I waged war on the back lawn today as Catrin was at preschool, leaving me with the relative peace and quiet of just one baby with an enormous appetite to look after. Between feeds I hacked away at more and more knee-length grass and weeds, breaking the wire in the strimmer and losing the mower blades several times. I probably would have been better off heading into the dense fauna of the jungle region of Back Garden armed with a scythe…and a backpack of provisions…and a Gurkha or two. I actually rather enjoyed my attempt to reclaim our land (especially as the weather was so lovely for once and I did not wish to stay inside and face the daytime TV horror of the ‘Jeremy Kyle Celebrity Special’ or risk inadvertently selecting a channel featuring the withered tangerine face of David Dickinson).
Later, having collected Catrin, we were on our way to pick up my husband from his workplace and I saw a girl in school uniform walk past the traffic jam we were sitting in. Her skirt was so short and had a slit up the back that, I kid you not, I could actually see her pants. First I wondered at what point I had formed an opinion regarding the appropriate length of skirt for a teenager to wear and then I hoped that my girls never end up showing their pants to all and sundry with their skirts pulled up to practically armpit level. I know that I am inevitably going to have disagreements with them about all sorts of things (including their choice of garments) and I will look back at these days, fondly remembering their innocence and the fact that they believe everything I say and trust me (and let me choose their clothes). As my husband helped Catrin with her sandals this evening, she suddenly blurted out “You’re the best. And Mummy. And Beffan. And I’m the bestest.” I will miss these days all too soon.