So, after my little trip away last week, I was able to rediscover the delight that is going on social media. As I clicked on and scrolled through Facebook and Twitter, I could feel as a physical thing my mood lower and drag. Really, being a party to the overblown GOOD NEWS of friends of friends, and the over-emphasised BAD NEWS of news corporations is to be dragged in two extreme directions.

So I stopped. As we were at the start of a new month, with lots to recommend the decision, I decided to stay off social media and to be sensible and wise. If I found myself with free time on my hands, then I would read a book or get away from my desk.

Since then I’ve read three books.

Yes, really, three. One was Elizabeth Smart’s By Grand Central Station I Sat Down and Wept. One was a who-dun-it set in Regency England. One was by Carl Jung. None of them were very big, but that wasn’t the point. I’ve re-discovered the need to read, and to avoid the constantly shifting dopamine-hit of online life.

And have I been missed? Not a bit of it, which would suggest that the ‘social contact’ is nothing of the sort. Instead, this last week has made it clear how users are in fact the cow eating the grass, the product itself, rather than the buyer.  I’m the captured audience for adverts, political views, manufactured debates and inaccurate reporting. Now, however,  I listen to the news on the radio and hunt out news websites if something comes up. I already subscribe with the other half to various newspapers of different perspectives, so bias is overcome as much as possible.

The trick, however, is to be up to date, to have a full knowledge of current events, but to avoid the massive tidal wave of subjective information wherever possible.

Right. Get off the internet, the lot of ye.

Apologies for the silence, all. I got busy, tired and unable to push myself, so that last Sunday when we were waiting for Ophelia, I went to bed without any blog. Last week saw my little guy get all upset at School, (probably because his mother was mean to him at home) and the crazy lady finally send a cost for damages to her car. This is the final figure:

€1063 in total. Yes, really. 

An invoice for this, might I remind you;

There’s a crowd called Chipsaway.ie, who will do repairs in driveways for next to nothing. If I hear from her again I’m sending them over to her, the woman is in my opinion asking for a crazy amount.

Monday:

We were all focused on this.

You can see my house from here…

For us, it was an appallingly sharp wind, with long queues at the local shop. For three families, their loved ones will never come home, and that’s something I’m aware of. But it had, for us, the sense of a snow day; an unexpected day off with no barrier to relaxation. That sense of the rules being relaxed seemed to be on my shoulders for the rest of the week, as you’ll see.

Tuesday:

Big guy’s school is closed, so I stay home to keep him busy and away from small fires. I can’t make myself do physio. We make a small kite, go for a long walk and muck about with the Goldie Blox set, and before you know it the day is done. I’m supposed to do physio and exercise and nothing is done. I answer emails before going to bed, and make lists.  A lot of lists. I go to bed content.

Wednesday:

I have no meetings! No meetings, no physio, merely the exciting prospect of actually getting things done. However! You forget dear reader, that I am in fact honey to the flies that are my colleagues. By my reckoning, over an hour and a half are given over to chatting on Wednesday, and seeing as I now have to leave early to pick up big guy, I stomp back to my car frustrated and annoyed. Bother! Damn! Blast!

Thursday:

The house is filthy, the child uneducated, the clothes unwashed, the body unexercised, the accountant still uninformed, and all is wrong. At least I did my physio, which is just as well as my hips were beginning to hurt again.  I call it an accomplishment to put the bins out, and just go to bed.

Friday: 

I get through the Physio session, and get through the day. I’m sleepy tired; nothing too worrying, but I just want to stop the day. We get told of another storm, Storm Brian (and we all know what a delight Brians can be), and we decide to head to the shop for extra supplies.

And then I hit a bollard.

Yeah, I know.

I am making a left turn into the shop, and one of the bollards surrounding the road is already twisted and bent outwards. I slow to avoid a car coming the other way, and we hear the most awful scraping sound. I think I’m about to start screaming, but we park the car and have a look. It’s actually not that bad; there is a white scrap mark, but otherwise it’s okay. The other half tells me he’s done worse on the other car and not to worry. Still, I feel the motivation go, and I dearly wish for more resilience. Wish I could go for a run, or a swim, or see a friend or something. Baaaah!

Saturday:

I get through the physio, and I plan a day of excellent and robust activities. Then the next door neighbour kid calls in and there are now two little creatures making noise and a mess in my sitting room. The other half comes back from shopping with a report that the car now veers to the right; thankfully not politically. I go to my bed silent with the guilt. Have I cost us more money?

Sunday:

We get up, we play, dress, and go to Dunnes for jumpers and the like. He plays up like a madman, and I am drinking buckets of coffee all day.

I am going to do myself a favour. I am going to wrap up this blog tonight, because now it is 10pm, and I need to sleep and reboot. Night night all.

So, mah lovelies, how are you all? Limbs still in tact, major organs all still functioning? Good, good. Let’s all take a deep, cleansing breath, and begin.

Monday 11th September:  Getting ready to leave the house in the morning, I notice we have no coffee. This is bad news, especially considering the beloved child has not once slept through the night since he was born. I get through the day with a poorly contained sense of urgency, and rush to pick him up. As he gets tired his behaviour gets worse, leading to annoyed teachers, leading to me rushing over there as soon as humanly possible. I find myself almost frantic while doing this, and I’m put in mind of Shirley Maclain in Terms of Endearment. I try, and fail, to tone it the hell down.

TIME FOR US TO GO!

I pick him up. I’m told he has had a ‘fantastic day’. Really? I am ashamed of how surprised I am, but yes. He’s been polite, engaged, and learnt lots. We go to the shops, and then home, and he is exhausted with the effort of it all. Home. Bath. Bed.

Tuesday 12th September. Traffic. OH MY GOD TRAFFIC. We sit in traffic on the way to school like insane people, not moving for nearly an hour.

Eventually I just start making random turns, and end up five minutes late for school. This is hell! I get in a swim at lunchtime and realise my clothes feel salty with the morning’s fear. There isn’t a word to declare it correctly.

Chatting to a colleague, I explain how my hip hurts, which it does. I feel it all the time now. She makes the radical suggestion of going to a physio. I call up the clinic on campus and find appointments are possible. I make an appointment, and am all set to get wrenched next Tuesday. But they want me to wear shorts. I don’t know who to feel more sorry for.

I pick up big guy. Another fantastic day. He’s tired, though, I can see it. This culture change is hard for him, and I have a feeling that it’s hard to keep it up. Home. Bath. Bed.

Wednesday 13th September; I am up, ready, prepped, and we try a new route. We are there in good time, with little or no mental stress. I have a day of meetings and rushing around, no chance for a swim. I pick up big guy, and just as I feared, he had a bad day. The effort drained away from him, and he was resistant to any and all suggestions. I refuse to stress over it, but instead; we go home, I get in pizza, and at about 8pm I slip away to attend the New Parents Evening at his school. I hear all about the possible sports he can do, the high sights they set for him, and the sheer mountain he can look up to.  Grand. Can I sleep now? I go home in the dark, trying to move as quickly as I can to bed.

Thursday 14th September. Exhaustion is taking it’s toll. I’m in the car driving to the School when I realise I’ve a kind of mania going on. I’m driving without checking mirrors or worrying about other drivers’ inconvenience. I’m turning into that driver, the kind that would have anyone sane cure their lip at her entitlement.

I drive into the school nearly in tears, but that wouldn’t do any good. We get into school on time, and he promises to be a good boy for me. I head to work. I print out a version of the novel for a sister-in-law who should know better than inflict it upon herself and get it bound. I get the documents for our accountant ready, confirm the Physio, and start a memo for another super-duper important meeting next Thursday. At lunch, I have a swim with a friend so I can introduce her to the pool. She’s a gentle perfume of a woman, utterly lovely.

Kid has a bad day. We go home and have another long talk. I stump my little toe on the door on the way out of his room, and again, tears would be nice but wouldn’t help.

Friday 15th September; I’m so tired, there is no joy in it being Friday. I pick up big guy and guess what, he had a good day. I’m delighted, but again, I’m muted because of the tiredness. At bedtime I see his pjs are small on him all of a sudden. He’s grown nearly half an inch in the last two weeks, no wonder he was tired.

Saturday 16th September; Big Guy and I head to Airfield park with his Nanna and Aunty Aishling. There, I have a go at the zip line and leave a trench with mah butt.

Worth it. 

After a lovely lunch, we meet, believe it or not, the Queen of Hearts.

Told ya.

She tells me to grab each opportunity, to seize the day. We only get one life. We do. We really do.

I wish you sleep. Much, much sleep. Return the favour, will ya?

So this week was the second week Big Guy was in school. And it was also the final week before the start of term. There was at least one high level meeting for me to attend about a University-wide matter, and there was the usual ‘make-food-clean-house-pay-bills’ task list.

Monday; Big guy’s first real full day. I, however, have a super-duper important meeting to get to that will run until 5pm. I get the other half to go collect him, and we head home exhausted to an exotic serving of takeaway.

Tuesday. No lunch, no exercise. We are rushing towards Orientation for the school, lots of lovely registration issues to attend to, and all those had to be left to one side while I was dealing with the meeting yesterday. I get through all of them, and by 3.30 pm I am an empty jug, all poured out. Home. Dinner. Bed.

Wednesday. This was the day I was hoping very much to go for a swim with a lovely lady. But there’s no way, I just can’t do it. I try to take a lunch break but end up falling asleep for ten minutes. Then back to it. I manage after work to buy a toothbrush for Big Guy and some facewash because right now all I have to use is hand wash from Lidl and I’m looking like something from Dr. Pimple Popper (DO NOT RESEARCH THAT).  Then home. One thing I’ve noticed is that for the first half an hour after school, Big guy is frankly acting out. It actually makes sense: he’s trying to behave and take on new rules all day, it’s only natural he’s more relaxed with me. I put on classical music in the car on the way home, and we discover that he loves this piece. Mah son will be the next Yo Yo Ma, just you watch.

Thursday: It’s so busy I don’t get time for a to-do list. It’s just queries, powerpoints, emails, students popping in ‘for just a sec’. Someone telling me a story wonders aloud if it happened on a Tuesday or a Wednesday, and I have to stop myself shaking them by the shoulders and asking WHAT DOES IT MATTER? I refrain.  Just to make it better, Big Guy has a bad day today, and there is much frowny face and pursed lips at school. I discover I am heartily sick of the lot of them. The kid is FIVE, not a member of royal court failing protocol. They’ll just have to cope with it.

Friday: The postgraduate orientation happens this am, and we have the usual bunch of intelligent, enthusiastic and engaged students attending. The problems are real and many, however, from visa problems to entry criteria (do not ask me about those. Ever.) and by the end of it I’m a rag being wrung out. I look back with sad nostalgia on my exercise plans for the week. Such sweet innocence I once had. In the meantime the waistband on my trousers is as tight as an overdraft and my hip hurts like regret. I pick up the Big Guy in good time, and believe it or not he had a good day. However, there is concern that he is not getting enough sleep. He’s taking a nap during after school, just for half an hour. They want to know what time he goes to sleep? I feel like telling them that he goes to sleep whatever time we get home from the casino after being out all night, but refrain. I do tell them the truth, that his bedtime is the one thing I have right; Big Guy goes to sleep after a bath by 8.30 pm each night, without any problems. We get out of there, head home to doughnuts and the weekend.

I did try to do some yoga, and found myself in pain I’m so inflexible. The road ahead is going to be a long one, my sisters.

So, in short, my week has been like this. What, you wanted exercise too?

I am no gardener. It’s green, it grows, good for it. So far in my life I’ve killed heather, cactus, tulips, ferns, heck, I’ve even killed bog plants. Yes, really, dead as anything.  The only thing I haven’t killed is the orchid I inherited in my last flat, and a big part of that is the fact that I’ve moved out.

But anyways.  In our home is a garden. And I put the call out on Facebook for advice on what to do with the following;

Our untouched wilderness

‘Cut it back’ seems to be the main advice, due to the fact that the major component is wilderness. But did our heroine go down that route? Stay tuned for another blog what I write when I am not falling down with exhaustion….

Right. So I’m fobbing around with this writing malarkey long enough, so here is a stated goal. Have my novel under review with a literary agent or publisher by Christmas 2017. And yes, I can do that, and yes, I will do that.

In the meantime, I aim to make this blog a shining beacon of wonder and high stats because, firstly, it would help my writing career and secondly, I very much need the validation and attention.

What, that was a surprise?

So, to do that I will need to write more regularly, and to do so at least once a week. Blog posts up every Thursday from now on.

Have a good one, all of ye. Night night.

So I’ve made lists, made threats, made bribes, made prompts, made further plans and… nothing. Not a thing done. I went to the International Literary Festival in Dublin last week and was too scared to speak to any of the agents, (“they might HEAR me!”) and walked away truly discouraged, as I can only imagine would be to the relief of some of them. A few seemed so jaded and unhappy it was unattractive. It did put to rest any idea I would have of writing as a full time thing. Only the very lucky are rewarded with that and I hate that it won’t be me. I hate lots of things these days.

In any case, I have gotten home each day and sat at this and done NOTHING. Let’s put that shame up there again shall we, NOTHING. I’ve broken my diet over and over again, let the house get sloppy and internally screamed at myself at work. Not worried. I despise people like me most of the time but I find I just can’t make whatever model I’ve concocted in my head sit comfortably. I might be insisting on perfection, but I’m never ever going to get it. All I’ve ever accomplished is failing comfortably; I’ve been the brown bread with the broken crust straight out of the oven, or the curve on a warped window sill that is all the more pleasant for it.  I have never achieved a bloody thing in my life, and something inside won’t let me start now.

All I want to do is to sit and enjoy the sun. Wish I could do that.

So. I have a 100k novel to tidy up and make presentable. I’ve done little to none of it, and the honest reason for that is I believe it is beyond me. I am stupid. Yes, stupid, like lose-a-winning-lottery-ticket stupid. Like pull-my-own-finger stupid. Like stick the pen in my eye stupid. I routinely handle heavy goods when it should be outlawed, and I’ve even become a Mum, when I honestly should be parented myself.

So. Stupid. And so this task which should be given over to Atwood, or Alberto Manguel, or Umberto Eco, or Neil Gaiman, these people who have books and libraries and time and effervesce and ability and jesus just the talent for it. The pitying looks from colleagues and the thud-thud-thud of my own brain makes the suggestion of it falling to me as nonsense. The book should be crafted into baroque plaster work, something intricate and smart and new each time you read. Instead I’ll make it into a holiday read with oversimple English because no one understands me anyway and a metaphor that is LIKE THIS IN CASE YOU MISS IT and a subplot that no one will see because see paragraph one, I’m an idiot.

Something like this that you can take with you as you go, unadorned by attachment.

So yeah. Idiot. But if I leave this to languish, no one else will care about them. No one is going to hurt when they do, or fight for them to keep going, or even think about them after I’m gone. No one will give a damn. So yeah, I’m an idiot. But I’m the only idiot attached to this thing.

Jaysus, this is what it must have been like with Frodo, a minnow in the face of overwhelming odds. And we have similar feet, so there’s that…

Right, have to get dinner on. Gwan with ye.

What?

I find myself less and less able to review and comment on sad events on social media. I noticed it with the dead of the pilots of 116. No words would even come close to matching that tragedy, and why should it? Who am I? The appalling nature of it in my minds eye, the spinning and crashing and violence of it all, followed by their pain and their deaths; a like on facebook? A heart on twitter? This is my landscape? No.