In reaction to reading ‘The Glass and the Bowl’ by Louise Edrich in a poetry book Ashley had gifted me.

—

You made me cry on my birthday, and really, it was the best gift. That kind of cry where you hold your breath because you just know the moment you open your mouth more unfiltered emotion will escape from your eyes and rock your words.

It hit me a little. Then it hit me a lot. And I kept re-reading the poem to see if it would lessen, or if I could better come to terms with it, but I could not overlook its subtle power; the way it reduced me to uncontrollable tears, I know it’s because underneath all the desperate levels of sadness there is an infinite well of love that will never, ever dry up.

And so these tears will never, ever dry up. I went to sit with you during her midnight feed, to see if that might settle me. Then her tiny hands wrapped around my finger, and I lost it all over again.

On Sundays, I remember.

It was one of the few days he could have had to himself.

But without fail we’d drive to Rowland’s Castle, for surely just another pulled muscle or skewed finish.

Be it the bitter cold, or an utter downpours, I’d arrive with the discipline of polished boots,

and leave with them caked in mud, clapping them together sending echoes through the car park before climbing into his Beemer, roaring home through country lanes, Guns N’ Roses blaring,

and upon arriving home, I'd clean my boots again to the ker-ching of a 'Radio 5 Live' gameshow as he spent the next few hours preparing a feast,

then we’d sit at the table (Elbows off. Backs straight.) and I’d ding my knife on the roast potatoes to test the integrity of their crispiness, refueling my body with as much sausage stuffing as I were permitted.

I understand better now that these weren’t sacrifices (the many things he did for us),

they were the things that made him happy.

Updated on March 6, 2026 for Dad’s funeral

I'll never forget those early days, the bi-hourly feeds, the tiny trials, the early reward of Summer's smiles, and the love that we grew in a million ways.

You have always been great at games... but never was it as plain to see as when (and how easily) you took to this, a game amiss of definite rules and well-worn tools in need of revision, but never clouded your vision of how you would raise her. You selected, appraised, and collated the ways, developing a motherhood manual of your own, through courses and the instincts that stirred in your belly, perspectives renewed and a model for many of willpower, and gusto, and inspirational poise; determined to set yourself up for success, and when the time came to push you gave it all. Nothing less.

In a way, that was all expected. You're the strongest woman I know (by far); this challenge would never rock you. But in another way, you entirely surpassed even the strongest of our estimations, revealing the mother I always knew was deep in the heart of you.

Happy first mother's day, you beautiful soul. Once again, you've excelled and amazed. You're a natural, you're incredible, you're a love to behold, you're a mother, now, and for all of your days.

Not every day will be like this. You can’t rely on this temporary serene that comes of not poisoning or hampering your soul, for the slow and boring days will come again and again and again, and only then will you know if the lesson has been learnt and burnt into the habits of your new way of being.

It is pain to be forever inaugural, never celebrating the anniversary of being renewed.