Excuse the over-communication, dear diary

On Sunday I celebrated, sorry... wrong word, um saluted. No. Recorded. Yes, recorded.

On Sunday I recorded six months since my husband left me. Six months since the dream of moving to the country with my family was taken away from me through one shitty gut-wrenching text message.

I remember the day six months ago, but it feels sometimes like it's been six years. I remember vomiting in my toilet and leaning on the bowl shaking, terrified about what was happening. I was so scared of being on my own. Surrounded by our house packed up in boxes ready for the 'big move', terrified that I had just resigned from my job to take on a big dream role that my husband had encouraged me to take. Almost hysterical that we had leased our Yarraville house and I didn't know where my son and I were going to live. Sick with fear that we were days away from settling on a country house in Trentham that I now no longer wanted anything to do with, let alone the two mortgages that threatened me. Don't even mention the cancellation of a daycare spot in Yarraville.

Six whole months. Holy hell. So much can  happen in six months.

Damn, you know what, it was a kind of celebration. A celebration of sorts that has seen me reflect upon the last half of the year. A celebration that for the first time in so freakin' long that I've kind of hit the jackpot and said to myself 'How good is being me?'

Lately,  it's been super good.

My son and I smashed out a good old roadtrip up to Newcastle. I drove from Melbourne to Newy with a four year old and A Tribe Called Quest greatest hits album. No ipad. I winged it every day, not really knowing where we would end up that night, but knowing I had mates and family along the way who would let us crash on their couch and pack us a picnic for the next day. And it wasn't that bad. Alfie and I became best buddies, covering topics such as careers (he wants to be a windmill fixer), to questions about why Leroy Brown is the baddest man in the whole damn town, and why 'ships' eat bananas b-a-n-a-n-a-s. And of course we talked about poo and wee and doodles and pop-offs.

We rediscovered the Giant Ram at Goulburn, the Submarine at Holbrook, the Giant Rolling pin in Wodonga, Nobby's Lighthouse, the Dinosaur Museum in Canberra and my favourite, the Australian Reptile Park in Gosford.

I hope he remembers this trip forever. I know I will.

The tricky thing about a super long road trip is how much time you have for thinking. During the 10+ hours of driving to Newcastle I went over my separation, spat out some hate, had some whopping big cries,  and had a few solo laughs.

I thought about a handsome man I was recently seeing, who I ran away from because relationships now terrify me. I thought about Alfie and what sort of guy I was going to bring him up to be. I thought about me and who I now was and who I was going to become.

I came back from this road trip so much stronger then the person I left.

On the 10+ hours back to Melbourne, I thought about adventures and cooking and friends and dating and music and my home and how I'm going to be more focused at work and funny shit that my mates get up to.

When I walked back into my house, I smiled. I painted the interior the next day and went on a date that night. My best girlfriend came over the next day to help me finish the painting and we giggled over beers about this exciting new chapter.

I'm so fucking free and it feels so fucking wonderful. Seriously, how good is it to be yourself.

So good.

Happy six months. I did it. I can't wait to see what the next six months will bring.

As a side note, I'm also bloody proud that I can talk to my ex-husband. What happened, happened. It's done, it can't be reversed. It's so important to me that Alfie knows that while his parents don't live together we both love him oh-so-very much. My ex and I see each other every week and each week it gets easier. I never saw this happening to me and me being in this situation, but I am and this is my life. This is also the life my ex husband chose and it's up to us to be the best folks we can for that gorgeous son of ours. See, this is adulting at its toughest, but also best.

Is this too personal?

I was thinking just yesterday about dating. Not me actually dating but the actual doing of dating.

The last time I 'dated', I would have been around 19. I didn't carry around a mobile phone, let alone two back then.

I've heard a lot from friends about Tinder and all the dating sites and to be honest, those little apps turn into scary nightmares in my brain. Plus I'm so sick of my phone.

Is there still such a thing as sinking a few pots down at the local pub and having a conversation about Kenny and Warren G and significance of both in today's popular culture (or lack thereof)?

Oh hang on, it's a bit inappropriate for me to be sinking pots down at the local pub with my kid in tow.

So do single mums meet super rad people hanging at the local park, pushing their kid on the swing for the 81st time or helping their kid do a bush wee?

It's all just a little complicated, but then again so am I. Does this mean that every single person in their mid thirties has complications or dare I say it... 'baggage' or ghosts of relationships past?

I seem to be an over-communicator of all my problems which means I can chuck them in a bin once I've over-analysed the crap out of them with anyone who will listen. Does it still mean I have baggage if I've binned it? I'm hoping the only baggage I have remaining can be tucked into my bumbag.

It's such a huge world out there of super cool adventures with my kid and my cool-as-hell pals, Perhaps there will be a little bit of extra room in there one day for a hairy Blundstone-wearing gent?

One thing I know is that I just can't change my daggy ways - I think they might be pretty set, which means acceptance of my love of Ken Done, Australiana, John Candy movie marathons, non-stop chatter about pointless topics such as how much I dislike the design of the 'classic' toilet brush set (the brush never sits right in the cradle), and the fact that I have problems with sitting still, are all part of the package.

For the time being, the whole dating thing seems well and truly out of my daggy league. I'm super happy to look forward to my daily date at the dinner table with Alfred. Even if he doesn't yet understand the full complexities of Warren and Kenny G or how to use a semi colon appropriately (it's a moment, not a pause), he still provides entertaining conversation that can see me right into the evening ('what did you do at kinder today? I mashed the dirt mum and then I painted and then I used scissors and chopped it until it was wrecked')

I'm deeply in love with this kid of mine. And he loves me. So I think he's the best date of all.