Little Tummies

When I last wrote here I was single, I'd like to say carefree (but that would be a lie), devoted to my amazing job giving money away and living in my little London garret. Whilst dreaming of, and talking daily to, my imaginary dog and yes, I confess, on occasions, my imaginary partner. The dog was easier to maintain and far more loveable.

Fast forward three and a bit years and YOWSERS - how the f*ck did this happen?  I'm married, living in the US UNDER TRUMP (wtf?!) with not just two step-sons who live with us, but a third who will be moving in next year.  My adored career, and pertaining self-identity, feels like a roller coaster heading for a crash and I've recently had back surgery so can't even boost my mental health with sweat inducing runs.  I do however have a dog - a soulful, beautiful mess of a gene pool whom I utterly adore and spend more time with than my new family.  She rests her gorgeous head on my burgeoning tummy (aaagh let's not go there) and I lick the top of her head.  Because that's what her mummy would do.  It's the only chance I'm ever going to get to be a mummy.  Let's cover that story on another day.

That's not so say I don't love my funny family, I do.  It's not an easy journey being a step-mum or marrying a widower, however they all carry a myriad of harder and more painful stamps in their life-passports than  me. Which makes me an utter bitch on the days when I simply cannot cope. The days when I'm tired of trying to cater to every tastebud to ensure that the boys are having at least one of their supposed five a day, and NO - corn dogs are not a f*cking food group.  Which is when I retreat to our new holiday home (which of course I'm already having sleepless nights over in case the rental doesn't cover the mortgage).  And breathe.  And drink wine.  And think of another 30 recipes which the boys won't eat if I make them.

Help.