Almonds. I can’t get enough of the scent of them. It started with Method’s Almond scented polish and one too many compliments from visiting friends. (As if it was me doused in the the gentle dust of these fragrant nuts). And then it was Almond Fairy liquid, a few drop’s of almond essence added to my
Tesco’s. Though I promise Nick I will never again darken their door due to their penchant for outrageous business practices, it seems me and promises were never a match made in heaven and the rebel in me cannot resist the pull of all that easy gotten scrumptiousness under one roof. I come away with Singapore Rose cordial I will later pour drizzle over vanilla ice cream, a bar of Green and Blacks Gingerbread (oh my!) chocolate, an over-sized box of baking soda from the cleaning section (at last!!) and the terrible taint of consumer driven guilt I will wash way with an amber coloured bar of Pears soap.
Home. The occupational therapist insists Finley must be seated at all times with his feet firmly on the ground. He needs to feel grounded she says. He needs to be wearing tighter underwear. An underwear hug if you like. He needs reminding where his body ends and the rest of the world begins. I re-arrange his bedroom in the quest to free up his little vintage desk and chair and do myself a damage dragging it down the stairs. For the first time he eats a meal without falling or jumping on and off his chair and I go into the kitchen and slap myself about the heart for not having made his life this much easier before.
Conversations. His insight never fails to astound me. He’s crawls into bed with me, him in flannel pyjamas, me in the nightie I wore the day he was born.
Mum, he said, you know you think I was invented to drive you bonkers?
Yes, baby? I replied…
Well it isn’t true, he said, straddling my chest and looking straight into my eyes, I was invented to open doors Mum.
What kind of doors Sweetheart?
Doors to whole new worlds Mummy! I was invented to open doors to a whole new world just for you Mummy…
I know it’s true. But do not know how it is possible for a five year old to put it so lucidly into words.
Later he is draped across the rug colouring in, when he looks up and asks, Mum do you think God draws pictures?
Well probably baby, I say, ignoring the voice of my appalled inner aethiest.
Maybe, he says, excitement making his eyes dance, maybe he drew us! Maybe we are Gods pictures!
Wow, I say, you could be right Finn, watching even as I say it, doubt cross his face.
No Mum. Pictures don’t move. We move, we are more like a film.
There is a pause.
Then: That’s it Mummy! We are actors in God’s film. We are all just actors!!
We are all just actors.