There. But not.

Ever felt like you're in a moment but watching it unfold outside of yourself?

Sort of like... standing in front of the Taj Mahal and saying "hmm. that's nice."

I've noticed this lately.

It's not an apathy, it's more of a functional numbness. As if the activity I'm doing is too precious for me to understand how to absorb it. How to manage it. How to immerse myself in it.

I was giving her some warm milk last night, and as she fed, lying in my arms in the semi-darkness, poking my face and touching my hands, you know what I was thinking? Hmm..wonder what I'll make for dinner later.. wonder when he'll get home tonight.. crap, I have to put the laundry on... did I vacuum her rug today... oh man, I so could just use 10 minutes to myself with a nice cup of coffee and the paper...oh, I feel flutters in my stomach, someone's swimming around in there, how amazing is that.. I'm so lucky...

And then the guilt sets in, and I force myself to be there, shake myself out of my selfish thoughts and be in the moment. With her. It's not fair to do otherwise, because I'll miss these moments when she's older and doesn't need to lie in my arms anymore.

So I correct myself and tune into her. But I feel a bit numb. I look at her and I realise that I helped make this beautiful little creature, with her curved mouth, her full cheeks, her dark green eyes and long lashes... and she's growing up. Too fast. But the combination of all of these thoughts make my brain go thhppppppttt.....bzzzt. Like screen static on a TV.

You see what happens? I go from a 5-lane highway of my own thoughts about my life, to a jumbled mess of thoughts about her, her life.

There is no quiet. No sense of peace within the moment.

I wonder why that is. I know it's not because I don't love her enough. I love her so much that it's painful, sometimes. Is it a coping mechanism so that your heart doesn't explode from too much love? Is it the same kind of coping mechanism when you try and tune out the monotonous bored whines when they're strapped into a buggy and you just want to stuff earplugs in your ears and tell them to just. be. quiet?

Hmm.

I'm there with her, I am. Really. But sometimes I'm not. Sometimes I think I could be better. More present. More affectionate. More motherly. Less functional and schedule-oriented.

And maybe this is the lesson that children teach their parents. Maybe through the next 5 years of children and pregnancies and chaos and sleep deprivation, the most important lesson that I'll learn is to be present. At each and every moment.

To just be.

I need a transporter.

My commute to work is getting harder.

The winter has set in in London, which means that when I leave the house at 7:15, it's still dark out. When I come home, it's dark out.

I'm lucky if I manage to wrestle into the train car amongst all the puffy coats, umbrellas, newspapers and elbows askew.

It gets so hot on the train that I take all my layers off.

I transfer to another train halfway to work. And I don't get a seat on that one either.

Before I get out of the train station, I put all my layers back on.

All of that takes about 50 minutes, and then I walk to my office (10 minutes).

I do this trip twice a day, because I love to work and I love my job. Plus, it's pretty entertaining people-watching on the train. I always make up stories about them in my head.. I wonder who's just broken up with her boyfriend... I wonder who has kids... I wonder who has something stolen in their bag... I wonder if that guy likes his job...I wonder if she's going on a trip somewhere soon..

But people-games aside, it's getting exhausting, especially being pregnant. Yes, yes... mama's a-cookin' again. Life is very exciting at the moment. And very hormonal.

I fantasize about living in a country house in a small country village, walking to work and walking back. And getting some farm fresh produce on the way home, for dinner.

Then I realise that I don't exist in a Norman Rockwell painting. I did when I was growing up, but I don't now. Someday, maybe. But for now, I hope I get a transporter for Christmas.

I'll send you my address.

It's been a year.

To the girl who takes me on new adventures, determined and full of wonder.

My heart has never known this much love.

Happy birthday, my magical creature.

I want. I don't need.... but I want.

I'm slipping into this new, strange phase. Consumerism. Specifically "things" that make me sound highly materialistic: Shoes. New clothes. Scarves. A new coat.

Is it because my birthday came and went, I spent the money going to a salon and got my hair glossed and taken care of... and it started me down a dangerous path of more more more?

Is it because my hormones are going nuts?

Is it because I want to be selfish and not just think about kids and family all the time?

Is it because I work hard at being a mother and I feel I deserve it somehow?

All of the above, probably.

See, the thing is (calculated justification coming up....), I actually need a nice pair of black boots for winter. Leather. Riding-boot style. Something that goes over jeans or with skirts. Flat heel. I have a pair of brown, faded beat up boots that I've worn with everything, and a different colour would be nice. And my fake-Uggs have a hole in the bottom of them.

I don't have brown shoes. I really want a nice pair to wear with jeans. Wearing Converse all the time is okay, but it would nice nice not to look like I'm 15 sometimes.

I want a big, wooly scarf. A lovely huge one that I can wrap around my neck like a big wooly blanket. A beige one, ideally.

Okay. I let it all out. It feels nice to confess my want, though I always feel guilty for doing so. Our money needs to be spent on other things at the moment, but I can't help but ache for just a few things to tide me over for the winter. It's perversely a constant reminder of how careless I used to be about money, flitting here and there, buying things that I wanted, indulging my desire for pretty things. Most were good purchases. Some were impulse. It's the opposite of how I deal with money nowadays.

Maybe it's intrinsically vain for me to say "but I deserve it because I work so hard and I don't really spend money on me!" I don't really have a right to say that. The mister works damn hard at his job, but he never says "hey, I work 16 hour days every day, I need that shirt!!".

Maybe it's a woman thing. Maybe I shouldn't compare myself to anyone else. Maybe it's okay to want something you know you can't afford, because it makes you appreciate the stuff that you do have, and makes you reinvent how you use/wear things.

Or maybe I should just raise my hand and say out loud: "Hi. I'm Myshka. I have a mild obsession with shopping, and I make no apologies for it. Pleased to meet you. And I really like your shoes."

The calm. No, not before a storm. Just the calm.

I'm sitting here, the glow of the computer one of only two lights in the dark living room. I'm wearing black tights and oversized tshirt, a leftover outfit from my work day. Hair in a messy top knot. A sort of half-dressed lazy ballerina. The lights across the river by our balcony glow through the windows. Everything is silent. She's asleep upstairs, very soundly. He's out catching up with old friends over a few beers.

And I'm right here. Like the sentry of some modern fort, standing guard. Keeping everyone safe. Absorbing the silence.

Tonight I indulged a bit in the past, and a bit of the present. After I put her to bed and gave her that kiss that sends her to a giggly sleep, I padded down the stairs slowly. But I stopped when I caught my reflection in the hallway mirror. I walked a bit closer. I don't "do" makeup, and for work it's always moisturizer and lipgloss, so I never really examine myself, because I never have time to, at 6:30am (I'm usually more concerned about leaving the house in pyjama bottoms by mistake). But this time, I did. Just one minute, I told myself.

I spent what felt like an eternity looking at myself, seeing the lines in the corners of my eyes, the perma-freckle sat like a star on my right cheek, the colour of my eyes (a faded hazel-green.. which my daughter ended up inheriting), the shade of my hair (a wavy oaky-brown with faded highlights and some grey hairs showing through), the scar on my forehead (the result of a horrific dog-bite when I was 4 that left me with 12 stitches). My face has changed so much, I noticed. More lines. Thinner skin. More freckles.

I stepped back a bit, like a painter does when he's working. And that's when I saw the whole story. My story. My lines, my scars, my body with its square-like structure and flat little chest.... those are the chapters to my story. And sometimes I feel like it's barely begun to unfold, you know? And that makes me smile.

Sure, I'm unhappy with a few parts here and there. I desperately need a haircut, but I haven't had time. I probably need to rest more instead of trying to do too much. My posture could be better. Seems like yesterday that I was 25 and didn't give a shit about anything and everything, thinking that I had millions of years left on this planet. And here I am, with a birthday looming and parts of me creaking.

But the thing is, after I saw my reflection, I actually saw what I looked like. You know that fairy tale where the boy wants to find the magic mirror that lets him see himself as others see him? That's what I feel like I saw today. I indulged in a moment of complete agreement with the usually opposing sides. Nothing seemed out of place. Everything seemed to fit. I made sense to myself.

Sure, I liked who I was when I was 25, but I love who I've become, so many years later.

Driving me insane

We were away for a much-needed break. Which flies defiantly in the face of my previous post, thinking I didn't need one. But oh man did I.

My parents, being now retired, are looking to travel more, so we met them at a rented villa in the mountains. With a pool. It was bliss (well, for me anyway. My poor other half was glued to his laptop or phone for his business the entire time. But hey, at least we managed to see eachother poolside now and again.).

Bliss, however, only began after the first couple days. Why? A hilarious (yes, I'm kidding) turn of events that was a result of the common illness "IKnowHowToGetThereandDon'tNeedInstructions-Itis". What's even more surprising is that I wasn't the one driving.

Oh yes, audience, this was HIS mistake.

[sits down with a bowl of popcorn and begins the story]

We landed at 12pm. We got the rental car. We were already prepared that the villa was about 3 hours away. I was armed with snacks for all of us, I had toys and books for the 10 month old little person in the back. All was good. We got in the car at 1pm, preparing to drive.

Me: "The villa pack says not to use the GPS because it'll take us a really weird way, and to use the main roads/highway signs."

Him: "Nah, we rented a GPS, we'll use it. What's the address of the house?"

Me: "We don't have it, but we have the area, so it says to drive to the area, and then use the villa pack to get to the actual house."

Him: "Too complicated. We'll use the GPS. I'll just put in the town name."

Me: "Umm... what if there are 10 towns of the same name?"

Him: "Nah, we'll be fine."

Me: "Okay." [silently prays for some other-worldly guidance]

Three and a half hours later... 4:30pm...

Him: "Uh, I'm going to pull over for a sec."

Me: "Oh my god. What? Why? Are we lost?"

Him: "Just let me check... Umm.... okay, here's the thing..."

[I get out of the car and slam the door]

Me: "Are you f*cking kidding me?! We're lost? How far? Are you kidding? We have a whining baby in the back strapped into an uncomfortable chair, we're in the middle of nowhere... how did this happen?!?"

Him: "We went in the wrong direction. Towards the Alps, to be exact. I put in the wrong town in the GPS. We have to drive back the same way. I'm so sorry. We'll probably get there closer to 8pm now."

Me: "Right. GPS. Yeah. I remember that one. Fine. We'll just have to stop at some petrol stations along the way to give the little one a break and feed her dinner."

...8:30pm...

Him: "Ummm....."

Me: "Don't. Even. Begin."

Him: "I know, I know. It's just that navigating these winding roads tired and stressed is doing my head in. I have to pull over and look at the map again."

[baby starts whining in the backseat, bored and tired]

Me: *&&&^£%"%^&&!!!!?"*£"*^% You *(&"£&^"% ridiculous (&*"*£"&%^ Why don't we just get a hotel room somewhere and forget it and continue tomorrow."

Him: "Where do you see anything open now, in the hills? I think we should just do it. We can make it. We just have to keep navigating these roads, but at least we're going in the right direction."

Me: [teeth gritted] Fine. Just. Keep. F*cking. Driving.

Him: "I'm so sorry. Please please say something positive, even though you're angry."

Me: [death stare]


12 hours later...1 am....

[pulls into drive of house]

Him: "We're finally..."

Me: "I'm going to bed. Don't even think about talking to me right now."



[end scene]

Today.

Was a good day.

Do you feel that? Mm-hmm. That.

That was your day hugging you.

Mine did.