I feel like my funny has dried up.
Gone on holiday. Out of the office. AWOL.
I’m not sure what to do about it. Funny cant be forced.
Humour can’t be hacked.
It’s just gotta be there.
And mine, this week, is just not.
It’s times like this I wonder if I ever really was hilarious. Maybe I just thought I was a little bit funny? Maybe it was all in my head?
Then again, maybe my very being is the most hilarious thing to ever come into existence. And right now I’m not very me.
I’m finding it hard to concentrate. On writing. In conversation. On getting the washing done.
The other day I forgot to change nappies after the afternoon sleep. Pal thought I did it on purpose to leave them for him. That would have taken more concentration than I am capable of.
I’m not sure if there is something wrong or if I have been switched back into survival mode.
Just keep swimming.
Don’t fall down.
For goodness sake remember to change the kids’ nappies.
I’m making dinners. Cleaning surfaces. But I guess that’s the thing. Maybe I need to be doing some deep cleaning.
And I’m not talking about the kitchen anymore.
Being this Mum, this month, has been hard. Disrupted. Disjointed. Disengaged. And we are only 13 days in.
I just want to be funny again.
But I’m not funny.
Pal says that maybe, just for a little while, I need to be sad.
He probably means “sad” as in embarrassing. I mean sad as in exhausted.
This time, two years ago, I was staring down the barrel of bringing not-quite-ultra-prem twins into a single parent home.
I was 25 weeks pregnant with a 15 month old. My husband left.
And the doctors were saying that the babies would be lucky to make it to 28 weeks.
It was the scariest, most confusing time of my life.
It was also the time I was the most calm I have ever been.
Oh I was angry. I was ragingly, scarily angry.
But I was also calm.
I was calm on fire.
Heavily pregnant calm on fire.
Now life is better than I could have possibly imagined two years ago.
My babies are here. Roo has survived the Usurpers. My husband is home.
So supportive. So HERE. More here than he ever was before.
But the getting here?
The price, the emotional toll – it’s been exhorbitant.
I didn’t realise until we entered hospital for a relatively minor, elective, procedure.
That’s when it buried me. When my son was screaming and there was nothing I could do. There was nothing I could say as I rocked him, held him. Wished for him, and for us, to not be in the here and now. And a nurse came in and took him from me. Said “go”.
And it wasn’t until I reached the bathroom that I realised I was crying.
That I had been crying for some time.
And I guess that means that for now, the funny is gone.