Coming Clean: Confessions of an Untidy Mother

The times are a changing. We have laughed in the face of Brexit fear and made the rather rash decision to put our home on the market. “So what?” I hear you cry. “Who cares? You are not the first to do this and you won’t be the last. What is the big deal?” 

We are “live”

The “big deal” my friends is that we currently have nowhere to go. The "big deal” kind reader is that we have two small children. The “big deal” loyal souls is that we are not, by nature, very tidy as a family. In that respect I fear we fall very short of everyone else’s mark. I placate my anxious self with reassurances of “it’s not like we are unhygienic” and “we do have two small children to look after” but in reality I fear that my husband and I will still be resolutely untidy until the day we shuffle off this mortal coil.

Now I know that Husband will be reading this with a resolute shake of his head while inwardly exclaiming that he does all of the laundry and that every so often he does set aside a time to do an overhaul of the homestead and I will admit that he is marginally more intuitive of the jobs that are required before the situation becomes desperate but, and believe me there is a “but”, he piles. He piles everything and that pile will become part of the furniture; gradually moulding itself into the contours of the room. 

He, too, embraces the chaos 

I, on the other hand, am blind to the gradual deterioration but merely wake one day to the realisation that I appear to live in a squat; the surfaces are no longer visible and my children are down to their last set of pyjamas. I then get to action (following a dramatic and self loathing outburst) and afterwards, thinking I have done a fairly good job, smugly flaunt my handiwork to my mother who will inevitably rectify the situation to a much higher standard. Tidiness is just not in my nature and, unfortunately for her, she is used to it.

In fact, my husband is the only person who has actually learned to cope with my mess and I genuinely believe that is because, as with most things, in this we are equals. All flat mates (even those who were, and are to this day, counted amongst my best friends) ran for the hills after a few months of living with me. It’s not that I don’t care about my belongings (although I wouldn’t consider myself to be materialistic) but I just don’t seem to notice their erratic dispersal about our abode. If it were left to me laundry would be done on the basis of immediate requirement rather than a need to see the bottom of the basket, ironing would be saved for essential work items and the windows would be washed when it is starting to look unseasonably foggy in June. 

“What is this Mummy?”

I’ve attempted to rectify the situation and even had my fair share of cleaners but they all seemed to do a great job on day one before making a half hearted effort thereafter. This was probably my own fault as I didn’t really know what to ask them to do and, in all honesty, I was pretty uncomfortable asking them to do anything. The foray into professional help was short lived.

When the kids came along we just embraced it and put it down to tiredness, infant paraphernalia, toddler toys and the short attention span of children when it came to activities. We would spend the vast majority of the weekend outdoors and would rarely invite anyone into our house preferring to socialise at parks, cafes and other people’s homes. It wasn’t that we had dirty plates or soiled clothes lying around but the whole place appeared chaotic not just because of the “laundry couch”. There would be the odd occasion where we would have people round and remedial actions would be taken but descended into its previous state. 

Note the “laundry couch” in the background

At the tail end of last year we decided to sell our house. It wasn’t because of the mess, I mean, we’re not that bad. It just felt like the right time (ignoring Brexit, the ever present threat of a second independence referendum, job changes and night time potty training). We tidied, painted, scrubbed and put two car loads worth of belongings into storage and then, basking in our efforts, we invited the estate agent in and showed her around with unashamed pride. 

"Well you would need to declutter obviously...” Just brutal.

I see clutter, they see joy.

We are not ones to ignore advice though and two further car loads (including some unopened 5th birthday presents) were packaged off to the lock up. We were “live” in estate agent speak, “on the market” in anyone else’s. Viewings were coming thick and fast which meant that we had to diligent in maintaining the tidy state. Our drawers were fit to burst and we could find nothing but our house reflected a serenity that we could only dream of. It was exhausting. The children were routinely being hollered after to “hang that up!”, “that’s not where that lives!” and “we are trying to keep this place tidy!” It was fun for all the family but the only thing is, if we can’t pick up after ourselves how we can expect them to?

You can always try...

Get Back Up Again: When Parenthood Doesn't Go To Plan

Now I know I said I was going away for a while and you may be thinking that that initial declaration was somewhat insincere being that I am now here again a mere two weeks later but, much like an aged rocker answering the call to play his greatest hits, I am back but this time on request from one of my favourite people on the planet. You see, as a family we have been dealt a rather cruel hand of late and whilst the details of this particular person's predicament are not mine to tell they have occupied my thoughts and tainted my daily experiences to such a degree that my tales of merely surviving parenthood seemed to fade into a banal triviality. There seemed little point and an overriding sense of self indulgence in sitting down to write about my toddler's unwillingness to reunite his poo with its long lost family who reside in the sewars of Edinburgh (we'll get to that) when I could have been spending my time worrying (with its proven innate protective powers), consoling, falsely reassuring or researching the many methods in which to restore this person to her previous salubrity.

Superhero he may be... 

However, this weekend I took an enforced leave (by my husband) from parenting my own children and went to see her hoping to assuage my own concerns and dole out some intense, medicinal hugs. We talked, we laughed (probably harder than our pelvic floors were prepared for), we ate (a lot of superfood based meals) and we identified at least sixty two examples of her three month old's intellectual prowess. Parental leave well spent.

Time spent squeezing babies is always time well spent

Now whilst I cannot begin to compare any experience that we may have had as parents to what she is currently going through there are elements of her current situation which bring rather unsettling memories to the fore.

Feeling Short Changed by Life

When we learned of the complications of our first pregnancy and the ensuing differences that my daughter was going to have to live with for the rest of her life, I distinctly remember feeling like we were incredibly hard done by. We had done everything right. We had waited for (almost) the right time financially, we had been living a healthy lifestyle at the time of conception (although maybe not by Gwyneth Paltrow's standards) and we had a strong track record of robust health on our side. 

Complications in pregnancy were minimal in the family tree and there was certainly nothing beyond the point of getting those two pesky precursors to unite so with that first blue line in the all important window there was part of me that felt we were home free.

So when it all began to unravel I felt cheated. I felt angry. I felt like we were undeserving of such a cruel turn of events. Why us? What had we ever done to deserve this?

The harsh truth of the matter is nothing. We had done nothing wrong. It wasn't right, it wasn't fair and we definitely didn't deserve it but life doesn't dole out your allotment based on what is right or what is fair. As it turned out, we were merely asking the wrong question of the universe. Rather than asking why it was us we should have been asking why not us?

Everything Will Be Alright

The Lost Maternity Leave

After my daughter hurled herself from the womb two weeks early, undersized and brandishing her nine fingers and ten toes in our general direction we were immediately treated differently. We were whisked into a side room and striked from the list of routine post delivery checks to be performed by the junior doctor and etched onto the much shorter list for the consultant paediatrician to perform where the assessment would be carried out in the most painstaking and methodical manner.

All the plans for baby classes and mummy groups were instantly discarded and replaced with doctors appointments and dates with scanners. Development milestones loomed in the distance with an aching desperation, not for her to excel but for her to merely attain within an acceptable window of time. Baby clothes were not purchased based on their aesthetics (except by my mother) but for their ability to provide easy access to her various bandages and equipment. Sleep was lost, not solely based on her partiality for nocturnal activities but due to the terrorising worries that would pervade my mind in the small hours of the morning.

It was only when the date for my return to work appeared on the calendar that I realised my maternity leave had ended before it had even begun.

Back to Work 

The Cruelty of Genetic Testing

When the first mutterings were made that there may be a possible genetic cause for my daughter's differences, we were struck dumb. To learn that the essence of your being, the part of you that made you who you are before you were even a person, may have been predestined to sabotage you and those you love in one of the worst ways imaginable is a horror that I would not inflict on my worst enemy.

Although we learned (when our daughter was 3 months old) that there was no obvious genetic cause for her individual handprint the intervening period was quite possibly the greatest test our marriage will ever have. My husband and I recently discussed this time in our lives and found our experiences to have been significantly different. Where a positive (in the worst way possible) result would likely lead to our daughter either having profoundly increased needs or a dramatically shortened lifespan my husband envisioned us remaining a stoical family of three; standing strong together and enjoying the time that we had to the best of our ability. In stark contrast, I couldn't envision how we could possibly stay together in the knowledge that our genetic make up had come together to punish our daughter in such a cruel fashion. What would we do if it happened, albeit accidentally, again? 

I can honestly say that I have always loved my husband but I seriously contemplated divorce at this juncture. I don't think either of us was right or wrong and neither of us are more invested in this marriage than they other it was just an instinctive reaction to an unprecedented turn of events.

Hey ho, it was negative. So married we stay.

Marriage: The Ultimate Test

The Test of Friendship

No one should ever feel tested as a friend but unfortunately there are occasions in life when friendships will be truly tested and, hopefully, forever cemented by the shared experience of something truly awful happening to one party and I choose to find something rather heartwarming in this. When the worst happens the nature of the human condition is to expose their true self and act on their gut instinct. People either prove themselves to be the best of friends, surprise you with a devotion that you didn't know they felt or leave you feeling a little disappointed in their lack of understanding or empathy.

Sometimes the worst times of our lives bring out the best people we never truly knew we had and whilst I would never chose to have gone through what we did I do appreciate everyone who helped us on the way.

Every cloud and all that

You Win Again: The Battle for the Third Baby

I appear to be surrounded. I am not exactly sure when it started but I am aware of it now. Everywhere I turn, there they lurk. I cannot seem to escape them. I am talking about pregnant women but not just any pregnant women, I am talking about the ones who are “going again”. 

I see them absent mindedly rubbing their swollen midriffs whilst gazing lovingly at the animated toddler who pulls excitedly at their hand while they wait for the lights to change at the crossing. I hear them chatting to the other mothers about how they don’t know what came over them; about how they just don’t know what they were thinking; about how their families had just not felt complete before laughing about how they are planning to march their other halves straight to the vasectomy clinic after this one comes along.

I don’t believe them. I mean I wouldn’t feel confident enough in their deceit to suggest that any male reader should put his knapsack on the line by playing the double bluff but I believe that they are sticking to “the plan”. "The plan" would have been formulated in their childhood, likely long before they ever met their significant others and probably influenced by their own number of siblings, whether positively or negatively and potentially by the number of siblings whom they actually like.* Sometimes another one is just one too far.

I myself was one of 3.
"Best till last" sort of situation.

It's no secret that, were the circumstances different, I would go again in a heartbeat. Husband, on the other hand, believes that I recall the entire pregnancy business through rose tinted glasses and am merely a slave the basic human instinct to want what I cannot have but then he is always fun like that. We see the prospect of another child entirely differently and on further probing (of the questioning variety) here is where I think we differ:

Me: If I were to be pregnant again I would know that this would be the last time so I would cherish every single moment. I would delight in the warm fuzzy glow that I would undoubtedly feel on seeing the glimmer of a blue line on the first positive pregnancy test, incredulous that it has actually happened to me. I would be reassured by the waves of nausea overwhelming me in the first trimester, safe in the knowledge that this is just a sign that the pregnancy was progressing as it should. I would wonder at my body's transformation as my tummy swells and my flat chest blooms in answer to its call to action; one final time into the fray dear friends. I would lovingly caress the bump; charting its movements and marvelling at how it manages to express its personality from within the confines of my womb.

I would not miss the things that I could not have or could not do. The soft cheeses, rare meat, wine and exercise would merely be things to look forward to in nine months’ time. They would wait. After all, it’s not forever. Just this one last time.

"That" feeling comes second only to meeting the baby.

Him: If you were to be pregnant again it would be a bloody nightmare. Sure, we would be delighted at the prospect of another child to add to the brood and that feeling would last approximately 24 seconds before you started reeling off the number of things that could possibly go wrong. Your face would go that green way whenever I suggested anything beyond toast for dinner and you would have to instigate “lying down games” with the other two who would politely ignore your requests not to be used as a climbing frame. When the activity and nausea took their combined effect the current offspring would then follow you to the toilet, refusing to allow you to hurl your guts up in the privacy of a locked bathroom, viewing it to be something of a spectators sport.

Then the “thickening” would start. You remember don’t you? Just before you actually look pregnant but you just lose the definition around the waist and you feel bloated and spotty. You'll tell me how "fat" you feel and remind me about the lecturer who described a human foetus as "the most efficient parasite known to man". You will shoot daggers at me when I mention exercise in which I may have partaken and want to discuss, at length, the statistical chance of actually infecting the unborn with Listeria from ingesting any of the foods on the NHS naughty list before deciding that you would never forgive yourself if you did and would therefore go without. You will then get annoyed with me for eating or imbibing anything on the pregnancy blacklist before muttering something about “solidarity” under your breath.

You will blossom, that is for sure and you will look great but you will not believe me when I tell you. You will, however, believe every non-medically trained stranger who tells you that your bump is “big” or “small” setting off a cascade of worry about how there is something wrong with the baby and demand that I check the size of your bump with a measuring tape from our non-existent sewing kit. But yes, "magical" is how I would describe it too.

So he may have a point(s) but they are still really cute.

Who wouldn't be tempted?!

*I do realise that not everyone bases their number of children on their own family and some base their decisions on far more practical things like cars, holidays, risk of multiples, houses, ability to cope with vTech for another 3years etc.

Stand By Me: The Art of Staying Married with Children

Today I saw one of my favourite sights in the world. It is a sight that makes my heart sing like a toddler channelling Elsa. It is a sight that makes me realise, even in the darkest times, that the world is not such a bad place. It is a sight that, one day, I hope to be able to re-enact. Today I saw two elderly people holding hands, and when I say elderly, I truly mean old. This couple were less spring chicken and more wise old owl, they had spent less of their life with Google and more with encyclopedias, and their gait was less strident and more shuffling in form but they were beautiful. They were still strong and independent and their hand holding visibly affectionate rather than based in a need for physical support. 

6 years and counting....

Now, I am usually a cynic and I realise that this pair of octogenarians may have only been together for the past two years having endured bitter divorces battled out in court or cruel, untimely bereavements which left them seeking solace in one another. Perhaps, as they walked the streets of Edinburgh, they were amidst a torrid love affair fuelled by a cocktail of Irish coffees and Viagra, downed while their better halves were distracted having devoted themselves to more charitable activities. Perhaps this was the case, however, I am choosing to believe that they had shared their entire adult lives together. I am choosing to believe that life had neither been exceptionally cruel nor unusually kind to them but having set their caps at one another they had chosen to stick together; they had chosen to recognise the value of what they had invested in one another.

39 years and counting...

So today Husband, I ask you to wait. Wait for the day when my hands are free to be held; when they are not so busy wiping streaming noses and wriggly bottoms. Wait for the time when my hands are not constantly engaged in the intricate princess tea parties and trainset assembly. Wait for the day when my arms are not consistently wrapped around a small person who is inconsolable with rage or fear and wait for the day when my body is no longer a climbing frame; a safe house or a buffet station. Just wait.

For I too am biding my time. I wait for the day when our home is flourished with nice things and is no longer a shrine to the Gods of vibrantly coloured plastics. I long for when we spend our time together, not apart, even doing the banal administrative tasks of adult life and not constantly having to pass the relay baton of parenting so that we can go to the bank, do a supermarket run or get a much needed haircut. I want for the day when we argue over things other than who is better placed to pick up the childcare slack when nursery falls through or who is bearing more of the weight of responsibility for earning the money for nappies, formula and education.

45ish years and counting (actual years rarely disclosed)...

I want us to travel; climb hills and scale mountains. I want us to socialise together, not apart. I want us to run a marathon in a place we have never been. I want us to go on dates and kiss like teenagers again. I want to see you for you and not just the amazing dad you are.

But right now, I am relishing every moment. I am treasuring each clammy hand wrapped around my neck or placed in mine without request. I am cherishing each inconsequential toddler secret that is uttered in my ear and for which I am sworn to absolute secrecy. I am savouring every first be it step, word or school day but most of all my love, I am delighting in sharing it with you.

59 years...

For one day we too shall be old and we will likely have travelled to those exotic locations, scaled the numerous mountains and spent evenings and weekends with friends old and new but as we walk the streets I know we shall be discussing our two greatest achievements and everything they have brought to our life together. That day, my love, we too shall hold hands. 

Unless I have said something rude (then our bellies will "shake with laughter, and we shall live happily ever after")

Parallel Lives: How the Other Half Live Child Free

Now I am not one who enjoys comparing themselves to others; I tend to find that I am never clever enough, funny enough, pretty enough, slim enough, fit enough or kind enough. However, this weekend I have retreated to the in laws for the Easter break where we are in the company of my husband's twin and her husband and I find myself searching my pockets for my yard stick once again and plotting our differences against one another. Now these differences are not in relation to our personal qualities (because obviously we are both equally as kind, beautiful and clever) but our experiences of similar events over the weekend.

Parallel Lives

1. The journey

My sister in law messaged the family WhatsApp group to inform the family of their arrival time, including elucidatory details of their planned journey. These tantalising nuggets included "the quiet coach", "M&S picnic" and "watching MasterChef en route". 

Meanwhile, I was wrangling with a 2 year old who refused to sleep despite the late hour and degree of exhaustion (loosely translated from his anguished screams of "I NO LIKE!!"). Attempts to ease him into the realm of unconsciousness whilst my husband attempted to concentrate on the road in the driving rain included, but were not limited to: 

• soothing tones and reassuring phrases issued in his general direction with reassuring pats of his legs. Response: "SHHHH! I NO LIKE!"

• putting on an over- exaggerated display of pretending to fall asleep myself. Response:  "MUMMYMUMMYMUMMYMUMMY MUM-MY!!"

• listening to the same banal nursery rhyme on repeat for an hour, slowly but surely feeling the will to live ebb from my body whilst also wondering if the vocalist every thought to question their life choices. Response: "AGAIN! AGAIN!"

Fighting a losing battle

2. The wake up

A fact universally acknowledged by the extended family is that this pair love a lie in; forever reluctant to stir from their recumbent position and face the world beyond their snug and warm duvet. Well, this weekend was no different. It was 9 o'clock before they emerged from the haven of their bedroom, loosely disheveled and in a dreamy haze; wandering down the stairs to greet the day and the youthful inhabitants of the house with the enthusiasm and vigour that only 8 hours of uninterrupted slumber can bestow.

We acknowledged their presence with subtle nods over the brim of our tepid cups of coffee; issuing a jaded greeting in their general direction like war veterans who were unable and unwilling to convey the terrors they had already lived through. We were broken. 

Bouncing into the day

The children had not transitioned from car to bedroom as seamlessly as we would have hoped and had needed frequent parental intervention for such emergencies as "the night is too dark", "my blanket is tangled" and "mummy, mummy, milk, mummy". They had, however, apparently been well rested enough to accompany the dawn chorus (the joys of countryside living) with their own dulcet tones and start the day with relentless enthusiasm for all forms of physical play; particularly those which involved sitting astride their mother and bouncing simultaneously with gay abandon.

Much like this...

3. The relationship

This twosome have been married for just over two years, a date I have etched on my calendar as my rascal child had penned in his arrival for two days later meaning my husband never got to see his twin be walked down the aisle, raise a toast to her future happiness or dance with her on her wedding day. Instead he was lucky enough to spend the day on labour ward being glowered at repeatedly (especially when being offered tea and biscuits mid contraction), have his beloved mutter audible profanities about him for putting her in such a position and being able to wipe the sweat from his wife's upper lip (I suffer from a very sweaty face) as she tried to expel an unruly grapefruit through the eye of the needle.

Parallel Lives

Despite being two years into matrimony and about 11 years into their relationship this other couple retain a display of physical affection that would be more suited to a fledgling romance; one that has not yet weathered the gastric illness, utility bills and domestic chores which come to all long term relationships. Hands are proferred for holding, armpits are snuggled into when seated on a couch and hugs are spontaneously bestowed upon each other freely and without ulterior motive. They appear very much in love.

Snuggle-tastic

We, on the other hand are comrades in arms, passing the undetonated (and sometimes detonated) bombs between us with an unspoken understanding. All physical affection is showered upon our offspring; hands are too busy carrying or wiping to be held, nooks are prefilled with small children who need a reassuring cuddle and spontaneous hugs are saved for times of childhood injury or uncertainty. On the rare occasions that we may try to bestow a loving touch or unsolicited kiss upon our other, we are met with outcry from our progeny. They appear to find it both unsettling and unfair; did we not realise that all affection must be lavished in their direction? 

Now, you may have read this and felt a twinge of pity for me or a hankering for those magical days where you weren't responsible for keeping another human entertained/fed/law- abiding/alive but I urge you to take solace in this fact: the other couple are expecting a baby. 

Ice, Ice Baby: The Best Laid Plans...

Things I have learnt since my husband went away for 5 days:

1. 5 days is a long time
2. My husband does a lot of laundry
3. 5 days is a long time
4. Elsa's palace would have been warmer than our house with no central heating
5. 5 days is a really long time.

It was an ominous start when my first night, rather than being spent alone, was spent in the company of my rather willful son. Having taken a late nap with his designated childcare provider that afternoon, his usual bedtime came and went while he furiously pedalled his Scuttle Bug in laps around the room, leaving utter destruction in his wake and pausing only to issue a bark or a roar (with accompanying clawed hands pose) in my general direction. Books were pulled from where they had been neatly stowed for the evening, before being hurled around the room as he took part in his own personal shot-put competition; the noisiest toys were plucked from their hiding places and simultaneously activated creating an almighty cacophony which he then appeared to conduct like a symphony orchestra. It was mayhem.

Hand selected toys for the ultimate cacophony

The Thursday and Friday were to be much as normal with me having my working day sandwiched between nursery drop offs and pick ups leaving me hot, sweaty and disheveled before 9am and stressed, tired and wrangling two highly emotional toddlers after 5:30pm. Just to add an extra layer of excitement to my day, for some ungodly reason, this particular morning my youngest chose to kneel down in a puddle before throwing the muddy rain water above his head like he's Howard Donald in Take That's Back for Good video. I despaired; Gary was always my favourite.

Now, due to me being laden down like a pack mule with my work paraphernalia, the children's nursery "essential" extras and one wiley two year old with a taste for danger upon my shoulders when my four year old fell and grazed her knee on the walk home it was pretty much the worst thing that could have happened. She refused to walk, citing her scraped limb to be unable to bear weight and demanded (through the flood) to be carried home. Despite being able to see my front door from where we stood, it may as well have been light years away. I tried every possible combination; backpack on back, toddler on shoulders, paraphernalia across each arm with preschooler on hip; backpack on back, paraphernalia in hands of errant children and progeny on either hip; backpack on front, preschooler on back, paraphernalia on one arm and toddler like a rugby ball under the other. We were like a geriatric circus troupe trying to re-enact the routines of their youth. We managed to shuffle 20 yards in each position before they began to slip from my grasp with wails of displeasure being only momentarily appeased with promises of previously prohibited treats. Eventually, somehow, we crossed the threshold, a little bit older, a little bit broken and forever just that little bit changed.

So close and yet so far

While previously I had been known to count down the time to Husband's return, I entered the weekend with great optimism with my weekend of solo parenting having been planned with military precision. I genuinely love my children and have the best time when we are all together as a family but there are times when, having been consistently alone with them for an extended period of time, I struggle. I struggle hearing my voice utter the same commands again and again without being heard, I struggle to satisfy all the role play required to appease my eldest, I struggle with not having the freedom to toilet alone never mind exercise and I struggle to keep the fun alive. I want them to have the best time with me (and me them) but when you are lone parenting there is so much life admin to keep up with that there seems so little time for enjoyment.


So a plan was formed for the weekend; Saturday morning would involve a first-time trip to the cinema followed by a visit from the beloved Moomie (grandmother) then Sunday morning would be free play (check me, so relaxed) with a firm promise of a playdate at one of those friends' houses where you can just sit back, drink coffee and watch as the children play beautifully together. Before you ask, no I won't tell you where they live and no I do not wish to share them.

The first part went pretty well; the cinema trip could almost be classed as an unmitigated success. They were only terrified for an hour of the 80 minute film, they spoke at full decibels throughout and ate their bodyweight in E-number infested treats but no one had to leave and no one pooped. I would even go far as to say that I would do it again. It was all they could talk about for the rest of the day. I was a super star parent. I was maintaining the fun despite being on my own. I was winning at life.

The first cinematic experience was an unmitigated success.

Then the boiler broke.


Then it snowed.

Then they couldn't fix the boiler.

Children don't cope well with the cold but they also don't cope well with being told to don extra layers. It's not the best mix when your house is colder than an igloo's icebox. They were miserable; cold and miserable and with the good tradesmen of Edinburgh otherwise occupied for the weekend the countdown for Husband's return was on again.

Huddling for warmth

Husband: My Partner in Crime

To mark our six year's wed and your (gulp) 35th birthday, I have decided to surrender to your relentless lobbying and pen (or type) a little something about you. Now, don’t get too excited. I haven’t had a personality transplant overnight so there shall be no declarations of undying love or comparisons to boulder like masses (Steve Wright Sunday Love Song listeners please take heed.)

This is what I know:

1. We are in this together

There has not been a single moment since we stood in front of our friends and family, dressed in our finest threads, vowing to be a team for the ever after, when I have felt lonely or alone. Any decision to be made, battle to mount or achievement to be celebrated has been done together without conscious thought or deliberation. We are a team.

This collaboration extends beyond the landmark moments and seeps into the mundane tasks of daily life. Where nappies and disciplining are borne equally, you definitely pick up the slack in the housekeeping and cooking department whilst I perhaps take on the brunt of the night calls and toddler sick days. We definitely have a rhythm and manage to keep the beat, which is no mean feat when you recall our poor ballroom dance teacher declaring our rhythm keeping to be "terminal"!

2. We are stronger because of what we have been through

It has definitely not been all sunshine and rainbows, especially since we started assembling our little family (much like the Avengers). There were those days that felt like an age where we tried to come to terms with our “inevitable” miscarriage only to have our spirits raised that all would be well. Those hopes were then decimated when the phrases "structural defects",  “chromosomal abnormalities" and "genetic investigations" were bandied about. Our second pregnancy was no kinder to us, with weekly scans to check the blood supply to our treasured infant's brain. All in all our little brood were lucky to survive the gauntlet that is incubation in my womb.

I am not sure when you promised the "in sickness" part that you expected to be called into battle quite so frequently but you have stood tall (above average height) and taken it on as if you were receiving each diagnoses yourself.

3. There is no one else I would rather be in this with

As anyone in a long term relationship knows, the heat and passion that comes with a new relationship is intertwined with the unknown. There is so much to learn about the other person and, at the time, this is exciting. There is so much potential and the mystery just adds to the allure! 

However, mystery and the unknown do not rank very highly on your wish list for a partner in the child raising game. You want to know not only where you stand but that you are standing in the same general area and not having to use a carrier pigeon to get your point across.

Our surprises may be few, our passion more sporadic and our heat mostly flannel pyjama based but with you I know where I stand and I know upon whom I can rely.

Now I know you love a quote, and in the absence of Van Wilder or Ron Swanson having uttered an appropriately eloquent adage, I shall instead turn to the words of an underrated Children’s author, Anna Kemp:

“”You know, “[I said}, as [we] drank [our] tea,
“We’re a great team, you and me”
[Your non-existent] belly shook with laughter.
And [we] both lived happily ever after.”

Happy birthday my love! 

The Classic Family Photo