The days are noticeably shorter. I wake in the mornings, well before six, and it’s no longer light. The darkness clings with languid grace, and I look forward to the darker months ahead.
I sit downstairs with the boys, the day dawning around us, and from where I sit on the sofa I have a perfect view of the sunrise. Morning after morning I get to watch the sky rip open in front of me. It’s beautiful.
The mornings are cooler, too. As I slip out of bed I grab a jumper, but it does nothing to stop the goosebumps that appear as I let Muttley out into the garden.
I’m counting blessings and looking forward to the cooler months. I’ve completely given up Facebook. Logged out and deleted off my phone. It’s bliss. I’m so tired of people complaining. Every day someone is offended by something someone has said. It’s no wonder that we live in a culture where people don’t even bother to acknowledge one another – you can’t say anything without someone complaining how insensitive you are. And the stupid thing? Sometimes we’re just trying to be nice. Sometimes people are just attempting to make a connection, to start a conversation, however misguided.
How about we all get secure in who we are and stop getting our knickers in a twist because other people view life differently to us? How about we accept that people are generally good and that not many people deliberately set out to annoy you with their mindless chitchat?
I’m so tired of it all. The thing is, all this complaining just makes me think it’s easier to say nothing, that maybe silence is the only thing that is sure not to offend. But then silence is met with, have I done something wrong?
And the answer is, no, I’m just tired of trying my hardest only to be told I’m insensitive. I’m tired of people expecting so much from me and offering nothing in return. I’m tired of going out of my way for people over and over and to still be told, often indirectly, that it’s not enough.
I don’t ask for much in life. I like the simple things: family, good friends, hot tea, fresh air. I say prayers to a god I don’t believe in every single day – giving thanks for a husband who willingly works so hard for us, for our house, my car. I try my best to be good, to make life that little bit easier for everyone else. And sometimes, I just want to scream, what about ME?
I want to shake people and say, don’t you understand that you are not the only person for whom life is hard?
And then I laugh, rolling in the irony of writing a post complaining about people complaining.
I run a bath, ignoring everything that needs doing – the laundry, the hoovering, the kitchen. The boys have had the best day at an amazing party we didn’t pay a penny for. All they wanted was our time. My husband is downstairs updating my sat-nav so I don’t have to do it. I can hear him clearing the dishes in the sink. He’s waiting for the shopping to be delivered: food for a fancy-dress party tomorrow. The same party people are going out of their way to come to, to spend time with us as a family.
And I go back to counting my blessings, because life is good.
Life. Is. Good.