Sometimes I am driving into my street and I picture my husband and children running around with blood all over them and something really really bad has happened. I panic that something has happened to someone I love and any minute now I'm going to get a phone call with terrible news. Or, driving in the car, the truck in front of us will crash into our car and we will all die horrible, terrible, slow deaths.
I'm equal parts cursed and blessed with the most vivid imagination. Part of me is waiting for the next bad thing to happen in life. And it will, I'm sure. I think the trick is to enjoy the fuck out of eating half a pack of chocolate biscuits, or dancing with your boys to Little Green Bag. Enjoy life in SPITE of life.
I've been all swirly and panicky, all week. I have to keep finding a ledge of safety in my head, breathe deeply, know that things are ok. I'm going away tonight ... for three nights. I'm going to a most amazing writing seminar that's being held in Sydney, and I'm freaked out. Staying in a hotel , all by myself! Surely I'm not THAT trustworthy?
I was excited, then I got nervous. Then worried, spun out, I've missed the boys all bloody week and I haven't even LEFT yet. This will be my first time leaving them. I told Dave the other day that I hope he goes ok.
Dave: "Course I will, hon. I've done this before."
Me: "No you haven't. You've never minded the boys by yourself."
Dave: Scoffing "Yes I have! Geez! I've minded them heaps of times."
Me: Turning blue with frustration because my husband has the world's worst memory "No mate, you haven't. You've never minded the boys by yourself yet."
And on and on it went, escalating until Max walked off to go on the swings. (Yes, we were in public.) Dave has this uncanny knack of re-inventing history. I don't care that he hasn't minded the boys by himself yet .... he's mostly been on chemo and been unable too, so I certainly don't begrudge him that. But I hate it when he makes shit up and believes it as truth. I know for a fact he's going to get a rude shock for the next three nights in a row ... getting up to Rocco. (Who can sleep through sometimes, and has FINALLY stopped the screaming thing, but he is still needs a tuck-in or a bottle in the middle of the night).
Dave can't sleep if he gets woken up in the night ... good luck with that, my champion husband who breezily assures me "he's done this before."
In 10 minutes I need to pick Max up from school and give him my undivided attention. I've spent the whole day cooking ..... Tim turns 17 today, and I asked him what he wanted for dinner.
"Ok, ummmm, lamb chops with lemon and oregano, chicken schnitzel, and your lasagna."
My guilt at flying the coop is leading me to cook all three dishes, with a chocolate cake decorated with cars, and also mashed potato and veggies and a salad. All this from a chick who used to think that opening a can of soup and heating it was a-ma-zing. I think I need some kind of award. I haven't even had a shower yet, and I need to pack my bag. I need to choose clothing that writers wear, something that says "cool" yet "aloof" .... but of course "creative."
I expect to be up late every night getting crumbs in my hotel bed, finally catching up on blogs for the first time all week. And doing writer-ly things. And remembering who I am. Or realising who I can be. Maybe doing a pump class at one of the 24hour city gyms? Going out for a soy flat white WHENEVER I choose.
I feel guilty then not then happy then scared then freaked out. It's only three nights .... and God Himself knows how much I need a break from here. I just can't wait to come back again too .... I really hope they do all go ok and nobody gets hurt or dies in a car accident, etc. Because that would SUCK.