Motherhood is not a day with a card and a bunch of flowers, it’s not defined by a gift that was purchased or a t-shirt welcoming you to the club. My motherhood is a bit messy and a bit tiring. It’s not the pretty instagram-filtered version that I wheel out on occasion of tadpole hunting and perfect rainbows stacked on shelves of pine cones and beautiful books, and it’s not the shit-show representation that causes me to sink into a large gin and tonic every night. It sits somewhere in between, in moments of laughter and wanders over for unwarranted cuddles and sighs as she finally, finally falls asleep holding my hand while downstairs the washing up sits unwashed and there are two peg people living under the sofa…Read More
There was a song. It was a nice song discovered at 38 weeks pregnant, hurriedly added to a birth playlist in a fit of mild panic and forgotten about. It was a song listened to in labour that took on new meaning, it would swell and swoop and with it my excitement would soar. I would grip onto the fireplace through contractions, knuckles white, and cry at the pain and the beauty of each…Read More
My body and me have never really had much of a problem with one another. We have never had many quarrels, never really erred on the side of unhappiness in our relationship; my body has always been quite good company.
She’s always been quite a forgiving one. Allowed me far…Read More
I found going back to work hard. Grappling with the idea that things weren’t going to be quite as imagined, pregnant delusions of just being at home with my daughter, getting by and budgeting weren’t going to cut it. So, I packed up Eilish and me in the car, a box full of baby led weaning for an entire two days, and went back to work.Read More