You listen to Daft Punk, time and time again and it all makes sense.
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Feral fern.
When we moved in our current home, the garden was a sterile deck..thing. I wanted a garden and a garden was delivered.
I left my garden be. Except for when I demand the best tomatoes of a Scottish, not much sun oriented garden.
Slow forward to this fern that took hold of a part of my garden where I just would preferred she wouldn’t.
And while I was admiring her lushness, in a May rainy day, as you do with the best ideas ever, are you ready? If you want to be a perfect parent, give up control and enjoy the feral beauty of your children as they are. Allow them to grow, as they are.
Even though the fucking fern shades my only decent try at growing climbing beans.
Breathe in. And out. Call it face yoga.
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The calling.
We had friends over on Sunday afternoon. Our friends and my son’s friends. My son and his friends (4 and almost 5 year olds) played in his room. Very civilised chaos which was carefully tidied up by them (aka amalgamated all toys in all available empty boxes and drawers). Amazing. What great kids we have. They make a mess and then they tidy everything up. So proud.
Fast forward to Sunday night when I woke up to my son crying in his room at the sound of an unknown alarm coming from an unknown location. I mean who wouldn’t want to scramble drawers and boxes full of toys, at 1 AM to find the fucking alarm.
It was Darth Vader. They played with Darth Vader and probably either switched the alarm on, or changed the time.
Who knows. It was not 6 AM. It was 1 AM.
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Share your stuff. Be it the struggle or the glory.
I have always wanted to share my birth story. I still have not found the right format, the right formulation, call it what you want.
I was lucky enough to give birth in Jan 2020 and before I knew it, lockdown was upon us. I had no knowledge of newborns sensory clubs, no mums coffees meet-ups, no social interaction at all. Just home and more home. Being my first born, I had no comparison so that was normal.
Meaning I was not stressed about “getting my body back”, fit right back in “those jeans” and the judgement of whether the child was born vaginally or csectionally managed to avoid me.
All nice and sweet.
I started reaching out for help, as you do, to my friends who have become moms, some of them way before me, as I am after all, a geriatric mother.
And found that reading about other moms stories, laid in front of the internet with the utter most candour and vulnerability, normalised my story before it even had the chance to be shamed for not being what other people dream of a perfect birth, but my version of it.
So please share your stories, on your socials, on blogs, on newsletters or if you find it easy, you can drop me an email and I can publish it under your rules (name, no name etc).
Your stories are so incredibly helpful.
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You got this, you’re a mother.
I recently changed my job. What I do now is more challenging and a bit more self confidence can certainly help. I had a short review of my work with my manager today. I am lucky to have an amazing, empowering woman as a manager.
And she said, I think you lack self confidence and you have all the reasons to trust yourself. You are a mother, a seasoned professional….I loved it how the mother aspect came first.
And it only hit me tonight while cleaning projectile vomit second night in a row that, I do have all the reasons to trust myself more. I am a mother.
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Let’s get this party started!
That’s either my kid waking up ready for action Rider Sir! Or my kid coming back from nursery wanting to continue what he started before going to nursery, or simply me, absolutely shattered, in bed, at 9, (9PM that is), feeling I am winning at life.
Or me, gathering some energy to start a blog about how fucking hard it is to be a parent. I salute you all.
That Parent. Live 