Alone again, naturally going mad....

Since DH and myself are once again separated  by oceans, continents and time-zones (we will join him after Christmas), and without the all encompassing sorrow of hovel-house, nightmare neighbours or fears over DH's liberty, I find myself now free to focus 100% on being a demoralised single-parent.

They don't!

As I write, I am sitting in the cafe in Eason's bookstore, nursing a cappuccino, facing the self-help section, which given my current state of mind, seems appropriate. From where I sit, Louise L. Hay assures me that I can heal my life; Paul McKenna promises that he will make me sleep (not without wine he won't) and Sherry Argov explains why men marry bitches (apart from Brad Pitt, generally they don't: Men are uncomplicated creatures and prefer women of a similar persuasion --insofar as is possible, what with them being women and all -- and want to marry a woman who will make his dinner, give him a cuddle and occasionally go down on him.  And if she is better looking than his mates wives, well that's a definite bonus.)

When I say 'having a cappuccino' I omit to mention the 13-month-old-boy-child who is busily tipping his smoothie all  over his head and mashing a wet biscuit into his face and clothing. Every so often he will struggle forward in his highchair and violently grab anything within reach from the table, flinging it forcefully onto the floor. His high-chair is surrounded by debris and by the time we leave the cafe we've left what appears to be a mini food-fight behind us.  And despite the rather dolorous-looking waitress, I leave a couple of euro's on the table out of guilt.

Babies of this age, whilst for the most part adorable, have a cold, hard quality at times.  Leaning close to request a kiss 'kiss mama, baby, kiss mama?' he will grab my hair violently and tug it until my eyes water.  Proffering a warm, lovingly-made bottle -- with a little dash of honey -- he will lean forward, snatch the bottle, and fling it as far away from himself as he can -- his gaze not once leaving mine -- with all the warmth of a serial killer.  All my babies did this, and it never ceased to amuse and disturb me.  And just as you start to think you're hot-housing a mini Charles Manson, they will suddenly snuggle up close, place a soft, pudgy hand on your face, and land a hot wet smacker on your cheek 'wahhh....mama...'!


These moments make the lone-parent experience more bearable.


Without the bolstering solace of a partner returning in the evening to help chase the kids up to bed, respond to the inevitable text -- 'milk bread nappies WINE!!!' -- on his way home from work, or to just sit and sneer at the egomaniacs on 'Come dine with me' over a glass of wine; being a single parent is a silent and lonely existence where contact with your partner is hindered by phone rates and typing ability (DH's) not to mention a drastic time difference. I drift from task to task, room to room, alone with my thoughts, wondering what my new life will hold for me, what will it look like, what will it FEEL like? Do I want to go? Do I have a choice? No.

This rather cerebral way of living eventually induces a state of semi-madness. My life seems to have  become a series of lost items 'where are the keys/my bag/the hairdryer/the brush?' as my daughter drags a fork through her hair before school.

I'm standing in Tesco pondering the dishwasher tabs.  I make a selection and start to move on before a large American man beside me advises-

- 'these are better value,  you get twice the amount'.

-'Oh, do you?' (WHO CARES? I am truly not very interested in spending any longer than twenty seconds on dishwasher tabs).

-'Yeah, these are like, eight dollars' he continues, staring hard at the box'.

-'Well, one must shop around I suppose' I offer, slowly edging away from what just might be the dullest conversation ever.

The man steps back to reveal his wife -- to whom he had been speaking the whole time -- who is also engaged in examining the many boxes on display.

'I'm going mad' I ponder as I quietly move on, face burning: 'what must they think of me, a mad woman talking to strangers in the supermarket'.  To salvage some dignity I talk to the baby, as if it were he that I was talking to all along. About dishwasher tabs.

And finally...

Forgetting something?

The X factor seems to now have descended into farce; even by it's own standards.  Frankie -- who 'sings' rather like a pre-pubescent version of Marlon Brando in the Godfather -- seems immune to the fact that it is supposedly a 'singing' competition, and Kitty, who's make-up artist is clearly used to working on drag-queens, seems to keep forgetting her skirt.

Apart from Janet, the rest are pretty unremarkable, yes Mischa can sing -- in that aggressive, slightly scary Tina Turner sort of way -- but she still bores me senseless, as does the fat one, and the one who's dream it is to actually go into Marks and Spencer rather than just walking past (hey, you gotta dream, right?).  And the girl-band? Really, who cares? No, it's still Gary that keeps me tuning in each week....