately trying to get breath back into my body. This, I know now, is a common experience, especially at the moment. I look at people who haven’t had mild panic attacks in the last few months and wonder what is wrong with them.  

After a chat with a couple of friends, a weepy trip to my very sympathetic GP and a good night’s sleep, I was fine again, a million miles away from the woman hyperventilating in the park.  

Except I am that woman and, like everyone else, I’m learning to pivot in my work and reassess how I manage life, though I’m not immune to bouts of weeping and panic. And it helps to talk about it, so thank you for indulging me. It has also helped enormously having a best friend who has the same size feet as me and can lend me shoes to walk home in.