More scatterlings

Jessica likes to watch television. A lot. If I attempt to get between her and the screen, she will try her very best to move me out of the way so she can gaze, slack jawed, at the monstrous goggle box.

At this point I should remind you that I am a full grown adult woman of around 5'8'' and she is a piffling little squirt of hmm . . perhaps 3 foot, absolute tops. She will still have a go at pushing me out of the way. Got to admire her spirit if nothing else. The resulting tussle would be amusing if it were not for the steely determination in her eye, letting me know that nothing comes between Jessica and her television. Mother or not.

She is generally allowed to watch two programmes before bedtime. At the moment these are 64 Zoo Lane and In The Night Garden. Both of these shows have very catchy little theme songs which I find myself singing from time to time. Kind of nursery rhymes for rotten parents I guess.

64 Zoo Lane in particular has a very nice little theme tune, describing all the animals who live in the zoo situated next door to a little girl called Lucy. None of these animals are sung about by name except for  . . . . . . . . yes, you guessed it, a giraffe who is called Georgina. Who is incredibly tall don't you know.

I have quite a bit of affection for this character as my own little Georgina was also, oddly enough, tall. She was on the 91st centile for weight at 23 weeks gestation. A big girl for her age. I wish that could have helped her.

In a recent episode, the animals were racing one another. Some moral about the snooty zebra who thinks he is superior to all the rest. Naturally we were cheering for the giraffe, Georgina. And it felt good. It felt good to say 'Go on Georgina' in a loud and cheery voice. Not hushed or sad. Just her name. Aloud. In the tones in which I have said 'Jessica' oh . . probably thousands of times. I wanted to carry on saying it long after the scene had ended. As though my cheering my little girl on would help her at all. I like saying her name although it makes my jaw muscles clench a little.

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I have never been a keen cook. I'm obviously not the naturally nurturing kind. My poor, malnourished husband would testify to that.

But, when Jessica started eating, I became obsessed with recipes and organic ingredients, herbs and spices. Unsalted butter. Making my own stock. Scouring the internet for new ideas that might tempt her to try this or that. Calorie content. Looking for those foods that would fatten up those stick like limbs. As those of you who are kind enough to 'know' me on fac.ebook will have seen, I don't have much to worry about on that account any longer. But it is like a nervous tic. Weight gain=health=good mother. I can just see myself in twenty years time, encouraging Jessica to have that second slice of cake.

Sometimes as I cook, I think how much I would love to cook just one dish for Georgina. Just a little something. I don't even know what she would like. She would probably just throw the whole lot on the floor as her sister often does but still, I would like to cook with her in mind. To think, oh Georgina really likes x! I will have to look up a new recipe containing x. Maybe I could sneak a few veggies in on the side.

It makes me so sad that she never tasted anything. I love food so much. I wish she could have tasted just something.

When Jessica was still very small, I used to express milk on to my fingers for her and drop it into the corner of her mouth.

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I thought that this was going to be my hundredth post. However after I'd deleted a few posts deemed not fit for public consumption, I discover that this is actually my 95th. But still I want to ask.

There is a song that reminds me of my first boyfriend, 'My Legendary Girlfriend' by Pulp. It pretty much sums up how I felt about that relationship and every relationship I have been in since.

'And as I stand here ... I wonder ... I wonder how many more times ... 
I'm gonna come here ...
I wonder how many more times ... I'm gonna lie here ... 
And most of all ... most of all I wonder ... 
I wonder what it means ...'

Even when I'm in the midst of something I can't help wondering how it is going to end.

I had honestly thought that this blog would be finished by now. That I would have said my piece and gone away. I feel a little like Sir Andrew Aguecheek from Twelfth Night when he says 'I was adored once too'.

My grief was new and raw once too.
When I read new stories, perhaps my tears are a little less hot?
My words are a little less confident, maybe a little less. . . welcome.
Perhaps it all seems too long ago, when I was 'adored', when my daughter died, that my words are an irrelevance, an annoyance.

I have visited this place of blogs every day since I knew of its existence. I sit up here in the spare bedroom in a nondescript house in the English suburbs and I read, I type, I cry. I occasionally laugh.
This place of shadows. A little like a church. Or a wood.

Where I can hear the voices of other people. Whispering. Murmuring.
Sometimes I fancy that I know them.
That I see them, that they see me.
Sometimes I feel that I have been caught up in a staring contest.
That I have offended.
That I have hurt.
That they would like me to leave.
Take my words and shove them where the sun don't shine.
It is very hard to tell. The voices here are faint.

The shadows moving in the periphery.
The partners.
The living children.
Although I will not necessarily know or remember their names.
But I will know the names of the dead.
If, indeed, they were named.

When I hear your child's name, I will stop. Floored. Just for a moment.
As though they were somebody that I knew and had loved.
Because sometimes I almost feel that I might have done. Just a little.

This place. It has a different population from those that stood here when I first arrived.
Even those that used to stop here and offer words have, in the main, moved along.
Maybe I am just a little slow, a little dull. I only seem to have the three posts. Wry smile.

And I wonder how many more times I will come here.
I wonder how many more times I will be welcome here.
Because I still want to come here. Is that wrong? Can I just carry on? Can I keep on writing about Georgina even if nothing else ever changes? And still expect an answer. 
What do you think? Do you imagine that there is a time limit on this sort of writing?