I’m uninspired today. Can’t think of anything to write about. ‘Course, I knew it would happen sooner or later. The whole point of writing a blog was the discipline of thinking up a topic and title a couple of times a week. So far it’s been ok. But today zilch, nada, nowt, nuffink.
Looking out of the window for inspiration, all I can see are the outlines of winter naked trees, and the grey light that comes at dusk on a rainy day. Through the brown beech hedge I can just make out the headlights of cars on the main road. I guess people are travelling home after picking up their kids from school. It’s about that time of day.
I miss the school run, even though when the kids were at primary school we had to negotiate the level crossing every day. The line is a main, inter-city route, and if our schedule was just a minute or two out, we’d have to wait ages for the train, or more often than not, trains, to hurtle past before we could continue. It regularly made us late, leaving a blot on the timekeeping section of the girl’s school reports.
Waiting at the gates to pick them up was a time when all the mum’s got to socialise and bond. Friendships were made, and gossip was circulated before the kids would pour out of their classes, clutching their latest artworks, with their un-put-on coats trailing in the dirt behind them. On the way home, I’d here all their stories
‘Sarah got told off, she hit Lizzie’
‘dinner was horrible. Minted cabbage…yuck’
‘Mr H was reeealllly funny in assembly…’
Of course, they had bad days too. When things didn’t go their way. The days when they’d had had an unjust telling off. (It was always unjust!) Or someone had been mean to one or the other of them. At least with their bad days I got to give them a cuddle when they got home, to make things better.
I still get reports of their days, albeit several days later and on the phone rather than in person. And I think it’s more than likely an abridged version of events. It’s never that excited tumbling out of words that only kids can do. And it’s always horrid when they ring after a bad day, and I can’t reach out to give them a hug. A virtual one is just not the same.
It’s no good, I’ll never get used to being an empty-nester – it’s been seven years since they left home for uni and the house still seems empty and quiet. But at least I’ve got the time to write now. When I can think of something, that is.