Icy poles on the back step |
Our
move went incredibly smoothly, and our new place is gorgeous. There’s a white picket fence out the front, which means we’ll now live happily ever after! (Right?) Alan’s in his
element, repeatedly sweeping up the berries dropped by our prolific lilli pilli,
and mowing the lawn at the slightest sign of grass growth. The kids running on
the floorboards in the morning makes it sound like our house is being shot at
and I’m still not used to the blue of the walls, but with a couple of carefully-positioned
rugs and a lick of paint, I’d happily stay here forever. Also, I’d been wondering how
annoying it would be to have to drive back to Kogarah library to pick up any
holds that arrived for me, but I found out that my new local library is connected to
my old library; I could simply change the pick-up location to Oatley and continue
to search the same catalogue. This discovery was one of the highlights of my
year so far.
This
morning was Mo’s second tear-free school drop-off in a row. If he gets through tomorrow as
well, he’ll have set a new record. The other day he casually pointed out that the clouds
looked like an archipelago, and the stunned response from Alan and me obviously helped
him decide that going to school was a better use of his time than hanging out
with ignorant doofuses like his parents. He still cried in the mornings after that
conversation, but it was clear that his view of school had shifted from “torture
chamber” to “the place where I learn stuff that seems to impress Mum and Dad.”
Hazel,
on the other hand, has started crying at preschool drop-offs. I’m sure this is
because she’s genuinely upset about it, and not because my children have a daily
quota of drop-off-sadness that between them needs to be filled, but so far
this year my experience suggests the latter. I wonder if they spend so much
time together that their bodies just sense when it’s their morning to break down at
drop-off time, like women whose menstrual cycles align after a while. The plus
side of Hazel being the unhappy child is that preschool teachers are more inclined to
offer cuddles, so I see her being comforted and therefore don’t feel like I’m leaving her
on her own in the same way I did with Mo. (And yes, it takes a particularly
icky kind of narcissism to make my child’s separation anxiety all about me; I
realised this after writing last month’s Separation post. I agree: Ugh.)
As
pour moi, my increased dose of medication hasn’t seemed to make much of a
difference to my mood, and so I’m still in Depression Land, getting irritated
over the fact that I have to eat (So.
Much. Effort) and relate to people (whyyyyyyyyyyyy)
and spending a lot of time wondering how it would be possible to disappear
without hurting my children at all by doing so. So far I’ve crossed off suicide
and running away, which leaves my list frustratingly empty, so here I remain. I’m
currently learning about perception, which is doing my head in (I refuse to
believe that colours don’t exist); I so desperately want to be able to put it
in the “Things I will never understand no matter how hard I try” box and move
on to something easier (like another episode of Nashville), but I need to understand it enough to sit a 20-question
exam on the topic by the end of this week, so I’m discovering wavelengths and
depth perception and marvelling at how my brain can be both SO AMAZING (I can
see! I can recognise! I can react quickly to what’s going on around me!) and SO
MEAN (maybe I’m not a complete
failure, brain. Maybe you’re a fucking liar).
I
remember seeing an episode of Rage late one night, many, MANY, years ago, and a Beatle
– I think it was George Harrison – was reflecting on the past, and he said
something like, “The time just goes so quickly.”
He snapped his fingers: “Like that.”
I’d heard other adults say similar things, but the holy Beatle-ness of the speaker
made me pay attention for once. I’ve been thinking about that quote a bit
lately; Friday’s always here before I’m ready for it, and then Monday again,
and then my unit will be over and the break will be over and the next one will be flying by and
then there’ll be another break, then my final class, and then I’ll graduate. Before I
know it, 2016 will be done. *snap*
I'm sorry things are so hard in your head and heart at the moment. And you are definitely not a Narcissist!! Half the work of parenting, I reckon, is trying to disentangle how I feel about how my kids are feeling from what they are actually feeling. And then working out what that feeling (there's or mine!) actually means. Is it a sign of impending mental illness or a sign that someone needs a nap? SO often the latter, of course. But while thinking about all that can get a bit overwhelming, it's not narcissism! Don't listen to the mean voice telling you that....
ReplyDeleteCan you please move to Sydney and live next door to me? I need more of your wisdom in my daily life.
DeleteAw that would be awesome, but I think I'd be disappointing irl!
ReplyDeleteI'm sure that's not true! It sounds like your brain can be mean, too.
DeleteAlso, I've had some dealings with a true narcissist and believe me, they are not worrying about their children's wellbeing!!
ReplyDeleteThis is very reassuring to hear!
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