Day 1,157 (not) In The Nanny June Care Home

The One With The Tough Mothers Day.

My card and flowers were left in advance at reception a few days ago while the Nanny June Care Home is on lockdown.

Being a mother is journey. Having a mother is a journey. Some of those journeys have come with sacrifice, loss or brutal life lessons.

Nanny June was a tough cookie.

Nanny June did not negotiate.

To be honest the only position Nanny June would hold in any hostage situation, is the one which held the power to surrender to the wants of the kidnappers or let the hostage die. (Spoiler Alert: there would be at least one dead body and no money would have changed hands).

Sweet old ladies are rare. They are born from sweet middle aged ladies who are the survivors from the sweet young ladies most of us never were.

Nanny June grew up (literally) in a war zone. Traumatised and undoubtedly with PTSD she hit her twenties, got engaged, changed her mind, got engaged to someone else, got married and had babies.

One Wednesday night in October while her three little ones were still all under 4 years old and sleeping soundly in their beds, the police knocked on the door. They delivered the news that there had been a car accident and amongst the fatalities, was their father and Nanny June’s husband.

A single mum, widowed, working, still traumatised from war (and now grief) June learned how to stand up to life.

Also, this was a woman never afraid to stand out. While young and beautiful Nanny June worked at an airport in North London which saw many private planes land and also worked in her parents pub for many years. She met celebrities, well known criminals, soldiers scarred and mutilated by war, gay people, black people, all people... and yet despite it being the culturally biased and very judgemental 1950’s & 60’s she treated every single one of them the same. And it was no act, she believed in a level playing field and always taught me that no one is better than me, and I am no better than anyone else.

She continually lived in fear of loss however, and when my brother died I think that was the moment we lost her and a part of her broke. She was 79 years old and just started to slowly unravel. I have no evidence of the acceleration of dementia through trauma but it wouldn’t surprise me if there was.

We like to think of motherhood as a soft around the edges, fuzzy feeling, ‘dressing gown and mug of tea’ kind of life. Not a windswept warrior, standing strong in a destitute landscape of hard won battles.

Yet somehow these two stereotypes collide. And we forget that behind every mum staring out of the kitchen window, drinking her tea out of a World’s Best Mum mug and maybe having a cheeky fag - that very often this is a warrior woman who despite it all gets back up every morning and stares down what the world, or their past, throws at them again every day.

So here’s to the mums... every mum has had a journey.