18 Months a Mumma

It’s been a year since I wrote anything down because I unconsciously chose to sabotage myself and the blogger in me. Questioning my own worth as a writer, and trying to find my ‘subject’, became tiresome and I did what I generally never do, I stopped. Instead I chose to wear the Mumma hat until it got so big I was choking on the brim. Succumbing to the no sleep, no me time, no damn time for anything but baby club was all my weary mind and body could muster.

Everything dropped, yoga and subsequently my health, my mojo and self esteem, followed by motivation to want to do anything. In this out of control spiral, there is only one way I was heading…down. As always, until I am way down, trying to crawl up and oil soaked bucket down, I can’t spot it. Or should I say I don’t want to admit to it.
Who does. Who really wants to say, hey you know what, I feel shit. I feel shit every single day.
And who wants to hear it…every single god damn day. Does anyone really know where I’m coming from in this tragic story I have created for myself. It’s dark and heavy, owning every cell in my body until I’m breathing only into my chest quickly and desperately. I don’t want to see you, I don’t want to see anyone. Angry beyond belief at myself and the world, THE WORLD?
I’m crying, not crying…hollering, breaking.

It’s obvious now of course, now I’ve had the eureka moment where I’ve literally stepped out of my body, looked at myself directly in the eyes and gone what the fuck are you doing. When was it ever reasonable to stop growing? When did you think anyone would come along and drag you out of this? When would you finally realise you can’t run away this time? At what point did you forget who your were? How much you really love your slowly decaying body? All the tools you have learnt along the way to to end up at this place again.
And now I can breathe again, but it hurts. My lungs have gotten used to short intakes of breath that feed the anxiety I so happily welcomed back after it left me so abruptly the last time.

What do I need?

I need space, time, food, water, sleep, ground, art, meditation, yoga, connection, friendship, LOVE…I need love. To love myself from my core, to illuminate my path once more with love. To embrace the love I already have but have been blinded by the shadow of the deep pocket I created. That comfortable agony to keep me from the treasure that was coming to me from this latest stretch of depression.

And it all comes flooding into me, I suddenly feel like a genius at my own life. I’m gonna win the Abel prize for this recovery. I want to meditate, like right now. Where’s all my meditation app’s, when did they go, when did I stop meditating. Writing, where’s my journal and a pen. The pen doesn’t work, it’s not quick enough. I lick it, shit that actually works. Go, word after word spilling out of me as if I haven’t spoken in… well, a year. I need to write, like right now, all the time. The house is filthy, I’m filthy, clean up, change up. C’mon let’s do this.

Hello me, hello small glimpse of me. And where the hell have you been, what on earth was so important that you decided to go on a bloody backpacker expedition without inviting me along. Wow I’ve missed you.

And so I write. I write for me and I write for every single person that chooses to slip into the big top hat of life. To journey to the depths of ourselves, to find out what it is we need to know in order to move forward and spread our fingertips a little bit higher.

I currently acknowledge this recent journey and write to know where I’ve been, until next time my fellow hero hat friend.


Excerpt from yesterday’s journal entry:
This life is a funny one, sometimes a struggle (resistance) other times a holiday (acceptance). Both equally as important on this journey of discovery. I am accessing my child from within once more, hungry for the knowledge to keep on evolving. Starving this child, by causing suffering, only makes us sick and stuck, unable to learn the necessary steps to move forward to reach another milestone. Nurturing this child with love enables us to thrive and learn quicker the answers we need to know.
Love your inner child, love youself and in turn you will receive all that you know in that instance and move.

Let it Go


Last week was another huge week of realisations and I sometimes wonder whether choosing to be on a path of discovery will ever subside for a moment so I can remember what it feels like not to be aware. Then I look at who I am at this point and where I’ve been to get here and I smile. The day to day difficulties fade away and as I sit here trying to write a serious blog for once I can’t help but laugh about the last week of life in onewomancottage.

The theme of this week for me has been learning to let go. Let go of wondering whether any LoveJars will sell because what has come to me since the launch is far more than pocket money, I believe in myself again.

Let go that at my first ever Rhyme Time group with Baby K I somehow manage to start singing the words to Lou Bega Mambo No.5…

“Point to the window, Point to the door, Point to the ceiling, Point to the floor”…it’s going well


“Clap your hands once and clap your hands twice and if it looks like this then you’re doing it right”….

Whoa…where did that come from? Wind the Bobbin is one of the one’s I thought I knew as well.  Try it though, it’s easily done.

Let go of the fact my old faithful Aussie flip flops broke and I walked around the entire day bare foot. Let go that my Dad tried to fix the flip flop with a nail, a nail…let it go, and I then spend a second day walking around bare foot.

Let go that the Danish camp I have waited six months to visit was not complete with viking boat as I had imagined but it was a restaurant which didn’t do ice-cream as advertised…let it go.

There is more than one type of coal, let it go that you put the wrong type on the BBQ.

Let go of the shame when the ATM didn’t give me the money I asked it and after I made a scene in the bank I was told there was no money in my account.

Baby K has entered the grabby phase and I cannot leave the house without the baby door bouncer coming with us and pinging back taking everything in it’s path down with it. Let it go…it’s only a phase.  Let it go that this has happened every day this week and I still haven’t moved it.

Let go that no-one will help when Tdog decides to injure her foot on a walk and I have to carry baby and dog a mile home without baby grabbing dog and vice versa. Let it go that more than one person commented that I had my hands full.

Let go that Tdog was faking the injury.

In all seriousness now, the biggest thing I had to let go was the fact my yoga teacher and friend is moving away and this week was my last yoga class in the venue I have been going to for a year, where I have waited all week for yoga to get me through, where I have made beautiful friends, where I have learnt new places in my body and mind…ok I still haven’t let it go but I will let go of the fact that it doesn’t matter that I haven’t let it go yet 😉

Let go of the fact I think I have any control over anything because I don’t and that is the beauty of waking up every day and wondering what will come. Let go of the fact that I think something will come tomorrow. Let go of the blog and go to sleep, it’s getting deep and it’s late (8:30pm is late today) and I’m aware that I’m milking it.

Hang on….let it go that I have just realised that I’ve written a blog based around an animated feature film song, damn Disney and it’s subliminal messages.

LoveJars love life

IMG_5183Whilst I watch Dolly rock the pyramid stage at glasto I suddenly recognise that feeling. I am genuinely happy. Not just because finally 9-5 was sung, and let’s be honest that’s the only one everyone knows all the words to, but I’m exactly where I have wanted to be for a very long while. You see it’s that time again, all the planets are aligned and the universe is chucking every sign at me possible although I am still scared shitless. This is not the first or second time I’ve been here, in fact I’ve lost count how many times I’ve been this close and let the moment pass by because it’s more comfortable to just carry on as before.
Why is this time different…because why not. Why shouldn’t I take a leap and believe in myself. That girl who never thought twice about getting on a plane to another Country and winging it when I got there is still me. It’s too easy to say I’m a Mum now, so it’s not just me to think about, but that would be an excuse. I could say I haven’t got the time to give it what it needs, but that’s a choice. So I’m doing it…
I’m going self employed to start onewomancottage for real…..
Of course I’m petrified but if I don’t do it this time I will be right back in a job I don’t really want to be in, in an office with people I don’t want to see 75% of my day.
Ok so decision made and it wasn’t difficult. The beauty of it this time is I don’t have a job to return to to I entice me. I really can do what I want and I’m brimming with ideas. Of course my ego is still trying to jump in and hold me back because I haven’t got business cards or a website. Who needs it to begin with, it’s another barrier that my inner critic so cleverly tries to pull out the bag to test if I’m really serious this time. Well my good friend critic, this time I’ve learnt to trust a little more and know that everything is exactly as it should be. So tomorrow I will be show casing my new addiction LoveJars and it was this time last week that it all happened on a trip to a garden centre…wow when did I get to the age where that happens. There were various crafts at vast prices of highly manufactured stuff and I thought I can upcycle stuff and sell it. As always with any creative endeavour I didn’t realise what else it would bring my way as already I’m feeling that hunger to create again, that craving like no other. I’m now staring at my first batch of upcycled jars that has become my life over the last week and I’m surprised how it’s just happened. I’m fearful that as with everything I will put my heart and soul into it and then get bored and it will be another project I started and didn’t finish. Something feels different this time though, I want to be a creator rather just talking about it, I want onewomancottage to become something rather than just a name. So every night after baby K goes to sleep LoveJars comes alive and so does onewomancottage. Not only am I recycling and creating but I’m learning so much about myself through the process.
And there we have it, what I have been searching for since I graduated in 2011, not only something that I can call my own but LoveJars will also my first onewomancottage Art Therapy workshop. Let the fun begin and to all those out there who are also umming and arring about…well anything really, just do it because it really isn’t as scary as we make it out to be.

I’ve had an absolute achilles heel of a day


This week I have mainly been learning about child safety in the home. I’ve actually nearly killed myself and learnt a lot about a baby safe house or in my case flippin death trap. And of course Mum did tell me that the computer lead trawling across the living room was a trip hazard, actually no Mum it’s a baby lasso that in the sip of a stone cold tea is around my friends babies neck! F**k!

I’ve also learnt that I cannot wear fisherman pants with a plate of avocado in one hand and an array of finger puppets in the other and make it successfully through the toys r us assault course that is now my living room. I’m now in bed with a ice pack on my knee which has a rather nice imprint of a wooden floor board nail. I love those pants!

My next lesson was to catch me off guard, on grass…now what can go wrong! I learnt not to keep my dog on a really long lead in the garden whilst baby K and I are learning about beetles because that piece of rope can easily tighten right across my ankles when my dog on acid decides to sprint sideways. This pain makes the nail in the knee feel like a tickle in comparison to the rope burn I’m now sporting across both tendons. Of course I had to find the meaning: “An Achilles heel is a deadly weakness in spite of overall strength, which can actually or potentially lead to downfall. While the mythological origin refers to a physical vulnerability, idiomatic references to other attributes or qualities that can lead to downfall are common”.  Err yep, I fell down and….

The long lead is also not great for another potential lasso moment. It did not cross my mind that when I threw the ball to the dog past baby K’s head that the lead would take her swiftly down by trip wire effect across the neck!!!! The panic in me to stop acid dog from moving in the opposite direction whilst rope across babies neck was like walking through a jungle and spotting a silver back out the corner of your eye…nobody even blink right now.

After incident number four I wasn’t sure whether outside or inside was safest but decided to go back inside only to walk in something slippery and wet.  No not baby dribble, poo or wee like I thought too…dog vomit, my favourite!

The piece de resistance has to be baby K’s face plant onto bathroom tiles. Now she’s fallen off the bed before and had a few near misses but this was a direct hit. This was a deliberate attempt to make me look like a child abuser at today’s social gathering. Baby K hit the deck hard but stupid dancing distraction tactics worked a treat and reduced a potential purple face moment to a mere red face accompanied with tears and twitch inducing screaming.

I retreat to the bed with baby K for her nap, end up falling asleep together and SHE IS STILL ASLEEP…shhhhhh!!!
What in earth do I do with myself at 7 o clock now? Pour a large glass of wine and cook. Cook a meal! I’ve forgotten what an entire plate of food tastes like and it’s hot! Get in!


Have a baby though…it’s awesome 😉


Minus 27 Hours Sleep


This blog came flooding in whilst taking a shower this morning accompanied by Baby K’s sweet sound of mania inducing screaming as she is currently going through the I don’t want to be put down ever phase whoopee.

There has been no blog for over a month because we have been moving. Yes that’s right no longer am I living with my parents and no longer am I onewomancottage. We are now onewomanterraceandababyandadog but that’s a bit of a mouthful and the domain name is too expensive.

 I will start with a tip…never in your right mind think that it is a good time to move house with a four month old. It isn’t.

Week one in the new house has been a momentous week. Over night I have gone from 5* butler style service to barely a 2* serviced apartment. I am in love with the house just still recovering from going cold turkey and wrenching myself from my parents’ house and comforts. Those of you who have read living with parents may be somewhat surprised to hear that leaving the folks place was more painful then when I first left home to go to University over 10 years ago. It was more painful than leaving Australia after setting up a life for five years and it was definitely way more painful than I could have imagined when I decided it was time to move out. However much we all protested, we had actually fine tuned living together and it was easy. And I haven’t told them yet that the first wash I put on, my favourite cashmere cardi managed to find it’s way in with the cottons and will now fit Baby K, see point 6 of the previous post.

In a week that has brought minus 27 hours sleep, an unexpected Mum haircut, stabbing my thigh with a knife, Tdog falling down the stairs, dropping my phone on Baby K’s head because sleep deprivation has brought on narcolepsy and Harry Styles casually roaming the neighbourhood, I am unphased by anything. T dog has reverted back to a puppy wanting attention when baby does, crying when baby does and even shitting when baby does…I’m this close to ringing Paul O Grady. And if I hear one more peep out of flippin singing Alfie bear at 4am asking if I’m happy or if I know it the bear becomes a dog toy. I’m not even mentioning the move itself because I have serious PTSD from it and have since developed a fear of cardboard.

Today is day eight and I think I’ve cracked it. I’ve learnt that I need two of everything at all times one for upstairs and one for downstairs. Baby gate up so Tdog doesn’t try to commit suicide again and a chalk board so I can write everything down. At least one outing is required a day where I can converse with adults and not everything on the list needs to be completed before 8:30am. Bedtime is now 9pm and the day starts at 5am, I never thought I’d be doing a 9-5 again I must admit. Once the washing, washing up and expressing is done I’ve only got feeding and dog walking to do before I can nap and if any of that gets in the wrong order I will surely have social services on my door step. I’ve worked out if I unpack one box every day I should be settled by Christmas 2015…how on earth did I fit an entire house into my bedroom at my parents place?

…And their entire loft…

Oh and under their bed, and the entire conservatory.

My one saving grace is that there is a café opposite the house where I am currently trying to convince them to put chai latte on the menu.

Oh and I have met a onewomanman, or so I hope…more on this next time x

Living with Parents


After five years of galavanting around different Countries and generally having a brilliant life, I found myself in a little bit of a situation.  I’m pregnant on the other side of the world and it’s not the way I had envisaged it.  Why would you wait until in a stable relationship with a fixed abode and buckets of savings.  Because that’s just not my way and Baby K chose the exact moment I had glandular fever and had broken up with the father to attach herself to my uterus.  I am however delighted, what an absolute gift, and I’m ready.  At 31 I have completed everything I had on my list and quite frankly I did wonder what I would be doing next.

Now picture this Skype conversation. It’s a Sunday evening, the only time I can Skype my parents and the worst time for me in Australia just before bedtime urghhhh.  Friday’s and Saturday’s were out for those were spent drinking wine on a rooftop in the city and no-one wants to Skype the parents on a hangover.  So I’m lying on my bed psyching myself up to tell my parents that in six months time they would be expecting the first baby in the family and I need a diversion big time. Luckily I had just become an Australian citizen and I was holding a shiny new passport in my hand.  Nice, a visual distraction.

“Hi Mum, Hi Dad how was your weekend, what’s the weather like?”
Small talk, small talk.
“So….I’ve got two pieces of news for you”
And my stomach has separated from my body and is making it’s way to the core of the earth.  I can barely get the words out through my barren mouth.
“I’ve got my citizenship…look here’s my passport”.
And my Mum knows.  My Mum knows that the second bit of news is going to be a bombshell.  She can smell my fear and is staring directly at me.
“And you’re going to be grandparents”

They are looking at me, I’m looking at myself.

Ok time to use a lifeline.
“And I’m coming home”.
Too much. Way too much. In my mind I thought this would be a joyous occasion, in my parents mind my Mum is catatonic and my Dad’s heart has just stopped.
“I know I’ve said that I’m coming home at least four times now but I really am this time and isn’t it going to be great and the dog is coming and I’m handing my notice in tomorrow and this time I really am going to do it I just can’t wait to see you and have a christmas at home I’m too excited and I’ve contacted  the couriers already and paid the deposit to get the dog back”.

Ok so they’re going to need a cooling off period…a six month long one it turned out.  If you ever find yourself in this situation, and I suggest you don’t, run.

So I’m back in the UK, ouch, still living with my parents with Baby K and my dog.  On a side note, I have asked my parents for a dog every single day since the day I could talk and they said no.  Now they have one as bonus add on.

Now I’ve pretty much spent half a decade, including a year in therapy, trying not to become my parents and finding out who I really am without them and what I want in life. Fast forward nine months and you can hardly tell the difference between me and my Dad and my Mum is currently waving a student loan repayment letter in my face whilst I’m trying to get a screaming Baby K into a vibrating chair.  Bliss. We are just about operating as a family after some dark moments that would give an episode of Eastenders a run for it’s money on ratings.  Here is some advice if you are considering making the move:

  1. Do not move back in with your parents with a baby and a dog.
  2. Remember what it was like being 15 again because that is your new age.
  3. Get used to hair, lot’s of it, especially on soap.
  4. Know your place in the toilet queue, in fact the bathroom in general, you are last.
  5. Never complain.  Don’t even have an opinion otherwise it will be taken as a insult.
  6. That woollen top you love, pretend that it fits you perfectly after it comes out of the wash two sizes smaller and later cry into it as you use it’s new flannel like feel to wash away your tears.
  7. Get the tea order right even if every person in the house has a different tea, in a different cup depending on what time of day it is.
  8. Never ever try and move anything or clear up, it is not seen as helpful like they have taught you, it is seen as a violation of their personal space and how dare you say the house is dirty.  I never said anything.
  9. Remember to send a message when you get there safely.
  10. Recycle everything, even that small piece of cardboard that comes with socks otherwise your bin will be raided.
  11. Do not forget to lock every one of the three doors before you leave the house, that’s five locks in total and for shucks sake put the house alarm on.
  12. Learn to embrace the “are you warm enough, is the baby warm enough, is the dog warm enough do you need a coat” question.  It happens daily, at least three times.
  13. If all else fails retreat to your bedroom and adopt the speak only when spoken to rule.

DISCLAIMER:  I love my parents dearly, they are my world and I would not be where I am without them.

Meet the Parents


Meeting the parents is often something that people liken to a visit to the dentist.  I however love it, I see it as a challenge.  How can I get a family who have no idea who I am to warm to me in one night?  However, I am the female version of Ben Stiller complete with an accident prone nature and cringing acts of humour. This is how it’s done:

Now this particular experience of meeting my boyfriend’s parents was a rather unusual circumstance to begin with.  Me and my then boyfriend were living in Australia and I was back in the UK for one of my do I don’t I return home trips.  It was at this point that it was suggested that I go and meet the parents.  On my own.  Why not, I do love it after all.  So off I trot to on a Friday arvo clearly not leaving enough time for traffic.  Two and a half hours later, and feeling rather road flustered, I turn up late at the parents where a glass of white finds it’s way into to my hands almost before I can take off my shoes.  I should start by saying that I don’t drink white wine, not because I don’t like it but it really doesn’t like me.  White wine to me is my Mr Hyde, I am unrecognisable after a couple of glasses.  But what the hey, fill me up on an empty stomach.

The evening begins fairly smoothly already well lubricated with wine.  We sit down to a dinner of lasagne, my favourite.  At this stage of the evening I’m feeling rather happy that the family I have been sent to meet, alone, are quite frankly picture perfect and my boyfriend has a sister who is equally as awesome and is there as my back up.  What happens next would be enough to give Greg Focker a run for his money…I get a rumble in the pit of my stomach that can only mean one outcome.  The contents of my stomach will empty if I even so much as breathe in the next five minutes.  And I have the facial expression of someone who has just been told their sister is dating their ex.


Now it would be weird if I go to the upstairs toilet right?  So I go to the downstairs one which is only just out of earshot and it is explosive.  All sorts of things are running through my head as I try to take my mind off events by looking at the 40 birthday party photo montage on the wall.  I’m literally shitting myself returning to the table thinking was I too long, did anyone notice, can anyone smell the linger that has followed me back to the dining room.  No.  I seem to have gotten away with it.  No. No I haven’t gotten away with it because round two is just around the corner.  What kind of Karma am I experiencing to deserve this right now? I’m sweating.  I need help. Ok sister it’s your time to join the stage show. Please help me because I’ve got diarrhoea and it’s not going away, it might even be food poisoning not from the lasagne though but that’s what it looks like.  She’s got it covered and tells me to go upstairs whilst she distracts.  Phew comfort.  I descend the stairs not knowing what will greet me and find Mum and sister waiting for me in the kitchen.  Gasp they’re onto me.  Mum is a nurse and hands me a magic stop the plop tablet that has an immediate effect. Ok so I’m back on track, back at the table and having seconds of lasagne and more wine.  It is at this stage that the memory gets shady.  The reason for this distinct memory loss is because I think it would be a great idea to join sister for a cigarette out in the garden.  Am I mad.  White wine and fresh air plus a cigarette equals a face plant onto gravel to pick up my dropped cigarette and a un-disguisable graze on my cheek.  Wow this chick is really something, she drinks like a fish, shits in both bathrooms and smokes. So I return to the table twice as pissed as when I left sporting a shiner, pure class.

But it’s not over oh no no no no no.

Here’s the crescendo.  On my place mat is a small square package, Ooo how thoughtful, a hand wipe to freshen up.  As I’m wiping my hands with the tiniest hand wipe ever De Niro points out that it is in fact a glasses cleaner because my specs are filthy…right of course yep.  I must drink some water and try and sober up.  Oh a plastic wine cooler not a water carafe yep I also knew that, shit I really need to go to bed at least I only have to walk up the stairs.

This is the actual extract from the visitor book that I left on my departure:


“I’d love to say that I enjoyed my stay but I cannot remember 🙂  Highlights…cauliflower cheese, nearly falling over, actually falling over, new family and cheers to forgetting the passports.  The best in-laws ever!  Love K xx” 

One day I may tell you about the time that they came to visit us in Australia but I’m not quite over that yet so may have to wait.