‘What is wrong with you?’
A simple question asked by a small, simple child.
I smile to myself at the horror on his mother’s face. With a quick aside to let her know that all is well, I choose my words carefully.
‘Some of the parts of my body don’t work very well. My tummy and my lungs don’t do what they’re meant to do and so I have to take tablets.’
The little boy’s eyes open wider. Perhaps in amazement, perhaps in understanding, perhaps because he enjoys shocking his mother. I guess I’ll never know.
‘And the tablets will make you better?’
I smile again, this time a slightly sadder smile. Oh, to have the faith of a child.
‘They’ll help. They help my body to work properly.’
‘So you’ll be ok then?’
Yes, small child, I’ll be ok. Maybe not in the way you meant. But I’ll be ok.
Thanks for asking.
Category: children
A Tale Of Two Mothers
Usually, mothers’ (mothers, mother’s?) day comes around and I celebrate one mother. She’s worth celebrating, my Mum. And I have no idea just how much she is worth celebrating. I remember lots about my childhood. I remember simple things. Birthday parties, bedtime stories, Sundays, pretty dresses, school days, picking flowers in the garden. I remember hard things. I remember trips to the hospital, day after day being ill and tired. And in nearly every memory, Mum is there. She’s there planning the parties, reading the stories, cooking the lunches, making the dresses and arranging the flowers. She’s with me at every hospital visit, holding my hand through the blood tests and hugging me when I cry. I simply can’t imagine life without her. She is a child of God and lives it out beautifully and wholeheartedly. I know no woman I respect more, love more, cherish more or would be more proud to call Mum. She is kind, generous, funny, wise, skilled and beautiful.
On parenting. Or not.
I know, I know. I’m a young girl who’s been married for all of 5 months and I have zero children and therefore know nothing about parenting. If that’s what you’re thinking, you’ve almost got it. I certainly don’t claim to know much about being a parent. But I know an awful lot about not being one. I’ve had 22 years experience. 6 of those have been in the knowledge that in all likelihood I’ll never know about being a parent from first hand experience. And, to be honest, that stinks. I’m not talking about a little bad smell here. I’m talking gut-twisting stink. Since I was 16 I’ve had to face up to the fact that I’ll probably never hold my own child, never hear anyone call me Mummy, never be able to make my husband a Dad, never get to use the list of favourite baby names I’ve had stored up for years and all the rest.