Yesterday I cried. I cried on my own, into a pillow; I cried into my mum’s arms; I sobbed into Mr OG’s chest and I wept in the headmaster’s office. I wasn’t crying as England crashed out of the world cup. I wasn’t breaking down ‘cos Cas had pissed all over my side of the bed during his nap and I wasn’t overcome with emotion finding out one of the kid’s passports had expired when they need it to visit their State-side gran in 2 weeks. I was crying, hurting and lost – after 482 days/68 weeks/15 months and 25 days it felt like we were back at square one with Hugo – a two day school suspension.View Post
I often worry that I fill my Instagram stories with mundanity only rivaled by a ‘lifer’ in solitary confinement; the day-to-day drivel which remains on repeat week after week – it’s my life, I love it, but I’m perfectly aware that it’s not for everyone entertainment-wise! It lacks the ingenuity of Nicola of the wonder-stories-tastic WeeSlice, the mothering hilarity of Susiejverrill and the warm, encouragement (and llama enabling) of Gemma, Mutha.hood . Then I get a late night email reminding me exactly why I need to share those insignificant, ‘nothing’ moments/minutes/days – it’s hope and to someone, somewhere, that’s exactly what they need.View Post
I’ve been asked a few times what I feed our rabble of 5 boys; do I have a menu plan? Do they all eat the same thing? The answers are whatever they eat; some weeks if I get my shiz together and NO! We have fussy ones, stubborn ones and I’ll-eat-anything-as-long-as-there’s-lots-of-it ones. But call me a blind optimist or naively hopeful, I persevere and occasionally hit culinary gold with an all-round winner.View Post
I had another blog post scheduled for today, but sometimes it’s the day to day minutia that create the most important message – today, I felt was one of those days. Normally the reserve of an Instagram post, I’ve decided to start giving some of my more War & Peace style captions their own space – where they can be found, referenced to and just make someone (even if it’s just me) feel a bit better when the shit hits the familial fan.
It was a mere week ago, Mother’s Day, that I wrote of the magic (and tribulations) of being a step-mum – I often feel a responsibility to round-off my honesty with a dose of hope, to bring my ramblings full circle – ‘sure it’s shit, but it’s shit for everyone and we’ve got this!’ It’s almost a bad habit. And last week I did exactly that with THIS post. Well, in the essence of honest balance I’ll willingly admit today, being a step-mum, was really pretty shit, and that alone.View Post
It’s become known as the day I thought they’d finally turn on me, that my own children would want to stab me in the eye with their overpriced, scented Smiggle pencils. T’was the first Saturday of the Christmas holidays, which may explain my naive, fuzzy optimism getting out of hand, however, ‘shouty mummy’ had already reared her scary head and unleashed the fury of a thousand toddlers denied “choc-choc”! I’d heard enough shouting “replenish my health” down headsets/into the next room/to the brother sitting 67cm away to last me a parental life time (thankfully shorter than the average due to Xbox induced stress levels and general sleep deprivation – there’s 3 parental years to the standard singleton year!); been told “…but I’m in a game!” like it was the answer to every possible request I could make of my children and seen the cherubic faces of my offspring for a whole 13.5 minutes (while they scoffed vital food supplies) in an 8 hour period.View Post