[Bit of a makeover. Not sure about the checked pattern, mind you. It puts me in mind of a strange garment we were supposed to wear in school, the tabard, a square polyester check tunic designed to protect you from poster paints and ketchup.]
[I'm listening as I type to the alto part of Faure's Cantique de Jean Racine. I ought to be singing the part but am trying the optimistic view that it'll just sort of magically get absorbed into my brain cells if I listen to it enough. I took up choir last week but it's tricky to shoehorn practice time into the day, he's sleeping now, and Heaven knows I need to practise.]
[Oh yes! There are two teeth coming, rather thrillingly, craggy white peaks surging out of a - um - pink clouds? So that's why he's been so moany, poor kid. And yesterday feeling much better, he spent 10 minutes chortling at my brother's family dog, a (hilarious) black labradoodledoodle (more poodle than not) with a (side-splittingly amusing) curly coat. He made us all laugh too; it was a delight.]
It happens every so often, in the baby aisle in the supermarket or when I set foot in the Bermuda triangle of the Maternity Hospital of Doom that I have a clear comparison between this the present Twangy with the previous pre-Jay Twangy. I prod my scars, very gingerly, I try not to forget what it was like. I'd feel a strange loyalty to my previous self. I try to be mindful but it is not easy when your life is so transformed, when it feels so much more urgent and meaningful because of the presence of a baby. It feels like that, at least. I used to say there were many ways of makng a life meaningful, I used to hate it when people would say things like: you have to be a parent to understand. I'd be most offended. Maybe you did, I'd think, but you don't know what I am like. I don't need to be a parent to worry about a child trapped in a burning building. And yet, and yet there are things that I didn't understand and I couldn't imagine. They are not quite the things I thought, though. I didn't realise how relentless it is to be a parent. how much of a shock it is to realise you are going to be doing this again tomorrow and tomorrow and again and again, and there's no way out of the crushing sense of responsibility. You can't run away. Those things are what surprised me.
So maybe I have leapt some sort of divide. I feel stronger. I feel I would cheerfully throw myself in front of a train, for Jay. Sleepless nights aren't fun, or anything, but my friends are way too horrified by my sleep deprivation. I feel a lot tougher than I would have thought. I seem to remember Seinfeld saying he went to the advanced planet when he became a parent and though this rubs me the wrong way I can see what he means. It's not fair, is it? That for some this way is open, and for some it is not, and it's always alarming to contemplate your own luck, because as soon as you do, it all starts feeling very random, undeserved and fragile.
Still, maybe one day I'll be able to park in the parent spot, and feel like I belong.
Agh! Must go. It's days later and I've run out of time again.
Good Sunday to all