The dwarfs, at the end of the day, after I've concocted them three meals, sometimes four, have a habit of asking for warm milk (in a beaker which takes me at least ten minutes to clean and put together) and a bowl of dried banana or a platelet of fruit. Tonight was a bad night as I was threadbare from the day, and the day before that. And the Lozenge must have sensed it somehow as he followed me into the kitchen, naked, on his scooter and said sheepishly, 'Mummy, no rush with the fruit.' Then as he scooted out he turned to me and said a little more quietly, his head down,'Mummy. Do you miss Daddy? Because I do.' And scooted out again.
The Daddy diet has begun, as J begins his first seven week stretch away from us. The first of a year's worth of these. He's in Baghdad; we are in Jerusalem. We're used to random-combination-destinations but this one is a wierd one. His lack is my overload, his silence is my noise, his solitude is my endless companionship. Mostly of dwarfs. But as Tom Hanks said recently: 'There is big difference between loneliness and solitude'. In my mind the two are as different as starvation and hunger. One is a deeper need that can't be answered with simple company or food; the other is a knowledge that everything is alright and a little pang of a reminder to enjoy the feeling and use it well, before the situation changes. ie. your husband returns, your friend comes to visit, or you have food on your plate.
As J works on one big mission, my missions are multitudinous. The dwarfs, the pea and I all have our routines, but I've noticed that through our intense togetherness, we've also begun to leak into each other's lives more than ever. Since J is not here, my life takes on more of a dwarf-friendly theme: they stay up later with me, as we're invited by friends to eat and drink on weekend evenings. I'm flanked in the darkness by two dwarfs on scooters, a pea in a pram as we wheel through the darkness back home, the call to prayer sounding under the starlight. And I can find myself of a Sunday morning eating nutella on toast roaring with laughter with them, watching Alvin and the Chipmunks: Road Chip; or trying to stifle a sob on E.T. when he leaves forever, pointing to the little boy's head and saying: 'I'll be right here.'
Our lives and our flesh are interlinked in our small oasis in the middle of one of the more troubled cities in the world. The physicality of dwarf and Pea presence, both trips me up and supports me. J has none of this, and the seven weeks of absence must be in this sense harder for him.
The dwarfs are most of the time my allies - their conversation sometimes deep ('Mummy, God is the guard of the world' or 'Mummy if all the people in the whole wide world, died, would that be the end of the world. And if so, would God begin making it all over again?' from Rashimi) between naked wrestling or Pea wrangling. 'She is the most loved, and cuddled and stroked and pummeled and sucked and occasionally kicked or dropped-by-mistake, baby sister. You guys are going to be so fine you know - you'll swim the river, you'll wrestle the crocodile and it'll all be good,' J says as he leaves us.
And I also have my other allies - so many friends around, and Marwan in the local shop on the corner, whose shelves are stacked so high in his tiny store he has to flick the cereal down with a long stick so you have to duck to avoid flying Cheerios. Marwan is my friend. He sells cereal, salami and Leffe Blonde.
We have our moments, also. When I signed up for this year of separation, the Pea wasn't moving. Now we have a constant refrain. 'Hang on, where's Petra?'
It's as though the Pea is on wheels, and she doesn't answer when we call. Now we need Pea patrol as well as everything else.
'Mummy - she's crawling down the path to the gate!'
'She's got a mouth full of fir cones Mummy'!' as Rashimi shoves a grimy hand into her mouth to pull out the dribbly brown bits.
'She's chewing the loo brush!
Or worst of all, tears of fury as 12kg of human shaped gnocchi crushes a Lego masterpiece.
Before he left, J gave us a beautiful chess/backgammon set made in Syria, so we'd have something other than Alvin and his merry 'munks to focus on while he's away. The Lozenge and I play chess (we're teaching ourselves on youtube which is time consuming and intense) so Rashimi gets bored and rearranges the pieces or drops them on the floor. 'Look - I've knocked off some of your prawns and your ponies,' says Rashimi, cackling with laughter, looking for a rise. Normally he gets one from a Lozenge and I look down as the Pea squashes a bishop into one cheek, the other side already packed with draughts pieces. More tears. I study the mother of pearl on the chess board and wonder where the Syrian hands are now that set the tiny pieces into it.
When we're in the house together, there is constant, constant conversation, and I sometimes have to pinch myself to make sure I listen to every single bit - becuase it's all important, though all incessant. I almost switched off this morning while slicing into a newly baked fruity loaf, re-heating porridge, packing snacks for school and feeding a Pea a sticky spoon of mango in-between.
But luckily this morning I switched back on in time to hear the Lozenge's vignette on Gene Wilder's death. 'Willy Wonka, Mummy?' 'You mean he's dead?' I said: 'Well - the actor who played Willy Wonka died. Because he was very old and he was ill.' A small silence. 'But you know what, that is really clever because what they do is they make the film with the Willy Wonka man in it, the one who's just died, and then they put it in a DVD, so then, so then he will stay there forever! Even when he dies, then he doesn't go away.' A six year old's way of explaining being preserved in Celluloid. Gene - you're with us. In our cupboard under the telly. And it's really nice to know you haven't gone away.
If only we could keep Daddy under the telly too.
The Daddy diet has begun, as J begins his first seven week stretch away from us. The first of a year's worth of these. He's in Baghdad; we are in Jerusalem. We're used to random-combination-destinations but this one is a wierd one. His lack is my overload, his silence is my noise, his solitude is my endless companionship. Mostly of dwarfs. But as Tom Hanks said recently: 'There is big difference between loneliness and solitude'. In my mind the two are as different as starvation and hunger. One is a deeper need that can't be answered with simple company or food; the other is a knowledge that everything is alright and a little pang of a reminder to enjoy the feeling and use it well, before the situation changes. ie. your husband returns, your friend comes to visit, or you have food on your plate.
As J works on one big mission, my missions are multitudinous. The dwarfs, the pea and I all have our routines, but I've noticed that through our intense togetherness, we've also begun to leak into each other's lives more than ever. Since J is not here, my life takes on more of a dwarf-friendly theme: they stay up later with me, as we're invited by friends to eat and drink on weekend evenings. I'm flanked in the darkness by two dwarfs on scooters, a pea in a pram as we wheel through the darkness back home, the call to prayer sounding under the starlight. And I can find myself of a Sunday morning eating nutella on toast roaring with laughter with them, watching Alvin and the Chipmunks: Road Chip; or trying to stifle a sob on E.T. when he leaves forever, pointing to the little boy's head and saying: 'I'll be right here.'
Our lives and our flesh are interlinked in our small oasis in the middle of one of the more troubled cities in the world. The physicality of dwarf and Pea presence, both trips me up and supports me. J has none of this, and the seven weeks of absence must be in this sense harder for him.
The dwarfs are most of the time my allies - their conversation sometimes deep ('Mummy, God is the guard of the world' or 'Mummy if all the people in the whole wide world, died, would that be the end of the world. And if so, would God begin making it all over again?' from Rashimi) between naked wrestling or Pea wrangling. 'She is the most loved, and cuddled and stroked and pummeled and sucked and occasionally kicked or dropped-by-mistake, baby sister. You guys are going to be so fine you know - you'll swim the river, you'll wrestle the crocodile and it'll all be good,' J says as he leaves us.
And I also have my other allies - so many friends around, and Marwan in the local shop on the corner, whose shelves are stacked so high in his tiny store he has to flick the cereal down with a long stick so you have to duck to avoid flying Cheerios. Marwan is my friend. He sells cereal, salami and Leffe Blonde.
We have our moments, also. When I signed up for this year of separation, the Pea wasn't moving. Now we have a constant refrain. 'Hang on, where's Petra?'
It's as though the Pea is on wheels, and she doesn't answer when we call. Now we need Pea patrol as well as everything else.
'Mummy - she's crawling down the path to the gate!'
'She's got a mouth full of fir cones Mummy'!' as Rashimi shoves a grimy hand into her mouth to pull out the dribbly brown bits.
'She's chewing the loo brush!
Or worst of all, tears of fury as 12kg of human shaped gnocchi crushes a Lego masterpiece.
Before he left, J gave us a beautiful chess/backgammon set made in Syria, so we'd have something other than Alvin and his merry 'munks to focus on while he's away. The Lozenge and I play chess (we're teaching ourselves on youtube which is time consuming and intense) so Rashimi gets bored and rearranges the pieces or drops them on the floor. 'Look - I've knocked off some of your prawns and your ponies,' says Rashimi, cackling with laughter, looking for a rise. Normally he gets one from a Lozenge and I look down as the Pea squashes a bishop into one cheek, the other side already packed with draughts pieces. More tears. I study the mother of pearl on the chess board and wonder where the Syrian hands are now that set the tiny pieces into it.
When we're in the house together, there is constant, constant conversation, and I sometimes have to pinch myself to make sure I listen to every single bit - becuase it's all important, though all incessant. I almost switched off this morning while slicing into a newly baked fruity loaf, re-heating porridge, packing snacks for school and feeding a Pea a sticky spoon of mango in-between.
But luckily this morning I switched back on in time to hear the Lozenge's vignette on Gene Wilder's death. 'Willy Wonka, Mummy?' 'You mean he's dead?' I said: 'Well - the actor who played Willy Wonka died. Because he was very old and he was ill.' A small silence. 'But you know what, that is really clever because what they do is they make the film with the Willy Wonka man in it, the one who's just died, and then they put it in a DVD, so then, so then he will stay there forever! Even when he dies, then he doesn't go away.' A six year old's way of explaining being preserved in Celluloid. Gene - you're with us. In our cupboard under the telly. And it's really nice to know you haven't gone away.
If only we could keep Daddy under the telly too.
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