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.

Have no fear, Sherlock is here defrosting my fridge with a hairdryer. I’m not at all optimistic that the man I called out to fix my fridge has ever opened a fridge door before. To the refrains of ‘that’s very interesting’, I’m trying to have faith in the man. But time is running out. Already, we’re about to eat soggy defrosted fish fingers for lunch and I’m googling Dinners for emergency defrosted freezer food. Whatsmore, I’m struggling to ignore my Granda’s Kerrymen jokes streaming from my memory banks. I have afterall, produced three future Kerrymen and married one. A good one. But it’s difficult when you’re watching a boyo swirl a hairdryer whilst saying ‘Quick draw’ in your kitchen.

Well, he might get to the bottom of the Mystery of the Noisy Motor by teatime, if not, readers, don’t be stuck for defrosted mackerel.

I cornered a local woman in the village recently. It was during one of my crazed escapes from Hearthill, grabbing ten minutes of ‘mommy time’ before having to face the reality of the three sons. So this particular local lady is in my top ten favorite village people. She has a brood of children, some of whom I have had the pleasure to teach and they seem to be the most well adjusted, happy and healthy children I have met. And I wanted to know how, and I quote, how she managed to do it. The conversation went along these lines.

Me: How did you do it? They’re amazing.

Herself: Ah stop.

Me: Ah go on. How did you do it? (Trying to look a tad nonchalant)

Herself: Ah thanks.

Me: (Directly looking her in the eye) No really, how did you do it?

Herself: (Laughing) You’re hilarious. (The lady isn’t getting the point)

Me: (Trying not to beg) Seriously, how?

Herself: Well you know what, God is a great psychiatrist, and sometimes, when it got really bad, I took off to a field, had a cry and talked to God, he’s free.

Myself: I’ll try it. (Leaving the poor lady bemused but smiling)

Skip forward two days. Having given up on jolly phonics, on the toddler spilling the contents of a small baby bath on the floor and strung out on my small baby not sleeping, I take to the field.     So I start off the conversation, fully aware that I am a pathetic hypocrite, only coming to pry on the interventionist God today, half blubbering, half pleading, making sure to thank Himself for my holy Trinity of healthy and happy boys. Onto the hard stuff and here I’ll spare you the details. Somehow, somewhere mid sentence, I fall asleep, in the field. In the field. It might have been ten seconds, it was no more than a couple of minutes. It was, however, enough to put the farmer’s wife back on her feet and back into the ring. This time, intervention came in the form of a short nap, in a field. God was telling me to get some sleep and he didn’t have to ask twice. I slept, my friends, in a field and his(!) advise was free.

Here’s the new standard; it’s a good day if the porridge pot is washed before lunch. Today our eldest is back to school and I don’t think Napoleon had as much organization on the morning he had to send his armies to war. So as I packed one lunch, fed one baby and placated one toddler, I took comfort in the fact that many parents were implementing similar plans of action to get their children back to school this morning.

Today, at the school gates, there were mommies on the way to work, a mother who had a two week old baby who really needed a cup of tea made for her, parents sending their first born to school, a mother who is mourning the loss of her own parent. All doing their best for their beautiful children. But they feel guilt. Guilt that they shouted too loudly last Sunday during the match. Guilt that they are going to work. Guilt that they can’t afford that pencil case for their boy because they are not working. And what’s worse, we’re judging each other. She’s working too much. She should be at work. Enough said.

Here’s the thing though. We’re all marching in the same direction. Forward. And we should, in the vein of the Napoleonic army, be marching with pride. We did it. Okay, your toddler broke a cup and you screamed. You were rushed and you flushed your iphone down the toilet but in the grand scheme of things, you know who you are; you’re doing your best. A pat on the back. I’m off for the third attempt at drinking my coffee this morning, watching Mr. Tumble with my toddler. The porridge pot is still in the sink. That’s it, march on.