I remember when I gave birth to Daisy and I was riding the crazy hormonal roller coaster of the first week or so, I was sitting in Daisy’s room, rocking her in the armchair, holding her close and smelling her sweet newborn smells, with tears rolling down my face. I was so overwhelmed with love and worry for her, for all her potential, all that she could be and all she won’t be, the troubles she will face in her life, the people that will make her believe (for whatever reason) that she can’t do something. And I felt an overwhelming desire to call my Mum. Which I did. Except the call was more like me sobbing huge, ugly sobs in between saying “I get it now Mum. I finally get it. All you ever wanted was the best for me. Always. I am so *sob* sorry *sob* for all the worry I *sob* gave you through all my life. SOB!” It finally all just came into focus and I saw me through the eyes of a mother. The worry I put her through. The bad choices I made and the ones that were far better. The pride and disappointment I have no doubt put her through. All of it just became clear to me. Maybe I had to become a mother to get a try understanding of it. Maybe not. Bloody hell does that mean I have to wait, what, 30 years until Daisy finally understands all I do for her??!

Ever since then I think that my Mum and I have been a little closer. She has been a tremendous help to me, both with physically looking after Daisy and with being at the end of the phone to help me diagnose an illness, confirm or otherwise my plans to medicate (or not) and all the little stuff in between. She was the one that Daisy smiled at first (at some ridiculous age like 2 or 3 weeks and no, it wasn’t wind, she kept on doing it again and again). She was the one that gave Daisy her first solid food, far too many treats, and many, many hugs and kisses in between and they have been extremely close friends over her short life. She is a huge support to me. I am so lucky to be able to have her in my life and I am grateful every day that my Mum is around to help me, guide me with being a mother myself.

My poor mother despairs for me, still. I know that she has a love/hate relationship with this blog. She reads it, worries about the words, ponders about it, talks about it with friends & family of hers and knows far more than mothers would usually know about her daughter’s thoughts, fears, joys and the frustrations. Oh the frustrations. But I don’t want her to worry about me. I am fine. SO fine. All the worries that she gets, she only gets because I put it out there to share, to open discussions and get advice from others that would normally not be given as people are unaware. I know it’s not conventional, but then I never really have been. Conventional that is. I remember one thing that my Mum always taught me was “to thine own self be true” and that’s all this silly thing is. Doing that. Being true to myself. Getting stuff out there into the open so I can move on from it. Instead of me needing therapy, this is my therapy. And I know that it’s unfair to drag you all along for the ride, without asking, but I always have been a little pushy. OK bossy. And even though it can be a little dark and gloomy at times, there is plenty of light. And what would life be like without those darker patches anyway. Everyone has them. Everyone.

So, to my:

Magnesium taking
Excellent cooking
Fabulous entertaining
Bad knee-ridden
Hard working
St Therese praying

I want to say thank you.

For all I have put you through. And all that I will put you through in the future. I’m sorry that I keep managing to keep the worry alive for you on a daily basis. That the worry still hasn’t stopped. I have NO doubts that Miss Daisy will do the same, only a gazillion times over for me. I do love you. And am sorry that you worry about me. But I am fine. Honestly. You’ll know otherwise. And I think you are pretty freaking amazing to have gone and raised 4(!!!!!) children of your own (who are not half bad) along the way. Just imagine the readers you would have had if you took the time to tell your story. Now THAT would have been interesting…

Sorry again.
Don’t worry so much.
I Love you.

And keep on cooking me those fabulous meals you have been whipping up every week. Food makes EVERYTHING better.


  1. That brought a tears to my eyes was just lovely …great great writing and imagine if that nooooooddddddllllleeee making dumb SL*T mother of yours wrote her own story what a story it would be…and I (and the rest of the Duncombes) am grateful and lucky enough to have grown up being part of your mothers stories with many more to come xoxoxoxo

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