How did you get here?

I mean, it seems just a moment ago I was doing backflips, fantasising about the Olympics, buying leotards at Supre and pretending not to think about boys.

Now? I am a mum of four kids, I’m the invisible half running a business and I am writing this blog. And I got here all because I took a turn that magically changed my entire fucking life.

I was groomed by a Brazilian man who was my chaperone and 13 years my senior, on a plane ride to Argentina and came back pregnant with my first child. In the 24 hours that I gave myself to ponder the decision alone, I had not one doubt that the being I was carrying was supposed to live and every doubt in the book about my ability to do his life justice.

I decided to keep my baby and raise him, even though I was twenty, I had no money and I was living at home.

People shouldn’t give 20 year olds that power, and they shouldn’t give any of us unfettered access to the internet, it doesn’t end well.

Or does it?

You probably got here, to my parking spot on the internet, because you’re that sick of the internet you can’t stop looking at it. I mean, I can’t explain it. I’m so riddled with self-doubt I can’t muster the gumption to market myself on the internet so it was a thousand percent by chance.

I have been trying to write a blog for so long I’m beginning to worry they won’t exist by the time I actually post anything on mine. I no longer even remember why I decided I wanted a blog and now I am only here because I am stubborn. And I started homeschooling my kids. So I have HEAPS of time.

A part of me just really wants to meet you for coffee. Old school. To know for sure that I am not the only one who thinks like me, who experiences life and parenting and running a house somewhat like me.

If you’re anything like me you come online to research, to read, to socialise, you tell yourself.

But really? You’re avoiding your life.

You want your house decluttered but you don’t want to be the one to do it. You want a semblance of order, regularly, daily, lapping at your feet soothing the overwhelm away, but all you really want to do is curl up with a book in hand or lie in the bath and stare at the wall. You long to eat fresh healthy meals, plan ahead, prep in advance, make things easier for tomorrow you, but you just don’t love yourself that much to actually do it. You want your kids to turn out alright (please GOD let them turn out alright!) but it’s just really really hard to be the change you want to see in the world.

Either that or I am projecting. Cause I sure as shit feel that way most of the time.

Don’t get me started on all the craft ideas out there. Pinterest is loaded with ideas for fun stuff you might like to do one afternoon with your child if all the stars align to prevent the emotional meltdown (doesn’t matter whose) that just makes you want to put a cold cloth over your forehead and your feet up in a dark room for a while.

And yet I really really long for the time and patience to just bake cookies with them one day.

I get it. I get YOU.

Along the spectrum from the warrior-hippy-mama painting with menstrual blood and inciting red tent civilisations all over the planet to the Pinterest-perfect, obsessive-compulsive Insta mother who evokes nothing but guilt, worthlessness and comparison in you, there are all the real people who don’t wear labels easily. Who don’t fit in a box. Who are walking contradictions, paradoxes and life stories waiting to be told.

And for all the noise that everybody is making, nothing is really helping you do what you want to do.

What do you want to do?

You want to convince yourself that having children didn’t irrevocably destroy who you are, at a soul level.

You want to think that you have a purpose on this earth alongside caregiving that is at least as important as caregiving.

If you’re really resonating hard with me, you might want to prove a little bit to the world (also known as: yourself), that when you fucked up that one time so long ago, you still managed to stay the course and heed the call you were too stubborn to pay attention to before kids and house and family and adulting brought you to your knees and made you pay attention.

You want to know you got there eventually, wherever there is for you, no matter what.

Having kids is a divine interruption. So is grief. Trauma. Things not going our way. We don’t like to think about that too much these days. We expect ourselves to get on with it, go back to work, recover quickly, and act like it was nothing.

The world seems to expect us to get on with it, go back to work, stay home, recover quickly,
prioritise self-care, make our kids the centre of our universe, everyday, all at the same time but especially on weekends, birthdays, milestones, holidays and right as you try to switch off for one god damn minute.

Life has never been more convenient, if you live a somewhat privileged life like I do – meaning, I sometimes pat my dishwasher, washing machine and dryer and feel a real connection. When we get food delivered I feel like King of the world. Nearly anything I want to do I can do online, including write this thing you just happened to stumble upon. I mean really, miracles abound.

Yet so many of us are so stressed out and feeling like we just can’t get it together.

Something’s going on in our world that isn’t helping us revel in the fact that we now live in the future.

I’m here to deliver the unpopular message that it isn’t chores, it isn’t our kids, and please, GOD, it ain’t the system.

It’s the way we’re looking at things.

I don’t know much but I know this: life is not a chore, but we sure seem to be good at turning it into one.

Everything that I write here is part of how I have convinced myself to a different way of looking at this one precious life i have, the one big fuck up that changed everything and how I approach all the adulting I had to do that followed.

I might inadvertently give you too much unsolicited advice about YOUR life, of which I know very little. I apologise for that in advance.

I’ve been writing for over 20 years, mostly in my journal, in silence. It’s about time I stop that.

The result is this blog not dying a premature death.

Welcome to my thought process.