Life in progress

Daily Archives: February 13, 2013


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Forty-something and still growing up

What is it about my life that at what should be my bed time I start acting like a teenager? I know damned well that I’m tired, and yet I refuse to do the sensible thing and go to bed.

I think that maybe it’s the quiet which lures me into wakefulness. When it’s quiet I can concentrate on writing. At night I don’t have to worry about the phone ringing to tell me someone has been misbehaving at school and can I please come and pick him up.  During the day I’m so worried that my creativity will be interrupted that I would rather procrastinate by playing Bejewelled than run the risk of starting and having to stop. Then there’s the fact that at night I can act like an adult: having a child who refuses to play silently by himself (and by that I mean if I don’t play with him he screams at me until I do – long story) is hardly conducive to sitting down to a peaceful cup of java and a pleasant read.  Oh, and wine of course. THAT I can enjoy a glass of after the kiddies are safely tucked away in bed.

After all, isn’t being a teenager all about wanting to grow up? Yeah, I’ll bitch about how tired I am in the morning…

Maybe I’m not really grown up after all.


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Eight Yielding Mother

Sun gleams golden through autumn’s glorious passing. Morning coffee steams promises of wakefulness. Wake up, thirsty mother. Love’s remembrance lays fast. Wake up, confounded woman.

Mother settles at the kitchen table and welcomes the joyful twitter of birds through the open window. She breathes the cool fresh air and raises her feet, crossing her ankles on the chair opposite. With a sigh she rests her right hand on her belly, her left lifts her cup to her lips. Sweet nectar of the Gods, mother loves her coffee.

Boy thunders down the stairs in his school uniform and stops dead, seeing mother’s pose. Brother, following, almost runs into him.

“Will he kill this one too?” boy asks mother.

Mother stares at boy, wordlessly, the day shines blindingly in her eyes. She hardly comprehends the first swing that sends boy crashing to her feet.

“You can’t say that!” brother yells, falling atop boy.

Mother, unable to conceive of how she can dissolve the dispute while preserving her unborn child, sips her coffee, noting that the birds have abandoned their song.


To go to the beginning of this series click here

To Nine click here

Disclaimer: This story (and series) is semi-fictional, and is in no way connected to persons alive nor dead. Apart from certain facts, it is a product of the author’s imagination.