Seven Days of Self-care as a Mum

‘Self-care’ is all but non-existent as a mum. However, we must find ways to show ourselves a little love to maintain our sanity. Since I couldn’t capture my husband relieving me of baby H’s 5am wake-up call (by far the greatest form of care, albeit not undertaken by myself), here’s my version of self-care.


New vase, new lilies. I didn’t consider their shedding stamen upon purchase. Given the cleaning up of escaped pollen is the opposite of self-care, I may have to delegate the task… Still, don’t they look pretty?


A roast dinner cooked by my husband on a Tuesday, because, why not? In reality we couldn’t face the level of prep required for a roast after taking baby H to his swimming lesson on Sunday!


A slab of new black peppercorn soap to see in hump day. Fabulous.


Perhaps the most unphotogenic dessert ever there was. But look how huge the slice is! Courgette and pistachio cake was a risqué decision, which unfortunately didn’t pay off. Luckily, I’d also picked up a hunk of millionaire’s shortbread. No photo, as patience lost out to greed.


Stripes on stripes on stripes.

Featured: New The White Company brushed cotton pjs.

Not featured: The milkano which later erupted all over featured pjs.


Another less than ‘gram worthy photo. But I love stemless, and my husband loves stems (?). That doesn’t sound quite right. Let’s just say, my husband doesn’t appreciate my appreciation for alternate glassware. N.B. Enjoying a glass of wine as a nursing mum, after more than a year of sobriety, is sensational.


Finding my husband had lovingly set Baby H’s bath ready to go, down to his beloved blue sheep, filled me with love for them both. By far my favourite day of self-care.

The End

Self-care is over for a long time.

On Wednesdays I Wear Pink

As a new mother, I’m plagued by self-doubt, and find myself struggling to define my new style. I’ll often reach for an item from my ‘old’ wardrobe, before metaphorically slapping my wrist, and grabbing something from my ‘mum’ wardrobe.

Consequently, most days I wear the same comfy, unstylish, and plain outfits. I now wear lycra, wool, and sneakers, where I used to wear tweed, leather, and biker boots. I now wear black, where I used to wear mainly black (let’s face it, it’s a classic!). Therefore, I vow to start throwing on more colour. Even if it’s just a brighter (read: less black) nursing tee. Better still, I vow to start wearing more of my favourite colour: pink.

On that note, here’s a bunch of questionable photos over the last 18 years of me wearing pink.





Can we just take a moment to marvel at the bun my husband kindly styled for me on Boxing Day 2015!




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A Letter From a Mother to Her Son

Dear Baby Boy,

You are everything. I wake up excited to see you, and your sweet face. I go to bed thinking about all that we have done during the day.

I waited patiently to meet you. Since you were an invisible heartbeat, to a prawn, to a 3D baby. You were born glorious. Daddy saw you first, and I watched his face. It told me you were exquisite. They said you were strong.

You have taught me so much about you, me, humanity, and I love to learn. I am practising patience. I know selflessness at last, it feels wonderful. I have let go of pride, my ego, and relinquished (some) control. I’m no longer embarrassed to express myself openly. I am your voice after all. At least for now. I use that voice to sing, tunelessly, publicly, and often. It’s actually fun. You like it too.

You make me vulnerable. I didn’t realise it was possible to live with my heart outside my body. I think it’s because it has grown so big.

Your love, and the way others share it, makes me love them more. I love the way daddy loves you. He has a good heart, and is a kind man. The way he loves you without thinking shows it to be true. Your grandparents, my parents, adore you. I now appreciate how they must love me.

I have never understood living vicariously until I met you. I love experiencing the world as you experience it, with pure unadulterated joy. Your shrieks of excitement when you see something you like, fill my heart with gladness. When you cry I want to take you in my arms, and let you know you are safe. And I do.

Your face is honest. I’ve learned to read your feelings, and cues. You tell me so much, even though you cannot speak.

My body has housed you. Nursing you has taught me that my body can nourish. It makes me feel special. It is our time. It allows me to hold you in my arms, a long time, and often. It comforts you, and it comforts me. I like the way you break away to look at my face, it makes you smile. Sometimes you hold my hair, or put your hand in my mouth. I cherish these moments.

You are so many names. You are Mole, Molinski, Molinskini, Bébé, Cabbage, and Strawberry. Mole will stick.

You are beautiful. Your hair is feathery like duck down. It stands static, and you have tufts of hair on the sides. We call them your wisps. These strawberry outcrops are proof I’m not ready to say goodbye to all of my newborn. I promise to sort that soon. Else, I risk losing those locks of hair for good.

Some days I worry too much. Then I worry my worries will overpower the good times. And I stop. I am learning to follow my instincts, and I hope I am right.

I can’t believe I made someone so perfect. Life really is good. I asked for you to have my eyes. You have my eyes. I asked for you to take daddy’s Cupid’s bow. It sits above daddy’s lips, and below his ski jump nose, on your little face.

I love the way you make faces smile. Even moody, and sometimes sad ones. You went shopping with daddy, and two ladies said your smile had brightened their day. Your smile brightens my day everyday. How lucky am I.

I love you my gorgeous boy.

Your Mummy