FullSizeRender-1The umbilical chord is often seen as the ultimate connection between mother and baby. For me, it’s nature’s helping hand; a necessity rather than a matter of choice. A survival tool for the child within.

And although carrying something as wriggly and heavy as me for nine months is testament to how strong we are as women, it’s the connection that is made after that time is up, the invisible one, that is what makes a mother, a mother.

My brother was a nightmare, much like most teenage boys growing up in the big city. He had an attitude, loved women a little too much and hated school. I, on the other hand, was glued to your hip, aiming to please you at every turn. I felt bad I didn’t want to wear that money belt you insisted on me wearing at secondary school and was wracked with guilt when I snuck off to see boys instead of revising. Your children were polar opposites, but you seemed to balance our characters and fulfil our needs so seamlessly from day one that I’m sure you’re some sort of super human. And for that, we both thank you.

I had always thought that you were the only one capable of such magic, but of course I was wrong. Naturally, I still think you’re number one, but after asking for people to share the love they had for their mothers, I realised: you’re one part of a very big, very strong and very beautiful tribe. And so, the Dear Mum, Project was born.

So many of you had lots to say about the women who brought you into the world, proving how strong maternal bonds really are. I personally think something must happen to a woman when she gives birth that is never spoken about except for with fellow mothers because I sure don’t possess the stoicism, the strength or the resilience that you and I describe about the women who gave birth to us.

Today is a chance for mothers everywhere to take a break from the hardest job in the world. So as you put your feet up with a cup of tea and a chocolate hob knob, we say thank you, we love you and we appreciate you, for one day of the year (which really isn’t enough but there’s no real way to repay you, so it will have to do for now).

Happy Mother’s Day, to all of you wonderful creatures.

(As for you mum, I will never be able to show you how grateful I am for the last twenty five years, but I can do my best, as you always tell me to. So, dearest mother, the unquestionable love of my entire life, thank you for absolutely everything you’ve ever done for me- from telling me daily that everything will be okay, to gently letting me know that I should never, ever wear red lipstick – you’re an angel, and life without you is unimaginable.

Happy Mother’s Day, my life line.)


The Mother


It would be doing a disservice to my mum if I adhered to the clichés of that umbilical bond and called her my best friend. That she is, however, she is also otherwise known as “Superwoman”.

By day, she is a five foot short, inoffensive little lady.  By night, she is a fearless little pocket rocket with the ability to give Nikki Minaj a run for her money on the dance floor. She is, quite simply, one of a kind.

I know for a fact that she will organise my entire wedding to military precision the way that she wants it. She’ll drive me crazy fussing over my first-born. She frowns when I recall exciting tales from traveling that involve too much tequila and she will forever believe that even the longest of maxi skirts are too provocative.

But she’s not all bad. We spend hours dancing around the kitchen to music that she really shouldn’t know. We can spend an unheard of amount of time nursing two skinny cappuccinos on sunny afternoons. I talk to her about everything from dates and break-ups to uni and make-ups. And for everything that I censor orally, she finds out on here anyway. So to love me despite knowing everything about me, she has to be pretty special.

So mother, marge, rhino or mum…

I know I owe you thousands of pounds, I am aware that I leave wet towels on the floor, my room is a mess and I moan constantly about not having my dream job.

But all I can say is that when I finally grow up and you’re all old and wrinkly, I’ll show you how grateful I am whilst changing your bed pan. For the fifth time that day.

Thanks for being the best.

Happy Mother’s Day.