She was 65.
I am 36.
In the darkened hours of the night when sleep won’t find me, but tears in the shape and colour of my memories haunt me, I have trawled the internet for articles on how to somehow cope with this so physical a loss Continue reading
Ahh Christmas. A time for joy, peace, love, celebration and the elaborate charade of moving a lifeless, plastic-faced, vacant eyed, omnipresent stuffed elf from place to place in your home every night just after you’ve fallen asleep on the couch at 8pm.
Because nothing keeps the magic of Christmas alive Continue reading
It is no secret that I have been silently mouthing GTFO of my house behind the backs of my five year old twins since abbbbouuuut day fourteen seven three of the summer holidays.
In fact, I was pretty confident [some may use the word ‘smug’ even] that come January 30 I was going to be gleefully hand balling Continue reading
Now I don’t know as much about parenting as Pete Evans, but what I will tell you is that I’ve discovered parenting is a lot easier when I’m not around my kids.
As one might imagine, school holidays have made this dynamic incredibly difficult. Continue reading
At the risk of offending anyone with a healthy dose of too much information, my husband and I are March breeders.
I don’t know what they’re putting in the water come autumn, but it must be a little shoo-wop shoo-waddy-waddy yippity boom-de-boom, because when we were trying to conceive, before you could say chang-chang Continue reading
My twins starting kindergarten was the proverbial light at the end of the [slightly worn] [not quite as tight as it used to be][prone to occasional leakage] stay at home mum tunnel. And despite a shaky start [for me], I’m now that mum tyre squealing away at 9:01, belting out George Michael’s “Freedom” at the top of her lungs.
As we enter the final term of kindy, ahead of Continue reading
So, in my day to day life, a lot of my guilt quota is consumed [quite literally] with feeling bad about something I ate.
And occasionally some short lived contrition for being mad at my husband purely because he’s not Harry Styles.
When I have the emotional space for indulging myself in other forms of conscience Continue reading
