On the afghan-covered couch of my best friend’s Mother’s day home, a little boy lay curled in the fetal position, his hair drenched in sweat and his cheeks red-pink. He looked utterly miserable.

Sherry’s Mom was bent over him, a cool hand on his forehead, and she shook her head angrily as she removed a thermometer from his mouth.

“He’s got a temperature, the poor duff,” she said quietly,” He should not be here. He is going to make the other kids sick, and he needs his Mommy.”

I looked at Sherry, worriedly. My own little boy had recently started spending days at their day home and I couldn’t fathom ever leaving him in a state of fever and malaise of the boy on the couch.

“Why would his Mom have left him here?” I asked,”Was he not sick this morning?”

“He was,”she said,”She’s a single Mom and she said she had no choice but to go to work.” She shook her head in disgust. And I exhaled slowly, wondering what was Wrong With People.

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I walked with my son along the sidelines of his Father’s rugby game late Saturday afternoon.

My three-year-old kicked leaves and I shuffled beside him, somewhat embarrassed that my kid’s skinny little legs were exposed in a pair of wildly autumn-inappropriate blue shorts. But he insisted and I’ve learned a hard fought lesson: choose battles with small humans wisely. At least he’s wearing a thick coat.

We’ve been to a few of Nolan’s father’s rugby games now, and at first I felt frozen to the bleachers among the cheering wives, Moms of adult, lumbering sons, and grizzled British ex-pats muttering salty words of frustration . Were there any other ex-fiancees here with the sons of any other of the rugby players? Didn’t think so. But we rolled with it, because we’re good at that, inspecting floating red Maple leaves and holding hands and sneaking off to buy root beer at the snack bar.

There’s an older man always present at these weekend games, in his late fifties, standing with a large camera and a keen eye on the sidelines under a canopy of trees. He’s watched my son and I at each of the four games we’ve attended, smiling, making us feel welcome, each time. This day he speaks to us for the first time: “So who do you two belong to?”

I look up and smile and stammer mentally, concocting what to say and Nolan points to the field, to a burly man in a white hat, pummeling another burly man into the sodden ground.

“That’s my Daddy!” he says joyfully.

Camera observer man turns to me, waiting.

“That’s my ex,”I say slowly.

“Oh,” he says, looking a little flustered: and then, “Silly man.”

It’s a little uncomfortable for a minute as I weigh the assumption: that this man believes the Father of my son left us somehow, gave us up. It’s an assumption I’ve heard before: no one wants to be a single Mom. Single Moms have been forced into the situation without their consent or compliance, right? This well-intentioned man doesn’t realize that perhaps, I was the one to leave.

I encounter assumptions about my single Mom status on a near daily basis; the following are the stereotypes that make me cringe the most.

1) Single Moms are desperate for a new man.

I’ve dipped my toe in the dating pool, grudgingly, over the last few months and the first thing that always comes up is the assumption that I want to get married and have more babies, stat. Why? Because I’m a single woman of child-bearing age? Because a woman is not complete without a man? I don’t know, but it’s annoying assumption, without merit, and I don’t like it.

2) Single Moms are money grubbing.

I can’t count how many times I’ve been asked how much alimony and child support I receive. The answer: none. The reaction: shock. Many acquaintances, friends, customers and strangers have assumed I am somehow benefiting financially from my separation. Nothing could be further from the truth. Not that it’s your right to ask anyway - in my opinion.

3) Single Moms should be pitied.

“I don’t know how you do it!” It’s the single most repeated refrain of my single Mama existence. It’s meant to be tender and empathetic, I know, and I don’t mean to dismiss the good intentions behind the phrase. But I do it because I have to, like every single Mom has to. It’s not worthy of praise, I’m no more strong than you, I just deal with what I encounter, like anyone else. Save the pity, is my view: save it for the baby seals and impoverished countries and Republicans. (Just kidding! Kind of.)

4) He must have left you

As above. Strangers have said: “He’s an idiot, why would he leave a team like you two, how could anyone leave you” and more. Strangers (and acquaintances) need not make these assumptions. Maybe he didn’t leave. Maybe us single Mamas did what we had to, made the decision ourselves.

What Single Parent assumption makes you crazy?

I watch Kim from the sliding glass door of my tiny office. She’s efficient as always as she packs up her Blackberry, her laptop, and a stack of file folders from her desk. She wraps her scarf around her neck and quickly glances at her watch, slipping off her heels and shoving her feet into the waiting flats under her desk. It’s only 4:30 as she hurries to the elevator to leave for the day.

Kim is one of the most polished and efficient sales people on the team at the large media company I’m working at. I admire her intelligence and hope I have half her poise when I’m her age: which is only in four or five years. But I can’t help resenting her a little. I understand she has to pick up her kids from daycare, but shouldn’t she be putting in her dues at the office, too? I’m working till at least 7:30 every night to make sure I’m on the right rungs on the slipper corporate ladder - and, I know it sounds petty — but I resent her late mornings and early exits.  Just because she chose to have children doesn’t mean she should get away with fewer hours on the clock, right? I think parents need to put in the same hours as non parents.  Firmly.

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Like so many women who grew up in the 1980’s, I have a moderate fascination with Madonna.

I remember listening to Like a Virgin with a mixture of thrill and awe, not quite sure what this Virgin business was all about, but understanding that the message was naughtily scintillating and awfully good background for dancing rhythm-lessly with my little friends in the carport of our suburban home.

I flipped through glossy magazines in my tween years: lusting after the lace gloves, hairspray and giant crosses that characterized Madonna’s mid-80’s style. I wanted to be that confident, large-eyed, get-anything-she-wants woman. I didn’t want to be a singer, necessarily, but even then I knew that it wasn’t Madonna’s voice that created her success. It was her determination. It oozed out of every pore. With that assured tenacity, she couldn’t fail.

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I’ve been writing about my life on the Internet for about six years now. To the uninitiated, I know, it still seems insane — why on earth would I want to put it all out there? Why would I want to expose my warts for people to poke at, what do the people in my life think about having their lives magnified under the looking glass of thousands of strangers over the years?

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“So - while I’ve got you on the phone I’m hoping we can schedule time to talk about our parenting agreement.”

I hold my breath and look up and wonder who decided that divot-filled, cottage cheese ceilings were mandatory in the 1970’s.

He’s silent and so I cover the air with scrambling, futile attempts to sound sunny.  Instead I sound like someone has grabbed a human-remote and is starting me, pausing me, stalling and punching me.

“I mean, the in-place agreement has changed, since you’ll be moving here, and we should - well, just so we have proper expectations and Nolan has a routine….” I trail off and hate myself for my meekness when I speak to him, for the guilt I still hold for making a necessary move to save my sanity, my good Motherhood.

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Nataly drew my attention to an intriguing article last night, about women who have made the decision to have children solo.

It seems like it’s a bit of a trend: 30-something, successful and independent women who have everything: a home, a stable career, a joie de vivre and a need to share it. They have everything, that is, except a man and a child. And they’re increasingly deciding that they don’t need the man to have the child.

I read the article with great interest: I have several friends in their early thirties who are navigating this perplexing road now. They are still young but experienced in dating, jaded enough to know that their chances of finding Mr. Right are diminishing daily. Their bodies are still young enough to conceive fairly easily, but there’s not that much time. It’s a critical, life-altering decision. Should they make the decision to bear and raise a child alone? It’s a question with a very personal answer. But — and this may get me in trouble — if I were asked my opinion, as a woman raising a child solo, I would say: don’t do it.

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My just-turned-three-year old son sits tear-streaked on the floor of his bedroom, protruding white tummy almost comical against his tiny white gonch, if it weren’t for the true devastation of his angst.

“Mommy, those are not cool,”he wails, burying his head against the atrocity of his dark-rinse jeans,”Anthony says those are not cool.”

I look at his jeans, look at him, exasperated.  How does a three year old dictate what is cool?  Why have I been negotiating with him, feebly, for the last hour?

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There’s a suite for rent on a hilly, forested street in a nearby neighborhood. It’s within budget, all utilities included. Slightly belligerent but exquisitely charismatic rescue dogs are not only tolerated, but encouraged. The landlords are dog people, this is good, I can feel it.

I make an appointment for a viewing at 4:30 the next day.

“I have a few people coming,”the landlord warns me.

“That’s OK,” I reply,”I just think this might be perfect, I’d really love to see it.

I walk up the steps to a looming house, all grey-and-glass and jutting West Coast architecture. Nolan grips my finger, tiny and spry in his green monkey t-shirt, and I watch the landlord regard us from the front step, an “O” forming on his mouth.

“I’m not looking for me,”I explain quickly,”And not for my son. It would just be a man living here — 31 years old, a tradesman, an avid mountain biker, pretty quiet. And my dog — well, his dog now. An awesome rescue dog, he’ll capture your heart.”

He doesn’t say anything and I draw a breath,”I’m looking on behalf of my ex,”I say,”For my son’s father.

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I’m wearing my green knit hat, which is an excellent sign that I wasn’t able to make it in the shower that morning. My son’s lunch kit contains Alphagetti, of which I’m not proud, and a small green salad with chopped nuts and tomatoes, with which I am rather pleased.

We step in from the rain and into the pleasant clamor of his daycare, and I kneel down to pull of his boots and grope for his indoor shoes.

“Hi Nolan,” smiles the Director of the daycare, walking by with an armful of construction paper,”Are we going to make your Mom a painting today?”

“Mmm, no,” he says, and leans into my legs and I sigh, bracing myself for The Cry.

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