It’s just another manic Mum Day and I cannot quite believe that during a period where some people are bored on furlough during lockdown I feel like I’m juggling plates that are on fire whilst standing on one knee and answering the phone.
I can hear the tiny voice in my head shouting ‘well well well if that just isn’t the consequences of your own actions’. Pipe down smug MJ, nobody needs your input here.
Probably just as well I’m a multi-tasker. I suppose it’s true what they say – if you want something done ask a busy person. Who they hell are ‘they’ anyway? I’d quite like to meet them and give them a piece of my mind even though I’m not prone to irrational, emotional outbursts – oh hold on, aye, sorry about me.
So, cheerio February. You wheeched through bringing us Valentine’s Day, snowy escapades, vaccinations and the promise of spring.
The mere implication better times are hurtling towards us means I can no longer fight back the urge to believe change is on the horizon. I’m not daft enough to think that lockdown is miraculously going away. I’ll resist the urge to run out and hug those dearest to me but they’ve been warned they are going to get lopsided Olympic level hugs whether they like it or not when this is all over. My name is MJ and I’m a hugger.
With the absence of anyone else to indulge me, the mister and kids are bearing the brunt like weary troopers. I understand we’re not quite there yet, I’m okay as long as there are chinks of light and glimmers of hope peeking through like snowdrops, crocuses and daffodils.
March will bring with it my parent’s 50th wedding anniversary had they not checked out for celestial pastures. It would have been Dad’s 82nd birthday, and he’d have rocked it.
Mothering Sunday looms. A day where I will count my three blessings, they’ll be forced to endure more long hugs without complaint. We grew up on the West coast and each year my parents would drag the brother and I for a springtime day trip to Culzean Castle. My Mum adored the long avenue lined with blossom trees. The Ayrshire coast is no Japan but it’s still a beautiful sight.
Petulant eight-year-old MJ was nevertheless unimpressed and just wanted the playpark or café. Imagine being able to drive for an hour this year just to meander through petals flurrying down to the ground like a pastel carpet. Essential travel? No, but 44-year-old MJ would be there in a heartbeat, dragging my reluctant crew behind me.
Instead I’m elbow deep in PA duties for my children. Oh how I’d have laughed at that notion in 2019. We wanted to raise independent, resourceful kids and to some extent we’ve succeeded. I doubt anyone would have predicted I’d be organising Zoom meetings, chats with relatives, negotiating spreadsheets and juggling 47 different website names and passwords.
I’m still working on subject choices whilst passing out the snacks and making copies needed for a report due tomorrow. I’m thanked with a nod, told where to leave it and convinced I’m about to be asked to pencil in some time to discuss dinner plans later.
Meanwhile the mister has just brought in yet another package. Curious as to what it is, I inform him it’s a gift for the kids’ teacher. Another for the kids’ chauffeur and cleaning lady will follow. Him – so all for you then? Me. Yes. I give him the look that dares him to question it. He doesn’t. Good lad.
March 2020 saw determined MJ who was going to get fit during quarantine. Nope, didn’t go quite to plan. I have however invested in a second phone charger (one of my parcels) so I don’t have to walk to the other room when my phone is dying.
While I applaud all you dedicated walker /jogger /cyclist types in your fancy gear, I’m aware I’m rocking more of a‘ fallen into the P.E lost property box chic’ look.
Never mind, we’ll soon be able to shed some winter layers as the sun makes an overdue appearance, leading me to dig out the factor ‘duffle coat’ for my swarthy Scottish blue skin.
