When Is Middle Age Anyway?

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I attended a dear friend’s 40 birthday party recently and as we wished her Happy Birthday it was with a mixture of sympathy and commiseration that she had arrived at this milestone. With just three years until I will be making the same big 4-0 birthday plans, I am left with the feeling that hitting our 40s has just crept up on my friends and I and doesn’t really suit us at all.

The trouble is I just don’t feel old enough to be on the wrong side of my 30s. Don’t get me wrong, I’m not trying to ‘get down with the kids’ through talking ‘street’ and dressing like Tulisa. I wear what I think is age appropriate on the hopefully trendy side of ‘Mumsy’ clothing, but can’t get my head around that I am probably considered old by anyone in their 20s now.  This was confirmed to me recently whilst being served in a well-known department store, when the 20 something salesman addressed me as ‘Madam’, I almost shouted ‘do you know that Debbie Harry was my age when Blondie were at the height of their fame! She was lusted after which means that 37 is not old!’. Thankfully I didn’t say this as I thought he might not know who Debbie Harry was for one and maybe I was being a bit paranoid, calling me ‘Madam’ was probably part of his sales training after all. I managed to restrain myself from heading to a builder’s site to see if I was worthy of a wolf whistle in my ageing state, and convinced myself it isn’t that important to me what other people think.

It doesn’t help that as I become use to my dwindling 30s, other celebrities in my age bracket, ‘I’m talking to you Posh Spice!’ are constantly battling their weight, nipping and tucking to the point of looking permanently shocked, whilst saying how much they enjoy getting older, yeah right! My other fave celeb Mum (ahem) Gwyneth said of turning 40, “I feel younger than ever and more energetic”. Hmmm now I am still three years away from 40 and I feel older than ever with pathetic stores of energy levels. I often make the groan noise when I have to squat my knees to reach something under the stairs or will often fall asleep, on the sofa, mid movie when me and hubby settle down for an evening, blaming it ‘on my busy day’. Bet Gwyneth isn’t dribbling on her sofa cushion come 9pm, she’s probably doing sit ups whilst chewing on a lettuce leaf!

I am trying not to be bitter about getting older. I had a debaucherous enough youth to feel like I am able to glide into my older years at a slower pace with more refined nights out. My friends who have already hit the 40 mark have done it looking pretty damn fabulous and still have lots of ambitions to fulfil. One of my best friends is in his late 40s and is not one bit worried about heading to his 50s, but instead is welcoming it with open arms, saying he feels wiser and more relaxed about getting older.

Debbie Harry is still fronting Blondie in her late 60s, even if it is in a mad bag lady style. David Bowie is releasing a new album and he is approaching his 70s and Sir Paul McCartney, well, he really does need to realise that it is time for pipe and slippers and Midsomer Murders on box set.

My inspiration is my 81-year-old Aunt. She is young at heart, strong, resilient, hilarious and always delivers words of wisdom. She is super fit for her age and recently joined a gym ‘to get rid of her bingo wings’. When she filled out the enrolment forms for her personal trainer, she faked her date of birth so that it made her 75 instead as ‘she didn’t want to be treated like an old biddy’. My Aunt is my Mum’s sister, they grew up in a house of women along with my other Aunt and my Nan, my Grandad sadly died shortly after my Mum was born. My Aunts were children during the war, with my Mum being born in 1945, and they grew up having to be strong, resourceful females in a male dominated world. They have remained this way throughout their lives, striving for the best in life for themselves and their families, never complaining, with the reasoning if there is something to moan about then change it!

Age is just a number, we are only as young as we feel, 40 is the new 30, 50 is the new 40, along with all the other clichés we like to chat about in order to reassure ourselves that we are not past it. What I think is as long as I surround myself with my young at heart friends and family, who have a couldn’t care less attitude about getting older, I will hopefully always have a grasp on the fountain of youth. In the meantime, I’m off to watch Springwatch with my cup of cocoa, only 20 minutes before I pass out on the sofa anyway.

I will leave you with a poem that my Great Aunt wrote, another strong inspirational female relative of mine, with her take on life.

THE GOOD OLD DAYS

We met, we married, a long time ago
He worked for long hours and wages were low
No telly, no radio, no bath, times were hard
Just a cold water tap and a walk up the yard
No holidays abroad, no carpets on floors
We  had coal on the fire, we never locked doors
The children arrived, no pill in those days
And we brought them up, without state aid
No valium, no drugs, no LSD
We cured our pains with a good cup of tea
If you were sick, you were treated at once
Not fill in a form and come back in a month
No vandals, no muggings, there was nothing to rob
In fact you were rich with a couple of bob
People were happier in those days
Kinder and caring in some many ways
Milkman and paper boys would whistle and sing
And a night at the flicks was a wonderful thing
We had our share of troubles and strife
But we had to face it, that was life
But now I’m alone and look back through the years
I don’t think of the bad times, the troubles and tears
I remember the blessings, our home and our love
We shared them together and I thank God.

My Neighbouring Set of (Not So) Desperate Housewives

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We live in a heavily populated residential area, about 15 miles from the centre of London, in a charming county few have heard of for the right reasons, Essex.

As a child I grew up in a street very similar to where I live now. My parents, me and my older brother inhabited a semi-detached house with carbon copied houses either side of our road. The area was friendly, close to our school and a few alley way walks to the local park. Our street being situated in this family friendly environment, was full of other families funnily enough and we forged friendships with many of our neighbours. My parents had other couples who they became close friends with and whom we would visit on a Saturday night and be allowed to stay up late while they ate fondue and drank Baby Cham (I was born in the 70s!). Our next door but one neighbour was my Mum’s best friend and I later married her son, not sure if it counts as bigamy actually and should tell my current hubby about it really. I’m sure the marriage could be annulled as we were 6 at the time and my cat played the part of the vicar along with my Sindy dolls as witnesses. Along with my first husband, we had a gang of kids that me and my big bro hung out with down our street, as long as we stayed on our side of the road and didn’t go past No. 21 that is. We met up constantly at weekends and school holidays, with us girls practising our roller skating stunts to the sounds of 5 Star while the boys pulled the legs of daddy-long-legs and chased us with them. There were many happy days in the six week holidays spent around each others houses as the only way our parents could often socialise was to take us with them.

Now I’m a grown up and find myself in a very similar situation. We have the fortune of having met a number of other couples in our street that we not only have the common factor of young children with, but also the appreciation of wine as well. The women of the group I now count as close of friends of mine and we are not only on hand to help cover each others kids/dogs but also to pop in to borrow an onion or an extension lead when desperate. Having spent a few drunken nights in each others company and then having to witness each others hangovers the next morning while pegging out the washing or loading the car up, has meant we have become very comfortable in our warts and all friendships.

However, not every neighbour is the type of person you would cut a spare key for and I have plenty that I would happily swerve a conversation with or rather not take a package in for. Don’t get me wrong, I can’t say I have the likes of Fred and Rose West nearby (as far as I can tell) but there are a few unusual characters too close for comfort. We have an agoraphobic who lives opposite who never leaves the house and only makes herself visible when the pizza/Tesco delivery arrives when a vision of Demis Roussos answers the door and then scurries back inside. Another neighbour on the other side of my road has a forecourt front garden with his and hers flash sports cars, along with landscaped gardens complete with hot tub, yet on a monthly basis the lady of the house and her partner will get drunk, shout at each other in the street and one will fly off in one of their cars returning the next day as if nothing has happened. A few doors from us we had neighbours who recently moved out whose party trick was to have BBQ’s late at night in all weathers while their teenage son revved his scooter in the back garden or drove it full pelt up the service road at the back of our house. My hubby decided to knock at their door to complain one day after we were fed up with our washing being covered in diesel fumes and our twins (then babies) suffering from a constantly disturbed nap time.  The Mother of the scooter deviant answered the door and then suggested hubby talk some sense into her son as she had given up!

You eventually learn to live amongst the stranger neighbours when there is a balance of nicer ones as well. Me and my other three neighbouring friends now talk about the goings on in the street by always starting the sentence with, ‘the other day when I was folding my washing’ as if our bout of snooping was unintentional, which of course it is!

Unlike the many soap operas on television, our neighbour friends are unlikely to bury each other under the patio or sabotage each others relationships, but we can count on each other for help or a natter between deadlines, school runs and dinner preparations. When hubby is working a late or night shift, at least once a month, me and my neighbouring friends will try to have a girls night in at mine, which has now become a necessary part of our schedules. It will often involve a bitch about the other neighbours, but it is also a chance to offload about our problems and concerns and receive an unbiased piece of advice in return. It seems that Ramsey Street had it right after all, sing along if you can “…It’s when good neighbours become good friends….”

Is It Really Their Swan Song?

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I can confess that I’m not a JLS fan, mainly because I’m not 13 and also I consider myself to be a bit old to be a boy band fan. But when I passed the newspaper stand the other day I was stunned to read ‘R.I.P JLS’ on the front of a tabloid! Had there been some awful accident? Had the foursome carried out some sort of boy band suicide pact? I quickly scanned the article, “fans traumatised….help line has been set up….they have decided to concentrate on their solo projects…” Oh, the band have split up, panic over!

 
Illustration by Faye Brocklebank

Illustration by Faye Brocklebank

JLS apparently stands for ‘Jack the Lad Swing’ to represent the genre of music they produce, which sounds a bit invented to me. Still, it is an improvement on their original name UFO (Unique Famous Outrageous) which thankfully was dropped in the X Factor process or they would have sounded more like a Drag Queen act!

I don’t wish to be mean to JLS, they seem like a smiley bunch of lads that can carry a tune and have given us memorable lyrics such as “If I die, would you come to my funeral, would you cry?”. I’m sure they are very nice boys who treat their Mothers’ well, I’m just having a whinge about the whole emotional break-up/reunion thing that pop bands are so good at these days.  JLS have split up after just 5 years together (helpline really?) and their main reason for the split was ‘to go out on a high’. But are they really going anywhere when they have a farewell tour and greatest hits album to do first? I can’t recall anyone splitting up from their partner to then go on a farewell backpacking holiday together.

After JLS have dragged out the last bit of their fame to say goodbye to their fickle fans they said that they will be concentrating on their ‘solo projects’ which will be down the route of acting, producing, with one member planning on becoming a farmer. But is it inevitable that they will end up on the line-up of Never Mind the Buzzcocks in a few years time? Perhaps Aston can return to the kids programme the Fun Song Factory? I have kids Aston, I saw you sing Polly Put The Kettle On weekly in our house. Not so Jack the Lad Swing then eh?

I don’t mean to single them out though and I wish them every success in their future careers. It’s just the regurgitation of pop bands returning from the past which makes the tears of the band splitting up so hard to believe. Kerry ‘flog a dead horse’ Katona is currently finding a new way to appear on TV with the seriously addictive Big Reunion programme, reuniting Atomic Kitten along with other forgotten gems from the 90s. I watched it obsessively, for a bit of nostalgia but mainly as many of them are in my age group and I could compare how we had all fared over the years. I thought Ms Katona would provide the biggest source of entertainment but when the “fight like my Da” girls from Bewitched started ripping into each other I couldn’t tear myself away. As the Spice Girls/Take That demonstrated, pop bands do tend to detest each other after a few years of relentless touring and photo shoots and a reunion is often filled with grimaced smiles and veiled insults until they have earnt enough money to disappear back into obscurity.

When should a band reunion be a bad idea though? Are Mick Jagger and Paul McCartney a long time retired? A few years ago hubby and I went to see one of our favourite bands, The Red Hot Chili Peppers, in Hyde Park. Their support act was James Brown, the Godfather of Soul himself. I was quite intrigued to see him in concert, he is a legend after all but we were concerned at his advanced age and how he would handle it. When his infamous song ‘I Feel Good’ started up, his huge backing band and entourage of singers took the weight of the song leaving JB to mumble ‘Yeah’ continuously over the microphone. Back in his heyday, JB used to have a gimmick where he would pretend to collapse in exhaustion, a member of his crew would put a cape around his shoulder to ‘help him off stage’ and JB would throw the cape off in a ‘ta-dah I’m alright really’ kind of way. At this concert, JB (we think) pretended to collapse, the crew member put the cape around his shoulders and just led him off stage, unfortunately there was no ‘ta-dah’ moment and after a long segment of the instrumental version of ‘I Feel Good’, he stumbled back out to rapturous applause, the crowd thankful that they hadn’t just witnessed something awful. Am I glad I saw him perform? Yes. Did I enjoy it? Not really as it was all a bit worrying.

Time for my pot kettle black admission now. Me and hubby are off to see Adam Ant in concert in a few weeks  time, a birthday present from me to hubby. I have seem him on Jools Holland recently and he is in good voice, however, his eyesight has deteriorated so much he  has to wear glasses. And for some reason he wears glasses normally referred to as ‘NHS glasses’ alongside his trademark Piratey regalia. Will he be as virile as his younger self was or will his ‘Dandy Highwayman’ be less ‘Stand and Deliver’ and more ‘Sit down and have a think about it?’. I will let you know.

We’ll Keep a Welcome in the Hillside

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I apologise for neglecting my blog for the last two weeks, this is mainly due to the surge of activities brought on with the Half Term hols, but also because we have been on holiday in Wales. Me, hubby and the kids, along with my parents, decided to holiday in this pleasant land as we really like the country and because we have friends that moved there and we haven’t seem them in years.

Now we have a dog I set about searching for dog friendly accommodation and along with our not so Spring like weather, find one which had a capable heating system and preferably a woodburner! We found a idyllic holding of four converted barns on a plot in West Wales, this meant we had the use of two cottages side by side and plenty of surrounding fields fit for our dog. The holiday was booked and as usual my packing was left to the last minute as I desperately tried to dry out clothes on the radiators an hour before leaving and debated whether to pack clothes I haven’t worn in years just because ‘I might get a chance to this week’.

After we crammed our car and my Dad’s car full of all weather clobber we set off on the 5 hour journey to our holiday home. It soon materialised that achieving it in 5 hours was a little ambitious with three children with seemingly weak bladders and a car sick dog (who knew). Still I always find Service Stations an interesting experience and if I ever get round to writing my book I will definitely scour them for characters as you see all walks of life in them.

It's lovely isn't it?

It’s lovely isn’t it?

The cottages were lovely and apart from an bit of an overbearing landlord who lived next door, we settled in quickly. The countryside was stunning, the empty beach was nearby and our days were filled with outdoorsy activities without me having to nag the kids to ‘get some fresh air’ as they willingly wanted to explore. It was a shock to my system though and a realisation that either I live in a very polluted place or find it hard to relax, as while I was on this holiday I seemed to contract Narcolepsy. Of an evening I felt compelled to check to see if someone was crouched in the corner of my bedroom shooting tranquiliser darts in my direction, as no sooner had my head hit the pillow I was out cold. Thankfully this was also the case for the kids after their active days we had undisturbed nights.

All weather beach days

All weather beach days

The nicest thing about our week away was seeing the children so happy. With zero Wifi connection and useless mobile reception my eldest was on Bin Weevils cold turkey for the week. At first he struggled with the lack of computer time but as his addiction slowly waned he rediscovered simple pleasures alongside his siblings. We hit the beach in many layers to play hide and seek in the sand dunes or go crabbing and eat ice-creams even though I was unable to feel the tips of my fingers without gloves on. We went for long country walks feeling like the dwarves from The Hobbit as we stumbled across waterfalls and spotted wild seals and dolphins as we scrambled across rocks. My youngest son was a miniature Bear Grylls as I constantly removed him from trees and begged him to stop doing ‘wild wees’ as it became the only way he wanted to go in the end.

As the week drew to a close, we were all disappointed to be leaving to go home. I haven’t slept nearly as well since coming back, the kids are back to begging for more TV and computer time and I have a mountain of washing to deal with. But none of us are pining as much for our holiday home as our dog Chester. As a energetic 1 year old Labrador he flourished with the ability to roam our surrounding fields to his hearts content. He developed a love of sheep that was weirdly touching at times and he was introduced to ice-cream. Since we have returned, he walks around our garden and looks at me as if to say ‘Is this it?’. As we all slip back into our former routines I swear he looks longingly out of the window wishing he was back there. I will leave you with his personal highlights.

Holiday Romance

My Holiday Romance

I have never seen waterfalls in Essex

I have never seen waterfalls in Essex

Best Holiday Ever!

Best Holiday Ever!

The Weather Outside Is Frightful

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Not so typical Spring weather....

Not so typical Spring weather….

With Easter just a few days away it felt a little odd to be digging out the children’s snowboots yesterday as our local temperature plummeted to Arctic. Their school was closed for the day due to a broken boiler and rather than thinking about readying our garden for an egg hunt next weekend, I was considering resurrecting the sledges instead. This end of the world weather is starting to depress the nation and you can’t help but wonder if Spring will be cancelled this year. With every day that continues to bring us a sleet/rain/snow combination, I find myself worrying unnecessarily about the health and safety of daffodils and trees, they are really trying to strut their stuff but instead are being battered by our freakish weather system.

Kamikaze Daffodils!

Kamikaze Daffodils!

While I waited in line in the shops today, I overheard two ladies discussing the usual British topic of weather. One said, “This weather is ridiculous isn’t it?” Her friend replied, “They say it’s going to get worse and to expect more snow. When will they give us some good news?”. What I wanted to ask them is, who are ‘they’? Who are these people you refer to? The weather experts, the Government, the FBI? We are all happy to put the blame on ‘them’ but who should get the blame?

Even when you watch the weather forecasters on television, they seem fed up at work as they deliver weather reports with a raised eyebrow and a shake of their head in a ‘what are we like?’ type expression. I particularly like when they try to shirk the blame by stressing that we were expecting a good weather weekend, but now there is a cold front heading over from Siberia, it must be the Russians fault. Or the reason that our Summer’s are so wet is due to a pesky ’misplaced jet stream’ sitting over the UK, if it wasn’t for that then we would be basking in the heat. Long range forecasts for Summer this year believe that we can expect flash floods in June, heatwaves in August and perhaps a swarm of locusts at some point?

The week ahead looks bleak.

The week ahead looks bleak.

I often worry that it is all down to climate change, that perhaps we are destroying our planet so quickly with our carbon emissions, that by melting the Arctic we are causing this freakish weather? Were the summers of our childhood so much better than they are now or are we just better at moaning about it now we’re older? I try to do my best by the planet, we recycle obsessively, try not to use unnecessary electricity and educate my children about the importance of being eco-friendly. However, when so much of the world doesn’t bother and with places like Las Vegas blaring electricity 24/7, it leaves you feeling like you could be turning up to an earthquake disaster with a dustbuster!

Whatever is the cause of this weird weather system, be it our planet evolving, our forecasters passing the buck or a one-off bad start to the year, if our weather was to suddenly straighten out what would the British public talk about? We can only hope things turn around, in the meantime I am about to wrap myself up in fifteen layers to see my children’s ‘Spring concert’ in their school with the dodgy heating! Happy Easter everyone!

Our House In The Middle Of Our Street

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My hubby’s job involves working odd hours. He works on a rota of shifts ranging from working an early shift which is up at 5am and home by 5pm. A late shift where he leaves home at lunchtime and is back by midnight. And the shift I dread the most, nights, leaving home at 8pm and arriving home in time for breakfast and with sleep on his mind. Unfortunately, the kids and our dog don’t really understand the ‘Daddy needs to sleep’ concept and it is a constant battle when nights fall on a weekend, for me to achieve a quiet house. Our children are really adept at the loud whisper or managing to ‘talk quietly’ but then decide to start up a really noisy toy, causing the dog to bark and for them to shout. However, the saving grace is that a week of nights normally follow with a week off work for my hubby. This is obviously a good thing as hubby will willingly walk the dog and do the school run, allowing me time to catch up with my work. Unfortunately it also means that he will feel that the week needs to involve some sort of project that often turns the house upside down. I don’t want to appear ungrateful as I know I will benefit from it in the long run, but it’s just the chaos in the interim that is hard to handle.

My living room

My living room

I am thankful of his hard work, he could spend his week off doing nothing but I suppose part of me feels guilty at how much he achieves in his short space of time compared to my often neglected household chores. The minute he picks up a paintbrush, I feel I ought to be simultaneously cleaning out my kitchen cupboards stating that it’s ‘kitchen cupboard Tuesday’, demonstrating how diligently I keep the house clean. In reality, housework involves just about covering the basics of hoovering, dusting and an occasional mopping of the kitchen floor. This is through lack of time and impulse and I constantly promise to ‘give this house a good clean’ on a regular basis.

I suppose hubby’s enthusiasm to get things done also reminds me of how pretty useless I am on the decorating front. I could paint a wall sure and probably hang a bit of wallpaper at a push but any maintenance issues are firmly left to him leaving me feeling like a bit of a 50s housewife. There was a dripping noise coming from our conservatory yesterday, when hubby asked me how long it had been occurring I had assumed it was just normal considering the rainfall and had been happily ignorant of it. Apparently it was not normal and needed fixing! I can happily embark on writing an article where I have to research all manner of subjects not necessarily of interest to me. But ask me to prepare a room for decorating by having to sand it or scrape wallpaper off the walls and my heart sinks. The ironic thing is and my hubby would be happy to point this out, is that the living room project that is in full throttle this week was pretty much my idea. I was lured by the perfect show rooms of Ikea and the promise of bookcases and french dressers in my living room. I had envisioned how my living room could resemble a grown up space and not an extra toy room for the children, which is how it has been for the last 9 years. We recently built a conservatory which meant a new dumping ground for the kids to use, so I figured it was time to reclaim our living room. I just forget about the upheaval it causes getting to the point of finished.

So, I will try to paste on my air hostess smile as I squeeze between living room furniture that is currently housed in our hallway and kitchen. I will continue to be tea lady for my hardworking hubby who is hopefully going to finish the job he starts before moving on to another. And I will think of the end result to help me along the way and try not to mind the squat that my living room currently resembles. Patience is a virtue after all.

Dedicated to my Mum

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Dear Mum,

As it’s Mothers Day I have decided to dedicate my blog to you. And it’s not because I’ve forgotten your present and this is a free alternative, but instead a little extra treat – I hope! When I thought about what I would write today, I felt a bit overwhelmed at how much our relationship has evolved over the years. As my Mum you are my teacher, my counsellor, my friend, my confidante and my shoulder to cry on. We share a sadistic sense of humour and both have the ability to laugh to the point where no sound comes out. You and I can cry at the silliest things and once one of us starts it is impossible for the other one to stay dry-eyed.

You were a stay-at-home Mum who juggled jobs so not to disrupt me and big bro’s upbringing. You must have had enviable calves as a young Mum as you walked us on 4 school runs so we could come home for lunch. I remember being in junior school and coming home for a bowl of Scoth Broth and a 20 minute Sullivan’s episode before we went back in for the afternoon. You provided everything we needed for school and happily ferried me to brownies, swimming and ballet. And even though the family budget was on a shoestring it never felt like we went without, though I’m sure both you and Dad did. Our annual holidays hold fond memories, travelling by train before we had a car was such an adventure for my young mind even though poor Dad was our pack-horse for the journey with all the luggage. Then we had our beloved Morris Marina, allowing us the space to cram in all our things, me driving big bro mad as I complained of feeling car sick as you entertained us all the way. Whenever I hear Billy Joel I am instantly transported back to car journeys to one of our coastal retreats. Our holidays consisted of simple pleasures, silly walks in the dusk along the beach, hot chocolate and word games, Dad dragging us along in the sea for what seemed like hours in our inflatable dinghy.

As a child you taught me to strive for what I wanted in life. You despaired of me in my sometimes volatile teenage years when I was, admittedly, a little wayward at times. But I always had huge respect for you and knew your advice was right, even if my teenage hormone induced stubbornness didn’t allow me to voice it. I remember writing you many letters of apology whenever we argued as I hated the thought of upsetting you, but as a pig-headed 15-year-old, didn’t want to say sorry out loud. As I stumbled briefly, unsure of where my future lay, instead of lecturing me you took me to the bustling streets of London during lunchtime and gently nudged my attention in the way in which I should go. You never let me think I couldn’t achieve what I wanted in life, you have always told me to aim that little bit higher and it has been advice that I have lived by. My amazing career would not have happened without your encouragement along the way. You have taught me to never be prejudiced or narrow-minded in life. When I upped sticks at 21 to move to Brighton with two dear friends of mine, who happened to be gay men, you not only accepted it but you and Dad came to Gay Pride with us!

Throughout family illnesses you have never faltered, when times were tough you always managed to put a brave face on so that we could feel OK about everything. I knew that I could ask for your help with anything and you would find a way to make it OK. You are the most mild-mannered, polite and dignified lady but I’ve seen you berate teachers and doctors who have let me and my big bro down. When I became a Mum to my eldest son you were a patient adviser but allowed me to find my own way of parenting without ever patronising. When the twins came along and I already had a 3-year-old in tow and a husband on shifts, the cards were pretty much stacked against me. When I began to resemble a corpse on a regular basis, finding it hard to keep my head above water, you dropped everything to come over and help which included your job in the end. We would juggle my babies and my toddler, attending playgroup’s, going for picnics, disrupting once quiet coffee shops for an outing. We made camps in the living room, had craft days and whenever we had nursery rhymes playing we would always exchange knowing amused glances when we heard ’here we go loopy loo’ as it was tantamount to how we felt most days.

Now my children are all at school and you and Dad both retired I don’t see you as much. We still speak every day and you are still a pillar of support with the kids. But I do think fondly of afternoons when I had dropped my eldest at pre school, we managed to get the twins down for a nap and we would have that 1 hour of respite to collapse in a heap, chat, laugh and promise ‘to get up in a minute to sort out the mess’.

When I became a Mum I changed so much as a person. My life had a different perspective, my nature was a lot less selfish as I dedicated my whole time to my offspring. It is easy to forget the person you once were and I think we as children forget that our Mums were people too. I have lent on you for so much in my life and it took me a while to realise that you were a young woman once with dreams and ambitions and experiences of your own and not put on this earth just to care for me and my big bro. You will always be our caregiver and role model as it is a role that you want to provide and which we need you to be. But most importantly above all else, I am proudest to call you my friend. I love you Mum. Happy Mothers Day. XX