PTSD

Here's to Mum

My Mum, in true time-honoured Mum-like fashion, has tried her best to make me into a partially-socialised human being who is able to hold up (okay, let's face it, probably not hold up. Maybe "slightly nudge") my end of a conversation (especially if it involves footy). As challenges go, that's fairly monumental and instead of kicking her heels on the floor and tearing her hair out, my Mum stuck to it. For that, she has my gratitude. I think if I'd not left home before turning 18, I would have had more time to absorb the many lessons of and about life I have yet to pick up on.

Still, while other relatives gallop about bleating about the sad state of her (oldest) daughter still studying who-knows-what (no one in my very large family is entirely certain what I am doing--neither am I, really), my Mum blithely ignores them all and flits about like a butterfly in spring. Or would, I presume if she were not always very busy with working, cooking, cleaning up, feeding humans and animals and still managing to follow various (Pakistani) TV shows involving people who die and then a)come back to haunt the living or b)come back alive somehow or c)have a twin who then proceeds to bugger up the lives of the dead person's relatives.

But, I digress so here's to Mum:

A mum is always definitive*. It is reality which is frequently wonky.


* Apologies for Douglas Adams for that though, since he's dead, I wouldn't assume he'd care much.

posted by Priya @ 2:45 PM