19 January 2016

Time to Think.

Normal form.
It happened this Sunday morning.  A silence had descended at home  - and not one of those eerie ones where you wonder what is wrong.

Nothing was amiss.  Both my children were in sight, sat quietly reading.

It's only taken ten bleedin' years.

The six year old now loves Secret Seven books and no longer reads aloud, no longer needs me to read aloud to him, no longer wants me to.  *Sigh*

*Seizes a newspaper, puts feet up*


Goodness, it's been a long time coming - time such as this, to think.  

It's lovely when they're squishy little babies, all cuddly and gorgeous, but there's a lot of broken sleep - theirs and, consequently, yours - and just as you pass that stage another little one comes along and the whole process starts again.

A few years on and they're no longer babies but you can't take your eyes off them for a second.  You spend your time separating them, getting them out of the house and clearing up after them, as well as hopefully fitting in lots of actual playing with them and hitting the wine bottle before yet another whole process starts again.  So there still isn't really time to breathe, let alone think.  

And then, suddenly, out of the blue, even though you know it's coming because you've already reached this grieving point with your eldest and you know your youngest will get there quicker than he or she did because they have them to copy, the hurly burly of two small children turns into something else:  Quiet.  And you wonder what's wrong.

Your nerves are still too shattered to be at ease.  An inner alarm goes off needlessly.  It's habit.

Pray tell, what is this place called peace?

It's something a single parent seldom sees!

No-one move a muscle.


Anya XX