Selective Memory Syndrome

My boys are showing definite signs of having very selective memories - and this is not a good thing.  Why?  Because all they seem to remember are the bad bits of their day.  Let me be more specific - when mummy used her shouty voice.

Take yesterday for example.

The boys bound into my room at 6am and hustle me from the warm cocoon of the duvet.  Do I complain?  No, I do not.  I greet them with smiles, hugs and kisses and shuffle downstairs to create the culinary masterpiece that is their breakfast (whilst simultaneously making coffee / throwing items of food haphazardly into lunch boxes / feeding the cats / throwing half the contents of the fridge into the slow cooker for dinner / loading laundry).  Whilst scurrying around the kitchen like Jamie Oliver on speed I take the time to practice Captain Underpant’s spellings with him and listen attentively to Johnny Drama’s rendition of a song he has learnt in French.  I am being so efficient I even have time to cuddle them on the sofa for one cartoon, before indulging in a quick game of hide and seek before getting them dressed.

The morning is picture perfect.  I curb my tongue whenever there is dilly-dallying or altercations and the pre-school hours run as smooth as clockwork.

Once in the car we sing along, very loudly, to songs about brothers being naughty (their favourites) and when we reach the school the boys hop out of their car seats and we have a 2 minute impromptu ‘disco dance’ session to The Black Eyed Peas, before they trot into their classes.

By this point I am exhausted and can’t quite believe it is only the start of the day.

All too soon pick-up time rolls around and I am back at school.  Rather than bundling them immediately in the car we hang out in the playground and I make the effort to play Tag, rather than sit and natter with my mummy friends, to squeals of delight and appreciation.

Back at home the boys keep me company in the kitchen - Captain Underpants is perched on a counter top doing his homework, Johnny Drama dances like a loon with me to various songs we find on YouTube.  Then the boys find some left-over balloons from a party we attended and I blow them up and let them loose, which the boys find hysterical.  We repeat this game until I have no more breath left and am feeling decidedly light-headed.

All in all, 2 hours pass quickly, filled with laughter, and with Mummy on her best Red Coat behaviour.  

This is what I would class as a Very Good Day.

Until dinner time hits.

We sit at the table to eat together and the boys are fidgety and picky and are still in mucking about mode.  All I want is for them to sit down and eat the meal which I have lovingly prepared.  All they want is to be up and down like yo-yo’s, bringing a random selection of toys to the table to bicker over and alternating urgent trips to the bathroom.  I can feel my patience beginning to fray slightly at the edges.  

“Will you just sit down NOW and eat your dinner properly.” I instruct them solemnly.

It falls on deaf ears.

Captain Underpants decides he needs to go to the bathroom one more time, this time he needs a poo.  Lovely.  I grit my teeth.  Johnny Drama makes the decision that Captain Underpants requires an audience - which Captain Underpants vehemently denies, shouting, “I NEED MY PRIVACY!” at the top of his lungs.  Johnny Drama, being the cloth-eared variety sort of child, gamely ignores him and continues to taunt his brother at the bathroom door.

That’s it.  My patience snaps like well worn knicker elastic.  

“JOHNNY DRAMA GET ON THE STAIRS.  RIGHT.  THIS.  SECOND.  I SAID NOW!  GO!!  I HAVE HAD ENOUGH OF THIS BEHAVIOUR.  ALL I WANTED WAS FOR US TO HAVE A LOVELY DINNER TOGETHER.  IS THAT REALLY TOO MUCH TO ASK??”

My voice reverberates like a cruise ship foghorn around the house.  Johnny Drama senses the imminent danger of my wrath and slinks relunctantly to the stairs, tears welling in his eyes yet with a defiant pout on his lips.  Captain Underpants finishes his ablutions unaided, wipes his bottom, flushes the toilet and washes his hands (all without the usual prompting) and sidles back to his chair.

Suddenly the house is so quiet you could hear a pin drop - both boys wait for my next reaction, wondering if the storm is over or about to reach Tsunami proportions.

I pause, thinking to myself, ‘okay...so that was a bit over the top’.  Johnny Drama is obviously in agreement - “mummy, that loud shouting is just not okay.  It’s bad to be nasty.  Bad.  And I don’t like you any more because you’re always shouting and it hurts my feelings.”

I switch out my invisible Red Coat for the well-worn UN Negotiation cloak, gather the remnants of my patience and resolve the dinner crisis with calm words and make up hugs and kisses.  The evening progresses smoothly and with renewed laughter, as though this minor episode of ranting, this little blip on our otherwise perfect day, never happened.

Within an hour or so the boys are snuggled in bed and my thoughts are distracted by the bottle of red soon to be opened, calling me longingly from the kitchen.  

“Thank you for a lovely day sweetheart”, I murmer to Johnny Drama, covering him in butterfly kisses as he snuggles up with Fluffy, his bunny.  “It wasn’t a lovely day mummy”, he tells me seriously.  “You shouted.  You’re very shouty.  And shouting’s not nice.  It was a horrible shouty day.”

What?  I was in the boys’ company for nearly 7 hours...and for 6 hours and 53 minutes I may well have been auditioning for the role of Mary Fucking Poppins.  But all he has remembered is the 2 or 3 minutes, tops, where I lost my rag.

There’s no justice in this whatsoever.

I am sure this little hiccup in our day will be stored, with elephant-like zeal, for years to come.  Whereas all the laughter and silliness and love that really does encompass most of our time together is insignificant in comparison.  This just seems so unfair.  Why is it so easy to remember all the bad things - the times we have been slighted or have argued?  And yet the good times are easily dismissed, tarnished forever by quick knee-jerk negative reactions that forge themselves into the memory banks, like a bad stain.

And if this is the case...is it worth bothering to participate in the Mary Poppins-like behaviour at all?  

I don’t want to be remembered solely for the moments where I was not at my best.  But what can I do about it - apart from striving to be a paragon of virtue (because we all know that’s never going to happen)?  

Is there a cure for a child’s selective memory syndrome - and do they sell it on offer at Target, alongside the miracle stain remover laundry pens?  Or am I doomed to be forever remembered as a shouting, raving lunatic who single-handedly ruined their childhood, despite all my daily efforts to the contrary?

And if the answer is a resounding Yes then I guess, at this point, I’d prefer to remain in blissful ignorance.  Wouldn’t you?

Sleep Perchance to Dream

The first post I wrote on this blog was about my boys’ endearing habit of waking prior to the crack of dawn, as though it was their personal responsiblity to get the chorus started.

I can make light of the situation but, in all seriousness, it has been the most torturous experience of motherhood for me and one that I have never been able to adapt to or handle well.

The main perpertrator of this crime is Captain Underpants, who has been programmed to wake at an unGodly hour since he arrived home from hospital at 4 weeks old.  He considers it his duty to have the whole household ready to tackle the day typically at an hour with a 5 as the first digit.  And he takes his duty very seriously and rarely lets the side down by taking the day off.

Johnny Drama, meanwhile, was a textbook baby who woke daily at 7am come rain or shine...until the boys started sharing a room 17 months ago.  Within a matter of days, he was also up before a single sparrow was even considering a fart.  Nightmare.

During the past 17 months I have tried every trick in the book to get them to sleep a little later.  Nothing worked.  The constant threat has been, “If you can’t follow the rules of the house and stay in bed quietly until 6am at the very earliest, then I will put you both in separate bedrooms”.  The threat never worked obviously, but it always provoked lots of tears and protests along the lines of, “please no mummy - we promise to try harder - we promise to be good - we want to stay in the same room.....PPPLLLLEEAASSSE!”  And despite my ex’s advice to the contrary, I always conceeded.

Until last weekend.

Their behaviour was no different than any other weekend, but all of a sudden I had Had Enough.  There were no negotiations and no last minute reprieves.  Within an hour of getting up I had moved Johnny Drama’s bed into the small bedroom, which had up until that moment been designated as the playroom.  I switched around toys, bedside tables, lamps and books, then went downstairs for a much needed coffee and we got on with our day.

I was expecting, at the very least, a formal protest but, much to my surprise, there wasn't one.  The sole reason I had been putting off this separation was my ongoing angst at the backlash it would surely provoke.  The potential renewal of several sleepless nights while they adjusted to sleeping on their own once more.  

But guess what?  It NEVER happened.  After procrastinating this move for months, because I had anticipated it being the cause of yet more emotional scarring, both boys adapted instantly and within 48 hours were begging to remain in their own rooms.

One of the upsides of putting them to bed in separate rooms is that I now get to spend at least 15 minutes one-on-one time with them at the end of the day, while we read stories, snuggle and chat.  I had forgotten how precious this time was.  The boys are relishing this exclusive attention and are going to sleep, well, like a dream actually.

What’s more, from day one Johnny Drama started waking up between 6.30-7am again and even Captain Underpants appears to be sleeping longer.  I say ‘appears’ because Captain Underpants has stealth-like qualities and could be up earlier.  But the beauty of it is, if he is, then I don’t hear him.  And neither does his brother.  Truly a win-win situation for all concerned.  Who knew it was going to be this easy?  

Not me.  

Even when I was in the midst of moving the rooms around I had no confidence that it would alter anything.  In fact, I would have placed bets I was about to create a plethora of new night waking habits which would have me reinstating the shared bedroom in no time at all.

Which goes to prove that I had wasted a fairly significant amount of my time worrying unnecessarily about their potential reaction to change which, ultimately, proved to be entirely unfounded.

Hmmm.  There could be a lesson for me here.  If only I could see what it is...

Right now, I am too busy enjoying my 'lie-ins'.  Oh the bliss of not being woken up until an hour with a 6 as the first digit.  Heaven.  My goodness, I just had a thought...if this carries on I may even need to buy an alarm clock. Happy Days!!

Everything Falling Into Place Just As It Should

If I needed further evidence that the universe works in unusual ways (which I personally don't, but hey when it is working spectacularly in my favour a reminder is always appreciated) then this would be it.

My beloved Subversive Mum, who so kindly abandoned me just before Christmas to head back to England, called a couple of weeks ago.  Now this isn't by itself a jaw-dropping revelation, but her news is. She is relocating to New York.  In August.  Did I want to rent her 3-bed flat per chance?

Now this isn't just any old flat.  For a start, it is her flat, with essence of her madness creative genius and ill-defined greatness imbued in all its rooms and features.  But possibly more important (at least logistically), the flat is ideally located in a prime location in North London, just a 5 minute walk from the primary school I would really like the boys to go to.  PLUS, it offers me the great advantage of being able to secure a residential address in advance to start to process school applications.  AND I won't have to pony up any cash until I have it, which is likely to be nearer the time of the move.

"Oh there's another thing", she says.  "Would you like to have use of our car as well?  I can put you on the insurance so you have something to run around in at weekends, if you like?"

I really couldn't have a better solution drop into my lap, seemingly out of nowhere.  This is so serendipitous that mere fluke or coincidence doesn't really capture the incredible lifeline I have been thrown.

Except.

This means of course that Subversive Mum will not be there.

The ability to inhale the general fragrance of her freshly departed self, as well as having our dead skin cells intermingle on the carpet (until the Dyson makes its final meal of her), does have a certain appeal.  But I would much prefer to be inhaling her caffeine/alcohol imbued breath as we are exchanging cuss-words and discussing things of a most inappropriate nature, whilst successfully avoiding all the important things that we really should be getting on with.  That was the plan.  That was what I had been looking forward to.

So the news is the Dogs Bollocks.  It's amazing and fantastic and the sheer opportunity of it takes my breath away.  It offers the perfect solution to all of the things I have been losing sleep over and also reinforces, for me at least, that a move home this summer is exactly the right thing to do.

But it's also just...bollocks because this fortuitous event has a price and, as far as I'm concerned, it's a pretty high one.  Oh Universe - couldn't you have persuaded her next door neighbour to emigrate and rent me her flat instead?  Would that have been beyond your capabilities?

Of course, this is life unravelling just as it should.  Subversive Mum is nervous about her move too - odd to think we are replicating experiences at the same time and at least we can support each other through it.  "Maybe this is why we met and became such great friends in the first place.  Maybe this was part of the bigger picture all along and we just didn't know it." SM muses.

I think she is right and I know I am being selfish wanting to have her flat, but with her still in it (and not just the life size, autographed cardboard cut-out that she's promised).  Oh well.  At least there is Skype.  And texting.  And telephone tag (which we seem to be doing a lot of lately...hey!  S'up bitch?  Call me!)

Captain Four Eyes

My little Captain Underpants has many super hero powers.  Unfortunately it appears that 20:20 vision isn't one of them

There have been many clues.  His preferred method of watching television is to stand with his nose practically touching the screen.  Despite repeated calls of, "Captain Underpants - move away from the television.  NOW!" and "You make a good door, not a window" he always drifts back to a 6 inch radius.  Then there is the fact that his catching and ball hitting skills remain, well, a little bit hit and miss.  I noticed this but preferred to convince myself that he was just a little cack-handed, like his mother.

I have been meaning to take him to get his eyes tested for, well, I'll be honest, it's years rather than months. But somehow never quite got around to it.  However, when we were on half term break I asked him to read me a huge poster on the el train, depicting Clifford the Big Red Dog.  He read the headline without pause.  "What about the rest?", I asked?  He looked at me as though I was asking him to walk on water.  "I can't read the rest - the words are all far too small" he told me.  I sat looking at the poster, reading the words as clear as day.  Uh-oh, I thought.  Better make that appointment.

Within 24 hours we are at the opticians and both boys are booked for their first ever eye test.  Captain Underpants shows his brother how it is done and goes first.  During the first test the optician looks at me with a sympathetic smile.  "He's definitely going to need glasses", she confirms.  He goes through the gamut of tests without fuss and with a maturity beyond his 6 years.  The optician is almost apologetic as she switches out lense upon lense to create his prescription.  At the end of it all he can successfully focus on the second line from the bottom - a huge improvement from only being able to make out the three letters at the top of the screen at the beginning of the appointment.

Johnny Drama is next.  Unlike his brother, he has perfect eye sight.  The news devastates him.  The diagnosis of 'no glasses necessary - his eyes are fine' sets him off in histrionics.  "I NEED GLASSES!  I CAN'T SEE ANYTHING!  I NEED THEM, NOT CAPTAIN UNDERPANTS!  MY EYES ARE RUBBISH...YOU'RE RUBBISH.  I DO NEED THEM.  I DO!  I DO!'

I am caught in the dilemma of trying to convince Johnny Drama the fact that he doesn't need glasses is a really Good Thing, whilst trying to assure Captain Underpants that wearing glasses is also a Good Thing.  As usual, my ability to handle a delicate situation of this nature is less than stellar.  Captain Underpants rises to the occasion and rescues me.  Luckily for me he seems quite excited about being told he needs to wear glasses but acts sympathetically to his over wrought and typically dramatic sibling.  Between the rants and accompanying stomping about he reassures Johnny Drama, "it's great that your eyes work without glasses JD, mine don't work as well as yours and need a little help, that's all".

JD isn't buying either of our efforts at consoling his heartbreak over not walking out of the appointment with a pair of specs of his very own.  As far as he is concerned, it is all a big conspiracy to ensure that he misses out and doesn't have the same opportunity as his brother to stand out in a crowd.  He throws himself around the reception area, taking out stands of frames and swiping at piles of magazines, to demonstrate that we all have it wrong and that he really is blind as a bat.

Over the noise the optician tries to explain that Captain Underpants is long-sighted but has a significant astigmatism which means his eyes can't focus properly on anything.  It's possible that his prematurity at birth was the cause.  He must wear his glasses all the time and, with luck, the astigmatism will correct itself over time.

We choose a pair of frames and I am pleasantly surprised at how great they look on him.  The optician continues to extend me sympathetic glances.  "Are you okay mum?" she asks.  I am just feeling guilty that I hadn't made the effort to arrange an eye test a year earlier.  I had hoped he wouldn't need glasses, but I am not surprised at the outcome.  And I am relieved that Captain Underpants is taking it all in his stride.  At least he is not in denial and stating categorically that he will refuse to wear them.  He almost seems excited about the fact.

Until the next day, when I pick up his glasses.

He wears them for 30 seconds tops.  "Can I take them off now?" he asks, as he hands them back to me.

Oh dear.  Seems like that novelty wore off very quickly.  I feel for him.  I wouldn't want to wear my glasses every day either.  I do it for a day, in a show of solidarity, but end up reverting back to my contact lenses.  And now every day is an act of negotiation.  I have talked to other mums, whose children wear glasses, and I know it will just take time for him to adjust.

But how long is that, exactly?

Tell me - do your children wear glasses?  How long did it take them to adapt?

And could they possibly look as adorable as Captain Underpants in their specs?  He might not be able to see it (in fact, it is very likely that he actually isn't able to see it - his vision may still be a little blurred even with the glasses for a couple of weeks yet until his eyes learn to focus properly) - but he looks really handsome with his new facial accessory.  I'm surprised by how much they suit him.  What was I expecting?  That my gorgeous big eyed boy would suddenly morph into Mr Magoo or the Milky Bar Kid?

Impossible.

He is my Captain Underpants - my gorgeous, courageous, pint sized super hero.  And it gives me a little solace to know that, when he is doing his utmost to out thwart his brother in a Bakugan battle, or affix the tiniest, fiddliest piece of lego to his latest starship, he will at the very least be able to see what he's doing.

Will The Real Nicola Please Stand Up, Please Stand Up...

When I first started writing this blog just over a year ago, I didn't really have any clear objective or focus.  I wasn't intending to create a specific impression of who I really am and bare my soul.  In fact I didn't really spend much time considering how my words and actions would be interpreted or how I would come across to a bunch of complete strangers.  It was just good to employ my brain in putting a bunch of words together, rather than just a bunch of building blocks or a Thomas track (at which I had become scarily adept).

My first posts all had a specific story to tell and I tried to make them as funny as possible, because the posts I had loved to read, in the year or so that I had loitered on the fringes of the blogging world, had a humorous edge.  There were also posts which resonated a lot more deeply and which prompted me to write about some of my deepest heartbreaks, fears and failures - as a parent as well as a person.

I didn't initially think about having an audience.  I told my closest friends in the UK about the blog because I wanted to entertain them and update them on what was happening in my life in Chicago after the separation, without repeating myself in umpteen emails that I never made the time to write.  It was also a convenient opportunity to share with them some of the thoughts and feelings that I had never really articulated before.  It was gratifying to attract followers though, I must admit.  And now it is hard to say whether or not having an audience started to affect my writing - both the content and the style.  Did I intentionally create mythical comedy or chaos when the reality was far more humdrum?  Over-emphasis the drama to evoke more sympathy?  Start to write purely for maximum impact and entertainment?  Turn up the anger, the sadness, the helplessness, the mockery?

Maybe.  Sometimes.  A little.

I guess I am not the type of blogger who writes daily, attempting to capture every conversation, every action, every possible nuance of my thoughts and feelings.  I write soundbites from my life right now because I am too damned lazy to capture it all and it would no doubt bore people bothering to read it to tears.  I have also spent a lot of time focusing on my insecurities and doubts recently because I am going through a period of intense change and it feels good to record some of my initial reactions to the changing circumstances around me.  I never intended my blog to become an online journal of sorts but right now it is helping me to share some of shifts that are happening in my life.  And the great advantage of blogging about snippets of these events is that, by reviewing the written word, I am sometimes able to make sense of it all.  Adjust my thoughts.  Change my behaviour.   Stop focusing on MY version of reality and start to see it from other people's point of view.  As I've said before - cheapest therapy I've ever had.

I never anticipated that it would provoke such a personal attack and prompt someone to write an anonymous post dedicated to slamming my character and my parenting.  That someone would read a post and not appreciate that it is only half the picture, if that.  And it reminded me how powerful words are and how open they are to misinterpretation - and that the absence of 100% of the details can create a totally different impression of a person or a situation.  After reviewing my previous post, I conceded I wasn't sure I liked the tone on reflection either.  There were so many things I could have expanded on, but chose not to simply because it was more impactful as a piece of writing to exaggerate the heart tugging drama of one particular 20 minute segment of my day.

So am I going to think more carefully about what I write, and how I write about it, to avoid another internet bitch slap?

Erm...nope.  Probably not.  Because that would make blogging too damn stressful and I don't want to over think it to that degree.  I have a tendency to over think too many areas of my life as it is.

However, maybe I will start to share 'the other side of the coin'.  Instead of just the reactive angst and posts full of self-doubt and recrimination...maybe a little more of what I feel pretty much most of the time.  Like a love of life for example, with all its complexities.  And happiness.  And certainty.  And all that self-help malarky like trying to live in the moment and not divert my attention worrying about stuff that might never happen.  You know.  The sort of stuff that might cause you to retch into the nearest Orla Keily handbag if I'm not careful.

One of the areas of my life that I have never really shared in the blog, for example, is how my life has been dramatically impacted by studying Kabbalah.  I have mentioned it in passing here and there (when trying to create the illusion of moving in celebrity circles: Ooh, I was at Shabbat with Madonna!  Made a fool of myself at an event with Balthazeer Getty today!  Ha! Ha!)  But in reality becoming a student of this spiritual philosophy 2 years ago has changed my life in such a profound and meaningful way that I am not sure I can ever do it justice by attempting to capture it in words.  When I first mentioned Kabbalah to some of my friends in the UK, the news was predominantly greeted with a big eye roll and the good-natured dismissive "God, you need to get home...first therapy and now Kabbalah.  You're too American for words".

I would never describe myself as a religious person - in my 20s I was an absolute atheist and in my 30s, if push came to shove, I would have said I was agnostic.  I would also never really have described myself as spiritual.  I studied yoga for a while, but mainly for workout purposes, and could never make myself sit still long enough to meditate, although I quite liked the idea of it and believed in its benefits.  But at my lowest ebb, when things had been on a downward turn in my life for a couple of years and I still couldn't see a light at the end of the tunnel, when antidepressants hadn't helped and therapy gave me an emotional outlet and rational explanation but no real solution to the problems I was facing, I found an unexpected avenue that has turned my life around.

It all started with a conversation with my sister.  Read this book, she said.  The book in question was Conversations with God by Neale Donald Walsh.  "But I don't believe in God", I responded and refused.  For several months.  Finally, after many conversations about my situation most of them typically ending with "Just read the Goddam book will you!" I read the book.  And my perspective on my life shifted almost overnight.  Suddenly things began to make sense.  Inexplicably my life just didn't seem as bleak any more.  I read and reread the book and started to expand my reading to include Wayne Dyer and Eckhart Tolle.  I changed the way I was thinking about my life, which changed the way I was feeling about my life and ultimately changed the way I was acting in my life.

Then I found Kabbalah (which, by the way, is not a religion or a mystical cult - despite how the media portrays it) and I am using the things I am learning to continue to change.

Turns out I'm actually quite spiritual after all.  Who'd have thunk it?  Not me a few years ago, that's for sure.

Now this isn't about to become a lecture on Kabbalah, because there are plenty of books out there which can explain this 'spiritual technology' and on the web you can always go here:  www.kabbalah.com to find out more.  I also find it difficult to explain what my spiritual beliefs mean to me without, at best,  using terminology that could sound a little trite and, at worst, sounding a little more cuckoo than I usually do.

But I will say this.  I am happier.  Even joyful...despite all the drama I relay on this blog.  I have a deep appreciation of my life and all the people in it.  Even the ones that push my buttons on a regular basis and may provoke a rant or two.  In fact, especially those people, because they are the ones that are giving me the chance to react differently - to keep quiet where I may have once exploded with rage, to be open where I may have once shut down, to be loving where I may have once been dismissive, to be patient where I may have once been rash, to be generous and open-minded where I may have once been judgmental.

And I have also learned that the voice that used to dominate my head pretty much all of the time is not working in my best interest.  In fact it is my biggest opponent to leading a happy and fulfilled life.  It is the voice of judgement and jealousy, envy and self-doubt, hate and bitterness, expectation and denial, laziness and blame.  I still have this voice - and some of the stuff I articulate on this blog stems directly from this negative, angry source of self-pity.  But it doesn't exert its influence over me for very long.  And I certainly don't give it credit any more for being me.

And neither is this blog.

Is It Perception...Or Mere Fluke?

I guess it should come as no surprise to me that I still feel a little discombobulated (God, I just love that word).  I have told  several people that I am moving home (US friends' reaction: Oh NO!  UK friends and family: About Bloody Time Too...which I have chosen to interpret generally as YIPPEE!).

I haven't yet said a dicky bird to the boys, of course.  There are still too many balls up in the air, too many plates wildly spinning, too many more 'sleeps' for them to even begin to really comprehend the timing of it all.

But whether by fluke or simply coincidence, the morning after The Big Conversation with my ex, Johnny Drama begins to have a complete meltdown about moving back to the UK.  I'm not sure how the subject arose, but one minute we are gathering a bag full of plastic tat their favourite toys to take on a half term play date and the next JD has lost the plot, resembling a real life Chicken Licken with the sky about to fall on his head.

"I DON'T EVER WANT TO MOVE BACK TO ENGLAND!  I'M NOT EVER LEAVING MY SCHOOL!  I DON'T WANT TO GO TO SCHOOL IN ENGLAND!  I DON'T LIKE ANY OF THE SCHOOLS!  THEY'RE ALL HORRIBLE SCHOOLS.  WITH HORRIBLE CHILDREN.  NOT MY FRIENDS....JUST HORRIBLE CHILDREN WHO WON'T EVER BE MY FRIENDS EVER AND WILL JUST MAKE ME BE DEAD.  I JUST LIKE MY SCHOOL.  AND MY FRIENDS.  AND YOU CAN'T MAKE ME GO THERE AND I JUST WON'T GO THERE AND I DON'T EVEN LIKE ANYTHING THERE.  ANYTHING!  I DON'T.  AND YOU CAN'T MAKE ME.  AND I'M NOT GOING.  NOT.  GOING.  NOT.  EVER!!"

Of course this rant is interspersed with me reassuring and rationalising, to no effect.  If anything, it just made the whole thing worse.  I can't believe the subject has been raised, today of all days, and I feel filled with guilt at my plan to take them away from everything they know and hold so dear.

Ultimately (after attempting to console and hug and acknowledge that I totally understand he loves his school and his friends) as my real life Chicken Licken continues to gather steam I decide ignoring him is the best policy.  Truth be told, I don't really know how to handle this situation.  He is so upset and there appears to be no reasoning with him.  "Has daddy talked to you about moving back to England?", I ask.

Captain Underpants, in all his 6 year old wisdom, has been watching from the side lines with his mouth firmly shut, totally unruffled.

"No, daddy hasn't said anything", he shrugs.  His younger brother continues to wrestle invisible monsters, throwing his body over the back of the sofa, tossing cushions left, right and centre while shouting and crying at the top of his lungs.  He's not nicknamed Johnny Drama (on this blog at least) purely for comic effect or to reflect a secret infatuation with an Entourage character, that's for sure.

"I think I'd quite like to go back to England", says Captain Underpants, thoughtfully.  "Then maybe we can just get one house and maybe we could all live in that one house.  Me.  JD.  You mummy.  The cats...and daddy.  Just all in the same house.  Because that would be really nice, wouldn't it?  In England."

This line of conversation succeeds in stopping me in my tracks.  This topic hasn't been raised for months and it breaks my heart to hear it voiced like the simplest solution in the world.  The lightness of his tone belies the deep seated yearning underneath.

My inner voice is panicking...why today?  Why are we talking about this today, of all days?  What do I say?  How can I possibly explain the complicated intricacies of their mummy and daddy's relationship, which has brought us to this point?  If it doesn't make any sense to me...how can I expect it to make any sense to them?  And of course, it is on the tip of my tongue to say, "well, you need to talk to your daddy about that one.  Personally, I think that sounds like a tip-top idea.  Shame your daddy doesn't see it that way..."

Of course, I bite my tongue, say nothing of the sort - gently and lovingly repeating ex and I's agreed mantra: mummy and daddy will live in 2 houses but we will always be a family and we will always love you and be there for you...blah blah blah.  A little later on whilst driving, sensing that an air of calm had resumed, I talked to both boys about the quandry of liking Chicago, yet not liking having to live so far away from my mummy and daddy, sister and brother and friends.  I'm a grown up, I tell them, but that doesn't mean that I don't miss my mummy and daddy.  You like to hang out with your mummy and daddy, don't you?  Well, I really like to be with my mummy and daddy too - and it's very hard to do that while we are so far away.  I have been away from them for nearly 10 years and that is a long time.  Maybe one day you will live away from your mummy and daddy, even your brother, for a long time (cue instant disbelief and fervent denials from the back seat) and that's okay.  But I want to live near my mummy and daddy again now because I love them and like being with them.  And even though I am soooo incredibly old and grown up and a mummy myself...I am still their little girl.  Just like you will always be my little - sorry, big, BIG! - boys.

They nod sagely, in a vaguely disinterested way, and go back to bickering over the winner of their pirate/clone trouper battle.  I continue to feel a little sick and agitated, knowing that more difficult conversations are bound to come.  Trying to find a way to explain it all in a language they understand is difficult.

And God knows how I will explain to them that they are moving back to England with me and that daddy is staying in Chicago, probably for several months.  If he moves home at all.  During The Big Conversation he casually mentioned that he might move to Europe and what did I think of him living an hour or so away?  Er...I think that is a rotten and completely selfish idea?  I think we should live near each other while the boys are young.  I think they need you to be there.  I think you should just suck it up, get over yourself and do what's best for your children.  But again, I say nothing of the sort.  I know that my opinion doesn't carry much weight anymore where he is concerned, and that the last thing he wants to hear is me telling him what to do.

I wish I had developed this art of keeping shtum during our marriage.  Things might have worked out a great deal differently.  I am learning that my silence and compliance is more persuasive than the most informed, passionate argument where he is concerned.  Yet like a lot of things in life - that is a little bit of knowledge...learnt a little too late.

Time To Move On...In So Many Ways

I lie in bed.  The feelings of euphoria are subsiding and are replaced with what...satisfaction?  Fear?  Dread?  Regret?  I can't tell.  My head is swimming.  My heart is pounding.  The invisible hand tightens its grip around my throat and I feel it is pushing my head firmly into my faithful tempurpedic pillow.  I claw at my neck to no effect.  The hand tightens.  I switch positions.  And again.  I feel as if I am trying to get comfortable in a bed of rocks.  Blood swirls in my ears and my head feels ready to explode.

This was not what I was expecting.

After a few weeks of consulting lawyers, researching homes to rent, getting into a panicked frenzy over the UK school application process and talking endlessly to friends who all assure me, 'you just need to be home' it seems that it might finally happen.  This summer in fact.  Just as I had hoped.

Fucking hell.  Is this really what I want?  What I have been striving and aching for, for the past 7 or so years?  All of a sudden, I am not so sure any more.

I am not so sure of anything any more.

I thrash around the bed for another 20 minutes or so.  I concentrate on trying to quieten my mind, deepening my breathing from the shallow gasps that fight their way into my lungs.  The harder I try, the worse it gets.  Small icy needles of fear begin to prick at my chest...my God, am I about to have a heart attack and die in my bed?  Was that the reason for the practice 911 call with Captain Underpants yesterday?  Relentlessly getting him to recite numbers and addresses and protocol just incase a Bad Thing Happened?

I fight to control the panic that twists my bowels and sits on my chest.  Just breath you nitwit.  Everything is OK.  More than OK.  You can do this.  You can really do this.  You can move on...it will be OK.  It will be better than OK.  It will be Great.

Without really being conscious of what I am doing I bunch a row of pillows down the centre of the bed, under the duvet, and wrap my limbs around them just as I used to do when I was pregnant.  It used to be our little joke.  "Who's between the thighs tonight then?" you would ask me.  "Russell (Crowe)", I would lightly reply.  "George will get his turn tomorrow".  This memory jolts me away from the wall of 100% goosedown and I lie flat on my back, feeling the emptiness of my bed, the capacious space all around me.

Alone.  How did I end up alone?  After all that we have been through...how did we not make it through the other side intact?  How did this 'adventure', which was supposed to cement our future, crumble and pull us apart?  How did that happen to us?  I still don't have the answers.

Without thinking my hand and foot gravitates towards the centre of the bed and nestles against the pillows.  With my eyes closed it is almost as though I am lying next to you, just our extremities touching as we begin to fall asleep.  I roll over onto my stomach and once again reach out a hand and foot for you and, when my body makes contact with the pillows, it's almost as though you are there.

I start to relax.

I know it's not you.  But the feeling is so familiar, so grounding, that my body naturally responds and and relishes the contact with the imaginary you.  I can't believe I ever took this simple act of sleeping while connected to you for granted.

Is this how you now sleep with her?

I am so exhausted by the emotional exchanges of the past couple of weeks - the honest expression of my true feelings finally revealed from behind the veil of competence and coping - culminating in our face-to-face meeting tonight (the first since our separation 15 months ago) that I am too wrung out to sleep.  I can't believe how easily you have agreed to let me move home this summer with the boys.  That you have finally caved after all this time, after all our prolonged arguments.

I would like to think this is because of the incredibly well thought through logistical considerations I have presented in  writing over the past two weeks.  Or maybe that it is a decision borne out of an undying love and compassion for me and all that we once meant to each other.

But this painful act of generosity on your part is not, in fact, borne out of a love for me, is it?  It is borne out of your new love for another.  By loving someone else you are finally able to let me go.

And there is no real satisfaction in that.

So now the door to my new life is finally open and all I have to do is to keep walking through it without looking back.  Yet from here on the bed, as I continue to wrestle with the unanswered questions of 'why?', 'how?', 'what could I have done differently?', I feel as though I am walking, blindfolded and resistant, towards the open door of an aeroplane soaring at 40,000ft.

And there is no parachute.

Just as well I have always been a person with a head for heights then, I guess.