Lauren Collette

Moms Like Me Presenter 2021

A year and a half ago, I sat in the second row of an audience much like this one and bawled my eyes out. The five stories I heard resonated deeply, but something was missing—a detail that nagged me to send my story in for consideration. I never thought I was worthy of being on this stage, but on the due date for submissions, with a stomach full of knots, I pushed “send.”

I fully intended to marry a man I loved, have two to four children and be a happy, normal family. You know the kind with matching Christmas jammies and sweet maternity photo shoots… But this was not meant to be. After a Polycystic Ovarian Syndrome (aka P-C-O-S) diagnosis in college, I was told by multiple doctors that there was a low probability of conceiving the good-old-fashioned way, and that I would most likely need fertility treatments if I wanted children. So, you can imagine my surprise when, all of a sudden, I was feeling seasick on a fishing trip. I grew up on an island and I DO NOT get seasick. P-R-E-G-N A-N-T. A new set of letters was coursing through my brain.

Telling my then boyfriend I was pregnant was a journey in itself. It could best be described as the most epic tug-of-war battle of emotions. One moment would be filled with the confidence of “we will figure it out,” and a few hours later would flip to accusations and regret. Never in my life had I considered an abortion and yet that option was thrown on the table. I couldn’t imagine giving up a child I had always wanted just to make my life easier, so I didn’t.

It became real to me when I heard the heartbeat of my child for the first time. I was in, and I didn’t care if I walked this path alone.

I’ve had some nasty words sent in my direction, but the ones used by my ex and his family during the beginning of my pregnancy cut the deepest. 

“Baby-trapper.”

“Dramatic.”

“Not pretty enough.”

“NOT GOOD ENOUGH.” 

For the rest of my pregnancy and through most of my post-partum experience, I was plagued by the wounds they created. What had I ever done to deserve such treatment?

I sobbed on my couch day after day. Every. Single. Day of my pregnancy, to be exact. When the tears became less frequent, I ventured off the couch and found prenatal yoga.

In a world that had become surreal, I began grounding myself with weekly classes filled with women in the same waddling boat. I didn’t realize it at the time, but THIS was the foundation that would support my journey into motherhood. 

Eventually, my child’s father came back around. I had so many questions… 

How much does he want to be involved?

Does his idea of a birth plan match my idea of a birth plan?

How are we going to decide on a name?

Should he even have a say?

I was ready and willing to assume all responsibility for this child, but his willingness to be involved threw a wrench in my expectations. 

Should I run?

Move in with one of my parents?

These questions coursed through my body and the only reason I stayed was because I didn’t want my Sweet P to resent me someday for taking him away from his father. Despite how absolutely gut twisting it was to do so, I remained open to communication and the possibilities that could occur. I even joked “Maybe we can write a book together called Holy Fuck! We’re Having a Baby!”

For the remainder of the pregnancy, I was pretty much alone. I made a registry alone and took pictures alone. I ate alone and went out dancing alone. It was lonely. At one point I entertained the idea of setting up a dating profile with “expecting mother looking for a life partner” as the title, which of course sent me into hysterical laughter every time. 

As we neared the end of the pregnancy, I distinctly remember showing up at the hospital parenting class full of happy couples – you know, holding hands, giving backrubs, etc. – and there my ex and I were, awkward as fuck. And although things were definitely weird, something about the shared fear of becoming new parents and having to care for a tiny human brought us closer. After the class, he asked if he could feel his son moving within my belly. It was the moment I had longed for… and I fell into bed with him – the hopes of a “normal” family still lingering.

On my 28th birthday, I went into labor! After about 48 hours of minimal sleep, I was ready and willing to head to the hospital. I was the first of many mothers that night. Thank goodness, because I wanted one of the rooms with a soaking tub! My doula’s backup came to my rescue, and she was exactly who I needed. With her guidance, my experience was nothing short of peaceful and empowering.

Paxton James arrived 18 hours later, and I was in love.

Was anyone else shocked at how quickly you’re allowed to get up and shower after birthing a melon into this world? And WHY do they have white towels when you’re still dripping blood? The random things you think when you’re on another planet.

For a few days everything seemed “normal.”

I had heard the horror stories. The tongue and lip ties and all the ways breastfeeding could take its toll, but I was determined. So determined that at an appointment two days after being discharged, I was told my baby was jaundiced and close to being re-admitted.

What was wrong with me?

Why wasn’t my milk coming in?

Why aren’t my nipples long enough?

I wanted so badly to be able to feed my child, yet he would nurse and lose weight. I was…devastated. 

I thought it would all come naturally. It didn’t.

The breastfeeding didn’t. 

The sleep training didn’t. 

The parenting didn’t.

The VILLAGE didn’t. 

In all seriousness, where the fuck is this “village” that’s supposed to help raise my child, because I need one of those. 

All I had was my ex and his family. What a way to start a new chapter. 

When we took Paxton home, we seemed and acted like a couple, and I couldn’t shake that family image. At four weeks postpartum, I had to return to work. I wasn’t close to ready, but being the only income earner, I had no choice. I hired a nanny, because the demands of motherhood and a full time position were too great. Then, at six weeks postpartum, my son’s father packed up his duffel bag and said it was time. 

Trying to co-parent after having a romantic relationship with someone is like going through withdrawals from addiction. You try to escape the thing that led you astray and yet it’s always lingering, trying to drag you back down. 

In the beginning, we would both go where Pax went, but eventually his dad requested to take him…without me. I was shattered, but I didn’t want a fight. I honestly didn’t have the fight in me. At first it was for a few hours and then the time grew longer. I remember waiting in my dark basement apartment, rushing to the window whenever I heard the sound of tires on asphalt. I’d check my phone every minute, and try to occupy myself with the endless piles of dirty laundry and dishes, but I’d always find myself pacing on the carpeted floor, wondering where the fuck he was and what I should do with the rock-solid breasts soaking through my nursing bra. How I ever let my infant out of my arms, I couldn’t tell you. My exhaustion exceeded everything else, but the moment Pax was gone, there was no relaxation – only worry.

Would he feed him on time?

Would he remember to check his diaper?

Would he… return him to me at all?

Single motherhood is lonely. Your child takes their first steps, and there’s no one coming home to jump up and down with you to celebrate. They get a rash and there’s no one to panic with and obsessively google WebMD if this rash could be chicken pox. You go to dinner and inevitably the baby has reflux or a blowout with no one to tag in, so you hold back the tears and leave.

Imagine if there was no break in sight. THAT’S what being a single mom is like. There were no reinforcements and it was only me in a warzone called motherhood.

If the baby needs changing, it’s all you every time. 

Every wake up is you.

Every diaper change is you.

Every feeding time is you.

You have to dig deeper than you ever thought imaginable when you’re running on empty and remember that it has to get better than the current sleep deprived hell hole you’re in. And so I did.

I dug. And I dug. And I dug.

When I couldn’t take it anymore, I’d set him in the crib and take a quick shower. I’d sit there on those cold tiles, bawling crocodile tears with the water pounding down on my already pounding head, chest heaving with uncontrollable sobs and the fan drowning out the sound of his cry, so I could have… Five. Minutes. Of peace. 

Since Paxton now spends half his time with his dad, I sometimes question if I’m a true single mother, but I’m learning to own it. I deserve that fucking title!

A village rose up – one that supported me at my best and my worst. It was always there, but it took me a while to recognize it.

Those incredible souls dropped off chicken pot pie and lactation cookies, volunteered the muscle to move all our worldly possessions, mowed my dandelions, pushed Pax around the block in a stroller while I participated in a fitness class, invited us to holiday parties and dinners, loved on my canine kid, listened to me analyze and re-analyze the same things time after time, and so much more. With their support throughout my darkest days, and the call that told me I was chosen as a storyteller for Mom’s Like Me, I finally felt brave enough to find a therapist. Until that point, I had been worried that anyone outside of my inner circles would not understand.

What if “they” think I’m an unfit mother?

What if “they” use it against me in a court of law?

What if “they” take my child away? The one I fought so hard to keep. 

What I had to realize and what I needed help seeing was that “they” was something I made up. That “they” can see whatever they want, but I KNOW that I’m a good mother. 

I go to counseling weekly. I worry about the future A LOT. I still struggle with this reality every day, but it’s getting better and better.

Co-parenting is beyond hard. We have our “wow, look how much Pax has grown days” and our “I will drag your ass to court if you say another word” days. I’m constantly trying to analyze what he’s thinking and worrying about radical outbursts, but things are FINALLY beginning to mellow out. I owe much of that change to a calm wave that washed into our lives after this brutal storm. 

Steven. A new man in my life. He saved me in so many ways. He showed me what a healthy relationship looks like and held space for me when I felt broken. He has brought hope and healing into my life and although I had already realized that I wanted to be the heroine in my story, instead of the victim, he became one of my biggest supporters in that quest.

Fifty percent of the time, I get to hear my sweet little boy’s heartbeat… and I’ll always remember that it could have been zero percent. I thought I’d get up on this stage and tell you all that I did it. I’m fixed and I figured it all out, but I learned quite the opposite. 

I am strong, but I’m allowed to be weak.

I am beautiful, and yet I ugly cry often. 

Things are hard, but they are worth it.

I AM an incredible mother and THIS is only the beginning of my story!!!