Friday, 21 July 2017

ولذلك ذهبنا بسيارتي الى بيتها

كانت صديقتي مريضة ولذلك ذهبنا بسيارتي الى بيتها وتكلمنا في حديقتها

Elle se sentais un peu mal à l'aise, avec un certain doulour en l'estomac. Alors j'ai marché assez vite à mon voiture pour l'envoyer chez elle. Je lui ai donné une bouteille de l'eau et ma couverture en cas de vomir! Elle a ri beaucoup à cette offre généreuse.

Heute meine Freundin und ich haben drei Stunden in einfache Fröhlichkeit gepasst. Google sagt: 'Wir verbrachten 3 Stunden zusammen', aber meine Wörter mir ganz fröhlich machen :)

We sat on the grass and discussed the biggest topic for us both as mothers while I pulled the grass again and again. That's exactly what I did when I was talking about relationships in the park with someone else a couple of weeks ago. Ripping the leaves out as if that would solve things.

Saturday, 1 July 2017

A higher level - New Babies - Home Poetry Reading - from 29th July 2014

A Higher Level

As a mother I am backing out of my duties at my current level and am moving to a higher level. It looks like just not bothering, but it is simply being a bigger sphere. So I barely notice when things happen, don't move when a question is asked, don't fix things much.

I drive off to do things and get back some hours later. I don't take my mobile. I'm still the emergency service of course and feel totally to blame for all the things which are not happening, but I am not busting a gut trying to sort out those things which are not happening. H is quoting 'acceptance' at me each time I get cross and crochety, which is very often.

I even had a moan at the person who left plates in the sitting room. It turned out to be me, which is wonderfully satisfying! I was still cross, but not at anyone I needed to then apologise to. I was quite free to be grumbly.

New Babies

Is this all because I am aware of the beautiful new babies and their amazing mothers and fathers in the family? How can it be that I will probably never have this again myself? So hard and interminable, all those nights and minutes, getting up from a chair, getting out of bed, paying attention to them, going from one to the other, the worry about illnesses. The dreadful tiredness, each one different from the next, like a pain in the centre of the torso. The terrible sense of loss that it is over, how can one be so sorrowful for something so all consuming and unalterable? Because there are no words big enough to explain how it is the best thing in the entire world. Even the trees are having their little ones, dry twisty leaf things falling over the roads in drifts, an early autumn. They have 0.00000001% chance of growing, but there they are on the tarmac, still in the it-might-just-happen phase.

Home Poetry Reading

I did a home poetry reading to H while he had a go at cooking. I read out from Obsessed With Pipework. The 2 we both agreed were fantastic were: His Fourth Rule by Annette Volfing and Snot of my Snot by Ramona Herdman.
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