Well I'm glad that week's over. What a bag of crap. Nothing major you understand, but a constant stream of grot.
I broke a tooth on Monday night and the bottom fell out of my world. I'm not just scared of the dentist, I'm phobic.
Bertie Spaniel has been really quite poorly. On his 5th birthday too. He drank from a filthy puddle at the park and was terribly sick for a couple of days.
Blondie Son has had an eye infection and Blondie Daughter has been moody and weepy after falling out with one of her best friends.
We have this little Friday tradition in our house. When D comes home from work, he stands in the hall and shouts
To which we all join in with a "woohoo!!!"
Bless him. He invariably works for a few hours on a Saturday so he does it to indulge us, his family. It's our little way of heralding the end of the week, good or bad.
So here we are, Saturday morning, and things are much better.
A kindly dentist sorted me out on Thursday at 2:30pm (seriously, tooth-hurty, you couldn't contrive it) and I didn't die of panic in the black chair after all.
Bertie Spaniel and Blondie Son are back to rude health.
Blondie Daughter has made up with her friend.
We're going to my lovely Sister In Law's tomorrow for a roast lunch to celebrate Mothers' Day.
Now, if the sun would just come out, I'd go so far as to say we're ticketty-boo!
My daughter asked me, not so long ago, if I was blindfolded, could I pick her out of a hundred children. Absolutely I could, I said. I could pick her out of a million. A mother knows the scent and feel of her own child, however old they are. She seemed quite impressed! But it's true, isn't it?
To all you ladies lucky enough to be mothers everywhere, have a simply wonderful day tomorrow. Our babies never stop being our babies but life moves on at such an alarming speed, it's far too easy not to cherish each stage.
I heard this poem on the radio this week and it moved me deeply ...
The Last Time
The father, reading to his girl
some little tale they always read
is unaware that this may be
the last one that she'll ever need;
she's grown past stories softly read
by daddy sitting on the bed.
The mother with her muddy son,
kicking a football in the park,
cannot sense as they wander home
through chilly, soft-approaching dark;
this was the last time they'd come out
to kick that happy ball about.
How secret, sneaky-soft they come:
those last times when we'll kiss it better,
hold their hand across the road
or lift them up to post a letter.
They pass unmarked, unnoticed; for
we're not so needed any more.
So they abandon fairy tales,
and nursery rhymes that mummy sings
and leave behind soft toys - and us -
and put away their childish things;
a loss so small. Our loss the greater,
unmissed, unmourned, until years later.
© Lucy Berry