I know it was taken at 10pm, because my husband happily posed for the photograph, which means he had consumed around five pints of beer and was feeling co-operative. Apparently his Northern roots don’t allow for selfies. 

On Friday night the (self-proclaimed) Northern Love Machine and I ventured into the cold for a rare night out, just the two of us. We were up in Rochdale, the NLM’s birth place, so his parents kindly offered to babysit. Rochdale isn’t the first place that springs to mind when I conjure up romantic images in my head, but Paris was off the cards and, to be honest, when you get out as little as I do then anywhere sounds appealing.

Our night out was courtesy of Head & Shoulders who gave us £100 to spend together, after a 15 minute coaching session with relationship coach Matthew Hussey.

It turns out £100 goes far in Rochdale.

The tapas restaurant – The Rake in Littleborough if you’re ever near – was brilliant. We ate prawns in garlic (you don’t need to worry about garlic breath when you’ve been married 2 years) and chargrilled sardines, along with Halloumi and some fancy chorizo dish. Oh and olives – of course. And calamari. And bread. Actually, there was so much food I had to undo the top button of my jeans to allow for breathing room. Sexy.

We washed it all down with Spanish beer and Prosecco. It felt positively decadent to be sitting in a restaurant on a Friday night, leisurely eating and drinking, without having to get up to go to the loo with a young child every ten minutes or worrying about getting back for bedtime.

The thing is, the bill only came to £60. So, obviously, the answer was to go to the pub down the road to spend the rest of the cash. That’s where things became slightly less romantic, although no less fun.

Black peas and cider were being served outside in the garden area, which made the NLM instantly excited about being reacquainted with his Northern roots.

We drank some more and chatted and laughed and generally had a brilliant time. It reminded me how important it is to spend time together away from computers and the stresses of daily life – even if it’s just to sit on the sofa on a Friday night and watch a film together. We made a pact to keep weekends free to do more stuff together, rather than let work or chores take over every space of our life.

I tried to remember the points that Matthew Hussey made during our pre-date chat, to compliment my husband and bring something interesting to the evening to talk about. Next time I will remember not to make Gary Barlow my specialist subject or to compliment the hair of a man who has none. Other than that, we found lots to talk about that didn’t revolve around work, money or our child. I call that a win.

The exhaustion the following day was a good reminder for us both of how long we’ve actually been together and how much we’ve changed since we first met. Time was, we would go out partying until the small hours and still feel breezy enough to do it the following evening. Those days are well and truly gone now.

And no, I can’t still walk in heels.

***

Disclosure: A huge thank you to Head & Shoulders who provided me with £100 for the night out, and to Tots100 who arranged it. Thank you also to Matthew Hussey who gave me some fantastic pre-date advice, even if I didn’t follow it to the letter. 

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I look back at my blog posts and at least 8 out of 10 times, I seem to be writing from a point of moaniness (I may have just made that word up).

Although life is far from blue, inspiration often comes in the form of a tantrum or head-desk moment from my three year old. Knowing there are others who have been there and HATING the thought of being one of *those* boasty parents, these tend to be the situations I’ll share.

But then I read this post. And I pulled up short.

I don’t want Frog to read back on this blog when she’s older and think “Blimey, I gave Mum a hard time”. Of course – like every mother – there are many times when I want to bite on my hand with frustration at her behaviour, but the truth is she has done absolutely nothing to make me want to do that recently.

So I thought I’d write her a letter.

Dear Frog,

Thank you.

Thank you for being you and making me laugh. You are a constant source of entertainment for your dad and I, regularly leaving us in stitches at your latest funny story, song, dance or random saying.

Thank you for being so bloody flexible, taking just a week to get settled in this new home of ours. Thank you for being consistently positive and telling us how much you “love Devon”. Thank you for helping us be sure that we absolutely made the right decision to move here.

Thank you for your affection and kisses and “I love you Mummy” moments. Thank you for smiling when strangers stop to talk to you in the street or the shops – your coy waves of goodbye leave my heart fit to bursting with pride, even though I might not show it.

Thank you for your continued lack of self-awareness, so that you’ll think nothing of whipping off your pants if you have a “wedgy” (which you’ll tell anyone who’ll listen, in a typically unladylike manner).

Thank you for being here Frog. You make the colours of life that much brighter.

Love from,

Mummy xxx

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I’ve lost two members of my family, worked hours I didn’t think possible and seen my daughter battle hypermobile joints leading to a delay in walking.

But.

But. I have also seen my toddler take those hypermobile joints and give them the middle finger. I have seen her run across sandy beaches and welcome the waves with joy. I have spent evenings lying, exhausted on the sofa and been treated to homemade meals and known there is a reason I married the man I call the (self-proclaimed) Northern Love Machine. We have battled this year together.

I have made new friends and visited new places. I have reached new goals in my work and strived to take them to even bigger things. I have written and written and written and talked a bit and written some more.

Yes, it’s been a thoroughly tough year. But those moments of joy make it all worthwhile.

January: not walking

February: Beach love

March: Outside

April: Chasing freedom

May: Mastering naughtiness

June: Walking

July: Finding happiness

August: New memories

September: Some luxury

October: Exploring woods

November: London adventure

December: Stolen kisses

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A week of waiting. Hope.

Flashing lights. The beeping of machines. Hospital corridors.

Silence.

This is not what we will remember. We will remember a wedding, laughter, a matching suit and jokes. The wine that everyone loved, chosen by you. An afternoon tasting and asking for your judgment.

A walk through the sunny woods. A lunchtime drink in a country pub. More jokes. More laughter.

A day putting up a fence at the end of the garden. Sweating, swearing, laughter. More jokes. Brotherly banter that never ends, even aged 60.

That is how you will be remembered. And that fence? It’s still here.

Every time I walk through it I will think of you.

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My story is one of waiting and hope and a strange week of limbo. It’s one of trying to stay positive and wanting to wrap up the people I love, taking the hurt away.

As I put my daughter to bed tonight, I was reminded of the endless ways children can surprise us. A bleak phone call had just confirmed the week of waiting was apparently at an end. There is no hope left.

As the tears poured down my cheeks I pasted on a jolly smile and started to read a story. But my two year old stopped me. “Mummy, don’t cry,” she said. “Why sad?”

I explained that people we love are hurting and sometimes life isn’t very kind. I’m not sure how to explain those kind of truths to a toddler really. But she seemed to understand.

Nodding with a sense of wisdom, Frog turned to me and kissed my cheek, where the tears had fallen. “It’s OK Mummy, I make it better.” And she tottered over to collect a hairbrush, before calmly brushing my hair and patting my head.

“I make it better Mummy,” she whispered, kissing my eyes to dry the tears. “Don’t cry Mummy. You need plaster? I make it better.”

As I accepted the soothing, gentle kindness from my (usually fierce) toddler, I felt her soft hair on my cheek and smelled her warm, freshly-bathed skin. I drank in her life and held it close to me.

“You want a magic kiss Mummy?” she asked.

Never has she known me so well.

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Photo credit: Caroline Gue at CP Photography

This is my mum and dad.

The photo was taken on my wedding day, last year. My mum was busy bustling around, making sure everyone else looked nice. She helped me into my dress (that she made) before pinning my dad’s buttonhole. She got dressed after everyone else had left the house. She looked lovely.

My parents are my example. When it comes to being a mum myself, I look to them for inspiration and guidance on how to do it. They were funny. That’s the main thing I remember growing up. We had lots of laughter, often at my dad’s expense. Being the only man in the house, he milked the “poor dad” role with his two daughters, much to our amusement.

Our house was loud at times, but never through my parents arguing. If they needed to discuss things they would do just that. I never remember heated exchanges – apart from when my mum gave my dad the wrong directions on a holiday to France. He repaid the favour by refusing to stop for a toilet break and leaving her bursting for a wee for about a mile. My sister and I thought that was quite funny. She did too, afterwards.

We were by no means poor, growing up in a typically middle class area of Bristol. It was all organic veg shops and Guardian readers, eco boutiques and reclamation yards. But neither were we well off. Our house was bought from an old lady who hadn’t redecorated since the 1960s. Everything had to be ripped out to make way for things that actually worked. At the age of five, my parents hosted a birthday party for me. I can still remember my pride at the birthday cake my aunt had made in the shape of an elephant, as everyone sat around me on an old sheet on the bare, dusty floorboards, singing Happy Birthday To You.

Our garden was a Mecca for the neighbourhood kids. A patch of mud, it was the perfect place to go hunting for treasure. My dad dug that garden and later planted a lawn, laid a patio, created flower beds. He worked hard to make it a place we could play and keep pet rabbits.

Family holidays were a joy. Both my parents were teachers so we would go away for five weeks at a time, camping in France. We would eat good food and swim in the sea. At night my sister and I would snuggle together in our side of the tent while we listened to my parents snoring on the other. I can still vividly recall one night we all shared a family hotel room and my sister was purple with rage by morning. We found her curled up in the bathroom, with a hairband around her ears and makeshift cotton wool pads turned into earmuffs. Apparently we were all snoring.

These are the family memories I hope to recreate with my own daughter. We are three at the moment, but one day we may be more. I hope for laughter, a lack of political correctness and shared joy at the small things. Both my parents swear too much, laugh very loudly and have a love of a good glass of wine. They were never pale people living in the shadows. Now retired by the sea in Devon, they’ve quickly adapted to country life with a new group of friends and hobbies. I miss them.

This week I have missed them more than ever. Things are on my mind, decisions to be made, life to live. Usually so upbeat and cheerful (apart from when my alarm goes off at 3.30am), I’ve been feeling confused and low. I’ve questioned myself and rung my mum and dad for advice. I’ve sobbed down the phone at the sound of their kind voices and then reverted back to my teenage self, reliant on my mum and dad for their wise owl counsel.

It will always be this way. I’m an adult now, but I’m still their child. They’re still my parents.

Which is why I’m so pleased they’re coming for an ad hoc visit next week. Hopefully they’ll bring some of that wine I love so much.

Photo credit: Caroline Gue at CP Photography

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There should be a law that states all mothers, fathers, brothers and sisters should live within 45 minutes of each other. The law should only be waivered in extreme circumstances, like if the family involved can’t stand each other and would rather live on opposite sides of the universe than a relatively short car journey away.

I don’t belong in that camp. I love my family – like them even. I bicker with my sister, who is also my best friend in the whole wide world. I laugh at my mother and father, who are also (they’d hate me saying this) my inspiration and – as an adult – people who I love to spend time with. I also love my in-laws and have found two new brothers and two new sisters in my marriage to the (self-proclaimed) Northern Love Machine.

The thing is, they all live too far away. Quite literally, at opposite ends of the country. My retired parents live in a beautiful cottage by the sea in Devon, 4 hours away. My in-laws live scattered around Manchester, also 4 hours away (although it’s usually more like 8 hours due to the appalling Friday night traffic).

It’s too far. Far too far.

Work commitments and the fact that, since January, I’ve only had a fortnight of holiday from those 70 hour weeks have meant we don’t get to see any of them as much as we’d like to. But it also means that the time we do get is precious.

On Friday we packed up the car and trailed up north. Eight hours of motorway traffic later, we arrived at the NLM’s homestead, to be greeted by smiles, hugs, wine, beer, a delicious curry and lots of toys for Frog. We woke up the next day to more family; two brothers and their lovely partners, a gorgeous 4 year old neice, a gurgling, soft and beautiful 6 week old new addition, an aunt, uncle, cousins, old friends… It was like something out of a Peter Kay sketch but with fewer grey cardigans and dodgy haircuts.

I love those huge family gatherings. As a child I would relish the chance to have all my aunts and uncles, cousins and grandparents in one place. The bickering, the laughter, the food – oh, the food – the games, the inevitable tears, more laughter and more food. The first time I visited the NLM’s family in the north I felt instantly at home. It was the same.

This weekend Frog got another taste of the big family life. She carved a pumpkin with her idol – her cousin – and her grandfather. She ran off halfway through with her idol – her cousin – and left her grandfather to do most of the work. And she returned at the exciting bit with her idol – her cousin – to watch her uncle light the ceremonial candle in the window.

She spent ten minutes getting trussed up in her best outdoor gear for her grandfather’s annual fireworks display, only to watch 30 seconds before running indoors with grandma, screaming alondside her idol – her cousin.

She missed the sparklers. But that’s OK, because the adults made the most of them.

The weekend ended at 9pm on Sunday night, when we eventually arrived back home, dragging our suitcase full of dirty washing through the door. I’m still exhausted – as is Frog – but we had a brilliant time and those two nights spent with family were worth the long old haul up the motorway.

I just wish everyone lived nearer. But until that happens, I’m happy to drink in every second of the fleeting visits.

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We have a deep connection, my husband and I. We discuss the truth of life often and have been known to talk deep into the night about philosophy and the cosmos.

The same is true of car journeys.

Because we are connected on a higher level, sharing an understanding of things above and beyond the minutae of daily life, we don’t talk about the humdrum things while driving to a destination. Talk of traffic jams and idiotic drivers and delays due to neverending roadworks do not concern us.

No, instead we have chats like the one we shared today, on the way to a family meal in our nearby town.

Me: Everyone at work was laughing at me last week, because I said I’d happily break my leg for thirty thousand pounds.

NLM: Oh yeah? I reckon that’s fair enough. Thirty grand is a lot of money. I’d break my leg for thirty grand too.

Me (nodding vigorously): Yeah. You understand me.

NLM: Definitely. In fact, I’d staple body parts to a chair for thirty thousand pounds. My own I mean.

Me: Wow, really? I don’t know if I’d do that…

NLM (with a new light shining in his eyes): Hmmmm. I’d eat stuff too. For thirty grand, I mean.

Me: Like what?

NLM: Oh you know. Non-food stuff. Gross stuff. For thirty grand. I think I’d do pretty much anything that wouldn’t jeopardise our relationship or kill me.

Me: I’m not sure about eating stuff though. That’s actually really disgusting. Are we talking excretions? Like actual contents of a nappy, for example?

NLM: Uh huh. For thirty grand. I’d even eat the nappy itself. That’d sort our mortgage deposit out right there wouldn’t it? I mean, you’ve got to haven’t you. It’s for the good of our family. You’ve got to just suck it up and think of the money.

Me: Guess so. Still don’t think I’d eat stuff though. Not sure if I could do it.

NLM: Yeah well. We’re all different.

Told you. The intellectual nature of our discussion knows no bounds.

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How much can happen in a year. On this day, one year ago, I was doing this:

It’s been an eventful year. We’ve dealt with Frog’s walking issues, battled my new odd working hours and crammed in holidays, family days out and a trip to Cuba.

Now bring on the next one.

Happy anniversary. Pass the bubbles.

***

All photographs by Caroline Gue of CP Photography. She’s bloody talented that woman.

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