I’m not at all bossy in real life, but in blogland I’m a real caring mummy who can’t help giving good, loving advice. I can’t apologise, because it’s heartfelt and, actually, right. You know it makes sense.
Today, for example, I’ve advised Dave to insist on an instant appointment with his doctor (if you’re still doubtful, Dave, what would you say to me in a similar situation?), told Belgian Waffle to live only for the day, good or bad (honestly, it’s the best way if times are tough, and I’ve followed my own advice and look at me now *big happy grin*) and told Zed that a Cuppasoup is no sort of dinner for a woman and please to eat properly (look me in the eye and disagree, darling girl*).
I wouldn’t dare to speak to my family like this. Well, let’s put it another way. If Dave were mine, I’d ring the doctor myself and deal with it. He’d have another prescription by close of play tomorrow at latest, and I’d be completely sympathetic with his wish not to make a fuss. If BW were my daughter, I’d give her all my love and be as supportive as possible, with no pressure. And if Zed were my daughter, I’d cook her a lovely meal and then spend a day cooking to fill her freezer so that she needn’t think about it for a few more days, and pour her another glass of wine because she doesn’t drink anywhere near enough.
I’ve discovered my métier. I’m a blogmummy. Not the sort who writes about her children, but the sort who worries about and cares for people she may never even meet. I don’t know what to make of this. I’m not alone, I know. I’ve never met such a caring bunch as you lot. It’s evident that I frankly love you.
I’m not sure that I’ll ever regain my total cynicism. Damn. Not to mention, Blast.
*She didn’t, she assures me that she eats her veggies properly. She also didn’t tell me to butt out, which demonstrates patience and good manners.