|Evan in Drag…|
Mum got good news. A single blast of pre-cautionary radiotherapy and she has the thumbs up from her Consultant.
She was trembling before she went in. Visibly. Her hands were shaking.
When she came out she said:
Oh what a beautiful man. Gorgeous. If I was 20 years younger…
That’s happiness for you!
Rebel is become a happy woman who sits on my bed late at night and talks of hopes and dreams. I could weep with the pain of my own happiness, simply listening to her quietly growing joy in life.
The Lad is thriving on 5am rises and managing the DIY superstore staff and being praised by Regional managers who talk of his ‘headroom’… (apparently that’s his ability to grow into a senior management role).
He has become a man. I was looking elsewhere – for just a moment – and I turn back to see him full grown. He pats my shoulder and looks down at the top of my head and laughs and calls me ‘my wee Mum’. The roles are reversing (though I do have to check that what is mildly endearing now doesn’t become irritatingly patronising later!).
Baby Giant ran a half-marathon dressed as ‘Paula Radcliffe’ (who annoys – but that’s another post): 6′ 5″ of blonde wig; skin-tight speedos (courtesy of Papa Jaime) and a ripped off midi top… And was the talk of the toon. A colleague of mine – not realising he was my son – described this ‘vision of loveliness who was packing an eyeful’. Mmmm That’s my mad totally-secure-in-his-own-self boy.
The Tricky One – baby number 4 – is making a huge success of his entry to High School. Has a film star girlfriend and is just too cool to utter more than a monosyllable response to dinnertime questions.
Baby has a sleepover tomorrow and is bursting with excitement.
And I have a meeting at Victoria Quay’s Government buildings.
Life is Good.