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I Won! No, I Won!

I am not describing a stand-off between my boys.

This argument is between me and TS.

Today is a special day.

17 years ago a crazy girl got together with a steady boy.

He saved her.

Fuelled by tequila and thus buoyed with Dutch Courage, he took a chance.

They drank, they flirted.


For those not familiar with games, Tetris is an addictive block game where you um, match shapes. I know, THRILLING!

Anyway, we had a Gameboy (how retro) each and were playing against each other.

He sat on the sofa, I was curled at his feet (Yes, I know, not exactly the actions of a feminist, BLAME THE TEQUILA).

We played and flirted, played and flirted.


As confirmed by our best man (TS’s best mate) on our wedding day.

Then there was fumbled, drunken kissing.

The rest, as they say, is history.

Today, sitting side by side in the swimming pool watching our off-spring, we discussed how weird it was that we have grown two humans.

“Who would have thought that night with tequila and Tetris..” I mused.

TS turns to me, smiling, and says…

NOT, that was the best day of my life. No.

He says “I definitely won, you know”.


Happy Snoggaversary, TS. xxx

Do you and your partners have differing memories of the same events?

The Boy Who Broke My Heart

(image source)

(image source)

Our eyes locked and I knew my heart was yours.

I loved you so much, I wanted to be your perfect love. Quickly I became scared and depressed, worrying I couldn’t be what you need to be.

A year passed. I got better. The sun began to shine more.

Then you got sick. Every few weeks we would make high-speed journeys under blue lights with me clinging to your hand, willing you to be OK.

On the darkest night of my life I watched as the room filled with white coats. They worked frantically to resuscitate you. Pressed against the hospital room wall, I made promises to god, the devil and everyone else I could think of.

The cracks in my heart started to appear.

It should have been me on that bed, not you.

More time passed. The illness was managed, our lives became calmer, more settled.

Except something was wrong. I couldn’t pin-point what, but you were changing.

We talked, we saw counsellors, we tried therapy.

It became harder to reach you.

Of course, I knew the truth deep down. I didn’t want to hear it. I still don’t.

I denied, I raged, I blamed myself.

I wanted to run away, but I couldn’t leave when you needed me so much.

So now I stand and watch as you rage. Spitting venom and anger. Throwing threats at me to self-harm or to hurt the others you love.

I stand and take it, feeling my heart splinter inside me.

I have to stay. I have to change. I must help you understand yourself and make other understand you, because I am the one who knows you best.

You are the boy who broke my heart without ever meaning to.

And I am your mum.

My Bed

Monday morning dread.

I can hear them. Shouting, arguing, shrieking.

I’m hiding.

My bed, my lovely, snuggly bed.

Must. get. up.

Feels like I’m weighed down by the list of things that wait for my attention.

More shrieking. No one is crying. Yet.

My bed. A place of passion and conceptions and births and rows.

And lately, children visiting in the darkness. Tormented by nightmares and dreams they can’t explain.

The Saint sleeps in the cabin bed. Oedipus complex he says.

I remain in my lovely, warm, comforting bed.

The screaming starts. I’m up.

Shaking the duvet out I can still feel the warmth of where we once lay. I sigh.

“Mummy!” Cheeky Boy shouts. “Morning,  Mum” says Boy Wonder.

And the day begins.