Family Affairs and other matters

I’d like to say that the house is eerily quiet again (kids back to their dad’s for the weekend) and that I can hear my own breathing, but in fact it’s drowned out by Builder Bloke’s snoring. If you are lucky enough to have a non snorey boyfriend then that can be one advantage to not having your kids in the house every other weekend – you can laze about in bed without feeling guilty – it is a luxury married couples with kids have to forfeit for a very long time….I said to BB this morning “there’s a poem about the bed being the centre of the universe”…..
“Right”. He said.
“It’s by John Donne” I told him. “I love it”.
“Right”. He said again, in a “what the fuck are you talking about you weirdo” sort of way.

So I’m up now.

Boring the rest of the world with my thoughts.

I had EXACTLY 1,000 unique visitors to my blog yesterday. Why would that be I wonder? What did I write about yesterday that was so much more interesting than the day before or the day before that?? It’s all a mystery to me.

Anyway. My house is showing battle scars from the party. Little cigarette burns on the floor, broken light, lumps out of walls (although I think that was possibly an injury sustained from a previous “gathering”). But. I have officially decided that it’s OK for my house to have a few battle scars. It means it’s properly being lived in.

Which leads me, in my morning thoughts to thinking about life (good grief, I sound like I’m giving a sermon). About our own battle scars. The ones that we all have to bear. The ones that hopefully make us more humble, more aware of the world, more grateful for what we have. I am especially thinking about women’s war wounds. The one’s who have babies. I have some friends who do not have children (and don’t get me wrong, they are mostly all very happy with their choices). They look amazing. Not a wrinkle on them. I am always eternally jealous about that. I have other friends who are beginning to look younger than my 14 year old daughter (well actually hardly any because I don’t really mix in circles where we all have a spare 1K per month at least to spend on maintaining our bodies). But still.

Many women in their 40′s seem to be going down that route and it is indeed a very tempting route….of late I have become obsessed with thoughts of face lifts, eye lifts, plumpy uppy stuff, new high cheek bones – but where do you begin? And where would it all end? Why do I want to look younger? Why shouldn’t I try and enjoy my wrinkles and let them be the sign of life and experience? Yes – stress, yes -too much wine, cigarettes and wild living, yes – children, yes – far too much sun bla bla bloody boring bla bla BUT above my bed is a close up photograph of an elephant’s eye and I love looking at her because she looks beautiful to me – wise and knowing and happy (and more wrinkly than me).

So. Maybe just for today I’m going to be proud of my wobbly stomach and all manner of strange shaped body parts (originally wrote “bits” but that is wrong use of that word) for which I blame giving birth to three children and my laughter lines and hideous feet (which at least are no longer iridescent green – see yesterdays post) for which I blame my parents…..because, for me, I would never in a million years swap my horribly messy house and my horribly messy body for new, clean, shiny white ones – because it’s just too quiet when they’ve gone and I hate it. Give me a house full of laughter (and an occasional shout) any day.

Note to self:- print off this blog post and attach it to fridge so that when kids are back on Sunday evening with three bags of washing and attitude I will remember how much I hate the silence…..