Andy rounds on me with a sour face that says I’ve done something wrong.

‘What have you been telling Bubbles?’

Ummm.  My brain scans through the last 48 hours and tries to pin down exactly which of my major or minor mummy misdemeanours he might be referring to.

‘What do you mean?’ I ask innocently, knowing that his accusation is enough to send a flush of guilt to my cheeks.

‘Bubbles seems to think that you are not her real mum’ he continues and the surprise on my face is genuine.

‘Where’d she get that from?’  I send my brain on a rescue mission, searching for memories where those two words appear together.

Search string “real mum”… Results – zero

I come up blank.  ‘I don’t think I’ve mentioned it’ I say, with the closest approximation I can make to certainty.  My PhD-brain has run off with the milkman and I’ve lost  about 75 IQ points (probably down the back of the sofa) and there are parts of the last few days that are shrouded in mystery.  Did I say it?  It’s a good job I am not in court as any half-decent court-appointed defence lawyer would blow my statement into pieces.

Her Other Mum

We’ve always stuck to simple terms.  Your birth mum and dad, and mummy and daddy (aka us). We started off trying to use birth mother and birth father, but the unwieldiness of those phrases soon had them morphing into birth mum and dad.

Why is she now calling her birth mum her real mum? I wonder where she heard it?   Andy is uncharacteristically livid.  I wonder why?

Who’s Your Real Mum?

I hear him explaining sternly but patiently to Bubbles:

‘Your real mum is the mummy who looks after you, who takes you to school, who makes you breakfast and combs your hair.  Your real mum is the mummy who cooks your meals and reads you story and washes your clothes.’

Oh,  I see.

I feel a warm cuddly sensation – he is protecting me.  Protecting my right to be Bubbles’ real mum.  How sweet.

Her Real Mum Is Me