Disjointed, just a little.

Blink. Blink. Blink.

I’ve been watching this cursor for two days now and wondering, have I lost my ability to string pretty sentences together?

I hope not.

—

Words scream around inside my head and the longer I leave them in there, the bigger they grow and the harder they are to get out.

So let’s see how we go.

—

My son has preliminary assessments to decide whether he is possibly autistic. The gatekeepers – perfectly lovely women in their own right – appear to be there solely to decide whether I am being a hypochondriac on behalf of my son. They seem a little shocked when I am able to use their jargon and we discuss his inability to transition and his burgeoning echolalia.

His red flags are raised and waved high and we walk out knowing that he will be assessed for autism, that he is (very definitely, likely, probably) possibly on the spectrum.

After we leave, I wonder at their reaction to the language I used.

Doesn’t every parent learn how to speak medicalese when advocating for their children?

Apparently not.

—

I have immaculate conceptions, two of them and now they walk around, demanding things and shrieking at me. A doctor tells me I am very lucky to have conceived on my own without help, that my uterus is very likely broken, a desolate wasteland of stuff that isn’t babymaking friendly.

We organise to run tests and I leave, feeling like maybe I wasn’t insane after all.

At the same time, my body contracts and I realise just how badly I want a third baby and just how unlikely that is going to be without assistance.

But we’ll tread that path when it slams us in the face.

—

My plants grow and thrive and I spend a lot of time hiding in my garden – yes, the children may be outside with me, but fences separate us and my son does his whining and clinging somewhere that isn’t my leg. This leaves me space to breath as I coax a bean plant straight here and twine a pea shoot around a string. Tomatoes in seedling boxes need poking every few hours, how on earth can they be expected to grow without me checking on them?

I breath in the smells of warm dirt inside temporary hot houses and wish that summer were here. I am so sick of being cold.

I suspect my plants feel the same way.

—

My writing feels disjointed, which seems to suit my life right now. A mess of everything, being clashed together into a jumble and I’m left trying to make sense of some of it. Grief runs underneath everything, a dark tow threatening to pull me down into the dark.

Instead I make beds and wish for warmth and long hot days outside getting my hands dirty.