STOP doing the laundry

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Mums, I need you to listen to me on this one. I’m telling you, kindly, with your best interests at heart, that you need to stop doing everyone’s washing. At least for a while. 

Let’s face it, you never get on top of it anyway (apart from in those halcyon heatwave days where you can wash and dry, like, five loads a day). I last saw the bottom of my laundry basket in June 2018 (I was out of the country for the crazy 2019 weather). And I have made peace with that.

I used to prioritise the washing and the washing up. In a life where I often feel I have no control and simply blunder around from one bout of chaos to the next, the laundry was something I could control. 

Sorting whites from coloureds from darks from stripes from towels from bedding. Folding little pants and socks and vests and t-shirts. Making nice neat piles of everyone’s clean clothes. It made me feel like I was practical. I was useful. I was contributing to the household now I no longer earned a wage.

These menial tasks took priority and while I had two small children under my feet I was spending lots of time in the house. I wanted it to be neat and ordered.

Before I knew it though, the children grew a little and started school and nursery. I had grand plans to write and maybe earn some of my own money again. But the laundry kept coming. It was getting in my way and alongside cooking and washing up, it was taking up nearly all my child-free time, leaving me anxious and unfulfilled.

That’s when I realised it was a metaphor for my life.

Putting the washing at the top of my to-do list was replicating the way I put myself at the bottom of the pile every day. Leaving my desires to ebb away and turning my into a shell of myself. Who was I? What did I want? What did I like? How could I do or achieve anything when I wasn’t giving myself the chance to meet my needs and stoke my soul fire?

Boundaries needed to be set. With myself, I hasten to add.

I announced I was no longer going to be doing washing, washing-up or cooking on my days off. No one else cared. However, I had to learn to be uncomfortable with a little more mess and chaos. I had to learn to see that my need to be creative and to write and take on projects was worth more than an empty washing basket.

As I write this, there are dirty dishes festering by the sink. If I did them, I would not be able to tap this out. And so, like my last post about not having to do all the things, I need you to stop putting those crumpled t-shirts and stained jeans above what you want and need to do. Set aside some time to do enough laundry that everyone has clean essentials but all the clothes do not need to be clean all the time. (Which will also positively impact the environment, so pat yourself on the back for being more eco).

One more time, in case you’re missing what I am saying. This isn’t just my story.

Your worth is not tied up in how clean your house is.

You do not have to do everyone’s washing, every day, for time immemorial.

It’s OK to want and need things.

It’s OK to go after these things and invite them into your life at the expense of order and cleanliness.

If you put the order and cleanliness first, I can quite confidently say you will never lead a life you are happy with and your dreams will remain exactly that. There will be no time for YOU.

Put the washing basket down and go and walk in the woods or write your blog or listen to music or read a book. That is not wasted time.

If you light yourself up from the inside, you will be the calm among the chaos that you crave.

Grief encounters

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This bears no relation to this post. I just thought a calming pic might be nice

 

In the interests of fairly representing this rollercoaster called parenthood, I feel compelled to write a follow up post to yesterday’s.

Yes, overall, we are happy. For the most part, everything is OK. We go to work and school and nursery. We drink coffee and eat scrambled eggs on Saturdays. We go to the park and for country walks. We sometimes see friends for beers or barbecues or trips to Peppa Pig world. We go to IKEA and eat meatballs, get lost in the showroom and have a hissed row in the car park. We are tired. In other words, we have good times and bad times and are like any other 2.4 children family. And yet…

That grief I mentioned? Today it floored me. If you’re on a similar journey to me, navigating the extremes of everything that parenting a disabled child throws at you, perhaps you need a reminder that it’s OK to not be OK.

Continue reading “Grief encounters”

Seven.

This time seven years ago, I woke up in a London hospital after a couple of hours of fitful sleep, feeling like I had been hit by a bus. In some ways I had.

Sure, the bus was metaphorical, but nonetheless I was sore, bruised and covered in last night’s blood. There was no charge on my phone and I was all alone, feeling dazed and anxious.

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A few hours old, being cooled to stop further brain damage

I’d had a baby. My first. But he was at a different hospital. For those early hours of Monday 8th October, I couldn’t even be sure he was still alive. The hatred I felt towards the Bounty woman who burst through my cubicle curtains with her shitty newborn pack, calling out her congratulations, was visceral. But I didn’t have it in me to do more than nod and then burst into tears when she left. At that point I had no idea it was the midwives I should be angry at.

Happily, that baby was still alive. We had to take it day by day, minute by minute at times, but he was hanging on. Thanks to several poor decisions by the midwives who were supposed to be keeping him safe, he had suffered a catastrophic brain injury that altered the course of all our lives. Continue reading “Seven.”

Mummy doesn’t need wine

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I’ve spent a good chunk of the past year following my curiosity about ditching drinking.

I am sober curious and I’m not alone.

The past few years has seen a big surge in people choosing not to drink. I’ve noticed it increasingly among women, but that could just be down to my particular social media echo chamber. Some women who I really admire (list at the end) are on this journey too and I am keen to properly commit to joining them on this path.

Like many people who are sober or mindful drinkers, I don’t have a drinking problem.

That’s not to say I haven’t had a questionable relationship with alcohol in the past, I really have. In the days of being young and single, living in London, working on magazines I fully bought into the hard-partying culture.

I’ve been to those places where I think I am a more interesting person after a drink. Or that I need a drink to be funny or courageous or to ease social anxiety. I have felt free, empowered, fun, inspired and grown-up with a glass in my hand and cocktails in my belly.

On the flip side I have had crippling anxiety, low self-esteem, self-loathing and utter despair at my behaviour because I have drunk too much the night before. It’s affected relationships, work, my physical and mental health. Not for long, I might add, but it leaves its mark. Continue reading “Mummy doesn’t need wine”

And… action!

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This is the kind of chat you tend to see a lot of around New Year, but do you pick an intention or word to live by? I prefer it to making resolutions as it gives me a kind of anchor to my life and a theme to return to.

My word of the year this year was ACTION and let me tell you, life has far from stood still.  While you may not have seen much of me doing anything in the digital space, IRL I have been living life in all its messiness and lurching ups and downs. Including…

Continue reading “And… action!”

The trouble with my three-year-old

The trouble with my three year old is me. 

That sounds harsh but it’s the truth. Not always, of course, but sometimes. Often times at the moment.

I’ve read enough and experienced enough to know that when a child plays up, they are communicating with you. I know when she is squeezing out T’s expensive therapy gel in the bath, purposefully weeing on the carpet (she NEVER usually does this), kicking things around the room… she is telling me she needs me. Continue reading “The trouble with my three-year-old”