Some things in life are inevitable, like Morgan Freeman playing Mandela, or Tiger Woods getting herpes, and with 400 entries behind me, this is one of them.
It’s time to put this blog to bed.
There is a little girl who joyfully consumes more time and energy than I need to maintain this place to the standard it deserves; I believe it’s been a good blog and to continue it half heartedly would be doing it a disservice. I’m not entirely at ease with leaving it behind, but watching it go to ruin with poorer and more infrequent entries would be far worse.
It has evolved naturally, along with the story it’s been telling, from one of just another idiot trying to knock up his wife, to one of grim and dark places with sadness, anxiety and uncertainty lurking in the shadows, and on to one of happiness that no words or silly phrases can convey.
You’ve giggled about the early days of trying to conceive, offered advice when things started to look off colour, and consoled us when they repeatedly went wrong.
You’ve read entries every month with the same trepidation with which I’ve read ET’s face at the same intervals. You’ve cursed when we’ve cursed, and you’ve celebrated with us from every farfetched outpost of this planet that you could imagine.
You chuckle when I admit we are paying funny money to a day care centre and all we get in return are germs. You nod your heads when I try, and fail, to articulate how staring perfection in the face every single day can be as equally unnerving and unsettling as it is calming and gratifying.
For all this, and the genuine friendships forged, I can only say thank you.
My biggest debt has to be to the poor woman who has had her intimates on display for everyone to see, both literally, and well, literally. We did it, let’s enjoy it.
As for writing, I can’t stop now. I’ll continue somewhere soon, in my own time, perhaps with another focus. When the touch paper gets lit again there’ll be no stopping me, and you’ll know where to find me. Until then, all ideas, or job offers, are welcome.
For those reading who are still on their own journey, I know how dark it can be, I can only hope along with you, wish you well, and tell you that someday it could all be very different for you. The breathing sounds from the baby monitor here on my desk tell me so.
So, for the last time I want you to get your arse off my couch and give me that mug so I can put it in the sink. I’ll ignore the mess you’ve left with those biscuit crumbs and we’ll walk you to the door. Just don’t expect Sanne to wave because she only does that cute stuff when no one is looking, you do get a huge smile though.
Thank you for calling, safe home.
Tuesday, 10 August 2010
Thursday, 5 August 2010
There she is, sitting in her chair, feet flat on the fl0or beneath her.
Her cheek and arm meet at a 45 degree angled chubby flesh sandwich. I can't tell which is resting on which.
She hums open mouthed songs to herself. The only interruption to her mini operatics comes as she stops to run her tongue forwards and backwards over the two teeth starting to jut out from the centre of her bottom gum.
I wonder what's going through her mind as she fingers the curls behind her ear with her free hand. Maybe she's thinking about all the little boys and girls at her new day care who stroke her arm, fascinated by her mop of dark hair, here in this land of the blonde follicles.
Maybe she's contemplating the fact that this is our first official 'Papa dag', where my mobile can ring and ring but I don't have to pick it up.
Maybe, just maybe, this little girl, who I struggle to call a baby now, is filling her nappy.