“Pee-Poo Sausage”
Since my daughter’s father has a new boyfriend, that’s nice for him. And I am happy with him. Of course. I like him. Of course, I’m a little envious. But yes, sure, I’m happy with him. That’s the way it should be and I really try hard. My being alone is not bad. Often enough I even long for it, then, when the clothes dryer has been ready for hours and beeps at regular intervals, when my daughter runs away screaming after I have said toothbrush, when the neighbor’s child is visiting and the kitchen door is slammed in my face by both children and I hear “you-pipi-poopa-sausage” and overexcited cackling from the other side. After I offered to paint and craft with the girls. Fiddlesticks. Do I actually have to intervene educationally now or can I just stay seated? I’m so happy when it’s 9:30 p.m., when the night light on the table next to my bed glows comfortably, letting me know that I’ve made it for today. When I have another cup of tea and no one calls my name, when no one bumps into me on the sofa, no one tugs at the blanket, no one goes to bed after me and leaves the light on because they still want to read. I am alone and that is good. But then they sit next to each other at dinner. I sit across from them. Admittedly, I have more elbow room at the table when I’m about to slice my pizza with a dull knife. But then they go to the yoga workshop together. I’ll take the empties away. Granted, I don’t like breathing into my second shakra anyway, jogging and biking have always been more my thing. Then they go on a weekend trip to Rome together and I sit in the big kitchen, eating dinner with my daughter. The two of us alone. Finally. Girls’ night out, whoopee, with Bibi and Tina and Amadeus and Sabrina. Sometimes that feels really good. Sometimes, though, it’s pretty quiet. Then I think physical contact while eating pizza can also be quite charming. But then they come back from Rome. They noisily drop their bags and bicker about something and 21.30h is for me suddenly in no time what it was. Wonderful.
