I’m sure I’m not the only person who used to experience what I call ‘holiday hand’ in their school days. After six weeks off for summer, when my hand was more likely to be holding an ice cream than a pencil or a pen, I’d completely lose the ability to write. My right hand would scrawl like an untrained left hand and it would feel a strange sensation of complete detachment from its usually conjoined wrist and upper arm.
“I can’t write, Miss!”
“Sir, my hand’s not working!”
It’s stuff an observational comedian could have a field day with.
Anyway, the grown-up me has just had a week off work to move house. It wasn’t anything like a holiday given the emotional impact and upheaval of leaving the last home my son and I would ever live in with my wife, but this morning I was hit by a feeling a bit like ‘holiday hand’.
After just one week off work (and very little ice cream) I’m pleased to say that I can still write, but as I dropped my son off at nursery this morning I felt like I’d lost an arm. I’ve been busy, stressed and in pain these last few days, but just knowing he was close by no doubt made it all a little easier than it otherwise might have been.
I keep joking that I’ll be the one crying my eyes out on his first day at school. Well the sudden rush of sadness that overcame me as he happily ran off to greet his friends this morning made me realise it’s no joke.
I’ll be in bits. I already am.
This is syndicated content from Life as a widower
Content reproduced with the kind permission of Benjamin Brooks-Dutton