Bittersweet

The house is quiet and feels empty.  After a short burst of after-school mania it fell suddenly and strangely quiet  when David arrived and whisked the children off to Forfar for the weekend to see their cousins and grandparents.  Having seen the children every day for the past three weeks (almost), a weekend without them – with them almost 200 miles and a motorway journey away – is going to seem a little strange.

Normally I relish my ‘quiet single time’, as anyone who has read any of my other blogposts will know: and I’m not unhappy now, just suffering from a tinge of sadness.  In fact they’ve been driving me bonkers much of the time this week and I have plenty of things planned for the weekend – but I awoke yesterday feeling slightly melancholic and the feeling hasn’t yet passed.

I’m not sure why I felt this pensive sadness yesterday.  Perhaps it was just tiredness, but I felt a little gloomy at work.  I had a practice yesterday evening at St. Cuthberts in Carlisle for tomorrow’s concert, which went well I think – though I really need to revise some of my words and entries! – and woke up singing this morning.

A text from my brother in law to say his wife is pregnant was thrilling but made me acutely aware that I will have no more children.  I don’t actually want any more but being almost through the menopause means I won’t be able to anyway (let alone the fact that I don’t have a partner at present).  I can’t complain: having been undeservedly and ridiculously fertile into my late 40s and having three gorgeous children is more than I could have dreamed of.  For women who want, but haven’t had, children, every time they hear of someone close to them becoming pregnant it must be like a knife turning in a never-healing wound.

Then I had an argument with David about money.  We seem to argue more now than when we were together: either we care less so it matters less, or we were both burying feelings when we were together.  The trouble is that rowing still upsets me and makes me feel vulnerable: I feel attacked and criticised and unsure whether to fight back or just to let it drop.  After all I have to live near this man, and he is the father of my children.  The temptation to move further away is still strong, but perhaps that would just be running away from the pain rather than facing up to it and becoming stronger.

Come what may, I have a roaring fire in the wood-burner, a concert tomorrow at which I am going to wear my new sparkly red dress, loads of writing and decorating to do, and my friend Kath is coming round shortly for a run and for supper.  Whilst the tears don’t feel far away at present, I have a fantastic weekend to look forward to and I am sure by the time the children arrive home on Sunday evening my mood will have lifted and there will be cuddles and laughter with them before bedtime.

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