Lil shoes…

So, it seems J has swine flu. He’s really really ill, bed-ridden, shaking, feverish, sick. I had to take Violet to the nursery this morning, then go to the doctors to pick up some tamiflu for him, then go to work 2 hours late. I have to leave an hour early to pick Violet up. It’s only my second day back at work and already I’m ringing up with problems.

Still, it’s actually good to be back here. I never thought I’d say that. But it’s a rest, a break from babyland. As beautiful as she is, she’s exhausting! Course, this ‘excitement’ will soon wear off. Right now I’m filing and I’m not bored yet. In fact I’m amusing myself with people’s surnames – Smallbone, Longstaff (!) and Maw. That’s one of my favourite words – maw. It’s like a cross between mouth and jaw.

I’m loving my journey in to work too. An hour-long two-bus ride and I get to spend the time reading. That’s something I’ve missed so much. Being at work means I can start that road to rediscovery, in crappy psychology jargon. I’ve been ‘mother’ and nothing else for 7 months. It’s time to get Rachel back. Not that I can leave the other identity behind, I have to go to the toilets for half an hour a day to express milk, because if I don’t I get really painful breasts! Apart from that though, it’s back with the wacky make up, the costume jewellery, painted nails, fake fur coat, long swishy skirts, contact lenses… I’m getting reacquainted with my materialistic side.

This new solo album by Juliette Lewis is fantastic by the way. I highly recommend it.

So little time for words. So little brain-space. Need to read. And write, some time. In the mean-time, the now-time, I’m off to the hairdressers this afternoon. Getting me to the hairdressers is like getting a cat to the vet. I really really hate going. But, needs must. My hair is coming out in handfuls since I had Violet. Lovely. Speaking of which, here is my beautiful 6 month old:

ps. was watching a Shakira video the other day. She-Wolf. Boy, that woman is bendy. It’s not natural.

Been gone a while. Been floating round the ether. Been plucking strands of spider webs like harp strings. Been painting the nursery. Been watching things grow. The tomatoes in the back yard didn’t turn red this year and neither did I. Still green around the gills. I can’t find the lead to upload the photos onto my pc. Bah. My dress is a sticky mess. It always washes out but it always re-appears as baby rice or puke. The white stains. I dreamt that as I approached the bathroom I saw a puddle of milk spreading slowly from underneath the door. As worrisome as water. As sinister as blood. Last night I dreamt I had a goose. I kept leaving her behind, on the bus, in cafes. But I always got her back. I dreamt we had to write a book review and bring the book in (to school?) with us. I couldn’t do it. Braindead. So I brought a toy in instead. I haven’t been writing and there’s little time for reflection. My dreams say it all. Sleep is the aperture.

I feel big. In stature. In comparison. My hands are so big on her little body, her hands tiny as they grab my fingers. I feel big with responsibility for this dependent little soul. I feel big with morals and decisions and choices that no longer only affect me and my partner. I feel big with fear, I feel pregnant with it, of anything bad that might happen to her. I feel big with life, even now.

And, I feel like a child sometimes. Silly. Fun-loving. Hence:
What are babies for if not for ‘styling’ their hair into a mohican?

V has had her first art gallery experience and cemetery experience. Today she had her first train ride. She sat looking at three teenage lads the whole of the 40 minute journey. Really stared at them. Obviously she’s trying to figure boys out. I told her not to bother, that they’ll never make sense to us!

We seem to spend so much time moving our shit from one side of the room to the other. However, we finally invested in some floor-to-ceiling shelves so now ALL our shit can live in one place. I’m the worst time and space manager in the world and this has been totally intensified since having Violet. At least having these shelves means I don’t have my books mixed up with library books in stacks all over the house.

I have quite a few (auto)biographies. I’m quite addicted to them. I spent all morning putting them in size order. I’ve definitely been off work too long! These are they from largest to smallest (look, I did my first smiley!):

Anita Berber
Henry Miller
Spike Milligan
Janet Frame
Courtney Love
John Peel
Colette
Anais Nin
Simone de Beauvoir
Elsbeth Bathory
Joan of Arc
Marlene Dietrich
Orson Welles
Edith Piaf
Tamara de Lempicka
Philip K Dick
Nancy Spungen
Marianne Faithful
Frances Farmer

Yum. I want to read them alllllll again please.

I’m melting into the music, the darkness of it, the rust and chains and needles and knives. The blackness of this NIN album. I am alone in the house. I have, at most, an hour of solitude, so needed, so very needed and appreciated. The music is so loud. My doubts are swept under the welcome mat with the ding of the microwave on repeat and the hot steamy sterilized bottles and the tiny pink dresses and blankets, nappies bundled and binned, hands washed and washed, baby talk, lullabyes, childrens tv. I’m craving something sinister in me, something dark and crafty. But I am lactating as I type this. There is milk soaking through my t-shirt and I realize my destiny. But still, but still  give me at least the shadow and the memory of drink and drugs and fags and words words words. I didn’t realise how badly not-writing would affect me.

Until I can reverse the spell, here is part 3 of my Paris novel The Blush, at Dogmatika:
http://dogmatika.wordpress.com/2009/05/27/the-blush-iii/

I hurt my back. It hurt so much I lay in bed crying because I couldn’t move. I am such a wimp. But it kept spasming when I moved my arms or legs, tried to pick Violet up, tried to stand, get out of bed, whatever. The doctor said I’ve damaged the ligaments, which is apparently very common in that first year because of the way they soften during pregnancy.

My teeth have gone to crap, partly because I have less calcium in my body I guess, but also because I keep forgetting to clean them, being awake at such random hours.

Nearly lost it at the weekend. The crying was getting to be too much. She was stressing me out which was stressing her out. I had to go to my mothers, hand her over, say let me go back to bed, please. I think someone will be coming round to check I’m okay. They’re pretty good here at keeping an eye on new mothers.

Anyway, apart from all this I have this slight ‘nesting’ sensation I never had before. I always wanted to live out of a suitcase, move from flat to house to flat. If I could I would have lived in a hotel. I like the impermance of that idea. But now, well, the house must be scrubbed clean (I cleaned my front door [albeit a little half-heartedly]. I never cleaned a front door in my life!) and a nursery created. It’s about time she moved from beside my bed to her own room. We’re thinking a pale, sunny yellow. Any other ideas? Input? I’d love to fill the walls with pictures and I do have a few handmade things (made by friends). Time for me to get creative in a slightly different way.

Raspberries. Strawberriesblackberriesblackcurrantsredcurrantscherries… It’s hot and I’m craving red fruits for some reason. Sticky and thirst-quenching and oozing between fingers and down chins. And grass stains and sun-reddened skin and drowsiness and the droning of insects and the smell of soil and cigarettes. Loud music and laughter and cold beer. My daughter is asleep in her vest with the hot pink bow on the front and I’m thinking about making new memories. She’s the littlest boho and I want her to travel and see all the things there are to see. To learn languages and read books and learn to play a musical instrument and… oh, you need money for those things don’t you. In that case I want her to learn about all the wonderful FREE things like fruit-picking and picnics and skinny-dipping and sand castles. Oh this weather is really affecting me! A couple of days of sunshine and I think I’m living in the south of France instead of this shitty, dog-eaten, flea-bitten, mouldy old rented house in the grotty part of town. Thinking of holidays and thinking of how I will get this novel published and earn lots of money and never have to work again. Thinking of cigarettes that don’t kill you and white wine that stays cold and a blissful baby that never cries.

I had no idea how much I would have to change to accommodate (sp) a new person in my life. That I would have to re-evaluate everything. That my chaotic personality would have to change. That I would need to introduce structure and routine into the everyday. I didn’t realize how scatterbrained I am. How forgetful. How disorganized. How things change.

Some pictures. From last week. I spent a few days at my sister’s gorgeous little cottage in Gloucestershire, with my mother. It was a very restful and relaxing time and lovely to have 3 generations together. I always like to hear my mother talk about her childhood and her family. I will I will I will write that book about her one day!