There's a strange noise - it's far away but insistent. It's coming closer. My throat. I think I'm choking. There's something digging in. I catch a whiff of something. It stinks. The noise is close now - I catch it. "Mummy! It's morning!". 

My throat , why can't I talk - oh, it's an elbow happily nuzzled in that soft spot, digging deeper. 

"Mummy!" Oh, there's that smell. It's her. And him. In my nose, literally. 

"I need breakfast! Wake up mummy!" 

I still can't open my eyes. I reach over for my phone - it can't be 7. I manage to force one eye open - it's


. What day is it? Is it Monday? Did I sleep through the weekend?

"Cmon mummy!"

"No!" I mutter, "go back to bed! It's still night time!"

"No it isn't! I can see the light. Is it time for me to put on my ballet shoes? Remember I have to dance!"

Damn you British summer time! The sunlight sure knows when to come up but the heat clearly doesn't! 

I remove the offending elbow from my throat for the umpteenth time and like a Boomerang it returns. "Judah!" 

No use, he's fast asleep. Like gone. Mouth wide open, facing me and emitting toxic fumes in the process. I thought baby & toddler breath was meant to be sweet. Another lie from the baby magazine centrefolds.

"Mummy! Ok daddy! Daddy, come downstairs with me!" 


And he's the morning one.

I lie still. I remember a time. A time when I didn't know time on a Saturday. When being ready for anything before midday was a chore. The time of the

Saturday morning

lie in. The days when I'd clean the house late

on Friday night

so I could wake up super late and enjoy the breeze blowing through the whole place. Yes those days. I speak to

Saturday Morning

Lie In.

 I apologise to her. I apologise for not fully appreciating all that she was, for now - she is no more. I look through the album of our time together, from childhood till 24th June 2011 when she had a sudden and untimely death. I was told time is a great healer, but the pain of her passing appears to be getting stronger with time. On days like today I feel it the most. 

I clamber out of bed, one eye still stubbornly sealed shut, whilst a bright eyed and bushy tailed Morayo-Hope springs into action. Down the stairs she runs, shouting out her breakfast request. Once upon a time my boob was the breakfast (or silencer as I called it). 

As I sit in the car park waiting for her to finish her dance / theatre class, I wonder if I should switch my eulogy and direct it at Saturday as a whole. Because I'm going to have all of 3 hours to do something non kid related before we race across town to a birthday party.

 Oh. Judah starts nursery in September. 

Forget it. 


It was good while it lasted.

**images from Sunday about to tuck into some Nandos! Yum!**