The slinky of devotion

In an astonishing gesture of extravagance, we missed our flights. Or skipped them. Normally I can talk him down from his particular insanities and he from mine, we’re nicely codependent in that way. But when he remarked the night before our romantic getaway to Rome that he felt weird about leaving the four year old behind in a different country from us, the unease that had been politely coiled in my chest all week loosened and spiralled out. Once it gained momentum, my devotion collapsed over itself, moving haphazard down the steps like a stupid, bobbing slinky obeying some dumb force of inevitability. And this is what a fired up attachment system feels like when it gets going, an unhinged, out-of-control, runaway slinky. So we didn’t go to Rome in the end. We didn’t see the Colosseum or drink wine or watch the sunset together. Instead we left the kid in the flat with my sister (as planned) and booked some a cheap Premier Inn room in the same city as our kid and ate trashy snacks and read and napped and went to the pub. I’m not proud of our behaviour.

Devotion is costly. It is crazy. It runs its own course. It writes its own rules. I really wish I was not the sort of mother who has the urge to raid the laundry hamper and smell her kid’s clothes when he goes to nursery but I am. It’s weird and reeks of compulsion. I talk endlessly about needing more headspace and time to myself and then when I get it because the kid is finally being looked after by paid professionals, I walk into the silent flat, sit down on the sofa and do not write or read or do anything productive. I weep and open a bottle of prosecco, partly out of celebration and partly out of sorrow that he is growing up so quickly. In the same vein of over the top gestures of unhinged devotion I think I might have become vegan out of grief this week. He’s going to school the first week in September and it suddenly occurred to me that mother cows and baby cows are being torn apart all over the UK by industrial farming. Suddenly I can’t bring myself to eat cheese or put cream in my coffee. It feels wrong. In some kind of gut, panting -Labrador heart logic, the same limbic system that makes me sweat and pulse with cortisol and metallic tinged palpitations when I contemplate leaving the county without my kid is the same limbic system I share with all mammals. It’s weird to think the thing that I reckon makes me most human is the thing that paradoxically is my most animal self. I’m kind of in awe of it actually. I like how at odds with myself it makes me, what a stranger I become. My logical self that wants a romantic holiday with my husband to explore Rome is at odds with my devoted animal mother self who probably wants to curl up in the laundry hamper with some jam stained t shirts. I don’t know how to reconcile these parts of me so until then I’m just going to drink tinned cocktails in bed like the trashy mad bad sad lady I am with my husband in a hotel room no more than 3.5 miles away from my son and call that a romantic weekend away.

Copyright Diana Smith 2019

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