If I ever have kids, I want to train them to be the next Lennon and Maisy.
If I ever have kids. This song pretty much sums up all I want out of life. And while I have a ridiculous DVD collection, all the Diet Coke and Aperol I ever want to drink, and many, many beautiful things that Topshop has made me, I don’t have any of the things that matter. Sad times.
Last night on my way home I passed a little girl with long, blonde hair.
No big deal, there are loads of kids in my neighbourhood.
But she looked just like my ex’s niece.
And I had a real soft spot for my ex’s niece.
She was the first one of his family who I met – over Skype when he was home for Christmas.
We hung out together when she and her Dad came to stay in London last Easter. We both love horses and drawing. We had great talks about seahorses and how annoying boys can be, and cats and hairstyles and chocolate.
Whenever we visited in Ireland, she was excited to see me. She was mad about me. The ex’s brother said so.
She must be taller now. And even smarter.
I don’t know what my point is here.
I miss that little girl.
I miss everything connected to my ex.
And, if I’m honest, I still miss him. Loads.
Ahhhh, Christmas Eve.
We made it, my fellow blogger elves. We made it to Christmas. And I know at times we didn’t think that we would.
I haven’t blogged in the past few days. Partly I’ve been ill, and partly I’ve been having some kind of bipolar tendencies. One minute I’m high as a kid full of sugar plums, buying everything the shops have to offer and singing Christmas carols to myself. The next, I’m lying on my sofa sobbing uncontrollably because I’m going to be alone forever. And ever.
I’m entering into the Christmas spirit, regardless. I bought my mum and I reindeer onesies, which have gone down a treat. But, I swear to god, Facebook was designed to make us all feel rubbish about ourselves at this time of year. If I see one more picture of a baby dressed like an elf I will scream.
The fact is, you matter less when you are single at this time of year. Family plans revolve around the people who actually have other halves. Conversations revolve around the people who have kids. Or are kids (which doesn’t make for the most interesting dialogue). Last Christmas I was so ridiculously happy. My ex and I were constantly texting and Skyping. Kind of sickening. Kind of gut-wrenchingly heartbreaking.
Tomorrow I get to be the spare-part sister (a role I play so well) at my sister’s house.
But then it’s Boxing Day. Which means Boxing Day sandwiches and plenty of sleep.
And then this stupid year is nearly finished.
Next Christmas, you mark my sarcastic words, things are going to be different.
If they aren’t, I’m going to avoid Facebook like the plague in the month of December. And possibly book myself a flight to Hawaii.
What was your best Christmas ever?
While you scratch your head trying to work out which year it was exactly, let me make things a little easier and hazard a guess that it was when you were a kid.
For me, it’s hard to differentiate. There’s a whole mishmash of glittery memories. A bike, a Barbie house, a hot water bottle in the shape of a mole (a surprising hit – well done, Mum), an art kit, ballet shoes, a riding hat, a lego train.
OK, before I sound like the most spoilt brat ever (and, no, I never did get the pony to go with that riding hat), I need to make the point that although I remember these things, it isn’t the things themselves that make the memories special.
It’s that fluttery, flappity, festive feeling.
Leaving school on the last day before the holidays, laden down with art and craft projects from the previous two weeks and cards from every person in your class. Watching ‘A Very Brady Christmas’ and ‘The Garfield Christmas Special’ with my sister. Going to bed on Christmas Eve, unable to stop wriggling from sheer excitement. Knowing that if you eat just two brussel sprouts you’ll get extra trifle for dessert. Curling up with your Nonna to play board games – and not even realising when she falls asleep. And snores.
It’s not about the things at all: it’s about the feeling.
Which is maybe why this year felt like such a grinchtastrophe. I just couldn’t shake feeling blue. But, I tried. I put up my tree. I made a playlist. I watched Christmas movies. And finally, something has kicked in.
I feel happy.
I feel lucky.
I remember why.
Rediscover Christmas, my buddies. Here’s a little bit of magic to help you out.
When people go on and on and on about how difficult it is having kids, I want to punch them in the face.
Fair enough, I get that you have perhaps had only two hours’ sleep in the past six years, but consider the following:
I particularly hate when people say, “Oh, you’re so lucky. You have no idea what it’s like!”
You’re right. I don’t. Because I go home every night to an empty flat, eat cereal for dinner, and watch MTV for company. Yes, I have more disposable income and I get a lot more sleep than you. But I would trade it all for what you have. In a heartbeat.
Don’t moan to me about having a happy family.
You sound like an asshole.
Christmas is a funny time. Every year of my entire life I have spent Christmas with my family, and stayed at my parents’ house (although there have been years we spent Christmas Day at my Aunt’s, or my sister’s). Which is very nice for me, really. I realise there are a lot of people that don’t have family to be with, or who can’t be with their family due to distance or circumstances.
But I’m 31.
I still feel like when I get on the train from London, it’s as if I’m a 19-year-old student coming home from university for the holidays, or a school kid finishing up for Christmas break. I’m a grown up. And yet I feel like an overgrown kid.
I just wish that I had someone to share it all with. My Mum and Dad have each other, my sister has her husband and her kids. And then there’s me.
When my sister was 31 she was married. When my Mum was 31 she was married with a kid.
We’re spending Christmas Day at my sister’s house this year. My nephews. My sister and brother-in-law. My Mum and Dad. My sister’s in-laws. And me. Singular.
Believe me, I know I’m a lucky cat and I feel very guilty for feeling the way I do.
But I feel empty.
I’m kind of mad at myself. I am ruining my own holiday. I am thinking about him constantly. And I don’t know how to turn it off.
I’m here with my parents who clearly think, after nearly four months, I must be OK. They are very much of the ‘suck it up and get on with your life’ school of thought. I’ve tried to bring it up a few times, commenting on how shot my immune system is because I haven’t slept since July, telling them I am really not that interested in Christmas because I’m just a spare part hanging around my sister’s family, and even (last night) saying that 2013 has been the worst year of my life. On all accounts, no comment.
It’s not that they don’t care. They were actually great when it all happened. I just don’t think they have any experience or comprehension of this kind of thing. My sister is perfectly married with kids. I’m the emotional nut job with nobody.
But I don’t like the fact I can feel myself reverting back to being a surly teenager (I was a horrible teenager), when I’m 31.
I just don’t know how to snap out of it. I don’t know what will ever make me feel OK.
I have a good job.
I have a lovely flat filled with lovely things.
I have gorgeous, wonderful friends.
I have a nice family who are just the right amount of crazy.
I have my health. Usually I am superhero healthy, it’s just recently that I’m constantly ill.
I have great hair.
But, honestly, a lot of the time I feel like there’s no point to my life. And I feel bad saying that because I know how many people are so much worse off than me. Also I sound so embarrassingly dramatic (I told you I’m reverting to my teenage self, next thing you know I’ll be dressing like a Spice Girl).
I just wonder what it’s going to take to feel good again.
Unlike my teenage self, I’m going to canvass opinion. So, blogger buddies, any ideas?
Pizza of Doom 
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