Saturday, 3 May 2014

guilt pudding

I have a hospice-hangover. Chucked back in to our real world, where I've got to be a responsible adult again and worry about the fact that we've run out of nappy wipes, the milk is about to go off and there's a dead shrew in the bathroom.

There isn't, in fact, a dead shrew in the bathroom; but I'm expecting one at any minute.

It's sunny outside and I have a list as long as my arm of things I should be getting on with; planting seeds, setting eggs, putting the final funny-shaped pane back in the greenhouse door, corralling Mrs Muscovy (who's ducklings have grown enough to be a menace to the garden), sorting out better fencing between animals and vegetables generally*, hanging out the laundry, sorting out the train-set to ebay, re-listing the camper van because the man who bought it turns out to not be able to collect it for another fortnight and has zero feedback, going through the children's clothes to ditch stuff because they have both had growth spurts, and so on.

*draws breath*

All this *stuff* is cluttering up my head. What I want to do is be sitting here writing another chunk of my story. I seem to stew on it for a while and then splurge five thousand words at a time. But all the other things overwhelm me and I feel like I'm drowning even when I'm just sitting writing this and drinking tea.

I think I need a morale officer.

Alternatively, I think I might need to offload some more of my responsibilities. The livestock down at Ma's is still a big stress for me - because we're not on site, things happen and we aren't there to deal with them in person. I am seriously considering giving up the large fowl, or at least only keeping a breeding quartet of Barnevelders, just to keep the line ticking along.

I know I beat myself up about things I can't control. I hear Ma's voice in my head when I feel like this, saying 'I don't know what you DO all day, dear!' and it makes me doubt myself. B says I'm being ridiculous and that what we do all day is what any family with two small children, a micro-holding with lots of livestock, a part-time business selling eggs regularly and a severely life-limited child would do. And that I should shove my self-doubt back in to it's box and lock it, firmly.

I'm even beating myself up for not using this space mostly for humour, as I did with ducking for apples. Instead it's turning more and more in to space for a therapeutic brain-dump; and that being the case, I'm grateful for those of you who have stayed with me. Sometimes, I don't feel that I have the humour in me any more. I look back at some of my posts from five or ten years ago and I it seems as if I am reading the life of stranger.

These days my main aim is to get from dawn to dusk without a meltdown by one or all of us, on whatever level - physical, emotional, spiritual. I feel dull and I feel empty. I know logically that it's because my entire system is running in 'survival mode' and that it's entirely understandable given our circumstances blah blah blah. But on days like this, when the sun is shining and the blackbirds are feeding their babies in the bay tree outside the window and the whole garden is bursting with life, I deeply resent that I no longer have the energy to respond to that in a positive way.

That's enough, I think. I will go and plant some tomato seeds instead of wallowing.

* which I can't do anyway because the sawmill has let me down for about the fifth week running with our delivery


  1. PS. No shrew but there was a brown bird of some description. Being eaten. On the carpet. By the cat.

  2. Maybe an evaluation of how much work against how much income the different livestock bring in, what specific jobs would be especially great to get rid of, what can't possibly be got rid of, what of them do you really enjoy? When I'm at my wits' end (doesn't take much), I have to take refuge in logic because I can't think straight.

  3. Don't buy a donkey is my advice. xxxx And you do still have lots of lovely warm humour in you.