I supermarket and prepare for the new puppy coming home, her adoption finalised before the loss of her playmate-to-be. I fill my partner in on what I bought and he looks at me -

‘You get over dogs fast.’

Tears fill my eyes and suddenly I am angry, because no. I don’t get over things. I just don’t cry, or wail, or gnash my teeth.

I want to scream and yell

My grandmother died 13 months ago and I’ve cried twice. Twice for a great yawning hole that opened in my heart. There was no time to fall apart then, there is no time now. What makes you think I don’t feel it, just because I’m not screaming?

Instead. I say

‘I don’t get over it. I just get on with it.’

***

Losing one dog is unlucky, surely twice is carelessness. We are berated for the things we didn’t do correctly, or should have done instead. Everyone has 20/20 hindsight.

***

Unpacking the groceries and the thud of another grave being dug vibrates through my footsteps.

Milk

thud

Cheese

thud

Collar

thud

Make my son a bottle and put him to bed. Make my daughter something to eat. Wipe the counters.

thud.

Until we all stand around a grave and solemnly put the dirt back from whence it came.

Again.

Instead, I took him outside to join his sister in running around the paddocks.

And the look on his face was worth it as I opened the front door and he, newly clad in bright blue gumboots, clomped out to join his father.

It was worth it when we grabbed some wheat and fed the chooks and ducks, together.

It was worth it, to hear him calling duck-duck-duck-duck as he tried to chase them a little.

It was worth it.

He spent the first 10 minutes we were outside happily exclaiming ‘am ow-side! am ow-side!’

He chased a duck and paddled in the water. He stomped through a mud puddle and ran around the tyre arena. He helped to check for eggs and chased his sister.

And finally, he asked to be picked up and we came inside, to eat lunch and nap.

It was worth braving the cold and bitter wind. It was worth not getting to write what I was going to write. It was worth not curling up with a book.

It was worth all that, just to see his face light up as he called ‘Am ow-side!’ to me every few steps through the grass.

Seems I’m not the only one who hates the indoor isolation of winter.

And we’ll be going ow-side more often.

My brain works and I taste the words on my tongue, playing them through my mind. They fall from my mouth, whispered, like jewels and I swallow them back up again, not wanting to lose any.

‘What are you doing?’ says my partner. ‘Are you hiding?’

‘No. I’m brainstorming’ I mumble. My head pops up and I look at him, cupping my chin in my hands. ‘I’ve already had a shower today, so I can’t go and brainstorm there, can I.’

‘Oh. Okay’ he says and wanders off.

I had words, before. A whole post full of words, beautiful words, strong words. I just hadn’t written them down yet. I was busily running them through my mind as I picked up toys when a harmonica drilled it’s way into my ears and chased all the words away.

I can still hear it, that damned harmonica.

Innnnn ouuuuuut innnnnnn ouuuuuut and SQUEAL!

I bury my head back in my arms and try to return to my words, but the spell is broken. My son crawls over and pulls my hair and my daughter continues to suck on that dammed mouth organ.

Standing now, I head to my computer, hoping to salvage something. Anything.

It doesn’t work, not really.

Behind me my partner switches on the vacuum and watches me typing and ignoring the housework. His gaze makes my hands trip over the words and glaring at him, I snap the laptop shut. In reality, he probably wasn’t watching my words, but I can’t work anyhow.

I stand, allowing him to vacuum underneath my desk before he heads off in one direction and I sit back down to harness my wayward words, like small flighty creatures they dart off before I can get my hands on them.

In the background, the vacuum cleaner hums still and my daughter screeches my name, imploring me to ‘let her iiiiiiiiiiin’. My son giggles at her.

It’s hard to write here and now.

But I do it anyway.

But I don’t want to. I’ve got nothing to write about, everything has been boring.

I don’t care. Just write.

Just write.

So I sit down and I just write and it’s not very good. And I poke at it and prod it and it’s still no good. I turn away, disheartened, and something inside screams that I need to keep writing and work through this block.

I’ve got all sorts of good ideas you see, but I pitched to a parenting magazine today and in the event of them wanting something from me, a minuscule chance, I don’t want to have used any good material.

Stupid, I know.

***

The baby turns into a toddler with the arriving of his birthday. He stands on his own two feet and steadily makes his way around the furniture. He pulls a toy table over to the kitchen gate and climbs on it. For a moment, he hangs in the balance, tall enough now to topple over and land on the kitchen floor.

Another moment passes and I’ve caught him, whisked him up into the air, alternately growling and cuddling him; my heart beating a little faster as I run through the what-ifs.

He screams as I put the table away. I’m not prepared for him to be climbing baby gates yet.

Instead, he climbs onto the coffee table and sits there, looking pleased with himself, bouncing and clapping.

At least the coffee table doesn’t wobble precariously.

***

The toddler turns into a preschooler, one who argues and has conversations with me, all in the same breath. She asks when we can go to school and when we can go and play on the slide. She wants to have a birthday every day and she sighs, visibly disappointed when I tell her that today is not a birthday.

She walks away in a huff, flipping her hair as she goes and I can almost see the shadow of a teenager hanging over her head, flouncing out and exclaiming that I’m ruining her life forever.

Not forever sweetheart. Just right now.

***

Everything is changing, slowly but surely.

Proof that life moves on, regardless.

It’s just past seven months since Nan died and inside, I can feel it, a ball of grief, hardened and immobile. If I ignore it, it doesn’t bother me, but poking it threatens to bring this whole house of cards toppling down on my head.

I wished I could ring her today, as my children screamed around me and the world spun while I reminded myself to breath. As I felt that familiar feeling in the pit of my stomach, that feeling of fear and dread and not knowing.

I wanted her here and there was nothing I could do about it.

So I did what I always do.

I ignored it.

I put the baby to bed, I cleaned out the horses water, I taught the puppy to sit. I fed the horses an extra slice of hay and I aimlessly clicked around the Internet. My son slept on and my daughter threw herself across my lap as I typed, watching the way my hands moved across the keys.

I breathed deep.

And I ignored it.

That’s probably not the best way to be dealing with the grief.

In the end though, the excitement of the children swept all of us up in a tsunami of joy and sugar. By the evening, I felt like I’d been battered against the rocks all day, but it was a good battered, not a war weary exhaustion.

Boxing day, we were left with a detritus of packaging and watermelon rind. Slowly we cleaned up in preparation for another family barbeque, an informal affair. We sat around, watching the children play and eating and if I thought about the person we were missing, it was only briefly.

I couldn’t afford to be sad you see. Because of the children.

Boxing day evening though, as I cleant up yet more packaging and randomly dropped cherry pits, I was allowed to be sad. I was able to miss her, my grandmother. She of the larger than life personality and the most holiday cheer.

It was a hard year, this year. I watched her die, in front of me with tears in my eyes. I nodded my head and along with the rest of us there, I gave her permission to go. It was a hard year, traversing the realms of grief, watching those around me walk the same path in a slightly different fashion.

It was a hard year, as I thought about things I’d not had to think about before, as I helped pack up a house for sale and weighed possessions in my hands.

In the end though, the anticipation of Christmas was worse than the day itself. I’ve got the children to thank for that.

But for a while, I think I need to curl up into myself and be sad, to miss her desperately, to want her here with us. Selfish, yes, but she was mine and we were hers and not having her here leaves us all lacking.

And that lacking breaks my heart.

***

My reading pile grows higher.

How long since I last curled up with a book and just read?

I don’t know.

How long until I can find the time to do it again without feeling guilty that I’m ‘doing nothing’?

I don’t know.

***

You checking enails Mum? Mum, you checking enails?

Yes sweetheart. I’m checking emails.

Oh. I come check enails with you, okay?

Okay.

She sighs contentedly into my chest and watches my computer screen. I can’t type anymore, so I click away. Closing my laptop I snuggle her tightly, breathing in her smell.

The moment is shattered as she pinches my arm and darts away laughing. In trouble, but not caring.

Three more days of this. I might lose my mind.

***

I take a deep breathe and step out into the chaos. The world spins around me, tugging at my hair. I stand in the middle, torn in all directions. I wade through the noise, sprites tugging at my feet demanding attention. I step on them and keep walking, pretending I don’t feel their fingernails against my ankles. They die a slow death, trodden on and cast to the chaos.

I find an anchor line and tie myself to it. From here, I can weather the storm.

From here, I can survive.

I open up my word document, determined to write. I look at it, trying to make my fingers bleed words onto the page. It doesn’t work, and staring at it doesn’t help.

Sighing, I click away.

Not today.

Not tonight.

I wander through the house talking to myself. I could lie and say I was talking to the children, but neither of them are listening to me anyway. My partner looks at me strangely and then looks away. He’s used to my talking. It helps me move through the day, talking about what I need to do. Like looking at my feet helps me walk.

I stop to fold some laundry before drifting away again. It’s too hard to settle.

I need some time. Some space to just,

stop.

Before starting again.

To be more than a mother, more than just the sum of my parts.

There are words inside me, I just can’t find the valve to turn them back on.

So instead I will just

stop.

And let them build up again. Until, like a pipe unblocking they burst free and run down my fingers, dripping into my computer.

To build my story again.

I need time.