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The ‘school night’: ultimate buzzkill.

I just wanna live, man.  There’s no other way to start this post – I just wanna live til I die.  And in so doing, there is no space for the accommodation of the ‘school night’:  a concept so limiting and dull (and one that I’ve adhered to before and likely will again many times)…

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Adulthood and then I’ll die someday.

  Last night I lay awake listening to the wind rip up my garden.  Or rather, blow all the plastic shit around outside.  I secretly hoped a very localised cyclone would suck up the broken, toxic-coloured toys that litter our overgrown grass.  And I couldn’t sleep, and that made me angry and panicked. Which meant…

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Expectations.

I’ve thought lately a lot about expectations, and I wrote about how motherhood made me feel like I woke up in 1975 (I think I said 1953 actually, but since 1975 was when The Tiger Who Came to Tea was published, and that book sort of horrifies me as much as it does warm my…

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Herstory.

I’ve always shied away from the term ‘mummy blogger’.  But, as I’ve touched on before, this is entirely my problem, my bad. Probably.  Well, those patronising shits who dreamt up the phrase too, it’s their fault also. There is nothing wrong with being an out and out ‘mummy blogger’, not at all.  The problem is…

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Risks and ambition and how being a mother doesn’t negate my right to my dreams.

I’d like to talk about risk.  And I’m mostly doing this without statistics, or rather because there is such a flood of statistics thrown around in topics related to childhood, health, safety, and so on, I don’t want to rely on one source and so I’m not going to lean on any in particular.  So…

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