At the beginning of June this
year I made a decision. Anyone who is
not a parent, and possibly some who are and have never experienced existential
angst brought on by child-rearing, click ‘Next blog’ now – you are unlikely to
find my discourse of interest.
My decision was simply this:
to be absolutely present in my youngest child’s life for the three months
before he started school. This required
me to
a) Quit my job
b) Convince my partner that (a) was a good idea
c) Face
down my nagging terror that I would be a certifiable mess by September and
last, but by no means least
d) Give up Twitter, writing my novels and my blog
for that period
My cyberspace-sabbatical was
probably the most sorely missed. I found I did not yearn for the frantic crush
and apologetic gnashing of teeth that characterises a language school’s summer
season staffroom. I did not even feel bereft of the daily buzz of being in
Brighton, or the constant perusal of its many dazzling shop windows for work-worthy
clothes and shoes.
What I did miss was being
able to indulge myself in developing ideas, plotting, wondering, and then
putting my thoughts into words and sharing them. So, why couldn’t I just do
this after he’d gone to bed or while he was watching TV, you may ask? Well, to
be entirely present with him, to listen to what he had to say, play with him
without distraction, I just had to let it go.
He always notices that look in my eye, that tone of voice, that
platitudinal response that betrays a mind on other things and, understandably, it really pisses him off.
Also, having the odd hour here or there isn’t enough to sate my appetite. I knew that not only would
I be too tired to get much accomplished, but in attempting to partially commit myself to any writing, it would just end up hanging over my day like an unsatisfied
hunger, leaving me unable to focus on anything else.
Once I decided simply to leave
it, not to blog or tweet about what I was doing, things fell into place much
more easily. I felt happier.
I’m not saying being under
house arrest with a seemingly agoraphobic 4-year-old is easy, but as it
gradually sank in that I wasn’t about to disappear every morning, that our
interactions were no longer based solely around getting him dressed, catching
buses and getting to places on time,
our relationship expanded and blossomed. He in turn, as the weeks passed by,
seemed less inclined to lash out in anger, sulk, have tantrums, beg to be bought things or run off in supermarkets.
So, I’m back, all you dear
folk who read my blog, all the fellow readers/writers/tweeters I'm hoping to connect with. I hope it’ll be
worth the wait…
