When I was a child, I loved Mother’s Day. More specifically, I loved Blue Peter and never more so than when the presenters uttered the magical words “Mums leave the room” before they unveiled this year’s craft creation. I’m actually rubbish at crafts, so my Mum would feign delight at the latest wrapping paper, matchboxContinue reading “Band of Mothers: the true meaning of Mother’s Day”
I always loved World Book Day, although I pretended I hated it. I bristled at the expectation and I think at one point argued that it was a construct of the patriarchy. However, I was dedicated. My rules were strict, no film characters allowed. If it was a film then the book had to have come first.
And so now, what of the snow? We awake to see the ground covered and the flakes still falling. It’s crisp layer only seems to amplify the silence in the house, a soft blanket of sadness.
How we talk about children’s cancer matters. It’s easy to worry about saying the right thing, the wrong thing, and often people end up saying nothing at all, which is the worst of all. The language used usually involves wars, battles, fighting, bravery. In many ways it’s odd. We never say a child lost their battle against an articulated lorry, but cancer it seems is up for the fight.
There are many kinds of mother you can be. Tiger mother, Alpha, Helicopter. I’ve never really seen myself as any of them, and certainly tried to avoid a few. If I had to classify my parenting style, I’d say that I carried stuff. To give it a festive flavour, if this were a nativity, I’d be the donkey.
A month ago today, I was sitting in Regent’s Park, reading a book, drinking coffee. I had an evening at the theatre planned. For the first time in years I felt that everything was under control. I’d spent the previous evening watching Barbra Streisand. I would never to make it to the theatre. 6 hoursContinue reading “Get down from there – life with childhood leukaemia”