Frequently, (daily, if I am being totally honest) as I coerce them into whatever task or mischief currently occupies my mind, my offspring are subjected to the refrain of “Labour gives/gave me unlimited privileges”.
It is a phrase which I suggest that all mothers adopt!
The wide ranging privileges which labour has given me, during the last twenty two years, have included my ability to command that my children “always hunt as a pack”, to insist that “Yes, your brother/sister DOES have to go with you”, to embarrass them at will and, with eyebrows raised, to respond, “Really?” in various tones of incredulity, disbelief, disapproval, fascination and mirth.
The privileges of labour have seen my exhausted children: forced to stand on trains in order to give their elders their seats, subjected to years of trawling through spelling lists, standing silently and patiently whilst my “quick word” with a chum has lasted an hour or more, as well as stolidly plodding through galleries, libraries, museums and other “improving” institutions.
Frankly, there have been times when, in hindsight, their pre-labour selves would cheerfully have plumped for another womb!
This month, however, my use of the privileges of labour have been restricted to almost physically bursting at the seams with spectacular prideJ.
Again, I only have one child studying at university because my eldest has finished – with a First Class Honours degree – and a job!
This is all the more wonderful because, of his own volition, he spent a year of his A-levels devoting himself to helping me manage the child care of his youngest brother when I had no-one else upon whom to lean. It resulted in his repeating the year and he did it all with incredible grace, love and maturity – without murmur, resentment or irritability.
I cannot praise him enough.
Thank you, my son. I love you. You are a complete star and the whole world should know that.
If you are reading this and labour has given you the privilege of having complete stars in your life too, please remember to take every opportunity to let your children know – and, then, use your privilege to remind them that the proper receptacle for dirty laundry is a basket, not their bedroom floor, as usual!
Take care.
