Small.

It is the small things that make my life worth living on some days.

Spent most of my night disentangling my daughter's sweaty arms from around my neck and avoiding the drool spot on my pillow. There are three other pillows in the bed, but it's mine she wants. A sleepless night - not much to commend it, except waking up to a soft-lashed round face not an inch away from mine saying 'love you beeg mama'. That's okay kid, you can tangle yourself around me anytime.

We made a cake. There was batter all over the kitchen and ourselves. I flaked batter when I walked. But she mixed and poured it herself. Worth the mess just to see how pleased she was with herself.

Went to the park by the lake for a picnic. Practiced how to swing like a big girl, and mama got her ass wedged in the kiddie swing trying to prove a point. My daughter's helpless glee was worth the momentary embarassment in front of the po-faced matrons any day.

Fed the ducks. Watched my girl gather enough courage to pat a dog all by herself. She was so proud afterwards, she swaggered. Her little bum was positively twinkling with glee.

Managed to road test some tricycles. Decided that we want the one with the silver streamers and the low rider seat and high rake handlebars. She has taste.

Stopped into a cafe to have lunch. We shared smoked oysters salad and a bowl of Pad Thai. I got to actually eat my lunch all the way through. We conversed in a fashion and I learned that Ella likes lollipops and cake and so does Daddy and Mummy has the same water bottle as Mouse and did I know that Elmo had a fish and a telephone. Among other things. I ate my lunch with my daughter.

And a lady stopped to tell me how well behaved my child was. I thought she was just being herself. And that made me feel terrific.

And I got to finish the book I am reading while she napped in the sun. Stretched out on a blanket, my girl curled like a spoon around my back, for a moment I was blissfully and transcedentally happy. And that filtered through today like fairy dust.

Days like these, I know I am doing it right. I tell you, it's the small things that save your sanity.

Gone.

So this great board for mothers on the Net is closing its doors for good. Sad.

It was a place that I found when I was heavily pregnant with my Mouse and completely and utterly confused as to what it meant to have a child.

It was a mothering site for all mothers who didn't buy into the cherub cheeked softly sleeping angel mythology of children. Who knew that children are messy and hard work and keep you away from the things you were and are sometimes more effort than anyone else led you to believe. It was a mothering site for women who weren't on the tennis club board, who drove second hand cars, who hadn't spent their whole lives wanting to get married and live in a house with a picket fence. It was a mothering site for women who got angry about the state of the world that they'd brought their kids into, who wanted to do something - instead of just sitting back and plopping the kids in front of Barney.

It was a place for mothers who thought about what it meant to be a mother and a woman and a sister and a daughter and a partner and an activist and a human being.

I was an overachieving, control freak when I had my child. 2 days later I was a sobbing mess, contemplating walking under a bus. Thinking that of all the mistakes I'd made in my life, thinking I could do THIS - this mothering gig - was the worst. Debating whether anyone on the street could do a better job.

I got pointed to that site. And I found support and love and kindness. That place stopped me from spiralling down into a hole so deep that the light of rescue wouldn't even dent the darkness.

But things change, as all things do.

I left there a while ago. It got too big. People stopped treating each other like people and started treating each other like usernames. My voice, being middle class and part of the problem - wasn't wanted. People got so busy trying to score debating points that they forgot that there was a human being reacting to their words. Too much anger, too much unkindness, too much ugliness.

I got tired of re-reading pleas for understanding from women whose skin was darker than mine. Why the fuck were they still needing to educate a supposedly smart user population? Why weren't people getting it? How many times must a mother of colour talk about predjudice to white mothers before she gives up in sadness and resignation? We are supposed to be her sisters.

I got tired of feeling like I was the establishment when I knew I wasn't. I felt judged on my background and on my privileges, not on my heart.

People kept taking the easy way out of debates. It was more about belittling rather than educating; more about condemnation rather than enlightenment.

I guess people got tired.

But hey. For all the bitterness and dramas and nastiness that happened over the past year - the place was still unique. It didn't treat mothers as people who'd lost their intellect by virtue of giving birth. There were thought provoking discussions, and people donating their time and efforts into making a difference.

So I couldn't stand the heat. Big deal. That doesn't take away what wonderful people I met there. And what incredible ideals those women held dear. I learned a lot about politics, child raising, and fierceness in the face of adversity and love.

RIP Hipmama, the experiment may be over - but you did make a difference.

Blank.
I can't think of anything to write today, yet I promised myself that I would try to write everyday, even if it's merely the linguistic diarrhea of a disfunctional brain. Where's the Peptobismol?

Why I am Blank.
I am tired. My child is having night terrors, which cause her to wake up screaming about 'big fish' and 'monstas' at 3am. That means I get up and lug her into bed with me, where she instantly falls asleep, arms around my neck, and kicks the shit out of me all night.
Question: Why don't kids ever sleep in when they've had a rough night? Why are they just as chipper on 4 hours less sleep when you are a growling headachy zombie?

I am exhausted. There are all sorts of dramas going on around me and every time I think I have one smoothed down, another one sits up and asks me to unruffle its feathers. Some days I feel like mother to the world. And who's mothering me?
Question: Why do people always think that I can fix what's broken or sort things out? I can't. I often make things worse. Just look at my life.

I am worn out. I need a vacation. We haven't had a vacation of any kind in a year and a half, and trust me, it's been the kind of year that simply begs to be sitting in a lounger by a pool drinking umbrella drinks and being fanned by bronzed cabana boys. I have this fantasy of taking off by myself with a shopping bag full of Makers Mark and some crime novels - but I think we have enough money to get me to the next block. And we need a family holiday more than I need one all on my lonesome.
Question: Is a vacation somewhere you go to leave your real life behind or to find your real life? And can someone tell me what you do when a vacation isn't an option?

I am weary. I am weary of the tug of war that passes for my marriage. We have two good weeks and then a crappy day and then triplets of careful avoidance. I just want this journey we are on to be over. I sometimes imagine being 70 years old and laughing about all this, but I sure ain't laughing now. Stop already. Let the fun begin. AGAIN.
Question: After all this time, is there any chance that we can both let go of 18 months of grudges and get on with being happy? Does it always have to be so much hard work? Can't it be easy for once?

I am bored. I love my child and I love spending time with her. But the unrelenting monotony of the days is grinding my bones into dust lately. LaundryCookingCleaningTidyingRepeat. Weekends I get a break thanks to hub but then it looks like CookingCleaningTidyingRepeat. Interspersed with having a giggle with my kid of course, but understand me - singing 'The Wheels on the Bus' for the 9th time gets boring too. So does warding off tantrums; wiping noses, negotiating the eating of carrots and picking up the Lego for the umpteenth time. So does not having an adult conversation about books, politics, feminism or anything else that matters to me. Mattered to me. Once.
Question: Since it is a privilege to stay home in this cut throat economy, do I have any right at all to bitch?

So that's my entry for today. I am cradling my child in my lap and she appears to be getting another cold. More sleepless nights ahead, poor little one.
Question: If they can put a space shuttle in orbit, why can't they find some precious substance out of toddler snot?

Childhood.
I was watching my daughter referee a heated argument between her stuffed elephant and her teddy bear when it struck me how beautiful the imagination is. 2 years ago, my daughter could barely comprehend the nose at the end of my face, let alone imagine complicated scenarios involving the spilling of juice on a carpet that wasn't her fault. (It's all the fault of something that was bought at the Hudson's Bay Company and has a tag attached).
Where did that come from?
She thinks that her bear is real. She really does. She tells it off and smacks it when she thinks I am not looking. She stands it in the corner and does a killer imitation of me wagging my finger and attempting to look stern.
She really believes.
Which makes me remember all the things that were crucial to my little bubble of childhood and that gradually got discarded or winnowed away in my quest to be a 'grownup'.

Things I believed as a child:

• That if I put on a bath towel and tied it around my neck with a clothespin - I could in fact, fly and read people's thoughts.


• That if I prayed hard enough, my wish would come true. It took be a long time to get over the loss of this belief.


• That stepping on a crack on the sidewalk would indeed break my mothers back.


• That if I swallowed an apple seed, it would grow in my tummy.


• That Bambi was a real deer.


• That boys hated girls.


• That my toys came out and played at night when I was asleep.


• That if you shaved your legs, it would grow back so hairy you'd be an ape and have to shave them every day for the rest of your life.


• That they put special dye in swimming pools that would turn red if you peed.


• That my mother was the most beautiful woman in the world. She lit up rooms. (Actually she still does).


• That my father was the strongest the bravest and most importantly - the tallest man in the world. There was nothing he didn't know. (I am pretty much still convinced on this one, actually)


• That being a teenager would be great.


• That something lived under my bed, and waited till my mother kissed me good night before it started breathing and waiting for me to hang my foot over the edge of the mattress.


• That you could put off wearing a bra by punching yourself in the chest to push them back in.


• That babies were made when you got a boy's tongue in your mouth.


• That little tiny people lived among the blades of grass on our lawn and if you left out your dollhouse or your toy cars, they thought it was a present from the sky.


• That you could send babies back where they came from. I spent 6 years of my life as a disgruntled former star of the family, fervently wishing my sisters back into the ether. I am so glad that didn't work. Adulthood is better with sisters.

My child reminds me of these things. There's no greater gift than being able to remember the fantasies of childhood, I think. Maybe kids do keep you young. I just wish I remembered that more often.

Alone.

Yup.

My child has gone to daycare and I am staying home. Hub took her and everything.

Wow, I thought, I'll:

• Jump on the beds.


• Eat corn chips and watch Linda Evans movies at midday.


• Play Nine Inch Nails really loud.


• Dance to The Temptations without putting my kid into hysterics.


• Surf all day on the Net. Maybe go rant a bit.


• Go see a slushy movie with Hugh Jackman. Correction: go see this slushy movie and mentally X out Meg Ryan's face.

But was not to be.

Did you expect anything different?

A client has decided his web site must go up by Monday to ensure that the myriads of prospective buyers who will see his new ad won't be put off by his lame ass website.

He changed his mind about the design which he previously thought was okay at 3pm today. He decided that copy for web sites should be as long and as verbose as possible - say small Romance novel length. And go on and on and on about such riveting details as 'integrated end to end claims processing' and 'strategic 3rd party alliances'. GACK.

So guess who's been churning out this kind of dreck all day?

Well. Okay, I took a break at 8am.

I was up at 5am to hit our smoke detector repeatedly with my shoe since it kept squawking. There was no smoke, it just does that sometimes until I beat it. And it feels good to hit something so hard, so early.

So yeah, my break at 8am consisted of sitting in the early morning Sydney sun with a strong cup o' Joe and Lenny Kravitz. Helped to drown out the sounds of Abba playing next door. (what's with the Abba revival anyway? They were crap then and they are crap now, only now they have wrinkles and pot bellies. Go back to Sweden and eat some herring).

I surfed a little - I went here and here and here.

And then did some maintenance on my own bulletin board before the hordes descended. The community I shepherd through motherhood is a weird and wondrous bunch of women, let me tell ya. If there is an opinion to be voiced - they ain't shy. And they aren't askeered to email me and tell me off either. My inbox had 182 messages today. Only spat out my coffee twice at truly hilarious posts. Where were they all when I was stumbling around blind and crazed in the first few months after my child's birth? Makes me feel good that other mamas don't have to do those kind of yards. At least not alone.

Okay - back to work. Yadda yadda. Boring, boring. How do people work from home on boring stuff? How can anyone sit in front of a computer rabbiting on about 'experience in all aspects of innovative technology that enables the provision of state of the art system solutions that deliver tangible business benefits.' Without wanting to drink absinthe? How can anyone be expected to read this with any kind of interest at all? Especially straight? Except sadly, I know there are folks that do. I have met them in my previous life as a Knowledge Management consultant. If male: they wear beige sweaters, wide wale corduroy pants with brown suede shoes and have comb overs or if the female of the species - they wear elasticised waist skirts in cheerful flowered patterns partnered with a pastel synthetic blouse with a brooch on one shoulder. You just know they have a pair of Vulcan ears in their closet.

So yeah. Must write this shit.

Stop for lunch. Notice evidence of rodent in kitchen. I hate that little fucker. He's been defying my humane trap for two weeks now - stealing the bait, depositing little dry turds on my kitchen counter so I have to get out the anti-bacterial arsenal if I want a drink of water and scampering across the floor at 4am when I want a glass of milk. He made me shriek last night. I craftily bait the slammin'jammin' trap with some napalm drenched chocolate Easter egg and pray to the vermin gods to show some justice. I put up with the Palmetto bugs and the Funnel Webs okay? I cannot stand rodents of any description, and especially not when they tap dance across my counters with top hats and canes.

Back to computer. Check email. Idly message someone. Swear at client who seems to think we can give him a $20000 web site for $1.95 and a handshake. Grind teeth and write more sentences like: "Our product streamlines every aspect of your business processes whilst eliminating organizational and geographical boundaries." (I mean who uses 'whilst' in a conversation?)

So here I sit. It's 5:30pm. The day is gone.

I have written 4 pages of the most god awful boring drivel known to humanity, rejigged a web site, had handholding sessions with clients and artistes and there is a very very flat mouse in the kitchen. Good things come in (flattened) packages.

Weasels.

The car thing has finally been sorted out. I would love to say it was merely a misunderstanding and that there was every intention to pay - but I think not.

The backstory:

The car, an 18-year-old Saab died on a long 5 hour each way business trip, stranding my hub 3 hours out of town. Towing costs to our place would have run $600 bucks. Since it was the transmission, and a Saab, and this is Australia (land of tariffs and taxes) - it would have cost about another $2500 to fix. All this for a car that was only worth about $3000 to begin with. The motor club man towed the hulking carcass to a friendly local small town garage. The nice man at the garage liked the look of it, and told hub not to worry, he'd take care of it until Marc got home and figured out a way to get it home cheaply.

Day 1: Man calls from friendly garage. Lo and behold! His boss wants to buy the car, and will give us $1000 for it. We do happy dance of joy - no towing fees, no hassles, no advertising. I am however, deprived of taking a sledgehammer to it on the front lawn.

Day 3: No money. No cheque. Hub makes phone call to friendly garage. No one is available, but the cheque is in the mail. Lots of verbal backslapping and blokey stuff.

Day 5 - Day 12: same. Only imagine ever increasingly loud conversations and stamping around the Magnet household as it becomes apparent the friendly bumpkins think we are slickers ripe for the slicking. The mortgage looms. The first new car payment is imminent.

Day 14: BumpkinBoy calls home after heated discussion with Hub about said BumpkinBoy's boss. Rumour has it that Hub used words such as 'fucker', 'weasel' and 'baseball bat' and 'knees'. We stopped just short of using the phrase 'burn the fucker down'. After slamming the phone down on Hub, BumpkinBoy obviously relents and phones back. BumpkinBoy talks to wife who is nice and explains that if we were indeed the rich fools BumpkinBoy's boss thinks we are - we wouldn't be driving a 20-year-old car would we? Wife mentions 'cracker barrel dresses', 'siphoning water from the neighbours hose', 'giving our child a stick as a birthday present'… yadda yadda. BumpkinBoy agrees, counters with some ridiculous shit about funerals, bank robberies, assault charges - all of which have had a heavy toll on ToeCheeseBoss. Wife laughs politely and tells him that life is tough and then hangs up and opens a nice bottle of Black Opal Chardonnay.

Day 16: Hub talks to ToeCheeseBoss's wife who slams the phone down on him. Calling her hub a 'slime ball' may have had something to do with it.

Day 16.375: Hub talks to Bosses wife and calls her a nasty cow. And mentions that he's called the police before the phone is slammed down again.

Day 17: BumpkinBoy calls on behalf of ToeCheeseBoss. Eureka. ToeCheeseBoss assures him he is sighing the cheque today and that it will be in the mail.

Day 19: No cheque. ToeCheeseBoss will definitely do it today. Hub mentions that he has ToeCheeseBoss's home telephone number. And street address. Everything is oh so jovial after that.

Day 21: Hub calls ToeCheeseBoss. ToeCheeseBoss is away. ToeCheeseBoss doesn't return phone calls, even tho nasty cow wife helpfully mentions that 'he has yer number, ya knows'.

Day 22: Speaks to ToeCheeseBoss who says he's signed the cheque and his wife will deposit that afternoon. Obviously a mistake. We were obviously hearing in tongues.

Day 23: No money.

Day 24-26: No money. Hub calls ToeCheeseBoss who has some long story about the inefficiency of credit unions. Hub, having had horrible experiences with Aussie credit unions, readily concurs. Aussie banking ineptitude is legendary. Hub agrees to wait. It was after all Easter. God and Jesus and all that stuff.

Day 28: No money. ToeCheeseBoss unavailable on phone. Hub apoplectic with rage and talking about gasoline cans, baseball bats and men with a lot of tattoos. Wife not even attempting to be morally righteous since she suggested men with tatts and has emptied out some milk cartons for the gasoline. Men with tatts lined up and waiting, slapping their palms with barely contained glee - all for a crate of beer.

Day 29: No money. Hub phones pretending to be a lawyer and acting on behalf of Hub. Speaks to ToeCheeseBoss. Mr. Hub-As-Lawyer-man requests a faxed copy of the bank receipt to avoid further action.

Day 29.875: Money in account. Dated today.

I don't know what the moral of this story is - but my point is that if you are a country bumpkin trying to rip us off - try harder next time, cos the snare you set is the one that will catch you by the jubblies.

Yah boo sucks Plowboys. Don't let the cows cornhole you on your way out of our lives.

Suck.

NOTE: This is not about Larston.

I had a long internal debate as to whether to post this. But I have never backed away before, and I am not about to now.

I am talking about the kind of people who suck you dry and then leave you when you don't have any more to give. Those folks for whom just existing, is exhausting. Who are born with thinner skins, or less filters against the world than the rest of us. Who ask you for advice and you give it. And give it. And give it. Until you realise that it's not your advice they want, they want your total and immediate attention.

You care about these people. You lose sleep, you agonise, and you wring your hands and imagine the worst. And then… it blows over. And then it begins again. And yet again. And still again.

The dramas are real - they aren't imagined. They are just so frequent. And so overwhelming.

I guess I am not a good friend. I guess when other people kept going, I started to back away… saying 'no more'. I am not proud of that - but what else could I do? There are limits to my emotional resources. When every week brings a new crisis, each as heartrending and dramatic as the last one - how can I constantly respond at fever pitch? I spent so much time propping up that there was nothing left for me or my family. I missed things going on in my own life, because I was so focussed somewhere else.

I became hollow. Immune to the latest sagas. Something I never thought I'd be. When the biggest crisis came, I wasn't there. I was concentrating on myself and mine.

Not a nice person in retrospect. Harder than I want to be. Harder than I thought I was. There was simply no.more.left. It wasn't malicious - it was self-preservation.

It is bewildering when someone you've loved, shuts you down because you weren't fast enough with the responses, or not understanding enough, or maybe just exhausted.

I've gone from being a dear friend to someone talked about in secret. And I know it's going on. People talk. It hurts. I spent an awful lot of time being supportive and caring. And it wasn't faked. I did care, and I did give a damn. But *poof!* I am cast aside.

I am suddenly Not Useful. Cut loose. Silence. No real explanation. A whole history gone.

Just

Like

That.

Be well, my former friend. Really. I still worry and I still wonder. But I have my life to deal with, and it needs me.

take free enneagram testNow does that really surprise anyone?

Together.

The family had (thanks to Easter) an extended long weekend. It was surprisingly without incident, which was nice. A couple of spats, nothing major, the world didn't fall around my ears because my husband is mortal and my child behaved abominably.

Lo! We survived. We survived it ALL. And there was a lot to survive.

Friday: We got up early to take Mouse to the Easter Fair here. It's a horrible thing really - an overblown agricultural convention with spruikers trying to hustle you into parting with money to win a stuffed monkey, the smells of deep fried food hanging in the air like a mist curtain, and cows and sheep shitting all over the place. Mouse loved it. She didn't like the animals ("no cows mama", "no piggies mama", "no ducks mama") even though I schlepped her round the stalls grimly with my best National Geographic voice.
"No cows mama" for me either - I prefer nature under plexiglass or nicely garnished with some parsley.
She did love the rides. Marc and I took turns on who got the honorific of accompanying an eager 2 year old, and thereby risking life and limb and dignity.
I got stuck with the doofus ride, the one where you sit vacantly, the only adult on a big plastic swan, going round in circles to the tinny strains of 'Hooked on a Feeling' while staring off into space, pretending that you don't notice the crowds of giggling onlookers. Marc got the big slide and the whizzy roller coaster thing, though he did look a tad uncomfortable buckled in on a ride as big as he was - at least it went fast, and played Oasis. No big plastic swans for him.
We ate junk food, bought trashy toys which will poke our child's eyes out, and wandered around aimlessly spending cash we don't have in some sort of orgy of irresponsibility and light-hearted happiness. Mouse summarised the whole expensive day by announcing that the day was all about  'cow poo poo mama'. Argh, that's my girl. Money and shit, kid, money and shit.

We spent the next day shoe shopping, a thoroughly mind numbing thing to do, unless you are a toddler. Or a woman with an unlimited bank account and a shoe fetish. I am neither. Instead I got to shell out $75 for a pair of shoes that will be outgrown in 3 months and that were scuffed to rat shit without seconds of the first ceremonial wearing. Marc amused himself by announcing that his little girl would never be seen dead in certain shoes while living under his roof. I laughed. I've been a little girl. He hasn't a clue.

Yesterday - house hunting up the central coast of New South Wales. Houses are cheap. Land is cheaper and culture is nonexistent, but the air is fresh, the beaches are clean and empty and did I mention that houses are cheap?
Mouse grizzled the whole way there and back, threw a couple of spectacular tantrums in real estate agent offices which made me realise that I do indeed, suck as a mother. Dinner at the fine parenting restaurant with the golden arches and a compromise over the eating of chicken nuggets won with a balloon and some ice cream. Home in the car, singing loudly and with fake enthusiasm to The Wiggles, four aussie men who are very strange and sing songs like 'Woo Hoo Hey, I'm combing my hair today'. Good for you son, I think I'll drink.  Call me when you've clipped your toenails and I'll write a symphony for yez.  I swore I'd never do that. My child would grow up listening to grownup music. Well, your principles fall like matchsticks when you've had an hour of nonstop whining. These guys are like kiddie-crack. Just when you think you have the whole parenting thing down pat and on your terms - kids make you look like idiots.

And now it's today. The lawn has been mowed, dog poop has been picked up, the house has been vacuumed and there is peace. For the first time in a while, no festering silences, not a hostile muttering - nothing. I like this. I mean, I really like it. It's not about blame and who's at fault, and who did the worst to whom, but just who's trying the hardest. And who loves whom. Sometimes a marriage has a life of its own, despite us. This is a good thing.

Happy Easter.

Mine.

My child has the entire house to play in, and she persists in playing under my feet, hanging off the back of my chair, asking for cuddles-mama, and cheerfully yanking anything not nailed down off the desk.

I guess this is what it's like when you try and work from home.

Mine" she says as she grabs the keyboard, or pulls at the telephone cord.
"Mine" she says as she lovingly pats my cheek when I pick her up out of desperation and try to type one handed.

She rarely naps for longer than 30 minutes. There's too much to do and see.

I love her. But I am realising I have no space in this house that is MINE.

My bed has become hers most nights. And besides, I share that with my hub. Well I used to. It's hard to share with a toddler in the middle. He usually gives up. Who can blame him? When we do go to bed together - it's not for private time, its for that thing which parents of toddlers snatch at, because it's a long time between innings.

And on a rare night when I start off asleep without hub or baby, it's not long before one or the other ends up draped over me, snoring into my hair. Taking an chance, I guess.

I walk to the kitchen with a child at my heels, or hanging on my leg. I cook, jumping over toddler stuff. I can weave a ballet of magnificence through trucks and dolls and shoes and toddler debris. I can cook conversing with a 2 year old. I can cook talking to my hub when he comes home. I rarely cook alone.

The bathroom isn't mine; because the minute the door is closed, 2-year-old fists bang on it, demanding to learn more about toilet training.  Wanting to see the practical exercise. Or there are shouted questions regarding plans for the weekend or requests for instructions on child care coming from the only other adult in the house. It has taken me 3 weeks to read the Sunday Paper Magazine.

The back deck isn't mine, because if I go out there, my child immediately stops whatever she is doing and presses her face against the glass door, flailing at it with her fists, weeping because I have abandoned her.

I have this little piece of the rumpus room with a desk and an old chair and a computer - and that's it. And even then, when I am online or working on something - it's not MINE.

My child takes the fact that I am sitting down, as an opportunity for a lap and crawls into it, stands on my thighs, musses my hair, and yanks up her shirt to display her belly button for me to blow raspberries onto. I type around her, blowing raspberries with one eye on the monitor.

My hub, seeing the back of my head, takes that as an invitation to talk, or ask me a question that requires more than yes, no, uh-uh, for an answer. Or assumes I am pissed off at him when I go monosyllabic cos I am reading or creating. I am not; I just have no physical place to go to be alone with myself, so I need to create one in my head. He ends up hurt. I end up pissed off. And tired of explaining. He is not a man who needs a great deal of personal space.

My child is ramming my chair as I write this with her ride-on truck. "Please don't", I say. "Please, don't. Play over there, please." I am begging a 2 year old. I can feel tears in my throat.

She rams that damn truck again into my chair and gets it stuck underneath. In her attempt to free it - she smashes my foot. It hurts. I pick up the truck and heave it down the hall in a fit of rage and irritation. It goes a long way. Then I cuddle her, feeling lousy.

Maybe I'll get up early tomorrow.