Why aren't you exciting mummy?

Aaah, he's in bed, I can let the guilt go.....

High stress, high stress, alone it's one thing, but with a child?

"Mummy will you play shops?"

"Oh baby I can't, not now, play on the computer."

"Mummy will you play penguins?"

"Not now, not now."

"Mummy, can you get me a penguins membership?"

"Can we talk about it when we move?"

"Is that soon mummy?" his voice suddenly excited.

"I hope so, I really do."

"Do you promise you'll get me a membership?"

"Yes I do."

"Oh please come and play penguins with me, just for a little while."

"Oh [son] I'm so sorry, mummy just can't right now."

"Oh mummy, why aren't you exciting?"

Why couldn't mummy be exciting? Because mummy is lost. Slept badly last night, woken up at 6am, my eyes were stinging, I couldn't speak, I was going outside for fag after fag after fag, then thought 'silence the noise in your head and write'

I hand wrote about four posts. You 're not getting any of them. By the time I've finished tonight I'll be too knackered. I wrote while he played on the computer.

"Oh mummy, why aren't you exciting?"

I took him to the cinema. If I was going to ignore him, he at least get something good from it.

Ponyu. He loved it. I couldn't tell you; missed the lot.

"Oh mummy why aren't you exciting?" he asks again when we leave the cinema.

"I'm under intense pressure."

"What's that?"

"Lots of things on my mind. Am I really a rubbish mummy?" I say, feeling bad.

"Yes but you're generous too."

Was it easier when he was a baby? Was it easier when the Church eviction robbed me of my ability to talk to him, to play with him?

Back then he had a little nap in the morning, then I shoved him infront of the telly, then I gave him lunch; mutely. He had another longer nap, while I sat inside my head, then I put him in a pushchair and floated him around Camden, Regents Park pointing nothing out as I was so far far far inside my head. Back home, mute dinner, mute bath, read a story; THANK GOD FOR BOOKS and then bed, at 7, thank heavens for that. Now I don't have to ignore him without meaning to.

Now of course, my super chatterbox is wondering where his playmate's gone, though thankfully I did manage a game of 'batbear' after dinner (baseball; I throw the bear, he hits it with an old wrapping paper tube) Batbear is easier than 'shops' even though he's the one doing the maths these days.

If I wasn't blogging I know I'd still be thinking, thinking, thinking because in 2005 I wasn't blogging and I was thinking, thinking, thinking. Of what I couldn't tell you. It's all fear, hope, paranoia colliding. The endless fight against a hostel back then, anything that isn't a secure council flat now.

It's shit for my son. Absolutely shit. I haven't even been able to organise playdates for him or anything.

How those with more than one child manage I do not know. How those with disabled kids manage, I do not know.

I take my hat off to you, I really do.