Yesterday was Mothering Sunday in Britain.
It was also the day the clocks went forward.
The one day a year a mother gets an extra hour in bed and it’s stolen from her by British Summer Time?
The calendar is clearly compiled by a man.
The Hub wears a new t-shirt to the play and is ‘awesome’, ‘best dad ever’, admired by all of Spud’s friends.
I pay a teacher a compliment and I’m banned from ever speaking to anyone Spud ever knows for the rest of his life, ever.
Here’s the Hub’s shirt:
Here’s my compliment to Godspell’s choreographer:
Wow! Spud told me the dancing was really naff but I think it’s great!
I don’t understand Spud at all.
Click on the photos to enlarge them
Actually, I cried the day before yesterday but I wrote this post yesterday so the title was correct for yesterday’s yesterday but not for today. Anyway, me crying at all except at the end of Love Actually is such a rare event, I felt I had to blog about it.
As you must know, because I’ve bored you to death about it for months now, Spud is playing Judas in his school production of Godspell. The first night is
tomorrow tonight. I can’t get the songs out of my head and as I was preparing his sandwiches for tonight’s tea between tweaking-rehearsal and performance, I sang Beautiful City to myself. I suspected I might be allowing it to take over my life when I came to the line, We can build a city of man and sang, We can build a city of ham…
Yesterday (‘s yesterday) was the dress rehearsal. The Hub is an excellent photographer and took some great pics of the last three school productions Spud starred in (no bias here, honest). He gave them to Spud’s drama teacher and she loved them and asked if he would go along to yesterday’s yesterday’s dress rehearsal to take photos of this production.
The Hub has M.E. so of course he needed his loving and supportive wife along to hold the spare camera batteries. The fact that I got a sneak preview of the show was purely coincidental.
We had front row seats and we needed them, because my heart swelled with so much pride it took up all of the space between the audience and the stage.
I know he’s my son and I’m biased and all that rubbish, but Spud was fantastic. He began as a happy, hopeful man and changed over two hours to anger and betrayal via confusion and doubt.
He sang, with music and without.
He cried in Jesus’ arms the moment before he left to betray him. He sobbed on the floor after the crucifixion.
He was totally believable.
Teachers made a point of coming up to tell me how good he was and how he should pursue acting as a career. But better than that, the director told me that, for all of his talent, he is a lovely, lovely boy and she hopes her own son will grow up to be just like him.
Can you blame me for blubbing?
Wednesday 15 January, 2014
Where’s my birthday post?
I’m not blogging at the moment!
You don’t love me.
Spud turned eighteen while I was on a break. I didn’t write a happy birthday post – because I was on a break. I did take him tea in an eighteenth birthday mug, buy him banners and balloons and not say a word about the girl in his bed on a school day; but, no, all he can see is no birthday post.
Apparently, I didn’t write him a birthday post last year when he turned seventeen. I wrote one for his brother and his father, a hundred readers and even myself – but not one for him. My argument, ‘But you don’t read my blog!’ didn’t cut it, because, apparently, he does.
I have been ordered to write a make-up post and not to make this make-up post all about his brother, which is what I appeared to have done in last year’s make-up post, saying how great his brother was and how he spoiled Spud on his birthday blah blah blah.
I’m a terrible mother.
But I can’t say that, because this post is all about Spud.
Spud was the biggest baby in the hospital, the week he was born – about ten pounds. I have mentioned before that he looked like the V alien baby when he came out all blue and crinkly. And absolutely gorgeous – which is how he’s stayed:
Spud is now a man, and he has a learner’s driving licence to prove it. He has done a lot of thinking this past year about what he wants to do with his life; but the decision was really made in the summer, the moment a sweaty Macbeth spat on him during the performance at the Globe: Spud wants to act.
This past year he has played Greek tragedy, Shakespeare and farce. At the moment he’s rehearsing Judas in Godspell. He doesn’t want to be rich and famous; he wants to work in theatre. He is deadly serious: he wants to pretend to be other people for the rest of his life. I couldn’t be prouder; or more scared.
Happy birthday, my darling boy. Whatever you do in life, I know you’ll obsess about it until it’s right.
I love you.
A young man finds the woman of his dreams and asks her to marry him. He tells his mother he wants her to meet his fiancee, but he wants to make a bit of a game out of it. He says he’ll bring the girl over with two other women and see if his mother can guess which is the one he wants to marry. His mother agrees to the game.
That night, he shows up at his mother’s house with three beautiful young ladies. They all sit down on the couch, and everyone has a wonderful evening talking and getting to know each other.
At the end of the evening, the young man asks his mother, ‘OK, Mom, which one is the woman I want to marry?’
Without hesitation his mother replies, ‘The one in the middle.’
The young man is astounded. ‘How in the world did you figure it out?’
‘Easy,’ she says. ‘I don’t like her.’
A child asked his father, “How were people born?”
His father replied, “Adam and Eve made babies, then their babies became adults and made babies, and so on.”
The child then went to his mother, asked her the same question and she told him, “We were monkeys; then we evolved to become like we are now.”
The child ran back to his father and said, “You lied to me!”
His father replied, “No; your mom was talking about her side of the family.”
Late one Saturday evening, the phone rang. Grumpy and sleepy, Mary answered it. The party on the other end of the line paused for a moment before rushing breathlessly into a lengthy speech: “Mom, this is Susan and I’m sorry I woke you up, but I had to call because I’m going to be a little late getting home. See, Dad’s car has a flat but it’s not my fault. Honest! I don’t know what happened. The tire just went flat while we were inside the theatre. Please don’t be mad, okay?”
Mary didn’t have any daughters so it was obviously a wrong number. “I’m sorry dear,” she replied, “but you’ve reached the wrong number. I don’t have a daughter named Susan.”
“Gosh, Mom,” came the young woman’s voice, “I didn’t think you’d be this mad.”
Things Mom Would Never Say
If you like to laugh, then you’re going to love this true story…
Originally posted on Sarsm's Blog:
Reini’s evening started something like this:
His one and only son called him at work and announced, “There’s been an accident… In the kitchen… With the mixing machine… And Mum…”
I should probably admit to you, at this point, that we have recently been playing rather a lot of Cluedo.
I’ve just risen out of a calming bath (despite at least two children being in the room at any one time, babbling) and looking down at my naked body I can see a few tell-tale signs of the week gone by.
For instance, my lower right leg champions five, yes five, bruises. All attained crawling through tunnels and up and down ladders at Sensapolis (I am still completing my challenges ) on Sunday. There are probably a fair few lumps and bumps on my head too because if I wasn’t bashing my right leg then I was beating my…
View original 1,173 more words
If there were a real Fountain of Youth, would you drink the water?
No. One should drink bottled water in foreign climes, or risk the two bob bits.
You’re having a nightmare, and have to choose between three doors. Pick one, and tell us about what you find on the other side.
A WordPress Prompter holding a glass of foreign water with my name on it.
What’s your ideal Saturday morning?
Filling up plastic bottles with our good Manchester tap water.
Are you doing those things this morning?
Write a letter to your mom. Tell her something you’ve always wanted to say, but haven’t been able to.
I hope you are comfortable as a pile of ash in a wooden box in the ground in Widnes.
I told you not to drink the water.
Love, Tilly x
What is your worst quality?
Using my dead mother as a comedy prop.
Tell us about a time when you had to choose between two options, and you picked the unpopular choice.
I could have chosen not to use my beloved dead mother as a comedy prop for a WordPress prompt post, but I just couldn’t help myself.
I am my dead father’s daughter.
If you were asked to spend a year living in a different location, where would you choose?
In the States, under an assumed name after I was hounded out of Britain by outraged mothers who mistook my affectionate ribbing of my mother for a disrespectful poke.
Why the States?
They sell bottled water.
Think of a time you let something slide, only for it to eat away at you later. Tell us how you’d fix it today.
It wasn’t so much a sliding as a tipping.
It was 1991. Tory Boy was about ten months old.
My younger brother was staying with us in our Johannesburg flat. The Hub, Little Brother, Tory Boy and I decided to walk to the nearby SPAR to pick up a few bits.
The Hub pushed his beautiful baby boy in his beautiful bright-blue-for-a-boy pram. We got about twenty yards from the building’s entrance when a wheel of the pram caught on the gravel and Tory Boy tipped right out, face first into the ground.
I swear it was nervous laughter on my part.
My brother laughed because I laughed (I’m very infectious). The Hub wrestled with the pram, swooped up Baby and yelled at me the terrible mother who laughed when her baby fell face-first into gravel, all at the same time.
My response (I swear it was nervous laughter on my part) has always eaten away at me. Mostly because every time Tory Boy brings it up the Hub glares at me and refuses to believe that it was nervous laughter on my part. Tory Boy doesn’t actually remember the incident but the story impressed him first time he heard it and he likes to remind me of it. Often. At least once every time he comes home, as if I don’t have enough guilt just bearing the title, ‘Mother’. I wouldn’t mind, but he doesn’t even have any scarring from the facial gravel indents.
To fix it, I’d have to have a do-over. Next time, they can go shopping without me.
This one’s from plannedparrothood.
Four successful brothers chatted after having dinner together. They discussed the 95th birthday gifts they were able to give their elderly mother.
Milton said, “You know I had a big house built for Mama.”
Michael said, “And I had my Mercedes dealer deliver an SL600 to her.”
Marvin said, “And I had a large theatre built in the house.”
Melvin said, “You know how Mama loved reading the Bible and you know she can’t read any more because she can’t see very well. I met this preacher who told me about a parrot who could recite the entire Bible. It took ten preachers almost 8 years to teach him. I had to pledge to contribute $50,000 a year for five years to the church, but it was worth it. Mama only has to name the chapter and verse, and the parrot will recite it.”
The other brothers were impressed.
After the celebration, Mama sent out her “Thank You” notes.
“Milton, the house you built is so huge that I live in only one room, but I have to clean the whole house. Thanks anyway.”
“Michael, I am too old to travel. I stay home; I have my groceries delivered, so I never use the Mercedes. The thought was good. Thanks.”
“Marvin, you gave me an expensive theatre with Dolby sound and it can hold 50 people, but all of my friends are dead, I’ve lost my hearing, and I’m nearly blind. I’ll never use it. Thank you for the gesture just the same.”
“Dearest Melvin, you were the only son to have the good sense to give a little thought to your gift. The chicken was delicious. Thank you so much.”
My Mum was a free spirit. She smoked like a chimney and drank like a fish. I am not at all like her, except in looks. I drink like a chimney and smoke like a fish.
My Mum had a child out of wedlock. Though a Catholic girl in the Fifties, she never once felt ashamed of her beautiful boy. I had my first child a definite five years after my wedding.
Mum joined the Army as a teenager; she was stationed in London. She didn’t much like it and went AWOL with a friend, running home to Nan in Liverpool. Nan gave them food, bath and beds, then took them to the police station next morning, where they gave themselves up. The Army was lenient.
Mum loved working and hated that I loved being a stay-at-home Mum. We disagreed a lot, about a lot of things. Except that we loved each other. I always knew I could count on her.
I don’t know the half of what she got up to in her life, though I have learned a bit since she died. I am too strait-laced to share what I do know (I make rulers look like elastic bands) but, trust me: she was a free spirit. I miss her every day.
This is from an email doing the rounds. A group of primary school children were asked a series of questions. Here are some of their answers.
Why did God make mothers?
1. She’s the only one who knows where the sellotape is.
2. Mostly to clean the house.
3. To help us out of there when we were getting born.
How did God make mothers?
1. He used dirt, just like for the rest of us.
2. Magic plus super powers and a lot of stirring.
3. God made my mum just the same like he made me. He just used bigger parts.
Why did God give you your mother and not some other mum?
1. We’re related.
2. God knew she likes me a lot more than other people’s mums like me.
3. He must have been tired that day.
What kind of a little girl was your mum?
1. My mum has always been my mum and none of that other stuff.
2. I don’t know because I wasn’t there, but my guess would be pretty bossy.
3. They say she used to be nice.
What did mum need to know about dad before she married him?
1. His last name.
2. She had to know his background. Like is he a crook? Does he get drunk on beer?
3. Does he make at least 1 million a year? Did he say NO to drugs and YES to chores?
Why did your mum marry your dad?
1. My dad makes the best spaghetti in the world. And my mum eats a lot.
2. She got too old to do anything else with him.
3. My grandma says that mum didn’t have her thinking cap on.
Who’s the boss at your house?
1. Mum doesn’t want to be boss, but she has to because dad’s such an idiot.
2. Mum. You can tell by room inspection. She sees the stuff under the bed.
3. I guess mum is, but only because she has a lot more to do than dad.
What’s the difference between mums and dads?
1. Mums work at work and work at home and dads just go to work at work.
2. Mums know how to talk to teachers without scaring them.
3. Dads are taller and stronger, but mums have all the real power ’cause that’s who you got to ask if you want to sleep over at your friend’s.
4. Mums have magic, they make you feel better without medicine.
What does your mum do in her spare time?
1. Mothers don’t have spare time.
2. She pays bills all day long.
3. She reads the paper all day.
What would it take to make your mum perfect?
1. On the inside she’s already perfect. Outside, I think some kind of plastic surgery.
2. Diet. Her hair. I’d diet, maybe blue.
3. I like her when she’s fat.
If you could change one thing about your mum, what would it be?
1. She has this weird thing about me keeping my room clean. I’d get rid of that.
2. I’d make my mum smarter. Then she would know it was my sister who did it, not me.
3. I would like for her to get rid of those invisible eyes on the back of her head.
O Christmas Tree
O Christmas Tree
Are thy branches?
I make no apology for my complete and utter lack of taste when it comes to decorating my tree. Every ornament is a happy memory.
Tory Boy added to them by buying four new ornaments, one to represent each of us. Who knew that the way to a mother’s heart was through a wooden soldier?
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