I woke late and tired, having slept through all three of the alarms I had set to get me to work on time. The problem was, I had been unable to sleep until dawn, so I was bleary eyed as I dived around, feeding the dog and letting her out while I showered and shot out of the door within twenty minutes of opening my eyes.
My sons had invited me to lunch as it was Mother’s Day in the UK. The only problem was that, while one of them wanted me to cook lunch at his place, the other wanted to make me lunch at his. Not being a mistress of the art of bilocation, a compromise had to be reached.
While I prepared a rich, fruity tagine with cinnamon-spiced couscous for a late brunch at my eldest son’s home, we discussed the problem of his posture. Throughout Nick’s journey to re-educate his body since the attack, we have found a good many unorthodox methods of convincing it to do as it is asked. The latest challenge has been to find a meditation posture that he likes… one that is comfortable and does not cut off the already-dodgy circulation.
Over the past few days, I have demonstrated… and discovered that I will never again attempt the lotus position that used to be so easy. Not even if he pays me. My knees no longer consent to being tied in knots and my hips have gone on strike. I was vaguely disappointed, though not unduly surprised, to find that my body can no longer do what it thinks it can still do. You would think I would know better by now. That it took our combined efforts to get me back up off the floor was just rubbing salt into the wound.
I have always had decent posture; a legacy of early dance training and a dance mistress who wielded twin canes with accuracy and unwarranted enthusiasm. My son has evidently studied that posture. I didn’t like to mention that I am so damnably stiff most days that the posture is no longer a matter of choice or habit, but of necessity. Even so, a couple of days ago, he sent me an email. It said, quite simply, “Imaginary boobs of utmost importance.”
I have, on occasion, doubted the sanity of both my sons, almost as frequently as they have questioned mine, but that took the proverbial biscuit. I called… he explained… and, reassured of his continued, if relative, sanity, I had to admit that he was on to something. A good figure has a lot to do with good posture, especially for a woman, and by holding himself as if equipped with the aforementioned curvature, his posture was indeed much improved.
By the time we had finished, I was about ready for lunch. You can’t take heavy-duty painkillers on an empty stomach and I was definitely ready for those.
“You can’t catch me!” cried Hollie, half an hour later at my younger son’s home, expecting me chase her around the garden to do just that. “Let’s go on the trampoline,” was followed by, “Come on the see-saw, Grandma!” and “Climb up here, Grandma,” as she climbed the ladder to the little mezzanine in the new playhouse her Daddy is building.
Fortified with a proper afternoon tea, complete with sandwiches, finger-foods and clotted cream scones, I managed to exchange smiles with little Imogen before I was needed to fight off superheroes and be killed by them in turns, while slipping on the ‘ice’ that Hollie invented on the kitchen floor and then pushing her around the garden on her bike to chase her Dad.
By the time I finally made it home, the dog was desperate to go out and play… so Ani and I went for a long walk in the soggy fields, meeting the rain a mile or so from home.
I had come home laden with flowers, cards and chocolates… and I reckoned I had probably worked off enough calories to make inroads into those. But there were other gifts too that the day delivered. Gifts of love, laughter, trust and the kind of silliness that comes only from that closeness where nothing matters except being there. And one other unexpected gift… a temporary cure for insomnia!