Good Old Days.
The air is fresh and clean and wonderful.
It cuts through and fills my (20 day) smoke free lungs with wondrous ease, slicing away my irritable winter blues.
Little poofy white clouds bob on by above me, breaking up the crystal blue sky with their calming and childlike cotton candy shapes.
The sun beats down on my closed eyes and to feel that natural heat on my face after a long cold winter, stopped in a moment, is simply delicious.
I open my eyes and blink a couple of times at the shoddy garden fence that still needs replacing, the old cigarette ends littering the battered crazy paving and the once loved house plant that succumbed to the snow in early January. (I feel so guilty about that bloody house plant. I forgot to bring it back in the house. It’s decaying corpse is testament to how bloody useless I am at being a housekeeper.)
If the weather is a dream, the state of my garden is the reality.
‘Mummy!!! I’ve had a poo! Come and wipe my bum!’
‘OK’ I shout back without moving a muscle.
2 more minutes, just give me 2 more minutes of languishing in this garden chair with my barely warm tea.
Just give me 2 more minutes before the chaos starts.
‘Mummy! Hurry up! I have poo on my knees! I don’t know how but I have poo on my knees, and on my ear…..oh no….. MUMMY!!! Its EVERYWHERE!’
His screams have become panicked.
This is never a good sign.
Resolute, I stand up and plod back in to the kitchen through the back door.
The dirty plates piled in the kitchen sink are illuminated by the bright white sunshine and the dancing dust fairies swerve and swish to avoid me as I scuttle past and head up the stairs… in to what can only be described as a dirty protest.
The house is a tip, my bank account is virtually bare, I am sleep deprived… and now this.
These are the good old days right?
This is the thought I I try and keep hold of.
These are the good old days.
Because one day he will have moved out, he will be a man, my house will be squeaky clean and he will not want to sit on my knee watching cartoons at 8am. He will not litter my floor with dangerously placed Lego pieces, he will not demand a cuddle at 3am, and he most definitely will not need his bum wiped.
One day, on a summers day, I will be able to spend as long as I want out in the garden without being disturbed, listening to Groove Armada and clinking the ice in my
bottle tumbler of gin.
And I will miss this.
I love this.
Poo and everything.
(I also love Diazepam. Blissful stuff. Simply Marvelous.)