Item – All the comments – oh, my exceedingly dear Internets, thank you so much. Thank you. Just… thank you.
Item – Friday was lovely. Deeply bitter-sweet, melancholy, and lovely. The fact that one of the bigger boats stuck so closely to the little boat with Pikaia’s name on strikes me as so poignant I well up every time I think of it, and it makes me happy. One of the reasons I found myself announcing loudly to H ‘We’ll make lots of boats!’ was because suddenly sending one boat down to the sea all by itself seemed cruel (anthropomorphosizing much?). And then, so many other people we know and care for have also lost pregnancies and – oh God – repeatedly. So we made lots of boats. So not one of them would have to go down to the sea alone.
Item – H had been worried about Friday. Worried that he would lose it and howl (and he is not by nature or inclination happy with howling); even more worried he wouldn’t feel anything at all. As it was, his eyes filled with tears when he saw Pikaia’s name written down with his own surname. And again, at other points during the day. So he neither lost it nor froze over, and all was well.
Item – In the past couple of days, our sex-life has improved dramatically. I bet you wanted to know that. Yes, you did, look, you’re smirking. Anyway, it has, and very probably because it was difficult (I nearly said ‘hard’, and wouldn’t that be hugely inappropriate (stop it. Stop it now.)) for either party to keep calm and carry on with a haunted uterus in the vicinity. Poor H.
Item – Rachel said our little boating expedition was ‘a beautiful tradition’ (thank you). We ‘made it up’ in a rush last week, not really knowing what to do but badly wanting to do something. Is it a tradition? Have other people already done this or somthing similar and I missed it? Good. It ought to be a tradition.
Item – I even wondered if we should do it again next year. H moved me to tears by saying that as much as he had loved the boats, he didn’t think he could bear to. Because there should be a little one year old, then a two year old, a three year old, a child old enough to enjoy playing with boats and wanting to join in, with us each time. Oh, God, I love that man. I love him so much.
Item – I daren’t talk about what Satsuma is or is not up to right now. The amount of false alarms she has managed this cycle should have got her eaten by wolves three times over. And back we go, into the life I am actually having, rather than the one I should be having.