It was just a little cardigan12:04 pm
Weekends in a large family can be fun, but most often I'm afraid to admit, I allow them to disintegrate into two days of cleaning, laundry and preparing for the week ahead. I should try to remember to have more fun at weekends, even if it's only a stroll to the park.
On Sunday in my mad dash around the house, trying and failing to create order, and only managing to annoy myself, I spotted a little multicoloured ball of fluff on the laundry airer. Somehow one of Ernest's little cardigans had got mixed up in the regular laundry and had felted and shrunk into a tightly wadded mass.At first I was cross, and I yelled, and then the frustration turned to ugly angry gulping sobs that shook my whole body and I lay on the bathroom floor (against the door so no one could come in)trying to stop them, but to no avail.
The cardigan was one I knitted for Florence, I told myself that was why I was crying, but I'm not sure that was it at all.
I'm not an angry person, neither is Woody, and I don't think either of us have been angry about Florence's death.Yeah, sure we've had flashes of annoyance, been faced with some stupid comments, some ignorance, but we've neither of us got really steaming mad.
There's no one to get mad at. We had excellent care before, during and after Florence's birth, and even the coroner who let us down on a few points hasn't made us angry, not really truly angry.
I was frightened by my reaction on Sunday. Lately I've been having dreams where I am hitting out at someone/something unknown.
I guess there is some anger there.
I guess if I really push myself I can admit that actually ,yes I am angry. I'm angry that other people get to keep their children, I'm jealous...but even as I type those words, I'm reasoning myself out of the feeling. After all it does no good.
And so I pull myself together again, just like I did on Sunday. I stifle the sobs that threaten to never stop if I allow then free rein, and I carry on.
There's nothing else to do, and it's what's expected, after all it's been almost 18 months and I have my beautiful Ernest sleeping against my chest. I should just be grateful.
Meanwhile, (and this is probably the kind of anecdote most people want to read on here.)browsing through a children's catalogue this morning, (I like looking at pretty pictures) I spotted little Beatrice Bunny sitting atop a pile of bedding. Little Beatrice who guarded Florence's grave, who was almost stolen away for good by dogs, but brought home and washed and now sits in Florence's memory box.
She's just a little toy, thousands of them exist I'm sure, but seeing her there in the catalogue made me think of Florence, and made me smile.
I want my little girl here. I don't want her bunny in a memory box, but dragging behind her, clasped by the ears in her chubby little hands....it just is so fucking shit.