Today is my Mama’s birthday, I won’t say how old she is, because she stopped talking about her age when she was, well, my age. Or younger, actually. It was me that didn’t get the idea (you can’t lie about numbers, they’re always meant to be honest!), and would tell all and sundry the true age she was.
Person needing age for form: So, Mrs M, how old are you?
Me: No, she’s 36!
She didn’t kill me. She didn’t kill me many times while I was young, and the body would have been easy to get rid of. She didn’t kill me for making her leave the movies early before she got to see uh, Newsfront? hell if I remember what we were meant to watch, I just remember pitching a ginormous fit of terror because the short for the movie was the thing about the killer bees, it had gotten to the part where they’re all trying to get into this VW, and I just couldn’t cope. I wanted to go home and I wanted to go home NOW!
(for the record, I was probably no more than 3.5, maybe tops of 4, as the movie came out in 1976). She didn’t kill me for taking up more of the bed than a 3yr old should (and kicking). She didn’t kill me for (accidentally, I swear, I actually don’t even remember doing this, but Mum is sure I meant it) knocking her wedding ring and all her other rings off the porch rail and into the garden, where they wouldn’t be found for probably a year or so.
Somehow she managed not to kill me, which as a single mother* of, well, me, must not have been easy. I sure as hell wouldn’t have wanted to do it.
This one is for you Mum, Happy Birthday, and I hope you had a nice day, even if you were teaching.
* I didn’t continue on as an only child, and Mum didn’t have to do the single mum thing for much longer either. I now have 3 siblings, and my parents are grandparents. But the miracle of her not killing me continues to be a miracle.