Bluebell woods

The silent break up continues.

Rosie and I bundled down to the Sussex countryside for a weekend of bluebell woods, sea and best friends.

Nat the Prince had two whole days to himself. Before we left I said: "Hope you'll do some thinking about what you want."

Got back last night and hey.... nada.

So the estate agent came and valued the house. He knows that. I guess he's waiting for the For Sale sign to appear. I haven't instructed that yet as I'm waiting and a hoping' he'll step in and save this.

Not sure why I'm still harbouring any hopes of anything - but hope is what keeps everything going and places like Dignitas out of pocket.

We're not living through a war here. We are healthy and have good jobs. What IS the thing blocking him?

Sad

Ok, it's now exactly seven days since I last spoke to my e-friend. And the update is.... he is still not speaking about it.

Last night when he went to sleep in the spare room again I followed him in and we talked for about 10 minutes until he said:

"I'm so tired, it's really not a good time to talk. Let's talk tomorrow evening - but early."

And it's tomorrow evening right now and he's just he walked in from work and said:

"My GOD. I've never been as exhausted - mentally and physically - as I am RIGHT NOW."

If that is not a way of saying:

"Fuck off Indigo, I don't want to talk to you tonight (or ever)" then i don't know what is.

How can one continue to struggle to feel right with someone who does this? It is not normal. I feel bad that he will suffer. He really will. He'll lose his daughter and won't get much fiscal reward from the house.

I calculated today that he'll certainly not have enough to buy anywhere especially if he wants to live in his precious Chelsea.

I don't have the heart to tell him this. But why the heck should I protect him when he doesn't give two shits about me. If he did, he would confront this monstrous slime that's taken a hold of us.

I just give up bloggo. It's so depressing keeping on hoping and hoping.

And I do try all the "look on bright side of life" type stuff. Sometimes you just have to go:

"you know what - i've battled to do this for such a long time and this will never change."

M25 testosterone

This has been the second week of my first taster of what's to come of Rosie at big school. As the Easter holidays end I'm left with red rimmed, flickery eyes.

The motorway has driven me quite crazy. Yesterday a nasty, mean, pokey, little man in a small white van got cross and started beeping. He hadn't been in the lane when I'd looked a moment before so I can only assume he'd been in my blind spot.

But he went mad and tried to cut me up. And I had Rosie in front with me and I just raged with fury. How dare he put my baby's life at peril because of his stupid little twat ego. So I drove alongside him and screamed out of my window at him, pointing at Rosie.

It seemed the whole M25 was full of testosterone. Fast cars and aggression everywhere. Lots of cutting me up on the inside. Just general arseholeness. And No, I wasn't pootling in the middle lane.

So yesterday the Prince woke up, put on his suit and tie, ate soggy cereal and went to work as usual. He wasn't concerned with how I was planning on doing any of my own work given there were two days left to the week and no school.

I plonked my girl back in the car and drove her back to my mum's. She's started saying she doesn't want to go there anymore - just wants to stay home with me. She kicked up a big stink last night. Hysterically screaming. So that made me cry on the pitch black M25 with its cats' eyes as the only guide.

I walked in and Nat was cooking. I went straight downstairs and said:

"Okay here's the thing," I said. "This week I have been really low. In Birmingham on Wednesday I arrived half an hour early for my meeting and went to the shops. I did some retail therapy. All evening at home I was excited about my new clothes. It made me happy. Fickle yes, shallow sure, but that is how our life together is now. But I left the bag on the Virgin train and it hasn't been handed in."

Nat said: "what a disaster"

I said: "No, Nat, what IS a disaster is that I will be 40 in a few weeks and can't shake off this longing for a baby. It's just getting stronger and stronger.

"I love you and want you," I continued. "I love this house, my life, my job, my friends, this area - everything. I don't want to lose that. But I am carrying around this deep sadness that IS NOT GOING AWAY. It is a longing, a craving and it's getting worse. If I don't take action NOW I fear I will hate you one day and look back on these wasted years with regret."

I told him there was a chance - I was holding it out for him. We could be a family. He says he wants more kids. So either we do this as a team or we up sticks and say adieu.

I think it is better for if Rosie grows up with me not being bitter and twisted old hag and I have to face reality etc etc.

I concluded: "If you really want another baby like you say it's time you put your money where your mouth is".

And guess what? He fell silent.

I went to bed and that was that. Only it's not. I have found a sweet little flat I could live in. I'm thinking maybe move in Rosie's summer holiday break. That would be an opportune time to split up and settle her elsewhere.

He said not a word about it. I don't expect he will.

This morning he did hug me and off he pootled on his scooter to work. He rang at midday and said he was going to a work dinner that he had "forgotton" to mention. I thought that was a bit off, given the contents of what burst forth last night.

After a wholly unproductive day of awful work emails and phone calls, I'm back behind the driving wheel and on the M25 again.

Collect my girl and on way home forgot to put lights on. A car overtook me on the A2, moved in front of me and put its hazards on. I thought at first "what a friendly person saying thank you for hanging back". But then the hazards went on again and I realised my lights weren't on. I turned them on and flashed a thank you. Then off the little car sped into the distance.

It was such a lovely gesture I burst out crying. I'll never know that person but whoever it was made my evening - just by being a bit human.

M25 musings

I have to go.

The M25 is useful for thinking. If he did the driving maybe this clarity wouldn't have come.

On the surface things are okay. But scratch that and we're in deep trouble. I'm 40 (soon). It sounds so old and I should be able to act like a grown up by now.

If I allow this false mentality to roll on for another six years, my chance for more babies will truly be kaput. I fear I'll be so full of resentment I'll have to leave. So why wait?

Well, there's the obvious. Rosie.

But along with the benefits of seeing her daddy every day and having a part-time mother she is also seeing parents who are never affectionate and a frequently tense mummy. I don't want her to grow up like that. But I can't be loving to him while he refuses to acknowledge this. So we live our lives like this - it's not even on a tightrope anymore, it's just on the edge of a big darkness.

It really will be the hardest thing but I can not enter old age with a man who only lives in a surface reality and can't talk about anything that makes him remotely awkward.

The time is coming. I have to do this. I will use a kitten as a sop to Rosie. Best for her that she doesn't grow up with a mother full of bitterness.

I have to remain focused, detached and not cry.

Working mum

The problem with having a kid at "big school" is they're hardly ever there! She only started in January and it seems I contend with a week off every other week.

Last week I welcomed a new job into the comfortable fold of my "home office" only to be reminded later that evening of the two week Easter break teetering round the corner.

This week has been the most stressful week I've encountered since becoming a working mum. (Apart from feeding her breakfast on the 7:23 to Waterloo every day when she was a baby).

This week there's been a lot of carting between SE London and SW London to my mum's (best woman in the world btw). The two milimetre gap between the two places on a map is deceptive - it takes FOREVER.

But on Tuesday it was my turn. I looked after Rosie and her friend.

"Okay, now we'll go to the park to collect sticks in about ten minutes," I said. "But first I just have to go upstairs to make this work call ok. Can you be quiet for ten minutes?" (Little head nods.)

Upstairs in bedroom - Dora to the left, Barbie to the right and Scooby sitting on my bedside table. I make a series of "serious" phone calls in my "serious" voice.

Then footsteps and in comes my baby talking in her little high pitched voice. I leap over her pink plastic castle and rush out of the room talking loudly into my handset to drown out her lovely little voice. I cough a lot and clear my throat, tell my boss "excuse me a minute" while pressing the phone hard into my leg to block the sound and saying "go downstairs" in a whisper shout.

Time's been the enemy. But then that's what this diary's all about. Time, and the lack of it.

Child soldiers and botox

Kids' party a success. Baby dodgems, merry-go-round and massive soft play area with gigantic slide meant all the little cherubs were bright pink and sweaty for three solid hours.

At first Nat sulked.

"It's a bit dirty," he said, pointing his nose in the air and eyeing an uncleared table of food. Ignored him and played host.

When Dougal appeared he perked up. Dougal took his baby son into the baby area where the coloured balls fill the floor space. I heard Nat saying, "Dougal, come on the big slide with me" and realised he has the mental age of five. No wonder he can't discuss serious issues like a woman's spiralling fertility.

Later I saw Dougal and Nat running round to the bottom of the ladder thing which would take them back up again. Their faces were pouring with sweat and their beady eyes darted this way and that to make sure they'd be first in line.

Rosie enjoyed it hugely. But the most bizarre thing happened. On the table to my left I saw my old boss - Ms Scary Botox herself - who was there with her three year old son and a sticky out tummy.

Of course she's not Scary Botox anymore - she's now part-time earth mother extraordinaire.
When she saw me she smiled and her face looked warm and human. I remembered the days when she gave me my career break and how when she laughed (which wasn't often) her skin didn't move.

She'd been a dark, dominating force, a woman who could make or break careers who terrified everyone. And there she was, in full pregnancy splendour - fat bum, baggy eyes, yogurt smeared clothes and a visibly happy face.

Anyway, got jealous of her bump but was too busy to get sad.

Also, am reading the most harrowing book called A Long Way Gone for book club and say to myself how lucky and privileged I am to have the life I have. Keep almost bursting into tears on the tube. It's a true story about a child soldier in Sierra Leone.

Am thinking of referring Rosie to it every time she groans about petty stuff like having her hair washed or not watching TV.

Tonight she told me that when she'd lit a candle at Canterbury Cathedral (the January jaunt the day after I told Nat I wanted to split up) - that she'd wished she wouldn't die. She asked if it would come true. I replied,

"You won't die for a very, very long time."
Rosie: "Never?"
Me: "Well, not for a long, long time."
Rosie: "Will you die?"
Me: "Yes, one day."
Rosie: "What did you wish?"
Me: "I wished for another baby so you can have a brother or sister."
Rosie: "Well I don't want you to wish for that - i want you to wish not to die."
Me: "Okay."
Rosie: "And then you won't die?"
Me: "Well, maybe - when I'm very old."
Rosie: "No, I don't want you to die even then okay?"
Me: "Okay."