Wondrously Other: April 2015

Reflections on Baltimore

By now I'm sure social media has informed you of the riots in Baltimore. In particular, I'm sure you have seen the video of Toya Graham, the mother going postal on her son over his involvement.

Most of the commentary I saw around that video was predictable – ranging from “mother of the year” to “shame on her” but there was one reply, written by a lady called Alicia Johnson, that stood out for its compassion and its eloquence.

Alicia has very generously allowed me to share her parenting journey and some thoughts: The response that first drew me to speak to her is in bold.

What kind of parent would you say you were?

I view myself as my children's guide, their mentor, their interpreter. This role is assigned to me not by right or accomplishment, but simply because I have been here a little longer and have experienced a bit more. My children don't yet have the words or understanding to express all their thoughts and feelings, or to decipher the meanings of events as they unfold. However, they often provide me with insights that I may not have come across on my own, because they all experience this world slightly differently.

Was that how you were brought up?

No, not at all. I was raised in an authoritarian household, where corporal punishment and arbitrary limits were the norm. I was often punished for asking "why?" and for my unwillingness to accept "because I'm the mom" as an answer.

My decision to become a different sort of parent has been a journey that has lasted more than a decade. It had been an ongoing discussion between my husband and I since we started dating, but when our first child was born 11 years ago, we still believed that children needed to do as they were told and have certain limits in place. We didn't really know any different way to handle things, so we resorted to spanking, time outs, and other methods that we grew up with.

As the years passed, and our second child was born, it became more and more apparent that methods were at odds with our philosophy but it wasn't until we unenrolled them from public school that things began to change more rapidly. We started researching homeschool methods and came across the concept of radical unschooling, and we began to incorporate more and more of these ideals into our lives. We knew right away that this is the way we wanted to raise our family.

Knowing and doing are two very different things, though. It is extremely difficult to implement this drastic of a change but we see how much better this way of living is by watching our babies as they grow. We are all so much happier and more peaceful, although I know that this journey will probably last a lifetime. Every day, every hour, every minute, we have to make the conscious choice of peace. I hope that one day, that choice will be more natural to me. As for now, I fail often. But I choose to try again and again, because I believe it to be worth the struggle.

How do you react when you see examples of parenting that involves corporal punishment?

I feel sadness for the child who is experiencing pain, fear, frustration, and confusion. I feel sadness for the parent who is experiencing frustration, exasperation, and stress. And I feel sadness because I know that I was that parent and those were my children just a few short years ago.

Have you seen a specific example recently that has given you pause?

There is a video going around the Internet of a woman physically attacking her son who was involved in the clash between police and rioters in Baltimore. Most people are hailing her as "mother of the year" for her actions.

My first reaction was "violence begets violence": This boy was feeling frustration and fear and anger and felt the best way to express these emotions was to become violent toward those he perceived as the source of his feelings.

It's the very thing his mother does to him in the video: She feels frustration, fear and anger and expresses those emotions by enacting violence. However, it's apparent to me that her actions are not only harmful to her relationship with her son; they are completely ineffective in communicating her feelings. I'm sure that she was doing what she felt was the best thing to do. I do not seek to condemn her for her actions, but I do believe that we can learn from them.

If I was in her position, I would be crying, begging, pleading with my child to come away with me. I would let them know that I understand why they feel the need to be there. I would offer to help them voice their protest in a safer, more effective way. If they still would not come away with me, I would stand in front of them and say "I understand that I can't make you leave, but I cannot leave you, my child, in a place where you may be harmed. So I will stand here and protect you, with my own body if I must. Because I love you more than life itself. And while I disagree with your actions, I cannot leave you here to potentially die. I will stay here and spend what may be your last moments on Earth with you."

I understand that most people view that as an unrealistic scenario, but if we are talking about the most ideal, effective response, I believe that would be it. First, we must make a connection to feelings of others, and then we must express why we want them to do things differently. Violence disconnects us from one another. Once we are disconnected, open communication and understanding are lost.

What is your most important goal as a parent?

I believe the goal of being a parent should be to prepare my children to take care of themselves and others; to give them the best possible foundation for living, including the resources and desire to continuously learn and grow as individuals.

I will teach them that they always have a choice: They are the only ones in control of their lives and with that power comes great responsibility, to themselves and to all their fellow beings. It's my hope that they will come to me for guidance when they aren't sure what choice to make. I believe that's my ultimate job as their mother.

I accept The Renegade Mother’s point that I don’t know shit about Baltimore, and about the people who live there.

But let’s remove this from a time and a place and look at it simply as a conversation about a parent and a child: I applaud the mama in that video for loving her son and I acknowledge her fear and her anger in trying to remove her son from danger, but like Alicia, I can’t help but think there is a better way than smacking seven shades out of someone.

Thursday, 30 April 2015 Comments: 0

Sticks And Stones May Break My Bones ...

There are some milestones that you want to see your children achieve in life, and others that you hope will never come.

Recently we have hit one of the latter: Esme has become the target of a Mean Girl.

We learned about it, as parents often do, more through the things that weren't said than the ones that were.

Keith overheard a conversation between Esme and her soft toys where she role played telling the girl in question that she wasn't her best friend any more.

Shortly after, as I put her to bed one night, Esme told me with a cracked voice that I was her best friend now.

She’s three … THREE!

My heart is breaking and my blood is boiling that I even have to think about this right now.

I want to wrap my baby girl up in my arms and undo all the hurt she is feeling right now. I want her to understand that nothing that is being said is a failing on her part.

Also, I want to cry.

I remember only too well what it felt like to be the target of some out of the blue meanness.

When I was in primary school, I volunteered to take responsibility for the science cupboard. Laugh at my unrestrained nerdiness all you like, but I found it incredibly soothing to lock myself away at lunch and surround myself with the trappings of my favourite subject.

I also underestimated the amount of work involved in keeping the science supplies tidy so I asked my two best friends, Laura and Jacqui, to help me.

Things were going well for a while and then in the space of a week, something changed; they stopped sitting with me, talking to me, and then they dropped the bombshell that they didn't think I should help with the science cupboard any more.

I remember to this day sitting on the small bench after they left, looking around me and wondering what I had done wrong. I even remember seeing them check back on me some time later, peering silently though the portal in the door, whether in the hope or fear that I was crying I never found out, nor did I care.

The truth was that I had done nothing wrong. This was my introduction to the world of the Mean Girl where the only aim is to wound as deeply as possible.

I didn't understand it then and I don't understand it now.

Comments: 0

Olive Toddler DoOm Working Mama

I'm Not Good With Sleep Deprivation

Many years ago, I went on holiday with a group of friends. We were staying at my Grandma's flat in Gibraltar and there were so many of us that I was relegated to the sofa.

Nothing unusual for me at the time, and not something I minded because I was part of the sub group - let's call us the "night owls" - who enjoyed a few ales of an evening. Unfortunately, the other half of the group - let's call them the "morning people" - would wake up and start cleaning the flat only a few short hours after we returned.

I would be woken each morning to the floor around me being swept, and the passive aggressive clinking of washing up floating in from the kitchen.

The whole situation got pretty tired, pretty quick, and degenerated into all-out war where neither group spoke to each other, or spent more than a few minutes a day in each other's company. By the end of the holiday the "morning people" bought me a novelty T shirt with a "funny" quote on it about me not being a morning person.

The "morning people" were never again invited on holiday.

Is there a point to this story? Well I'm hoping it gives you a little context to what I'm about to tell you next:

Miss Olive has a cold.

After she had lovingly shared her germs with me, she degenerated to a point where she couldn't breathe while lying down and I couldn't hear myself think over the beating of my own pulse. But God loves a trier (and Keith threatened divorce if we interfered with his ability to listen to his precious football game) so I scooped up my mucus covered volcano baby and tried to arrange us both in bed.

An hour later, I was still lying awake.

It's annoying when your neighbours keep you awake with the noise of their music vibrating through the walls; it's more annoying when it's your own heart playing a thudding bass beat in your ears. It was punctuated by the regular cough.... cough ....cough of the toddler. Every now and then we even synchronised, which brought us perilously close to producing something you could sell as Nu Jazz.

At about midnight I finally gave up on the bed, scooped up the mucus covered volcano baby, and retraced my steps to the sofa. It took a while for Miss Olive's body to settle from all the coughing, which was why I found myself lying in a foetal position beside her with one knee jammed under her butt to stop her from sliding back down into a lying (and therefore coughing) position.

Oh and she had also somehow managed to take up 90% of the blanket we were "sharing" leaving me with just enough to cover half my body if I tucked in reeeeeeally right.

By this point I was seeing any chance of a full sleep quota recede into the distance, so I set aside the creeping numbness and bone aching cold and resolved to get whatever rest I could.

Enter stage right the resident mice.

You didn't know we had mice? Oh yes, we inherited a small army of them from the previous owners and despite setting traps for the last year, they are not taking the hint. Or maybe they are and they just don't care, I don't know.

Either way, just as my eyes were closing I heard the unmistakable sound of a mouse-trap snapping shut. I cringed, but there was silence. Twenty seconds later, I suspect the mousy support network showed up because there was an eruption of squeaky wailing so great, Harry jumped out of his bed and went racing into the kitchen.

He is not a quiet dog.

According to the lack of crunching, I am fairly sure his thunderous approach gave the remaining mice a chance to escape, which would also explain why he saw fit to aim a grumpy-ass huff at me on his way back to his bed.

I thought that was a little much myself, it wasn't as if I played any part in warning the mice who, by this point, had resumed their positions alongside their former comrade, and were once again making known their grief.

I felt sorry for Harry; despite several return trips to the kitchen, he just wasn't going to get the better of those mice.

Half an hour later, dog, mice and human (no plural there, Miss Olive was fly catching in blissful ignorance of any of this drama) were finally settling down to their respecting rests.

An hour later, Keith woke me up to ask me why I was sleeping on the sofa.

It is a credit to me that I didn't punch him square on the nose. Instead I spoke words - I have no idea which - and was allowed to resume what was left of my sleep.

As is the way with small children, when the grey fingers of the new day crept between the curtains and crow barred my dry, aching eyes apart, I turned to see Miss Olive beaming at me in glorious high spirits.

I wanted to be grumpy, I wanted it so very badly, but how can you be angry when you wake up to this?

Wednesday, 22 April 2015 Comments: 0

Attachment Parenting Olive Toddler DoOm

More Fun With Milestone Emails

So apparently Miss Olive is now 22 months old.

It has to be true, there was a very slick looking email with pictures and information that told me so. I was on the verge of deleting it because it scares me to think that she's nearly two ... TWO!! ... but I put on my big girl pants and opened the email under the misguided idea that it might be fun to see if she's on target to reach all her development milestones.

"By now your child will begin to set goals for himself. He'll have particular ideas about what he wants to do, like pushing his toy car down the path or fitting all the pieces of a puzzle together."

Firstly, Olive is not a “he”. If you have the computing ability to send me this “tailored” content then you also have the ability to get her gender correct. But since you bring up her goals yes, as a matter of fact, she does have some pretty ambitious goals. They mostly involve squawking like a parrot in a blender at every damn thing her siblings are using until they hand it over and seeing how many people she can make cry in a given day.

"Does your child want to hug you one minute and push you away the next? Don't take her vacillating needs for closeness and self-assertion personally."

Oh I don’t. I'm fully aware that when Miss Olive gives me the side eye and then marches over to Keith for cuddles it is because she just wants me to know that she is displeased. Normally this comes hand in glove with a melodramatic sigh and a quick glance back to make sure I am watching the fact that she’s over there not giving me love.

"It's not long now until that birthday ... try working out what toys, equipment, and clothing you'll need for a two year old so you can let your friends and relatives know. If you're planning a party, involve your toddler in choosing who to invite and ask what sort of cake she would like, then she'll know what to expect on the day."

Have my toddler help plan the party? Are you out of your fucking mind? Unless your idea of group fun is stripping down to your pants and drawing over yourself with felt tip before shovelling food into your face with your clenched fists I suggest Miss Olive is the last person on earth who should plan your good times. And also, she’s a third child, the concept of “need” went of the window about a child and a half ago. The only need we have as a family is the rental of a skip.

"Interruptions are a way for your child to ask for your attention. It's annoying – but effective! A toddler most often interrupts when her parents seem to disappear (in spirit if not in body) for long periods, such as during telephone conversations or computer sessions. Try to limit this kind of activity unless she's having a nap or deeply absorbed in play. When you're busy, stay in touch with her by ruffling her hair or looking over and smiling at her from time to time. Don't give in right away. It only teaches your child that interrupting is socially acceptable and effective."

Ruffling her hair? Should I chuck her on the chin as well for good measure? Am I living in 1950s America and nobody told me? That’s not even the first problem I have with this entire crock of shit paragraph. 1. Don’t you dare try and guilt me for being on a phone call or online, besides anything else it makes exactly zero difference to whether children interrupt. 2. This is not a battle of wills for me to “give in” at an appropriate time. Olive is interrupting me because she is learning and practising a whole range of skills like conversation, cause and effect and speech and has not the first clue about the importance of my Facebook status. Because I'm not a total asshat, I'm not going to punish her for not knowing the rules by ignoring her until I think she’s learned the error of her ways, I'm going to talk to her like the intelligent human she is and keep practising with her until she understands.

"Don't expect perfect table manners at this point. Smelling it, handling it and smearing it are some of the ways your child gets acquainted with a new food"

Perfect table manners? Oh you are too precious! There are herds of prairie dogs who attach a felled beast with greater finesse than my offspring use to consume their food. And don’t tell me it gets better because despite that the five year old is the one who sets the table and lovingly places the cutlery alongside the perfectly aligned plate, he is the worst offender when it comes to eating by any means except the one that involves picking up a fork and knife.

"Hand-washing is the number one way to protect your family from illnesses like colds and flu. You can cut down on germs around your home by giving your child his first lessons in this important skill. Put a step in front of the sink so he can reach the taps, and show him how to turn them on and off. Fine motor skills are still developing so he'll need your help and supervision for quite some time."

I have two words for you "hygiene hypothesis" I am also starting to wonder if you have ever actually met a child. Are there 22 month old toddlers who will stand at a sink and wash their hands without requiring a full change of clothes for us both? It’s not help and supervision Miss Olive needs, it’s a scuba suit.

"Pee or wee or tinkle? Poo or number twos? Every family has its own lingo for potty training. As for what you call the body parts involved, some families introduce words such as "penis" and "vagina" from the beginning while others choose to wait."

Tinkle? What would possess anyone to say that? Do I pair that up with “foo-foo” and “bum-bum” or maybe I should just for the gold standard of Victorian sexual repression and use “unmentionables”.

I … I just …. Go home parenting site, you’re drunk!

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Thursday, 16 April 2015 Comments: 0

Not a Cooking Blog Olive Review Stay At Home Dad Working Mama

A Review of Greencane Paper Kitchen Towels

This is the review where I finally reach rock bottom, and go somewhere we all hoped I would never go.

This is the review where I talk about poop.

Keith does an amazing job of managing the house, but like all humans who are faced with the demands of three young children, he has the occasional brain fart. This particular brain fart happened about a week after I had taken delivery of a box of Greencane Paper Kitchen Towels to review.

The review had started promisingly; I had used them for such approved tasks as mopping up the nightly dinner spillages, and cleaning kitchen work surfaces, with great success.

I used a few sheets to make the picture on the TV at least partially visible, and was seriously impressed that it wasn't going to involve me chasing a ton of statically charged fluff around the screen.

What got the biggest nods of approval however was the softness of the Greencane Paper Kitchen Towels. Most eco products seem to be made with 90% recycled barbed wire and 10% virtue, but these were soft enough that I didn't think twice about using them to remove the remains of dinner from the children's various body parts.

Which turned out to be fortuitous.

As with all my reviews, this one happened when Keith went out one Saturday and left me in charge of the homestead. He was off talking about saving marine mammals, and I was at home, sat at the dining table with Miss Olive and Esme, creating some pretty impressive post modern art.

Out of nowhere, Miss Olive turned to me, fixed me with a cheeky grin and filled her nappy in spectacular fashion.

For the sake of form, I thought I ought to ask her whether she had pooped, which was an error on my part because it achieved nothing but to inspire her to scramble down from the table and vanish down the corridor, cackling.

After I had made sure Esme wasn't about to strike out into some wall decorating, I went to arm myself with essential butt changing equipment.

It's a short list:
1. Nappy
2. Wipes.

In this case, however, not short enough, because it turned out that Keith had forgotten to buy baby wipes; something which I had completely failed to notice before I was faced with rapidly drying toddler poop.

It was about this time I muttered a hope that Keith might be eaten by the next whale he tried to refloat.

If you think that is unkind, let me just tell you that Miss Olive's family nickname is Minky Moo. This is not because she has luscious silky hair (although she does), it is because she was born with the bowels of a middle aged man who survives on a diet of real ale and steak.

I briefly considered whether I could pretend ignorance of the poop situation, but my eyeballs were already beginning to water.

There was literally nothing for it but to make do and mend.

I took four sheets of Greencane Paper Kitchen Towels and ran them under the tap to dampen them.

As advertised on the front of the packet, they were indeed "thirsty" and seemed to hold a surprising amount of water, which I figured would only help their poop removing capabilities.

Armed with my makeshift wipes and a fresh nappy I wrangled a still cackling Miss Olive onto the floor, and began the time honoured tradition of The Dance of The Nappy Change.

As I had feared, the poop was already starting the process of bonding with her skin, which did not please me. That said, when I started scrubbing at her butt, the half gallon of water that had previously been trapped in the thirsty kitchen towels started to flow down her butt crack, which didn't please Miss Olive.

All round, neither of us was very happy at that point.

If I have one tiny criticism of these Kitchen Towels, it is that shortly into my cleaning efforts the paper, did start to break down. I can't be too harsh about that, I'm pretty sure that when the good folk of Greencane Paper were designing their product, this was not one of the things they predicted it would need to achieve.

Well you can hold your heads up, Greencane Paper, because despite the disconcerting feeling of having her backside scrubbed with bobbly sheets of you kitchen towel, while rivulets of water ran into places no toddler should have to suffer them, Miss Olive would like you to know she thinks your kitchen towels rock.

So do I as it happens, and I love that once again I get to say that about an innovative Kiwi business who have spent the last six years developing a product that they feel passionate about. I find it inspiring to have the chance to speak about a brand who are challenging the received wisdom of their industry and finding a way to make modern convenience sustainable.

Probably best not to break into the baby wipe sector just yet though.

I was sent Greencane Paper Kitchen Towels free to review by Kiwi Mummy Blogs. The opinions expressed are my own, in all their glory. I shouldn't have to tell you that, clearly nobody would actually pay me to express views like these.

Tuesday, 14 April 2015 Comments: 0

Activism

Throwback Thursday - What I Believe

I was trawling through some files on an old hard drive when I spotted a document called "Me" from 2003. I figured it was going to be some kind of naval gazing tome of how misunderstood I felt, but I was actually surprised, not just with what I had written, but with how true I still hold those words today:

What we believe is what defines us: What we hold dear, the things we live for, etc. It shapes us, it makes us the person who we are and relates us to the world, or not.

For example, my belief in God, my image of myself as a Catholic woman, shapes me fundamentally. I'm not a Catholic because I believe that life is sacred, or that gay relationships are evil, I am a Catholic because I believe in a certain way of behaving. I believe in giving more to the world than you take, in leaving every situation better than you found it, in treating others as you would be treated yourself. Those are fundamentals of a lot of religion I guess, not just Catholicism but I find that way of celebrating those beliefs the most uplifting and comforting.

Someone once told me that I think too much, and maybe I do. But what else is there if not thought? Work? Drinking? Cars? What makes the modern way of life more “sacred” than the ancient appreciation of thought, of considering the world beyond your own four walls? I love that part of me, I love the fact that I have the capacity, and the inclination to think of things in colour. I see all these people on the way into work, heads bowed, eyes tired, all because they never think, they just do. That, to me is no life at all.

Thinking isn't easy though, and sometimes brings you to a place where there’s no sunlight and a whole heap of pain … but if you don’t look into those places and appreciate them, how can you truly enjoy the happier places?

One of the greatest privileges we have in the western world isn't free speech, or a good economy, or even food in our bellies … it’s what those things give us: The time, and space for free thought. I think to waste that opportunity is the biggest tragedy of all.

Back to my original point; I have to admit that there are times when I am lost in that area; I struggle to work out my beliefs in all areas of my life, and to look into the deepest parts of myself, and come back with the truth of what lies inside me, but the point is that I try. I look into places that threaten to implode my entire view of the world. I look into the past and tear open old wounds that I never knew existed. But that is part of learning who I am, knowing what I believe, and where I want that knowledge to take me.

If I don’t have that, what’s the point of being alive?

Whoa, 25 year old me really knew how to kick back and chill. Incidentally, I still don't have a bloody clue about the answers to those questions; in fact, I feel further away today than I did 12 years ago.

Thursday, 9 April 2015 Comments: 0

Esme Olive Toddler DoOm

Boops

I saw this comic the other day and it made me chuckle.

Hands up I am 100% guilty of this at the moment.

Boops is the word Olive uses when she wants to nurse and yes, she can say that shit forever!

Other current household gems include Esme's pronunciation of disgusting (be-scus-ten), the garage blipper (flipper) and breakfast (brep-pass) neither of which I have any intention of correcting either.

Bizarrely for someone who gets stabby at the regular abuse of the apostrophe, I find the utter mangling of words by my offspring enchanting. I think it's down to genetic offsetting; it's nature's way of making sure that I smile at least as often as I close my eyes and count to ten.

Wednesday, 8 April 2015 Comments: 0

Alfie Attachment Parenting Learning Olive Stay At Home Dad Toddler DoOm Working Mama

Helpful Tips for Lego Organisation

If you came here thinking I was going to tell you how to organise Lego, then I’m afraid you’ve come to the wrong place; I'm the one who’s after the help.

The children have a pretty vast collection of Lego, most of which has been inherited from Keith’s childhood, and then added to over the course of the last few years.

Once upon a time the collection was contained in tool boxes, but the Arctic Base Camp was the final nail in the coffin of that arrangement. The orange department -which had been teetering on the edge of dangerously large - started to flow into the red department, and I think we can all agree that kind of contamination requires immediate action.

We looked at some second hand library catalogue drawers, and some industrial tool boxes, but the call of the sale time deal was too strong for a certain member of the family, and so the Lego is now housed in a vast collection of stackable crates which fit together in a mysterious Tetris-like configuration in the drawer under Alfie’s bed.

Are those good intentions paving my path to Hell? Why yes they are!

The problem isn't the organising of Lego into containers, it’s the fact that children want to use it all, leaving a weekly tidal flow of Lego looking a little something like this:

Saturday: Lego is colour coded in the correct tubs, with lids on, and stacked according to the secret logic of Tetr’Is in the drawer under Alfie’s bed.

Sunday: The first creation of the week: Usually something small; a plane, or a car perhaps. The Lego table has been restocked with discarded pieces, and is now just a glorified holding area for planned future works.

Monday: The creations multiply. The Lego table is still full of potential future projects, while the completed projects are now dotted around the flat spaces of the house. There is one on the dining table that starts World War 3 every time the toddler hulk-smashes it, and several booby trapped window sills which deposit their payload - pointy end down - on my toes as I draw the curtains.

Tuesday: The creations have decided to throw a party, and have invited half the neighbourhood. The crates are mostly open, and spread haphazardly over the bedroom floor. The lids are off, of course, and any space in between them is littered with scattered bricks. It looks a little like the Lego fairy has flown in through the window, and left lots of colourful, pointy turds all over the floor, in much the same way that a house rabbit would.

Wednesday: There are many creations leading to many threats of vacuum vs Lego doom. My children respond well to this development by wailing inconsolably, and throwing themselves onto the floor at the outrage of wasting valuable creating time with such trifles.

Thursday: Lego has now achieved full floor coverage. I have now resorted to using the dustpan to shovel Lego off the floor, and back onto the Lego table. I'm grateful that Keith through to make the Lego table so deep and consider installing a life preserver in case any of the children fall in.

Friday: Completely lose my shit at the fact that the tubs are empty, but every other square inch of house is covered in a random scattering of bricks. Give children well-worn speech about caring for their possessions, and how sad they’ll be if they can’t finish their sets because the dog has chewed Uni Kitty, or I have accidentally stepped on the limited edition piece and heard it dissolve under my heel in a sickening crunch (true story). Realise the only person who is sad about this whole debacle is me.

And so it goes, week after week; and I am fully aware that this is a problem of my own making, but please, just for one minute, allow me to sing you the song of my people.

I am trapped in a private hell somewhere between the house I think I ought to be keeping and the way in which I want to parent my children.

For five days a week, I miss out on the benefit they see from being given free creative rein, and walk through the door in time to witness the aftermath. I’ll be honest; it makes my eyeballs burn and my brain resonate with the noise of an old copper kettle at full chat.

It makes me want to weep.

And I own the fact that this makes me slightly less generous than I would otherwise hope to be. I accept the fact that a sweeping look around the steaming wreck of my house puts my mother on one shoulder whispering “I didn't raise you to have a house like this” and my husband on the other saying “it’s the process, not the product”.

I stand between them desperately trying to embrace the creativity of the food truck underneath my dining table, while at the same time resenting that the only part I get to play in their games is the crappy part at the end that makes them act like I am pulling out their fingernails.

For me, this more is the hardest part of being a working mama.

This is my witching hour.

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Wednesday, 1 April 2015 Comments: 0

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