"Vat heirdie fokken kind voor ek haar gooi"
Monday morning. Alexandria is 11 weeks today. I woke up with the unconscious knowledge that today would be the day I would leave my life behind. I would walk out of my front door for the last time. Kiss my kitties goodbye and I love you, for the last time. I would sleep in my bed for the last time. I would call my flat "home" for the last time. For the last time, I would have a home, for a very long time.
Her ginormous nappy bag is packed for her day at creche.
5 Nappies - check
1 wet bag - check
4 Bottles and formula - check
2 Pied piper dummies - check
3 Bibs - check
2 sets of clothes - check
2 blankets - check
1 Packet wet wipes - check
Thats the normal bag-pack for a day out. The lounge couch could be somewhere in there too, and the bath. She is still dead in bed. I'm dead in my head. Shower. Get dressed. Pin up my hair. No make up. Lug the dead-weight out of her warm spot, feed the screech till it tones down to a comforted suckling. Dress my heart. Kiss her soft spot on her head. Load me up, the pack horse. Grab my heart child. Walk out the door, without a second glance, or even the conscious thought that this was the last time.
I left with nothing. Not a thought. Not even a spare nappy. I just went to work.
That night I found myself on the edge of a lake, pouring my broken heart to my mother. She gave comfort and advice. She bought wine and dinner. I brought abusive nightmares, indecision, fear and an emotional monster. Later that evening, on a couch turned white with dog hair, and the kind, smiling eyes, of a beautiful angel lady, Sherene, my eyes cried till the lake overflowed, and the house was dry of any wipeable surface for snot. She was our refuge for the night. She never asked a question, or turned a cold grimace. She welcomed 3 generations of women, 2 of them broken, and only one too small and new. I was a broken mother, seeking solace for my daughter. And then there was my mother, my mother, my mother... who is wordless to describe. My mother, for all of the emotions that word holds - mother - she was holding the tissues, and the wine. She had bought some nappies and a toothbrush.
Sherene is a kind elder lady, with a hot young fling on the side. She loves her dogs and her cats and Mr Charles Harrington, the Cat. She opened up her home, her heart and her spare room for a mother in need, and an infant in deed. The bed had a large doily throw, and crocheted pillows. Old lady pink, a shag carpet, and an antique-rose inspired lampshade adorned the room. It was a cocoon of talc smell and comfort in the bosom of an elder. I slept, wept and slept. And when the tissues were finished, I wiped my nose on my sleeve.
Day 1.
