It's been a strange old week. First I found out that you lovely people have nominated me for an award despite my British reserve and lack of confidence having prevented me from asking anyone to even consider me. I have since added the badge that is meant to encourage you to vote: if you look
I was originally going to lazily share the Mother's Day guest post that I wrote for Great Ormond Street Hospital's charity blog today. I was so enormously touched to be asked to write for them, and so overwhelmed by the response that the subsequent post caused, I confess that I might have actually squealed and
I have been silently vowing to myself that I will spend more blog inches focusing on Elliot and Lilia. Looking back over the posts, they seem sadly neglected, often included in what I'm writing, but without the spotlight actually falling on them, which doesn't really accurately represent the real dynamic in the family. In 'real
My early memories of motherhood ranged from being amazed, and slightly repulsed, by how much baby sick it is possible to pool in your cleavage at one time and the apparent disregard that baby poos apparently have for gravity and claims of absorbability from nappy companies, as they stain your baby’s back, and your last clean babygrow, bright mustard yellow. After all, being a parent is a messy, dirty, exhausting and confusing job and you’re the one responsible for not screwing it up.
In the spirit of openness and honesty, for all the people who accidently landed here courtesy of Google, let me just state that at no point in this blog post am I going to be talking about anything that involves my boobs. This isn't that kind of confession. Nor have I found god. Sorry Catholics.