Like Tomorrow



Why Our Wedding Day Wasn’t The Best Day Of My Life

During the evening my husband and I love a sky+ guilty pleasure hour of Judge Rinder.

This week saw a woman whose wedding day had been ruined by a dispute with the horse and carriage guy. This prompted Judge Rinder to say: ‘because it was supposed to be the happiest day of your life’.

Hubby: ‘Was it the happiest day of your life?’

Me: ‘No.’


Your faces right now might be as shocked as his was then but hear me out.

I can’t get on board with this whole happiest day of your life thing. Even taking the day Jay was born (because all that pain to get those little eyes staring back at your obviously makes it the best day any parent can have) out of the equation, it still isn’t the best day.

If your wedding day is the best day of your life then falling in love mustn’t have been an exciting enough experience.

The day I realised I was in love with this man who had been changing my life over the previous few weeks was a pretty good day. The day I didn’t feel scared about it because I knew it was right. The day he said it back was pretty awesome too (even though the car had broken down).

The first day that he walked into my life (again) and we got kicked out of the pub because we were too busy realising that we were both on the same unstable wavelength.

The day we finally got pregnant after trying for what felt like a really long time and worrying that it might never happen (only joking Mum – we only did it once).

Everyday we laughed together, or spent the day in bed watching Gilmore Girls (those days are long gone now) or even the days we argued. The days we went to Asda and built up that little routine we have perfected over the years of how to organise our bags. Do not underestimate the importance of a finely honed routine.

Everyday that I think back on when we did something that has built the foundation for not only our relationship but more importantly the friendship we have. The secret things that nobody will ever know we did but still make us absolutely crack up like nerds now.

Every time we had a minute of building a little bit more of us is the best day of my life.

The day we first painted the living room or attempted to wallpaper Jay’s room.

Even those nights we’ve spent up crying because we were so sleep deprived from a newborn, or when we just looked at each other and said nothing when somebody was trying to tear us down and we just didn’t care.

Because the day I signed the paperwork to become Mrs Walsh wasn’t the pinnacle of our love.


As unromantic as it may sound, it was a formality.

I became Mrs Walsh a little more everyday over those previous three and a half years.

Every time we argued and screamed at each other. Every time somebody tried to argue and scream at us and we ignored them. Every time we did something that nobody else understood and everyday we fought the world as a twosome and then a threesome.

Everyday we supported each other to go for it, or finished each other’s sentences.

Even that time I threw a cup of water in his face just for the fun of it while he was ranting (hilarious, even now).

Every day we found a new interest together.

Every time we went on an adventure.

This wasn’t the start of a new life. This wasn’t even about sharing our love with the others that we love, because we are quite happy keeping our love to ourselves.

Everyday after has been exactly the same as the days before, only now I’m signing a different name on the cheques.

What we had before was more than marriage and it was made by a host of best days of my life.

Because we don’t do big and flashy. We do what makes us happy.

So have your big weddings if you want them. That’s fine.

Everyday we did what was right for us and did a nerdy Team Walsh high five is the happiest day of my life.

It is what I was looking for twenty years.

And the best things are the ones your work for. The victory tastes all the sweeter.

And Team Walsh will always be victorious.

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Willies, Willies, Willies

Note: This post does not contain images of actual willies.

My time has come. I knew it would.

From the second I saw that little dangly bit on the scan screen over three years ago I knew there would be a time when it would seem to take over my life.

That time is now. The rest of my life has started.

The life where I am going to be (for want of a better word) preoccupied about what it going on *cough* downstairs in another human being.

The giggles that come from a (not quite) three-year-old as they (sorry again) explore down there are at their loudest when I tell him to stop. To pulling on areas I do not possess gives me phantom pains.

But it does not seem to stop.

I have looked up from my housework to see angles that I never hope to see again – on anybody. Angles that I’m not sure doctors and other health care professionals should be subjected to.

I could have pretended that it wasn’t happening – that it was just a one (two, three, yikes, four) off. That was until one of those days where you just feel like a soak in the bath. More precisely, as is mums prerogative (or possibly just mine) I felt like soaking my feet in Jays bath while he was having a splash around.

Cut to me straightening up from picking a towel up off the floor to find a willy rubbing against my arm.


It is willies* that got me into this predicament in the first place.

Just no.

But then I can’t help by laugh. Mostly in horror but giggles leak out.

This isn’t the height of the fascination though is it?! Actually, don’t answer that. I know this is only the beginning of at least another 16 years. I’ve watched Sun, Sea and Suspicious Parents – I know how it works.

So if you hear a scream of shock on a quiet Saturday night during *insert crappy Saturday night TV/one of the millions of programmes clogging up my Sky+ box here* then never fear. It’s just me – again, being touched by or made to look at things I really don’t need to.

Hubby’s response: ‘Boys will be boys’.

*I do not know why I phrased this like a multitude of willies is what got me into this. My husband may not be amused. However, just to clarify it was just one willy.

But a little bit of mess never hurt for a good cause - I just hope it comes off.

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When I started my new health column over on Visit for the Stork a few weeks ago, I decided to start with information on smear testing. I had my very first smear test last year and wanted to make sure that the young mothers that VFTS supports knew what to look out for before their invitation arrives, and what would happen when it was their time.

During my research I discovered that Jo’s Cervical Cancer Trust were running a #SmearForSmear campaign, encouraging women to share their lipstick smeared selfies to raise awareness of the importance of attending your test.

So, despite not actually owning a lipstick (the 2-year-old boss of the house got hold of that a while ago) and having to raid my mothers make-up bag, I decided to partake.

Sadly, or not, it it also sans any other make-up and with some distinctly rouge eyebrows.

Testing out colours from the few options I stole from my mothers 1980's make-up bag.

Testing out colours from the few options I stole from my mothers 1980’s make-up bag.

Maybe putting my hair down will detract from the eyebrow situation.

Maybe putting my hair down will detract from the eyebrow situation.

Hhmmm, better. This may be the closest thing I've had to getting ready for a night out in years.

Hhmmm, better. This may be the closest thing I’ve had to getting ready for a night out in years.

Quick touch up.

Quick touch up.

Now for some of that smear action.

Now for some of that smear action.

It's not actually as easy as it looks.

It’s not actually as easy as it looks.

But a little bit of mess never hurt for a good cause - I just hope it comes off.

But a little bit of mess never hurt for a good cause – I just hope it comes off.

The finished product #SmearForSmear

The finished product #SmearForSmear

Why don’t you get involved to by sharing your selfie with #SmearForSmear by Twitter or Instagram and nominating a friend.

Here is my three part smear series from Visit from the Stork –

When to ask for a smear test 

Smear testing – my experience 

The great age debate 

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On The Right Track

The hardest thing, I think, in this day and age (and especially as a mother whose every decision impacts more than yourself) is to have complete faith that you’re ‘doing the right thing’.

Whether this is one simple decisions (I usually have this thought if I take Jay to nursery when he’s got a little bit of a runny nose) or your entire life path, there is rarely an absence of self-doubt.

Most of the time we can’t even seek reassurance from other because none of us really know what we’re doing and if it’s right.

Regret is a powerful human emotion.

My biggest decision recently has been the choice to start my degree.

It meant suddenly spending more hours away from Jay, less money, stealing more of my evening hours and more stress. It would have been so much easier to stay at work.

Plus trying to persuade other friends and family that this was an investment in the future and a good leap out into the pitch black. Especially when you’re trying to convince them that a writer is what you want to be.

I have survived the first semester and even an assignment or two that come with a nervous wait for results.

I got my first set of written results back on Tuesday.


Not too shabby. I can live with that. I won’t shed a tear over it and I will chalk the feedback up to experience.

It is the end of the feedback that really got me though.

“You have a lot of talent as a writer – your style is engaging and flowing – you clearly have a great journalistic future.”

Suddenly my shoulders are a little further back and my head a little higher.

Not only did this come from a lecturer whose opinion I respect (even when we are heavily debating and telling each other we are wrong in seminars) but also it has something deeper than just a relief to have passed.

Those 22 tiny words mean that I am doing something right. These hours a day I take up babbling into a keyboard might not all be for nothing.

I may have some semblance of a natural talent that is not perfect but can be worked on and perfected. It is a viable career. I never said an easy one but an attainable one nonetheless.

I am on the right track.

It can be the small things that make the biggest difference. So that we can smile to ourselves and carry on our journey with a new sense of enthusiasm and motivation.

So God bless you Mike Temple (even if you did try to drag me into a Charlie Hebdo debate today) because, no matter how many other people you may have pulled that line on, I can take your words forward to the doubters and carry on babbling into the internet.

You have made an old lady student very happy.


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An Open Apology To Mrs Rabbit

Dear Mrs Rabbit,

I must send you my deepest apologies. I am afraid I have been dragging into a terrible case of slander without knowing the full facts.

You see, a few weeks ago I saw that you flew a helicopter. I commented to my husband that that was pretty cool. What an awesome feminist you are!!

My husband informed me (I never should have trusted him) that a few days earlier he had overheard your conversation with George and Peppa Pig regarding how you were a stay at home mum and spent your days doing the most noble of professions and caring for your four tiny rabbits.

Okay, I thought, maybe the helicopter is just a hobby for the weekends. Everybody had a life and a hobby before having children after all.

The next day we saw you driving the local bus.

This is when, I am sorry to say, I got pulled into my husbands theory that maybe you were working cash in hand. This was compounded when you were seen working at the supermarket at the weekend.

I hang my head in shame to say that we may have used the words ‘benefit fraud’ in relation to yourself. On more than one occasion.

All I can do at this point is plead with you not to sue me for slander.

I have realised the error of my ways.

I should have collected all the facts before I made an assumption (I blame Katie Hopkins for putting ideas of spongers and no-goods in my head).

I was happy to finally meet your twin sister, Miss Rabbit, and hear all about the 11 jobs that she currently holds down.

She sounds like an amazing women and I hope you can pass along my apologises in this case of mistaken identity to her too.

I’m sure you can understand the confusion. You look so alike – wrinkle free might I add. Is that Nivea you use? – but that is no excuse for my judgements.

I think it is noble work that you both undertake, although I do think that you should tell your sister to slow down. She works so hard that she deserves a break and a lie in.

Perhaps she could try speed dating. I think she could afford to spend more time with her feet up – or quality time with all her nieces and nephews – if she had somebody else to worry about putting the bins out or hovering the warren for her.

May I just add that Rebecca, Richard, Rosie and Robbie are a credit to your parenting skills. I think you should also have a huge pat on the back for having Grampy Rabbit as a father-in-law. You must get frequent headaches.

One last thing – bravo of finding a husband who already had the same last name as yourself. It must have made changing your bank and electricity bill details over so much easier.

Keep up the good work.

Maybe we could have carrot cake sometime – I’ll pay.

Apologies once again,

Mrs Walsh


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The Cave

I mentioned last week, in my attempt at procrastination, that I was counting down the minutes until my induction for ‘Caveman Training’ (a style of cross fit/HiiT). (What am I doing?!)

Well, you’ll be proud.

I actually made it. I may have driven less than the mile to get there and sat in the car staring at the building for 10 minutes until hubby came to fetch me after his class finished, but I went.

Thankfully there were other nervous looking people standing around, dressed in trainers that looked fresh out of the box – including mine even though they’ve done quite a few treadmill miles.

Then we met the infamous Baz.

With having more than a few friends who go to Cave on a regular basis, my Facebook news feed is very up to date on the trainers that work there, but despite his scary profile picture, Baz was actually one of the nicest people you could meet.

In fact, despite being in an old warehouse (what a perfect place for a cave) the whole place had a welcoming feel after you got over the initial shock of the dozens of sledgehammers and tyres dotted about the place.

There seems to be constant banter flying about, but none of it actually being in any way sexist or derogatory like you can find in some male places. There are probably just as many women here as men, every age range (and weight range) you can imagine too and everybody is equal.

We split into two groups – just to start off more banter about who is the best trainer – and we started by learning to wield the sledgehammer into the side of a tyre. The feminist in me was ultra annoyed that all the men had already mastered the technique (nothing about the weight, just the skill of it) and none of the women could. Where do men get taught these things? This would have been a far more interesting lesson to attend than ‘textiles’.

Then we had to lift the tyre. Later hubby informed me that it weighed around 90kg (roughly 150% my body weight) and it is the smallest one they have. What?! Who comes up with this stuff?! I was proud that I did lift most of it until I slipped from having nowhere to hold on. Take that!!

We did pull-ups (Ow!! Hand cream needed) and lifted some heavy things that I’m sure made unsightly veins appear in my neck.

To finish with some squats and pushing a sled that looks much lighter when you watch the YouTube videos and we were done. My arm muscles missed my usual running routine already.

I even got in to full on unladylike mode and flipped hubby the finger. The Cave persona had taken over me.

Then came the only big blow. When asked about nutrition, Baz said ‘no bread’.

Excuse me?!

No bread?! If I didn’t eat bread I would starve to death. I don’t want to be over dramatic but if it was a choice between giving up chocolate or bread then melt that sweet brown goodness down because I cannot live without my carb fix.

Luckily they aren’t strict about nutrition unless you’re asking them for advice and unlike most of the social media posts I have seen from friends claiming they are suddenly dieting for a bikini body, I am not. My fitness regime is to get my health on track so that I can go out on adventures and push myself to do new things, no matter what the label in my jeans or the number on the scale says.

So right now hubby is back at Cave and I am here doing what I do best – procrastinating.

But I will go. I promise.

I just need to scuff up my trainers a bit more first.

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What Am I Doing?!

I am a grown woman.

Although some may roll their eyes, I will be an quarter of a century old in less than 3 months.

I have nurtured a ridiculously tall toddler and I can stand my ground in heated debates almost daily.

So how have I managed to get myself roped into going to an induction for ‘Caveman Training’ (a kind of cross fit training).

There are so many more things I could be doing with a child-free Saturday, including eating things my bum will hate me for and reading a trashy novel that would make even my mother wince.

Instead I’m sitting at my computer staring at the clock, counting down to when I have to put on the ridiculously unflattering trousers that I found in my bottom drawer and go outside in the wind.

I’m not against exercise, but I usually only do it in the company of the figurines sitting on the shelf by the treadmill. They always judge the tiny shorts I shouldn’t be allowed to wear even indoors but at least they keep their mouths shut when I’m out of breath.

Hubby has been going to ‘Cave’ for nearly 9 months now and I am running out of excuses because it’s only 700 yards in a straight line from our front door. He’s already at his class now whilst I procrastinate, no doubt telling the other trainers to pick on me for demonstrations when I turn up (a threat that he has made which were followed by threats of me own – mainly sleep/pillow/face).

I could say no (I was the one who clicked the button to book the class anyway) but I feel guilty. Guilty because TimeHop has taken it’s opportunity today to remind me that I wanted to go exactly 365 days ago before my heart problems all started.

Guilty because I ate way too many profiteroles yesterday. I really do mean way too many. I don’t worry about my weight like 90% of women but it would be quite nice to have that 6-pack that I know is hidden under there.

A love a good challenge.

I’m in a hot sweat already.

Wish me luck.

*Looks at clock* *end procrastinating ramble here*


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