Hello. I’m a mum and work-at-home journalist, which roughly translates as I try to survive without sleep or a salary.
This blog is about the challenges – fun and arduous – of trying to cultivate two kids, an allotment, and everything in between. It’s about keeping my head above the compost heap and keeping down the weeds.
I’m chief story-teller and snot-wiper to a five year old boy and a two year old girl, hereby known as J and D.
I also have one Unhusband. That just means we live together but aren’t married and I haven’t come up with a better title for him. Boyfriend sounds too juvenile, common law husband sounds like an insurance application, and partner sounds like we’re either in a same sex relationship or some kind of business unison. Here are some of the things we row about:
- His mother
- Who is most tired
- Whether to have another baby (I want one, he doesn’t)
- Moving to the country (He wants to, I’m not sure)
I live in Suburbia. In my twenties that statement would have horrified me.
We moved here as a stopgap between London and Land’s End (or thereabouts.) But that was five years ago. Last summer we sold our house, found one in a hamlet in Cornwall, and almost moved there. Then the bank said no. Unhusband was devastated. I was surprisingly relieved. Coming so close to kissing our two-up-two-down goodbye, made me realise just what I do appreciate about living within earshot of the M25.
- Like being able to get a Kit Kat Chunky without needing a Sat Nav.
- Like being a four minute drive from A and E (less by ambulance.)
- Like knowing people.
Unhusband says he will kill himself if he doesn’t move to the sea. Will he get his own way? Will I get another baby?
Join me for inexpert tips on gardening, and the funny, excruciating, and maybe occasionally moving, side of parenthood. Oh, and a few rants along the way.
Thanks for reading.