January - and time to update the blog



Have you seen the girl who used to write the blog?
Me, second row, second from left singing with
Encore.



Marian has inspired me again. La Keyes has posted an updated newsletter on her website and it made me think of this sad neglected little website - where the blogs have been less than plentiful of late.

 I admit, hands up, I've been taking a kind of head-in-the-sand approach to blogging. Life in the last year has become so insanely, very busy that not everything is getting done.

But reading Marian's update I thought, well, I'll try and at least once a month update what is going in in my life.

First of all - writing. Well, If Only You Knew managed to sell quite well and garner quite a few positive reviews. This made me very happy indeed as it was the toughest writing experience of my life. It did get one spectacularly hilariously bad review in the form of an anonymous letter from a reader who was aghast at my use of "bad words". "Who wants to read about that 'fecking' and virginity losing?" she asked.

I can confirm to you dear reader than no virgins were harmed at all in the course of the book - and the fecking was fairly mild. Swear to God. I'm a good girl really.

That aside, Feels Like Maybe came out in Norway, which was very strange and also wonderful. No anonymous Norwegian letters have arrived with me - yet.
With If Only You Knew out of the way I started work in earnest on my sixth book, which will be known as 'What Becomes of the Broken Hearted?' and tells the story of Erin and Kitty - two women whose lives intertwine through Kitty's bridal shop 'The White Room'. Erin is planning her wedding to Paddy, who is battling testicular cancer. Kitty is dealing with the unexpected disappearance of her husband Mark. I promise lots of heartache, tears, laughter and a wee bit of fecking (see above) - but it will be done in the best possible taste.

Outside of writing - well my children continue to grow, as children do. The boy will be 8 at the end of this week. The girl will be three in March. This FREAKS ME OUT. But both, bar a recent dose of tonsilitis, are happy and healthy which is something I am very thankful for. The boy is obsessed with football. The girl is obsessed with me - as in totally, limpet like, stuck to me like glue obsessed. Which would be very endearing and lovely if I never had to do anything but sit and play with her. Even toilet trips are accompanied. And we'll not even mention her accompanying me to a certain kind of examination ladies get every three to five years. Let's just say the words "What's up there, mummy?" will stay with me forever.

Writing with two children, especially the limpet, is no easy task - but they do give me some of my best material. And they do give great hugs.

As for myself - I'm still a proverbial wreck. My depression has been back - it's still lingers but I'm taking tablets and taking steps to make myself feel better. I know I'm forever going on about being on diet - and yes, I've started again. And it's working, for now, and with God's help it will keep working and I'll start to feel better physically as well as emotionally. Winter, I find, it always a tough time mood wise. So the glimmer of light I spotted when leaving work on Friday at 5pm was very welcomed indeed.

My other big saviour has been singing, with my choir Encore, each Thursday night. The craic has been fierce and we've managed to sound good. Just before Christmas we played a sell out concert at Derry's Waterside Theatre - which was daunting, exhilerating and wonderful.

We had a recent bus trip to Dublin to see Sister Act and we sang and laughed the whole way there and back like a big pack of eejits - and it was the most fun I'd ever had on a bus. (The show was good too).

2012 has a lot in store. I'm getting a new niece or nephew in July. The boy is making his First Holy Communion in May. 'What Becomes of the Broken Hearted' will hit the shops in late August. Who knows what else we'll experience - but please God it will be more good than bad.

Growing up too fast

So, the deed is done. My son was deposited back to school, shoes polished and hair cut into a neat and respectable style. His new, slightly too big, uniform was pressed to perfection and his schoolbag was stocked with new HB pencils, a collection of sharpeners and rubbers and some brand new colouring pencils.


He was excited to go back. He jumped awake at some time around 6.30am and declared, with a punch of his hand in the air, that “Yes! It’s a school day”. I spent the following two hours trying to convince him that we had plenty of time and no, there was no need to leave just yet.

He did hold my hand a little tighter as we walked through the school gates but he had no sooner set sights on his group of friends than I was dropped like a cold snotter and left to walk back through the gates to the car alone.

I’ll admit it. I felt a little emotionl. Actually I felt a lot emotional. Even though this was the fifth time I had left him at the school gates, surviving the emotional upheaval of nursery school and everything after there was still a part of me which realised we had reached another milestone.

He’s in P4 - officially out of the infants section of the school and officially one step closer to being one of the proper big boys. He’s put aside a lot of his childhood things already. His toys, the bits of plastic he couldn’t live without for years, are lying in their drawers replaced by a Nintendo DS and a football in the garden.

His spaceship themed bedroom - which we considered to be his big boy room - has been repainted in red and white, in honour of both his beloved Liverpool and his beloved Derry City.

He rolls his eyes when his baby sister wants to watch CBeebies, changing the channel to Sky Sports News at every opportunity. He no longer needs mammy to read him a bedtime story and wriggles about in an embarrassed fashion when I remind him of all the nights sat on the rocking chair reading ‘Bunny My Honey’ or ‘Guess How Much I Love You?’.

He turns scarlet with embarrassment when I remind him of the songs I sang to him as a young child and when his sister and I launch into a chorus of ‘Ba Ba Black Sheep’ he declares it dumb.

He’s most certainly not my baby boy any more. When he looks at me I see a young man stare back at me. His baby features are all gone. His face is thinner, his features growing more manly day by day.

His gapped tooth smile - a mix of tiny baby teeth and adult teeth which seem too big for his head, smile back at me. There’s not a hope of getting him to wear any clothes which are not football related and when he goes for a haircut he demands wax and wants to style it like a footballers.

I still remember when his hairstyle could only be described as “ frizzy curls” and when his baby face would grin up and me and no matter what I did, or said, or sang I was always the coolest mammy in the world.

Time, I feel, is just passing too fast. So when I dropped him off and school, and skulked back to the car - my hand still warm from where he had held on - I felt myself choke up with emotion and had to fight the urge to ugly cry right there and then amid the hoardes of other parents dropping their wee ones back off for the first day of term.

Of course I know that he will always be my baby - and that is especially true of a Derry son and a Derry mammy. We’ll always have that link - but there are times when I wish I could press the pause button for just a bit. Or even the rewind button to relive those moments I wished away when he was smaller.

I’m tending to take things at a slower pace with his sister. I’m tending to savour the moments more and not crave the milestones. She still, much to the horror of my health visitor and many right thinking yummy mummies has a dummy when she is tired or unwell. She still drinks her bottle of milk at bedtime. The potty training is coming along well, but part of me looks at the nappies with a certain (sick) affection and feels not ready to let go of that particular vestige of parenthood.

I’m already mentally counting down in my head to next September when I’ll hold her hand and walk her through the gates to nursery school. There is a fair chance they will need to sedate me on that day.

A friend very wisely said to me last week that while childbirth is agonising, it’s nothing compared to the pain of letting your children grow up and do their own thing independent of you. It’s a curious feeling - pride at how far they’ve come, overwhelming love, of course, and an almost uncontrollable urge to pull them back to you and hold their hands for ever.

Aged about 2

First day at Primary One, aged 4

Summer 2011, Aged 7 and a half.

The boy

Dear Joseph,

Well I'm not quite sure how we got here, but here we are and you are 7. Seven! For the love of  God - that's like proper big boy and not at all like a baby any more at all.

This past year has probably seen you grow more and transform more in front of my eyes than any other. Your face has changed - thinned out, lost the babyish look and adopted the look of who I can see you are going to be as you get older. Your teeth started to fall out - those wee precious baby pearls I scanned your mouth for on an almost daily basis when you were teeny and all gummy smiled. I love the gappy toothed smile you give me now, but don't go wobbling the rest of them all too much. I'm not ready for the tooth fairy to stop visiting just yet.

This year has also been the year of football - forget Bob the Builder and Star Wars toys and Imaginext - it's all about Liverpool FC and as many "interesting" facts as you can remember. I find it comforting that occasionally I see your eye stray to Cbeebies when Cara is watching and Postman Pat is making his rounds. You're wee yet. Don't forget it.

You've started to assert your independence more - choosing your own clothes, dressing yourself, asking for football kits and goalie gloves. You've started to help out around the house, putting out your own breakfast, setting the table, tidying away your washing. Now if only we could get your daddy to do the same, we would be flying.

Joseph, you still make me laugh - every day. You infuriate the hell out of me at times, but you are still the affectionate funny wee boy you always have been.

I love you very, very much funny boy. You are and always will be the light of my life.

Lots of love,

Mammy

x

Random Conversations with the Boy

Joseph, like butter wouldn't melt...

Joseph's homework on Wednesday seemed simple enough.

We had to fill in the missing words - and the topic was winter.

So, for example, we had "In winter the weather is very _ _ _ _"

Duly, we filled in c .o. l.d

We were going great guns on the rest of the homework til we reached the sentence

"Old people don't like the cold _ _ _ _ _ _ _ "

Now, I knew the word was weather. And up until this point Joseph had been getting the fact that he was supposed to fill in just one word on each line. But, oh no... now he decided to be more creative.

"Old people don't like the cold," he wrote "it kills them".

He had a point.

Let it snow, let it snow, let it snow

Yesterday was Cara's first real snow. I say her first real snow because last year she was too eeny to really make much sense of it. Yesterday however the verdict was in. Snow is good. She loves it almost as much as her brother.
Snowed in and "forced" to spend the day playing on the floor with my kids and watching cheesy movies, I had one of those "Would it be great if it was like this all the time?" moments.

Fleeting as it was it put everything into perspective even if just for a short time.

The new term was surprisingly emotional

I thought I was an old hand at these things.
I have packed the boy off to school for four years now (nursery, P1, P2 and now P3).
I didn't give it much thought to be honest apart from a passing nervousness about the amount of homework we are supposed to expect this year.
I took him to school, his enthusiasm infectious, and was delighted to see all his wee friends outside of the classroom as we waited for his teacher to open the classroom door.
Now I may be an overprotective mammy. I'm used to leaving him into the classroom, to his desk, and giving him a wee kiss before I go.
This morning was different. For those unfamiliar with the Northern Ireland school's system, our kids work under a new curriculum whereby Primary 1 and Primary 2 is supposed to be an extension of nursery - learning is focused through play and is less structured. (Although for my money the boys and girls in Joseph's class could give anyone a run for their money with their reading and writing).
Primary 3 is where the real works begins. As the school principal told Joseph before the summer "It's gonna be tough" (thankfully, he taught the children to say "It's gonna be tough, but I'm gonna do it!").
Leaving him today reinforced that. The teacher came to the classroom door and announced "Say bye to your mammies now, children!".
I, and several other of the self titled 'Over protective mammies brigade' almost had a stroke. What? Leave them? Here? At the door? Without knowing where they are sitting? Without knowing they are okay? Without having a wee chat with the teacher about how individually amazing our children are??????
Three of us stood, darting our head around the door trying to see that our (oblivious to our distress) children were getting on. We walked out, bereft. I have to say I fought back tears. It just seemed so grown up and it was hard for me to leave him with someone I know nothing about apart from her name.
I'm sure he is fine (she said, reassuring herself) and that he isn't given a second thought to his poor old mammy sitting fretting in her work.
But already I'm longing for hometime - just to see him and hear that it went okay.

AAAAARRGGHH Me Hearties....

The boy's birthday passed, as birthdays do, in a haze of cake, presents, tantrums (me), parties (one small tea party, one big party for his friends) and cake decorating.
I have never decorated a cake before. There is a reason Tesco make cakes and I am that reason. I do not do culinary stuff well. There is even a photo album on my facebook to show the ONE time I made a spinach lasagne. I needed half a bottle of wine and approximately £36 worth of ingredients.
It was nice, but seriously... toast is easier. All hail toast.

I wish I was one of those women who could just toss a few things in a pan and make a special wonderful treat. My sister is like that. She is always regaling me with stories of steak and ale casseroles, stuff with tofu, and Thai food and the like. Me? I don't even do mashed spuds well... they need to be lumpy and quite often runny. I'm pretty sure mashed potatoes should not be runny. Ever.

So why, in my wisdom, I decided to actually decorate a cake for Joseph's birthday rather than just buy one in Tesco is beyond me. I think it was a fit of madness. However I wasn't mad enough to actually bake the thing. I enlisted my lovely aunty for that and she produced a chocolate cake so moist and yummy than I felt sorry for it.

I was going to destroy it.
With the best will in the world, it was going to die - at my hands. But at least I could say I tried.

So I googled 'Pirate cakes' and came up with a few ideas. Then I went to Sainsbury's and bought approximately £36 worth of cake decorating ingredients (including a very large, very cold bottle of Pinot Grigio). I bought coloured ready to roll icing (2 packets). I bought two packets of chocolate fingers. I bought two bars of chocolate for melting. I bought food colouring. I bought a cake board. I bought buttercream icing stuff. Oh, and pirate candles, chocolate coins and a playmobil pirate.

And yes, I bought Apricot baking glaze - which apparantly you absolutely cannot live without if you want to decorate a cake. Realising that I could not find my rolling pin (if indeed I ever owned one) I went out and bought one of those as well. Oh and some writing icing-y stuff.

And then I set about doing what I did. I shaped the icing into a shore line. I battered the buttercream and added enough blue buttercream to sink a small ship. I boiled the baking glaze and applied it thinly to the part of the cake which would have the yellow icing moulded to it. I whacked on the buttercream. I drank some wine. I made the buttercream look like a choppy sea. I drank some wine. I stuck a few candles hither and thither and embedded a plastic pirate in the top of the cake.

I pondered whether or not it looked crap as I cleaned up the 23 bowls, 4 spatulas, three knifes, 2 wooden spoons and one wine glass.
And then I called the boy out to look at it. He smiled and told me it was "totally awesome".
So I didn't care one wee ounce- but I'll let you judge for yourself.

The annual "My wee Christmas Star" picture

From his cracking performance in the Nativity today.

The boy's latest obsession...

is with Star Wars. Here he is as a Jedi, in the Millennium Falcon. Thanks to his Uncle Peter for photoshopping skills.

There's a reason I love this fugly photo

First of all there is a thumb in the corner.

And I have at least three chins.

And a very, very, VERY fat face.

It is not a flattering photo - even though it was taken on the one day this year when I was full on glammed up for my sister's wedding.

It is, in fact, on first glance an ugly picture.

But I'm smiling the person who took the photo and I can see the love and joy in my eyes and the warmth of my smile for the photographer.

And the photographer, whose thumb you see at the corner of the picture, is my boy. And I hope he sees that smile (but not the chins) every time he looks at me.

The last of the summer whine

So summer is sweeping to an end. There are only a few days left until the wains go back to school and we have to accept that the weeks of running to the beach, playing in the park and getting out the barbecue we were promised are not going to materialise.


I’m quite fond of Autumn but I can’t help but feel a certain sadness at the end of summer – and of this summer in particular. This is the one summer I’ve had the chance to stay at home and be with my son instead of dropping him off each morning to my auntie while me and his daddy go out to work.

It has been an all together lovely – if at times exasperating – experience and I’ve felt like a proper mammy and enjoyed relishing our time as a family.

I have spent my days hoping the boy (and the girl, of course) will sleep in past 6.30am. I have watched an inordinate amount DVDS from Ben 10 to Star Wars and Hotel for Dogs. I have struggled with the cries of “I’m bored” (from him and me) and had to become creative with what we do to pass our time.

I have been, as the summer has progressed, a plethora of characters from Princess Peach, to Janine from Ghostbusters and Queen Amidalla. I have become quite adept in talking in a faux American accent when necessary.

I have also become adept at calming a tantrum without necessarily resorting to bribery and corruption – although at times a bar of chocolate has worked wonders. Sometimes I have even let the boy have share.

I have congratulated myself on getting creative with painting sessions or cooking sessions. I felt particularly smug when I managed, for perhaps the first time ever, not to mess up one of those wee ready packs of bun mix. I was even more smug when I made my own cupcake icing and decorated said buns like a true pro. There hasn’t been a Rice Krispie bun in sight.

And when I cooked a spinach lasagne from scratch – with not a jar in sight – I was so lured that I even took pictures. (Yes, I know this makes me either sad or slightly insane, but seriously, given that my usual cuisine is basic pasta and Dolmio this was an achievement.)

My son and I have sat up at night, chatting and singing and having discos in the living room. The boy has cut some moves to 70s classics while I’ve done my best to not entirely shame myself with some mad leaping about to ‘Things Can Only Get Better’ by D:Ream.

We have cuddled, and chatted and read a jillion books. He has learned to send emails and ride his scooter. He has been brave enough top jump into the swimming pool and allow his head to go all the way under the water. He has grown about a foot, or at least it seems, and grown into an even more caring and lovely wee boy who makes me roar laughing at least once a day.

But I think I have learned more from my summer at home with him – and I’m not just talking about learning a whole new appreciation for a glass of wine at the end of a long day.

I’ve learned a whole new appreciation for him – and for being a mammy. I’ve been forced to slow down and do things at his pace. I’ve been privileged to learn more of his quirks and habits. The last time we spent this much time together was when I was maternity leave when he was tiny - and in many ways he was much easier as a newborn. I could put him a cot and he would sleep. I could take him to town in his pram and he wouldn’t demand to go to the toy shop or get bored after fifteen minutes.

Now, I admit, he sets the agenda and I tag along doing my best to keep him in check and make sure he doesn’t turn into a spoiled article.

When there have been times I would have been happy to sit down and relax in front of the TV or with a good book (or, indeed writing a good book) he has encouraged me to head out to the park and whiz down the slides with him or push him higher on the swings.

My summer has definitely been richer for it and I know that when I return to work the memories of the last two months will be even more important to me. Sure I might have donned my rose tinted glasses already and be pushing the memories of the hour long whining sessions to the back of my head – but isn’t that what motherhood is ultimately all about? Take the rough with the smooth – remember the good times and congratulate yourself on surviving another day.

And when all is said and done, the good times are well worth remembering.

A little video of my babies

I sometimes look at my children and my heart fills with pride and I think "I made this"...
Other times I want to run for the hills... thankfully the nice times outweigh the tougher ones.

There are moments which take your breath away

The boy and I decided to have a disco tonight.
We went into the family room (aka back room/ office/ toy dump) and put Spotify on the computer.
We found a few songs we liked. And I put on D: Ream's 'Things Can Only Get Better' and raved while he swung about my legs grinning like an eejit.
And then he asked me to find an Irish tune called 'Toss the Feathers' and we mock Irish danced our way through it, til we were both breathless with laughter and my pelvic floor was tested to the max.
And when that was done I found the song I used to sing to him when he was a baby and told him how I used to rock him to sleep on his rocking chair while singing it.
We played it. I sang it and he cuddled in and I thought yes, this is what being a mum is about. And there will always be room for him on my knee, even when he is man big and has hairy toes.
The song? A Case of You - as sung by Brian Kennedy with the immortal lines...

I remember that time that you told me,
you said love is touching souls
Surely you touched mine
Cause part of you pours out of me
In these lines from time to time

Gratuitous Friday picture of the boy

Only fair he gets a shout... here he is, and no, that wasn't real champers in his glass.

It's worth bringing this out again...

For a rainy bank holiday Monday... this always makes me smile.

My babies

I'm so very lucky...

Lucky to have so much to lose...

I've been deeply (hormonally) moved by the death of six year old Ivan Cameron - son of Conservative party leader David Cameron.
It could be because he was a child not much older than my own gorgeous, vibrant son. It could be because the look of devastation on the faces of his parents in today's papers is almost too painful to see. It could just be that it sometimes feels as if there is no rhyme or reason in this world - how a gorgeously little boy can be so afflicted through his short life and then be snatched away from a loving family.

I've cried this morning - especially watching a phone in on 'This Morning' when agony aunt Denise Robertson broke down recalling the death of her own son.

It has made me realise how lucky I am - how blessed that today I kissed a healthy little boy on the cheek and told him I loved him and sent him out to school.

It has brought to mind a quote from 'Waiting for Birdy' (which I did promise to share some of...) In the preceding column Catherine Newman has written of how her son, three year old Ben, was rushed to hospital after taking sick. In the end it turned out to be a viral infection which wasn't serious.
She takes her son home, curls up watching old movies of him as a baby and writes : "We are so lucky to have evaded loss yet again. We are so lucky to have so much to lose."

I know what she means.

A pox on my house...

Well not exactly the pox, but this is more a be careful what you wish for kind of a post.
Today was, to me, my first official day of maternity leave. Although I finished work over a week ago, the boy was on mid term break so last week was the relaxing daytime telly fest I dreamed of.
Having been hugely pukesome ill yesterday I was looking forward to a day lounging on the sofa - in pjs -with occasional bouts of writing thrown in if I felt up to it.
This morning I woke however feeling strangely bereft. My boy was going to school. The distraction of his constant chatter and craic was going to be missing and in the absence of his sister making an appearance yet, I was going to be lonely.
Worse still I was going to have time to think about "the birth".
I do not like thinking about "the birth". It makes me very nervous and weepy because I am a yella-bellied-lily-livered chicken.
So this morning as I sent him on his way I felt so terribly sad that I had (yet another) hormonal cry.
Soon after I crawled back into bed to make up for the sleep deprivation of 24 hours of vomiting and was woken after an hour by the phone.
It was the boy's school. He had fallen and banged his head. I needed to come see him. He was okay, they reassured me. It was school policy that after any sort of knock to the head mummies and daddies need to be called.
Now in my half dozed state I replied very calmly that I was on my way and quickly changed and got into the car.
It was only on the 5 mile drive there that I started to panic. What if he wasn't okay? What if he was seriously injured? Or dead? I mean you read about these things in Take a Break magazine all the time. Sad mother one says "They told me he was fine and just to get there as soon as I could. Of course they were going to tell me he was fine so I wouldn't cause an accident by driving like a mad eejit across town weeping and wailing. When I got there he was dead."

Of course the rational part of my brain kicked in that if he had been seriously injured I would have been directed to the hospital and not the school.
And then Mrs Irrational chipped in with "unless, ya know, he is dead and there was little point in the hospital after all".

When I arrived at the school I was met with an ashen faced classroom assistant - by which stage I was almost passing out with fear. She told me he was in the classroom and as we approached I could see no sign of any boys or girls at their desks. Oh. My. God. This did not bode well.
Of course she then opened the door and he was sitting - ice pack to head - at the front of a group of kids gathered on the carpet reading about the letter i.
He did have a horrendously painful looking bruise and grazing and is now sporting a rather nifty egg. But he was very much alive and 20 minutes later was eating a bun, sat on the sofa watching cartoons with his favourite teddy.
So my bereftness at him leaving me for the day was gone - but he was there. Happy, healthy and a little bit bruised. But thankfully I've not sob story to sell to 'Take a Break'.

Birthday Blessings

Yesterday the boy turned five.
I was determined that even though he is having his proper party on Saturday he would have a fun day. I woke him to a chorus of 'Happy Birthday' - which to be honest, given my singing, wouldn't be the best start to anyone's day.
Then his daddy made him bacon sandwiches as a treat before he got dressed in his school uniform and I pinned a 'Birthday boy' badge on his jumper before showering him with a stupid amount of kisses.
I took an early release from work to pick him up from school and once he was lifted - along with his cousin - we went to the toy shop where he could choose his present. (A vay cool boat from the Fisherprice Imaginext range, just so you know) and then we went to local ice cream parlour for a treat. (which in fairness, given my high levels of heartburn was more for me than them).
It was an inexpensive, fairly basic little treat but both Joseph and his cousin's face lit up like Christmas trees when their 'Little Bears Picnics' were sat in front of them. Fiorentinis - an old fashioned cafe which does the finest homemade italiam cream - is a legend in the fair city of Derry and it did not disappoint us yesterday. I think I may have a new craving to replace the cornettoes.
My face also lit up when my honeycomb sundae was sat in front of me and I staved off attempts by the two kids to steal any of my icecream as if it were the most precious thing in the world. (Think Gollum in LOTR and you are about half way there).

The kids then came back to my house for a couple of hours and used their finest fake American accents to play Imaginext and then it was over to granny's for the traditional Davidson birthday tea.

Sure I threw up afterwards and sure I spent most of it wondering if the 3rd of February would be this latest baby's birthday too, but the boy had a blast and it was a very happy mummy and son who had a cuddle at bedtime.

Late last night we had some bad news that my gorgeous little niece's granny had passed away. It made me appreciate the lovely day we had and the amazing blessings I have all the more.
So happy birthday baby boy - you make it okay.

The highlight of my day

In just about 30 minutes I will leave my workplace.

I will get in my car and drive through the rush hour traffic.

I will stop at my aunt's house and knock on her door and her mad dog will bark at me when she answers.

I will walk into living room and this face will greet me.

And he will probably give me a smile and a kiss. If I'm lucky he'll tell me he loves me. I'm guaranteed that this particularly affectionate child will tell me he loves me at least once before he goes to bed. (He'll prob throw a fit at the thought of going to bed too. He's not perfect. We get daily cries of "But aaaaammmm plllaaaayyyiiiiiiiinnnng" and "Fine then!" etc)

All I know is that no matter how long the day, no matter how stressful the events, no matter how much there is to do or much I feel battered from the inside, a hug from my son makes it worthwhile.

I will never tire of that first smile at the end of the day.