The light from the full moon shone directly in through the skylight. It is freezing outside. Its after 3 am in the early hours and I am awake, giving Naoise a shower as he has had an accident in his sleep. I am completely shattered. After drying him with a towel, I fetch growing pain medicine for his knees and a cup of milk. He drinks a little of the milk and I finish the rest of it off. We cuddle back to sleep.

The walk out yesterday was just amazing. Clear blue skies. Shadows. Glistening snow ice. Icicles hanging from railway arches and waterfalls. Frozen mud. Warm sun. Birds chattering. Blissful light on my face.Later at home, I play the video of me walking in the snow. The sound of the snow crunching beneath my feet. It sounds so fantastic inside, inside my kitchen. It is comforting to hear the pace of my feet.

While writing this I am playing my friend Tamaki Hagishi’s music, she is a wonderful violin player .  It is the piece of music that she recommended to me.It has the influence from various religious and folk traditions to evoke eternity and mysticism. It is very good music and I am sure you will like this one!   It is so so beautiful, and peaceful. Perfect for a mother with insomnia. Riho Esko Maimets – Sanctus, by the Villiers String Quartet.

I feel absolutely shattered, my mind feels numb and sore. I recall this feeling of sleep deprivation from the days of staying awake through the night breastfeeding and changing nappies.

I wrote some notes to myself, as I wasn’t sure if I would even have the energy to write this today. I cannot think straight at all. I will elaborate where I can if the words fall into nonsense.

2.33am-2.56 am

Words in the night. Multiple voices. Why am I doing this ? The time in-between. What has walking alone got to do with mothering ? An absence. Need of a break. The wild. The wildernes. Vacancy. Could’nt be outside when stuck inside looking after a child ?


Torturous insomnia now caused by my own creativity.

The breastfeeding film. How to make it ? How to incorporate comments. Different voices. I need to collect all the images of the women breastfeeding their children. Ask Krishna and Jo for some documentary film making advice. Write a script. Be honest. Selective.

The silence of the night. Naoise breathing. Syd talking in his sleep. The silence of the night.

Disappointment in not loosing weight, only three hundred grams down in two weeks. Write it all down. Empty the thoughts in your head, so I can sleep. Need to rest.

What do I remember about breast-feeding. ? Amnesia. Breath. Battery running low on phone. Headache.Do I need images of women breastfeeding ? Could I just use the text ? Can I read their comments or do I need their voices, or multiple, different voices ?

Eyes burning. Hungry. Full moon. Full moon, I had forgotten to look at it. A chaos of thoughts. Hard to order. Naoise grinding his teeth. Syd moving in his bed.

What has the walking got to do with mothering ? I have no pram. Mother load. He is at school. I should be at work, instead I am walking the hills, obsessing about my body and wanting to loose weight. Trying to get stronger. Sometimes there is nothing to understand. You do not need to explain art. Better just to do it.

Head throbbing. Too many thoughts. No clarity. No focus.



I do not carry the weight of a child all day long. A piggy back carry or shoulder carry too and from school. Just a little help now and then. I hear Patrick moving in his bed. Creaking beds. I am thirsty. No point in getting up, I need sleep. Light so light from the moon. Rest. No baby at my breast. No nappy to change. No Abney and Teal, or early afternoon hugs on the sofa. No playgroups. Just before and after school.



I am thinking of me being weighed. The prams in the corridor at the health centre. The door that opens up to the baby clinic, where babies are being weighed. Babies are being weighed to see how much they have gained, how much they have grown. The door that opens up to see the healthy weight advisor is adjacent to the door of the baby clinic. Me, a mother, trying to loose weight, having her loss recorded. Loss in weight.

I hated having to take off all of Naoise clothes to get him weighed, but recording his weight in the red book provided some satisfaction, some clear measurement of the success of my mothering.  Not the undressing. Not the playing with toys on a carpeted floor, that was boring and monotonous. I do not miss that. I remember staring into space, trying to keep awake, the pram as zimmer frame to keep me up.

Baby weight = hope for gain

Mothers weight =  hope for loss

It is now 3.15 am and I am getting Naoise into the shower. Maybe I am not redundant after all. I still get up in the night to care for my child.

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