More coffee


A slow morning. Sunny but slow. Tired from nursing Syd and clearing up sick. I think it was food poisoning from the super market ready meal. I regret my lazy decision to serve the children from bowls of plastic wrapped plastic. I need to get back to making my own ready meals. I used to. I used to be so much more organised than I am now.

Poor Syd. He has slept all morning. There is nothing left in his stomach apart from bile. It was a horror cleaning up the mess. His projectile vomit went everywhere. It was a Niagara falls of puck as it tumbled down the top flight of stairs. It went on the walls, the floor, the rug, Naoise Peter Rabbit cuddly toy. I would rather shit anyway. Clearing away sick makes me gag.

The sky is blue with an occasional fluffy cloud. I am sat in the yard, beneath the washing line, The jasmine and the buddleia flowers are out.

I have had some good news amidst a sea of nothing. A drawing that I entered into a touring show has been accepted. I am thrilled. I have to remain secretly thrilled as there has been no official announcement yet about who is in the exhibition. I realise that it is this that I need. Positive news is essential. Life is impossible if there is no light. If there is no gain, especially when you are maintaining a practice, stirring the pot, reaching out, sharing. There is no love in art unless it is shared. If it is not shared it does not feel as if it exists. There is no point of drawings lying in plan chests or paintings dusting under beds. Out. In order to relate to the world, to communicate the artist needs things to be seen. If her creative endeavours are seen, then she too feels seen, and valued, and worthwhile. It is a simple process. Make. Present. Show. Receive feedback. Analyse. Reflect. Learn. Understand. Experiment. Try out. Process. Make again. Make a new.

I need to make a cake. A big chocolate cake for my man-boy. Tomorrow he will be fourteen. Fourteen years a mother. Fourteen years my first son. I have no regrets about this adventure, though motherhood is more akin to an extreme sport than gentile crocheting. Motherhood is not pink, motherhood is all the colours. Syd is full of life and vitality and creativity. He constantly challenges. He constantly questions. He is a constant. I see him now with the beard that I said he would have when I first set eyes on him. When I first looked into his new born eyes I could see the man he would very quickly become, but I could not see the woman that I was or the woman that I would be. Mothering is a constant searching and seeking out, a constant changing, reassessing, sorting, managing, muddling, tidying, cleaning, hugging, reading, playing and moving through. Moving on pushing forward and getting rid of redundant items, prams, cots, potties, scooters, shoes, clothes.

Its a constant giving and loosing. Drawing in and pushing away. Making sure everyone is safe and secure. Getting the balance right, not suffocating, guiding, raising, then holding on and not wanting to let go. Wanting to be needed.

Cliche. Cliche. Cliche. Time to stop and make that cake.


Motherhood is not a problem to solve, but a reality we must acknowledge. Being a mother in the creative sector is not an impediment to good work, but changes must be made at a national and institutional level. Elena Marchevska. 13th July 2015. The Guardian 

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