Wistful

I have a meeting with the teacher at school this afternoon. She thinks my son Jack is disorganised and not giving me letters to sign and return.

That isn't quite true - he does give me letters but I glance them over and mentally add one thing after another to a list of things to do.

School sends a lot of letters home: perhaps ten on a bad week, four on a slow week. It's a full time job keeping up with mummy admin: applying for secondary schools, finding somewhere to live, settling into a big city, wah wah wah.

I'm being a cry baby I know it, but there seems to be an endless stream of things to deal with a the moment. I could actually do with being by a stream, in the sunshine, eating a picnic. So could Jack, he really doesn't feel like he fits in at this school: he's never had to deal with that before, he's always been able to fit in anywhere. I am trying to load him with happiness but it's hard because kids in the playground can be cruel. I want to hold my own assembly and scream.


This reminds me of Rhodri and our holidays in Wales. We would go for long bike rides together with bags packed with food. I think it was Easter or a half term, I remember it was warm but not hot. We passed a stream, swung our legs over and off our bikes and then headed into the glade. There was a deep natural pool beneath the trees. We stripped off and jumped in - my son included. There was no one around but cows in the field above us, and birds, and wildlife. Looking back it now seems like our own perfect paradise; actually I think it was freezing.


There were lots of things I found really difficult with Rhodri, and actually I hoped not to write about him on this blog, but old habits die hard: the eco-stuff, being skint, fighting about politics. But there were other things that made being with him very easy too, and perhaps although I imply it, I don't actually say it in the book.

He made me laugh, there was always something bizarre we could do together, and I suppose that and the craziness of our relationship made my life feel full. And at the moment, my life feels 18%. I do wonder if I used to smile and laugh more.

Every day Rhodri told me that he loved me - OK perhaps not as we were splitting up - but I would wake in the morning, his arms around me and he would tell me that I looked beautiful ('How?' I thought, 'I have crust in my eyes and dribble around my mouth.') and that he loved me. Or when I'd had a rough day, we danced in the living room, or walked the streets looking into people's gardens, or he'd put a record on and we'd snuggle on the sofa when Jack was in bed.

It's easy to remember the good times, I suppose I also wanted to scream a lot, like the time he made me choose between him and a cordless telephone and obviously I went for him.

SIGH

Adults need to be loved too, that's the conclusion I'm drawing from all of this.