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.
You know that feeling, when you wake up and make a dazed stagger towards the bathroom still half asleep, but conscious enough to dreamily run through the previous night's events in your head? You can enjoy soft focus highlights as you prop your not-quite-ready-to-be-awake-yet head in your hands, your elbows enjoying your bed warmed legs
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.
I’ve been away for a bit. Quite a bit actually. So excuse me if I tentatively dip my toe into chocolatey water for a while rather than just leaping in the air, grabbing my knees and crying “Geronimoooooo” as I dive back in. When you are out of the habit of nonchalantly displaying your life