I’m lying in bed surrounded by my children’s cuddly toys – it’s the nearest I can get to having my children with me. The teddies smell of my children – some even have slightly discoloured bits where one of the children has spilt something on their teddy as they’ve dragged it around with them. Last count, there are around 30 cuddly toys in my room – all belonging to them. They’re crazy about them. There are leopards, lions, sheep, rabbits, bears, glow bears, cats…….all sorts, shapes, sizes, colours. All of them much loved.

There here with me because the children want me to have something to cuddle when they’re away from me. Each time they come here to me, they bring different ones so that the teddys do a “rota” system: the teddies spend a few weeks here, then a few weeks at their dads…………

My son gave me his favourite rabbit to cuddle whilst he’s gone. When I objected, he said it was the only rabbit that had enough of his love in it to keep me going – he wanted his rabbit to love me whilst he’s gone. He took away another new one and said that I could have the new one once he’d loved it for a bit so that it was filled with his love and then I could cuddle up to the newly love-filled rabbit……Rather like the duracell bunny, I guess….

Only problem is, these teddies don’t cuddle back. They don’t bring tears of laughter to my eyes when we swap a silly joke or make up a story. They don’t have warm, loving hands that hold mine. They don’t tease and argue and fight and joke and laugh and cry  and sneeze and jump and muck about and giggle helplessly. They don’t look at me with love, kindness and care; I can’t even bear to look into their glassy, cold eyes and see………….nothing.

They’re empty in truth.

And that’s what I am without my children.