My Old Mum
Those woman can't hold a candle to my mum. That woman doing her best to not use the vase would have had a nervous breakdown if she had a son like, say, me...
That other woman wouldn't have known where to start. From the earliest age, it is safe for me to say I was a difficult child, but my mum dealt with it with the stoic patience of a rock. A very small, hard-to-break rock.
Maybe a diamond.
Happy Mothers Day!
Thank you for everything you do for me - for us - and for somehow NOT killing me as a child. Thank you for sitting and talking to the doctors at the hospital on a very (very!) regular basis, and explaining to them HOW I fell over, HOW I fell off something, HOW I fell through something, HOW I fell out of something, HOW I managed to insert that sharp thing into my flesh...
Quite how Social Services never knocked on your door is beyond me...
But with every broken bone, every stitch, every concussion, every poisoning incident, you were there looking after me. It didn't matter that I had already been shouted at for being an idiot, for being somewhere I shouldn't have been, for doing something I was told not to do, for generally being me - you were there looking after me, making sure I was OK and loving me.
Despite everything that happened to us as a family, you were the glue that held everything together, and kept the house from falling apart around our ears. Even now, when I have a problem I can't get my head around, you're there, at the end of the phone, to listen and offer advice.
Happy Mothers Day mum, and thank you for everything you've done for me.
But mainly, thank you for not taking up that vase and telling the police I had run away...
Lots of love,
(Best Son Ever!)