On the 11th of April, or even a few days beforehand, it really started to feel like spring. I could wear a light dress and enjoy the breeze on my skin instead of shivering under a large coat. My kids walked barefoot on some grass. The smell of freshly mowed lawn hung in the air and daffodils and tulips nodded blissfully in a sunny, tolerable breeze.
No more winter coats, my daughter wore a dress with nothing on top, and my son raced about in a t-shirt. I turned thirty years old but the woman in ASDA asked me for ID because I looked under twenty five.
That joy I felt at being mistaken for being less than 25 years old made me realise that I am in fact old.
I am a parent, a mother. I had a relaxing soak in a hot bath and my muscles felt more at ease than they have in five years, and I could have sunk into my bedsheets into a deep and healing slumber afterwards but did that happen? No. Of course not. My son was up every hour with burning fever, wheezing and vomiting. I was by his side with a bucket, his inhaler and an oxygen meter. The next morning he was right as rain, ignoring a niggling cough and rushing about with his cousins like he had wings on his feet.
But we’re old. Older. My sister in law has lines around her eyes and my other one says her back is full of knots after consecutive night shifts.
Can’t fix the problems of the world but can ensure your presence in it doesn’t cause anybody any harm.
Ocean Bream 