Some things I’ve noticed; being a mum is hard, not being able to be a mum is hard, losing a mum is hard, being a step mum is hard, being an adoptive or foster mum is hard, having a difficult relationship with your mum is hard, being both mum and dad is hard. I feel like there’s a theme here. There will always be difficult decisions, sleepless nights and times of absolute exhaustion, where you don’t believe for a moment you can carry on. But generally we do. Somehow or other. It’s that point in our experience where I take my hat off to those parenting alone, through whatever circumstances with limited family support.

That was my experience for five years. My son had both parents until he was eight years old, but then his daddy sadly died. Lone parenting, especially while you and your child(ren) are in the hell of raw grief is an unenviable task. And I had next to no respite. A couple of families in the church who would occasionally take the boy overnight if I had an event to go to. My parents-in-law soon became estranged. Inevitably really, given they chose to stand at a distance and criticise my parenting rather than offer any real support. And my own parents were a good bit older and had no real concept of putting their grandson’s needs ahead of their own, even for a short spell.

Being both mum and dad felt relentless. My young man struggled with the loss of his dad big style. His emotions and endless questions wore me down at times. You could never dodge a question; I could occasionally pacify him with, “We’ll discuss this tomorrow.” But that usually meant I would be awakened early the next day with him more curious than ever. Not that I’d have had him any other way, but it could be wearying.

What I could never have predicted was the consequences of the death of my own mother. For a start I had no idea I had underlying bipolar disorder that was yet to be diagnosed and treated. And despite my mum’s decline into dementia over five years, she actually died quite suddenly.

I can now identify the toxic codependency that existed between my mother and I. At a young age I was conflicted in how to relate to my father because my mother would paint him in a bad light to me. I’m thankful I had the opportunity to get to know him properly as an adult.

My mother didn’t protect me from sexual abuse as an older child. She also was incapable, in general, of doing what was best for her children. I think she maybe tried, but was so mentally unwell herself she just couldn’t cope with us, and also the loss of the baby who died. Back in the late 60s these things were just not talked about. My brother still is bitter. But blaming someone else for his shitshow of a life is definitely the easy option. I did being angry with my mum, dealt with it in therapy and moved on. I’m not blind, I’m very aware she had many imperfections. But it is as it is. I loved her. I still do. And when my mental health isn’t the greatest, often the thought, “I want my mum” drifts around my head. Even though my logic tells me that she wouldn’t be able to help.

So after my mother’s death, I broke down. My son was also experiencing his own mental health challenges at this time. It was five years after losing his dad and things became unmanageable. He was too anxious to attend school. I had had to resign from my job. It felt like everything was falling apart. Despite visits from social workers (at my request) I was repeatedly told we were just fine. We absolutely weren’t. The day the boy was taken into care I over exaggerated the situation and used a few key phrases to our family worker at CAMHS to force their hand. I was at breaking point. I couldn’t look after myself let alone a teen with very poorly mental health. So after he was settled, I ended up hospitalised, and on the road to diagnosis, treatment and recovery.

It still took five years and assorted foster placements to get the boy home. His final foster carers were beyond amazing. I had no doubt they saw me as what I had always tried to be; the best mum I could be, under difficult circumstances, even when that meant acknowledging I was not the person to care for him.

Just as an additional note, I never dreamed of having just one child. That was my husband’s decision and I wasn’t entitled to have a say apparently. And despite what his parents were saying behind my back, my priority after his death was to best look after the broken little boy I had, not find a new husband as quickly as possible because I wanted more children. I would have loved more children, but it wasn’t to be. Doesn’t mean I don’t feel sad sometimes. I am genuinely thankful for the amazing young man God entrusted to me. And I’m grateful too for the children I had the honour of spending time with in kids’ clubs, Scouts, toddler group, youth groups, school, preschool and nursery. What a privilege to play a part in a child’s formative years.

And guess what? Being a mum is hard. It’s bloody hard. But it’s 100% the best job in the world. Happy Mother’s Day all xx