Thursday, 1 September 2016


I always dreaded being a Mother and the only way I became one was when my Mother saw me in the nude one day and said when I was thirty "You know that you have still puppy fat left over from when you were 15" The weight-obsessed interior me who weighs herself at least twice a day,  thought I will get immediately pregnant and get rid of that.  So after nine glorious months of indigestion, belching, sweating, bloating and grumping I gave birth to two perfect sons, or two separate occasions, one who I knew was the next Messiah and the other a physical champion of ideals. That is until they turned round to me now and are horrified at almost all my actions. It is like walking around on a mixture broken glass and egg shells.  I bleed and kvetch.
From having done in mind everything right I am now doing everything wrong. Not being this flexible I find my relationships with them often deteriorating at breakneck speed.  My younger son, from having loathed me when he was born and having lived with his father looks at me as if I am slightly mental and old. I dread smelling old so have bought bottles of this soap by Mirai that will get every whiff of old age nonenal.  I was once told that if you really love somebody you love their smell unless that is it is old, so be clean is a must.  I have been told that the closer the child  has been to you, the further they wish to go away from you.
I do not want to smell like the Sunnyvale nursing home as I get older. I had to leave a home once because I was soaking up the mal odor. It is not unpleasant just that it is old.  Greasy grassy mouldy smell a bit like old books and cooking grease. I want to smell like my middle name is "Danger" still.
I do not want to remind my sons of knitting needles and hospital. Full of bossy ugly self-opinionated bombastic sadistic nurses. It's not my fault that they no longer have a job in the sex industry. Why the hell don't they wear a proper uniform and why would I want my hair done in what used to be the dungeon.
I am reminded constantly by the brilliant poem "On Children" by Kahlil Gibran, which says "You may strive to be like them, but seek not to make them like you" and you may "Give them love but not your thoughts, for they have their own thoughts, for their souls live in the house of tomorrow"
Provided my soap works from Mirai, I will hopefully enjoy their future successes and life as a happy family.

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