By SWAN UK MEMBER AND BLOGGER ELIZABETH DIMELOW - AREYOUKIDDINGNEY.WORDPRESS.COM
‘Mummy, what are you doing?’
(I am helping colour in her picture. I always figure that even though DD won’t understand what I’m saying yet, I go with the full explanation)
‘I’m shading in this bit with a darker colour, to make it look 3 dimensional’
‘Oh okay. Mine looks like three dalmations too’
‘Mummy, can we go and sleep at the hospice again soon?’
‘No sweetheart. We can go and visit, but there’s no need to sleep there any more, we had sleepovers when RD was poorly and when he died, but now it’s for other families to have sleepovers there’
‘But what about when BD is more growned up? When he is poorly’
Life currently sits somewhere between endless monotony: feed, wind, comfort, change nappy, repeat and mania: crying (both children), undone shoelaces, elbows dug in, me saying NO. Swearing internally, or in hushed tones behind kitchen cupboards. A smell of baby sick barely discernible but constant. Waiting out jealousy tantrums.
My mind is seeking out to busy itself, in this half bored, half crazed and sleep deprived state. And I am the very person that knows that these days are long but the years are short. I have that as a low level soundtrack playing, waiting to kick up the guilt that sometimes I AM NOT LOVING EVERY MOMENT.
There is so much to love, and I inhale it deeply. My daughter’s sense of humour, twiddling her hair and singing the songs from Trolls on its billionth and one airing in our house. Pudgy fists grabbing at me, smiles and gurgles from my glorious lump of a newborn son.
There is a void though. It feels a little like my insatiable breastfeeding thirst and hunger. Permanent and sometimes cloying, spilling over into rage about unopened bathroom windows, and decorative trays being used as dumping grounds for the excessive amount of stuff emptied from my husband’s pockets.
I can’t fix it with a new kitchen floor, but it might help. Painting RD’s room, so that it can blend into a slightly altered space for BD feels important, and yet impossibly hard. Not just because BD is clingy and needing fed on a regular cycle. Busy busy, trying to scratch the itch. Scraping at some control. Running away from myself and yet into myself and the memories of last year. Of the last five years.
Pushing myself to get out and walk and walk. Where I am free from being touched and demanded upon. Where RD lives in the breeze clearing my mind, so I can be with just him.
I’m not daft though, the end of the route needs to involve cake. That helps.