I'm really excited because I'm getting my own room! Hang on a minute, I'm a 39 year old married woman with two children. Is this me saying this or my son? Actually it's both of us. Let me start again.
We are rearranging the bedrooms in our house so that our two sons have separate rooms. Up until now they have shared a room - which has been lovely - but now our ten year old is growing up and starting to need his own space we've decided to move him into his own room. We've been planning how we will arrange the room, what type of bed he will have etc - He's very excited. The knock on effect of this rearrangement is (weirdly) that I'm finally going to get my own room too! We've always tried to keep a decent guest room, not least because my parents live quite some distance away we've always wanted them to have somewhere nice to stay when they come. So we've had the boys' room, the guest room and then the box room which the boys have had as a playroom (Lego room!) Their shared room isn't huge (certainly not big enough for all the Lego!!) so we allowed them this extra space when we turfed them out of playing downstairs. Husband has a study/office room downstairs which is necessary for his sanity and his ability to work from home. For quite some time I've felt a bit lost trying to find a space in our house that was 'mine' to work. I've had my desk in the living room (didn't work!), moved it to a corner of the bedroom (a bit better but still didn't really work). Then I had this idea that I'd use a bit of the spare room and the only way this would work (most of the room is taken up with the bed) was to put my desk (fold out bureau) in the build-in wardrobe so I've got a little corner that can be folded away when the room is need for guests. I feel really awkward about the fact that this hasn't worked either largely because it's in the furthest part of the house to downstairs and I never feel like I can 'get away' there as I'm too inaccessible. Arguably this could be a good thing but somehow it just hasn't worked. I've had serious angst over this for a long time. Is it the places that are the problem is it just me? Am I being too fussy? Am I making excuses? I don't know but I do know it hasn't been working. It's not just writing, either. I'd also really like a place for sewing that isn't the dining table. Or for doing any other crafty things I sometimes like to do. It slowly dawned on me as we thought through this room rearranging that while it was going to leave us with a guest room problem that needs to be solved it might actually leave me with a possibility of MY OWN ROOM!! Whilst it's been great to have a guest room it doesn't get used by guests most of the time and the benefit of me having my own space is going to far out-weigh the hassle of the no proper guest room issue. [I would like to add that I'm very well aware this whole situation is privileged and I'm lucky to have enough rooms for my children to have a room each at all.] So boy #1 will move to former spare room, The contents of the smallest room (Lego) will be divided between the two bedrooms (praying this will result in less fighting - I can live in hope!) and the smallest room will be MINE!!! plus occasional guest room. So boy #1 and I are both quite excited.
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I gave away a bag of toys today.
You didn't care. To you they are remnants of an interest Long since dropped, A forgotten joy of half a lifetime ago; To me they are remnants Of your innocence Of just a moment past, Of when we played with toys together, When you needed me closer. You look at them and see A small child's playthings That are no longer interesting to you; I look at them and see The joy you found in them Not so very long ago. They were played with almost daily For so long, Then weekly, monthly. Perhaps a year went by And then a time of revival When you played with them again. To give away these things Is to realise they have stayed In the cupboard so long They are not going to be asked for again. To give these things away Is to accept you're really done with them; You're growing up And interests are changing. I gave away a bag of toys today; The ones you loved the most. Someone else will find joy in them now And perhaps the echoes Of a small person Who isn't so small anymore. Don't wish away the holidays,
My friend, I beg you, please, I know these children drive you nuts And bring you to your knees; I know they drive you potty With their squabbling and their fights, When they're tired or excited Or won't settle down at night; I know you feel frustrated But it isn't all the time: Sometimes it's just our attitude That's gotten out of line. Please try to see the good bits, Relax, let some things go; Accept there's gonna be some mess- It's the same for me, you know! Of course I get frustrated, And they often drive me crazy; They whine and scream, they answer back And are sometimes just plain lazy. But don't wish away the holidays- Tell me this, my friend Will it really all be perfect When they come to an end? I won't tell you to love each moment, Or, every minute to enjoy; Don't beat yourself up if some days Weigh out more irritation than of joy; I won't tell you to savour each second And never get frustrated- We're all human, we have limits, We get exasperated. But don't wish away the holidays And don't tell me that they're long The end comes round so quickly, You can't tell me that I'm wrong. (And at the end of those days When you're feeling frazzled more than fine Remember that there's always bedtime and there's wine!) Don't tell me you despair Of how you'll fill these days I'm sorry I don't understand How you came to feel this way. To make you sick's not my intention, Mary Poppins I am not, I won't lie to you that it's perfect, But, truth is, this time is not a lot. Please don't wish away the holidays, Before you know it the time is gone; You only get so many summers Before they're grown and they've moved on. I know them screaming "Mummy!" Is an intolerable sound, But when their teenage starts to rage Who knows if they'll want you around? I know they say they're bored sometimes But did you know that's good? Don't fix it for them instantly 'Cause for their brains that's food; Where entertainment's lacking Creativity may grow Childhood must have times like this When a scheduled life turns slow. It's chance to spend more time outside For exercise, fresh air and sun, For nature's glorious medicine, For peace and quiet or raucous fun. Recharge those mental batteries, Perspective to regain, We need it and they need it too - Though at first they might complain. They don't need an entertainer Every second keeping busy Sometimes they need to find their way And not be driven dizzy. They need to play without you saying, "Come on! It's time to go!" Or "We don't have time for this right now!" The whirlwind needs to slow. If you feel guilty things aren't perfect, Come, let's set a lower bar, Let go of how things "should" have been Accept them as they are, And even in the not-quite-rights You'll find that they are learning So much about relationships And how the world keeps turning. And if you think you're not enough I know that you, their mother, Are everything they want and need Beyond some perfect 'other'. Unscheduled time is precious In our overloaded lives, Now they're at school you surely know That kind of time's in short supply. You only get so many of these summers - twelve or so - When you get to break from school routines, Stop rushing, take things slow. Don't wish away the holidays, Let them climb those trees, And get muddy, wet and filthy (Dirty isn't a disease!) See the friends you cannot see When schedules don't allow; Let them just be children, Don't you know their time is now? This is their chance to learn and grow, Yours too in many ways, So, my friend, I beg you, please - Don't wish away these holidays. Oh, I've wanted to write this for years,
Shake off the burden of these words. In my searching for physical space, The right place, A room of one's own, And mental space too Within the chaos of my own creating, In this family home Overseen by this so undomesticated Domesticated bag of contradictions. Is it an excuse? I do not know and it torments me. Is it circumstance? Or is it just me? Is it tiredness? Exhaustion? Or is it just the way I am? Lacking determination, Squandering what has always compelled me On quotidian busyness and exhaustion. But here a sliver of light A way of writing through the cracks Like the weeds that grow In the smallest spaces. Can they be beautiful? Here in the cracks between day and night In the cracks between busy and still In the space that has split open something condensed, Different than I'd have expected But still words, Stories in miniature, Somehow condensed in the slivers of light There is hope that I may have found A new way. Yes, we're all glued
To our phones too much I know, here be dragons for sure. I resolve to cut back In futile hopefulness Thinking of what I could get done Without its leaching power But then I find myself In the dentist's waiting room And pick it up to read a book That's neatly, quietly there Or search for some useful, Or entirely useless, information And take a second To wonder at this miracle. And I think back to the days When lines would come to me While walking, Perhaps to catch a train. I never mastered the art Of writing while walking Not with a real pen and paper, Had to stop Or couldn't read my writing, and those lines would slip and slide Sometimes later caught and sometimes lost. I mourned those ones that slid away Because my voice Was an abhorrent stranger And those words has no place there. Long gone days. So walk past me now Perhaps you're walking your dog Through the woods and thinking, Woman, put away your phone, Look at this place that catches Your breath with its quiet beauty Slipped between the leaves Of its quotidian aplomb. But I do notice. Smartphone in my hand I know how it might seem to you Distracted Elsewhere But would you expect That between the visual mementos And attempts at aesthetic portraiture I command it to capture I put down these words that are Slipping and sliding out of me And I capture them in this smart phone? In the palm of my hand I hold something that Twenty years ago I'd have bitten off your hand for And I wonder how many words It could have caught from Slipping and sliding away, Yet I can curse it in equal measure For the mindless state It so adeptly induces, For the time it silently steals. How smart you are Two-headed monster in my hand. Last days and journeys home
Always overtake us In the end. We express disbelief At the disappearance of the time And, upon crossing the threshold, Claim it but a moment since we arrived, And yet we fully know that Holidays are made of ice cream And disappointments, Of high hopes, Incoming tides, Sandy feet, And salty skin, Long days over too soon, Three miles that turn into ten, Rock clambering adventures, Melting sandcastles, Of picnic lunches, Squabbling children, Pleasant cliches And the unfamiliar sound of silence But for the crashing waves of laughter And the sea. Oh we know it, We know it and yet We learn it anew, As that which was Briefly experienced, In a twinkling, Calcifies to memory, Packed in the boot of the car With shells and stowaway sand Stuck in the turrets of castle-shaped buckets As the landscape Retreats in the rearview mirror. I've been pretty quiet lately. When I say lately I mean over the past two years.
I wrote 'I will not bow down to the god of busyness' in April 2017 and acknowledged I was in a limited phase of my life. Turns out I was more right than I knew as I started a new job the following September. As I got used to new work patterns it was difficult to write. Once I got used to one thing, it changed and I had to adjust to something else. I have realised this isn't going to change but I have also had to accept that I was working too many hours for my sanity and cut back a bit. I'm grateful that I've been able to do this - that we've been able to afford it as a family and that my work situation is flexible enough. The fact is through all this that I've had to try to find 'a new way ' over and over again. I had a post brewing on the subject of needing to carve out physical space in our house as well as mental space in my life in order to write. Such are the difficulties of life. Modern life? family life? Living with the conflict of being more than one thing. I haven't been very good at this but lately I've found that the words have been forcing their way out of me whether I like it or not and the space I've found feels like it's boiled its way down both physically and mentally in that I've been relying on my phone more than my laptop for jotting things down (I find myself sitting on the stairs or writing while I'm out) and it has been manifesting i poetry more than prose. So I have a few new pieces to add. Over the same time period I've also been going through some big stuff emotionally and health-wise. I finally have answers on the unexplained secondary infertility. I've been going through premature menopause - or premature ovarian failure if you want the more medical term. Once I started with the full truck load of additional symptoms on top of the failure to conceive I finally got the GP to listen to me. The ordinary level of exhaustion has been doubled by these hormonal issues and I've seriously struggled mentally not to just blame myself for being lazy. And angry. Goodness, the temper is whole different story. I'm sure I will be writing more on this subject soon. For now I'll post the more recent poems. There is a moment repeated
The moment repeats And I lie Still I lie Bed beneath My body Lies Empty with nothing To grow and to nurture I lie To myself And I feel There is something To love And I love Where there's nothing To love so I'm loving A lie But the love that I feel Feels real. And I lie There alone Though I feel there's a you To be loved And be named. And so You are lost Through my fingers Like water And yet And yet dry Are my hands. And repeat. She turns her head to survey the area. Her gaze hovers on me only momentarily but it is enough; enough for me to see that it is tinged with distain, almost imperceptible disapproval, perhaps a little pity. The younger woman. The younger, thinner woman. I continue to slowly move through the racks of clothes, touching the texture of the fabric of this item, checking the size of another. It’s all alien to me but I’m determined not to show it.
The shop assistant busies herself with something behind the desk and does not look up again. I leave casually but I feel like running. I had only gone in there because I wanted to know what was in fashion these days, what the younger ones are wearing to go out in. Good grief I feel old just thinking that. That shop assistant has probably forgotten about me already. That slight distain was only a smudge on her indifference. Why do I think there was a flash of pity in her glance at me? Because I used to be her. Not long ago. I want to go and tell her that her perceived advantage over me is that she happened to be born 15 or 20 years after me. So what? She exists in a slightly different, partly overlapping window of time. So what? Just blink, I’m thinking, and you will be me. But you don’t think you will be, do you? No, I didn’t either. You have no idea. I am looking for something to go for an evening out in. I am not used to this. I’m not saying I never go out but it’s usually just for dinner, to a wedding or something like that. I’m not saying I never get stuck over what to wear on those occasions too but this is different – I need something trendy. Not formal evening wear, not smart, not classic, not too casual, not too dressy. Trendy. It’s a long time since I’ve needed something like this and, seriously ( I can feel my skin prickle at the thought of it), I wouldn’t have been using that word when I did. I have literally no idea what to wear and I feel well and truly lost. I feel cross with myself for feeling this way over clothes. It feels disgustingly superficial. I am an educated, intelligent woman who has plenty of substance and meaningfulness in her existence. So why am I getting upset over clothes? I never used to worry about clothes, but the reason, I realise now, is because I was comfortable and confident in my style, in what suited me and what made me feel good. I also knew my body but this body I find myself in now is not so familiar. Through two pregnancies and the passing years it is not merely the size of my body that has changed: my skin is different, I have gained a silvery network stretch marks and a caesarean scar; my rib cage has widened post childbirth – apparently a common phenomenon; even my feet have changed size; and then there are my breasts. As a teenager on holiday in France, I found myself on a beach where many women, comfortable in their own skin, swam and sunbathed topless. I remember being curiously fascinated by these women, having seen few women’s bodies in real life excluding my mother’s. The shape of their breasts as they sloped downwards on top and curved, full and round underneath, meeting in the point of the nipple, were so different than my own fresh bosom and they intrigued me. This formed in my young mind what it meant to be a real woman. When I realised recently that I have acquired a hollowness to my upper chest that wasn’t there before I remembered those old impressions made on the mind of my teenage self and I thought back to the years of fullness in my bust that I took for granted, that I didn’t realise was so fleeting. I need to get to know this body and what it needs. I need to learn how to feed it so its weight doesn’t fluctuate so much. I need to learn how to flatter it with the right kind of clothes. I venture on to other shops and still I struggle to find my place. I see whole swathes of things which I don’t dislike but I know are aimed at women a little older than I am. I don’t want to look like I’m trying too hard or like I think I’m still 23, but neither do I want to add 15 years by choice of outfit. I feel stuck between two demographics and cannot find my place. Apparently lots of people consider shopping to be a leisure activity but this feels more of an ordeal. I can’t be the only one who feels this way. I spend the rest of the afternoon trawling round various shops with absolutely no success, and then it’s time to pick the kids up from school so I get in the car and drive. The radio is on but I’m not listening. I’m trying to process these peculiar feelings. I will try again and I will find something eventually, I’m sure I will. I might even enjoy it and I might even feel good in it but, whilst I know I am more than a mother and whilst there is still a shadow of the old me in the current one, this is certainly another struggle in finding out how to be this me.
I recently had the first parents’ evening for my younger son. Whilst on one level I listened to the teacher and thought, ‘Are you sure this is my child you’re talking about?’ I also thought, ‘Is this what it’s like for other people?’ If you’ve never had to worry about a child you will not know the sweetness of hearing a glowing school report. How much I would have loved to pop up a post on that! But I didn’t. I don’t. It’s an emotionally difficult place to be, to keep up with these two very different children...never mind the little voice that whispers, ‘Why would you want another one – you can't cope with the ones you've got!’
Whenever I have a post composed in my head on something about son number two it only seems to draw attention as though shining a spotlight on every difficulty we have with son number one. I don’t think it’s wrong for people to post their #proudmum posts. For the most part it’s innocent or it bolsters the fragile facade that people put up to feel okay. I understand that. But it’s totally ruined for me. Now that I’ve felt the prickles, niggles and punches, the kicks and stings of other people’s posts I just can’t do it. I write updates in my head all the time but I never post them. It isn’t just the #proudmum ones either, I feel hyper-aware of my own motivations of posting anything at all and of how it can affect others. I can't help but wonder if the world of social media would be a happier place if a few more people felt similarly. |
A New WayFinding myself on the other side of motherhood. Writing with honesty, candour and passion through the challenges of motherhood and life. |