Now I'm not saying I'll never be miserable again, but, 3 years on it looks like - hey, I've done an awesome job with Jaan. Sure, he bit that other kid at kindergarten yesterday - so I hear - and he's great with the potty, but won't always just leave it at that ... he shouts at times, and never wants to go to bed - but that kind of stuff is small potatoes, and if anything, they are evidence of the awesome achievement I've made, and the development Jaan has sustained.
He has nothing more potent to get frustrated about than bedtime and the way another kid is waving his arms in circular fashion right next to him. That's pretty good in my book.
I'm active now, not just a lump. We're cooking, cleaning and preparing for parties just now; I went out to the cinema with my mate last night and laughed and laughed (Justin Timberlake has still got it ... ); I facebook about Gary Barlow, and chat with my friends about loads of stuff. I plan, I sew, I knit, I crochet, I long for creme caramel, I practice my driving and always make a huge roundabout-inspired-mistake. I use my nutty-as-a-fruitcake folder and put it to very good use - I sound like a totally normal woman, no? Awesome or what. I always knew I am brilliantly ordinary. Now I have proof, it is in my life, my demeanour and smiles back at me wherever my reflection takes off.
I write, I read all day, I am watching eastenders and x-factor and ignoring the news, but I read enough of the Guardian online to have a tiny toe dipped in and out of what in the world is going on. I'm inspired by feminism, by my friends with their jobs and kids and funny status updates, and lovely photos. I like hanging out with my kid, even my cat is sweet - I have a soft spot for her.
Sure, the haters are still haters, I keep begging Iain to shield me, that kind of blight ... I'm sure I don't want to spend any more time learning to live with it.
The downside to all this abundance? The butterfly emerging from the chrysalis is G R E E D Y. So I'm a good mum - omg, so now I want my 4 kids. The dream. The 4. I want my dog. Sparky. I want another dog too, and a couple more cats wouldn't hurt. A happy, busy home.
The adoption enquiry start-the-ball-rolling pack is downstairs on the dining room table. The puppies I want to visit - their owners have been messaged. I'm losing weight and taking my meds and wondering when will be a good time to visit Miss Whitcroft again for bloodwork - perhaps Clomid will be all I need once again. It's still not been 6 months since the big Withdrawal-of-Ofsted-Application - re-starting that sucker will be easy if I can have an A-Okay really soon. Driving test is booked for November.
I want a dog, I deserve a dog, I've been getting ready for a dog, I'm ready for a dog, and me and Sparky, we'll see what's what and be happy if another young one joins us or even if none do, we can spend our days together whether I child-mind or not, we can hold together whatever demons think they can scare us. They cannot, I've lived in the pit of death and I am still here, able to cook up a beef stew and serve it up 4 different ways ... accessorising with food, almost.
I'm still here, and very well thank you.
I wonder what Sparky will look like, or even if I will call him Sparky, or even if he will be a he.
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