I’ve realised I become an emotional punch bag when Popeye leaves.

I am the constant presence for our two daughters. The island in the changeable sea of their childhood.

I sit stoic and take the hits as wave after wave of raw 7 year old emotions crash down upon me.

Clumsy sentences, designed to hurt, are fired. I absorb the impact, hold my arms open, welcoming more.

Pour it out my darling. Pour your rage over your mamma. Pour it over me.

Hurt me to take away your hurt. I would take it all away if I could. Hurt me to take away your hurt.

Your pain that daddy keeps leaving, schools keep changing, friends are hard to find. We can’t see family as much. Life’s changing but I’m still here.

All this flotsam swirls around and stings you.

Wash it up on mammas shore little one.

My arms are open, waiting for when the fire fizzles out, turns to sobs.

When words you’ve said against me shock yourself, and you check if I’m still there.

I’m always here my love, always. I’m your mamma. I will never leave you.

I’m here little one. I’m here. Always.