Today was Joel’s birthday.
He stayed with me last night like he usually does on a Friday, which always feels grounding. We had a bit of a funny night with Tilly — one of those moments that flicks my anxiety switch on even though nothing is really wrong — but despite that, we woke up late. A proper lie-in. The kind you don’t realise you desperately need until you get it.
The morning was slow and easy. No rush. No pressure. Just calm.
Then we went and did something lovely and slightly ridiculous — got our matching chilli pepper tattoos. I still can’t quite believe we did it, and I love that we did.
After that, we dropped Tilly at her dad’s, and Joel bought Luca a bike for Christmas, which felt both grown-up and quietly festive. We headed into town and went to the Chop House for lunch, had a really nice meal, wandered around, mooched without purpose — one of my favourite ways to exist.
Then reality crept back in.
We headed home so Luca could go back to his dad’s, but he was coughing — that horrible, barking cough that sets off every internal alarm bell. By the time we got to Joel’s mum and dad’s, it had worsened, and I suggested what I already knew was coming: out-of-hours.
It turned out to be croup, just as I suspected. Awful, scary, but manageable. The doctor gave him steroids, and you could almost see the relief starting to work. Still, I decided to head home so Luca could just have quiet, uninterrupted time with his daddy. Sometimes that’s exactly what’s needed.
Joel rang me later to say he’d perked up loads, which eased the knot in my chest instantly.
Despite that wobble, it really was a lovely day. Joel liked his presents — even though I always worry I’m too soppy or not practical enough — and there was just this thread of warmth running through everything. Love, family, care, small moments stacked together.
A birthday with laughter, ink, bikes, coughs, concern, and relief.
Real life.
And a good one.
