Flowers Will Bloom

Well Ladies and Gentlemen, today it actually happened. Not a brief moment of confusion that passed as quickly as it came. No. I was genuinely convinced that it was an entirely different day to the day that it was.

“Mummy, please can we watch Tinkerbell again?”

“No.” I reply “It’s time to get dressed and go outside to play.”

“Oh come on” says my husband. “It’s Saturday morning. Let them watch something else.”

“It’s not Saturday!” I exclaim “Yesterday was Saturday, today is Sunday. God, you must be really hungover!”

“I am not hungover thank you very much, today is Saturday, yesterday was Friday. Maybe you are hungover?!”

I look at my husband as though he has just told me that Donald Trump is at the door and wants to talk to me. I momentarily pause to run through all the thoughts in my head this morning, they have centred around a Sunday kind of mentality. I have been living life as if it were Sunday. We’ve had bacon sarnies and coffee in front of Blue Planet, I cleaned the kitchen after a slightly debauched night on the rum, ready to start cooking a Sunday roast, and I genuinely believed that it was, in fact, Sunday. Yesterday was like Saturday and today is like Sunday.

I look at my husbands face and up to the calendar. I look back at my husbands very smug and gleeful face. I mentally put the joint of beef back in to the fridge and visualise Yorkshire Puddings slathered in gravy deflating and then vanishing in to a puff of smoke. I sigh. I am confused as to how I have managed to reach this place. I literally do not know what day of the week it is anymore. This is not just a funny post on the internet about being unsure what day it is, this is my actual life. I’ve lost control.

But wait, if it’s Saturday and not in fact Sunday then... “I’ve gained a day!” I get to live Saturday all over again and still get to eat my beef and Yorkshires tomorrow. The gift of an extra day. I am ecstatic. My husband looks to the skies, shakes his head and smiles.

As it’s now Saturday I now have more time tokens to play with. Don’t get me wrong, I love to spend all afternoon cooking a roast, it’s one of my favourite things to do. But it does take a few hours to line everything up. And now Dobby is a free elf!

I lower myself in to the bath and take a sip of really cold white wine, my face covered in a black, charcoal face mask. My husband walks past and catches sight of me “What’s this Spa like Lady Muck?” he says sarcastically. The waiter is good looking but a bit of a cheeky git and could improve some aspects of his service, I think. But instead I just smile and say “Lovely, it’s lovely to relax in a urine-free bath.” (It’s the toddler not me FYI. Every time she sees me in the bath she removes all her clothes and climbs in. Let’s just say it’s sometimes a game of bath wee roulette.)

My muscles have a good ache today and it’s lovely to sink in to a bath with something cold. Whether it has been yoga or dance or weights or biking I have tried to do something every day for the whole week, move my body, stretch, breathe. It has felt really, really good. And the waiter says it has improved my mood dramatically. If you could see me now, dear reader, my eyebrow is raised and I am doing my psycho laugh.

But wait... what’s this?

“I’ve got an Ab!” I exclaim!

“What?” My husband replies.

“You heard me; I’ve got an Ab!”

“Yes, I did hear you. But... [dramatic pause and then much louder] AN AB?”

“Yes!!!” I tense my tummy muscles really hard, you can see a small line of muscle peeking out from underneath a glorious layer of fat. I tense really hard, I grit my teeth and get a bit louder and shrill.

“Look!” I point to the Ab. “It’s literally right here! I know it’s underneath quite a bit of fat but it’s definitely there, look!!!” I point harder and look up at my husband.

He is silently crying with laughter.

“I’m sorry sweetheart, I’m not laughing at you.” He tries to say through his laughter “Its the ab!” And he is laughing again. Really laughing. And I don’t really know why but I am laughing too, like side hurting, jaw aching, crying, can’t breathe laughing.

I realise how ridiculous I look, straining away to show off the ab, and I know that my description is pushing the boundaries of reality. But despite me laughing at him who’s laughing at me, I can still see the ab and I am still indignant. “I’m googling it!! Right now!!” I shout. This just makes him laugh even more.

“Google says it’s an oblique.” I announce formally, moments later, in a much more serious voice “So technically it’s not an AB ab but an abdominal oblique.” I look up at him awaiting a more sincere response, this tips him over the edge and he is instantly hysterical again.

Later I ask him “What do you honestly think of my tummy?” And he pauses for a while, thinking. I wonder if he fears this question but I do not see fear on his face. After a moment he says: “I think it’s amazing. It’s been through the wars. It’s carried my two precious girls for over eighteen months. And I will always love it for that.”

If you saw it in all its naked glory, to those who are not known to me, you would definitely not pick it out in a line-up of most desirable stomachs. It is big and it has two uneven scars on it, right across my bikini line. I carried both my girls to over full term and they were both brow presentation, which is fairly rare and means they were in a funny position and I would have never birthed them without them coming out of the sun roof, basically.

[In a nutshell, what happens during a C-Section is that the doctor makes an incision along your abdomen, cutting through layers of skin, fat and connective tissue. Then the muscles are moved out of the way, and the uterus is cut to bring your baby into the world. After the baby is delivered, the uterus is stitched back together and the outer layers are sutured back with dissolvable stitches. Or in the case of my first pregnancy, staples. When I left hospital they gave me a staple remover to take with me to pass to the midwife on the day ten check. When it came to the check I handed it to the midwife and she looked at it with a perplexed expression “Ooooh, they’re not like this in our area. Have you ever used one of these before?” turning to my Mum, who had chatted with her about her career as a nurse. “No, I haven’t, sorry” Mum says. I gulp. Actually, if I’m totally honest I’m being a bit dramatic, it turned out fine, I didn’t really feel anything. Nerve damage was a blessing in disguise. But I am always in awe of those medical staff, the room full of people in scrubs. The midwives who stayed with me right until I had to go to theatre. All working together quietly, gracefully and fastidiously to safely deliver a baby to this crazy world. And even the lovely midwife who was holding the staple remover, which looks like something I would find on Wendy’s desk at work]

I think about the people I know who are pregnant or who have had babies during this time, my cousin living in Sweden who’s baby is in ITU but who is hoping to go home in the next few days. A lady I know in the village who has given birth during lockdown and misses the support of her family and friends, I see her pushing her pram up my lane one day, whilst dishing out snacks to her toddler and I open the door to shout up the road how amazing I think she is doing. My pregnant friends and family who are trying to shield themselves whilst looking after toddlers and managing pregnancy fatigue, worse than any rum-induced hangover that I am currently sporting.

I am continually amazed by the NHS staff and carers who keep going throughout this, who support those who are critically ill, or those who need other care. It is without doubt one of the most impressive careers, to dedicate your life in that way to others, in my very humble opinion.

[When my youngest daughter was a baby, I had to take her to hospital twice. Once because of bronchiolitis and once because of a severe chest infection. It was very scary and hospitals are always an unnerving place to be. But the care and professionalism of the staff during those times were second to none. I was discussing my baby’s sat levels with a doctor on her rounds and she suddenly stops and looks at me with intent. “Are you from a medical background?” She asks. I look at my husband and I can see he is cringing out massively from head to toe. “No.” I reply. When she leaves I turn to my husband, open mouthed, with an expression you would usually use if you had just been awarded an MBE. He puts his head in his hands and whispers “You are so embarrassing.” I can’t hear him though through the deafening glow beaming out from my proud face. It remains, still, one of the biggest compliments I have ever had. Totally unwarranted and extremely undeserved. I know he will be cringing again as he reads this and relives the cringe.]

Yesterday was VE Day and I was totally blown away by the footage and accounts from Veterans shown on the telly. I looked through photos of my Grandparents in uniforms and wartime black and white scenes that my family members sent. I thought about the realities of not seeing your family, your own children, for years while you went to fight a war. Fighting for freedom. Fighting so we can live in the way we live now. The people who stayed behind to keep the country going in their absence. My eyes fill with tears, reflective of our current situation. Thinking, really, what I’m doing to contribute to this is a teeny tiny, insignificant drop in a wide, wide ocean. And I still find it difficult some days.

Get a grip I tell myself. You have a good life. You don’t know suffering like that, you are privileged.

This morning I notice that the wild flower look we are going for in our front garden has finally started to bear fruit. What was more Wurzel Gummidge than Darling Buds of May, last week, is now blossoming and bright red poppies have opened their petals as if to say Summer is coming. Life continues. Flowers will bloom again.

Funny how it happened like that. On VE Day. A little whisper of colour, of red, to remind me of the symbolism of life, of others sacrifice, right at the moment when I needed to be reminded.