This time last week I was sitting on the sofa, twitching excitedly like I had jelly beans in my knickers. I had bored the world to tears by counting down …
We all know we should be grateful that it is not something worse, god knows we are but it doesn’t help heal the hurt.
We all share the pain of putting our children to sleep and watching them wake to life in spica.
I remember being sat at school, teenage hormones erupting all over my face and puppy fat edging over my pleated skirts, listening to the teachers talk about future careers and day dreaming of what I would become.
Easter always starts the same way, at six am you can find me stood on our front lawn scattering foil wrapped parcels of delight in amongst the flower beds.
Preceding this tradition is usually an exchange of harsh words between he who helped create them and I as he declares me insane for mimicking the actions of an imaginary over grown bunny once again.
Today tasted like chocolate ice cream with rainbow sprinkles and raspberry juice squirted on the top. When BB had her operation and was fastened into cast for three long months part of my world turned grey. I could only see what she couldn’t do, I saw water that she couldn’t swim in, I saw parks she couldn’t play in, I saw a life defined by her limitations and it broke my heart ever so slightly.