There comes a moment in single motherhood, somewhere between the third load of laundry and the eleventh “Mom, look at this,” when you catch a glimpse of yourself in the mirror and realize:

I dress like I’m a retired grandpa from the Discovery Channel.
I carry my child on my shoulders like a worn-out llama.
And I now plan family bonding over worm bait and birdwatching.
And I kind of love it.

I now proudly own at least three flannel shirts, each doubling as a jacket, napkin, and emergency blanket, a folding kayak, and a soccer ball that permanently rolls around in my crumb-covered car. I’ve also amassed a growing collection of cargo pants with pockets big enough to store everything except my patience.

When you’re both mom and dad, there’s no time for fashion. You need clothes that go from oil changes to camping trips to surprise picnic bike rides. I dress like I could teach you to tie a knot or fix a carburetor. I absolutely cannot do either, but you won’t know that until it’s too late.

Once upon a time, weekends meant brunch. Now a thrilling Saturday includes catching up on house projects I swore I’d finish “two months ago tops,” finally getting my oil changed before the car gives up on me, and fixing something I broke while trying to fix something else.

Last weekend I got excited about a new pair of socks. The weekend before that, I fixed the garbage disposal and whispered “we did it” to myself like I’d just summited Everest. I am the project manager, the maintenance crew, the emotional support animal, and the quality control inspector. Every hat I wear. Usually over unwashed hair.

Primitive camping has somehow become my therapy. I voluntarily take my child into the woods with zero Wi-Fi and only a granola bar’s worth of hope. Why? Because there’s something healing about sitting under the stars, telling her that Paw Patrol is “broken out here,” and being surrounded by both nature and a string of questionable decisions.

At least once per outing, she looks up with those puppy eyes and says, “I’m tiiiiiired. Can you carry me?”

So I do. On my shoulders. While also lugging a backpack, a folding chair, a monster truck toy clenched in my teeth, and three uneaten snacks stuffed in my shirt pocket.

My lower back has filed for emotional support.

But she laughs up there. She covers my eyes and I pretend to stumble. It’s our sport. Our ritual. And deep down, I know these are the moments she’ll store forever.
Me, sweaty and flannel-clad.
Her, giggling and safe.
On my shoulders, where she always knows the view is better.

I now identify bird calls like I’m auditioning for National Geographic.

“That’s a robin,” I say confidently to no one, while my daughter asks if we’re almost done walking.

I track the weather like it’s a competitive sport. And last week, I spent an hour comparing beginner fishing poles for my daughter.

She has no concept of fishing. But I’m determined to make it our new bonding activity.

I don’t fish. I barely know how to tie a hook. But suddenly I’m comparing reel types like I’ve been doing this since the nineties.

Am I spiraling or evolving?
Hard to say.

It’s not glamorous. There are nights I fall into bed smelling like dirt and peanut butter.

I carry the emotional load, the physical load, and sometimes, literally, the actual child load. But somehow, I keep showing up.

Sometimes it’s in a sun-protective button-up shirt still covered in last week’s coffee. Sometimes with birdseed in the car cupholder. Sometimes with zero clue what I’m doing but always with love, humor, and a pocket knife in my bag just in case.

I’ve traded brunch for bug spray. My idea of fun is researching camper tops for my Toyota Tundra. And when I’m swinging my daughter in a hammock by the river I think:

I may be tired.
I may not remember the last time I shaved my legs.
But I am absolutely thriving in my weird, beautiful, resourceful, grandpa-energy era of single motherhood.

And I wouldn’t trade it for anything.
Except maybe a nap.
And some help carrying this child uphill.