Seeking myself

When my children are away, I have a tendency to feel a little deflated.  The past week and a half has been very full-on: we went on holiday to Butlins – beach, playground, swimming pool, lessons about not running by a swimming pool, bravery at venturing onto the flumes, shows, soft play, fairground rides (here’s my tip – if you have to take your children on big rides one at a time, take the bravest first onto the scary ones, and then explain to the more timid child that they really wouldn’t like it, and take them on something different), ice-cream, candy floss, puppets – non-stop fun.  And then straight home into Small Girl’s fourth birthday celebrations: on Saturday making a cake for her party on Sunday and unpacking; then on Sunday icing the cake, leaving for the party and dropping the cake upside down in the middle of the road.  The party, fortunately, was at a soft play centre, so didn’t involve too much organising, but when we got home Big Girl gave herself a small hair cut to add to the excitement.  Oh, and I also made a mermaid skirt/tail for Big Girl’s ‘Under the Sea’ dressing up day the following day, which had all but fallen apart by the time she got to school.  Apparently space blankets are not as robust as I imagined.  Having remembered how to get into school and work, with a streaming cold, and survived Monday and Tuesday, Wednesday was Small Girl’s actually birthday: lots of presents, a trip to the park, a visit to the supermarket to buy a birthday cake and for Small Girl to spend some birthday money, and then I discovered I’d lost my housekeys so had to call a locksmith out.  My family arrived and we had a barbecue, and then Thursday there was school and work again.  It has felt somewhat like a runaway train I couldn’t stop, an ordeal I am surprised to have survived.  And now my girls have gone to their dad’s house, and I feel like a ship with dead sails. I’ve been driven by my children’s needs and demands, and the requirement to produce food and clean clothes and a good birthday celebration, and now the wind has gone and I am becalmed.

I’m not sure if this feeling is a natural response to having been so constantly busy or if it’s a sign that my life is out of balance.  This feast-or-famine way of living doesn’t really suit my temperament.  I don’t want to spend all my free time recovering from and preparing to be a parent.  But equally I want to be able to enjoy the time I have with my children without feeling exhausted, and overwhelmed by housework.  When first I had my childfree evenings and then weekends, I was so busy, fitting things in, having fun, making the most of every moment.  And then I realised that actually I like having an evening in by myself, and need some space and time to relax.

But now I feel somewhat purposeless, unsure of where I’m going.  I feel like I’m drifting – not so much like a fallow period as wasted time.  I’m not actually doing anything – I’m watching old episodes of West Wing, which are onto their third viewing now, by myself.  I’m not growing or changing or learning anything.  I’m not making new friendships or deepening older ones.  I’m trawling Facebook hoping to feel connected to something and mostly just seeing that other people are doing things which look more fun.

I don’t think the problem is with how I use my child-free time.  I think it’s that I allow myself to get lost, subsumed, when I’m caring for my children.  Somehow I need to refind the boundaries between myself and my children: when I was on retreat, I found that I could distinguish between me and them, their needs and my needs.  Somehow I had become blended with them and blurry around the edges, and the time alone enabled me to become distinct again.  I think I need to find that distinctness again.  It’s hard as a single parent: my children can be demanding and all-consuming, and there’s that sense of competition, of someone biting at my heels – if I am not good enough they may decide they’d prefer to live with Daddy.  I have to make the most of them, because they grow up so quickly and this time is precious.  But equally, I cannot have them be my full life, because they are not always here, and because my hope is for them to grow up and away, and to become independent, and it will be harder to do that if I also want to cling to them as a source of my self-worth and identity.  I am pulled in many directions, and I allow myself to become ragged and thin.

I’m not sure how I can do this, but I think there must be a way: more silence; more community; more sleep; and a little bit of courage. I think I owe myself that.

Retreating and returning

By fortuitous coincidence, I had five child-free and work-free days at the start of this week.  (By ‘coincidence’, I mean that I booked the week off work for the half-term holiday and then arranged for Big Girl and Small Girl to stay with their dad for half the holiday).  Between work, single-parenting two lovely but demanding children, and the effects of my depression, it’s been quite challenging recently and I felt I needed a break.  So I’ve spent a couple of nights at Woodbrooke, a Quaker study centre in Bourneville, having a bit of a retreat.

I went to Woodbrooke about 18 months ago to go on a course for Quaker parents.  I’d expected it to be worthy and a bit lentilly, but the food was lovely, the grounds were gorgeous and it had a fantastic library with lots of interesting books.  I thought it could be a good place to head to for some space and a rest.  And I was right.

A lot of my time was spent in the Silent Room, a small room with a comfy sofa and a lovely view, reading, thinking, knitting and napping.  I wandered round the labyrinth in the garden, my mind wandering and creating metaphors for my life as I followed the path.  I went to the half-hour Quaker meeting each morning but failed to make the evening one as I was already in bed by 9.30 each evening.  I borrowed ‘Creating a Purposeful Life‘ by Richard Fox from the library and spent some time reflecting on how I’d like my life to look. In the Art Room I did some drawing.  I unpicked some questions I’ve had about God and found some new and interesting things to consider.  I ate delicious food and talked to interesting people.  What I most liked was feeling part of a Quaker community – feeling accepted and not quite a guest, not quite a visitor.  There was an open hospitality – cake at 4 pm, drinks and fruit available all the time, tea bags and little pots of milk near all the bedrooms, and the library open to all stopping there, with no concern that I might take advantage of this by stockpiling coffee or stealing books.  I was slightly tempted as I was about a third of the way through a novel when it was time to leave…

I’ve come home feeling that I have more inner resources (though how long they will last before my children deplete them by arguing with me and each other and threatening to ‘never be my best friend ever again’, I couldn’t say).  Practising silence at Woodbrooke will, I hope, make it easier to dip back into when I need to at home, like a swimmer lifting their head out of the water to breathe.  I’ve had time to think about who I am and what I would like my life to look like, and space for thoughts inside my head to unwind and rearrange themselves.

I’m glad to be home again (although after three days of not cooking for myself or anyone else I’d forgotten how to cook a meal so that everything was ready on time) and so pleased to see my girls again (there’s a thing, when they come back, where I just want to pick them up and hold them and put my face against theirs  and enjoy the sensation of having them physically close to me.  It wears off.  Quite quickly) and wondering: how long can this peace last?

As long as your happiness is not dependent on afternoon tea. Or small children.

Yesterday I was 35. I remember being very excited about approaching 30 – I’d done interesting things in my twenties and felt I’d spent the decade well, and we had plans for a fabulous life.  And then suddenly I found out I was expecting Big Girl and everything changed.

And, it turned out, changed more dramatically than I could have anticipated.  Here I am, stepping into the second half of my thirties a divorced mother-of-two.  My thirties have *not* gone to plan.  And 35 feels significantly different to 30.  30 still felt young.  While 35 doesn’t feel old, somewhere over the hill – but not *far* far away – is middle age.  And I’m not sure how I feel about it.

My birthday was lovely in parts.  Big Girl and Small Girl argued about who would get to open which of my presents.  Astonishingly, neither argued strongly for it to be me.  Birthdays have always been an opportunity to celebrate the person whose birthday it is, to make them feel loved and special, particularly when the person whose birthday it is is me.  And, for ten years, I had someone doing that for me.  This is my third birthday after Ex-Husband, and the first one I had no-one come and spend the day with me to help me celebrate myself.  I missed it.

We went to Uppermill, a little town in Saddleworth which is really quite lovely.  We played in the playground.  We teetered across stepping stones, Small Girl giggling all the way.  We went for afternoon tea, my treat to myself to make myself feel special and celebrated.

Except we should have booked.  Afternoon tea needed to be booked 48 hours in advance, because it has some items which are not on the menu.

I did not cry.

But I wanted to.  I wanted to cry until someone realised this was important and fixed it for me.  Because it’s my birthday, and I’m a single mum, and have to look after myself, and this was my attempt to make something from the horribleness of being alone because my husband left me, and we’ve come such a long way, and…

The woman behind the counter stood impassively as I said none of those things.  I ordered cake and chocolate milkshake for Big Girl and Small Girl, and a cream tea for myself.  Small Girl refused the chocolate milkshake because she is contrary, and neither of them actually wanted their cake, and Big Girl just wanted to eat the maltesers from the top of my cake, and my birthday seemed to be sliding into a disaster.

It’s time to stop living a shadow-life, one where I congratulate myself on living bravely despite my circumstances. To ditch the notion that there is a life I was entitled to.  To stop comparing my life to how it *should* be and enjoy what it *is*.  I had lots of lovely presents and cards yesterday, and 61 people wished me a happy birthday on Facebook. I got to spend a day with my beautiful funny girls balancing on stepping stones and exploring and eating cake.  In the evening I went out with friends, drank cider and performed something I’d written at a live literature event.  I am not a victim of anything.

I think it’s true that I have been brave.  What happened to me, when Ex-Husband left, was shitty, and carried on being shitty for quite a while.  But my life now does not, generally, require extraordinary courage.  I’m not a delicate little flower battling against huge odds.

And I do not need special treatment from women in cupcake shops.

How birthdays are like sandwiches

Birthdays are difficult in a single-parent family.  Well, for me, anyway. Without a rational, reasonable adult to show some appreciation for all the hard work put into a birthday, and commiserate over the less than lovely bits, it can feel a bit pointless.  Today, Big Girl’s fourth birthday, started quite badly.  Despite having lots of lovely presents which she was really pleased with, new birthday pyjamas and a birthday helium balloon, she spend quite a lot of the morning crying, complaining and refusing to choose which breakfast cereal she wanted.  I was trying desperately to get us all ready to leave in time to get to Eureka! for her  birthday trip, preferably without shouting, and she hid under the kitchen table and said she didn’t want to go.

It’s hard for her as well.  She’s already had one birthday at Daddy’s house and there’s only so much excitement she can take.  She’s already tired because – well, all children seem to be tired in the run-up to Christmas – and the heightened excitement and expectation of her birthday seems to also increase the unhappiness she has about living in two homes.   And if it’s hard for Big Girl, pity poor Small Girl.  *Two* days of it Not Being Her Birthday, of presents she can’t open and cake which isn’t for her.  It’s almost unbearable.

Today has been like a sandwich.  Getting up was pretty horrible, and we had the sort of bedtime you get when a two-year-old sleeps for an hour-and-a-half on the way home at 5pm.  But the middle, the filling, was pretty lovely.  We went to Eureka! with two of Big Girl’s friends and their parents, who are also friends.  (A small piece of advice, single parents with more than one child: cultivate friends with only children.  It improves your adult-to-child ratio on trips out no end).  We had a train journey, and we explored the museum, played at cooking and garages and delivering post and found out about our bodies and made interesting sounds.  The museum was fairly empty so we got to play with most things as much as we wanted.

And while it has been difficult, I’m no longer thinking back four years and wondering how it all went so wrong.  It is sad not having another adult to share this with, someone else who loves Big Girl as much as I do.  But I had a fun day with two good friends.  And I think back over the day, all the different things we’ve done, everything which has made Big Girl happy, and I have a sense of accomplishment.  *I* did this.  All by myself. It’s quite an achievement.

This, my friends, is a triumph

I wanted to write about my day out on Friday.  But I’m struggling.  Everything I write sounds banal.  There’s an overuse of the word ‘lovely’.  The thing is, I had a really good day out with my best friend in a beautiful city.  It was nice.  I was happy.  And that, my friends, is a triumph.  A little more than nine months after my husband left me in devastating circumstances, I spent our tenth wedding anniversary with someone other than my husband, and I had a good day.  Not despite everything.  Not holding back tears.  Not wishing I was with him. Just having a fabulous day.

And here’s what we did: we had brunch at Bettys – Eggs Benedict followed by cake, and we arrived just in time – we waited for a few minutes for a table in the beautiful light tea room, but by the time we left the queue was to the door.  We spent some time (and money) in the Oxfam bookshop.  We had coffee.  We had our nails done.  We did some shopping.  We had dinner at Jamie’s Italian.  I had a granita thing, which is a fancy slush puppy with alcohol.  I felt happy all day.  It was sunny. York was beautiful. People were friendly.  I was with my best friend.

We went on the York Wheel before getting the train home.  I’m not really scared of heights.  I’m scared of being high up on things made by people which could feasibly fall to bits.  Rollercoasters, areoplanes, swimming pool flumes. Most things in fact.  So I’ve always avoided these wheels, thinking I would be scared and hate them.

It turns out I was right.  I spent the whole journey holding my best friend’s hand and hoping we weren’t going to die, while she spent it talking calmly to me, like you do to someone looking a bit crazy and holding a sharp weapon.  We didn’t die, which I am putting down to good luck and not risking it again.  She says I should be proud of myself because I didn’t make them stop the wheel after the first time round.  I’m feeling lucky to have a best friend who can talk me through grief, terror and misery. And has promised we can do it all again next year.

Maybe not the wheel though.

Big Girl’s busy day

So it turns out that all I need to do to get my children to sleep (today, anyway) is wear them out. Today we have been to see Peppa Pig – a Max Spielman fun day where I paid £5 to force Big Girl to have her picture taken with a Max Spielman employee in an alarming costume. Then we had coffee and cake with a friend who has children almost exactly the same age as Big Girl and Small Girl. I’m not sure why I still believe, against all evidence, that taking my children to a coffee shop will be fun for anyone. There was crying. There was snatching. There was running up and down stairs. And that was just Holly and me.

After this we walked home, going on one of those merry-go-rounds, which Big Girl loved and then cried when she had to get off (Why do nicer activities lead to more crying? Is this fair? How many more years should I expect of this?). On the way home we popped into a table-top sale in a massive church, where Big Girl got to drive one of those red plastic cars which all children love and no house has room for. We also had a go on a prize-every-time tombola, which I later realised is just a way of selling all your jumble for a pound each and making everyone feel like a winner. I am stealing this idea for my next fundraising event. We won these attractive table-cloth clips, which I am hoping to dispose of when Big Girl isn’t looking.

 

When we got home we decided to go to the local park (if I’d had any idea the weather would be so good we’d have gone to the zoo all day instead). It has recently had a make-over and has fantastic fountains. Big Girl ran around in them for half an hour in her swimming costume while Small Girl cried if the water touched her.

Then it was swings, slides, roundabouts, the ducks, lots of running around and climbing on rocks and balancing on walls and finally home for some tears, tantrums and a more manageably-sized Peppa Pig, some tea, a bath and into bed. And she was asleep within minutes quite happily.

Me? I’m not sure I could manage this level of activity every day.  But I might be willing to try.

 

Piccadilly Gardens photo © Copyright David Dixon and licensed for reuse under thisCreative Commons Licence