I have always been very aware that cerebral palsy means I do not feel safe being a particularly physical mum. There is a quote that has gone round the internet that says “One day, you will put down your child and you will never lift them into your arms again.”

As an aside, I hate this kind of parenting vitrol. Because I am not putting my children down to the ground for any other reason than I want to keep them safe.

I have no idea when I last put my Squidgelet down onto the floor. I would have hated to know I wouldn’t pck her up again. These days, I make her climb onto the kitchen counters and wrap her legs round my waist as I lift her because I refuse for the last time to be yet. Those kinds of messages tell parents they haven’t cherished their babies enough and that is not the case ar all, not for me. Of course I wish I could cuddle and carry them always, but I’m their mum, I exist to be their safe place, not to be the person that drops them on their heads when I inevitably lose my balance.

One thing I haven’t done for the longest time is carry either of my girls up the stairs to bed. Essentially, once each of my girls could walk, I was encouraging them to clamber up the staircase. Again, not for a moment because I didn’t want to be the one carrying them, but because I never want to be the reason either of my precious girls ever get hurt.

Kev is normally in charge of bedtime. He normally carries them to bed, often together, in his arms, because they all deserve that closeness.

But with Kev’s Crohn’s diagnosis, he often gets pain in his joints, often without warning and he too now is having to learn to recognise when it may bot be safe for him to carry our girls in this way either.

“I want Daddy to carry me to bed.” Gabby whimpered sadly one night last week. Of course she did, and why shouldn’t she? She was used to the routine and the safety and security of Daddy carrying her to bed.

“Daddy can’t, baby.” I explained gently. “Daddy’s arms are hurting and he can’t carry you to bed tonight.”

I took a breath. “Do you want Mummy to carry you to bed?”

“You can’t carry me either!”

My heart broke a little then. This is what I’ve taught my little girls about me: Mummy doesn’t carry, because she wants to keep everyone safe. She understood that, at three years old. I was grateful, but felt so guilty that she had to, when all she wanted was someone who loved her to carry her to bed and why shouldn’t she want that at 3 years old? Why shouldn’t I be that person? After all, I love her so much.

“Go to the stairs, sweetheart and Mummy will lift you up like you’re getting out of the swing at the park?”

She understood immediately and bounded up the first few staird, holding up her arms and wrapping her legs tight around my waist so she could hold on when I got my balance, holding onto the banister.

Gabby climbed down at the top of the stairs. “I will go to my bedrooom now Mummy. My cuddlies are on the floor.”

She meant – she knew – I couldn’t safely carry her to her bed in the dark if there were toys in my way – I, we – would hit the floor. My little girl knew this and didn’t want this.

I had been enough. I had carried her to bed. She’s not on the ground for the last time yet.