My Life Next Door

Next Door

Dear mother of small boys next door. Yes, I hear them. All the time. No, don’t apologise.

“Mummy, look at me! Mummy, look at me! Mummy! Look at me!!

It’s been a while since I was called Mummy. It’s just Mum now. I don’t get told to “Look at me!” any more. Sometimes, they ask me to look at something they’ve done. Maybe check over an English assignment or a maths problem. And my heart swells a little as I feel needed again.

High-pitched little voices and giggles.

It’s all deep rumblings and explosive laughter on my side of the fence now.

Bouncing on the trampoline, chattering in the sandpit, rattling around in the cubby house playing make-believe.

The trampoline is neglected. The sandpit is long gone. Cosplay at scifi conventions is as far as make-believe goes in my house these days.

Words you don’t understand because he’s still learning to talk.

Words I don’t understand because he talks about stuff far beyond my knowledge.

Arguments and tears. “He did…” “They said…”

Well, I still get those. Less, but still. The arguments are louder. The tears more heartbreaking.

Dear mother of small boys next door. Yes, I hear them. All the time. No, don’t apologise.

Because once your life was mine.

And I still remember.

 

A response to the Daily Post Weekly Writing Challenge – Blog Your Block.

 

 

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