Sunday is no Funday

6.38pm (awake since 8am)

Its a bright sunny but cold spring day. The cherry blossom is very almost out. May have seen swallows yesterday flying over the sewage works between Hebden and Todmorden. The sewage works are located by the canal and the conditions provide clouds of pennine midges for hearty swallow meals.


Syd is back from his dads. He is pleased to be home.

I am sad. I have been sad all day long. I have tried everything to relieve the sadness but nothing has worked. Some days I hate who I am what I am where I live and who I live with, Thats normal I guess. Its normal for me. I despise loudness and conflict and housework and slaving for others. As I write this I know that it will cause me pain. It will come back to me in hatred as I am not really allowed to be totally honest in this space. Thats normal too I suppose.

We all lie to protect ourselves and those that we love. We all pretend that life is ok when perhaps it is not.

Just another Sunday, another fun day for some.

I am sick of the neighbours building projects. I am sick of banging every evening, every  weekend. I can see that they have chipped the front room back to the plaster, so maybe the banging will stop. All I want is to live in quiet.


I spend the day dreaming of living elsewhere. Cornwall would be good. Paradise of maternal ancestry, warm and wild. Its easy to grow things where the sun shines brightest.

There are too many people and too many slugs and too much cold and too much rain and no jobs or prospects here. Today my home does not feel beautiful. I am ungrateful and bitter. I don’t want to socialise with anyone. I see grandparents helping out their children. I wish I had some help when I needed it, I know that this is a fantasy, that there will never be help when I need it.

I am bitter as lemon. I am bitter watching my neighbour collecting his children from their grandparents. This will never be the scenario for me so best to wish them luck and goodness and try not to be mean spirited.

I had a plan but it didn’t work out. Its hard to find the energy for others when there are so many problems close to home.

I dig the soil. I dig and dig. I turn over the soil. I fork and spade and lossen and remove weeds and nasty looking grubs. I plant onion sets.  I dig troughs of soil to place the chitted potatoes into. I gently lift each of them into the ground and cover lightly with the soil.

The battery of the computer is running low. I hadn’t wanted to write much,  I wasn’t going to write anything. I thought about writing:

Today I am sad, today I failed at being a mum, I opted out at every occasion that I could, I cannot stand it today, I don’t want to be a mother, I don’t want to be a carer and a raiser up her. A tidy up and cook and scrubber, Today I have failed. Best to fail well. 

Its easy to nurture a garden. Its hard to nurture people, and even harder to nurture yourself.

I found two beautiful pale blue birds eggs within the grass. I held them. They were fragile. Shells thin as paper. I held them and I thought about my two sons and how precious they are to me.

Too sentimental?

I think not. Even when I no longer  want to be a mum, I still love them. I love them with all my heart, and this love keeps me going. You cannot escape being a mum.

A mum should not be a sentence.

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