I never ask for help. I should really really ask for more help. Here’s why;
I called upon every Saint and his mother today, in no good way. Silage 2017. And as per every year, I’m at the cooker preparing to load shovelfuls of food onto plates for the men who in fairness, work so hard to bring in the grass for the silage pit. It was hot and the kids, now, another year older and faster were begging to go to the big tractors. Please, please Mom. Please. No.
Ah go on, please Mom. Please (Running out of patience yet? Think sweat, tractors, hot lasagna, three boys pleading).
Then comes the cursing, generations of bad words rolling from my tongue good-o. And I, she who has read ALL the literature on rearing children lets it all out in a tidal river of frustration. Vulgarities, extremities, prayers, blasphemous pleading so that they would, let’s say, get out from under my feet and by that I-don’t-mean-out-under-a-tractor. If you please.
And I still didn’t ask for help. So I cursed anyone and everyone who wasn’t there to help me. Me with the young children, me with the men to feed. Poor me that has been going since six this morning. Me who, eh, well, you know, just woe is me. Poor old me with no-one to help. Why? Because I didn’t ask? Why should I have to? And, so, the conversation or rather rant starts all over again. The same rant that washed the dishes, swept the floor, bathed the boys, read the story. A cross old woman’s rant that roared up for the love of … well you know yourself, all that is good and holy, for the boys to go to sleep.
No doubt, I’ll hear my refrain in some way, sung back to me over the coming days by one little mouth or another. No doubt, I’ll wake up in the morning and remember my temper and the shower of woe-betides, no doubt another occasion will arise where I’ll choose martyrdom over help. But I’ll try to do better. That’s all we’ve got.
Silage 2017. Saved. Thanks be to to to