Soggy Saturday

10.14 am (at the table in the front room daydreaming out the window)

It is strangely quiet for a Saturday morning, the washing machine is churning its way through yet another pile of washing. Always reliable. Always comforting to hear the cycle. I slipped Naoise snuffly pillow into the wash. He is at the Incredible Edible Young Farmers group, my dear friend took him to squelch in the muck and fun. The sunnily pillow was smelling rancid and the corner that he sticks up his nose had turned to black, it posed a serious health threat to Naoise beautiful fait skin and my nose!

I am horrified by the news. I cry. The news of the Paris terror attacks. What has become of us? All this hate all this war all the blood spilled and lives lost. What for?

We need to care for each OTHER we all need mother love to succeed. We all need understanding and compassion and connection. We all need emotional connection. We don’t need violence and war. We need peace. All the innocent lives lost. All the children born of woman and womankind. Only kindness can prevail. It is so easy to want to react with anger.

I am lost for anything much to say. I slept beyond five which is great, I feel much more relaxed. Syd has gone to his dads for the weekend, and will be busking at the Christmas Markets. I asked that he get his dad to take a photograph for me.

I cleaned and polished his school shoes, they were sodden and covered in mud and grime from walking wet pavements. I like to show Syd love through small acts of maintenance.

I drew pregnant bodies squirting milk into bodies made of towering breast totems. I made drawings that suggested actions and growth and renewal. I actually drew. Leaving the computer at home was a good thing. I got physical work done. I made marks. I rehearsed marks. I decided that the ink and pen drawings are more powerful than the permeant pen drawings. The line is less predictable, and the ink protrudes from the surface. The line has physicality.

The washing machine is reaching its crescendo. I must record and document all my research on the representation of Breastfeeding and the work on Post Natal Depression and Mental health in parents of young children. I don’t have to share everything. I don’t have to put it all here. I can keep things back just for me.

I feel very disappointed after failing to get the  job as Breast Feeding Peer Support Coordinator I want to protect me and my knowledge. I want to curl up in a nest. Hibernate a while.


‘Babies? An impossible dream’: the millennials priced out of parenthood, Rhiannon Lucy Cosslett, Saturday 14th November, The Guardian




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