STEPPING THROUGH OUR FRONT door at 7 p.m., I wish I’d had the sense to leave a light on before I went out this afternoon. There’s something horribly foreboding about coming home to a dark, silent house. It feels eerie. Despite no evidence of a break-in, while that light is off my brain automatically assumes there is a murderer hiding in the shadows and my heart rate shoots up even higher than the time I was cajoled into a spin class with my boss, Natalie. (Natalie, by the way, goes to the gym every morning at 5.45, so couldn’t understand why I was on the brink of cardiac arrest a mere twenty minutes into the session.)
Anyway, with the near skill of an octopus, I manage to unlock the door, turn on the hall lamp, put my keys down, drop Lyla’s school bag onto the stairs and dump my phone and keys on the ledge, all while holding a sleeping six-year-old, head on my shoulder, with my right arm. We’d ended up staying at Dovington’s long after closing time and Terri’s departure. The four of us cosied up in the studio and ordered fish and chips. We ate them out of the paper wrapping with the little wooden forks you get in the chip shop, and it was just what the doctor ordered. I know a good, proper mother would have stuck to our healthy Bath, Bed, Story routine. But the thought of coming home to an empty house, cooking alone then sitting by myself for the evening seriously didn’t appeal, so I stayed with them for a bit longer and the company felt good. I would have stayed later if I could have.
My little sidekick had fallen asleep in the car – I try to ignore the twinge of guilt that I’m the crap mum who selfishly kept her out too late on a school night – and, being careful not to wake her, I carried her in with everything else. It’s a remarkable skill you are gifted with once you become a parent: the ability to hold more than you’d thought possible in your arms in one go.
It’s time to put my Lyla Blue to bed.
I used to love this time of night; that special moment at around seven when you clock off from the drudgery of plastic toys, half-eaten fish fingers, pretending to be interested in Peppa Pig and wiping up all manner of bodily fluids, for twelve solid hours, tuck them up in their warm blankets and take a deep breath. You did it. Another day of keeping your child alive (an achievement in itself), and another evening for you to have just one small glass of wine (you won’t have one tomorrow, though; best not make a habit of it). I’d watch trash TV about twenty-somethings having exciting lives like I used to; they go out and snog people and eat worms in jungles. OK, I didn’t do that exactly, but I do like to watch other people do it. The point is, it was my time again. I got my brain back for a while, and it was bliss.
Lately, though, I haven’t been enjoying the magic hours. I often see friends on Facebook making heartfelt status updates about how their kids are their whole world and how they can’t think of anything they’d love to devote themselves to more. But some days my whole world feels like a huge, dark, empty room, with me and Lyla stood in the corner looking out into the nothing. Does anyone else out there feel like me? I know it’s my job to protect her and love her, and I do, with everything I’ve got, but lately the glass of wine and trash TV aren’t filling up the rest of the dark room as the long nights draw in. I want to offer Lyla so much more than that, and I don’t know what I’m supposed to do about it. It plays on my mind.
After four years of being on my own, the novelty of this ‘me time’ has really dwindled. In the dark January nights, when Lyla was smaller, with fluffy PJs and a fresh new notepad, I’d take a bit of time to write a fantasy list of all the things I want to do in the year ahead. Some of them obtainable, like take Lyla to the seaside for a day, and some a bit more wishful thinking like completely renovate the house or fly off to Vegas. But this January, more than any other, just feels flat. I’ve finally run out of buzz and get-up-and-go, and writing a list of things to do seems pointless. I didn’t even bother buying a new notepad this year. I can’t face looking forward any more than I can face looking back.
I miss having someone else in the house, even if they’re not sitting or interacting with me; I just miss hearing the sound of another human pottering about. It wasn’t great when Simon was here, but it wasn’t lonely. When he left I was constantly shattered. I’m sure looking after a toddler alone is akin to running a marathon, and each night I’d flop onto the sofa completely exhausted and glad of an evening of nothing. Now, with Lyla at school all day and able to do so much for herself, I have quite a lot of nothing. Nothing for six hours during the day; four hours of play with her when she comes home and then a whole evening of more nothing. The less my body is tired, the more my mind is.
Amazingly, I manage to heave my sleeping girl up the stairs. When did she get so big? When did my arms get so bloody weak?
I lay her hot little body on her bed after I’ve pulled back the covers and begin to take off the necessary bits. I unbuckle each navy patent-leather shoe and put them on the baby-pink carpet by her bed; carefully unbutton her tiny grey pleated skirt, gently unstrap the watch she got from my boss Natalie and her husband Martin last Christmas and slowly pull the clips out of her hair. Since she’s already asleep, it seems cruel to wake her up for pyjamas, and so I let her drift further off in her little red school T-shirt. She is so perfect. I’m obviously biased, but when I look at her, even when I search for one, I can’t find a single fault.
I wonder what goes through her head, and what she understands of the world? Does she pick up on how dysfunctional our lives are, what a crap single mum I’m turning out to be, and how much The Emptiness is consuming me right now? Or am I protecting her enough, shielding her from how hard the world feels to me? Realising that I’m never going to know the answers to these horrible questions, I pull the brushed cotton lilac duvet further up to her neck and give her a kiss on the forehead.
Downstairs feels a lot better with the lamps on and candles lit. Pouring myself a glass of Malbec is probably not the healthiest idea on a Wednesday night, but I don’t care. Wine helps. It shouldn’t, but it does. Even with Kath, Lacey and Piper in it, today has been grey. Here’s hoping tomorrow will have more to it …