The Soul Train


My son is in primary one, and loving life. Part of his daily reports now includes who fancies whom. Who has a boyfriend, who kissed in the canteen? The same little girl’s name crops up often in his tales and he does not like this to be observed. Another rite of passage, the primary school crush. My chosen one was Ryan. I have grainy VHS footage of myself behaving unlike a 6 year old should when participating in “The farmer wants a wife”. Serenading and well, gyrating are how it can only be described. Poor Ryan shuffles from side to side, not in time to the music, and generally looking uncomfortable. Then it happened. One day an invite to kiss. “Well ok” I told the messenger. An eternal geek, this instantly raised my status in the class. Someone commented to me “I can’t believe you are going to nip Ryan”. I smiled and confirmed this. Inside I was a pinball machine. “Nip, NIP?” What the hell does that entail? I had agreed to “get off” with someone, never NIP. Did this involve nakedness, babies? Jesus, Mary, and Joseph, what have you done. I imagined the horror on my mother’s face as she registered this new state of affairs at the school gates.  I would be unable to meet her eye as I stood there with a newly birthed baby and a life partner.  “That’s me NIPPED”. I would confirm.  Plus nipping sounded sore. Nipping made my Ryan an amorous lobster in my mind, approaching and snipping at my skirt tails. Confused I ran to the protective cove of my nana’s house and hid behind my baked potato and episode of Home and Away. Ryan never offered his lobster claw out to me again. Understandably.

My son loves this story and does a great lobster impersonation. He always states somewhere along the line that it would never have worked anyway as you were meant for dadda. I smile and confirm this. He states it with such certainty, like identifying a colour or a shape, because that is what we have taught him. As parents whatever we decide to teach our children, becomes fact to them. We are their encyclopaedia, their fountain of knowledge. Being hopeless romantics, we have inadvertently taught our children this outlook. Through us, they will believe in fate, destiny, and soulmates. Have we made the right decision? Is there a right decision? My son also asks about religion constantly. We are not religious and have made the conscious decision to tell him we do not believe there is a man in the sky who is responsible for all. I tell him that we do not agree with the exclusions that come with this way of life. We tell him, marry someone only if you want to. Be with whomever you love, whether it is a woman, a man, or a really good cheese. We teach them about spirituality and our belief in the existence of the soul.

My Granpa Paddy tossed a coin with his best pal to approach my nana. If it had come up heads, would his pal be my Granpa? I do not think so. An East Asian proverb talks of the red string of fate. An invisible string that connects us to others. A predesigned and perfect path, which will allow us a labyrinth of encounters and shared stories. I teach this idea to my own children. A scarlet tapestry whose threads are given to us when we are born but which we knit ourselves. These strings may become tangled or stretched but never broken. When the Greek arrived on my Café floor, gift wrapped in the finest red string I was unsurprised. I have spoken many times about the differences between us. We have very different personalities. On a train journey, I sit with my nose in a book. He roams the carriages like the mayor of Glasgow. Offering stories and gin and tonics to his fellow passengers. I see a lot of my own nature in my son, and as he grows older and more aware, I can see him observe his father’s extroversion. I can feel his discomfort in this action, but I can also see pride and awe in his big brown eyes. My daughter swings from his back, the most adorable koala. She shares his nature, and welcomes the admirers, thrilling the rows of bystanders with her pigeon Greek and bigger brown eyes. Despite this difference, we share the same outlook to life; we can talk to each other across the carriage without opening our mouths.

When we stumble off the train together, I trip over the red thread that connects the four of us. My Granpa sways up ahead on the platform. Clutching his lucky coin and cursing the red string. I wave to my 17-year-old father on the opposite platform. I watch him dust the flour off his hands from the bakery. Breathing in and out quietly. Sooking in fresh air, exhaling confidence, preparing to ask the new start on a date. When he yanks the red thread, my mother spins towards him, her red hair catching the light, and illuminating the sky. My son looks up and shrieks “hey, look that big dude God has put the lights on!” Everyone laughs at his joke as I stop to knit myself some new worry lines on my forehead. Am I doing this right? What will the other passengers think at this blasphemy? Then again, they most likely did not hear. They are busying laying petals for the Greek to walk on, fighting about who gets to meet him first for a pint. As he meets my eye, he knows its home time. My Nana reaches out and stops me fidgeting with the red string around my finger. “Move yer arse and away up the road wee barra,” She whispers into my ear.

Who knows if we are doing it all right? The world today is such a blinding glitter ball of opinions and views. Maybe it does not matter that we are teaching them what is right, but that which we truly believe.


Happy Wednesday xx

Caravan of Love


Its Easter and the schools are off.  My son celebrates each morning when he enquires, “Is school still cancelled”.  Contentment spills across his face as I confirm this.  He stretches and yawns enjoying this indulgence, before locating his pogo stick and springing to life.  My daughter sleeps on truly enjoying this hiatus from routine.  When she rises several hours later, around 7am, she too asks instantly “do I have wursery today?”

I adore this break too.  The mornings are the most stressful part of the day as a mother, closely followed by the return home when my children and husband have apparently been starved all day and must EAT now.  My son shrieks for a snack whilst trying to yank his school tie and head off.  The Greek is a silent raging bull.  Asking if I need any help, which in Greek means, “Hurry the FUCK up”.  My daughter sits on the sofa with her jacket and shoes on and stares straight ahead shouting “Chicken, give me chicken!” on a loop. This scene is an oasis of calm compared to the morning show.  I can remember my own mother dragging me out of bed and tearing a brush through my hair whilst I continued to sleep into my ricicles.  I have the opposite problem now.  By the time it is ready to depart, we have all been up for hours.  My son always asks for a banana to take to the bus stop.  My daughter confesses she cannot remember what she had for her starter.  I sprint around in my jammies, tripping over the puppy, and excusing my existence to the Greek.  Mornings are not for him.  He is mute until noon.  Coffee and his leprechaun mug are his only confidantes.   I have grown to accept this and I smile benignly in his direction and stick my two fingers up whenever his back greets me.

Easter break is also a favourite for us as it means caravan.  My children are well travelled, but Dunoon is their favourite destination.  Our little bubble that exists out with reality, we pack a rucksack with the bare essentials, travel via Morrison’s to stock up on beers and tuna pasta and coorie doon.  The four of us float about wearing mismatched socks and papas old t-shirts.  We raid the charity shops for batman and my little pony treasures.  We attend the bakers for cream puffs, and we throw our hairstyles to the wind, inviting birds to nest there.  The kids shriek with delight when they find a dead crab on the beach.  They are always solemn as we encase its carcass in a mussel shell, and send nothing but could wishes as we set it to sail on the sea.  Being by the Scottish sea has the same effect on myself as melting Greece does on my Greek.  I watch the waves and feel a sense of calm roll over my mind, pushing my usual bed fellow anxiety overboard, I truly feel content.  I love the smell too.  Different from the sunny Greek sea front, it reeks of seaweed and spoots.  This beach expects nothing from me.  I can wear my fleece, hat and wellies.  There will be no 2-piece bikinis here.

We communicate better as a family here.  We have long conversations over monopoly.  We stroll like a human daisy chain through the trees, playing dead every so often to trick a bunny.  Cilla the puppy is our newest recruit.  She too has fallen into the caravan life.  At home, she follows me everywhere.  I no longer pee without an audience.  When the kids are tucked up in bed, Cilla takes their place.  Poking her nose around the toilet door and staring.  She can hear the fridge open from a mile away, the dog who lives two doors down sneeze.  At the caravan, she becomes Bob Marley.  She lounges.  The fridge opens; she looks up sometimes, but with no desire to move from the gas fire.  I toddle to the toilet and nothing.  I sit aghast in the cubicle and really enjoy my solo pee.  When we go to the beach, she runs on an imaginary treadmill, back and forth, grinning from ear to ear, and shouting over to us, “Guys, this is the life”!  I look at my Greek as he says, “it sure is”.

A wave crashes and the wonderful smell comes at us.  I smile to myself as I watch his nostrils register this and I know what he will say next.  “Babes, do you fancy mussels for dinner?”

“OK” Say I.

Happy Easter xxxx




The clocks sprung forward what can it mean.
Do I sleep more, or less, or just the same.
As I keek out of one eye, all seems unchanged.
Pinned to the bed by multiple limbs.
Two elbows moored in my cheekbones,
Whilst hot little handies pinch on to my skin.

My mind, always the first to rise.
“No matter the time;
There is lots to get done!”
Trapped in the loveliest family spaghetti,
HUSH! I shout silently,
You will wake my babies!

Its Sunday, a day of rest,
No, No, get up and iron their vests!
The three pounds for toy fund!
Do you have it ready?
Here comes the mum, who forgot its Monday,

I view my world upside down,
At the edge of the bed.
Books, and bras,
Oh half eaten croissants,
Shite the Greek will moan.
No crummies in my bed,
He DRONES on and on.

I begin my arise,
Falling silently to the floor.
Carefully posting myself down the stairs,
I manage to avoid all the booby trap Lego.
Tea, heating on, puppy out.
Christ its cold.

Spring has sprung.
Despite the snow,
Wee daffodils look hopeful,
I retreat noiselessly,
And slip through the door.

Chaos is here.
Laughter and sneezes,
Demands for warm milk.
My spaghetti relocated,
Onto the couch.

“You don’t have TIME,
To do as they do”!
Then my daughter yells out,
“Bring the parmesan mama”
And well I cannot resist;
Can you?


Happy Sunday xx


The Melting Pot


Once a year, the four of us embark to the island of Kos to visit the in-laws.  On stepping off the plane, it begins.  My Britishness versus the Greek’s Greekness.  I start to melt, regardless of the time of day.  Pieces of me slide to the blistering runway and I realise all too late my pre-planned arrival outfit is actually a wet suit.  My kid’s immediately start to whine about their own discomfort.  Favourite blankets are handed to me, slippery toys and half-eaten sandwiches.  They demand to be fanned, carried, my daughter screams “guys who turned on the heating!”  I placate them, fan them, wipe their brows, apologise to strangers, explain their tiredness, and smile demurely as the stranger sympathises.  “Yes, yes it IS a long flight”.  I pray they do not start trying to chat to either one of my kids.  Small talk to small children, whilst melting, do not go well together.  As we approach a slippery silence I look about to find my Greek.  There he is up ahead, can you see him?  An invisible coat hanger stuffed in his mouth, unaffected by the heating, and looking generally fabulous.  He waves to old classmates, runs his hand through his hair, and looks up the sky, eyes closed, coat hanger intact.  The three of us slither over to him, and he is our Greek Scot once more.  He locates the heating dial behind my daughter’s ear and turns her down.  He throws a bottle of water over our sons head, and he fans me with his passport whilst asking if I remembered my antihistamines.

The next day we trot to the beach.  I set up camp, still melting and now dripping with factor 50.  By now, the kids have acclimatised to the heat and have pulled on the bronzed protective skin that their genes have predetermined.  My Greek is away being Greek.  Truly at home, I know the wee chat he is having could last for several hours.  My kids shout me from the shore and it is time.  Surrounded by native mermaids I begin my shassy to the water’s edge.  Barefooted I realise too late the temperature of the sand against my usually frostbitten feet, and I have no option, run, run, run, no not like that!  Why am I prancing on tiptoes, why is an invisible crab pincering my ass?  Is that my boob I can feel outside of my wet suit?  I launch myself into the sea, aiming at my children and maiming several sea creatures.

The other main barrier on this journey is the language.  My Greek is much better than it was to begin with, sure, but I am still at the stage of general enquiries, menu reading, and weather observations.  This frustration is most apparent when we spend time with yaya (grannie).  She bristles with unasked questions, attempts to read our minds, and stares at her grandchildren.  I imagine a shutter behind her eye taking snapshots of them to rewind and play in her internal cinema for the rest of the year.  The mother in me aches for her.  She has brought our Greek into our world (literally); she is the beginning of his story.  We stare at each other intently as she says, “very hot today”.  Papous (Papa) is unaware of this language divide.  He generally communicates through the food that he makes for us.  The cook in me is fluent in this language. I can taste his love in the calamari he has cooked us, I can feel his devotion in the pastichio he rustles up for the kids, and I can see him in the corner of my eye peeking out of the kitchen to witness our yummy noises.

The Greek and I are competent in Spanish.  On trips there, we both feel a sense of being at home.  We enquire about the origin of the wine, we ask for a high chair, we receive complimentary tapas that we sit atop our beers and wiggle our bums with contentment.  My children both attend Gaelic medium education.  They too have developed a visible sense of belonging to this community through the language they are learning.  They attribute these languages to different people.  English for mama, Greek for dada, and Gaelic for each other.

Language gives us a sense of identity and comfort through familiarity.  Just as the Greek is at home shouting and bawling about feta and Papandreou,  I feel like Dorothy Gale whenever I hear someone say, “am bast**ding frozen tae the marrow bone”.  Language is never static and is always evolving.  We all too have our own family discourse that only relations are fluent in.  When my mother refers to “tumshie”, we all know she means her mother, and not a turnip.  My father is a key orchestrator in our linguistic quirks.  For example: Many years ago, my parents stayed in a hotel called the Don Jami. In short, it made Fawlty Towers seem like the Hilton.  For my entire life, Don Jami has meant a cheap imitation or something that does not come up to standard.  For example; my son loves “Salt’N’Shake” crisps.  If I attempt to feed him Aldi’s “Salt Your Own”, he shrieks “mama these crisps are pure don jamis!”

Language is what separates us from the rest of the animal kingdom.   It has been described as the core of humanity. Our written and spoken language allows us to form lasting bonds with one another, allows us to convey feelings, desires, emotions.  It allows us to participate in a culture, a society, an economy.  Written down it can create beautiful stories, emotive poetry, and records of our time.

Fluent in Glaswegian, English, Family, semi Spanish, pigeon Gaelic, it seems I now need to turn my attention to Greek.  To aim for the day, when I can say to the airport worker, “Here carry this lot of shite, I’m positively melting”.  To ask the taxi driver to wait until I have the kids seat belts in place before zooming into the night.  To tell all the mermaids to look the other way as I prepare for my catwalk to the ocean.  To tell Papous “that calamari was frigging amazing”.  However, most importantly to say to yaya;

“She is as determined as your son.  He is an excellent candidate for a sleep deprivation study”.

“Thank you for our Greek.”

“We will see you soon.”

“We love you.”


Happy Sunday xx





The first word I can think off to summarise motherhood is exhaustion.  After having my son, I naively though I would fall into a blissful slumber with a mild Diazepam hangover.  Silly me.  Screaming and hungry when we both returned to our home I was delirious with sleeplessness.  That first night I sat in our kitchen sobbing uncontrollably while trying to attach a big suction contraption on to the vast surface area where my nipple had once been.  A taxi ride to Asda by the Greek and a bottle of formula later I slept for three blissful hours before being awakened by mastitis.  Every mother of young children knows the exhaustion that I refer to.  Young children are balls of energy.  Awake and ready to learn, to experience, to assimilate, to grow.  My son said to me last night in bed, “You know mama; I doubt I will sleep long.  I already feel full percent charged”.  He must have been, he was up at 4am and ready for his day ahead.

Yet I would not change this for the world.  I run behind them every day.  Answering their never-ending questions in the best way I can.  Jumping into the air when a space ship descends in the living room, walking back and forth with a fleet of tiny prams as my daughter and I “go shopping”.  Resembling Quasimodo for the reminder of the day, I make sure they eat a balanced diet. I offer them picnics, mezzes, mince and tatties.  I keep them safe; I try to keep them clean.  I tuck them in and wait patiently until they drift off to sleep.  I search in the dark for their cups of milk.  I try to resist the urge to hang them upside down, batter their wee bums like a piggy bank, and let all their thoughts and impressions of their day to scatter over the carpet, ripe for me to gather.  Did they have a good day, did I do well.  I remember my son’s words about charging and I retreat, hunchbacked and hobbling downstairs to my Notre Dame.

I suppose the exhaustion that we mother’s experience is also a mental exhaustion.  The power that we hold as a mother can be overwhelming.  Are we doing this right, should they play with that?  Nowadays more than ever this pressure is on mothers.  Advice and guidelines are thrusted at us from all angles.  Dummies are a no no!  Breast is best.  Do not swaddle.  Not too much TV.  Society constructs a race that we all have to compete in, and look to our fellow runners as our yardstick.

I am not a girly girl so when I take my daughter to nursery, I give myself a pat on the back if her bobble is still in and her Primark bow intact.  I marvel at the mums who have found the time in their morning to French plait their daughter’s hair.  I want to reach out and touch it but I fear it is a mirage.  I meet mums in the corridor who are wearing jogging clothes.  When and where are they jogging to I marvel.  When a mother enquires, “How are you”?  I always reply the same, “I’m good”.  Really what I should be saying is “shattered.  Annoyed about the roll and sausage I ate this morning.  Yet peckish.  I’ve been up since 5 but I’m still running late, and I’m unsure if I have any knickers on”.  Perhaps the runner in the next lane would be surprised, but I suspect she would confide, just as I did.

Children are wonderful in their innocence.  They are largely untouched by these unspoken rules of society.  They are simple in their needs and desires.  All they really need is to have someone there who is their person.  Who smells familiar, who knows them better than they know themselves.  I have concluded that all these external pressures are inconsequential in the end.  The person who has taught me this is my daughter; Morena.

Morena was diagnosed with a rare brain condition when she was almost two.  Modern advances have seen the condition of ACC becoming correctly diagnosed and identified.  Its affects can be wide ranging.  For Morena this has meant she has been late to walk.  She is three and a half and has just started walking independently.  She also struggles with fine motor skills.  As a mother, I struggled for a long time with the loss of control I felt, the future, the obstacles.  The scrutiny I feel as a mother of a child who uses a walking frame is also immense.  Am I being the best mum I can be for her?  Do others think I am doing the best for her?  Do the many agencies involved in her case think I am a competent caregiver?  Morena has taught me that none of this matters.

Milestones are a generic guideline.  The OT is presently concerned about my daughter’s pincer grip.  You go right ahead love.  She does not see the Morena I do.  The Morena who sings happy birthday to me every day without fail.  The Morena who is such a joy and socialable child I puzzle why she cannot fly.  The Morena who can speak three languages.  The Morena who makes the best mushroom pakora.  The Morena who I am so proud of.  The Morena who is such a light in my life, I am astonished when I turn off the light that she does not glow in the dark.

My point?  Our kids are all different.  They all have strengths and weaknesses.  All of their achievements should be celebrated, whether it is transferring themselves independently to a wheelchair, or landing on the moon.

Be easy on yourself.  Put your bra on and go forth.



Happy Mother’s Day xxxx



El Dia de Helena (The Day of Helen)


Last week I went to see a wonderful film with the kids.  I have sat through some god-awful movies since becoming a mother.  Peppa Pig the experience?  I sat in the dark with matchsticks in my eyes, whilst the Greek fell fast asleep, only waking when his own snoring disturbed him.  Postman Pat the movie?  A singing Ronan Keating lives inside everyone’s favourite postie.  Just when you thought, that guy could not be anymore irritating.  Every so often though we are as excited as the kids, when Pixar makes the movie of choice.  Wonderful movies that always carry a moral thread. The Greek never tires of telling our taxi driver on the way to the cinema, “they have something for the kids AND the adults”.  The taxi driver always drives off with a list of movies recommended by the Greek and a promise to visit the island of Kos.

The movie this visit was Coco.  A story set in Mexico, about the central character Miguel, his love for music, and the festival of El Dia de los Muertos.  A beautiful story that educates children (and adult) viewers about this tradition.  Families on this day honour their dead.  They erect alters or shrines in the home, filled with pictures of their loved and departed ones.  They also tend their gravesides and leave gifts for them or “ofrendas”.  Whilst watching this unfold it became clear, that great grandma Coco was actually the main character.  The last tangible reference between the past and the present.  The Greek and I shared a tissue as well as popcorn that day.  My own gran was in hospital and she was our Coco.

She died peacefully 2 days ago, and this is my ofrenda to her.

She was a woman, who loved a man.  That is the best statement I can think of to sum up my gran’s 87 years.  She outlived her Joe by 25 years, yet it could have been 25 minutes to her.  Each day she arose and spoke to him.  She spoke of their life together as if referring to the other week.  He was never gone to her, and she continued to love him.  He was the anchor that defined her life.  He made the rules, she tended to him.  With his sudden departure, she carved out an existence that gave her structure, motivation, and chosen isolation.  She liked to stick to her rituals, her program, and her set rota for the week.  Up until 6 months ago, when a wasp landed on her toastie, causing her to fall, she did her exercises every morning, read a chapter, said her prayers, ate breakfast…  She had a shopping day, a washing day, and of course her beloved TV schedule everyday.

My sister (the interpreter), has always been fascinated or perhaps obsessed with the topic of death.  One of her first of many enquiries to our mother was “where would we be if we weren’t alive?”  Having become a successful playwright and writer, she openly confesses that to have this written record of her existence soothes her.  Anonymity terrifies her.  As humans, it is possibly the biggest question that we ask ourselves and it is always rhetorical.  We will never find a definitive answer.  My gran had an unyielding Catholic faith that was her pacifier.  She was not afraid and she was certain of where she was heading, she would get her reward in heaven.

My coping mechanism is my own religion of love, family and history.  My gran mac will be alive with me forever.  There is a little piece of her nestled in my heart but also in my head.  The memories she spread across our family will always be there.  Cartwheels and “shows” in the back garden, there she is, sitting beside my mum, a plastic deckchair each, an adoring audience of two.  Playing records on a Saturday night and winking over at her Joe.  Slapping our hands as we stick our hungry noses into the sweetie jar before morning mass.  All of our family will hold our own unique piece of her, with different memories and associations.  My father and uncle will remember a Helen we never knew.  A mother, a wife, a homemaker, a worker at the bookies.  I was 11 when granddad Joe died.  Yet I can still smell his Old Spice, I can still feel his callously hands as I perched on his knee and played milk the coo with his thumbs.  He too is immortal to me.

To be remembered, we do not need to paint a Sistine Chapel, or do something extraordinary.  Family is our get out of anonymity free card.  We are merely the latest cast of characters in our family story.  Walking historians, we share our stories.  Passing down the carefully wrapped parcels our ancestors have gave us.  Living our lives to the fullest, remembering every moment that passes is now history.  Whilst taking care to pass all these little parcels on to the next chorus line.   The love that we have for one and other trickles down the branches of this timeline and that is how we truly, live forever.

Night Night Gran Mac.  Sleep tight, don’t let the bed bugs bite (yer bum off).

Love and Lemon Meringue Pies,

Your Duchess xxx






A Dicken’s Tale & a Conehead

I remember after giving birth to my son that I was amazed.

I had given life to someone. I had made him, carried him, and brought him here safely. Truly amazing, but not the amazement I am referring to.

The pain, the torturous, agonising, screaming my head off pain. That’s what had my jaw on the dance floor.

I have always wanted to be a mother. I have never been sure what else really. I love to dance. I love to read. I love to cook. I love to help others to help themselves. I have flirted with a number of different careers, some fleeting fancies – become Nancy Drew, others that I remain faithful to now like cooking. However, to be a mother was always there, unwavering. My own mother is like Mary Poppins. Growing up was a wonderful affair full of adventures, moral lessons, storytelling, never ending patience (hers) and my father’s ability to make everything about farts, our home was a happy one.

Falling pregnant with our son was a most enjoyable time. Constant lethargy that means you must go to bed at 6pm. Hungry constantly and having someone else to blame. Wearing loose fitting garments and flip-flops for 9 months. I loved every minute of it. I googled names, star signs, furniture, children’s literature quotes to scrawl across the nursery walls. I dreamed of what colour the babies eyes would be. Would they be shy? Would they like anchovies? Not once did I think about the BIRTH. I attended my midwife appointments faithfully. I went along to a few antenatal appointments, sure, but to be honest the Greek and I usually sat up the back, googling “what doesn’t give a pregnant woman heartburn from Indian takeaway shop”.

My son is a leisurely kind of person. Inquisitive and observant, he likes to take his time. Every morning he likes to fill me in on his night’s dream. With more twists and turns than an episode of Columbo, he will not be rushed. My daughter is an entirely different breed. Abducted by aliens each night they do things to her hair that defy gravity. She emerges, or her hair does, quickly from the covers. Demanding to get up and start her day, her first words are always the same; “where’s my lunch?” She came powering into the world. As in life her big brother had cleared the path for her, removing any obstacles or possible dangers, she was here in a flash, asking only to be fed. My son was weeks overdue and born after a 14 hour labour. Being induced, I was warned to be prepared, to be patient, it could well be a lengthy process.

Then it began. Hormones via a drip fool your body into labour. No build up, no dress rehearsal. The midwife assigned to my deluded self was at the end of her shift, disinterested in demeanour, and I quickly decided deserved to be assassinated. In between screams on a giant bouncy ball, I implored her to tell me why very long arrows where being forced down my spine and out of my ass? “This is it. Labour.” She replied. Damn you chicken tikka masala.

With a birthing plan jam packed with words such as unassisted and natural, she did not enquire if I would like any pain relief other than gas and air until around 3AM. Having gnawed the mouthpiece of my gas and air down to a Melba toast shape, I screamed “YESSSSSSSSS”. As I rolled over and received my prize, I remember seeing the Greek lying on the floor next to me. Opaque and dehydrated, I realised I had been crushing his hand with my free hand. I looked at it pale, grey, and unfamiliar from his usual tanned, reassuring shovels. “Are you the knife for my melba toast?” I asked it. Petrified and probably homesick the Greek reassured me, “yes, yes, I am. When all this is over we can go and get you pate, my love”.  Sometime after I asked nicely, “please Sir, can I have some more?” “More, MORE” shouted my Mr Bumble, “it has only been 38 minutes since the first one”!

Then she arrived, my Nancy. Starting her shift, and wearing only a halo of diazepam, Mr Bumble was free to go. Nancy spoke in gentle tones, offering massages, holding ice chips to my cracked lips. She, the Greek and I were a trio to ourselves for the next seven hours. The artful dodger danced behind them as I spun round on a carousel humming, “Who will buy this wonderful mornnningggg”. When doctors appeared quickly to form an episiotomy (a fancy word, for a big giant tear), I cared not a jot. I was pregnant with arrows, forever, and I had made my peace with that. Nancy magically transformed my bed to halve its size, and I was unsurprised, I knew she could do it. A hoover attachment appeared at some point to “apply and assist baby”. I looked at the Greek and caressed his face. “Honey, should we call the first one Bow, do you get it”. He smiled, I knew he would like my joke, he gets me. He is my Greek.

Then there it was a great big scream. A baby. No arrows. Nancy applauded, the Greek collapsed and I held my baby boy. Looking like something out of the coneheads movie. I had never seen such beauty. Finally, you are here my wee arrow. Let us sleep now.
Or so I thought.

That story boys and girls is a whole other blog……..
Happy Saturday xxx