Mum’s (or Possibly Mom’s) the Word by Ruth Leigh I’m writing this on Mothering Sunday, also known as Mother’s Day. It’s Sunday 14th March, I’m in the beautiful county of Suffolk in Eastern England, the sky is blue, the birds are singing and I’m still in bed. “Ruth, you lazy old moo,” you might be thinking. “Surely you should be up, doing things. It’s nearly 2 o’clock in the afternoon.” Normally I’d agree with you. I’m a do-er, a Type A achiever, a woman who likes to achieve six impossible, or at least unlikely, things before breakfast. Not today though. Today is my day. Eighteen years ago, I embarked on the most terrifying, inspiring, amazing journey of my life. We’d been married for ten years and everyone had given up on us ever having babies (not that it was any of their business). My husband told me that he married me for me, not for children, and I just wasn’t ready. I didn’t know if I ever would be. Then suddenly I was. Not to go into unnecessary details (we’ve only just met after all) but I will say that some red wine was involved in the final decision-making process. We were both thirtysix years old and we had no idea if we’d even be able to have a baby. The conversation went something like this: Me: I don’t know. It’s November. That would mean the baby coming along in August, our busiest time (we worked in hospitality) Him: But no-one ever gets pregnant first time. Me: What if I do? Him: Ruth, we’re in our late thirties. It may never happen. Wine?
Nine and a half months later (and that’s another story), I was lying in a hospital bed holding a small, auburn-haired person and reassessing life as I knew it. The process was repeated (omitting the red wine) twice more and I am now the mother of a 6 foot 2” ginger heavy metal drummer, a 6 foot 3” science fanatic and a 5 foot 4” gymnastics and dance obsessed daughter. They’re 17, 14 and 12 now which means I get to do exactly what I like on Mother’s Day. My career as a writer in lock down has involved an awful lot of time sitting in the dining room staring at a screen. I worked hard all week to give myself today off. A smoked salmon and cream cheese bagel plus tea was delivered at 9 o’clock and then the children appeared and presented me with handwritten cards, three scented candles, flowers, and series nine and ten of Modern Family (one of America’s greatest exports). I bought the papers yesterday (the Times and the Guardian since you ask) and have been enjoying myself most mightily, reading through book reviews, think pieces and recipes while sipping hot beverages delivered to my bedside. When I first became a mother, I was convinced I was doing it all wrong. At toddler group, I would generally be late, almost invariably stained and sleep-deprived into the
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