I don't know what I'll do now. To start with it was just that I felt bored and frustrated. I started thinking about drinking and smoking: The weight in the head, the drag on the lungs; sensations that tell you you're still alive, or that you've still got a body. I knew I'd get a kick out of being irresponsible. It's exciting to get really bladdered when you know you have to get up early the next morning, until the next morning comes. But it's best to have friends if you're going to get drunk: go to a cocktail bar, dress up smart, a bit foxy, and share a massive goldfish bowl of ice and blue spirits sucked through long, multi-coloured straws. Smoking can be more soulful, solitary, wandering around looking at the cracks between slabs in the patio, sitting on a bench. It could be really shocking for the neighbours. You could do it with 'leper' hanging from a home-made sign around your neck. I thought about it.
Why didn't I do it? Motivation. Rebellion takes energy. But what about non-doing?
Neglect. When you're an adult it's not exactly ok to neglect yourself but to neglect your child is a sin punishable by multi-hells. As a Victorian it was par for the course and nobody minded - but today if the word spreads far enough forms get filled in and eventually your child is taken away.
If I didn't change her nappy/ if I didn't wipe her face/ if I didn't feed her digestible food/ if I didn't cuddle her and dress her in clean clothes/ If I didn't sing to her or undress her for the bath/ if I didn't read her stories/ If I didn't give her a kiss and stopped blowing raspberries behind her ear/
If I just sat and watched her struggle, watched her crying, watched her fall
I met mothers who'd had their children taken away. They had photos of them on their phone but they didn't know where they were living.
While I've been writing this the pears have burnt dry and there's been cying in the nursery. It's Sunday. My husband turns off the pears, brings me a cup of tea and says 'I'll see to her'.
I wonder what happens on Monday.
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