No big deal

Sometimes you wait for what seems like forever for something to happen. You expect there to be a build up, an inkling that it's going to begin but then it's just there, smacking you in the stomach at 8.10am and making you cry.

This morning, at 8.10, the boy stood up and walked across the sitting room. Steps, five of them, all by himself, with no encouragement whatsoever.

I jumped up and down and clapped and cheered and tried to stop the tears rolling down my cheeks. He bent down, put his hands on the floor and turned to look at me with a face that said "Alright love, calm yourself down." Disdain, from a 1 year old.

You can come back now

After six weeks of following me around, taking afternoon naps and occasionally doing a bit of DIY, Mr Jones has returned to the world of work. He left on Monday for the other side of the country and won't be home until Saturday. We miss him.

At times during his six weeks off I asked what on earth we are going to do when we retire? Being in each other's pockets 24/7 was not as idyllic as it sounds, especially with a small boy in tow. But now he's gone again and while I like the fact that when I tidy the house stays that way for at least two hours longer than usual, it is a bit lonely without him.

The small boy misses him too. Yesterday I got out the photo albums I made him for his birthday - full of pictures of his first year. We got to a picture of him and daddy in the bath and he pointed at it and looked at me quizzically. I turned the page and he turned it back again and again. When we were finally allowed to move on we got to a page full of picture of him and his daddy and he just burst into tears, which quickly turned into sobs. He was looking at me and pointing at the pictures with the most forlorn expression. In the end I had to put the pictures away and take him out for a walk to calm him down.

Now we are counting the sleeps until daddy comes home - only three more left. We can't wait for cuddles.

Today I decided to pretend that I'm seven again...

so I fell over, twisted my ankle and grazed my knee. I wasn't really pretending to be seven - I'm just a clumsy cow.

I now have a very sore ankle and a gross looking knee. Weirdly I'm quite looking forward to having a scab. I haven't had a scab in a looooong time. This is probably a good thing - I don't think you're supposed to have scabs at 31.

Perhaps it's a mum thing - to remind me just how painful it is to graze your knee for the inevitability of all sorts of minor injuries once the boy decides to finally get up and run.

I've never had nice knees and as they've spent the past six months or so crawling around on hard floors they don't look much worse with a scab as an accessory. In fact it tones in quite well with the bruises on my shins and by friday the leg hair that I haven't had a chance to deal with will have thatched over it nicely anyway.