Little Miss Whoops

I always wondered why Mr Bump was my favourite Mr Men character when I was growing up. Now I know. What bloody irony and I can honestly say that I fit the female equivalent, Little Miss Whoops, pretty perfectly.

After numerous falls, some big and many small, two broken front teeth, bruises, scars and bruised ego, I finally realised that I can't fight this anymore. I must learn to live and embrace what I have. The dreaded two words: multiple sclerosis. Or can I...?

I had a massive argument with my mum this evening at dinner. Both of us shouted, cried and shouted some more. My poor dad was stuck in the middle, as always.

Mum and I are two peas in a pod, both stubborn as hell. She asked me why I am in a bad mood all the time, don't listen to her and that we are not close. Out of frustration I simply asked what she had expected when she sent me to boarding school when I was ten and had to grow up quickly and fend for myself all these years and be completely independent. She surely can't expect me to need her now when I hadn't needed her for the last 20 years?

I think this broke her heart. She called me ungrateful. I tried to explain to her that I wasn't ungrateful and that sending me to school in the UK was the best thing they could have done for me. She can't expect me to be her little girl anymore. I had grown up. I am ill and she can't fix that.

But god does she try. She prays to every chinese god possible, cooks me funky chinese food that she thinks may help, fusses over me like there's no tomorrow. She cries at every cut and bruise that I get, but little does she know that her fussing frustrates me, makes me feel useless and needy. And her crying makes me feel doubly worse. Because she can't fix me and I can't fix that. Now I don't tell my parents anything, especially not my mum. And she wonders why we are not close....

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