Last night I dreamt about Freddie. We were a few months on and he was still in hospital and I was trying to split myself between him and the girls and working and everything else in my life and not doing a good job at all. And people kept asking me how he was doing and I didn’t really know, because I wasn’t there enough and it made me feel like the most terrible mother.
The dream was populated by people from my old lives, not my current friends. I don’t know why that would be.
A couple of nights ago Amelie was telling us about a dream she had about Fran being executed. At the end, a throw away line “I’m probably only dreaming things like that because my brain is thinking about Freddie.” 8 year olds should not be analysing things like that. Or at least, it is not fair for them to find it easy to extrapolate horror from horror.
As soon as Josie knew I was pregnant, she started to kiss my tummy each night. When I came home, she didn’t know what to do and tried to carry it on. I diverted it and we changed it into me kissing and hugging his monkey each night. She added me kissing his doggy rattle. Then she added me kissing Oliver her dolly. A few night ago she told me I had to give her two kisses now, one for her and one because I can’t kiss Freddie.
She never used to need rituals – and now she does.
It’s the end of another month. It’s not gone as I want. Worse, I’m fairly sure there was a little life in there and it has just failed to hang on. I’m so tired of having to acknowledge age, failure and imperfect circumstances.
Last night I said to Max that there feels like there is nothing more exhausting than the two states of “being brave” and “keeping going”. I just don’t know where to keep finding the strength for them. Every day.