This is not the Saturday I envisioned. I was going to get ambitious & grab some groceries, put together some casseroley things for the freezer, meet my self-imposed deadline of getting my website up & running & then indulge in some hardcore chilling out with the newly aquired Springsteen tunes for Guitar Hero. So far none of that seems to be on the cards. I received a call earlier from the baby daddy letting me know that he’s made a doctor’s appointment for the eldest sprog for first thing tomorrow morning as the chest thing he’s been battling has escalated.
On one hand I’m cheering on the inside as this is the first time in the 8 years the ex & I have been separated that he’s taken the initiative & made the appointment without my hand forcing it. It’s not a judgement call as such; his intentions have always been logical & empathetic & I do appreciate the spirit in which his actions (or lack thereof) are intended, but the hand-holding became tired quickly. On the other hand I really resent not being the parent doing the care giving & being in the position of fretting at arm’s length. I worry that his fever will spike as it’s wont to do. I worry that he’s not getting enough liquids. I worry that tomorrow morning isn’t soon enough. I worry about stupid shit even though I know that papa is well equipped with the skills to deal with this & my inability to let it go has thrown my day off completely.
I’ve been sort of good, though. I’ve only made one phone call to assess the whole fever thing & insist he be given something to keep it from spiking. The kid’s notorious for going from normal to 187 degrees in 2.2 seconds flat so I’m ok with nagging on that score. I still somehow feel like a horrid mum for not being there for him. I’m a bundle of nerves & distraction…so much so that I almost went across the street to purchase some paper towels after walking by the package of 678 rolls stood in the middle of the kitchen floor 4938 times. Parenthood is not fair.
In an (futile) effort to keep my mind off all of this I’ve been oggling Alexander McQueen’s fall line. Though I admit the emotional rawness I’m feeling at the moment may have something to do with me weeping at it’s brilliance, I think I’d still do it under different circumstances. Check this out:
Love those organic lines & tailored details.
She’s like some haute nomad ready to take her leave of the steppes.
And then there’s my favourite because it’s like McQueen took Fantômas…
…or Arsène Lupin…
…& reversed their gender then breathed Erté’s dying breath into the lot of it to produce this:
Fabulous & brilliant, non?