I’ve been a bit absent from this space, lately.
It feels a bit like I’m absent from my own head. We are grappling with a few huge changes that have arrived all at once: Tim is about to start a new job. I have seven thousand balls in the air and daren’t take a breath in case I drop one. And our house – we sold our house. Someone wants to buy our house. And the thing about house-hunting is, it goes something like this: this house is perfect, but we’re not sure about the area. This house is perfect, but the schools look crappy. Everything about this house is great except the house itself, which is awful. Making all the pieces fit together at roughly the same time is hurting my eyebrows and finger-ends.
I worry about parenting too. You know how everyone remembers their own home life and their own parents, and tells stories about them years later? Nearly everyone has something they want to do differently, patterns with their parents that they don’t want to carry forward to their kids. Lately I can’t stop worrying about what Henry and Teds might discuss with their wives late at night.
I think I raise my voice too much. Will that be a conversation that goes ‘oh, my mum lost her temper with us a lot, but I was so loved, and we had a lot of fun’. Or will it be something like ‘I get my anger from my mum, I think, so I want to make sure I don’t pass that on’? Henry is scared of his own shadow at the minute, and flies off the handle at the slightest provocation. Is this a brief phase we’ll laugh about later, or are we reinforcing each other’s bad behaviour?
There probably isn’t a definite answer. We are muddling along together, and more and more I realise that we are all, parents and children both, making it up as we go. It’s kind of incredible, when you think about it, that such beautiful things can come out of so much flying-by-the-seat-of-your-pants.
Anyway. This is turning into exactly the sort of thing you shouldn’t write on your blog late at night, so perhaps I’ll delete this in the morning. Or perhaps not. Because one day I might want to know that in my late twenties, with two tiny boys and in the middle of madness, I worried ferociously about being a good mother. And finding a house with a garden.
Please, future me, please tell me I did both.