A Room Of One's Own
I remember first reading A Room Of One’s Own at university and thinking how ludicrously stupid it seemed.
God, I can just imagined my unencumbered child-free, eight-hours-plus-sleep-a-night self thinking, “bitch please, I can write ANYWHERE”.
Sure you can, honey. Sure you can.
Fast-forward and forget a room of my own - I am luck to enjoy a visit to the toilet alone. Look, don’t get me wrong, I do love being wanted - more so needed, and needed for nothing more than me. It is an all encompassing love that will never be properly or adequately enunciated. When you have it - I mean, when the tap is running - you cannot fathom a life without. Then again, the same goes for a room of your own.
It seems absurd, almost aggressive to be deprived of a space that is completely and wholly your own. A place where musings and memories can coexist. A place where you can indulge in both without any rhyme or reason… or plan or purpose.
You can reminisce about Mark in Year 10, just because. You can even stare at the wall, just because. You can daydream, just because. Only, when you’re a mother, you can’t, not really.
People will tell you to do all the things when you have free time. But the thing is that as a mother, free time doesn’t really exist. I mean it does, but any free time you may have is time to BE PRODUCTIVE, LADIES. It’s time to do all of those things you couldn’t when the kids were around, like properly washing, and cooking, and cleaning and all that other bullshit.
Right now, my “room” is a rocking chair is my eldest daughter’s room that overlooks our backyard. The chair is old. My mother bought for me when she learned I was pregnant. It has sentimental value and sometimes I think maybe all the memories of all the nights I stayed up rocking her back to sleep have become imbued in its fabric. I am alone but never really.