delirium

Anna Rothenfluh

“In an unknown land
Not so long ago…”

Or was it just yesterday? What are days, what are hours. Everything drains, becomes mush, mush in my head, on the table, smudge smudge, kibble here, kibble there, scrub scrub, bile soap against Gaggi.

Gagi wins.

Time is wax. If it is already flashing from the child’s auricle, then it is more likely that a lot has passed. About as much attention as Ottolenghi’s stupid celeriac would need to make it as spectacular as he claims.

Yes, I also know that I can’t cook Ghackets and Hörnli every day. And yes, I was open, left my culinary comfort zone, now I also make muesli with oat milk, but “Simple” is something else, my dear swan.

Snap snap fennel, finger off.

everything is cut into pieces my hands are feetmy bosom is not mine, hair lies on the ground, gone is my face too, battered by untrimmed children’s nails.

Torn thoughts, half sentences, still bleeding, waiting for the end that just won’t come.

So many questions. A lifetime is not enough for that. If I could answer them in your sleep, I would.

Finally it’s quiet in the house. The stairs creak one last time under the cat’s paws, which settle down a bit after lying on the ground floor.

The baby next to me is sleeping so deeply you can’t hear a thing. IS IT STILL ALIVE?

Look quick, thank God, the belly is going up and down. And up and down and…

… take a look at the mobile phone, scroll scroll, …

… Awesome.

Maybe I should read a few more pages from “The Book You Wish Your Parents Had Read (And Your Kids Will Be Glad If You Did)”. Otherwise I’ll be done with it when my kids hit puberty – and then it’s too late. Then I messed them up a long time ago. On the other hand, I ruin them anyway. Especially if I’m not sleeping right now.

I can’t swing without getting sick and now I listen to music by people younger than me. People who still enjoy swinging.

‘When, please, when did this start?
When, please, when did I lose myself, man?”

Knock knock, head, why dream of a little baby so small that the doctor puts him on his table carousel after birth. “Mrs. Rothenfluh, that’s how it gets big,” he says. The carousel turns. The baby is not growing. I pack it in the stroller, leave the hospital, everyone eagerly looks in and says “Yeah, so cute!” and don’t mean it. I can see it in their faces, I know something is wrong with the child.

Cough cough, hello baby, you’re awake again and grin your full hunger for life in my lazy face. Lung with mucus, stuffy nose, your radiance even penetrates lead as if it were nothing. Oh indomitable hilarity, woe to anyone who ever takes it from you, I’ll chase him into the afterlife where two vultures gnaw at him.

But first, let’s dance into the morning that still smells suspiciously of night!

Tripp trapp, down the stairs, wading through a sea of ​​cars, wiu wiu goes the siren and ouch ouch the foot that just stepped on the pointy handbrake of the old Opel.

Why is there a piece of apple that I spat out, my bite splint, … straw?

And what is that? I’ve never seen that here…

Ding dong, home delivery is here, a hundred million diapers, yes, thanks, bye.

Bah bah, baby roars, straight to the kitchen, 5 spoons of powdered milk in 140 ml of water, shake shake trees, sweet dreams will fall.

Sipp sipp, sack of cement you’ve grown heavy, little girl, make me the Hulk, look at my left biceps Piz Bernina of steel, maybe I’ll arm wrestle Emily at last.

Sleep, child, sleep, my cute bacon gnocchi, my velvety cuddly little ball, I wrestle you down with forehead kisses and singing hobbits.

«Far over the misty mountains cold
To dungeons deep and ancient caverns
We have to go
before daybreak
To find our long forgotten gold…»

Wrr wrr, what’s that sound? My son massages rolliramp with the electric milk frother. “Lie mom, he wants it.”

Squawk squawk, Rollirampf the funny crow once shrieked, surely she once lived in Dottikon-Dintikon, hung around the train station and harassed the Dottikon Dinti experts: in – until one got tired of it.

She has had plastic eyes ever since and is gently rubbed every day.

Give me your plastic eyes, I’ll stick them on my sleeping eyelids.

Tik tok, what are days, what are hours. Snowdrops stick their heads out of the icy ground. Spring on the fresh cemetery graves – and already buzzing …

… a very famous bee
Everyone was talking about her far and wide
And this bee I mean is called Maya
Little, cheeky, clever Maya the Bee…

PS I’m back. And I’m really glad that from time to time I can think and write whole sentences again in the sheltered four walls of the Watson open office without being disturbed.