‘Why don’t you just have a rest?’ says Unhusband. It’s 8.30; the kids are in bed (finally) and I’m off to the allotment. Unhusband is probably right. I’d be better off going to bed myself, or at least having a bath and a glass of wine.
I’m tired. Dog-tired. Knackered, exhasuted, blurry eyed, headachingly tired. Sometimes I wonder where tiredness ends and PND begins. Sometimes it feels like my life is one big cycle of lactation and school runs, punctuated by picking up dirty clothes, emptying the dishwasher and getting up through the night. Unhusband and I haven’t had a break in 6 and half years. The only restaurants we visit are the ones where you get a free packet of crayons on arrival. I’m tired and just a little bit sad that the person who could make all the difference, doesn’t.
So why am I going to the allotment? Because there are slugs to slay, strawberries to pick, beans to weed, leeks to transplant. Well, partly. But I’m also going because in the evening the allotment is the one place I can be me, as opposed to just Mummeeeeee. I love my kids immeasurably and I also love taking them to the allotment. But sometimes I need space.
Four months ago I planted an olive stone. This week it emerged from the soil, like a butterfly from a cocoon, spreading out two new leaves. I am surprised at how happy this makes me feel. It still amazes me how the driest old seed can turn into something strong and beautiful and filled with potential. There is light at the end of the tunnel.
ps. I’m fine.