I have a difficult mother. Well not exactly difficult, wonderful, loving, helpful, dotes on my children, but yes, actually difficult. We're too alike. We have the same car (although hers is a newer, posher one) and same phone and -get this- same ring tone. Oh dear, I am my mother, and I am difficult which makes her difficult.
I consider myself a challenge, but really that's double speak for difficult. I'm really hard work, pretty unreasonable, cry easily, never the right temperature, slightly unhinged around the chocolate aisle, hate walking (unless it's to the pub) but want to do the Three Peaks challenge,and it's all because of hormones. Apparently. Hormones are great, ace, let's all cheer for hormones. They get me off the hook time and time again, I can do anything! Anything! Well, most things, and blame hormones. I can get fat, thin, eat doughnuts, cry (a lot), shout, cry some more, want a baby, never want a baby again, throw tantrums over chocolate, always get the last chocolate, refuse to get up, refuse to go to bed, imbibe ice cream like it's water, hog the duvet, hog the bed, hog the chardonnay (you may add your own things to this list if you'd like, I'm always up for trying some new ones out).
But the problem is, hormones run out - yes! I was worried too. You get one, big, last bash at being Very Difficult Indeed called the menopause and then wham, you're out. No more excuses, no more understanding. And that's where my poor long suffering husband will find out my secret. It was never hormones to begin with. I'm just difficult and plan to be for the rest of my life. Life's so much more interesting when you're difficult. This is why I have a difficult mother. She's had her last bash of hormones and now we're all settling down to the twilight years and dawn of just-being-plain-difficult and I'm loving it. She's fab, she's strong, she's reliable, she's fun (she's likely to be reading this blog), handsome even in her difficultness, fiercely protective of her right to need no excuses. She'd warned my dad that she was apt to be difficult at certain times and he'd accepted the hormone line meekly and without complaint. But she did warn him and that should be enough. I warned my husband too, expertly sandwiched between steak pie and sex, he appeared to take it well. I'm not worrying too much at the moment, I've got lots of hormone fuelled years ahead of me. But this stands as a warning, proof in fact that people have been warned. I am difficult and so is my mother.
My one certainty is that if ever Isla writes a blog, she will also entitle one of them I have a difficult mother, and that will be me and she will be difficult too and I will be so proud. And I'll tell her about sandwiching the warning.
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