Have you noticed everyone seems to be either making or thinking about making almond milk these days? I’ve been meaning to try it for a while, as we often spend a small fortune on it, but I never had one of those trendy nut ‘mylk’ bag thingys to squeeze it all through. Finally a friend suggested I use a baby muslin cloth. Now those I have. In abundance. So finally, I made my own, and it was so much less of the faff than I thought it would be.
Something has been happening to me over the last while. It’s a feeling of almost coming full circle. Like I’m finally settling into a newer version of myself. A little battered round the edges perhaps, but one that still bears a strong resemblance to the old me, except with two crazy kids in tow. And if I had to put a title on it, I’d say it was a feeling of ‘becoming mum.’
I’m really excited to be hosting a very special mini retreat with my good friend and fellow yoga teacher, Amanda Cunliffe-Smith, on Friday 20th January. We all know that sticking to New Year’s resolutions is not always easy, and by the end of the month our good intentions may have already fallen by the wayside! Our retreat is aimed at helping you break this cycle and stay true to what is important to you.
The second child always has to settle for a few hand me downs, and one of those for little Henry has been Molly’s cot and mattress. I’m slightly embarrassed to admit I never got around to cleaning it, so when the team from Healthy Home messaged to ask me if I’d ever had my kids’ mattresses sanitised, I gulped at the thought of what might be lurking in the fibres. And let’s face it, in the lovely dust bowl we live in, children here seem to pick up coughs and colds faster than you can sneeze. Along with being prone to things like asthma, allergies and eczema.
Dear ‘friends.’ I almost unfollowed you today. Perhaps it was your impossible blue sky that got under my skin. Or that perfect beach shot you took, as you dipped your feet in glistening waters in some farflung place. Or your shiny smoothie packed full of ingredients, some of which I’ve never heard of. That killer workout you did with your makeup still intact? Or your glossy hair shimmering in the wind. Or maybe it was that effortlessly chic outfit you’re wearing that pushed me a little to the edge.
It’s 4.37am. I mutter a string of expletives as I haul myself out of bed. I spend the next 45 minutes nipping in and out, trying to encourage Henry to have more shut-eye, before he decides he would rather be up for the day. He gives me that grin that says, quite frankly, Mum, it would be boring to go back to sleep. But instead of smiling, I find myself crying. Hot, fat tears rolling down my face, quickly, without warning. I’m cross. Darn cross at the sheer exhaustion of it all. Cross at the fact the day is beginning at sparrow fart yet again. Cross at the fact that I’m already thinking ahead to how wrecked I’ll feel later. Cross over the guilt I’m feeling for even feeling annoyed, when so many people would give anything to be in my shoes.
I’ve always quite enjoyed cooking. My mum, who is a fabulous cook, ran a restaurant in our home when I was younger. As head chef, she was always racing around trying new recipes, sourcing fresh produce and whipping up delicious things. Fast forward and I’d love to say I follow in her footsteps, but truthfully I usually resort to the same old tried and tested repetoire, which loops around from week to week.
We’ve never quite been the best of friends, have we? Always at war over this and that. A bulge here, too many lumps there. Not enough lumps in the right places. Too soft. Too big. Thighs too large. Boobs too small. A wrinkle here, a crow’s foot there. Another line that shows the years we’ve spent together and all that we’ve been through.