Tag Archives: motherhood

Why my mum didn’t tell me she loved me

16 Nov

As we sat in traffic lights on the way back from my mum’s final radiotherapy session she turned to me and said “I’m scared I’ll die before I’ve told you how much I love you”.


Love isn’t telling somebody the fact. It isn’t giving a big present or making an inflated gesture.  It’s showing it.  Over and over, year upon year, bit by bit. It’s the small things, the things that go unnoticed at the time, but that make you know that someone is there.

It’s feeling it. Constantly and consistently. Despite the arguments and the harsh words and the differences in opinion. Like a warm blanket draped across your shoulders.


So as the traffic lights turned to green I touched my mums hand and reassured her that her job had been done a long time ago.

And when she passed and there were no final words, no declarations of love, no grand words or gestures, no tears, it didn’t matter.

I carried all I needed to know around with me in my heart.

That is love.


What kind of mother?

23 Jun

As I find myself running down the street, book bag in one hand, drink, drawings and dirty socks in the other, desparately trying to keep up with my two sons on scooters as they career down the road with brick wall on one side and bustling traffic on the other, all I can think over and over is “What am I doing? What kind of mother lets her sons do this?”

Am I in control? Only just.

When I catch sight of their mud splattered hands as they eat chips and beans with their fingers, delightedly licking the grimy ketchup from the tips. When I see my littlest disappearing into the shed in his bare feet, or the eldest poking at the toaster to free his “just can’t wait any longer” crumpet. What I’m thinking is “This is dangerous. Just what kind of mother allows this?”

Is there enough discipline in this house? Rarely.

But the truth is, I’m a normal mum; far too honest probably, clinging onto acceptable motherhood with my knickers on inside out, and frequently falling short of my own expectations. But totally unexceptional nonetheless.

From j to l

30 Jun

I’m having another identity crisis.

No, this time it’s not about my status as stay-at-home mum.  This time it’s physical. I’m having to readjust to a significant bodily change.

I have small breasts.

It may sound extreme, but i’ve always been defined by my ample bosoms. It was part of how i saw myself. How others saw me. From the tender onset of puberty. 17 long years of heavy weight scaffolding.

You spend your teenage years learning to accept what nature has given you. I  looked at other girls with smaller bosoms with envy as they paraded around in teeny tops without bras, while they stared jealously at my ample cleavage.  Typical teenage grass is greener syndrome.

You learn to dress appropriately.   What to avoid.  High neck tops disastrous. Push up bras humourously cartoonish. Tops with cups ridiculous lest they finish at the nipple.  What to seek out. Bikinis sold as separates, and tied so tight they leave painful gauges on your shoulders. Sports bras to prevent earthquakes (in my case two worn together).

So by my twenties i pretty much knew what i was doing.

And now it’s all changed.

Okay so the change is not just volume (of course not, i’ve had 2 children), but if you have the filling it’s amazing what the right packaging can do.  No bubble wrap and you’re pretty much stuffed.

The other day i wore a maxi dress. I was absolutely delighted because for the first time since i was 16 i was able to wear a strapless bra and not have breasts like the letter J.

Delighted that was until i bent over in front of the mirror.

Nothing. Except a subtle bulge of bra padding.

Absolutely no cleavage. I looked like a pre-op transexual. A pre-op transexual with a nice strapless bra on mind. But pre-op nonetheless.

Now shapeless in nature, my profile is dictated only by the shape of my bra, sometimes with odd results.

Can someone tell me why that extra baby weight snuggled so happily on my tummy couldn’t have found its way onto my bosoms?