Friday, July 18, 2008
when I started this blog - what, was it seven years ago? - I did it partly because I knew it would give me the freedom to say whatever I thought, without having to defend it to my friends and family. and that's been a useful thing over the years. so this next is really just for me, a vent.
this morning I ran between the kitchen and A's room, making his kindy lunch between trips to his "shop", where he was selling teddies and toys. he kept calling me back, practically begging me to come to his shop. I didn't think much of it at the time; there is never enough time and competition between attention and practical duties are a standard of parenting.
now, a couple of hours later, I"m in the study at the front of our house, trying to work on an essay I hope a magazine will take. and from across the road, I can hear the kids of the people who live in the house opposite, playing some sort of game, loudly. and partly because I simply don't really like those people, and partly because I am in a low, perspective-lacking mood, I hate them all. I hate that they have each other to play with, while A has to play by himself. I hate that she has a boy and a girl and I have no daughter. I hate myself for justifying sending A to kindy a little more than he really needs to by telling myself he needs friends to play with, when I know it's more that I get tired of pretending to be four. I want to cry. I want to say it's not fair, where is his little brother or sister?
and I know I'm full of shit. I know I'm lucky to have him and one day he'll realise he was lucky his mother didn't die when he was one. (insert prayer for non-recurrence here). I know everyone has their problems and there are people who have lost children, are losing them now.
but I never imagined just one child. I imagined children playing together. my children. I'm 42. three years in remission. two years of treatment to go. I'm fit and healthy but I can also feel age settling on me. and I wonder about my reasons for not letting go of that second baby. and I worry that I will do it for the wrong reasons, trying to undo what has happened, and that I will regret it. am I just tricking myself into single-childness, putting it off and putting it off until the choice has gone?
most of all, I'm just angry and self-pitying and resentful.
this morning I ran between the kitchen and A's room, making his kindy lunch between trips to his "shop", where he was selling teddies and toys. he kept calling me back, practically begging me to come to his shop. I didn't think much of it at the time; there is never enough time and competition between attention and practical duties are a standard of parenting.
now, a couple of hours later, I"m in the study at the front of our house, trying to work on an essay I hope a magazine will take. and from across the road, I can hear the kids of the people who live in the house opposite, playing some sort of game, loudly. and partly because I simply don't really like those people, and partly because I am in a low, perspective-lacking mood, I hate them all. I hate that they have each other to play with, while A has to play by himself. I hate that she has a boy and a girl and I have no daughter. I hate myself for justifying sending A to kindy a little more than he really needs to by telling myself he needs friends to play with, when I know it's more that I get tired of pretending to be four. I want to cry. I want to say it's not fair, where is his little brother or sister?
and I know I'm full of shit. I know I'm lucky to have him and one day he'll realise he was lucky his mother didn't die when he was one. (insert prayer for non-recurrence here). I know everyone has their problems and there are people who have lost children, are losing them now.
but I never imagined just one child. I imagined children playing together. my children. I'm 42. three years in remission. two years of treatment to go. I'm fit and healthy but I can also feel age settling on me. and I wonder about my reasons for not letting go of that second baby. and I worry that I will do it for the wrong reasons, trying to undo what has happened, and that I will regret it. am I just tricking myself into single-childness, putting it off and putting it off until the choice has gone?
most of all, I'm just angry and self-pitying and resentful.
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