It’s a funny thing, being a single parent. You start to disappear.

You start to disappear because you don’t really fit in any of your social groups any more. You don’t really fit in with your mummy friends, because on the weekends they’re busy doing family things. And you don’t really fit in with your childless friends either, because they’re busy going to parties and dinners and lots of other evening things that you can’t join in with.

Of course, you can meet up for daytime coffees at the weekend, but your conversation isn’t really what it once was – partly because you don’t get out and about much anymore, and partly because you’ve been up since 5am and someone’s swapped your brain for stewed apple.

In essence, you’re reduced to a small subset of people who are both good friends AND have the patience to hang out with you and your energetic child, as well as talk about children more than is usual. It’s a rarefied group.

So this week I’m trying to break the mould: I’m going out for coffee with a man THAT I DON’T KNOW. Or, in other words, I’m going on a date. In fact, it’s a bit of a strange date because, in the absence of a babysitter, the little guy will be coming with me.

It’s been so long since I attempted such a thing, I’ve completely forgotten the protocol … but I’m pretty sure that taking your squawking infant with you is not exactly de rigeur. Still, if we get beyond the first date, the little fella will be on the scene pretty much all the time, so I suppose it’s a good way of seeing how the gentleman in question handles the company of minors.

(And before you get up in arms about me taking the little man on date, remember I’m going for a coffee in town, not a gin-soaked soirée at the Folies Bergère.)

And in another attempt to stop myself from fading from the social scene altogether, I’ve also signed up for a dating event … although my attendance is dependent upon finding someone who essentially wants to sit by themselves in a house free of TV, internet or any other entertainment-based mod cons while the wee piglet slumbers upstairs.

It’s not an easy sell, I’ll admit.

Although my lack of electronic entertainment doesn’t bother me one iota, when I explained the situation to one potential babysitter, she looked at me – completely perplexed – and said, “But what do you do in an evening?”

The truth of it is that by the time the little lad is finally tucked into bed and I’ve tided the residual whirlwind, eaten some dinner and got everything ready for tomorrow’s onslaught, it’s almost time for bed. A few pages of my book and my eyes are already starting to close; I don’t have time to miss the TV.

That said, my phone’s been away for repair for nearly a month now and it’s like being starved of oxygen. Not only am I closed off from the modern world, I’m also wandering around with my friends’ telephone numbers scribbled on a little scrap of paper. It’s like going back to 1989.

More importantly, I’m prevented from taking spontaneous snaps of the little piglet, which is obviously a tragedy. I suppose it will prevent me from boring my date with a ‘quick’ photographic resume of his life since birth, but I’m struggling to find any other positives.

Anyway, since the weather forecast predicts torrential rain for the next five days, it looks as though I’ll be turning up to my coffee date in full waterproofs – a look that’s not exactly known for its ability to snare men at 20 paces.

The only bonus is that my rainproof jacket is a lurid, squealing orange. And there’s definitely no chance of me disappearing in that.

And so – suddenly – it’s September and the little guy is five months old.

It’s hard to believe that what was once a mewling little bundle is now a bright and inquisitive little boy with a frequent, cheeky smile and an aversion to sleep in all its forms.

Yep, the summer has flown by, and already the autumnal creep has started. In the space of the last ten days we’ve gone from blissful picnics in blazing sunshine to chill, grey days, cold winds and rain … and back again. Winter is on its way. Ugh.

Still, the summer was a good one with lots of fun, sun and (somewhat sedate) adventures, making new mummy mates and catching up with old friends. And the little man proved his mettle as a traveller, clocking up four plane rides to two different countries before his three month birthday.

His first trip saw him discover the joy of lazing in a hammock: being dandled in the dappled sunshine became his favourite way to spend the afternoon. He wasn’t too keen on sandy beaches or the chilly sea, but the hammock became his bosom buddy for the duration of the trip.

For me, though, it was all a bit of a disappointment.

As lovely as it was to see The Semi-suitable Man, and as grateful as I was that he’d made provisions to include the little fella, it soon became apparent that he wasn’t really aware of what it means to holiday with a ten-week-old baby.

Which is fair enough – why would he? – but the little guy and I spent far more time alone than I’d anticipated, mainly because little babies can’t go to the beach at 2pm and mummies who have to get up several times in the night can’t stay up til 5am. Hey ho.

Anyway, Bub seemed to take travelling in his stride, charming his fellow passengers and snoozling gently for the greater part of each flight.

His only faux pas came as the hostess announced our imminent take-off after 25 long minutes refuelling. Lulled into a false sense of security by his patience throughout the delay, I was unprepared for his ill-timed nappy bomb, which sent me scurrying swiftly to the rest room.

Fortunately, his heart-meltingly gummy grin had the unsuspecting passengers oohing and aahing as I cantered up the corridor, battering them with my changing bag.

The ‘Meet the Grandparents’ trip to Spain was altogether more successful. The Baby Daddy was kind and attentive throughout, and although I was a bit alarmed when Bub was snatched from me and paraded round the neighbourhood by a super-keen abuela, I know it was all done with love and enthusiasm.

The little guy coped remarkably well with both the attention and the heat and the Baby Daddy and I got through the whole week with nary a cross word. Yessir, we did. We saved that for ten minutes after landing on home turf, the goodwill bubble disappearing along with the holiday spirit. Hey, and indeed, ho.

And so, with lots of fond memories under its wing, the summer comes to a close. But for us, big changes are afoot: we’re leaving town.

Yep, we’re on the move. Forced into new adventures by the impossible cost of childcare in this city, we’re upping sticks and moving on to pastures new. But far from feeling sad, I’m actually looking forward to the changes coming our way.

I’ve been in this city for over a decade, on and off, and our love affair is well and truly over. I’ve met some fabulous people – as well as a few nutters ; shared good times and bad with an ever-changing crowd from countless different countries; had my heart broken once or twice; and – best of all – gained myself a son.

But if I’m honest, I never really bonded with the city; I always knew I’d be moving on. And, now that I have the little man, that day has arrived.

So, what’s next? Well, first we’re off to Spain for some sunshine and after that … well, we’ll go wherever the tide takes us.

It would have been nice to have a companion by my side, but it seems that single is my destiny and I’d better get used to it. Of the very few men who’ve graced my life in recent times, the only flame still flickering is that of He Who Shall Remain Nameless. And even that’s on the verge of sputtering out.

So it’s time to bundle up all the warm thoughts I hold in his name and set them free on the wind because it’s time for a fresh start. It’s time to sweep away the cobwebs of life and loves past that have been cluttering up my heart.

And besides, I might not have a companion, but I’ve got my trusty little sidekick, and that’s good enough. With him by my side I can swim oceans, climb mountains – yep, even fight lions – because there’s nothing I won’t do to keep him happy and safe.

So I don’t know where we’re going or what we’re going to do, but whatever the future holds, with his sticky little hand in mine, it’s going to be good.

Can you believe it? The little man is already seven weeks old.

In the grand scheme of things, it’s an insignificant amount of time. Yet in 49 days I’ve seen him change from a tiny foetal creature, squinting and purple with wrinkly skin two sizes too large, to a chubby-cheeked cherub, smooth-skinned, wide-eyed and curious about the world around him. I already struggle to remember a time before his existence.

Of course, life has changed significantly since his birth. My days are now moulded to his wants and needs: everything stops for feeding time and I’ve developed an expert knowledge of pram-friendly coffee shops as well as the nicest nappy-changing spots in town.

Some friends have dropped by the wayside, and we only meet when I make the call. Others have surprised me with their generosity, taking time to call on a regular basis and making activities as baby-friendly as possible.

These friends are the very best, as far as I’m concerned. They understand that I still want their company – in fact, that I need it more than ever – and that if I don’t get in touch it’s only because I got distracted by a nappy change, a doctor’s appointment or an hour or two spent getting the little piglet’s wind up.

To be fair, I understand those friends who aren’t quite so visible nowadays. After all, they signed up for friendship with me, not me and my wee sproglet. And since one of us is prone to howling the house down at a moment’s notice (and we’re now an inseparable twosome) you can’t blame them for cooling the friendship just a little.

And if you don’t have kids, it really is impossible to imagine just how completely your life revolves around your little miracle. I never understood it myself until now.

But despite this realisation, I’d expected things to be harder. Perhaps I’ve just been lucky, perhaps I was just imagining the worst case scenario, or perhaps the worst is yet to come … but the whole single parent thing has been easier than I imagined.

Even things with the Baby Daddy have been easier than I anticipated. Although it is a little odd to spend weekends playing happy families with someone who, until recently, I was exchanging little more than terse emails, we’ve managed to keep things cordial and have occasionally even enjoyed each other’s company.

Don’t get me wrong, there have been moments (usually at 3am) when I’ve considered hurling my boy – or myself – out of the window. But mercifully, those moments have been few and far between and have been massively outweighed by the joy I feel every time I look at his chubby cheeks, his bright, expressive eyes or his wrinkled little brow.

And, perhaps surprisingly, my life hasn’t been completely devoid of delightful men. Although I wouldn’t go so far as to claim any passion and intrigue, He Who Shall Remain Nameless and I have been enjoying each other’s company by long distance call, which has been a real pleasure … and there’s a week in the sunshine with The Semi-suitable Man just round the corner.

In terms of romantic action it’s not much, but it’s enough to keep my little heart happy for now.

It’s 7.30am, and I’m cleaning bright yellow poop from the change mat, the table, the (mercifully wooden) floor, the rug – located an impressive 1.5m from the change mat – a selection of newspapers and magazines, and a book.

With impeccable timing, the little man issued his squitterings just moments after I opened his nappy. Of course, I escaped unscathed: I’ve long since learned that when changing a small person’s undercrackers it’s prudent – nay, crucial – to stand to the side. Pity the man who approaches the task head on; on his own trousers be it. And his floor. And his table. And his book.

(I hadn’t rated the book too highly myself, but it must be said that my review was considerably less harsh.)

Anyway, improbable as it may seem, after the rough times my little pud has had lately, I’m more than happy to be undertaking these tender ministrations. In fact, it’s practically a pleasure. Because for 12 days straight, I’ve been changing his nappy in a hospital room.

It was all very sudden. The Baby Daddy was in town as we were scheduled to register the bubba’s birth. When we said goodnight and climbed into bed, the little fella was fine. But after his 2am feed, he wouldn’t settle and was making a strange groaning noise … and I knew something wasn’t right.

Ninety minutes and one call to the midwife later we were back in the car, on our way to get him checked out.

“Back again?” said the nurse in A&E. I nodded grimly.

I was so tired I could barely think, but I quickly understood the doctor’s assessment: my little man had a stomach infection and wouldn’t be going home tonight, or any time soon – he was set for a hospital stay and an extended course of antibiotics.

The doctor inserted a canula into the back of his tiny hand. Once again, I watched with my heart in my mouth as he screamed with rage and fear while the medicine dripped slowly into his bloodstream.

Thank goodness, the antibiotics soon took effect and my little man started looking pink and healthy again, but those canulas kept giving out: by the time we were discharged 12 days later, he’d had 16 replacements and attempted replacements, not to mention a lumbar puncture, which took four attempts to get right. He’d started screaming as soon as the nurses took his arm and I was a nervous wreck.

After that little lot, you can imagine that cleaning poop from a generous area of the living room really is an absolute joy. And now that we’re back home, we can start creating a routine all of our own.

Right from the start I’ve been careful to avoid Slummy Mummy Syndrome, principally to safeguard my own sanity: I’m dressed (almost) every morning before breakfast, and I make sure I find time to blow-dry my hair and put on a minimum of make-up, just to remind myself that I have other roles beyond Chief Nappy Changer and Supplier of Infinite Milky Meals.

Naturally, these efforts are all for my own benefit: a lady with a baby isn’t high on most men’s list of attractive propositions. And so it is that after months of flirtation and sweet words, relations with He Who Shall Remain Nameless have slipped back into the strictly platonic. His company is still a pleasure, of course, but when you’ve tasted someone’s lips and become drunk on the scent of their skin, it’s kind of hard to be satisfied with anything less.

Still, as with everything else, the feeling will pass and I just have to wait for myself to forget, or to be distracted by something new.

Not that I’ll have much time for anything new. At the moment, my little piglet feeds almost constantly, and five precious minutes for myself seems like an impossible dream, never mind the time to meet someone new to crush on. But of course I wouldn’t have it any other way.

From his soft, baby skin to his fluffy newborn hair, this little man has me wrapped around his little finger – and I absolutely love it. My love for him is completely unconditional … surely there isn’t a man on the planet who could compete?