Two years, 104 weeks, 730 days or 17,520 hours.

Give or take.

Sometimes longer than it has the right to be, sometimes faster than a blink.

So it’s now two years since Mum died and I think in that time all I have marked has been one birthday. No Mother’s Day commemoration, no anniversary remembrance, no flowery words of saccharine sweet sentiment.

Nothing. Deliberately and intentionally nothing but not without thought or angst.

As always….I shall explain.

I have already explained briefly that Mum was quite complex and had her own troubles and for those that were closest to her she was often very tricky to like.

I know that sounds like I have painted her with the shitty end of the stick and to be fair was more often than not what she herself would hand us. I often feel that to a degree that is paying her a massive disservice.

You see, mum was very much the chameleon especially in her younger years. She was everything to every man, and often nothing in between. I guess by that I mean mum had a face for every person, a mask for every moment. She could very easily adapt to different situations, but more effectively different people.

For some mum was a nurturing, wise old owl with a listening ear and sage advice; for some she was a practical problem solver, good in a crisis and a solid support; for others she was a cracking raconteur of anecdotes and tall tales. But latterly for those of us closest to her she came to embody tension, combat and anger.

Growing up, particularly when I was very young I remember her as being full of life, full of vitality and full of character but almost always with an audience.

I remember a pretty full life of caravan holidays, horse racing, aviaries and tropical fish tanks but only until her interest waned (often quickly). Anything mum wanted she got, any whim she had she’d indulge.

Vibrant, a little insecure, a lottle chaotic. That is how I remember my mum when I was really young; full technicolour, maximum volume and unending chaos.

(By the way, a lottle is like a little. But a lot.) Anyways…

As the years rolled on the space between who she was indoors versus who she was outdoors slowly but surely became quite the chasm.

Bitterness and anger seemed to engulf her as illness took hold of her and dad and that led to quite a difficult period that would test our patience, resolve and overall ability to not react or bite.

There was a lot of walking on eggshells around her, unsure of who she’d be when we saw her or what imaginary offence we might have caused to permit her to ride us hard.

This meant that at the end of her life my tolerance of her and moreover her chaos was admittedly minimal. I’d bent over backwards for her once too often and found myself quite brutally firm with her, no wiggle room whatsoever.

When mum passed we got condolences from many, many people from all stages of her life and I was actually very pleasantly surprised by just how many saw mum as a lovely, kind and genuine person.

To me that meant she’d succeeded . People saw the side of her she wanted them to, she’d been able to keep her anger and bitterness contained.

And that, my dears is why I have not really commemorated her. I’d be very disingenuous if I wrote some floral, gushy post because that’s not who she was to me.

I couldn’t post up anything accusatory or brutal because she wasn’t just the hard side either. She was both. Often at the same time.

That’s not saying I don’t miss her, I do. All of her.

It’s not that I don’t think about her, I do. Daily.

I’m not responsible for her story, only my version of it and I guess that’s what’s most important here.

I don’t have the right to change the way others remember mum, if she’s remembered as kind and caring that’s because she was. If she’s remembered as difficult and manipulative that’s because she was.

I remember all of her, and I miss her.