Womb, late, hair, sycamore

9.40am (at home)

Naoise fell off his scooter just before the lolly pop crossing. He was very brave. He was sore but he did not cry and he did not want me to kiss his bruised knee better. The uneven stone slabs that but up against the tarmac pavements are lethal in wet and dry.

Walking back from school I saw a herron flying low and exactly above the middle of the main road and the cars waiting at the traffic lights. I picked elderberries and buddleia from the canal side.

We were late again. Naoise simply does not seem to understand, or maybe it is just that he is waking slowly from his late night.

At breakfast the main news article was that the first 10 British women have been given go-ahead for womb transplants. 

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The sun is meant to break the cloud cover. I must get that pram out. A crying pram. A lactating pram. An empty pram. A pram with no purpose. A wondering pram.

I took a photograph of the rocket on the playground tarmac. My rocket is a monet haystack. My rocket never takes off. My rocket is the glue of this project. Temporality. You cannot see children grow.

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I gave my handsome elder son a hug. He stands tall in his man pyjamas. He will tower above me. He loves putting his pretend diamond stud earring in. He loves to play grown up and he loves to play ball and scooter and he loves to have constant reassurance. I lost patience with him last night, he told me off. I needed telling off. I was distracted by completing a job application and I was not as positive and kind and patient as I can be. He was understanding. I said sorry and agreed he had worked hard at his homework and tidying his room and organising his bag for the next day.

I collected sycamore helicopters. I thought about making the family mandalas, maybe the workshop could make use of some seasonal organic matter. I remember throwing sycamore helicopters up in the air and delighting with their flight and aerobatics. I remember playing with Syd and sycamore helicopters.

The warmth of the sun and the words from the Laurie Lee Cider with Rosie television adaptation  are still with me. I must read it once again. All the beautiful lyrical prose. I look up some classic quotes from the book there are many beautiful ones. I must dust down the novel it sits silent on eth bookshelf outside Naoise room, waiting to be read again. Perhaps I shall read it to Syd, I think he would like it.

Bees blew like cake-crumbs through the golden air, white butterflies like sugared wafers, and when it wasn’t raining a diamond dust took over which veiled and yet magnified all things
― Laurie Lee, Cider With Rosie

I will get my hair trimmed today, just the ends off. Syd will get his hair cut too. He goes alone to get it cut now. I like it when it grows wild and big and wavy on top, but he likes to tame it and keep it cool.

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