I don’t write politics.
I write parenting.
I write because I enjoy it, I write because I like being read, I write to leave something for my children one day to read.
I write stories of my day, memories to preserve and I try and entertain the reader with stories of my parenting skills gone astray.
Today I don’t know what to write. The society I am in today is not one I want my children to know about.
I just watched the news,
When I grow up I want to be just like my mum.
No really I do, I doubt there could be any greater compliment.
Dear teenaged self,
For the love of god take that bloody hideous over sized Manic Street Preachers T-Shirt off and burn the indie flowery skirt. Enjoy the sensation of having a stomach that doesn’t ripple when you laugh and fold over the top of your jeans, wherever possible expose it by wearing crop t-shirts or bikinis – even when it is cold.
The chap I married is not a morning person. He takes exception every morning to having a five year old creeping into his room between five and seven and asking in a booming voice,
“Is it waking up time yet?”
He typically does a strong impression of a corpse at this point in order to not have to deal with said child. I can physically feel his body freeze into rigor mortis as the door handle starts to turn.
A couple of years ago we had been out in t’north. We don’t go out in the south often because once we have covered the babysitting cost we only have enough left for a cup of tea each and we normally have tea bags and water at home so it seems a bit pointless. But when staying in my parental home we tend to go out a fair bit as grandparents make excellent free childcare providers.