Through the thick gravy of sleep, I can hear the chattering. “Blah blah blah” says one. “Blah blah blah laugh” says the other. In my mind I hear Sonny and Cher singing “I got you babe” and have to remind myself that while I am stuck in Groundhog day, I am better looking than Bill Murray. I reach over with frozen fingers and hit the snooze button. “Goodbye squawkers…hear you in nine more minutes”. In the haze and softness I assess the day ahead. The pain in my fingers and feet tell me that the next hour will only survived through gritted teeth. I swing my feet out of the covers, gingerly sidling towards the toilet. The doorknob is hard, and the bathroom floor is cold and hateful. I see myself in the mirror. Some days I’m surprised that I look better than I feel…this morning…not so much…the Blair Witch is staring back. After minutes of dozing on the loo, the Worlds Oldest Cat, and her friend, Second Worlds Oldest Cat, push the door open. They see me, and start whinging. To myself I think “Great, now I have a soundtrack to go with the pain”

  Walking on skeleton feet I hobble out to the children.  I attempt a sunny “Good Morning.”  Thankfully the children are not morning people (not at least for another hour anyway) and they virtually ignore me.  In silence I potter around.  School lunches and breakfast.  Fasten top buttons and scrounge through the washing for matching socks…grimaces hidden behind a mask of smiling, and high pitched reasurances.  The news comes on the tv.  I grab my keys and scan the children for food faces and scarecrow hair.  Like an army sargent I march them out to the car, all the while ignoring the pain that sizzles away. Through bickering voices my anger bubbles. ”Yes they are arguing but don’t over react” – just a simple warning will do.  I look at the garage roller door, imaging a way to open it that will not result in more pain.  It weighs more than a blue whale.  I stare at it.  I hate it. 

Second by second the day unfolds.  The ground is hard, hard, hard, but as we walk into school more seconds pass. I am surviving this step, then the next.  I squat to hug my boys, to wish them a great day, to tell them I love them.  And in our embrace, I think “I can’t enjoy this.”  All I want is for it to be over, to take the pressure of the joint, but I stay.  I wonder if they look into my eyes and see what I feel.  I wonder if they think it is about them? 

 As I do a skip shuffle out to the car,  I take a breath, a giant ballon breath. ” Thank you”, I say to myself.  “Thank you for keeping it in”.  “Thank you for not lashing out.”

For now, I retreat.  Six hours and I will do it all over again.  Pretend , pretend, pretend. 

This life, my life is lived moment to moment.

 A string of moments, each seperate from the next. 

 No future,

No past,

Only now.

  

Today I sent my babies off to school.

With such an ominous tone to this statement, you’d think I’d sent them off to war instead. Nervous excitement turned into just plain nervous.  The apprehension became hysteria, and as is the case quite frequently with twins, I had to leave the “good one” to soothe the other. As I darted back and forth between the two (all the time thinking I hadn’t said a proper goodbye to my nine year old) I sensed I wasn’t (as Oprah would say) really “in the moment.”   My children needed me, and so I soothed and I comforted, and  as they looked up at me imploringly……their sad little faces made my heart cry.

Don’t get me wrong, I’m pleased they’re all off taking the next step.  I mean really who wants three uneducated teenage boys at home with them in ten years time?  So, I’m not sad for myself.  Not in the sense that I’ve lost something anyway.  I am sad however, that I am now in the position of having to enforce the “go to school” policy.  And believe me day one is not the worst.  The worst comes when the children realise that they are stuck at school for the “term of their natural lives.”  That’s when it all starts to suck.

I give it three weeks.

Then I’m gonna be the worlds worst mum.

Just you wait and see.

As kids, my sister and I walked the same route home every afternoon after school.  Rain, hail or blistering heat we walked, hand in hand, me twelve, she six.  On one particular corner sat a little shop  – The Lolly Shop.  Old and cramped, it was a dreamy little place, where we would often sojourn, out of the heat.  We’d sniff the cool sweet  air, and daydream of the handfuls of treats we would buy when we were grown ups and had money of our own to spend.  We were envious of the kids who hung out there.  Tough kids with obvious money to spend, we imagined they must have been so happy with parents who could afford to give them pocket money.  And yet, despite their obvious good fortune, they were a surly bunch.  They smoked and swore, and if we managed to make it past them without comment, then we were fairly grateful.   These were  kids we never hung out with.  These were kids whose attention we never wanted to seek.

And so, on one particular day, we did the usual “head down, avert your eyes shuffle.”  It was a tactic that worked with stray dogs, and these bullies seemed as equally unpredictable.  Hand in hand we held our breath, wishing ourselves invisible, we skirted our way round their outstretched legs.   Unlike past escapes, this time I felt a presence behind us.  And then in a flash, they were beside us.  Almost in a fugue state I heard their cursing, felt  their punches.  I don’t remember blinking, or even flinching, but the thumping echoed inside me.  In my heart I knew I was no fighter, and to retaliate was to encourage, and after a time they fell behind and a little later, we had left them behind.  Neither of us spoke, our stomachs churning, our chests pounding a deafening beat in our blood.  She was only little and clearly frightened, as was I, and we were grateful when our little house came into view.

Safe inside, I went about the duties of the latchkey kid, but the weight of it settled firmly on my shoulders.  To protect us, we must never go past the shop again.  The walk home would be longer, and no doubt we would both complain.  I was ashamed in front of my sister.  Helpless to protect her as was my charge.

Later, one of  the girls in the group approached me, asking why I hadn’t fought back, why had I kept on walking?  I really had no answer that I thought she would understand.  Some kids are just kids.  I doubted a lesson in psychology was what she wanted, so I just shook my head.  Clearly she thought me a freak.

It was long hot summer that year, and I muttered under my breath each and every afternoon on that long walk.  But a lesson had been learnt, a lesson that has stayed with me to this day.  Never give them what they want.  Never give them the satisfaction of seeing you broken.   I may have been afraid, but they would never know!