It is a beautiful day. I appear to have missed most of it. I think I must have sleeping sickness – presumably I am still catching up from all those years of broken sleep that are associated with motherhood. All I ever dreamt of was getting a full night’s sleep, so why, now that I can, do I wake up at 6.30am? I then have to force myself to go back to sleep, but not in a remotely satisfactory way. When I finally get up I feel dreadful. My back hurts, my head has a marginally dull ache and worst of all I look 10 years older. It’s as if my skin has taken on chameleon-like qualities overnight and has tried very hard to morph into an un-ironed sheet. A pattern of crumpled lines emerge that take most of the day to disappear. I am definitely going to have to book in for that facelift now I haven’t got a husband anymore. No chance of finding new man unless I sort out my crumpled face. Or, I suppose I could look for a man with an equally if not more crumpled face – otherwise known as a GOB (Grateful Old Bloke).
I also feel mildly sick. I have eaten too much chocolate. I am sitting in the garden wearing my dressing gown and Ugg boots (or “Ugh” boots as they should be known in my case). I look like a garden gnome only even more unattractive. I have talked to the children and they all seem to be happy. They are about to do an Easter egg hunt without me. My six-year-old apparently didn’t want to share his eggs with his grandmother “in case he catches her germs and get’s old”.
Once the children have actually gone, it does get easier. As with most things it is the thought that is generally worse than the reality. I was anticipating deafening silence and empty rooms, but instead there is quiet calm. There is nothing I can do about it anyway, so I might as well enjoy it. Sitting in the garden, looking appalling and smoking is not good. They would be horrified. But I am allowed to behave like a teenager if I want to. I am lost, remember.
