How come time out sounds more like paradise than punishment when you reach a certain age?
Maybe that’s the sign that you’ve grown up.
Some days I just wish I hadn’t.
Some days – like today – I want to go hang out with my inner child and climb a mango tree, and make cobwebs in the branches to foil the baddies who would attempt to use the tree to burgle our house. Because they would, of course. No self-respecting baddie would climb in a window. Oh, no! He’d climb the tree first. And then he’d be foiled in my six year old trap.
I’d sit in that tree for ages planning where I’d lay my trap and what he might do and what I’d do to pre-empt him. I thought I was thinking cleverly, just like a grown up. Just as now I long to climb back into my old shoeless, shirtless six year old self. Up a tree.
Not having anything more pressing to worry about than imaginary burglars.
I found myself in Miss Fliss’ room this morning. I wandered in there with some clothes to put away or some other ‘Motherly’ duty to perform, and found myself curling up on her bed with the cats.
For a moment I revelled in that quiet security. With Bearie and the cats and her cuddly rug. Bearie, the typhoid teddy, has come a long way since she started life as a pristine Mothercare bear – all white fluff and hope. Now a shell of herself – Bearie not Miss Fliss – all that remains of her are the bedraggled shreds of fabric. She has been loved to pieces. Miss Fliss still hangs onto Bearie, I guess it reminds her of that security and love.
For a moment I lay there, still and calm. The cats purred and so did I.
Not in my own bed, it wouldn’t work there. My own bed represents the complicated woman’s life I lead. That delicate balance between kids and husband and friends and family. Between work and other life. The demands of marriage and relationships overshadowed by the complications of illness and self-employment. Of expat life and blended families and the rawness of starting life over again, again.
I was told over the weekend that people judge me harshly. Of choosing my kids before my husband, of failing to be unfailingly patient. I’m sorry but I just don’t have a streak of martyr in me. I tend to do things because I believe they are right, not because I will look right doing them.
Who are these people? Should I care about them? And what they say? Probably not.
But I do.
No, my own bed wouldn’t do.
My own bed smells of me. Of love and pain and adult problems. Of bliss in one hand and forbearance in the other. Of all those things I wrestle with in the night.
But Miss Fliss’ bed. Ahh the simple beauty.
No bills. No work. No fear. I can see why the cats curl up here. There’s nothing here to weigh you down.
But can you hear that?
That’s my inner child revelling in the time out. And laughing.
Do you ever steal sanity moments in your child’s room?