Its 10:42pm and the baby is snoring beside me, the toddler is finally asleep next door where his grandparents are babysitting while we spend our last few days in the UK before flying to the land of the free. I should be sleeping too, god knows how many times aforementioned baby will have me up in the night feeding, whining, grunting or copying her dad's snoring. Who's not here, so she'll be copying them from memory, but at least I won't have the usual surround sound effect. Yes, i should definately be sleeping.
Not looking through old photos of Ethan and the friends he's known from birth, not searching for big old farmhouses that can accommodate 4 rugby loving dads, 5 raucous children, 4 babies of various shapes, ages and sizes but all with impressive lung capacity, and 4 women who while they know each other thanks to the sheer coincidence of having unprotected sex around the same time, are more than the mum of their parts.
We are reaching the end of an era, us Streatham mums. Via a resurrected thread on mumsnet almost four years ago, I made friend with a group of women all due their babies over the same six months or so as me. Seven of us remain close and four of us have particularly shared in our triumphs, trials and tribulations, tears and tantrums - and those of our families. These women have seen me desperately sad, desperately struggling but utterly happy, utterly triumphant and also very drunk (let's not mention the chucking up all over the RML house, or at least pretend it's adorable because I'm the youngest!).
I've struggled with this weird thing called motherhood, this label put upon me that now defines me in a way that nothing else does, but through it all these women have been there to share in that to. To me they just happen to be mums, who have plied me with bacon and alcohol, birthed my son's best friends and my daughter's first friends, who have become my friends, my lifeline. Here's to you, my Streatham mums, and to the next part of our lives scattered across the globe.
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