So my head is still a fuzzy ball of mess emotionally and literally. I feel as though I have a million little light bulbs all flashing concurrently and I’d love nothing more than to pluck them from my mind one at a time and complete each task in turn and switch out the light allowing this chaos to finally turn into the safety and silence of night where I might once again see the stars for all of the light pollution surrounding me. But for now the inside of my skull resembles the camera flashes of screaming teenage fans at a Justin Bieber concert – never ending and inconsequential.
My hair continues to fall out by the handful, more so than ever since falling pregnant and having Gabriele. Each time I pick up the hairbrush and count the strokes as I brush my hair I try to tell myself that I can complete the task in as little disruption to my mane as possible; perhaps five strokes will be enough to ensure all of my hair is detangled with the least amount of severance. And when I step into the shower within minutes my feet become covered in a thick layer of my loose hair; if ever the doorbell was to ring and I went running down the stairs in just a towel the postman would be forgiven for thinking I may be transgender or somebody employed by the circus freak show simply by glimpsing at my toe toupee.
I try to calculate how many hairs I have on my head by counting a small area of hair and multiplying it by the surface area containing coverage. And then I wonder how many hairs I lose on average on a daily basis and how many days I may have left until inevitably I’m left looking like a shiny boiled-egg. Surely new hairs that come through must take years to grow to the same length as that which I have now which would mean my hair can only ever get shorter and shorter in time as the long locks all take heed and revoke their loyalty in succession. The bastards!
I feel desperate to claw back just one inch of normality and control in these stormy seas as I sail through my very own Bermuda Triangle, where nothing makes sense and there looms the unspeakable insinuation of no way out. For some reason each and every time that I use the microwave recently I’ve had to stop it on the last second before the DING fills the air, and it’s become such a habit now that I worry something bad might happen if I weren’t to catch it one time and even if I’m half way through washing up or fetching a drink I dash across the room bubbles flying everywhere to ensure that I meet the deadline. And when I leave the house I lock the back door, pack up my bags, the children and the dog and the second my hand lays contact on the front door handle suddenly the back door calls for my return goading me into thinking I’ve left it unlocked; in my mind I know that I locked it only moments ago, yet my mind still delights in screening images of my returning home hours later to a ransacked and broken mess of a home after a successful burglary through my unlocked back door. And when I drop everything to retrace my steps and go check it, it is always very thoroughly locked with shoot bolts and a key. So why do I question myself over such menial tasks that I was so competently sure of before? Why am I never allowed to finish just one of the many tasks that fall before me on a daily basis? And why when I shave my legs in the morning am I already capable of starting a fire through their vindictive stubbled friction by late afternoon when the hairs on my head seem so intent to leave me waxed to perfection? Perhaps this is one of life’s’ great mysteries, or an important lesson that I must learn, me, the multitasker of multitasking has finally multitasked too much!
And I perch upright in bed writing this at 07:30am on a Saturday morning because Luca unconsciously managed to grab my face several times in his sleep last night, which scared the beegeezersus out of me and I’ve found it near on impossible to sleep ever since despite Gabriele looking more peaceful than ever. I wish men could see the turmoil and chaos us mothers are faced with everyday as we try to juggle not only our own lives and troubles but everybody else’s around us with never a second to spare or switch off.
The concept of partaking in a spot of yoga during sunrise up a mountain some thousand miles away from the lock of my back door suddenly seems fundamental, as I went running up the little hills of a BMX track with Millie yesterday afternoon trying to tire her out before bedtime pretending to be jockeys and it left me puffing and panting for my life and so the thought of the gym and my sweating armpits and melting foundation in public seem quite a threatening thought.
I would love to be a fit and able jockey for Millie on her hills but my physical stamina has evaded me for some time now and I can already feel the air burning in my lungs at the thought of exercise. But you never know, it may do me the world of good and make me better able at dealing with my everyday annoyances. Either that or I manage to add an eighth day to my week and use it solely for ‘fixing my shit’ and nothing else.
My appetite is still on the same track as my period had been for some time, I know it’s around here somewhere but I am still yet to locate it. I don’t feel hungry at all for some reason, and when I eat food I wonder why when I’m not enjoying it. I feel like eating food is as pleasurable as sitting in a traffic jam on the motorway at the moment, we all have to do it one time or another in order to get to where we’re going but there seems no great purpose in its existence. And this is coming from somebody who loves food and frequently dreams about eating!
So Luca and I are going for dinner tonight in the hope of having some time out to ourselves when the children are safely tucked up in bed. It will be a welcomed break to have some adult alone time and to sit dressed up to the nines in calm and sophisticated surroundings. But to be perfectly honest I think at the moment I would be more suited to running across hills screaming and throwing my washing into the wind when nobody is looking.
Millie tried on her school uniform ready for starting back next week and she asked if I’d miss her when she’s gone for six hours each day and I told her more than anything. She then asked if I would be sad about it and I told her I would be so sad I’d cry the whole time until she came home because I love her so much and she asked if I would wait for her to finish her day and I said I’d hide in a hedge in the car park so as not to draw attention from the teachers. And when I was talking to a friend the other day whilst with Millie, they asked what I would do all day when Millie was at school and she promptly replied, “Mummy will sit in the hedge and cry.” Well…