Sometimes I find myself staring skyward at low-flying aeroplanes. My wings feel clipped so instead I fantasize about ones that hold up cargo and a hostess named Sue. She asks me if I’d like a soft blanket and an ice-cream at 3am.
I cast my eyes away from the lament in my heart but if it’s not the planes, it’s the towering tops of gum trees barely visible from a kitchen window, or a low-lit lamp in a dark, brooding pub – beckoning me with expensive Shiraz, a crackling fire and no place to be.
“You can’t think about those things” other parents say. “Wait until they’re teenagers” they warn me. Just lie to me. I implore you.
I’m in a territorial dispute. Stuck between leaving behind my former self and forging ahead to newer plains. I call it second child syndrome. Watch me while I wave goodbye to three hour hairdressing appointments and embrace crusted-weetbix couture. It’s the new black.
I drove past that low-lit lamp. Just kept on going. I told myself there was no fireplace just lonely men propping up bars. No children at home to beg them “please just sleep in my bed for one more minute” or talk to them about dragons. I tell myself lies maybe.