It’s been a lot

The week that was

Love is…

A. The memory of your heart racing into your throat and the thump of your stomach dropping. Remembering when goosebumps were part of the picture. Knowing this changes over time. Imagining their touch when away.

B. Fierce defence, the lay down and die for them animal instinct. The staunch belief of being capable of murder should anyone hurt your loved ones, especially the vulnerable types. Bare hands/weapon; any which way. Let’s go.

C. A disposable plastic bib eased over the age spotted head of your parent. Cutting their food with a hospital issue wooden knife. The arm around the waist as you help them onto the loo. The realisation they won’t live forever.

D. All of the above.

Forgive me the sentimentality. It’s been one hell of a week. Love has been all around but not in a 4 Weddings/Wet Wet Wet way. It’s been present in the absence of my boyfriend in the house, it’s been present in the scrappiness of being a mother, it’s been present in advocating for my father. I’m a little broken from it all. The house looks like a hovel. The rug is more dog hair and less Persian loveliness. The kitchen all unwashed dishes and sad wilting herbs. The fridge is bare of fresh food, just leftover take out and wrinkled, unwanted fruit. The washing basket overflowing. The garden wild with bindweed from next door. The car strewn with wrappers, items to return probably now too late, a backseat passenger of an unworn Minecraft chicken body fashioned from a combination of cardboard and PVA glue, a petrol gauge daring me to drive again, just to see.

My hair needs brushing. The back is matted from where I’ve been sleeping on the sofa. My eyebrows are wild. Let’s not comment on the upper lip. If I haven’t seen it, it doesn’t exist right? My nails were chipped until last night when I spent half an hour removing polish, filing, repainting. Not a priority for sure, a displacement activity? Yes. The futility that they’ll be buggered again in a few days feels oddly reassuring. Life plods on.

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So why all this misery? Let’s call it a sandwich generation week from hell. It all came home to roost. Things I already knew were going to happen: GCSE exams ending, year 11 prom, year 9 end of term exams to decide triple/double science status, youngest son’s birthday and party, youngest son’s special needs taster morning at secondary school, youngest sons sports day requiring homemade Minecraft chicken costume. Things I knew were a possibility: boyfriend working away in London for half a week, national heatwave rendering poor hairy dog sad and housebound. Thing I had no idea might occur: my dad having a