Or, you could call it the day of quietly stressing out and then forgetting that you need to write a blog post.
Crap.
Isaac is improving and the wedding is in four days.
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Life
This is where I can be found this afternoon, watching the dress rehersal for This Uncharted Hour at the Theatre Royal.
Tickets are limited, so if you’ve got a spare hour this weekend and you’re in Tasmania, head along. You can hear what I’ve got to say about it on twitter this afternoon.
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The point of getting up forty minutes before everyone else was to write a blog post, I grumble to myself.
It appears that the plans I make for myself don’t always work as well as I would like and my son wakes up three minutes before my alarm, demanding a warm drink and the middle of the bed as he rubs his eyes.
My daughter follows shortly thereafter, shouting at me that she doesn’t want to get dressed and WHERE IS MY PILLOW?
I’m not entirely sure how her pillow has disappeared in the five minutes between getting out of bed and shouting at me, but it turns out that she means the other pillow (no, not that one, the other OTHER pillow) that her brother is lying on.
Hilarity ensues, if by hilarity you mean heartbroken screaming and a little bit of shoving. Which I do.
‘It will be fine, STOP SHOUTING. There, do I have your attention? Share the pillows, make some breakfast, Mummy needs five minutes to THINK.’
Five minutes is a very long time when you are only five and three and I manage to get thirty seconds alone, hiding in the bathroom, before I am needed (loudly) elsewhere.
Such is my life and I suspect, such are the quality of blog posts you can expect from me this month.
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There is silence in the house and I am still bleary eyed, but I have made the effort to get out of bed 40 minutes early so that I can start writing here. It’s got nothing to do with the fact that I am so busy today that I won’t have time later. Hello November. You’ve sort of snuck up there, haven’t you?
***
There is a psych appointment scheduled today. It’s been cathartic to go along each fortnight and just talk. Like every other mother however, last week I found myself dicussing my children. My fears and my stresses and the frustration I feel when I walk into the bedroom to find my daughter perched on top of my closet, eating my chocolate. She’s the perfect candidate for “owling” except for the screaming when she realises that she can’t get down.
Real owls have wings daughter, if you’re going to climb up, you have to learn how to get down. Just don’t break anything.
I spent an hour talking about my children last time, before the therapist gently mentioned that maybe we ought to talk more about me?
Silly girl. She’s not worked with many (any?) mothers, I would put money on it. The children are me and I am them. The fears for their future are not things I can separate from my personal anxiety and the frustration I feel at untriggered meltdowns is just as real as frustration with other adults. Tempered with a lot more love, of course.
I shouldn’t call her silly, in fact she is lovely – even if it is a bit disconcerting to be discussing the tangled web inside my brain with someone my own age.
But that is okay.
The main question is: Do you think she will help me work out how to get a cat into the roof, to eat the baby starlings that have hatched right above my desk? Because it’s hard enough to write a blog post half asleep, without adding shouting babies to the mix.
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Have you read this post by Sara Douglass?
She died today.
I hope her family were there to hold her hand and watch her last breath. I hope she wasn’t alone.
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