Because of their love ..

Sometimes you think of the sad things. I was reminded the other day about Mums and Dads and all the things we, as horrific children, inflicted upon them as we grew. We are, musically told to apologise, to say sorry for the hurt and worry we caused them.

I think, I do. However whilst I caused worry, and hurt, and broken hearts, and nasty words, which we all do, some more than most. I think of all the things I would like to thank my Parents. When you are grown, you forget the things your parents did to entertain you, to make you laugh, to keep you happy and to make you smile. These things fade from your memory, but you should remember them. These are the times that mean the most to me. These are the things that scream love, way more than presents, material things or saying the words. These are the things that shape a child. These are the things that have made me grow up and expect that everyone had the same as me. When I find, and I find it more and more that other people didn’t have the same life as me growing up, and by life I mean love and family. Then I am sad, sad that no one went out of their way to make a child feel the way I was made to feel, for it be effortless and ‘usual’.

I bought my mother a necklace, I loved it. It was beautiful, it was perfect for her, it was shiny, and it sparkled, and I chose it. The reality was that it was vile, plastic and made her look like she was going to a fancy dress party. But. She wore it, she put it over every outfit she ever chose to go out in. She put it on, she looked in the mirror and she told me how clever I was, and how much she loved it. She went out, hid it in the glove box of her car, then put it on again to come home. To tell me everyone asked about it, told her how beautiful it was and how great I am. That, is love. My Father, where to begin, he hid behind walls for hours to jump out and scare me. He patiently sat and helped me stick fake blood to my knee to scare mum with. He built me my own fairy princess cabin bed, and a dressing table just for me. He hung every rosette I ever won on my walls, and he let me know every single day that I could ask him anything in the world.

I have millions of stories like these, that make me think of my life with happiness, fuzzy felt, meccano, 3 hour round trips to school trips so that I could sleep in my own bed, but still join in the school holiday during the day. My father and I Christmas shopping for mum, our yearly trip to the Metro Centre where we shopped, and he, the maestro of shopping patiently listened to me and my horrendous suggestions (see above plastic bead story). My father, the big man, trailing the Metro looking for a suit for me, spending hours trying to show me the value of class and quality.

These things, these are the things that make a family. Not saying sorry all the time, not wishing you had done things differently, but the memories of how your parents went out of their way, over and over and over again to make you who you are.

My family let me grow up believing that this was standard. That a phone call at 3 in the morning for a lift was ok, because they were there for me. No. Matter. What. That I could go to them, with any problem, challenge or upset and it would be fixed, that we as a family would have a conference, and fix it. That nothing was insurmountable, and nothing couldn’t be achieved. This wasn’t drummed into me. Nor repeatedly reminded. It was natural. I grew up safe in the easy knowledge that this was standard. Its not. Maybe that’s why I demand so much from people. Expect that they will be the same. Expect that family is the most important thing in the world. Expect that your first thought is how you can make someone elses life easier and better. What you can do to make someone happy.

This is the gift they gave me, and whilst it means the realization that everyone isn’t like that is damn hard, and really tough. I wouldn’t have it any other way. Look at me and my brother .. but he is another story.