I’m crying as I write this. But, for a change, it’s a good cry.
I’ve been really, really quiet this last couple of weeks. This weekend, in particular, though. Really quiet. You see…
Things are work-stressful right now. To the point where I feel like throwing in the towel and giving up and wistfully dream of a time when the choice of domestic goddess was the only option available to women. It’s a weak point, and my inner feminist yells at me. But, it’s hard to not feel that way at 2am when you’re in crisis mode, on deadline and battling to see straight, never mind keep your eyes open.
So, when Shmooshy texted and said “pack a pillow” and sped me off to hibernate at his house for a few days, it was both a relief and a wonder. I constantly wonder why he does these amazing things. And why I am so worthy. Worthy of such love and untold amounts of affection and care. Why it’s never an issue that Cameron is around, and how very easily he accepts all the screaming-yelling-ohmygod-i-am-losing-my-mind-here-Cath-parts and the
snoring-sleeping-go-away-or-ill-be-annoyed-my-hair-is-awful-Cath-parts, and the quiet-Cath-parts. The quiet-Cath-parts that sit here writing this, after I’ve put a very tired, very happy, very Easter-frenzied Cameron to bed.
You see, it comes down to the one thing that my cynical and jaded self battles to accept. Why the battle? Well, we all know the inroads and avenues of fuckwittage and pandering to other people’s ideas of love that I have had to swallow in the past. Had to swallow, chosen to swallow or pretended really well were not a problem. Until I couldn’t take it anymore. Or they couldn’t take it anymore. Or they cowardiced out. Or I did. Whatever. None of that’s important to me at all anymore.
I finally concede that I am worth it. I am humbled to the core by this man’s love for me, and my daughter. He is primarily unafraid of anything I throw at him. And sometimes I have a lot to throw. He’s not scared by my baggage (even though, let’s be frank people, I do have pretty stylish Louis Vuitton suitcases of it), and he’s not afraid to share his own insecurities that life has created in his world. His love and care for Cameron, is beyond anything I’ve ever seen for someone who is not in her immediate family. His constant consideration for the aspects of my life that I hold most important, knows no bounds.
I’ll stop here for now, and tell you why I concede.
You see, the notion is…and there are many differing schools of thought on this. There’s been a theme this weekend, and I finally concede. I truly, finally concede and admit that Shmooshy is right. Very right, indeed. Numerous sources confirm it, and I have been lucky enough to watch him investigate this theorem and back up his own belief.
The theme for this weekend, and the longest running debate has been (and I’ll reference things later on)…
the letter ‘y’ is both a vowel and a consonant.
I have always been of the “no, y, is not a vowel”, school of thought. Shmooshy, on the other hand, is a definite supporter of the “y is both a vowel and a consonant, depending on its usage” school of thought.
I’ve watched him, this weekend, battle this out with me, Google it until I rolled my eyes in contempt, listened to him give me examples and had him apologise for treading on my school of thought on this one.
And, somewhere, in the back of my mind, I began to concede to him.
You see, there’s a reason why I have.
The letter “y” is both a consonant and a vowel, in just the same way as I am a person, and a mother. The truth is, either way, the letter “y” is still perfectly itself, no matter how it is used, pronounced or represented. And, in the same way, as a person and a mother, I am myself, however represented, accompanied or given . And he loves me, absolutely, either way.
Also, as I know, so well now, he wouldn’t bother doing it if he didn’t believe in all of it. It’s shown in his investigative stubbornness to really know something, to really believe in something, and to love something.
That’s why, after a weekend of having me take over his house and laze on his couch and laugh hysterically and annoyingly at things I find unaccountably silly and hilarious (“Palestinian alarm clock!” – Family Guy), he comes home with me, and helps me draw Easter Bunny footprints on my floor with oil pastels, so that Cam can go Easter Egg hunting. He investigates the garden for the best hiding spots, that won’t be too hard for Cameron to find her eggs but, hidden enough to be the best surprise for her. He smiles when her eyes twinkle with glee, and he hops with her around the garden, whilst they both pretend to be bunnies.
He loves me at 2am when I cannot sleep. He loves me when I’m juggling and battling. He loves me when I am
“ProfessionalCath-take-me-seriously”. He loves me when I am “Mama-Cath-I-will-now-speak-only-in-mermaid-and-we-must-now-go-hunting-for-fairies”.
He loves me when I am Sad-Cath, the one who doesn’t know if it’s really worth it to keep on pushing through. He loves me when I am Happy-Cath, surrounded by friends who make me laugh, usually at myself. He loves me when I am Fearful-Cath, the one that worries if I’m doing anything right at all.
He loves me when I am Bright-Cath, doing something that I believe in. He loves me when I am Tired-Cath, grumpy and disagreeable.
He loves me, whether I am a vowel or a consonant.
And that, my friends, is why the letter “y” is both a vowel and a consonant.