If you were to ask me who the most important people were in my life I'd tell you that they were my boy, my husband, my parents and my brothers.
And it would be true.
But I'd be neglecting to mention the eclectic group of wonderful women who I'm so grateful to call my friends.
And really, day in day out, they're some of the most important people of all.
They're the ones who break up the long, monotonous weeks, and infuse long and lonely days with bright bursts of joy.
They're the ones who offer me the lifeline of lunch at a play barn when the skies are crashing to the ground in torrents, and meet me to walk around the lake, week in week out, at a tortuous toddler pace.
They're the ones who come round and sit on my cold floor whilst our kids run laps through the kitchen and invite me into their homes with such constancy that I look forward to Mondays and Wednesdays and Fridays because each day has attached itself to the name of a friend.
They're a random group of people, these friends of mine. Some of them invite us over to play in their tidy houses and immaculate gardens with their large selection of bright plastic toys, whilst others meet us by lakes and rivers and watch as our children fish with sticks and bury their fingers in mud.
But all of them know the everyday details of my life and share the ins and outs of theirs. All of them know what we did last weekend and when my next hospital appointment is and when John last had a cold.
All of them offer kindness and love and chatter and play and all of them make my life fuller and happier and easier.
They're the people who help me get by. I really don't know what I'd do without them.