I woke up this Mother’s Day not to breakfast in bed nor fresh flowers on my bedside table.
No, I woke up this Mother’s Day with Tiddle McGee’s hands firmly clenched around my windpipe.
While not alarmed per se, I was mildly philosophical about it. After all, it’s part of an emerging theme.
Why, just the day beforehand, I’d been walking around with my infant nephew doing my usual thing to entertain fractious babies (which, for the record, generally involves taking their small hands and making them slap me on the forehead). I had been holding him for ten, maybe fifteen, minutes, when Tiddles McGee approached me with a look on his face not entirely unlike Jack Nicholson’s in The Shining.
“I want YOU to carry ME,” he said in a hoarse whisper.
I was so scared, I virtually dropped the baby on the spot.
And then later on Mother’s Day, he presented me with a card with this picture in it, which somewhat scarily evokes that famous ‘shower scene’ from Psycho…
Yep. I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again: Norman Bates was definitely a third child.
This NDM Lite™ post is a direct result of celebrating Mother’s Day with a seven-and-a-half hour journey door-to-door with my husband and three children. If you have any complaints, you should talk to the hand – namely, the hand that plans to be holding a G&T for most of today.