Still here. Just

I am still here, though barely clinging on to sanity by my fingernails.

What have I been doing? Aside from collapsing on the sofa and weeping you mean?

Mostly, I've been reaping what I sowed. All those good intentions, and that sense of responsibility, and that desire to be wanted and needed and liked that leads me to volunteer for things has come back to bite me.

It seemed like The Right Thing To Do to volunteer to talk to the year two children about science.

And the PTA were so very convincing in their begging for help to run stalls at the school fete.

And it seemed such a good idea to have started helping out with LittleBear's football team.

The science education malarkey was only a morning spent in school, doing the same forty-minute "lesson" four times to four different classes. I feel passionately that children need to see that science is real, and normal, and doable, and that scientists are just people. And, even more importantly, that science is not the preserve of boys and men. That a scientist can just be "LittleBear's Mum", who they see every day, and who plays with them and talks to them.

But I'm not a teacher, and it took me a long time to plan what I was going to say and do to introduce atoms and elements to them. I spent many, many evenings preparing material, making molecular models, writing a powerpoint presentation, drawing on stickers, running trial samples on a mass spectrometer. The day itself was marginally nerve-wracking, as I've spent my life stoically avoiding public speaking of every variety, and children aren't necessarily known for being the easiest audience. In fact, it was all fine, and the science co-ordinator has asked me if I'll come back for another session next year. Which I think is a vote of confidence more than a sign of desperation. That's what I'm telling myself anyway. And I am extremely glad I did it, and delighted with the enthusiasm I got back from the children.

The PTA summer fair was also not overly long, or overly onerous, but I simply happened to be the parent who blinked first in the Mexican stand-off of who would take charge of organising the rota for our class stall, and setting it up on the day, and providing stickers and sweets as prizes, and providing a gazebo and chairs so we could survive the day. And it simply happened to be on the hottest day of the year. And I'd simply promised LittleBear that I would also provide both a homemade battenberg and a Victoria sponge with fresh cream for the cake stall. Simple really.

The football team is not, generally, too overwhelming a commitment. It requires time, and effort, and energy, not least because it involves an hour a week running around with a horde of seven year olds. It requires a certain amount of planning about the nature of the running around, and a certain amount of admin in keeping track of which small people have turned up, and which parents have handed over their weekly £2 for training.

That's generally.

But lately we've been dealing with registering the team and the individual players with the FA for next season, and we've been preparing for (and running) a ridiculously large tournament. Which is how I ended up giving up several evenings to painting white lines all over the local school field to mark out eighteen football pitches so that more than six hundred five-aside matches could take place in one day. Like I said, it was ridiculously large. It does raise enough funds to keep the entire club of twenty three teams running for the rest of the year, but it was also a lot of work.

On top of which, there are Tensions, and occasionally even Ructions, amongst the people running the various football teams. I dislike both Tensions and Ructions, and thus find myself having arguments in my head as I lie awake at night. I wonder if I've said too much, or not enough. I wonder whether I even want to be involved any more. I'm tired of showing up and having the physical equivalent of mansplaining occur - the men simply take over and assume I'm not even present, let along competent or qualified. I'm tired of attending meetings with men who appear to think women don't have a place in football. I'm tired of trying to organise and help and plan in the face of constant obstruction, and secret planning meetings that occur behind my back. But my boy loves his football, and Coach and I are working well together, and I love the little boys I'm coaching (most of the time!) and I can see a point on the horizon where the current clouds will start to clear. I just have to survive a little longer. Just a little longer. Just survive.

Except... there isn't ever really a break. Not really. Life doesn't stop. There's always work, and home, and cooking, and laundry, and housework, and gardening, and Random Things That Stop Working And Need Mending. And then there are all the other things. The phone calls about the things I "need" to do, the duties I "should" undertake, the requests to "just" arrange something. There's always a reason to lie awake, my mind churning with shoulds and what-ifs. There's always a LittleBear who can't sleep in the middle of the night and needs a cuddle. There's always something.

So if you see me on a cloudy day wearing sunglasses, it's because I'm hiding my puffy-eyes and tear-stained cheeks from the world.

If you see me walk past you on the street and I only raise a weak smile, and don't stop to chat, it's because my tank is empty and I have no words left for chatting.

If you wonder why LittleBear's teacher is hustling me quickly into the classroom after school, it's because she's trying to shield me from sobbing in front of the entire cohort of year two parents.

If I cancel our plans, if I don't socialise, if I don't join in, it's because I cannot face any more physical, emotional or social effort. I've given, and given, and given and I'm done.