My children often tell me that I am the most immature mother they know.  It is meant kindly and whilst possibly not a direct compliment I know that given the choice between dead normal and me, they will probably opt for me (although that could be more to do with my open wallet policy…..)  It is however, a fine line and one I have been known to cross without realising.   Bringing up teenagers is never mentioned in the ante natal classes; presumably because the population would plummet in two generations if it were.

We have never been entirely normal on the general scale of things.  Personally I think we are perfectly ordinary, but I have been told that we are just a little bit weird sometimes.  We like to forage, we make our own cleaners and toiletries, I reuse obsessively and I make coffee from acorns (I think that is usually the tipping point).  On the other hand we drive cars, we have televisions and Sky and I have yet to convert to washing my hair in vinegar.

Today I was having my feet pummelled by the wonderful Nichola , if you have never had reflexology then book your ticket to Durham and book in with Nichola.  It also helps that she is from Carnoustie and she can talk even more than me 🙂  I asked her if she had seen any particular difference in my feet over the past few months.  During the conversation that followed we deduced that I was bonkers, bonkers in a good way (is there any other way to be bonkers?) but bonkers nevertheless.

I like being bonkers.  I like thinking outside the box.  I like asking stupid questions.  I like making it myself.  I like refusing to follow the crowd.  I like making up silly songs ( I would have been brilliant on Who’s line is it anyway).  I like it when my daughters roll their eyes at me and ask what next?  If they didn’t care they wouldn’t notice.  We rub along, I buy the occasionally pappy brown loaf that purports to be wholemeal, they eat the raspberry jam but make faces at the strawberry jam.  They make their own beauty concoctions and are devoted to my rosewater and witch hazel toner and then spend ages drooling over the MAC counter.  They poo poo my reflexology sessions but beg endlessly for back and feet massages.  They eat seaweed and all sorts of other things but prefer not to know precisely what they are.  They are willing to try anything but are equally willing to say no.  They think it is hysterical that our recycling box is plastic (they have every right to laugh) but are religious about sorting out the rubbish into chicken food, compost, fire and recycling.

For all our jokes about being embarrassing being the last perk of parenthood it is worth remembering that one’s parents can be excruciating.  I am not so old as to be able to forget the time my mother made me wear some dreadful tartan trousers to visit a friend (who had BROTHERS!) because she was packing my jeans for the holidays.  I hope that my daughters pick up some of my bonkersness and develop their own strain.  Bonkers people need to stick together, we are the glue that holds the rest of the “normal” world together.