I am a mother. I am disabled. I am sometimes a disabled mother. Isla went back to nursery school today, after mid-winter break. I enjoyed having her home for three days. I’m also enjoying being able to write this post in silence, without cartoons in the background, while she is at school. This morning we had our usual cuddles with TV and waffles before what Isla calls ‘the team effort’ to get her dressed. She’s hopping around, pulling her jeans…
Last year, around this time, I wrote this piece on my journey with anxiety, and shared it around Time To Talk Day. The official day has rolled around again. My words are still true, anxiety is a thing every day, and I’m sharing again. No one is alone on this journey. And so, last week was Time To Talk Day, but I think the point of this campaign is to highlight that it’s OK to talk about our mental health no…
And so, I’m sitting here (as I do) wondering where to start. Perhaps with a confession. Before I started this post, I checked my stats. I know, I said elsewhere, don’t become a Stats fiend. New year, new me? No, not quite. But I’m looking at the chart, thinking: Who are these people? Where do they come from? How can I help them? Bounce rate is like, something fun, right? No? I started blogging when blogs were indeed personal journals.…
‘Isla, get off the stage, Dearest.’ We’d just arrived at the theatre after three hours in the car. Isla was burning of some energy by strutting across a platform thing I think was leftover from another performance. Part of Isla’s Christmas gift was tickets to The Nutcracker when Scottish Ballet brought it to Inverness. We didn’t think we’d get to go, because weather was happening right up until we started our road-trip. But we piled in the car, picked up…
Isla looked at my face this morning and asked a very maybe wise beyond her years/obvious/ simple question: Mummy, why don’t you sleep at night? What could I say? Because I’m cold, Because I’m reading, Because I’m hungry, Because I feel crowded, Because I feel alone, Because I think too much, Because it’s too quiet. Are you breathing? Have I done enough? How old am I? How old are you? Shit. Because I’m crafting complicated sentences. Fuck it. What time…
