I am hiding in my bedroom while two child shaped monsters systematically trash my house. Every so often one or the other runs into my bedroom and clips a laundry peg to my fuchsia pink toe then run’s out shouting “Don’t be cheeky Mrs Moustache! (General consensus seems to be that I have got a moustache. My Dad told me over lunch on Sunday but I’m trying not to dwell on it.)
It is a beautiful day. I’ve been into the back garden/yard/postage stamp and started my annual horticultural spring clean, which mostly involved calling said Father to get him to come and take away rusty toddler bikes, pulling out dead beetroot and avoiding looking my neighbour in the eye. But it is a start and a start is a good as a hiccup. And now after a spiky hot chamomile shower (Run it boiling hot, then before you get in sprinkle a few drops of your chosen aromatherapy oil onto the base of the shower, switch it off, wait a few minutes,then switch it back on and get in) I am here, buried in a pile of paisley pillows with a blush coloured glass of dandelion
I disappear don’t I? Lately I am finding it more and more difficult to be a women, and a mother and a housekeeper and a sister and a friend and a blogger and a daughter. A person with ambition. With needs. With hope and a mortgage. Somebody’s child. An adult in my own right. The constant terrible quandary of trying to be both. A writer. A reader. Someone capable of honouring her body and her dreams. Someone willing to set herself aside for other people, her relationships and her son…
If it is difficult to be all things to all people, it is almost impossible to juggle our own expectations of who we ought to be without feeling as though we are dropping balls all over the place. Leaving things unsaid. Undone. Annoying the neighbours by singing too loudly and forgetting to bring in the wheelie bin. Actually walking around it without seeing it and this week forgetting to put the recycling out at all (May God and the green police forgive me). Watching things fall apart as we stitch a life up. Sewing up one pocket and seeing a bit of who you used to be, who people have come to expect you are, leaking out of the other. Buying shoes instead of soap powder and spending blissful mornings in bed when we should be up and about, chasing our future instead of living in the delicious, cosy moment. Doing a happy dance as I send my babba to his Daddy’s for a sleepover so I can go out and then spending the rest of the evening feeling a teeny tiny bit evil for liking the woman I am when I am not obliged to play Mommy. The woman I become in high heels. She who casts off her pinny and dances on chairs. Worrying constantly about what other people think and in the same breath, truly not giving a damn.Worrying about occasionally feeling like I’m eighteen again when I’m (As Helen likes to remind me) in the mid to late thirties bracket. Pouting too much. Because I can. (Even though I shouldn’t and someone has to pinch me to remind me to stop). Feeling guilty. (Terrible word: guilt). Feeling compromised. (Terrible word: compromised). Feeling obliged.(Terrible word: obliged). And in a strange turn of events, feeling excited (Great word: excited) about feeling guilty, and obliged, and compromised and doing bugger all about it, even if, as a woman, these are the emotions we often allow ourselves to be defined by. Feeling a peculiar sense of freedom and ever so slightly (Lets not get carried away here!) revelling in it…
Today I’m excited about David Essex’s new look. (A vintage crush!). About the crisp new edition of Vogue, still wrapped in it’s plastic envelope downstairs, waiting to be savoured in front of The Apprentice tonight. About melting my moustache off (Don’t tell anyone will you? Especially not my Dad. He rather likes having a hirsute daughter) and the sense of promise that is light nights as we drift into Summer. About planting broad beans and eating them later in the season mashed onto thick toast with fresh mint and mozzarella. About feeling slightly dazzled by someone I really like. About restoring order to my living room and banishing teeny little super heroes to bed. About the two parcels waiting to be collected from the postal depot. About the weekend coming and the one after that. About a silver top I’m dreaming about. About a new brand of cucumber scented washing up liquid that makes me swoon. About changing my perfume and trying on a whole new person.
Well about everything really….
That’s a good thing right?