Papou's spirit

Rosie's five today. Baked a cake in between reading about social housing in Russia. Nat came home and said:

"That will never go around 30 kids."

Got in a bad mood at his negative comment. Later he played his recorded report on Sarkozy and the beautiful bimbo and then asked my opinion. Grunted I'd let him know another day. Have started an ego watching campaign, as his career takes off.

This morning I cut the cake into 30 pieces for her class and quipped: "Now eat your words cos' you ain't getting no cake."

It's the birthday season and the usual party politics stuff is going on. Numbers for Saturday's event stand at 17. Big dent in bank account = clean tidy house.

Stood in the middle of the classroom handing out invites as if doing a drugs deal. Surrepticiously, sneaking into pockets, whispering in ears type thing. Pathetic yes but if I'd invited all the class, my bank would be the next to fall.

Enjoying the mum thing immensely. Trips to museums, cinemas and the "ecology park" (bit of a joke that - it's a patch of scrub salvaged from an industrial wasteland where a few reeds grow).

The idea is admirable but "the signs of spring" were a bit thin. A squirrel's nest (like a bird's nest in a tree!), a velvety bud on a branch and about two daffodils.

Then Lila yells:

"Jude, Rosie - look over there (pointing at big factory chimney) - POLLUTION!" And all the kids stare in awe at the billowing black smoke and answer in a dreamy "Oh yeeeessss...."

Why are they so fascinated by dirty factories and death?

Rosie keeps on asking me about death and do I believe in heaven. It's too upsetting for her to accept that once you're dead that's it. She's almost begged me to tell her we all come back to life and live happily ever after in our house.

I've gone along with it as much as possible. Now I say:

"I believe there are spirits. So once your body is dead, your spirit floats around in the sky and sometimes watches down on loved ones who are still alive."

We were on the A2 in a traffic jam in grey cold rain. Rosie was staring at the dark clouds and she piped up:

"Mummy, I just saw Papou's spirit."

That was Nat's French grandfather who died last year. Even though I never met him, it's quite nice to think he's hovering in the sky over Bluewater keeping check on what we do.

Shame he can't spirit away his grandson's fear of extending his family. In the next gridlock I'll remind him it's his name that won't get carried on - maybe that'll do it.

Change

As the big 4-0 draws ever closer I'm getting more pensive by the minute. It sounds naff but it's true.

What's struck me most of late is how all of life is about change. How nothing stays the same. We're always so busy rushing about we forget to realise "this too will pass".

I'm trying to embrace it. We're rolling on, living it, sort of enjoying it and not arguing much anymore. But we still don't talk about it.

"There's nothing to say," he says. It fires me up, but what's the use?

So things are calm. We work well as flatmates. He is a good dad to Rosie and I'm so afraid of breaking that up. The only area I feel I am lacking is in his continued silence over the 2nd baby.

Three years it's been going on. Maybe one day I'll hit 46 and WAKE UP to the fact nothing has changed in our world, yet all around me it has. It'll be too late by then.

What to do, what to do?

Thanks for the memories

Forgot to mention that Nat's grandfather in London (who has Alzheimers) constantly repeats the following story:

"I know a man who started the group CRAFT of which I am a member. Do you know what it stands for?"
"No."
"Can't Remember A Fucking Thing."

It's such a shame when life is all about memories and you start either forgetting them or remembering things incorrectly.

When Rosie and I arrived at his doorstep last Friday in the cold rain he said:

"But Katie's not back from work yet." (That's his wife).
"We're here to see you, please can we come in." I had to be a little forceful as he wasn't budging so I said:

"Please can we come in. Look I've made this chocolate cake for you so we can have tea. It's me Indigo, Nat's wife, remember?"

Then Rosie yelled, "You're not his wife! daddy didn't marry you." Yeah, thanks for the memory.

Here's a joke about memory loss.

Two elderly couples are walking along the road - the ladies are in front. One man says to the other:
"I've something very important to tell you but I can't remember what it is .... Let me think.... Oh what's the name of that lovely flower that grows on a prickly bush, comes in different colours and smells beautiful?"
"A rose?" says his friend.
"Yes, that's right!" Then calling to his wife "Rose, what was that important thing I needed to mention?"

Back to busy

In a fortnight Rosie will be five years old.

Nat and I went to Italy ski ing to try and patch things together. The air kept the yo yo up - then we went to Venice (for my 40th birthday, coming up, oh yes) and I that pesky B word burst out.

I'd tried SO hard to keep it shut inside and live for the moment, remember how privileged and lucky I am. But when the gloom comes how do you crack your way out? A thick grey fog that clouds logical thinking.

On the boat back to the airport it spilled forth. I told him I can not go on with him anymore unless I can get an idea of WHEN "there's nothing I want more than a sister or brother for Rosie" might actually be true.

He said not a word and when we got back to London I thought of a new tactic. Actually, it was Fleur who suggested it. I'm distancing myself to see if he'll notice. I have a new list.

- Get fit (contemplating Race for Life)
- Give up alcohol
- Swim more
- Eat healthier foods (Nat's on later shifts which means I don't have to do dinner all the time)
- See more friends
- Join a timebank project (visit lonely old people etc)

Surprisingly the fog lifted when we got back to busy, the place where we can push the lot back under the rug.

Today though Rosie and I went to visit Nat's elderly grandfather in Camberwell. He is such a sweet man - has Alzheimers so forgets a lot.

But he remembered loads about the war and repeated the story of being shot down, put in a prisoner of war camp and escaping several times. Today I learned he only gave up his escape attempts when Hitler said escapees would be shot.

He once wrote a book about it called "A Crowd Is Not Company". I read it years ago and it's great.

Felt honoured he could remember it to tell it to me himself. Bye bloggo. Keep you posted.