I am still woefully immature, laugh at stupid things. I worry about what the popular girls ( read: mums at school) think of me and my daggy op-shop couldn't-give-a-crap clothes. I have not mastered the art of flawless makeup, even though my skin is now past its prime and requires spack-filler not luminescent multi-shimmer bronzing beads. I haven't really decided what I want to be when I grow up and I still feel slightly naughty and rebellious when I stay up past midnight.
This week. I had a mature day. I had a Mummy day. I had the day "you didn't want to have but no-one else could do it so you had to - day".
So I will tell you a little story:
When I was 3 or 4, just a wee little person we went on holiday to visit my Grandparent and Aunties and Uncles. In my Aunty Margaret's hay shed there was a Mummy cat and two baby cats. I LOVED kittens. LLLLOOOOVVVVEEEDDDD kittens.
So I sat up in my little sleeping bag in our tent before sleep and I prayed aloud to Jesus " Please Jesus let me have one of the kittens. I promise to be a good girl forever".
(Did your heart break just a little then?)
So my lovely Mummy and Daddy let me have one of those precious kitties and we drove home - 2 days!!! - with a little grey and white baby. I loved him so much that I think he was a little overwhelmed by the intensity of little girl passion! He wore dolls clothes and was pushed in my pram. He sat on the swing with me, he listened to lots of stories.
A few years later when I was 9 that little kitty got very sick and even though my Mum and Dad tried to explain, I just did not want to let him go. I forbade them to have him put to sleep.
I remember very clearly coming home from school and my cat was not where he should be and my Mum having to tell me that he had gone to sleep. I remember crying my eyes out and accusing her of killing my cat. I was so angry and heart broken.
This week my beautiful Ginger cat got very sick. At 7, he was the king of the street, fat and lovely and cuddly. He ate breakfast at three houses each morning and didn't bother moving off the footpath if a dog came along. His kidneys could not keep up with his party-boy lifestyle and on Monday he couldn't walk. By Tuedsay morning we knew that despite drips and drugs he just could not recover.
As the Mummy, it was my job to help the kids say goodbye.
As the Mummy it was my job to tell the vet it was time to let him go.
As the Mummy it was my job to scratch his little nose as he went to sleep forever.
As the Mummy it was my job to bring him home and find a spot for him to rest.
I know it was for the best, I know it was the kindest thing. I am still heartbroken and sad and fragile but I am being brave and positive for the kids. I have told them he was purring as he went to sleep, that he is chasing all the mousie angels in heaven, that he could not possibly have come home.
I think of my Mum and how it must have hurt her to see me in such pain when I was a little girl. How she must have wished to take away my sadness. Now I know, now I understand.
It's a full circle moment, and for a brief few hours, on Tuesday I felt like a grownup.
I didn't like it.
PS Love you Mummy and Daddy, thankyou for letting me have Kimba xxx