I have a lot of names.

Dee, Mom, Mum, Mummy, Auntie, Deedles, Dianna, That Loud Bitch, Tex, Canada, CanaDEEan, Caniwi, Her, Steve’s Wife, Steph’s mum, Daniel’s Mum, Adam’s Mum, The Electric Car Lady, The Short One, Big Boobs, That Hippy… and just recently I was reminded I am, and always will be Stinkpot.

My mother has called me by this peculiar name for my whole life, or at least as much of it as I can possibly remember. It was what she called me when I would curl up like a plump little cat in my dress ups in front of the radiator in our small and delicious terraced home in Scotland when I was three. It is what she called me, with tears of joy in her eyes when she told me how proud she was of me after I gave birth to my children. It is what she called me when she’d brush my hair from my forehead when my heart had been broken into pieces by the cruelty of those I wished were my friends. It is also what she called me when I would slink in the door of their rickety house on the corner of Bayley’s Coast Road and Scotty’s Camp Road in Dargaville after I’d burned the candle too hot at both ends for a time and needed to just be someplace quiet.

Me and my mom at our first wedding which we had at their house up in Dargaville, and on Bayley’s Beach.

As anyone who has tuned into this blog, or knows me in real life already knows, my mother has a huge amount to do with raising our kids. She’s an integral part of their lives. She is there for them in a million ways, big and small. From collecting them from the gate every day after school, to watching them for days or weeks at a time while Grumpy and I are off traveling for work or leisure.

Two relaxed, fresh faced and calm Hobbits enjoying High Tea at Alvear Palace in Buenos Aires. Why? Because our parents had the children for three glorious weeks!

My mother and I don’t always see eye to eye. She drives me around the bend and I have every certainty that she often finds me absolutely infuriating. We are very much alike in a lot of the ways that make us clash. We also seem to be lacking accord in some of the more frivolous things in life such as hobbies or foods we both like, that might make us get along a bit more. We shop and travel together. But even when we do, we bicker. I hope she knows how much I Love her, and all her faults and foibles. She wouldn’t drive me quite so nuts if she weren’t one of the most important people in my life through each and every stage of it.

Anyway.

Tonight, I snuck upstairs at around 8:00pm after three tired kids had stopped making a whole lot of noise and racket, and I kissed and cuddled each of them. As I turned walked out of my only daughter’s room, I instinctively said to her: “Goodnight Stinkpot.” as I drew the curtain in her room and turned to leave.

My little Stinkpot. This picture is a couple of years old now…

I’d had a pretty rotten day up until this point. Constant interruptions, reworking spreadsheets that just didn’t stack up, and getting my ass kicked at crib by mother in law… So not a stellar day.

But this last act of parenting the big kids for the night put a big and healing compress on the wounds of the day. All the humdrum and sadness in life is sweetened considerably by the Love and support of my functionally dysfunctional family.

I like being and having a Stinkpot.

Now I sleep. Well, as soon as I finish this $%&*#&! spreadsheet.

Thanks for reading.