Revelations of a Slummy Mummy

One of S’s conditions in agreeing to baby number four was that I learned to drive. Fair enough, I could see how, from his point of view, playing taxi driver to three small people and me, plus always being the dessie driver by default because he was the only driver could get quite tedious. To add insult to injury, I rarely drank when we went out, normally for one of two reasons- namely pregnancy or breastfeeding. I think we calculated that I’ve spent 37 months of my life pregnant, and 44 months of my life breastfeeding the products of those pregnancies. (If you’re wondering about the extra month of pregnancy- all of my kids were hugely inconsiderate and rocked up late. Big dislike) Before I learned to drive my main mode of transport was, in the words of S, the dreaded ‘peasant wagon.’ This amused me in the extreme, having happily used buses my entire life since my mum never drove a car, but to S the mere thought of sharing a vehicle with strangers (and possibly unwashed, germ-ridde...

Firstly, apologies for the slackness in this very tardy blog. Secondly, I love every one of you brilliant, encouraging, fantastic, supportive, awesome individuals for taking the time out to read my ramblings. It means more than you can know. It hasn’t been the easiest few weeks. In fact, epic crises the size of Everest have seemed to strike one atop another like angry waves battering the shoreline in a particularly gnarly storm. My resolve to remain rock like is rapidly eroding into sand, but I figure there are some sand attributes that aren’t so bad after all (but that’s a whole other blog post!) My eyes have recently been opened to a whole other realm. A realm untalked about by the masses- funerals and death 101. I have no previous knowledge or experience on this slightly taboo underworld-it’s not something that generally pops up in the everyday chirpy dinner party conversation. On the occasions I have seen it attempted with such casuality the result has been fallout akin ...