Perched on the balcony with a glass of wine, and stalking B via Flightradar – his plane is currently above Edgware, doing a turn back over London to join the flight path that comes in just above our house. I love this website! Every single time, I take a photo of his flight when it’s right above. So excited to see him, and Monkey’s here too, so my life is complete again. Of course, all Monkey seems to want to do is be on his Xbox or iPad, long gone are the days when he was perfectly entertained by me making funny faces and noises at him. These days, I’m boring at best and embarrassing at worst.
Monkey has a strict No Hugs Policy around school and his friends. I’m not allowed to show any sign of affection or gooey-ness and I suspect he also prefers it if I address him with a deep sense of respect and possibly also a hint of fear. At home, he’ll spontaneously just come up and hug me, sometimes I even get a kiss, although that’s normally when he wants something. Sometimes, he forgets himself though. Last week at school when I picked him up, he put his arm around my waist, perhaps by habit and momentarily forgot that I’m actually embarrassing mum.
There’s B’s plane! That’s my baby up there on BA427 approaching Heathrow – YAAAAAAAY!
I do realise this makes me a complete stalker, but I’m crazy about this man and what can I say, I’m madly in love.
Anyway, where were we? PDAs. If Monkey hates public displays of affection, B is the complete opposite. I suppose I’m somewhere in the middle and not a big fan of full-on snogs in public. Not that I’d try to snog my son or anything, eow, but B has no barriers like that and leans in for kisses – proper kisses, I mean – no matter where we are or what we’re doing. It’s freaking wonderful to feel so wanted and desired though, even if I’m sometimes a little too aware of people around us. For a Swede, I’m a bit of a prude, unless behind closed doors in which case I’m probably better described as, uhm… …pretty damn up for it and have no inhibitions whatsoever.
Speaking of desire, my Jessica Rabbit welcome scheme has fallen apart somewhat. I’m having one of those days when I just don’t feel sexy enough to pour myself into something a little more UNcomfortable, so it looks as though poor B will be coming home to not a sexy siren but this: tired Anna in his track suit bottoms and a washed out pink t-shirt. I do feel I should be making more of an effort, given I’m lucky enough to have a guy like him come home to me, something I’m sure most women would kill for, but I can’t seem to find my mojo this evening. He might just have to make do.
Today I tried to write more on the part about Monica’s background, which is really difficult – I’m writing about women who have difficult relationships to their mothers and broken bonds. Coming from a loving family and being incredibly close with my own parents, it’s hard to convey in a believeable manner instances of resentment and pain – I’ve never experienced that for myself, so who knows if I manage to do it justice. I hope so.
As I was writing, I paused to e-mail my mum – suddenly had an urge to tell her how much I love her and how much she inspires me. She can’t take a bloody compliment though, came back with that I’m the inspiration despite my weird parents. Silly woman. But I could just picture her reading my little declaration of love, squirming in her seat at being praised. She’s too Swedish and level headed to be prone to the emotional flights of fancy her daughter has displayed throughout her life.
She once said I have an artist’s soul. By that, she meant that everything I feel, I feel strongly. And it’s true. I don’t do anything by half measures, and that includes my emotions. I don’t seem to have those middle gears. Sometimes that can be quite exhausting and there have been times when I’ve sort of wished I was more level headed, but I’m just not wired that way, and besides, the highs are worth it. I don’t often hit lows, and when I do, they pass quickly. I’m a lot like my father in that respect, ever the enthusiastic optimist and I struggle to look on any other than the bright side of life. Perhaps that means I’m very lucky.
For those reasons, it’s a challenge to take on writing a novel with its roots in depression, broken family bonds and loss – all things very far removed from the world I personally inhabit.
Right! Given B’s now safely back on British soil, he should be back within the hour as long as there’s no hold up with queues at passport control and the taxi ride from Heathrow is normally 20 minutes if traffic’s OK. It’s rush hour so it’ll take a little longer, would expect to have my baby home by 6.30 though. 53 minutes to wait. I can just about do that.