I have a number of character traits that I dislike.
I talk too much, I interrupt people and I'm a control freak... just to mention a few.
But, there's one thing I really despise about myself.
It's not obvious and it is completely (thankfully) unspoken - but in one particular area of my life I am a jealous cow.
My family all live in our homeland of Ireland.
It is my choice to reside here in Australia - and I have to be a big girl and suck up the consequences of that choice.
But sometimes I just don't wanna.
Sometimes I'm far too in touch with my inner toddler.
In fact, sometimes I want to throw myself on the floor, flail around and scream "I. Want. My. Mummy".
Particularly in the shops, actually.
Especially when I see Mums out with their children and their Mums.
Or when you tell me that your Mum popped over or your Mum has your kids or your Mum came to the doctors with you or your Mum made the cake or your Mum thought that your child had a temp or your Mum is too demanding or... you get the idea.
On challenging days, often all I want is to pack my kids up, hop on a plane to Ireland and turn up on Mum's doorstep.
(Actually I did that last year, but it's hardly feasible on a regular basis!)
Then I remember how horrific the flight is and I take a walk instead.
I feel for Hubby too, because I often think that if my Mum or my sister were close by, then he wouldn't have to be 'it and a bit' in terms of my family.
If they were around, surely he could go paddling all weekend long without the guilt trip of leaving me here on my poor old lonesome.
Or maybe not.
There's a level of familiarity and dependence that comes with Mums and sisters that I really crave at times. That ease. That freedom to be completely vulnerable and maybe a tad unhinged.
I am so blessed with amazing, fabulous friends - but they also have their own lives to lead and families to be with.
When I had Magoo, one of our neighbours had a grandchild at the same time.
A few times a week, I would see her daughter drive in with her baby girl - coming to see her Mum or drop the baby to Mum's or to pick up Mum so they could all head off to an appointment or the shops together.
She was (is) a lovely girl - but I found myself wanting to kick her in the shins or pull her hair or stab her with a fork.
I would be heading off for yet another walk by myself with my crying baby and she got to have 'Nanna time'.
I used to watch them drive off and flip them the bird.
Honestly. How embarrassing.
(I'm confident my disgraceful behaviour went unseen and couldn't possibly be the reason they moved last year. I hope.)
I'm burning with shame at that admission here - but it's almost uncontrollable - the silent jealousy.
It's still here fours years on.
I went to two appointments on Tuesday and in both waiting rooms were Mums with their Mums.
I'm pretty sure I gave them all the evil eye - accidentally of course.
Then I came home with my newly cortisoned wrist, put my newly immunised, miserable baby to bed and cried like an even bigger baby.
Until the universe intervened and forced me to grow back up.
My actual (beautiful) baby stopped breathing.
Twice. And then once more on the drive into the hospital.
Blue lips. Cold face.
This week I've been reminded that I am the Mummy now.
I need to woman up and save the sook for another time.
(You know what though, I still want my Mummy.)