You don't always come second, and nor should you have to.

I remember crying, big wracking sobs, because all I wanted was a bath. Eilish was seven weeks old, I was seven weeks postpartum unsure as to whether or not she would wake up. A ten minute soak in some warm water was all I wanted. Just five minutes, even, would do. It was a small lifeline to before, the smallest indulgence that had become an impossible task. I didn’t have one…

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Creating pockets of home; for the times you are stuck in an in-between.

We are currently on a precipice, dangling, dangling, dangling, waiting to jump (or is it fall? I guess that depends on which moment you ask me). It’s a mixture between precipice and limbo, an anticipation of what’s beyond the door while standing in a waiting room of all that is familiar yet displaced.

We’re staying for weeks at my in-laws, a house

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On life, lately.

You may have seen it, but maybe you didn’t. We’re moving. To halfway across the world, to Australia, to a place where it feels like everything is upside down, the wrong way and inside out. We leave the start of summer to arrive in the beginning of a new winter. It’s all different, the seasons are different, the food is a little different, the lifestyle is different, even the air smells different. I’m sitting here writing this in a house that is slowly emptying out and existing within boxes more and more each day. We are excited. And nervous. And tired. But mainly…

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Celebrating Easter.

The bright mornings. The dawn chorus waking us gently from our slumber (yes, a little earlier than I’d hope for). Drawing the curtains back to see a slow explosion of green, small snatches of blue and purple as the wisteria in our garden begins to open. Our drives into town are now peppered with big and small white and woolly friends, sheep and their small lambs appearing, and we said hello to some small ducklings yesterday as they bobbed down the river with their mama.

While we are very much a secular family, we celebrate Easter…

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Power to the Mother: Leata-Mae d'Avoine

Power to the Mother is a series of interviews on the transformative, diverse and empowering experience of motherhood.

Over the past couple of weeks I have had the pleasure of speaking to Leata-Mae D’Avoine, a birth worker, doula, and mother to one about her experiences of motherhood. I’ve loved following Leata-Mae for a while, she has an incredibly open and honest approach to sharing her motherhood, and is a huge advocate for birthing women’s rights. Read on to find out more about her path to becoming a doula, her mindful approach to the simple things in life, and some important words on being a birthing mother of colour in the UK…

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To the mothers.

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…

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Books for all year round.

We love books in this house, and none more than beautiful children’s books. I’m so thankful that in this stage of toddlerhood Eilish has an insatiable appetite for books. There’s lots of “more, more” as books are finished, and bedtime could often be eeked out for two, three, four books more.

Seasonal books are a must in this house, and it’s one of our favourite rituals, our way of saying goodbye to the old season and welcoming in the new. Due to the size of our house - and our budget - I favour buying books that are going to have longevity, ones...

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The song that made me a mother.

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…

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