Earlier, I was having a conversation via email with a shop assistant (who I actually believe exists). Less a conversation, more of a rant. Says I, ‘I’m one click away from putting my items back on the virtual counter and walking out the door.’ Clever I thought. But it left me cross. ‘I can’t get to the shops’, I idled whilst doing the breakfast washing up. Of course I tried to enter my voucher code I think as I whip open the toddler’s yoghurt pot. How many more shopping days do I have until Christmas if I shop online I wondered as I changed the baby’s nappy.

I have tried three times to bake a christmas cake. On the third attempt the head of a little boy who, this year, is able to see over the counter top arrives at my side. Can you help? And so my to-doing and fretting on Christmas shopping, virtual or otherwise, is put aside. There, by my side, is someone who is slicing glaze cherries for the first time. I realize that this is his first whiff of the heady smell of cinnamon, whiskey and dark fruit combined. A flash of me as a six year old at my mother’s white Kenwood Chef and I see it with him. These are his memories. He’s soaking it all up. An advent calendar thrown thoughtlessly into the shopping trolley is a new tradition for him. The chocolate that he’ll find behind a tiny number, a joy.

I’m reminded of our native Yeats on love and dreams whereon he tells us to tread softly when you tread on someone’s dreams. These little men of mine are busy making memories.  Earlier’s virtual argument bears no fruit. And so as I tread over their memory banks, I remind myself to go softly, ever so softly.

I’d take a doctor, a nurse, a child minder, a housekeeper and brow mopper (if it’s not an actual occupation, it should be) right about now. After a week of dispensing medicine, singing soothing ‘don’t-be-sick’ songs and worrying, I have succumbed to a pretty awful infection myself.

The Doctor, a farmer’s wife herself, said ‘go to bed for a few days’ knowing that this was not an easy task on a dairy farm. I have been able to go to bed bar milking time in the morning which luckily coincides with the best TV schedules for children. Intuitively, my beauties know that mommy is sick, I can’t imagine what has given me away, and are minding me by not being too demanding and well, actually, mimicking their lovely mom and giving me the odd kiss on the forehead to make me feel better.

And then there’s the farmer who despite having to run his own business, is here being doctor, nurse, child minder, housekeeper and browmopper. On days like this, when I feel miserable, exhausted, down trodden, I wonder why we do this. Why we farm? Why we keep going through this despite the dropping milk and beef prices. That answer is for another day. Throwing off his wellies at the back door, my farmer puts on the kettle to make me a honey and lemon drink before looking after very small boys who are hungry and want to play. Back to bed I go.

Instinct is huddled in the corner with her hand over her ears. Sense sought refuge elsewhere long since. Intellect is shrugging her shoulders. Did I wash the calpol syringe after its’ last use? What temperature was he again? Is that a tantrum or a child with a sore throat? Could he be coming down with it too? He might be teething.

And so for an hour this afternoon, when they all fell asleep including the farmer, I took the chance to walk into the world for the restorative walk. Walking to begin with, there is ranting. Crazy lady stuff. Questioning. Back and forth dialogue. Berating. Hands in the air. Where did it all go wrong. Marching and ranting. And some more questioning.

On I walked until I reached the top of the hill and the climax of my ranting and thus I began to descend back into sanity again. I noticed the lovely day, saluted a neighbour, walked through a freshly grazed field. Strengthened, I began planning for the evening ahead. It’s Sunday, there might even be a glass of wine whilst cooking dinner. Dessert? Sur’ why not? What would be a nice treat for a sore throat?

I take one last deep deep breath of fresh air and head back into God knows what. Ready for it again, in the promise of a relaxing Sunday.

Is it a plane? No, it’s Superboy and boy. Little did I think when I bought that light red silk scarf or that red and fushia pink chequered cashmere scarf (this is important) that they would be used to save the world from my kitchen.

All I want is my Sunday morning coffee. For that coffee, I need to get around planet Krypton, over the burst damn, avoid flying red swooshes circumnavigating the kitchen table to get to the coffee maker. On the way, I’m grabbed to the refrains of ‘I’ve gotcha girl.’ Lovely, I always saw myself as Lois Lane but I’m not sure Lois envisaged writing a blog whilst hiding from Superboys. Not very Daily Planet  is it?

Just one more step and I’m about to lower the lever. But no, it’s Lex Luthor, he needs his nappy changed. No, Lex, you’ll never catch Superman, he’s gone out to milk the cows. I’ll change it. About now, I’m as bitter as the elusive coffee as I can almost taste the coffee rush. It’s within my reach. If only, if only. Da,da,da,da,daaaa,daa,daa,daa, da,da,da,da,daaaaa,da,daa,daaaaaa. ‘Come fly with me Lois and I’ll never let you go.’ Foiled again. But hey, I get to be Lois, if only for a while.

Google, ‘Should I tell the children the cat died?’ In the absence of recieved wisdom on well, everything agricultural, I resort as always to my virtual friend, google. The cat has died. What do I do?

Finn was found as a kitten in June in a hedgerow on a sunny afternoon. She was a welcome distraction for the children who were a little bit perplexed at the arrival of their new sibling and their newer, wonky, weepy version of mommy.

From early on, Finn appeared to be a cat on a kamikaze mission having lost eight of nine lives. One in the parlour under the cows during milking, one hanging from the calf house rafters and so on. To me she was ‘That Cat’ as in ‘put out that cat’ ‘drop that cat’ ‘stop eating that cat.’ You have to be a tough cat to survive the gauntlet that is Hearthill.

I thought That Cat had it in her. She might have eventually become Finn to me. And now I have to tell children about the death of That Cat. To that end, the farmer and I discuss who will do the telling. Terms like ‘ah he’s a bit sensitive’ and ‘he’ll take it badly’ are bandied around. As it turns out, these country children of ours are not that sensitive afterall. After just a moment of introspection, our eldest asks if ‘he can get another one’ followed swiftly by ‘Can I do the shovelling?’ What does a feline have to do around here?

And so, in order to appease their softie, townie mommy, there’s a couple of country children saying a Glory Be over our dead cat as he is lowered down into a hole in the haggard in a biscuit tin.