Tag Archives: family

Christmas Musings

By now several of you reading this are feeling the effects of ingesting an average 7000 calories per day for the better part of a month or so. My yoga pants are now skinny jeans and every maxi dress is my new best friend. I might also need a new liver but every drop of Prosecco was worth it.

This is also the time of year when most Trinis realise they have no chance in hell of losing the Christmas weight before Carnival, and panic sets in. I literally broke the scale when I stood on it yesterday. (I’m not even kidding. The plastic window cracked and pinged off the bathroom wall.) I interpreted this as A Sign and immediately purchased Jorge Cruise’s Happy Hormones, Slim Belly off Amazon.

A good portion of this week was spent lying in bed nursing a post-Christmas cold (inevitable result of forced close proximity to germ-harbouring friends and family) and reflecting on a frenetic Christmas season. Christmas is my favourite time of year. I love everything about it – the food, the music, the fellowship – everything. Well, almost everything. Why is it that far too often Christmas brings out the worse in us?

Take driving for example. Why do people drive so badly at Christmas? Do The Powers That Be circulate a secret memo at the beginning of December mandating cackahole driving and dickhead parking? How else can one explain the upsurge in straddlers, those wonderfully considerate drivers who take up two parking spaces by straddling a white line instead of parking between two lines? And let’s not forget the Pushmattees who force their way into a congested intersection effectively blocking movement of traffic in any direction.

My irritation with Christmas driving is eclipsed only by my aversion to Christmas shopping. Shopping of any kind is a major challenge but food shopping in December is a nightmare. Supermarkets turn into dangerous places. People get real ignorant when it’s 6pm on Christmas Eve and there’s only one tin of cranberry sauce left on the shelf. I had to share a six-pack of sorrel shandy with a fellow shopper after we reached for it at the same time and neither one of us wanted to let go. He’s lucky I wasn’t desperate.

Emotions are particularly close to the surface at Christmas time. Forget road rage – trolley tantrums are the new public hissy fits. Try cutting into a checkout queue that snakes along the aisles. You’re likely to be beaten to death with a frozen ham.

Retailers capitalise on our hunger for consumables by opening new stores in time for the Christmas rush. There is something mesmerising about an “Opening Soon” sign. No surprise then that like the rest of the sheep I shuffled through the welcoming doors of the latest mega supermarket in my neighbourhood.

What I love about mega stores – you can literally buy anything from a can of soup to a computer in one spot. What I hate about mega stores – unless you know the layout you can spend two hours trying to find toothpicks.

Eyes pointed upward, we push our trolleys uncertainly down the aisles simultaneously trying to read the signs to find what we came for while being distracted by an enticing array of goods we don’t normally buy. Roasted red pepper pesto with almonds? Oooh, yes please. We end up taking twice as long to complete a simple shopping expedition and spending three times as much as we intended.

Isn’t it about time supermarkets had one-way aisles? Instead of jockeying for position in the pasta section wouldn’t it make more sense for us all to be moving in the same direction? Think of the trolley tantrums that could be avoided.

Let’s say you manage to successfully navigate the shopping and traffic quagmires. The real trial of the season is the family gathering. As much as we love our relatives, they also irritate and infuriate us. Tempers flare easily at Christmas time, particularly when alcohol is involved. Long held grudges have a habit of boiling over with the turkey gravy.

We all have that uncle or cousin who thrives on drama and needs no invitation to dominate a family gathering. This is the family member who turns up drunk for Christmas lunch, tells off-colour jokes, and confesses (loudly) to sleeping with their sibling’s spouse before passing out in the sherry trifle. This season my relatives in England provided the family punch-up and dammit, I wasn’t there to see it.

My mother looks forward to Christmas Day with a malicious glee. It is a golden opportunity for her to criticise my every action; from my cooking to the way I style my hair. It was gratifying therefore to see the genuine delight in her eyes as she opened my Christmas present to her, an ipod. Of course she couldn’t help giving a backhanded compliment: “This is the first time you actually gave me something I asked for” #OyVey

By Boxing Night the food coma is wearing off and most of us have had enough family bonding, thank you very much.  We cling to the promise of New Year’s Eve and the opportunity to press the annual reset button. My New Year’s Eve was far from exciting. I spent it policing my property thanks to my teenage daughter and her friends throwing a rather noisy party at our house. The neighbours who didn’t hate us before now do; and those who did, feel justified in calling the police the next time we throw a party.

Despite the cackahole driving, trolley tantrums, and family drama I had a great Christmas season and look forward to doing it all again this year. By December I will have forgotten how long I spent standing in queues and how frequently I swore at other drivers. All I will remember is the delicious aroma of Christmas food, laughter, and the overwhelming sense of relief as I sat down to Christmas dinner surrounded by those I love most.

Happy New Year everyone.

 

How was your Christmas season? Do you have a tale of woe/mirth to tell? Please share in the comments below.

 


Going Pecans

This blog post is dedicated to Gina Henning, author of Going Pecans.

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Gina Henning is an American author of contemporary romance and commercial fiction. Click here to buy Going Pecans  on Amazon

Contact Gina:  Facebook    Website    Goodreads   Twitter

 

When Twitter pal Gina Henning invited me to join her Blog Hop “Going Pecans” to promote her book of the same name, I readily agreed. The premise is fun; write about a time when you were going nuts, i.e. pecans. But then I thought – what should I write about? Should I blog about the time I unwittingly signed up for HUET (Helicopter Underwater Evacuation Training) so that I could work on an oil rig? Or the time I was pursued by Mormons? Running out of money while backpacking solo across Europe certainly generated a few hairy moments. I eventually decided on the insane period following the birth of my second child.

Husband, two year old son and I were living in a rented house in Cambridge, England. Short story – we had just returned from eighteen months in Mozambique and tenants were living in our own home. We were happy to be back in Cambridge where we’d spent many previous years.

They say that having a baby changes your life. Well, DUH. “They” also say that when you’ve had one baby, the second one is easier. Bull crap. The arrival of my daughter catapulted me into a Twilight Zone of perpetually crying children, an endless laundry pile, and a permanently screwed sleep pattern. I couldn’t even seek solace in a decent Sauvignon Blanc. Nature is cruel.

I didn’t know if I was coming or going. Whole days were spent in a front-opening nightgown with a toddler clinging to my leg and a baby hanging off my breast. Brushing my teeth and showering regularly became dimly remembered luxuries I could no longer indulge in. Sitting on the toilet with the door open became the norm. I needed the door open so that I could yell “It’s OK darling! Mummy’s coming just now!” over the combined wailing of my offspring.

Watching Orange Is The New Black recently brought back vivid breastfeeding memories. It was the episode where Polly answers the door to Larry with a nipple poking out of her unbuttoned shirt  Pride goes out of the window when you have a screaming child to feed. I couldn’t give a toss who saw my tits as long as a nipple in her mouth shut my daughter up.

Mealtimes – what mealtimes? – were forgotten altogether. My husband and I wolfed hasty bites of whatever scraps we could find between nappy changes and shoving fish fingers and mash into our son.

I envied my husband’s daily escape to interact with The Real World. I was stuck in an endless cycle of Children’s BBC (I can recite every word of dialogue from every episode of Postman Pat ever made), breastfeeding, and strategic cleaning. (I can’t call it housework. Everything was a mess). I was truly “going pecans”.

Even the simplest of chores became a major undertaking. A trip to the supermarket was a mammoth task. The sheer effort involved in getting a baby and a toddler dressed to face the British winter and strapped into car seats could take the best part of a morning. At least all I had to do was throw on a coat. No-one needed to know I was wearing a grubby T-shirt and sweatpants over yesterday’s knickers. As for make-up, don’t be ridiculous. A good twenty minutes was usually spent tracking down where my son had hidden the car keys. Inside the video recorder and behind the settee were favourite places.

We’d arrive at the supermarket and after parking in one of the coveted “Mother and Children” spaces I would spend the next forty-five minutes hissing at my son through gritted teeth “Benn! Come here! Put that down! Leave it alone!” By the time we got home I would be stressed, my son would be over-excited, and the baby would be cranky.

If it hadn’t been for my local National Childbirth Trust Mother and Baby Group I would have lost it altogether. NCT Group was my salvation. I lived for the weekly encounters with other harassed new mothers, several of whom were also doing the second child shuffle. We spent our meetings exchanging tips to stop Child No 1 from killing Child No 2 and bitching about our irritatingly calm husbands who took the changed family dynamic in their stride instead of having screaming hormonal breakdowns.

For two blessed hours I was in the company of women who were in exactly the same situation and handling it equally badly. There was something strangely comforting, indeed satisfying, in sharing our tales of woe and maternal failure. We bonded over rumpled clothes (who the hell had time to iron?), sleep deprivation, and sore nipples. Misery does indeed love company.

Not for the first time I appreciated the ability of sisterhood to save my sanity while nourishing my soul. As crazy as the time was – days would pass before I remembered to comb my hair – I wouldn’t have swapped the new baby-toddler-circus for anything. I understood this was a learning curve. I was starting at the bottom but I would get better. Or at least better at faking being a Domestic Goddess, with the support of my fellow new mommies.

Did I mention Nature is cruel? So cruel that when you become proficient at faking Domestic Goddesshood, Nature makes you forget the newborn hell and knocks you up again. The arrival of Baby Number Three threw me into a fresh nightmare. But that, my friends, is the subject of a whole ‘nother story.

 

Going Pecans Blog Hop

Please follow along and enjoy these great blog posts below. Everyone who comments on every single post will receive a Going Pecans Recipe Card signed by Gina Henning. Please be sure to include your email!

August 14th

Gina Henning Blog

August 15th

Waiting On The Westcotts

Anya Breton’s Blog

Missy Devours Delish Reads

August 18th

Kasper’s Ramblings on the Hunters of Reloria Website

August 19th

Loss For Words

The Edible Bookshelf

In Search of Romance

August 21st

Helen Rena

August 22nd

Word Forward

Amber Daulton

Ana Blaze

August 25th

Keepin it Real

Feeling Beachie

August 26th

Krysten Lindsay Hager

Anais Morgan: Things are about to get hot

DM Brain Waves-dmarblog

August 28th

Wilson Writes

August 29th

Writing About Love

See Bethany Blog

Lover of all things crafty

Susanne Matthews

Stumbling Towards the Finish Line

 

Click here to enter the Going Pecans Raffle!

 

 


My Life as Bridget Jones

I am currently reading Helen Fielding’s Bridget Jones – Mad about the Boy. It struck me that whereas I tittered smugly over Bridget’s trials in previous novels, middle-aged Bridget and I suddenly have a lot in common. I wondered what would my life look like if I documented it Bridget Jones style? Apologies to Helen Fielding.

Tuesday November 12 2013

Calories – 1200ish (excellent); Cardiovascular exercise completed – nil. Cardiovascular exercise contemplated – lots. Alcohol units consumed – 1 glass of wine (v. good)

8.50am Frantically searching my desk in vain for the scrap of paper on which I scribbled the name of the person I’m meeting this morning. Bugger. Oh well. At least I know where the office is.

10.00am Arrived at destination and attempted to bluff my way past Nigerian security guard.

“Who are you here to see ma’am?”

“Err…the HR Director”

“Who?”

“The HR Director…umm Manager…Ms….”

“I need the name of the person you are here to see. Please pull to the side.”

“Umm yes…I’ll just make a call…”

Hurriedly dialled a colleague who (thankfully!) took the call and provided me with the all-important name.

“I’m here to see Mrs. Coglan.” I declared authoritatively.

“This way, ma’am.” Success!

11.00am Skillfully negotiated first face to face meeting with potential client. Delighted to observe the poster of Idris Elba on Mrs Coglan’s office wall. I like this woman.

Now at second appointment; meeting with my charity ladies group. Channelling charitable thoughts…

2.00pm Home. EXHAUSTED. A Pretty Woman panini from MovieTowne, hurriedly wolfed down in the car, served as lunch today. Was accosted by the gardener as soon as I drove through the gate.

“Boss Lady – not sure you noticed, but we have a bee situation on the external wall.”

“Eh?” What is he talking about. What bee situation?

“Could be a hive. Maybe you could get someone to look at it?”

“OK…will do…” I replied vaguely. Odd. Where is George who cuts my lawn? He hasn’t shown up for two weeks.

Should go straight to the office but really need a sit down first. And maybe a cuppa.

5.05pm Bugger! Should have picked up youngest child (Son Nº 2) from orchestra practice 5 minutes ago! How did I fall asleep? To the batmobile.

5.30pm Fought my way through two miles of ridiculous traffic to be confronted by bemused offspring.

“Mum why are you here? I told you I was finishing at 7.30pm today.” What???? Mommy brain is real, y’all.

Irritated. Back to the car…

“Where are you?!” – Irate husband. Crap. Supposed to drop him to the airport.

“Almost home! Five minutes away!” Bugger, bugger, BUGGER.

8.50pm Collapsed on the bed; fingers loosely wrapped around a wine glass. Dropped husband at the airport to catch international flight, made tomorrow’s lunch for Son Nº1 (SN1), tidied kitchen, checked and responded to work emails. 

Picked up Son Nº 2 (SN2) at the correct time, albeit in my pajamas. I forgot I had to leave the house after 7pm. I would have gotten away with it if I didn’t have to get out of the car to speak to the music teacher and SN2 hadn’t said rather loudly “Mum why are you wearing pajamas?” (My youngest child was born without a volume control button. I think it broke off in delivery.) To the music teacher’s credit he only slightly raised his eyebrows at my flowered pants.

Speaking of SN1 – where is he? Don’t think I’ve seen him today….This is not unusual as he works an early shift and we often pass each other like ships in the night; but I’m struggling to think when last I did see him. I’ll wake up super early tomorrow and catch him before work.

God, I’m such a terrible mother. At least I messaged Daughter In University several times today. Or I think I did. What if someone stole her phone and was pretending to be her?  I must call her first thing in the morning.

But for now…The Originals and Daniel Gillies require my undivided attention.

 

Wednesday November 13 2013

Calories consumed – 2000 (homemade veggie pizza is low cal, right?). Alcohol units – nil (hurray). Cardiovascular exercise – nil (boo)

12.25 am WTF? Why are all the lights on? Is that broken glass? I should wash my hair.

5.45am Gaaaah! What is that noise? Bloody alarm! I feel like death…what day is it?

7.00am By some miracle got SN2 ready for school and out the door. This is my most difficult task of the day.  Unless I stand over SN2 he will not get out of bed. I have to wake him, get him in the shower, get him out again, stand over him while he dresses and instruct him to eat breakfast. All this while making his breakfast and lunch; and appeasing the increasingly insistent demands of the cat to be fed immediately. WHY ARE THERE MAGGOTS IN THE RUBBISH BAG?? 

3.15pm Spent morning and afternoon in the office; fielding inquiries from potential clients and steadily working through huge pile of paperwork – important stuff like invoices and that sort of thing. I am efficient, productive Chief Executive Officer. Mistress of My Domain. Even found time to make myself a tuna salad for lunch. Had tiny panic attack when I noticed today’s date and realised I had forgotten my housekeeper’s birthday. Hurried back to be house and enveloped her in a massive bear hug. First rule of survival – never piss off people who cook your food.  I’ll make it up to her with the Christmas bonus.

Made 8.00am appointment to go through house repairs list with my Mr Fix It tomorrow. I’ll mention the bee thing to him.  Seriously annoyed about the lawn – the grass is knee high in some places! Just wait until I get my hands on George. Why hasn’t he called?

Haven’t heard from hubby either. Slightly worrying, especially as he’s in the UK dealing with a family crisis. Do I have time to go to the bank?

4.10pm Spent annoying forty minutes in the bank paying bills and depositing pennies. Of course my phone rang the minute it was my turn to approach a cashier. Hubby. Family crisis worsening. Oh dear.

Now on my way to pick up SN2 from after school history class. Still haven’t seen SN1. Must call him if I don’t see him tonight.

6.30pm Why does this country have so much goddamn traffic? Ridiculous that it took me 65 minutes to drive 8 miles! Humph. Must finish off work in the office. Poo.

11.08pm Brain fried. Spent the evening doing Client reports. Ugh. Almost fell asleep on my laptop again. Confirmed SN1 was alive with brief conversation in the hallway.

Was joined in the office by my two office assistants – Lily (cat) and Van Persie (dog). Predictably the animals’ playful posturing soon descended into a brawl over control of the waste bin. I threw them both out.

 

Thursday November 14 2013

Calories consumed – stopped counting after 2500. Alcohol units – err…

Major problems encountered – several. Major problems solved – none

2.00pm Bloody HELL. Absolute tits up day. Barely managed to scramble into clothes before persistent knocking at the back door alerted me Mr. Fix It was here. Spent an unhappy hour trailing him as we went through a surprisingly long list of necessary house repairs. The coup de grace was the bee situation. I had no idea such danger lurked less than 100 yards from the house.  Mr. Fix It and I gaped horror-struck at the humming swarm, thousands strong, steadfastly protecting a massive hive, half-hidden in a tree next to the external wall. How had I never noticed it?? How long had it been there? Even Mr. Fix It and I know he can’t fix THAT.

Panicked, I sought help in social media. Found it on Facebook! Took the advice of friends and called the Ministry of Agriculture’s Apiary Unit. Just spoke to a very helpful lady who took my details and promised to call back for directions to the house.

3.00pm The Apiary Unit hasn’t called me back. Maybe I should call again?

3.15pm Called the Apiary Unit again. No answer.

4.30pm Still no response and I’m living next to Bee Armageddon. Thank God it’s Scandal Thursday! I’ll just pop a bottle of wine in the freezer before I drop SN2 to orchestra practice.

 

Friday November 15 2013

Calories consumed – who cares? Mostly alcohol based. Cardiovascular exercise – does heart pounding count? Crises – growing.

12.27am So sleepy. Ate my wine slushie while watching Scandal and finishing off a teambuilding proposal. Managed to clean most of the glass out of the freezer…perhaps I should set an alarm next time.

6.00pm I wish today had never happened. I feel trapped in a disaster vortex of growing proportions.

Three men arrived from the Apiary Unit shortly after 8.00am to prevent Bee Armageddon.  They took one look at the angry swarm, collectively exclaimed “Oh Gaad oye! Nah man!” and hurriedly retreated to the safety of their ministry truck.

After some discussion they called a beekeeper who happened to be in the area. He arrived within ten minutes and immediately took charge, much to the relief of the Apiary Unit “experts”, who sped off. Before I could say “honey” the beekeeper had donned semi-protective gear (I noticed he wasn’t wearing gloves. Very odd.) and was putting up caution tape and traffic cones.

There is nothing like caution tape to attract a crowd. People see the wispy neon yellow plastic and immediately gravitate towards the danger. Surely that’s the opposite of the intended purpose? Mr. Fix It, the gardener and the housekeeper materialised out of thin air and were soon joined by my mother’s handyman, whose macometer is exceptionally well tuned. Just as the beekeeper began smoking out the bees, the pool boy rocked up and launched into a lengthy discussion with the gardener about what hurts more – a bee sting or a jep sting.

The plumber, who was scheduled to fix the guest toilet and who usually works alone, arrived with a crew of four others (to fix a toilet???). Naturally they decided to take in the show, along with some of the neighbours, who by this time were observing nervously from their gates.  My normally quiet street was soon full of traffic as people driving by slowed down to watch, comment, and give the beekeeper unwanted advice.  By 10.00am we had a good sized crowd of spectators watching the bee removal from behind the safety (lol) of a few rolls of caution tape. I half expected a news crew to show up.

It occurred to me that whatever kept George from cutting my lawn the past two weeks probably saved his life. The beekeeper calmly explained that the hive was a mixture of Italian  and African bees, who will attack at the slightest provocation, especially noise. If George had turned on the lawnmower or weed wacker…the outcome could have been deadly.

At 11.00am a message from Daughter In University alerted me that all was not well with the family in England.

“Have you called Dad? You should call Dad.”

I retreated to my office and began frantically calling my husband, brother-in-law and mother-in-law without success. The inability to make contact only heightened my anxiety and fueled the nightmare scenarios already playing in my mind.  Eventually a call from husband confirmed my worst fears. My father-in-law – a good, decent man – had passed away.

I made it through the rest of the day on autopilot. This was not the time to fall apart and grieve. This was the time to remain in control and keep my ship steady.

The beekeeper completed his task and departed with a buzzing box. The crowd dispersed. The housekeeper cooked a meal. I bought groceries. I sent emails, made calls, and broke the sad news to friends and family members, including SN1 and SN2. I made plans. In reality I was keeping busy until I could collapse in bed with the remainder of my broken wine bottle. That time has finally come.

Could things get any worse? Sadly, I believe the answer is yes.

 

Sunday December 29 2013

Calories consumed – It’s Christmas time in Trinidad and Tobago – who and who counting calories?? Please, eh. Steups. Alcohol units – does it really matter? YOLO and all that. Cardiovascular exercise – will definitely do some in 2014.

3.00pm Six weeks have passed. During that time I’ve had a funeral (sad, but oh so wonderfully done), planned and executed a Christmas party (tremendous work but worth it), caught up with family and friends (lovely), and survived Christmas Day (a happy occasion despite raging migraine and crazy parents).

I cannot wait for 2013 to be over. Keeping everybody and everything going is draining. Frankly I am tired of looking after everyone at the expense of myself. I need someone to look after ME. My resolution for 2014 is to say NO more frequently.

Yeah, right. If I was capable of putting myself first I would have done that years ago. But somehow, somewhere at some time in 2014 I need to STOP and reassess my life. Maybe I just need some fun. A vacation would be nice. Alone. Well maybe a few girlfriends could come along for company. Or would a family trip be better? Gaah! There I go again! Perhaps it’s best not to think about it. At least for now. Right now the hubby and offspring are blissfully engaged  (elsewhere), the house is full of food, and most importantly  – there is cold champagne in the fridge.

8.00pm Had a teeny glass of champagne to toast the year’s end. OK, maybe two. The point is – God bless bubble therapy! Feeling much more positive and ready to face a new year! I am Mistress of My Domain! Or I’m drunk. Either way – I’m ready for 2014. BRING IT ON.


The Not So Empty Nest

As the mother of a 14 year old boy and 20 year old man-child, the most frequent words I hear are “What’s to eat?” and “I have a problem.” The response to both is the same – make a sandwich. I’ve commented before on the trials of being a MOB but seriously – I’m beginning to wonder if my sons are bottomless needy pits. I look at them and I see open beaks constantly squawking for attention. When does the boy child become self-sufficient?

Lest I be accused of male-bashing, let me state that my female offspring has frequent bouts of mummy mania. But somehow the common sense gene seems slightly less recessive with her.

After discussing this with friends I realise my problem is far from unique. SMOGs report that girls grow up, get educated, seek gainful employment, and leave the nest. MOBs paint a very different picture. As boys increase in size, so do their appetites and capacity for causing mayhem and incurring unexpected, unwanted expenses.

In spite of the fact that – as one friend bluntly put it – Murphy has a “special” relationship with my family –  I think I have had more than my fair share of testosterone-tainted calamity. The bigger the boy, the bigger the issue. In my household we’ve graduated from “I’ve lost my school shoes” to “I crashed the car” and “I got robbed”. I spend an inordinate amount of time sorting out OPP* when I should be focused on myself.

But being Mrs Fix-It is only part of the problem. In the rare event you produce a boy who submits to formal education without protest, the chances of getting him to leave home post-graduation are slim. I recently suggested to my eldest that now that he is gainfully employed, perhaps he’d like to consider moving out? From his reaction you’d think I’d asked him to lop off a testicle.

I blame myself. Home is clearly Too Nice. At age 22 I was a fresh faced graduate living in a cold apartment and determined to prove I could make it on my own. My mother was thousands of miles away; and even if she hadn’t been, I doubt she would have been setting an alarm to wake me up, make my breakfast, pack my lunch, and wave as I drove off in her car.

By contrast both of my sons have made it quite clear that they have no intention of leaving home any time soon – perhaps never. Why should they? Free room and board, laundry service, transport, and Wi-Fi. I briefly contemplated losing the 14 year old in the mall after a shopping expedition last week. He’s 6′ 1″, 160 lbs, and wears a size 13 shoe. The expense of clothing this goliath is astronomical. And don’t talk about my grocery bill. He requires feeding every two hours.

I honestly don’t know how much longer my finances – and sanity – can withstand the constant and ever-increasing demands. I followed the rules of the parenting manual. Loved, nurtured and guided – so why the hell can’t they fend for themselves? I’m sure I’ll be relegated to the maid’s room when both sons take over the house with their wives and kids.

I love my boys dearly and these home grown money pits are my creations. This is my reward for helicopter parenting. Given the opportunity for a redo I probably wouldn’t change a thing. Living in a country where baby-faced thugs casually extinguish life for an iPhone and a pair of Supras has given me a grim appreciation for the endangered young male species. As much as I bitch about their dependence at least I know where my sons are. Sadly many mothers in Trinidad and Tobago cannot say the same.

So here’s to the bottomless laundry basket, the empty larder, and the dent in the just-serviced car. Drink a toast to mama’s boys everywhere; and the women who made them.

OPP* – Other People’s Problems


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