My sister reminded me recently that when we were kids on holiday on the Isle of Wight I told her quite emphatically: I am walking out to sea. I had all my clothes on, but into the sea I did walk. I kept on walking until I was face down in the water with only my bobbled pigtails afloat. My sister can still see the pigtails apparently (I used to be blonde, not sure about the clothes). She pulled me out.
My daughter
Wears a sleep suit covered with strawberries
Doesn’t understand swearing (yet)
Wraps her fingers around my finger when she’s feeding
Sticks her tongue out between her gums when she laughs
Is fascinated by the bouncing wooden horse
Has just noticed the butterfly on the foot of the fairy
Tries to fit her whole fist inside her mouth
Flaps her arms and kicks her legs in water
Watches shadows
Is pacified but buffeted by the hairdryer
Giggles at her dad’s impression of a naked, squawking Emu
Has at least three different cries
Loses socks every two minutes
Is forced to jig in my arms to All Shook Up
Before she was born I could only imagine my life as it was with something added on, not my life shifting from the very roots. I didn’t know that in the fullest sense I wouldn’t recognise myself any more.
Someone has dyed my water with wine and it’s a dark cloud through my blood. Things could be wonderful but there’s still this overwhelming emotional precariousness: a shift in key, something knocking everything off-balance. Around me hangs an opaque veil, an impenetrable fog. I have gloves on my fingers and can no longer feel the touch of empirical objects. I’m a shadow. My heart is a deep, charcoal-smudge bruise. I’m heavy with haunting myself – a ghost with too much substance.
Knock knock
Who’s there?
I spend an hour with other women out in the real world who seem to be talking about shopping and clothes and work and holidays and who isn’t getting on with who. It’s a treat, to have an hour away from home and baby and chores but I realise… what a relief… I want and need to go home to my daughter.
Me
Me who?
Motherhood and theatre-making are both a little like walking out to sea. It’s good to get a gulp of fresh air but sometimes after being rescued you can’t help but dive right back in. There’s something compelling about the weight of the water.
