Children

On Thursday, Mum and I went for a swim in Highley, which is an outdoor pool about an hour away from us. Because it's the school holidays, there were lots of families there, and this reminded just how uncharitable and genuinely cruel I can still be. The children were not being more obnoxious than the average group of children- they did not try and interfere with my swimming on purpose, though most of them managed by accident; I was still thinking extremely unkind things in my head. Things I will not write on here because I don't want a record of them associated with me- the bottom line is, there is no enemy to principle so strong as inconvenience, and I'm still not as easy going as I like to think.

A long time ago, when Travis was still a small mound in Mel's tummy, she and I had a conversation about how our friendship had changed and was different to other friendships we had at the time; ours was more of an adult friendship, based on fewer face to face meetings and more casual long-distance conversations. I said how my Mum had maintained a comraderie with a couple in Yorkshire and how every half-term she and Dad would drag me halfway across the country, kicking and screaming, to one of the dullest places on earth. Mel promised to do the same to her unborn baby to see me.
On Monday, she fulfilled that promise. In actual fact, the journey time from Newtown to Shrewsbury is only about half-an-hour, but Travis certainly seemed to begrudge the distance, and he was not impressed that I had been the object of such an ordeal; upon seeing me, he immediately declared that he wanted to see Auntie Rachel instead. So far, so good.
Travis did not remember me, which is not surprising as I had been absent for a third of his life at this point. But he did warm up to me, gingerly, and taking one step back for every two we advanced, but he specifically asked that I push him sometimes, and even that he be allowed to wait with me while Mel went to one of her accessory shops (one I have been stringently avoiding since they accused my sisters of shoplifting). The crescendo of our bonding came when he asked me to carry him back to the railway station- I picked him up, and he immediately wriggled and declared 'Uncle Rory's spiky!'- his word for unshaven. I transferred him to Mel and then asked, with a coy smile, 'Travis, for me, would you call mummy 'spiky'?'. With an impish grin, he acquiesced, then almost instantaneously after hugged Mel close and said 'I'm sorry for saying you were spiky, mummy'.
I'm rather fond of Travis.

And these two incidents, rather close chronologically, symbolise perfectly my struggle over that really rather important question: do I want kids? Yes, they're noisy and take up space, and scream and shout and constantly make unreasonable demands and force you to listen to music you don't like (I only recently discovered that my mother dislikes the Les Mis soundtrack and has been keeping silent on this for years). But they can also be sweet and charming and fun, and you can teach them things which really feels like one of the most rewarding things ever. But I am a very self-centred human being, and that's what makes me most happy and I honestly don't know if I want to sacrifice stuff just to bring up someone else. But apparently living like that leads to one being lonely in old age and that also sounds pretty awful. I really can't come to a consensus on this, and I understand I can put this off for a number of years, but if the goal is to NOT be lonely in old age, then surely putting it off is a temporary solution at best? I mean, I certainly don't want to still be caring for a child in my old age (my parents have discovered how annoying this is upon my return from Oz). I'd really like it all done before I was fifty, so I can have more of the stage where they're grown up and stable and just kind of pop in occasionally so we can both have our own lives separate of each other (like my parents had before I returned from Oz- they were really happy), so I really need to be aiming to have the thing at thirty. But then I also don't want to do it alone, so I'll have to start aiming to meet someone who shares my will and get to know them and decide we're suited for one another enough to have a child together, but that will take time on its own, and I also want to have a life after uni for a while and I kind of feel like a window's beginning to close rather quickly and I still don't know if I really want children.

This is a cycle that runs itself in my head every once in a while, and, being surrounded by Travis, and the three Cornish siblings (who eerily remind me of my own siblings), and my incredibly broody mother, and Norma and Sally and their tales of Grandparenthood, it's been running itself ragged recently. I know a decision will have to be made, and maybe very soon, but for now I can't help asking my friends if they want kids just to see if anyone else has the equation more clearly than I do.

Every knot was once straight rope

Quite a lot has happened recently, and I actually meant to blog about it at the time, but then I got distracted, but it's only been five days, so it's still good.

I had the frankest, easiest and weightiest conversation that I have ever had with Orla; I tend to avoid serious discussion with her, because a) our lifestyles were just so radically different, that I felt it was kind of like trying to converse with the pope and b) I felt I had so royally scuppered things with Mark that I no longer deserved intimacy with her. Well, neither of those reasons seem to apply anymore for she and I sat up in the kitchen talking for an hour about that most dreaded of topics, our relationship. My relationship with my sisters is something I've often discussed with my mum, but never with Orla and Moira themselves, because it seemed self-indulgent. But Orla and I dissected our kinship in great detail; I said I felt she and Moira were closer than I was with either of them, she agreed but thought this was mainly circumstantial; I said I couldn't see how we'd keep in touch when Mum and Dad were gone, she said if we wanted to, we'd find a way; I said I used to be jealous of her confidence and success, she said that was understandable. After this, Orla went to bed and I felt that I'd wasted seven years imagining we didn't get on.

And then, perhaps more surprisingly, I had the frankest and most uplifting discussion I'd had with my father in a long, long time. He actually encouraged me to pursue theatre and creative writing as a profession (whilst making a wage with something else, naturally). He pointed out that when I'm interested in something I can be a wunderkind, but I can't apply myself to things that bore me; he prayed that the courses I chose for fourth year would pique me. He told me he found my writing to be too angry, and I said he might like some of my newer stuff, because I'd lost that a bit (and reminded myself NOT to show him Rob and Roberta). It was odd, being so honest with someone around whom I normally feel I need to guard myself (I would never have admitted to my father that I was considering doing a creative writing course after Uni).
This is actually a very noticeable change in the dynamic between me and my parents- we are much more honest, and, despite this, more patient. My mum said I'd probably inherited my depression from her, and I said that she shouldn't blame herself for that- I also got my passion for words from her, and that's been the fuel for most of my life. We talk about grandchildren and romance and expectations and hardships and somehow at the end of the day, I don't wanna strangle her. I'm sure it's I who've changed, not her, and this makes me feel slightly embarrassed at how immature I used to be, but then if there's any time for immaturity, surely it's when one's young.

Finally, Esmond came to stay for a night, and it was just delightful: I could honestly just talk to him all day, ever day, and never feel like I'd run out of topics of conversation. We laughed, we sang and it was all just glorious, just to be in his company. It gave me hope for Fourth Year, because at least one person will be glad to see me.

Seconds

I've broken one of my cardinal rules three days in a row and drank with my parents. Each day it's been Pimm's, although today I also had two Vodka and lemonades and, I fear, got slightly tipsy in the company of my progenitors (this is not acceptable).
Orla's up for the weekend, to see me and celebrate mum's retirement and mark her boyfriend's birthday, so she's triply exuberant. She's taken to laughing at Dad's jokes, which disturbs me.
I have also set myself a goal that I will come out of this summer holiday with more money than when I began it, and since I'm 500 pound in debt to my parents, that really shouldn't be too tricky; to this end, I have not spent any of my own money for four days and have accepted most offers of paid work or free treats from the 'rents (hence the vodkas). I've been pulling Ivy from the garden wall for the abysmal rate of 5.50 an hour, which is less than minimum wage but they're giving me room and board and gift horses lack mouths for a reason.
Finally, young Sam came up and asked to borrow what I thought at first was the spice rack, but turned out to be the bike rack. He greeted me with "I've not seen you before", which I'll admit stung, and then generally forgot to say please or thankyou and even admonished me for taking too long to get aforementioned rack, and I now feel that I maybe shouldn't have taught him to speak.
I took the bike rack down with Sam, realising along the way that I don't know how to talk to children- I actually used the word 'categorised' at one point- and then the three Cornish siblings wrestled for my attention, with Sam showcasing his incredible strength, Missy listing all the words she knew and Elspeth screaming blue murder.
I'm kinda glad I don't have kids.

A Year's Worth of Water-Skiing

So, I'm back home. The year passed, the time flew by, and now I sit in my parents' kitchen, eating real Rice Krispies and drinking proper tea and feeling that neither of these luxuries make up for what I left behind.
So I need to start water-skiing.
This is a phrase I stole from the Spider-man comics of my youth; when Aunt May discovered Peter's alter-ego, she started what she called 'water-skiing'- she took up a slew of new activities and kept on moving, because she knew if she stopped and thought about what had happened, she would sink. I always thought that that was vaguely profound, for J.M. Straczynski, at least.
And while returning home from a year long holiday is in no way the same as discovering your adopted son beats up Goblins (not that I would know), I do worry that I'm in real danger of sinking; I cried five times during the leaving process, once quite seriously, and I don't want my life from now on to be devoured by middle-class melancholy.
I joked with Aspen that, give me a year, and the pain of leaving would be forgotten, and in its place just fond memories from Oz, and I now think there may be some truth in that. So, a year's worth of water-skiing it is, to ride out the ennui. I plan to write everyday, and see old friends, and work in a charity shop, and, if all else fails, maybe even study my course a wee bit. And, with that, ladies and gentlemen, I welcome you to