I can’t get excited about Mothers’ Day. Or any of those days that are supposed to be about saccharine sweet happy families (and commercialism…), because it just reminds me how dysfunctional mine is. I do realise I’m not the only one here. Some mothers die, and that is sad. Some mothers are just plain bad, and not worthy of celebration. Some of us are a teeny bit mad at times, and that is hard on our children.
I woke up this morning with my head a noisy shouty mess, and not really capable of Being A Nice Mummy. I was hoping for everybody to just go away and leave me alone. Nobody got the message. People declaimed poetry at me, offered to share my bed, made me breakfast, and talked incessantly. None of this actually helped. Bad me. I was not at all nice to know.
Far too late in the afternoon, when all my children had decided it was wisest to hide from me, I finally pulled myself together enough to get out of the house.
This is possibly my favourite place ever. I stomped through heather, squelched through bog (confiscated boots= wet feet), and took far too many moody brooding photos.