Years ago I took a holiday in Georgia (USA, not Caucacus), and walked round the museum exhibition which was there about the Civil War (American not English!). The most poignant exhibit there, and one of the most affecting I have ever seen, was the small uniform of a Confederate boy soldier, who had been wounded at least, maybe killed, as the blood stains were still on the clothes. His shirt had been hand sewn with little neat stitches all round the neck and cuffs. Who by? His mother I am sure. Such love. Such pain. Oh motherhood. I expect he was so excited to be going off to war . . .
On a lighter note, my friend Catherine told me her son managed to get the two As and a B he needs to go to Manchester University to study areonautical engineering. “I can’t think why you’re so worked up Mum, ” he said, “It’s nothing to do with you!” Was ever a statement so untrue. The poor woman conceived, carried, gave birth to, fed and cared for this ungrateful male for eighteen long and arduous years, forced him to do his homework, sat up to 3 am to make sure he staggered home in one piece from countless parties, advised him on how to do the million things one needs in order to survive adolescence.
Now he is going off to study rocket science. There is a big parable here for us mothers. If you want appreciation, keep a dog I say.