I was driving today and suddenly my entire body was covered in a cold sweat as I realised I couldn't remember Jessica's exact birthday. I just couldn't recall if it was the 8th or the 9th of the month. I think I actually went into a state of paralysis for a split-second as the shock of the moment entered me.
Within another instant, I remembered exactly which day it was, but the fact that I'd forgotten it - even though it happened for less than a moment - shook me up completely.
After I parked the car, I sat in it for ages before getting out, just trying to gather my thoughts and calm myself down. I felt like phoning Martin to tell him what had happened and I started getting his name up in my Contacts list on my mobile, but I changed my mind. I don't know. Maybe I was too embarrassed to tell him I'd forgotten the birthday. Maybe I thought he wouldn't understand why my memory lapse had terrified me so much, albeit briefly.
Then I got out of the car and... got back to work. Everything just always seems to be about getting back to this or getting re-acquainted with that. Is it worth the bother?
Is this what things are going to be like now? Will I gradually start forgetting things to do with Jessica?
Am I making too much of a brief blip?
Tuesday, 27 February 2007
Tuesday, 13 February 2007
Titles
I keep hearing titles of films which make some reference - explicit or implicit - to children. I haven't seen the films, but as soon as I hear the titles, I create narratives in my head. And all the narratives somehow return to deaths of children.
Little Children - a woman spends her life trying to cope with the fact that she will never have a relationship with a child older than the age of 4 because none of her children seem to be able to live past this age.
Children Of Men - a woman loses her children in a horrible accident caused by her irresponsible, immature husband.
The City Of Lost Children - a fable in which young children are whisked away from their parents to a place where their souls are used to feed the world.
Au Revoir Les Enfants - the story of a support group set up by people trying to cope with the deaths of their children.
Children Of A Lesser God - a family tries to deal with the loss of a child who was accidentally killed by a priest.
Is this becoming too morbid?
Little Children - a woman spends her life trying to cope with the fact that she will never have a relationship with a child older than the age of 4 because none of her children seem to be able to live past this age.
Children Of Men - a woman loses her children in a horrible accident caused by her irresponsible, immature husband.
The City Of Lost Children - a fable in which young children are whisked away from their parents to a place where their souls are used to feed the world.
Au Revoir Les Enfants - the story of a support group set up by people trying to cope with the deaths of their children.
Children Of A Lesser God - a family tries to deal with the loss of a child who was accidentally killed by a priest.
Is this becoming too morbid?
Monday, 5 February 2007
Letters
Ages ago I read a book by a woman dying of cancer. I think her name may have been Ruth Picardie and I think she was a journalist. The point is that at the end of her book, she included copies of some letters she'd written to her children which she wanted to them to have as a keepsake after her death. The thing I remember most about the letters is that they included details about what the children were like at the time the letters were written, tiny little facts like, "Your favourite crisps are salt and vinegar," or, "You have two sugars in your tea."
If things had been the other way around and I'd been dying of some disease and Jessica had been aged 1, what would I have included in a letter to her?
"Your Daddy and I always fill your room with the smell of lavender, because it makes you sleep better. We even wash your clothes in a special lavender water. Your skin always has a faint, delicate scent of lavender.
"Sometimes, when you can't sleep, Daddy takes you for a drive in his car, with one of his Philip Glass CDs playing very quietly. That always seems to do the trick. A few turns round the block and you close your eyes and start breathing gently. Then when Daddy parks outside the house, he sends me a text message to say he's back. I open the front doort as quietly as I can and he brings into the house, carries you up the stairs and into your room.
"Most nights, you sleep right the way through. I think you've been quite kind to us, really. I've heard all sorts of stories of babies wailing all the way through every single night for months and months, but you weren't really like that. We've had our sleepless nights, of course, but less than our fair share, I suspect.
"There's a look you sometimes get in your eyes which makes me think you must be quite intelligent. Sometimes, your Daddy and I will be talking and then, out of the corner of my eye, I'll see you watching us with this fierce intensity. Your little head wobbles from one of us to the other. I can almost hear the cogs in your mind whirring away. For a moment, you look as though you're about to shock us with a perfectly formed sentence, but you just flap your arms about, give a little gurgle and smile. And then Daddy and I forget what we were talking about, walk across to you and cover you with kisses.
"I love making you taste new things, like lime juice or parsley or cocoa powder or a tiny sprinkling of oregano. The looks that come across your face are absolutely priceless. You wrinkle your nose and scrunch up your mouth and shake your head and squeal."
Would I have filled the letter with such lies? Would they have been lies had I really been dying of a disease and been filled with the knowledge that I was about to leave the world much sooner than I ever thought I would? Why wouldn't I have written the truth?
"It took me a long time to decide if I loved you. I sensed from Day 1 that I was very protective of you, but somehow that feeling was quite separate from any sensations of love. I often resented your presence. I sometimes wished I could forget you were there - so that I could just pop out somewhere, unencumbered - but I could never quite manage it. You were this constant PRESENCE. At least you were generally silent.
"And why was it always your father who took you for a spin in the car to get you to fall asleep?How did I get relegated to the role of 'door opener'? I used to sit there sometimes, staring at my mobile, wondering whether to put it on silent, just to make it difficult for him to bring you back into the house. I never did it, of course. Not sure why.
"I didn't really like the fact that the word 'mother' was now one of the words making up my identity. I remember once at Uni we were asked to put together a list of all the words which, in one way or another, described our relationships with the various people in our lives: words like, 'woman', 'sister', 'cousin', 'girlfriend', 'white', 'aunt', 'student', 'flatmate', 'patient' etc etc. Not a single one of us wrote 'mother', of course, but the lecturer did, and I remember finding that pathetic, somehow. It was also interesting how few of us in the group wrote 'son' or 'daughter'.
"I had no idea that I would scream and rant and rave and bellow and wail the way I did when I lost you. If someone had told me that that's what my reaction was going to be, I would have sneered."
If things had been the other way around and I'd been dying of some disease and Jessica had been aged 1, what would I have included in a letter to her?
"Your Daddy and I always fill your room with the smell of lavender, because it makes you sleep better. We even wash your clothes in a special lavender water. Your skin always has a faint, delicate scent of lavender.
"Sometimes, when you can't sleep, Daddy takes you for a drive in his car, with one of his Philip Glass CDs playing very quietly. That always seems to do the trick. A few turns round the block and you close your eyes and start breathing gently. Then when Daddy parks outside the house, he sends me a text message to say he's back. I open the front doort as quietly as I can and he brings into the house, carries you up the stairs and into your room.
"Most nights, you sleep right the way through. I think you've been quite kind to us, really. I've heard all sorts of stories of babies wailing all the way through every single night for months and months, but you weren't really like that. We've had our sleepless nights, of course, but less than our fair share, I suspect.
"There's a look you sometimes get in your eyes which makes me think you must be quite intelligent. Sometimes, your Daddy and I will be talking and then, out of the corner of my eye, I'll see you watching us with this fierce intensity. Your little head wobbles from one of us to the other. I can almost hear the cogs in your mind whirring away. For a moment, you look as though you're about to shock us with a perfectly formed sentence, but you just flap your arms about, give a little gurgle and smile. And then Daddy and I forget what we were talking about, walk across to you and cover you with kisses.
"I love making you taste new things, like lime juice or parsley or cocoa powder or a tiny sprinkling of oregano. The looks that come across your face are absolutely priceless. You wrinkle your nose and scrunch up your mouth and shake your head and squeal."
Would I have filled the letter with such lies? Would they have been lies had I really been dying of a disease and been filled with the knowledge that I was about to leave the world much sooner than I ever thought I would? Why wouldn't I have written the truth?
"It took me a long time to decide if I loved you. I sensed from Day 1 that I was very protective of you, but somehow that feeling was quite separate from any sensations of love. I often resented your presence. I sometimes wished I could forget you were there - so that I could just pop out somewhere, unencumbered - but I could never quite manage it. You were this constant PRESENCE. At least you were generally silent.
"And why was it always your father who took you for a spin in the car to get you to fall asleep?How did I get relegated to the role of 'door opener'? I used to sit there sometimes, staring at my mobile, wondering whether to put it on silent, just to make it difficult for him to bring you back into the house. I never did it, of course. Not sure why.
"I didn't really like the fact that the word 'mother' was now one of the words making up my identity. I remember once at Uni we were asked to put together a list of all the words which, in one way or another, described our relationships with the various people in our lives: words like, 'woman', 'sister', 'cousin', 'girlfriend', 'white', 'aunt', 'student', 'flatmate', 'patient' etc etc. Not a single one of us wrote 'mother', of course, but the lecturer did, and I remember finding that pathetic, somehow. It was also interesting how few of us in the group wrote 'son' or 'daughter'.
"I had no idea that I would scream and rant and rave and bellow and wail the way I did when I lost you. If someone had told me that that's what my reaction was going to be, I would have sneered."
Saturday, 3 February 2007
World
I was listening to Radio 4 the other day. That book programme was on, the one hosted by Mariella Frostrup. I don't have anything in particular to say about the programme: a statement made by one of the guests on it set me off on a train of thought. There was a female novelist and she was recommending a book set in the world of well-to-do New York socialites (I think it may have been called The Nanny). One of the reasons why she thought this book was so good was because it evoked its world in a totally compelling manner. It was full of telling details. It knew everything there was to know about it milieu.
And I found myself wondering, 'If someone were to write a novel about me, what details would they use to try to bring my milieu to life? What makes my world unique? Or perhaps it isn't unique at all?'
And I decided I'd go into my kitchen to try to find things which could exist only within the context of Me. We keep our carrier bags in one of those dispenser things. I took out some of the bags: they were mostly from Sainsbury's and Waitrose, although a few were from Tesco. There weren't any from Asda or Morrisons. I suppose that must say something about Us. I suppose the fact that we've even got a carrier bag dispenser also says something about Us. In the fridge there were - amongst other things - a half-empty pot of creme fraiche, some unopened Boursin, some left over Chinese takeaway (sweet and sour duck Hong Kong style), two bottles of white wine, some ground coffee in an airtight tin, half a pint of organic semi-skimmed milk. Does all of that say anything about Us? Next came the larder: a few packets of pasta, flour (self-raising and plain), Marmite, strawberry jam, three tins of tuna (one in brine, two in oil). Surely none of this really says anything about Us. Doesn't everyone have Marmite, jam and tuna in their larder?
Or is my world really nowhere near as unique and notable as the kind of world a writer would choose to immortalise in a novel? Is my context mundane and banal? Are the things that have happened to me not the sorts of things people out to be reading about?
And I found myself wondering, 'If someone were to write a novel about me, what details would they use to try to bring my milieu to life? What makes my world unique? Or perhaps it isn't unique at all?'
And I decided I'd go into my kitchen to try to find things which could exist only within the context of Me. We keep our carrier bags in one of those dispenser things. I took out some of the bags: they were mostly from Sainsbury's and Waitrose, although a few were from Tesco. There weren't any from Asda or Morrisons. I suppose that must say something about Us. I suppose the fact that we've even got a carrier bag dispenser also says something about Us. In the fridge there were - amongst other things - a half-empty pot of creme fraiche, some unopened Boursin, some left over Chinese takeaway (sweet and sour duck Hong Kong style), two bottles of white wine, some ground coffee in an airtight tin, half a pint of organic semi-skimmed milk. Does all of that say anything about Us? Next came the larder: a few packets of pasta, flour (self-raising and plain), Marmite, strawberry jam, three tins of tuna (one in brine, two in oil). Surely none of this really says anything about Us. Doesn't everyone have Marmite, jam and tuna in their larder?
Or is my world really nowhere near as unique and notable as the kind of world a writer would choose to immortalise in a novel? Is my context mundane and banal? Are the things that have happened to me not the sorts of things people out to be reading about?
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