Slipping Through My Fingers

My daughters and I love to watch Mamma Mia. During lockdown, when it was just me and four little girls aged between 5 and 12 years old, we used to plan a Greek Night at the end of the week. I’d sizzle halloumi in a pan, grill pitta bread, chop salad and stir pots of tzatziki. We’d lay our picnic out on the coffee table in the lounge, sit cross-legged on the sofa or stretched out on cushions on the wooden floor. We’d stare at the TV, sing the songs, marvel at Meryl’s dungarees and laugh at Pierce Brosnan - ‘he’s so cheesy mama’. When Slipping Through My Fingers arrived, towards the end of the film, we’d fall quiet, and I was so drenched in daughters that I couldn’t imagine a time when my arms would be empty.

Those lockdown days, when I wrote an entire book about our life, started off intensely, every day pricked with the fear that I might die. But they also sit in my memory as precious pockets of stolen time. It was just me and the kids, no appointments, no conflict with their dad, and everyone in the world was on their own, so I felt less lonely. Later, when my oldest daughter contracted covid and had to be hospitalised, the lockdowns became dystopian and exhausting. Single parents were not considered, just as disabled people were forgotten, and carers were forced to draw on invisible banks of energy in the absence of any external support.

But back to Mamma Mia. One Friday lockdown night we watched both films back to back, just because we could and there was nothing to get up for in the morning. We’ve always been good at making our own rules. Afterwards we trailed upstairs and the girls piled onto my creaky bed, in the smallest room in the house. Back then I wasn’t hungry with desire or seeking romance, but I was wild when I ran up hills, feral in the waves, and that was how I sated my body’s soft curiosity. Perhaps I was still revelling in the newness of feeling safe, and a house free from shadows.

It wouldn’t last forever, this glorious exhale. Not long after those Mamma Mia Fridays, I’d be dragged reluctantly back into a world of scrutiny and criticism, and it was hard once more to remember what safety felt like. It’s difficult to be the safe place for your children when a racing heart reminds you daily of the precarious place you are inhabiting, close to the edge.

These last weeks, months, have been defined by uncertainty, as the bricks I am carefully stacking in order to build a solid life for us all have stubbornly refused to stand firm. I’ve been tearful and exhausted, and I’ve bought ready meals more often than I’d like. I have an almost constant pain in my pelvis that I think is ovarian cysts but no one knows for sure.

Rats started to visit my basement flat, rustling in my kitchen at night, and running down the corridor to the bathroom, where I discovered a huge hole behind the toilet. Perfect for rats. I think the rats have gone now, but they haven’t helped. I still wake and listen when I hear a noise in the night. My boyfriend stayed with us while the rats were still visiting becasue I was scared. I loved that he stayed but I hated that I needed him to. Now he has gone back to his flat across the park, and I’m not sure how I feel about that, about our unconventional life. The past has been weighing heavy on me in recent days.

Last night was light though, and I leaned into the joy of being surrounded by my children. I made a Caesar salad and everyone ate it, except for the vegetarian daughter who was sewing sequins onto a pink dress in the living room. My quiet daughter joined in with our chatter at the dinner table, and everyone stacked their own plates in the dishwasher. Progress.

This morning I fried eggs for my two school girls. When I played random tunes in the kitchen my 16yo asked me why I was playing sad songs, and I said I wasn’t listening to the words, which is unlike me. As they came in to say goodbye to me, the 16yo spoke the entire first verse of Slipping Through My Fingers at me as I pulled her head in, kissed her shiny hair and laughed.

I took a photo of the door that closed behind them, because it still feels like a miracle when any of my kids leave the house and step out into the world on their own. This is the type of school morning I adore, and each one cancels out a little bit more the hundreds when I had to peel a terrified child from the footwell of my car. I am happy when they slip through my fingers, because I’ve held on to everything for such a long time.