Oh goodness sometimes it is so difficult to think good thoughts instead of drifting off into a haze of sad bad scary memories.
We're about to finish decorating the back bedroom that would have been George's bedroom, that would have been Little Poppet's bedroom but will inevitably turn back into a general storage, junk room and cat bedroom.
Part of me doesn't want it finished but just left as an empty stripped room but most of me wants it tidy and clean so we can move on to our bedroom.
We're I'm planning on a nice pale turquoiseyduckeggbluey colour for the walls to replace the dingy yellowy gold blah wallpaper and new neutral carpet to replace the dark green (why oh why?) carpet that is impossible to hoover (vacuum).
Perhapse changing the colour of our environment will change the colour of our mood.
I don't keep a diary or journal as such except for an old fil.o.fax that kept track of my cycles and symptoms but I do keep odd notebooks full of scribbles, notes, sketches and half written blog posts. I have always used black or blue ink and the pages suddenly seem sombre and melancholy.
So I have loaded my fountain pens with chocolate brown, claret, torquoise blue and orange inks (I like fountain pens) and I am starting to write in colour.
Finally getting the money owed to us by the gover.nment.
Finally planning a few days away somewhere... anywhere.
Buying (expensive) shoes that accomodate my poor flat, arthritic feet that don't make me look like I'm heading off for a walk in the woods (Not that there's anything wrong with a walk in the woods, I just wanted something "prettier" to wear when I'm not planning on walking in the woods).
Driving through really low clouds (ok maybe technically it was fog but it felt like clouds).
Putting our big poofy duvet on the bed, even though it's not quite cold enough, just for the pleasure (mine) of burrowing down in it and getting cosy.
Making bean burgers from scratch and not forgetting they were in the oven and thus burning them which is what I did with the last batch a while ago... in fact just the urge to cook something other than things-in-boxes-from-the-freezer feels like quite a good thing.
Having my hair played with.
Not being run off the road on a roundabout by the woman changing from the outside to inside lane when she shouldn't and then getting all angry and sticking fingers up in the air at us innocent travellers just because she scared herself/was driving badly/thinks she owns the road/got lost and forgot to look out for other cars.
Driving on the moors in the rain.
A lovely Sunday lunch out with my Ray and my Mum and Dad.
There are times when I can hardly believe that I have been pregnant. And twice? And yet if I shut my eyes up ever so tightly, tear my heart open a tiny bit and concentrate, I can still feel my fingertips on George's soft, cold, very slightly damp cheek.
The hope that pushed me on and on month after month after month and finally made Little Poppet seems to have run out. I can feel my body getting ready to ovulate and whoop dee doo it's all back in order. It's just so very much the wrong order.
And I don't care. No, that's not true; I don't hope. I'm afraid to hope. I'm afraid to think beyond this moment here. I'm afraid to imagine trying again and I'm afraid to imagine giving up. Ah, welcome back to the limbo land of the babylost. It's like slumping down into a well worn, very familiar and perfectly uncomfortable armchair.
I haven't cried for weeks and I feel as if perhaps I need to cry. But I am not miserable and I am not numb. I have been laughing and smiling and enjoying our little adventures and enjoying our little garden and trying to create something although perhaps... perhaps I've even been a little too cheerful at times.
My Mum pointedly asks, "How are you?" and I answer that I am ok.
And I think it's the truth.
But I'm not entirely sure.
I will instruct my sorrows to be proud;
For grief is proud and makes his owner stoop.
To me and to the state of my great grief
Let kings assemble; for my grief's so great
That no supporter but the huge firm earth
Can hold it up: here I and sorrows sit;
Here is my throne, bid kings come bow to it.
A day out exploring
Getting my lovely old fountain pen back from being fixed
Crisp clean cotton sheets on our bed
Rummaging at the boot sale and finding bargains
Taking the time to smell each and every one of the beautifully scented roses on George's rose bush
It's been hard to find five good things this past week.
I found myself feeling unbelievable irritated at everything, and most especially at my clumsy fingers.
I have developed a sort of typing-dyslexia and I just cannot spooll aynthnig correctly.
And then I realised that, duh of course, it's only a post-miscarriage pms-esque hormone rampage.
I have had the cramps from hell for 4 days. If I am going to have a period I wish it would flipping well START. In fact HOW DARE my body get itself back to "normal" so quickly and efficiently 4 weeks after losing Little Poppet. Why can't it be as efficient at keeping my babies alive.
And then someone ripped the (always carefully folded in) drivers side wing mirror from our car on an apparent whim.
Oh and a chin full of spots.
You may at this point be detecting just a teeny weeny tiny smige of anger. Five good things? Really?