Tag Archives: grief

Losing Mum. Part 2.

I have wanted to write this for a very long time whilst at the same time really really not wanting to. It’s more of a need than a want I suppose. I need to write it down. I don’t want to because it will hurt but if I don’t then I will forget and that hurts more. It is an itch I need to scratch, a scab that must come off. A purely selfish act.

How someone dies isn’t who they were. It is the end of who they are but not the end of them entirely. They live on through us, through their deeds and actions and so in turn they are part of us. Not just genetically but through the connection that they made with us whilst we were here together. Their death hurts us. We feel their absence. They have been ripped away from our timeline. We grieve not for what we have lost but for what we can no longer have. For what we cannot share with them any more.

So this is what has taken me eight years to write down. It isn’t a perfect account but sometimes it is okay for things and people to be good enough. I hope it is good enough.

Jennifer Susan Greenacre (nee Oakes)

25th September 1944 – 7th December 2006

It was 10am ish and I was at home in Swindon, still lazing about in bed thinking about Christmas. So looking forward to going home to Northamptonshire to spend it with my parents, my sister and her husband and my husband Ben’s family. I was still so happy after our wedding that October and I had spoken to Mum the night before to tell her that Ben and I were trying for a baby.

It had been a funny phone call. Mum called me from her home in France (she and Dad lived there part of the year and Northants the rest) to tell me that she was having a 70s dinner party that night. She was ridiculously excited because she had managed to track down a Black Forest gateau which she felt was an essential for the evening and we laughed about it, reminiscing about 1970s food – prawn cocktails and cheese and pineapple hedgehogs. I told her we were trying for a baby, it would be her first grandchild. She was over the moon and I pictured her face and her reaction when I would tell her I was pregnant. I couldn’t wait!

At the end of the phone call she said “goodbye darling” which you might think normal. But it wasn’t. She phoned me and my sister almost daily and Vikki will vouch for me on this that she always ended her calls with “I love you! Speak soon!”. I know it’s easy to say with hindsight but it felt wrong. I rang her back with a made up excuse about a recipe I needed and made her say it. “I love you”.

Daydreaming about all the fun there was to come I suddenly snapped back to reality as I heard the front door open and close again just as suddenly with a bang. I froze, remembering that I was in bed not properly dressed, listening to the footsteps thundering up the stairs.

Suddenly my darling husband Ben appeared in the bedroom doorway. His face was grey and he had obviously been crying. I remember him saying “Your Dad rang me, it’s your Mum…..” His voice trailed off and in that moment I knew. I knew that he wasn’t going to say that there had been an accident or that Mum was in hospital. My beautiful, brave and wonderful man, my best friend in all the world, had come home to give me the most devastating news.

Before he could speak I said “Please don’t say it please. Please let me not know just for a minute longer please…” Then there was just silence and then the words came “Your Mum had a heart attack this morning…I’m so so sorry baby….she died this morning…..”

I don’t remember much then. Just beating his chest as he tried to comfort me and pushing him away as if somehow by saying it he had made it happen and that this was not real, it couldn’t be real and I could hear screaming over and over. It was a while before I realised it was me.

I don’t know how long it took before I could speak coherently. When I finally could though I remember saying that we had to drive to Northamptonshire immediately. In my grief I had forgotten entirely that they had been in France.

Finally I spoke to Dad. He had called Ben at work because he didn’t want to tell me whilst I was home alone. He could barely talk and when he did he said “I need you princess please come”.

I remember speaking to my sister, both of us sobbing down the phone, barely able to understand each other but knowing that we had to be together somehow. She and my brother in law drove from Milton Keynes whilst Ben silently booked flights and a hire car and I randomly threw things into a suitcase.

I went next door to see my neighbours and sobbed in my dressing gown and pyjamas whilst sitting on their sofa. I went back home and called my ex husband and we cried together as I knew he had kept in touch with her and that they were still very fond of each other. I rang my best friends and they listened with disbelief.

My sister finally arrived and I remember running outside in bare feet and we stood there on my driveway holding onto each other for dear life, crying in the pouring rain.

We all drove together to Bristol airport. Queued to get on the plane with tears streaming down our faces. Once on board I had to explain to the air stewards that we weren’t terrified fliers but that our Mum had just died. They left us alone and we drank gin to dull the pain.

Somehow Ben and Pete found the hire car in the dark and managed to navigate us to La Pistoule, Mum’s beautiful home in France.

Dad was waiting for us on the steps, his hands clamped tightly over his mouth as he tried to hold in the grief that threatened to burst forth at the loss of his dearest Jenny, his best friend and love of his life. His wife was gone and so was our Mum. Forever.

Then he told us.

It had been 10 hours since Ben came home to tell me she had died and Mum’s body was laid out in their bedroom upstairs. She would be there overnight. They would collect her in the morning. He thought that we would want to say goodbye.

We didn’t want to see her like that. We wanted to remember her how she was. She didn’t look like her. They had already embalmed her and she looked like a waxwork. I couldn’t even look at her properly. I wanted to kiss her, to touch her but I couldn’t. I was paralysed with fear and grief and I knew that she would feel cold and wrong and dead.

My sister collapsed sobbing in the doorway. I knelt at Mum’s bedside unable to touch her or look at her.

I barely slept that night knowing she was only a wall apart from me and Dad slept on the sofa in the upstairs lounge outside their room.

The next morning Stephanie, Mum’s friend, their gardener, came in to see Mum with me and talked quietly to me in French and held me whilst we cried together. She had seen the bodies of her relatives laid out before when they had passed away but we hadn’t and we were unprepared and it scared us in our grief. I regret not holding her hand one last time and not kissing her goodbye but I couldn’t and I didn’t know what was wrong with me.

It was years later when I finally got help for my second lot of Post Natal Illness that I discovered that I was also suffering from untreated PTSD. The two combined meant a misdiagnosis of Bipolar disorder which has since been revoked but not before I struggled through weeks of taking anti-psychotics and anti-depressants whilst trying to look after a 3 year old and a baby. This was no-one’s fault and I don’t blame my Dad at all. He was grief stricken and was coping in the only way he knew how. He thought it was the right thing to do.

The coroners came to take Mum away down the steps that led from her bedroom to the gravelled side garden. Vikki and I hid until they had done it. We couldn’t bear it.

Afterwards we went to clear up in their bedroom. We found her nightdress cut to shreds and the empty adrenaline needles and packets in the waste paper bin. We had to try to piece together in our minds exactly what had happened as Dad wouldn’t tell us much at all. He still can’t talk about it even now, eight years later. We wish he would, he thinks he is protecting us but not knowing is worse. We have to respect his choice though and his right to privacy no matter how hard it is not knowing the full story of Mum’s final moments.

We stayed at the house for over a week in the end I think, maybe two. There were tears and fights and dark times. I smoked too much and couldn’t eat properly. It was December and so cold and the only slippers Vikki and I could find to buy were giant blue monster ones which looked wrongly comical starkly contrasted with our pale, heartbroken faces. Dad, Vikki and I divided a long list of family and friends between us and took turns calling them all to tell them Mum had died. It was horrible, reliving our pain through them and hearing them unable to speak and some, like us, screaming in shock.

We arranged for Mum’s body to be repatriated back to England with the help of a wonderful English lady who dealt with that sort of thing but the airline lost the paperwork and everything was made all the more difficult.

Dad initially wanted her cremated but we couldn’t bear that as we knew she had always wanted to be buried in the Lake District, in the Langdale valley with her parents. In the mountains that she loved. So we pushed for the funeral there which it finally was but not until the 23rd of December. And not until after we had re identified her body at the hospital in Kendal where they had to do a post mortem examination to determine the cause of death. I remember my sister crying and saying in a very small voice “Dad why won’t she wake up, why can’t my Mummy wake up”. It was devastating all over again.

Mum had died of a fatal heart attack. She had severe sclerosis of the arteries of her heart. She had smoked up until 2 years before her death and she drank and ate what she liked and never exercised in later years. She knew she wasn’t well, she couldn’t walk far. We all begged her to go to the doctors about it especially as she’d had two minor strokes (TIAs). She wouldn’t. She didn’t want to know. She used to say “I don’t want to get old and dribbly and if I go mad just stick me in a home, I won’t know after all will I?” So congratulations Mum, you did it your way in the end as you always did. At home, in your own bed, in your sleep.

I wrote the eulogy with Dad’s help, he couldn’t face it and I stood up with Ben supporting me and read it in the Church in Chapel Stile. I felt like I was floating a over my body watching myself speak whilst praying that my body wouldn’t fail me, I knew an MS attack was imminent. I still couldn’t believe it was happening.

I still can’t.

I just kept thinking that she wanted Queen’s “Don’t stop me now” played at her funeral and that Vikki and I had promised her and we didn’t do it because Dad didn’t want to. I still feel that I let her down.

I remember us all trying to have Christmas together at their house in Northamptonshire, ironically now only 15 minutes from where we live. It was an awful time, like we were actors in a very very bad play. I remember standing at the kitchen sink with Ben’s Mum and asking her “when will it stop hurting so much?” As her Mum had died only a few years previously. She looked away and replied “you really don’t want me to answer that”.

I realised that the reason we all loved Christmas so much was Mum. She was our Christmas. She loved it so much. It was a long time before I did again.

Mum was 62 when she died.

She never met her Grandchildren – my children Isobel Jennifer Rose, Jack Alfred Roger and my Sister’s son Mason. She never saw them take their first steps or in their uniforms ready for their first days at school.

She didn’t see me run the Race for Life 10k twice last year after my diagnosis of Multiple Sclerosis 14 years ago. She didn’t see my Sister train to work at the preschool she is currently at after finishing all her qualifications. She never saw me finally pass my driving test. She never saw me and my sister finally come through the worst of our years fighting mental illness. She never saw us become Mums.

She did see us both marry our loves though and I know that she died believing we were safe and cherished.

We miss her and we always will.

Mum, I am so sorry you never got to spend your retirement years with Dad as you planned with your Grandchildren around you. I wish you were here to guide me and comfort me. I wish I had been given the chance to repay everything that your gave to me and sacrificed for me. I wish that I had said thank you more. I wish that I had said goodbye….you did say goodbye though didn’t you? I just wasn’t ready to hear it…..

Goodbye Mum.

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Starting school and more poo news

Well it has finally happened. My smallest small boy at barely 4 years old has started school.

My smallest small boy who is barely potty trained and is still tantrumming and hitting if things don’t go his way.

My smallest small boy who sometimes smells of strawberries and sometimes of damp dog despite us not having one.

My smallest small boy who wraps his arms around me and squeezes me just that little bit too tight so that I can’t breathe and snuggles into my neck all soft, whispering “I love you to infinity and beyond Mumma”.

I have waited and longed for this day, for the very difficult toddler years that I don’t cope well with to be over and for my freedom at last. How sad that sounds I know, it’s true though. I haven’t felt like a good parent this summer, shouting, controlling, trying to make order out of chaos, patience worn thin and feeling tattered and frayed around the edges.

I haven’t been very well this summer, my hypothyroidism spiralled out of control making me sure that the Multiple Sclerosis had taken a turn for the worst but it turns out that at best it was my thyroid and at worst it was a combination of the two. This isn’t an excuse for my shoddy parenting, just a contributory factor. One that I could do without though in the face of a new school year and a whole lot of new emotions to deal with!

We all tried extra hard over the holidays not to go on about “Big School” all the time as I know the pressure it can put on a small person who is already panicking about the unknown! I think I was just in denial though as I had just forgotten all the things that needed doing and all the uniform needed – jeeeeez!

Knowing what he is like I labelled everything and I mean everything including socks. Not pants though. Even I have a limit!! I just sat sewing labels into the smallest small shorts that even then looked far too big and just felt….I don’t know….scared. Excited too, don’t misunderstand me oh my god I knew I would be cheering with glee in the school car park the minute that I had dropped off my little darlings. But who would notice when he was hopping up and down needing the toilet but too engrossed in his current activity to realise? Who would cuddle him and rub his back to calm him down if he got upset and started lashing out? Hundreds of scenarios played themselves out in my mind as I calmly sewed the little name labels in, imagining him struggling to do up his buttons.

I sewed my love for him and my frustration at not being the parent that he so desperately needs at times into those labels, hoping that he would feel me with him in the moments he felt unsure and lost. Hoping that at least we had taught him kindness and compassion and that he would take with him all the things he had learnt from preschool where they loved and nurtured him in the safe environment he had grown to feel was a second home. I hope that he will grow to feel that about his new school in time.

I sewed my love for her into her labels, my strength to help her deal with the twists and turns of growing up as a girl, the challenges of friendships and emotional changes. She takes my breath away she is so beautiful and so smart and so courageous. She is everything that I would love to be, untarnished by grief and pain, new and shiny with all her life ahead of her. So excited and curious and questioning. I feel so full of love watching her on her journey.

The last few weeks leading up to the beginning of school term small boy’s poo problems returned. Probably a mixture of being in a less structured routine and his dawning realisation that things were changing. I tried to protect him from all of it but it is easy to forget that mentioning school can cause stress and hard to stop other well meaning people’s remarks of “Ooh you’re such a big boy now I bet you can’t wait to go to big school!” every single time we left the house.

He would have accidents and go off and hide his pants in the wash basket, get scared to use the toilet and start lashing out at us all again. We tried our very best to play it down, keep our cool and just pray every day that it would get easier for him. I had already pre-empted things with ‘Matron’ at school by explaining the ongoing situation and she was very supportive but I was still very scared.

The day arrived and he and his sister stood together in the kitchen in their new school uniforms. She, complaining because I had insisted on new dresses that had ‘growing room’. “Mumma I look like an idiot!!!” (okay she did look a bit like an orphan but I am a great believer in getting the most for your money) and he, with his feet so big in his school shoes that he looked like a puppy needing to grow into his feet and his unruly hair so short now.

I felt so proud of them whilst at the same time wishing so desperately that I could turn the clock back and do a much much better job than I have. Wishing that my Mum was alive to tell me that everything would be okay and that she had made all the mistakes that I had and see? it’s okay after all. God I missed her in that moment, I could barely speak as I felt my throat tighten with grief and pride and love all jumbled up together. I hope she’s watching all this somewhere I thought, I really could do with a hug right now. I know I look like I cope on the outside but it’s all a front a lot of the time, although less as time goes by. We’re doing okay all of us.

They both pottered into school with their bags, looking so smart. Big girl was thrilled to see her new classroom and looked so grown up it was untrue. Small boy skipped into his classroom and never looked back. I told him I was leaving and he said “Shush Mumma I’m building something!”. I spoke to his classroom assistant,who had also been big girl’s, about the toilet problems and she smiled and said “Oh don’t worry, lots of them have challenges and they all have accidents at some point! Some are still doing it when they leave us!!” she made light of it which was actually just what I needed. In that moment she made him just a normal little boy who sometimes has accidents just like everyone else and for that I will be forever grateful.

So, a week and a half in we are okay. I sent spare pants and we have had a few slightly wet pairs back but he has done all his poos on the toilet at home. He says that he doesn’t want to poo at school which inevitably means that he is holding a little but he is doing it at home, sometimes unprompted, which is amazing. I am not resting easy for one moment but for now I have 2 small people at school and they are tired but happy and that is all I want. For them to be happy. Although he made a sword out of cardboard yesterday and hit a poor girl in his class with it. I guess we need to work on impulse control a little.

Now what the fuck do I do with my life? Anyone want to offer me a job?

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My boy

I’d never really thought about what it would be like to have a son, I had a girl and that was all I knew. When I was pregnant with my daughter I absolutely knew in my heart one hundred percent that I was having a girl even though we never found out until she was born. She is awesome and my absolute best little girl friend.

When I became pregnant for the second time I felt very different. I spent time wildly vacillating between boy and girl feelings unsure of how I would feel if I was to have a boy or another girl. I could never feel definitely in either direction. My intuition failed me entirely. I said to my husband one morning that I thought we were having twins. He thought that I was joking (he looked terrified). I wasn’t. Something felt very very wrong though, I couldn’t put my finger on it exactly but I just knew something was….I don’t know….not how it should be. Then the bleeding started. After much to-ing and fro-ing without boring you with the finer details I was told at the 13 week scan by a very lovely sonographer ironically (or aptly however you choose to view it) named Joy “Mrs Moore do you have twins in the family? Look…..you can see your baby? See the empty sac attached? I’m sorry, you’ve miscarried one of your babies. You were carrying twins”.

Grief and happiness in one extra special womb shaped package. One little fighter had made it….the other not so lucky or maybe my body knew something that I consciously couldn’t. That it was for the best. That’s what people say don’t they? It’s for the best. At least you’re still pregnant. It wasn’t meant to be. You’ve got MS, twins would have been extra hard. You are lucky.

I didn’t feel lucky. I felt like someone had sucked all the air out of the room and then put it all back in again minus something very very important. I felt bereft, half empty not half full. I felt heartbroken. Devastated. I felt that I was not allowed to grieve the miscarriage of my baby.

Because I had ONE left. Because after all I didn’t KNOW that I was pregnant with twins did I? Only that I was pregnant and surely I still was so that made it okay. How lucky I was that my baby had survived the miscarriage of his sibling and that we were both okay. My husband couldn’t understand how I felt because he hadn’t even got his head around us having twins because we didn’t know we were definitely until it was confirmed that we weren’t. I don’t blame him for that at all, despite how this might sound. He had seen me laid on the floor bleeding and crying and praying that my wonderful midwife Sue would find a heartbeat. She did of course although I still spotted on and off for the remainder of the pregnancy so she loaned me her spare doppler so that I could check for myself if I ever got anxious. I checked..every….single…day. More than once. For the rest of my pregnancy.

There were many more scares, consultants trying to tell me that I had reduced blood flow to the placenta, threatened inter-uterine growth restriction and risk of pre-eclampsia. I walked away with the support of my dearest husband and midwife Sue. We asked them to come back to us when they had hard evidence. Not vague possibilities and not because I fit the profile for their case studies. 

I went into labour early, almost 4 weeks. I thought I would as my daughter was 3 weeks early. It was a glorious, life changing home water birth which I wrote about and will publish here sometime. My very small, noisy, heart stealing boy had arrived. Nothing and no-one could have prepared me for the love I felt at that moment. Again. You don’t truly believe you can love that much again when you give your heart and soul to your first child. But you can and you do. Also he looks like a mini version of my husband so of course I fall in love with him again and again. I couldn’t stop smelling one of his ears….I know, weird eh? Gorgeous.

There are other tales entwined here. Tales of postnatal illness, coping with two children, being without my Mum again and more but that’s not where I am heading today. Today I am remembering the fight that my son and I had to get to that point because at the moment it feels like all we do is fight. It feels like every day is a struggle, a battle, a negotiation and I feel like I have failed him in so many ways. I want and need to remember the moment I pushed him into the world and the overwhelming joy and elation I felt on holding him and looking into his ink black eyes.

My boy has encopresis or chronic constipation. We have been toilet training since he was 2.5 years old. Something has happened and we don’t know when or what but he struggles and fights with going to the toilet. This means that he gets blocked up and this forces his bowel open all the time meaning that even though he is constipated the soft poo higher up leaks out around it. So we are always having to cope with accidents. We have tried to deal with this on our own for over a year now as we very wrongly thought that he would grow out of it. We thought that he knew he was doing it. We didn’t know that he had no control over it at all. 

It has been really hard and still is. It affects his behaviour in so many ways – he is uncomfortable because he is holding it a lot of the time as he has become frightened to go. He is irritable because of this, constantly wriggling, fidgeting, unable to get comfortable. He no longer knows that he needs to go only that he doesn’t like how he feels. If he has an accident he has to get cleaned up. Last week he wouldn’t let me wipe him and screamed and cried at me for half an hour. We both cried, great heaving sobs of frustration and hurt. Him because he doesn’t want this. Me because, despite doing everything that I am told and advised to do by the relevant health professionals who are now involved, I feel that I can’t help him and I have failed him. It must be my fault because he is my boy and and I should be able to fix this. 

To the outside world he looks like a boisterous, sometimes aggressive, difficult child at times. But I know he is so much more than that. He is kind, loving, ridiculously affectionate and caring. I feel that his and our life has been overshadowed by this and I am struggling to find my connection with him a lot of the time. 

He starts school in September and I am scared. I don’t want him to be labelled as the naughty boy who poos his pants every day. It is not his fault. I want to run away and pretend this isn’t happening. I don’t know what to do most days.

Except love him.

Because he is my boy and that is what I can do. I haven’t got any brothers and I don’t have a huge wealth of experience with boys as I am after all a girl albeit a old one. I feel very old today. Sometimes I just don’t know how to be with him and all I can think about is has he been for a poo today yet for fucks sake. That isn’t what either of us signed up for!! But it is really isn’t it? After all, I am his Mum and he needs me to be there for him and love him and cope with this. 

So I will.

I will love him because despite what a rubbish Mum I think I am most days I know one thing for sure…

I love him and he loves me.

 

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Behind the smiles….and Mother’s Day

I’ve been thinking a lot about this lately and was further spurred on by a conversation online with a good friend as we fell into a commentary discussion (underneath a Facebook post/photograph if I recall) about how what what we see in our daily lives, especially on social media is rarely if ever the whole story. It is very very easy to compare ourselves and our lives to those around us, even more so when their lives seem picture perfect. Days out, holidays, nights out with friends, family get togethers and all the rest are portrayed in pictures with smiling faces and joyous proclamations. I know, I do it myself and a lot of the time it’s true that we are all having a jolly old time. But not always and rarely 100% of the best times. There is always more than is on show for all the world to see. 

We look at other people’s lives and think oh how perfect, aren’t they in love, aren’t their children well behaved, isn’t everything idyllic – I wish I had that many holidays, was that creative with my home decor/children’s craft sessions, was that chilled out with my kids, was that good at baking etc. etc…… Oh how we torture ourselves trying to attain the ideal standard that we have set that is actually unattainable. What am I doing wrong we ask ourselves, why is my life not like that, why can I not cope with taking all my children out on wild excursions into the unknown without worrying about absolutely everything that they will get themselves into let alone the thought of just going shopping or to soft play (don’t get me started on soft play it makes me feel violent!), why is my car full of crap and why does everything in my car/house/everywhere smell of feet and/or poop. Sigh….

I honestly don’t know what the answer to all this is. Maybe we are trying to create the life that we wish we had online or out in public where the fears and doubts don’t have to be displayed for all to see. Maybe we are all striving for perfection in a terrifically unhealthy way. Or conversely maybe it does help us to show the moments where everything appears to be perfect so that we don’t feel totally crap at everything! Who knows. Sometimes I do want to appear that way and other times, like today, I kind of want to out myself and say you know that day that looked perfect? It was fucking shit. 

I am thinking in particular back to Mother’s Day, I posted a picture of the lovely breakfast my gorgeous family made me. I posted a picture of the beautiful Pandora bracelet my wonderful husband bought for me. I posted pictures of all of us at the farm park having family fun.

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It looked perfect didn’t it? The truth was altogether different as inside I was as heartbroken as I am every year on Mother’s Day albeit better than the previous years which I do draw strength from. I was heartbroken because although I love being a Mum and I love my children and my husband more than life itself I miss my darling Mum and being a Mum without a Mum really sucks sometimes.

Mum died 7 years ago suddenly from a heart attack at 62. She was mine and my sister’s best friend. She was our everything and we adored her more than I know we both have words for. So although I know her memory lives on and deserves much more than her two daughters mourning her loss every year on various auspicious occasions, I’m afraid we can’t quite manage that level of holding-it-togetherness quite yet. I also know this is verging into a different blog for another day so I will halt there regarding dearest Mum suffice to say I was sad, I was angry, I was wracked with guilt over all that and I was taking it out on my family.

I hid in bed in the morning and then decided to try and get my shit together and at least rescue what was left of the day. So we went to the local farm park that we all love and I think I lasted about 10 minutes before I lost all ability to tolerate anything at all. The kids wanted to walk to the troll bridge which was fine, a few minor meltdowns on arrival from big girl who got the troll fear there when she was 3 (she’s 6 now) but peer pressure in the shape of small boy was a wonderful thing. All good so far but then we had to walk back and oh my lordy the whinging “My feet hurt, my little legs are tired, I need a carry, why do we have to walk, it’s not fair….etc” plus fighting with each other over absolutely every little thing you can possibly imagine. Yup there are things that you can find to fight about whilst walking in the countryside in a field, who knew? So…..I lost it. I screamed at them that this was Mother’s DAY the only bloody day of the year that is mine and they were fighting and bickering and RUINING it. Yes I said that. I also said (it gets worse but you knew that right) “Imagine it was your special day and I made you go somewhere that I liked even though you hated it and then I moaned and whined and ruined your special day and made you CRY on top of you already HATING IT!! NEXT YEAR I AM GOING TO THE SPA ON MY OWN AND YOU CAN ALL SOD OFF!! NOW WE ARE GOING HOME!!!”.

Yeah I really said that. I am ashamed (although I didn’t say fuck which I felt redeemed me slightly). It wasn’t just my day after all was it? It was only Mother’s Day because I am their Mum. It wasn’t their fault that my Mum had died and it definitely wasn’t their fault that I wasn’t coping with anything at all. I had forgotten that whilst I may not have my Mum I have a wonderful family and an especially fab Mother in law who knows all too well how I was feeling having lost her Mum too. We all had dinner later and it helped. A lot. Even though I am sure there was further shouting on my part.

So….behind the smiles things were not as they appeared and that certainly wasn’t the first time and I doubt it will be the last. I could put countless idyllic pictures on here and regale you with the stories of what was really happening at the time but I figure you’ve got the gist by now. My life is not perfect. I am not always doing my best to be honest because it’s hard, but I am doing the best I can at the time. I will do better. I will also continue to post pictures of my life – beautiful and not so beautiful, however it unfolds – whilst trying very hard to be aware that not everything I see and compare myself to is real….even my online life 😉