My babies are coming home tomorrow. Their train arrives at 18.41 and you can bet your life I'll be there, waiting.
My ex MIL phoned tonight and we more or less got into a snit about my daughters' hair (she wants to cut it herself, dry, tomorrow morning, I DON'T WANT HER TO but am too pathetic to say so, so just snarked and got my feelings across in a more subtle way than outright conflict. I'm still pretty sure their hair will be a mass of tangles and I'll have to spend over an hour brushing each girl's hair), plus D had nothing to say to me (which is fine by me, don't get me wrong). I spoke to C and L and they sounded fine - they went up the Eiffel Tower, they went to parks, they went to the Luxemburg Gardens... They both said they missed me...
I can't wait to see them again - my life falls apart when they're not here, it really does... There'll be no more staying up all night/sleeping all day once they get back. And I'm glad. They give me the discipline I so sadly lack in my natural state.
Plus, I just want to hold them in my arms, cover them with kisses, hug them tight...
My babies are coming home tomorrow.
mercredi 9 mars 2011
mardi 8 mars 2011
Cat
He came into my life as a tiny, 2-month-old refuge baby, brought home in a cardboard box by my ex. The very, very best birthday present I could ever have wished for (and it's never been bettered). He miaowed, asserted his personality, staked his claim to my life, my heart.
He grew (boy, did he grow!), from a big-eared freako-kitten (though always unbelievably cute) to a truly handsome elder statescat. He is indeed stately (not to say portly), but he can still be playful, for whole minutes at a time if the rolled up ball of tin foil is shiny enough, if the patissier's ribbon is wavy enough.
He likes to sleep on my bed, now that there's no competition. He curls up, sometimes at my feet (sometimes, less comfortably, ON my feet), sometimes in the small of my back, sometimes right up near my pillow. I don't care that this probably skeeves out half of humanity. Me, I love it. He makes me feel less alone.
He also likes to sleep on C's bed, basking in the sunshine my bed never gets (it could, I suppose, but I'd have to open the shutters for that, and I don't remember the last time I opened my shutters). Sleeping there isn't allowed, and he knows it (C's Dr Asthma-Allergy told us so - wants us to get rid of him altogether, in fact, but they'll have to carry me out in a box before that'll happen), but he's a Rebel Cat, so he disobeys.
He likes to eat. Really, he loves to eat. Not just anything, though. He likes tinned tuna, sliced ham, white chicken breast, Yop and once went totally crazy over pain d'épices (not really gingerbread, but sort of that type of thing). He does not like fresh tuna or actual steak. He rarely gets the foods he likes because they're not the best thing for his health, but a cat can dream, right?
His fur is silky smooth (except when it isn't), long, with a fluffy smell. He has three colours: white, black and brown. He is the most beautiful cat in the entire world, even though I may be a little biased. He loves to watch sport on TV (anything with lots of movement - unlike anyone else in this house, he loves cycling (watching it, I mean, not doing it obviously) and he used to show an appreciation for Jimi Hendrix. He seems to have outgrown that now (possibly because I never listen to Jimi Hendrix; he seems ambivalent to Glee and Leonard Cohen).
He owns this building - pads from floor to floor, making sure his minions know he's keeping his eye on them. He protects and serves, a fearless guard-cat (OK, OK, I may be exaggerating a little here), ever ready to pounce on any unsuspecting lizards or suicidal crickets.
He's more than "just a cat". So much more. He's my raison d'être, he's my stability. He's the one who has always, always been there for me when I need him (helped greatly by the fact that he never, never goes anywhere). He understands my moods, my feelings, my pain. He knows when to come to me.
He is a cat. My cat. The cat. The archetypal cat. Or just "Cat".
His name is Tom, and he is a prince among cats, a king among cats, the King of all Cats.
He grew (boy, did he grow!), from a big-eared freako-kitten (though always unbelievably cute) to a truly handsome elder statescat. He is indeed stately (not to say portly), but he can still be playful, for whole minutes at a time if the rolled up ball of tin foil is shiny enough, if the patissier's ribbon is wavy enough.
He likes to sleep on my bed, now that there's no competition. He curls up, sometimes at my feet (sometimes, less comfortably, ON my feet), sometimes in the small of my back, sometimes right up near my pillow. I don't care that this probably skeeves out half of humanity. Me, I love it. He makes me feel less alone.
He also likes to sleep on C's bed, basking in the sunshine my bed never gets (it could, I suppose, but I'd have to open the shutters for that, and I don't remember the last time I opened my shutters). Sleeping there isn't allowed, and he knows it (C's Dr Asthma-Allergy told us so - wants us to get rid of him altogether, in fact, but they'll have to carry me out in a box before that'll happen), but he's a Rebel Cat, so he disobeys.
He likes to eat. Really, he loves to eat. Not just anything, though. He likes tinned tuna, sliced ham, white chicken breast, Yop and once went totally crazy over pain d'épices (not really gingerbread, but sort of that type of thing). He does not like fresh tuna or actual steak. He rarely gets the foods he likes because they're not the best thing for his health, but a cat can dream, right?
His fur is silky smooth (except when it isn't), long, with a fluffy smell. He has three colours: white, black and brown. He is the most beautiful cat in the entire world, even though I may be a little biased. He loves to watch sport on TV (anything with lots of movement - unlike anyone else in this house, he loves cycling (watching it, I mean, not doing it obviously) and he used to show an appreciation for Jimi Hendrix. He seems to have outgrown that now (possibly because I never listen to Jimi Hendrix; he seems ambivalent to Glee and Leonard Cohen).
He owns this building - pads from floor to floor, making sure his minions know he's keeping his eye on them. He protects and serves, a fearless guard-cat (OK, OK, I may be exaggerating a little here), ever ready to pounce on any unsuspecting lizards or suicidal crickets.
He's more than "just a cat". So much more. He's my raison d'être, he's my stability. He's the one who has always, always been there for me when I need him (helped greatly by the fact that he never, never goes anywhere). He understands my moods, my feelings, my pain. He knows when to come to me.
He is a cat. My cat. The cat. The archetypal cat. Or just "Cat".
His name is Tom, and he is a prince among cats, a king among cats, the King of all Cats.
lundi 7 mars 2011
Happiness
It's not because it's Monday morning that I'm sitting at my desk, crying. It's not that anything bad has happened (it hasn't). It isn't even (I don't think) because I haven't slept yet and now can't because I have to go teach in 4 hours and I haven't showered or washed my hair or prepared my class yet.
It's because I spent half the night (the half after I finished working and sending snarky e-mails to clients who seem pissed off with me for no reason) watching episodes of Mad Men and for some reason, the last one I watched - the last episode in series 1 - has just reduced me to a blubbering wreck.
Don Draper's banging on about selling nostalgia via the Kodak slide projector and it's revolutionary carousel. He sees images of his happy life. Peggy has a baby and sees her happy future fall apart around her. Betty Draper sobs with unhappiness to a 9-year-old boy. All the characters are unhappy, they're all dissatisfied with their lives. Don ends up sitting at the bottom of his stairs, alone, while his wife and children spend Thanksgiving elsewhere; Peggy is alone in hospital, not even wanting to hold her infant son in her arms.
And I'm blubbering. Am I really so unhappy? In truth, no, not really. I have a home, I have two beautiful little girls, I have a job I don't hate, I have friends and (some) family; my life is OK. Better than OK, really.
But I'm falling apart all the same. With the girls gone, I've fallen apart more or less completely, and if I hadn't had work to do, who knows how far this would have gone? I've eaten poorly, and at ridiculous times; my sleep patterns remain owl-ish, I haven't been out of the house since Thursday afternoon...
I know I have to get a grip, turn myself around, realise, deep down, that my life just isn't that bad. Sure, I'm lonely, and scared of having to spend the rest of my life alone. But even if that turns out to be true, it's not the end of the world, and I have so much else to be grateful for.
I'm pathetic, I know I am. And I should just listen to my mind, telling me that my life is pretty good and that I should be thankful for that. But my heart, oh, my heart, it does cry so loud...
It's because I spent half the night (the half after I finished working and sending snarky e-mails to clients who seem pissed off with me for no reason) watching episodes of Mad Men and for some reason, the last one I watched - the last episode in series 1 - has just reduced me to a blubbering wreck.
Don Draper's banging on about selling nostalgia via the Kodak slide projector and it's revolutionary carousel. He sees images of his happy life. Peggy has a baby and sees her happy future fall apart around her. Betty Draper sobs with unhappiness to a 9-year-old boy. All the characters are unhappy, they're all dissatisfied with their lives. Don ends up sitting at the bottom of his stairs, alone, while his wife and children spend Thanksgiving elsewhere; Peggy is alone in hospital, not even wanting to hold her infant son in her arms.
And I'm blubbering. Am I really so unhappy? In truth, no, not really. I have a home, I have two beautiful little girls, I have a job I don't hate, I have friends and (some) family; my life is OK. Better than OK, really.
But I'm falling apart all the same. With the girls gone, I've fallen apart more or less completely, and if I hadn't had work to do, who knows how far this would have gone? I've eaten poorly, and at ridiculous times; my sleep patterns remain owl-ish, I haven't been out of the house since Thursday afternoon...
I know I have to get a grip, turn myself around, realise, deep down, that my life just isn't that bad. Sure, I'm lonely, and scared of having to spend the rest of my life alone. But even if that turns out to be true, it's not the end of the world, and I have so much else to be grateful for.
I know all this. And my ever-rational mind knows it. But my heart? Oh, my heart... it refuses to accept that I'm probably happy enough. It refuses to see the cup as half full, and prefers - always - to not only see it as half empty, but worse: precariously placed on the table and liable to fall and smash into pieces at any moment.
I guess I need some kind of help to get me through this, but I don't have the time, or the money, or the courage to go and see someone. I flail along, as best I can, snapping at my lovely little girls, being mean to them, shouting at them, screeching at them; sobbing for "no reason" at any given time, fucking up the happiness I should just be enjoying.
It's just... seeing men and women, having fun together, makes me yearn so much, not just for intimacy and sex (though that too), but most of all for that complicity, the oneness of being two, the companionship. To have someone that makes me feel special, interesting, beautiful, attractive...
dimanche 6 mars 2011
Nostalgia
Not sure what happened to me today, but I was diffused with a longing to listen to music from the 1990s. That's not quite "my" decade - although I was still a university student in the 1990s (I graduated in 1992 and yes, I know, I'm a dinosaur) - most of my greatest memories in musical terms come from the 1980s (or older, but that would be nostalgia, even for me).
But still. Today, was a 1990s kind of day. I started off with the old stand-bys of Pulp, Blur and Oasis. And then I moved on to less well-known (outside of France, obviously, but possibly even within France nowadays) French-speaking artists: Stephan Eicher (an outstandingly sexy Swiss guy; I have two of his CDs and he sings songs in French, Swiss German and (I think) even English) and Kent, one of the few musicians in the world I've actually seen play live. But only because he's from Lyon (or thereabouts) and when I lived there he did a free concert for the Fête de la Musique and I just happened to be there. No regrets, though, because he was good!
It was strange, listening to all these songs again. I've got albums by all of them (except Kent), yet I haven't listened to any of them in ages. But it was great stuff, really! And there were more memories than I would have imagined...
Let's start with Pulp: my love affair with all things Jarvis Cocker started with a student I had at the Lyon IUT Génie civile, where I taught English for a few years. I don't remember the guy's name now, but I can see his face quite clearly in my mind. So many good memories from those days - such fun teaching! And I was young enough to get invited to parties by them, so it really was fun (and, of course, civil engineering students were very predominantly male, which helped!). And then there was David... that was (or would have been, to be honest, as not much happened) a mistake. But I was young, naive, easily swayed... It all came flooding back when I heard Jarvis' distinctive voice... Proust had madeleines, me it's Jarvis Cocker apparently!
Then Blur - more memories of my days in Lyon... I had a strange life back then, very mixed emotions... I think, though, what appealed about Blur was the idea of how much my parents would hate them! I was never a particularly rebellious teenager (who'm I kidding? I was the least rebellious teenager in the history of the world...), but broke free of that home counties death trap when I graduated. I still didn't rebel exactly, but I stepped away from the "career" path I was probably expected to take. I moved to France, with no money, no home, no job, no contacts; I became a cleaner; I started listening to stuff like Blur (ooooh, what a rebel, I know)... Anyway, Damon Albarn was really cute (and still is, actually: check out Gorillaz), and that was probably my main guiding principle to be honest...
Next, Oasis. I never was one to join the black and white dichotomy of Beatles-Stones, Oasis-Blur... I always liked some stuff by both... I have albums by both Blur and Oasis, I like both, but not in the same way. Oasis is more rock and roll, more "rough" - better to dancing to. And that's what I remember about Oasis - dancing about my flat, on my own, curtains drawn or shutters shut, lost in the moment. I'm no great dancer, but when I'm alone, I'm a star, twirling uninhibited, in my own little spotlight...
Next up, Stephan Eicher. Oh, this guy. Total crush back then (and now, if I'm honest). I loved his voice, the words to his songs, his whole presence. He was pretty popular here in France back then, but seems to have totally disappeared, which is a shame. I felt very exotic listening to songs in three different languages - and Eicher was probably the first (and one of the only) French-language artists I've ever liked...
And finally, Kent. The only one I don't really know - I never bought an album, it was more (as I said above) a chance encounter, even though he too was quite popular for a while. Not as much as Eicher, but still. And the concert reminds me of a whole different life - back when we (D and I) hung out with his "friends" (most of whom I couldn't bear), often in Villeurbanne (hence the concert). But I do like this song, the words are good and he seems such a fun guy!
The 1990s were a strange decade for me. I was very unhappy as a university student, yet many of my very best memories come from that time (and certainly my very, very best friends); my early days in France were very, very hard, fraught with poverty, loneliness, isolation and romantic disappointments (sounds frighteningly familiar, now that I think of it). The decade got progressively better, and ended (in August 99) with D and I moving here, to Montpellier. I think I was pretty happy back then, now that I think of it. It's just that I'm maybe not very good at recognising when I'm happy until it's in the past...
I don't know what triggered this run down Memory Lane, but these artists in particular have been in my head all day, along with images - people, places, events - from that time. A lifetime ago. I still find it hard to believe that I'm talking about up to 20 years ago. Way to make me feel seriously old...
Old, perhaps, but the music was good!
But still. Today, was a 1990s kind of day. I started off with the old stand-bys of Pulp, Blur and Oasis. And then I moved on to less well-known (outside of France, obviously, but possibly even within France nowadays) French-speaking artists: Stephan Eicher (an outstandingly sexy Swiss guy; I have two of his CDs and he sings songs in French, Swiss German and (I think) even English) and Kent, one of the few musicians in the world I've actually seen play live. But only because he's from Lyon (or thereabouts) and when I lived there he did a free concert for the Fête de la Musique and I just happened to be there. No regrets, though, because he was good!
It was strange, listening to all these songs again. I've got albums by all of them (except Kent), yet I haven't listened to any of them in ages. But it was great stuff, really! And there were more memories than I would have imagined...
Let's start with Pulp: my love affair with all things Jarvis Cocker started with a student I had at the Lyon IUT Génie civile, where I taught English for a few years. I don't remember the guy's name now, but I can see his face quite clearly in my mind. So many good memories from those days - such fun teaching! And I was young enough to get invited to parties by them, so it really was fun (and, of course, civil engineering students were very predominantly male, which helped!). And then there was David... that was (or would have been, to be honest, as not much happened) a mistake. But I was young, naive, easily swayed... It all came flooding back when I heard Jarvis' distinctive voice... Proust had madeleines, me it's Jarvis Cocker apparently!
Then Blur - more memories of my days in Lyon... I had a strange life back then, very mixed emotions... I think, though, what appealed about Blur was the idea of how much my parents would hate them! I was never a particularly rebellious teenager (who'm I kidding? I was the least rebellious teenager in the history of the world...), but broke free of that home counties death trap when I graduated. I still didn't rebel exactly, but I stepped away from the "career" path I was probably expected to take. I moved to France, with no money, no home, no job, no contacts; I became a cleaner; I started listening to stuff like Blur (ooooh, what a rebel, I know)... Anyway, Damon Albarn was really cute (and still is, actually: check out Gorillaz), and that was probably my main guiding principle to be honest...
Next, Oasis. I never was one to join the black and white dichotomy of Beatles-Stones, Oasis-Blur... I always liked some stuff by both... I have albums by both Blur and Oasis, I like both, but not in the same way. Oasis is more rock and roll, more "rough" - better to dancing to. And that's what I remember about Oasis - dancing about my flat, on my own, curtains drawn or shutters shut, lost in the moment. I'm no great dancer, but when I'm alone, I'm a star, twirling uninhibited, in my own little spotlight...
Next up, Stephan Eicher. Oh, this guy. Total crush back then (and now, if I'm honest). I loved his voice, the words to his songs, his whole presence. He was pretty popular here in France back then, but seems to have totally disappeared, which is a shame. I felt very exotic listening to songs in three different languages - and Eicher was probably the first (and one of the only) French-language artists I've ever liked...
And finally, Kent. The only one I don't really know - I never bought an album, it was more (as I said above) a chance encounter, even though he too was quite popular for a while. Not as much as Eicher, but still. And the concert reminds me of a whole different life - back when we (D and I) hung out with his "friends" (most of whom I couldn't bear), often in Villeurbanne (hence the concert). But I do like this song, the words are good and he seems such a fun guy!
The 1990s were a strange decade for me. I was very unhappy as a university student, yet many of my very best memories come from that time (and certainly my very, very best friends); my early days in France were very, very hard, fraught with poverty, loneliness, isolation and romantic disappointments (sounds frighteningly familiar, now that I think of it). The decade got progressively better, and ended (in August 99) with D and I moving here, to Montpellier. I think I was pretty happy back then, now that I think of it. It's just that I'm maybe not very good at recognising when I'm happy until it's in the past...
I don't know what triggered this run down Memory Lane, but these artists in particular have been in my head all day, along with images - people, places, events - from that time. A lifetime ago. I still find it hard to believe that I'm talking about up to 20 years ago. Way to make me feel seriously old...
Old, perhaps, but the music was good!
samedi 5 mars 2011
Sleep
It would seem that my sleep patterns are, to put it scientifically, seriously fucked up (yes, that's the scientific term. Of course it is).
Right now (as in, this year and probably for the last two decades or so, if not more) I'm most definitely a night person. It's in my genes, apparently. My mother always claimed that it was a Mackintosh (her maiden name) trait to be able to stay up late and hate getting up in the morning. It was certainly true of her, and of several other members of my (somewhat dysfunctional, let's be honest here) family.
But I think I can claim to be the family champion. Living "alone" (as in, not with a partner) and working essentially from home have honed my skills like nothing else. Yes, on school days I have to be up at 7.30 to get the girls to school by 8.30. But I'm generally home again by 8.40, and frequently in bed by 8.45. Yes, that's 8.45 AM. Depending on my schedule, I then don't get up till I either have to go and teach or have to go and pick up the girls (so, a get-up time of either 10.15, 12.15 or (whispers from the embarrassment of it all) 4.15).
I am not, however, a lady of leisure. I work a lot, I'm good at what I do (yes, I'm multi-talented) and I work hard. So as I'm obviously not working during the day, I work at night. I work after the girls have gone to bed, often till dawn, sometimes not even going to bed at all till after coming back from school.
Don't get me wrong, I'm not proud of this at all. I'm just stating fact.
Equally obviously, and given that the girls aren't here at all this week (and I have no teaching till Monday afternoon), today (Friday) has been particularly special. I went to bed on Wednesday "night" at 7.30 am and had to be up at 10 to get the girls' suitcase packed for their trip to Paris. I didn't go back to bed till 2.30 am the next day (so technically Friday morning). I was up today at 11 to make sure I was dressed and presentable when the food shopping delivery guy turned up, but was back in bed again at 12.30 (once he'd been and gone and I'd put the shopping away). I then got up again at 6.30 pm. And now, it's after midnight and I'm about to start doing some work.
See? Totally fucked up.
I keep saying how I'm going to try and get my life together, but I know that until I get my biorhythms sorted (and right now, I'm on the same biorhythms as an owl, apparently) and human again, I know I'm never going to get anywhere. It doesn't matter how tired I am, if I'm not in bed by 9.30 pm, I get a second wind and can stay up more or less indefinitely.
And no matter what time I go to bed, whatever time the alarm clock rings, I feel like shit and really, really have to force myself to get out of bed.
I'm sure there's help I could get with this, but I've no idea who or where; I also know it's one of the things about me that drove my ex crazy (obviously, I held things in check a little better, but still often didn't get up till 11 in the morning and frequently didn't see the girls before school) so I'm guessing plenty of people would be horrified. I'm always embarrassed about my sleeping habits. It probably seems to my daughters that I sleep a lot, but in fact I probably actually sleep less than most people.
My aim for this year? To get myself back on track. I know I'll never be a morning person, but I need to set myself some limits and find a way (find some discipline) to help me achieve them. I'd like to be able to get to bed between midnight and 1 am, and up between 8 and 9 (an hour earlier for both on school days, obviously). It seems like a helluva challenge for now, but I know it would be beneficial.
OK, diatribe over - time to get some work done (you can tell that despite all my good intentions, I clearly have no intention of getting cracking tonight; that's because I just spent the entire day in bed and feel totally wired for work right now...).
Right now (as in, this year and probably for the last two decades or so, if not more) I'm most definitely a night person. It's in my genes, apparently. My mother always claimed that it was a Mackintosh (her maiden name) trait to be able to stay up late and hate getting up in the morning. It was certainly true of her, and of several other members of my (somewhat dysfunctional, let's be honest here) family.
But I think I can claim to be the family champion. Living "alone" (as in, not with a partner) and working essentially from home have honed my skills like nothing else. Yes, on school days I have to be up at 7.30 to get the girls to school by 8.30. But I'm generally home again by 8.40, and frequently in bed by 8.45. Yes, that's 8.45 AM. Depending on my schedule, I then don't get up till I either have to go and teach or have to go and pick up the girls (so, a get-up time of either 10.15, 12.15 or (whispers from the embarrassment of it all) 4.15).
I am not, however, a lady of leisure. I work a lot, I'm good at what I do (yes, I'm multi-talented) and I work hard. So as I'm obviously not working during the day, I work at night. I work after the girls have gone to bed, often till dawn, sometimes not even going to bed at all till after coming back from school.
Don't get me wrong, I'm not proud of this at all. I'm just stating fact.
Equally obviously, and given that the girls aren't here at all this week (and I have no teaching till Monday afternoon), today (Friday) has been particularly special. I went to bed on Wednesday "night" at 7.30 am and had to be up at 10 to get the girls' suitcase packed for their trip to Paris. I didn't go back to bed till 2.30 am the next day (so technically Friday morning). I was up today at 11 to make sure I was dressed and presentable when the food shopping delivery guy turned up, but was back in bed again at 12.30 (once he'd been and gone and I'd put the shopping away). I then got up again at 6.30 pm. And now, it's after midnight and I'm about to start doing some work.
See? Totally fucked up.
I keep saying how I'm going to try and get my life together, but I know that until I get my biorhythms sorted (and right now, I'm on the same biorhythms as an owl, apparently) and human again, I know I'm never going to get anywhere. It doesn't matter how tired I am, if I'm not in bed by 9.30 pm, I get a second wind and can stay up more or less indefinitely.
And no matter what time I go to bed, whatever time the alarm clock rings, I feel like shit and really, really have to force myself to get out of bed.
I'm sure there's help I could get with this, but I've no idea who or where; I also know it's one of the things about me that drove my ex crazy (obviously, I held things in check a little better, but still often didn't get up till 11 in the morning and frequently didn't see the girls before school) so I'm guessing plenty of people would be horrified. I'm always embarrassed about my sleeping habits. It probably seems to my daughters that I sleep a lot, but in fact I probably actually sleep less than most people.
My aim for this year? To get myself back on track. I know I'll never be a morning person, but I need to set myself some limits and find a way (find some discipline) to help me achieve them. I'd like to be able to get to bed between midnight and 1 am, and up between 8 and 9 (an hour earlier for both on school days, obviously). It seems like a helluva challenge for now, but I know it would be beneficial.
OK, diatribe over - time to get some work done (you can tell that despite all my good intentions, I clearly have no intention of getting cracking tonight; that's because I just spent the entire day in bed and feel totally wired for work right now...).
vendredi 4 mars 2011
Three
We are three, where once we were four. Strangely, I've always liked the number three more than four. Maybe it was a sign that things were not meant to be. And as I write this, it is (still, only just) the third day of the third month. Another sign.
Three.
I grew up in a family of three - me and my parents. To be fair, I pretty much hated it and longed, yearned, dreamed of siblings. But three we were, and three we stayed.
Now I'm in a family of three once more - me and my two daughters. A female trinity (unless you add in our male cat, but I'm talking humans here), a triad. Sometimes it works, sometimes (oft times) it doesn't. But three we stay.
Yet.
Tonight, I am alone, and I'll remain alone till next Thursday night. My sweet girls are in Paris with D, staying with D's mother. I miss them so much it hurts, the quiet in the flat today was deafening.
I miss even the fighting, to be honest.
But I will work and try and get things done; and then they will come home and there will be hugs and kisses and stories to tell.
Till then, I kiss their photos, I lie in their beds, I hug their (not chosen) soft toys, I touch their things.
This will no doubt post on the 4th, but perhaps that, too, is a sign. Much as I prefer the number three, perhaps there is life as a family of four in my future...
*UPDATE*
So, well, yeah, that whole "I will work and try and get things done" crap? Totally didn't happen today. Just kept napping and eating crap and Twittering and FaceBooking and stuff. It's now 9 pm and I've done NOTHING of any use today. *sigh*
I really must get my shit together...
Three.
I grew up in a family of three - me and my parents. To be fair, I pretty much hated it and longed, yearned, dreamed of siblings. But three we were, and three we stayed.
Now I'm in a family of three once more - me and my two daughters. A female trinity (unless you add in our male cat, but I'm talking humans here), a triad. Sometimes it works, sometimes (oft times) it doesn't. But three we stay.
Yet.
Tonight, I am alone, and I'll remain alone till next Thursday night. My sweet girls are in Paris with D, staying with D's mother. I miss them so much it hurts, the quiet in the flat today was deafening.
I miss even the fighting, to be honest.
But I will work and try and get things done; and then they will come home and there will be hugs and kisses and stories to tell.
Till then, I kiss their photos, I lie in their beds, I hug their (not chosen) soft toys, I touch their things.
This will no doubt post on the 4th, but perhaps that, too, is a sign. Much as I prefer the number three, perhaps there is life as a family of four in my future...
*UPDATE*
So, well, yeah, that whole "I will work and try and get things done" crap? Totally didn't happen today. Just kept napping and eating crap and Twittering and FaceBooking and stuff. It's now 9 pm and I've done NOTHING of any use today. *sigh*
I really must get my shit together...
jeudi 3 mars 2011
Heart o' mine
Oh, my aching heart...
My babies are gone and my heart is sore. I know millions of other parents send their children off to stay with family, but WE never did. WE were always together. But now, WE is not. It is ME and HIM, so we holiday separately. And I find myself alone for 8 looooong days.
My heart, it does ache.
The flat feels so empty - no jumping about, no bickering, no singing, no laughing, no dancing, no whining, no complaining. Just the cat (thank God he remains) and me, tap-tap-tapping away on this keyboard.
They've only been gone for a few hours, and I miss them already. I'll sleep in their beds tonight (well, one tonight, and the other tomorrow), burying my face into the soft toys that remain, even though Winnie and Chameau and Lapin Jaune are gone, too.
Oh my heart, how it aches.
Will this pain ever subside? Will I ever get used to this "new" life? It's been almost a year (10 months, actually) and I'm still not used to it.
And my heart, which is so full of love for my babies, is so empty of love for a "special someone". As much as I love my girls, just as much I miss not being "in love" and "loved".
My heart aches, split in two: one part missing my sweet, beautiful, bright little girls, one part so lonely it might just stop beating altogether.
Heart o' mine, when will the aching stop?
Today's word is, unsurprisingly, HEART.
HEART. COEUR. CORAZON. CUORE. HERZ. It aches just as much in French, in Spanish, in Italian, in German. In any language, the pain is so intense, so real, I feel I cannot go on.
But I do go on, I have no choice. My girls need me.
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