As the mother of triplets, you need that armour plated with steel to at least a depth of 50mm. As an added precaution, twist some barbed wire round it, to let nothing come near.
If you failed to take due stronghold over yourself, you will know, one day, how you needed it, the day you witness the three people you love most in the world beating the crap out of each other and wishing the others were dead and never born. Then watch your unguarded heart ripped out, right there and then, danced upon by the spawn you are now sure were swapped for your own at birth.
Anyway. I don my armour plated heart daily. These days I have to, for the simplest of jobs and the most procedural of tasks.
Like today. Clearing-up-the-house day and shovelling-junk-into-sacks day. I must do this quickly and cleanly with precision timing. Before they catch me.
Truly, with my other concerns, we have run out of deskspace, shelfspace, floorspace, wallspace, airspace. Something must be done.
I embark on this task with all speed, my armour plating intact, my keen eyes seeing that trash, the junk, the piled-high refuse, the result of days spent footling. I must not look with my mind, nor regard what is bin-bound.
But there is always something that stops me, that prises open the chinks in my steel, is there not?
When that happens, when I pause, and see in my mind the sight and touch of child-made, then my brain is addled with soft fondness. All is lost! I must clear a proper space for homage of tiny-made gift of the Tiger child, the home-spun art which tugs at my soul and make me tenderly embrace all that is love.
Damn that baby woolly mammoth.
Bugger. Now I have to live with it until I come to my senses.
