How do I know this?
The kids are home sick today. It's season première of Sick Day.
And my mother left the comfort of her own bed at 4.40 this morning, to be at the train station before six, to be on our doorstep at eight o'clock. For me and J to go to work and do our thing, while she takes care of our children, nurses coughs and colds, hands out icecream and limits the nintendo playing and the whining, makes an apple tart, kisses dirty cheeks, coaxes down medicine.
My mother, the superhero.
She has also very kindly offered her apartment to a woman in need, which means she will spend tonight on the floor in our study.
On a mattress, but still.
If anyone would like to report me now for neglect and abuse of loved one, I'd like to tell you that it isn't always this bad.
Sometimes we do take care of the sick young'ns ourselves, and sometimes my mother drinks champagne and eats marmalade while I pull my offspring home on a sleigh in a storm.
Not very often, no. But sometimes.
It must have happened at least once.
And now someone is bringing me a latte on a tray and I really must go.
(I'll bring her home something nice for dinner, shall I? And cook it too?)
Posts
