Blogger 'Mum in the Moon' http://thenightfeedwords.blogspot.co.uk; big hearted believer in love and kindness; bridge builder; fearless creator; reader & writer of raw and uplifting prose; teacher of Literature.
Mother of two little boys. Teacher of Literature. Reader of life-changing, jaw-dropping fiction. Lover of clear starry skies and warm sunny days. Drinker of tepid tea. Dreamer of hot tea and everlasting chocolate cake. Traveller of sun-drenched shores. Blogger of raw and uplifting words, charting the ups and downs of our family adventures.
It seemed obvious that these meetings need not be left to chance. For all the new lonely mums out there, there's double the number of lonely older adults. If only I could adopt a granny, or visit someone housebound, or volunteer for a befriend the elderly coffee morning. A hot cuppa: that'd be a dream. Adult conversation? Yes please. Bringing a baby along would be perfect, I thought. Break the ice. Share the love. Everyone's a winner.
I am sitting next to a truly beautiful specimen of pumpkin, grown by us, from seed. We had two beauties from a virgin gardening project and have already roasted and frozen the contents of one, ready for a future soup or pie.
No more moonlight, please. Give me the dawn. No more digitised lullabies. Give me the chirping chorus of the breaking day. No more glances at the neon clock, dividing the night into too-short chapters: 00:30, 02:00, 04:00, 6:50.
Changing a nation's attitudes to the female form, breasts and breastfeeding isn't easy, but the west can continue to learn from the world. Educating young children about breastfeeding is one major way to support mothers.
Sure. I shouldn't get carried away. There were a couple of hairy moments including an urgent wee mid-taxiing to the runway and protestations against the seatbelt sign, but it was nowhere near as awful as I feared. It's been good to think positively; we still have to get home.
I stopped watching the news during my first pregnancy. Footage of war-ravaged far-away nations and desperate faces clung to my nightmares. I imagined myself as the mother of every ill-fated child, crossing choppy seas on flimsy boats, shipwrecked on swollen shores. The tragedy of every lost soul shook the walls of my womb.
In my post, I wrote "enchanted by the exotic double rebozo" to exemplify my ignorance. An old school friend drew my attention to the controversy and global campaign to #TakeBackTheRebozo. The irony is obvious: my ignorance has led me to confront the Euro-centric British English of my own lexis.
Before parenthood, my husband and I assumed that we'd need to spend money on a pram. Wrong. We assumed that our baby would happily fall asleep in a pram. Wrong. We assumed that we could buy one of those cute baby carriers from a baby shop and all should be well. Wrong.
And we're off! Charging down the street with the wind in our hair, a walk-sprint with a waddle. Toddler finally in the buggy and baby in the carrier, merrily rolling along the pavement. I'll admit that we've left the house a little late, but it's a miracle that we've made it out the door
This isn't the place to recount all the terrifying new policies, or comment on the potential disastrous consequences. Instead, I want to invite you into a new world with a glimmer of hope, hidden away in your local library, or children's school.
As a human, woman and feminist, I support the march. As a mother, I feel it is fundamental for me to join the protest, to show solidarity with people the world over, to register discontent with institutionalised prejudice and casual misogyny, but also to feel good about our children's future.
I knew I'd love my children long before we met, but I didn't expect to regard my own body with such newfound tenderness, for its absolute incredible baby-growing, baby-birthing, baby-feeding skills. Every wobbly bit is proof that the most amazing miracle actually did happen. Twice.