I'm not meant to be at home right now. I should be in London. I should be at the MAD blog Awards, hobnobbing with the celebs and star bloggers, eating a very fancy meal in a 5 star hotel. Right about now I should be having my hair and make up done, before putting on a totally posh frock and going out there a Princess. I should be sat beside my friend Jen while she waits to see if she has won an award for My Mummy's Pennies. I should be having a night off, a night out, a stay in a hotel and some amazing company. A fun time. I chose not to go, I am not in the mood for trying to have fun. I hope that everyone has an awesome epic time and whoever got my ticket uses it well.
This morning, after a very unsettled night's sleep and with a nasty cold, my 4 year old told me he was sad today because Elspeth has died. He wanted to take his 'sad book' Always And Forever into school with him. I wrote all of this in his new 'home/school' book, a book we've set up where we all record specific or challenging behaviour, and school let me know what 'news' he has shared with his peers today. On Tuesday at circle time he told his group everything. That was his news.
Our 5 year old has accepted that people who say they're sorry aren't being rude and trying to make us sad, they're being nice. One of his friends had a Peacock feather amongst their treasure, and my son explained to his class that we'd found a Peacock feather in the park the day his sister died. We already bought him a memory box, and he has put in the Peacock feather and a sunflower and has space for much more.
My partner has distracted himself with the Scottish referendum. The votes are cast, it's over, so today he has lost his distraction. He's lost the thing that was allowing him to think of something else, and that's a long way to fall for him right now.
I'm doing the school run with a friend who lives on my street. We walk together and she waits for me while I drop off my children because I'm just not ready to face the playground by myself.
Death is about loss. Loss of hope, loss of joy, loss of innocence, loss of security, loss of distraction. Loss of confidence. Loss of the person and everything they are is only the beginning.
1. The 2 youngest boys have started to mention their sister casually in passing.
2. The 2 youngest boys have shared their sad news with their schoolfriends and it went okay.
3. Time is beginning to make more sense and have more structure. We're eating meals and getting the boys into bed at a sensible hour.
4. We're sleeping without the TV on, and checking on the children less during the night.
5. Really bad days are far fewer. Times like this morning are fewer.
6. We had a huge meeting with 2 School Heads and 5 Health Professionals. They repeatedly tell us we're doing nothing wrong, and we've done nothing wrong. They all agree that any behaviour our children are exhibiting is entirely to be expected.
7. The lovely Sim took me to the supermarket. Nothing went wrong and I didn't cry.
8. My 4 year old went to the toilet by himself - just once, but it's a start.