A pinch of salt

I have a daughter of 6 years old. In her eyes I can go from being the best mother in the universe to the worst mother who ever lived in about, oh 0.2 of millisecond.

“You are not my mother anymore. You are only… only… my stepmother!”

The days where this used to move me to tears are long gone. I now accept my fate to be roasted in the fires of hell. Except when the judgement happens loudly and in public.

Then I get a little hot under the collar.

The snappy comebacks my kids gave me at age 4 are no longer cute at age 10, 8 or 6. For one thing they are far to close to the bone and are inevitably delivered in my own voice.

I have a Mummy Wagon. I never thought it possible, but I do. She’s a classic VW kombi from the seventies. One day I will trade her in for a nippy two seater Mustang. In the meantime I lug around a cricket bag so big I could hide a body in it, assorted other sports equipment, guitars, book bags and other paraphernalia. Then my husband has the nerve to tell me I don’t get enough exercise!

This is my truth. If God were to grant me fifteen minutes, I’d have a bubble bath with a cup of tea and a Nora Roberts novel in blissful lavender scented silence.

 

My beloved 10 year old is entering a phase where maternal public displays of affection are frowned upon. But every now and again he flings his arms around me and gives me a bear hug. Sometimes, it happens because I take his side. This has the consequence that his father is furious with me, but I don’t care because I get a PDA.

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