How not to say sorry

No more sorry’s….


I won’t say sorry for a messy house anymore. I’m doing my best trying to keep it clean but then it gets undone. Every. Fucking. Time… Three. Times. A. Day… #sorrynotsorry

I won’t say sorry for my body when you fake tan me, see me in a bikini or give me a Pap smear. My body is my temple and sometimes that temple eats cake and fries… #loveroffries #sorrynotsorry

Saying sorry for my creased up clothes is a thing of the past. My iron was faulty – faulty as in I didn’t have fucking time this morning to care about my outfit but the kids are done. #ironingsucksballs #sorrynopenotsorry

I won’t say sorry for being a little bit cranky this morning. My smile and my charm was smashed through the window during one of the eightieth times I got up to my child. I can hardly see through the sandpaper in my eyes let alone care about making sure a fake smile is plastered on my face. Plus I haven’t had my coffee yet. #gothefucktosleepsorrynotsorry #coffeestat

I won’t say sorry for being on my phone while my child plays in the sandpit. He’s happy. I’m happy. What more do you fucking want. #stopjudging #sorrynotsorry

I won’t say sorry when we are in each other’s way at the supermarket. Stay left dickhead! #roadrulesapply #stopsayingsorry

You won’t be hearing me say sorry for saying how challenging things feel at times. It’s called venting. It’s called getting it off your chest. It’s called getting over it and moving on. I know that things could be worse. Trust me I know. I’ll pull my big girl panties up once I’ve unloaded. #whinger #sorrynotsorry

Sorry. Nope not sorry at all.

One love

DRK xxx

Mittelschmerz is not a German Sausage

Mittelschmerz. It’s a fancy name that I’m pretty sure I’m not pronouncing properly … Mit.. Tel.. Sch.. Merz…. Sounds exotic! 

Where is this foreign place? Are there Germans there?

Well I’ve googled it and it’s definitely not a place. It’s not even the name of a tasty German sausage. It’s actually a really difficult to say medical word for ovulation pain. Yes they have a really difficult to say medical word for ovulation pain. Who knew?!

For those that don’t have ovulation pain this post may not interest you. For those that do – this is most definitely for you. I want you to know you’re not alone in your pain and frustration or in your search (every 17 days) to cure your regular bitch pain.

Let’s break it down, thanks to Mayo Clinic….

Definition

By Mayo Clinic Staff

Mittelschmerz is one-sided, lower abdominal pain associated with ovulation. German for “middle pain,” mittelschmerz occurs midway through a menstrual cycle — about 14 days before your next menstrual period.

In most cases, mittelschmerz doesn’t require medical attention. For minor mittelschmerz discomfort, over-the-counter pain relievers and home remedies are often effective. If your mittelschmerz pain is troublesome, your doctor may prescribe an oral contraceptive to stop ovulation and prevent midcycle pain.

For those who don’t have it let me give you a visual…

It’s 17 days since your last period started. You’ve shed bloody stuff from your lady bits for 7 days straight, you’ve cramped up, you’ve eaten shitloads of whatever your hands could get a hold of and every morning you’ve woken up wanting wear white pants and then you’ve restrained yourself from wearing white pants.  It’s been fun hasn’t it? Now you’re on your 10 days of peace and you will get to enjoy those 10 whole days of freedom-wearing-white-pants-if-you-want. 

Then it happens.

Day 17 arrives and you wake up with little wind-like pains. Nothing major. You have your coffee and breakfast (if you’re lucky) and your pains turn themselves up a notch. Did the milk in my coffee give me gas, am I lactose intolerant – you start thinking to yourself even though this has happened on Day 17(ish) on and off for the past 20+ years. 

The discomfort continues to intensify and before you know it you’re bent over like a motherfucker thinking is this appendicitis or the work of the devil himself? By the time you’re curled up in the foetal position you brain finally clicks over, slaps you across the face and reminds you it’s Day 17 and this is actually your monthly ovulation pain. Sometimes it doesn’t get to that point and you get through Day 17 just thinking you need a decent fart and then sometimes it’s so intense you vomit from the pain… as was the case for me 7 days ago and still suffering.

Countless doctors appointments as an adult and emergency hospital trips as a young girl have all ruled out anything sinister. I’ve been (mis)diagnosed as having acute and then chronic appendicitis, endometriosis, pelvic inflammatory disease, polycystic ovaries but not with polycystic ovarian syndrome coz I’m not obese or hairy and clearly have no problem having children. 

It’s just one of “those things” they say. Really? Really? Here take this hormone infested pill til menopause, they say. Even though I’ve had a DVT, even though they make me sick, even though they make me crazy, even though our family history says ‘no’ to the pill.

Mittelschmerz. We are not friends. You are the bane of my life and I wish you were just a yummy German sausage. Worse still is 10 days after you’ve entered my life, tortured me and stopped me from functioning like a normal human being you leave me and release yourself from my body and I’m back to day one of my cycle. 

Here we go again…..

#thisdoesntmeanyes

Consent.

Consent is a word that I will teach my sons. Consent is a word I want you to teach your sons and share the word together with all the men and women of this world…

Something else I’d like to share is that whether we believe or dont believe there is such a thing as rape culture, victim blaming and slut shaming all of the obscenities, all of the fallacies standing alongside these things should be abolished. Detonated. Destroyed.

Rape culture is disputed. It’s disputed because it’s “feminist”. But rape is not about feminism. It’s not about men v’s women. Rape is not about equality. What it is about and what surely cannot be disputed is that what women say, wear or post via social media is interpreted by some people, possibly a lot of people, in all their unholy judgements that she either ‘wanted it’, asked for it’ or ‘deserved it’. 

Rape culture victimises the victims. They are not taken seriously by all walks of human life and they then become the questioned. Dodging humiliating bullets of “What were you wearing?”; “How much had you had to drink?”; “Did you give him your number?” Rape culture blames the victim, trivialises sexual assault, scrutinises the victims clothing, attitude, history and continues to objectify women. 

Whether she wears a short skirt, a tight dress, bares her midriff, whether you buy her a drink at the bar or 10. Whether she plays with her hair and sends you flirty signals, licks her bright red lips or comes homes with you, consent is the only active guarantee that what you are about to participate in is legal. LEGAL.

Let me repeat that…

Consent is the only active guarantee that what you are about to participate in is legal.

It’s an all embodied passionate yes. A ‘yes’ is consent. A ‘yes’ is hot. A yes is a yes.

A short skirt cannot say yes. A hair flick cannot say yes. Swapping phone numbers does not say yes.

Consent.

Only consent can say yes.

Drunk does not mean yes. Drunk means be a fucken gentleman and make sure she gets home safely. Be an even truer gentleman and call her the next day to see if she is ok. How she pulled up. If she wants to have breakfast with you.

Drunk does not mean yes.

Walking the street late at night is not a yes. It is, unfortunately, dangerous sometimes but it is still not a yes. It is a “Can I call someone to come pick you up?” or a “Here’s $20 let me call you a cab?” It’s women sticking up for women – not judging and vilifying them. Making sure they’re safe. Making sure they are ok. And it is men being gentlemen.

Unconsensual sex is rape. 

Full stop.

*Featured image courtesy of unslutproject.com*

Wednesday Is Love Day (totally WILD!)

As a mother of five you would expect me to be a pro at Mothers Groups! You would think that being a mother to at least one toddler at a time for the past 17 years would actually make me the Mothers Group CEO – fucking worldwide – by now!

But truth be told I have never been to a Mothers group….

Well actually, thats a lie.

I did go once but there were women and children all over the place!

There were Mums outside bitching about the Mums inside, there were kids, like, everywhere, climbing shit, hitting shit, snotting snot shit all over the place. There was whinging about who hadn’t made morning tea or brought the milk for the past 4 weeks and there was instant fucking coffee. I’d rather drink the piss the crazy little two year old just did at my feet than drink instant coffee. Yes I am a coffee snob! I believe if I am going to increase my heart rate, make myself feel like I’ve just popped an ecstasy pill and can conquer the world (or just my ironing pile) then I am damn well going to make sure that coffee is barista brewed. Barista coffee is heaven scent, it’s an art form, it’s sex in a cup – orgasm and all! Instant coffee rips you off. There’s no build up, no effort, there’s no love or post-coital cuddles. The only thing instant coffee is good for is pouring over vomit. True story! It absorbs the vomit smell and dehydrates it so you can just sweep it up – I’m assuming that will take days of drying though!

Coffee

Back to my one and only visit to a Mothers Groups … There was so much competitiveness – whose kid was doing what, who had the worst/best experience of someone else’s experience and just a whole lot of not listening to each other or pretending life and everything in it was awesome, including perfect husbands which we all know is bullshit. There is no such thing as a perfect husband (or wife), god bless them. Oh and did I mention there were a billion fucking kids! I know there would be nice Mothers Groups out there. I know I could have just got them on a bad day. I know that some of those chicks are actually really nice chicks and I fucking like them a lot! But it was just too much for me! Too much of a commitment, too much hard work, too much involvement of doing and remembering stuff.

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Then one day something fucking magical happened and it was something that really just unfolded on its own.

There was no forcing, no pressure, no strategy.

We created a Love Day – that day in the week we all look forward too, sometimes even need to fast forward to and quite simply LOVE. Wednesday is Love Day (WILD).

WILD is for women only. Kids can come, simply because they have to, but they have to go and play – like by themselves or with each other – you know like we had to do when we were kids. WILD started with like minded women who also happened to be my long term friends. We hang out, we force the children to move more than 50cm from our physical bodies (except for my two year old who is taking longer to detach his cute little toosh from my lap than the others – yay go Diesel!) and we fucken talk. Laugh. Vent. Cry. Counsel. We bake if we want too – which is never in my case – we cut up fruit if we can be arsed but we always, always have coffee – unless someone is detoxing or suffering from morning sickness then there’s a shitload of awesome Clean Tea in mismatched tea cups being poured!

It started innocently enough on any day of the business week that we were free. Then it moved to Wednesdays, permanently. We all agree this is the day we look forward to the most in the week. It’s our respite. There is just the four of us, normally, but it doesn’t mean others aren’t welcome. It’s cheaper than therapy and better than valium. Now we meet every Wednesday, occasionally on a Friday too and any other day in between that two of us are free at any one time.

We never have nothing to talk about. There are never any rules or restrictions. It is a love affair to rival the greatest love affairs of all time. We are all different yet we are all the same and we complement each other in ways that are really quite comforting and easy. There is no ‘trying’, no being careful with what you have to say, there are no wardrobe meltdowns because I feel that I have to compete with their gorgeousness – and that they totally are! There is also never any comparison of kids, their behaviours or abilities. In fact, we hardly remember we have them when we are together.

Mum

So I’ve decided Mothers Groups are not for me. They are too big, too impersonal, too focused on children and being a mother. WILD is the calm in the storm for me. It’s the normal in my crazy. It is my little life reprieve where I get to breath, feel like a woman and not just a mother. Wednesdays make me dust off my knees, refocus, refuel and regroup before the love/hate onslaught of motherhood continues. WILD makes me a better mother, a happier person and keeps me firmly and calmly seated in the roller coaster of life.

One Love

DRK xxx

Me and my WILD girls….. At other events not at WILD specifically!


We burnt the bra and then introduced spandex! 

Women of the world lets talk about the revolution or perhaps the evolution of us Betty Beavers! Let’s discuss where we are at in this women’s lib business and no I’m not talking about growing the hairs on your legs or plaiting your underarm hair. I’m not even discussing whether to wear or not to wear a bra (but just so you know I wear a bra otherwise I’d have two sets of knees). Let’s instead discuss suffocation. Suffocation of the woman body….

I’m going to ask you this very important question. Think hard before you answer – if absolutely necessary……

Have you ever walked into a department store, (ok I know the answer to that is yes but it is also not the question) strolled past the male underwear section and seen any hint of spandex? Any form of shape wear? Have you ever seen racks and racks of suck-me-in options all with marketing on the front of beer bellied men transformed into flat 6 pack stomach gods? Have you?

Seriously, have you?!!

Who do we suffocate our bodies for? Who makes us feel like we have pour ourselves into this spandex shape wear or more realistically complete an ugly ballerina workout just to get into it in the first place. It is not for our husbands, ok initially maybe it was to attract a man but it’s all got to unravel at some point doesn’t it! So I ask the question more deeply this time… Who do we wear spandex for?? Isn’t the honest to goodness most truthful answer for other women?!

I know the many times I have worn suckerer-innerers has been on girls nights, double dates or to weddings. When it tragically and theatrically goes on my husband does his deadly here-she-goes-again eye roll and mumbles something about how fucken sexy I am right now – I totally detect some sarcasm in his voice! My reply “Honey get the surgical scissors out tonight I’m going to need them when I get home!” Which also usually means he’s not going to “get any” when I get home because my intestines are screaming foul play after being compressed for hours upon hours!

I have recently stopped suffocating myself but for years I wore compression garments all for the illusion of a flat stomach, shapely thighs and a dimple free arse that’s half the size… This is an illusion created for other women who are also creating the same illusion. Not all women participate in the smoothing effect but there’s quite a few of us if we are truly honest. Compression garments are never worn for my hubbie anymore coz I’m pretty sure, from memory, he’s seen me naked and vulnerable at the many stages of my female life including the ever invasive pregnancy testing, the many scratch and sniffs I subjected myself to (better known as stretch and sweeps) and, of course the super sexy ‘let’s push a watermelon sized human being out of a smaller sized penis hugging canal while trying not to shit on the table’ childbirth viewings.

I have owned, at some point or another, every type of suck-me-in’s too. The full length pants that lift and firm your arse, compress your thighs while also flattening your stomach. I have the knee and mid-thigh length versions of that too – in nude and black of course. I also have the knicker ones but my arse spills out the sides and that sorta shit is really too hot to handle. I’ve also had the singlets, the over boobs and under boobs ones. I’ve had the pants with caffeine infused into the material to help you lose weight while looking like you’d already lost weight! I had the matching top in that one too. While none of these versions have ever given me a completely seamless looking figure and it’s completely imfuckingpractical during sweaty Australian summers, it has been many times that I had wished for an ankle-to-breast-to-wrist compression garment …. But then I realised I’d be wearing a wetsuit – which in fact is perfect for the Australian summer.

So back to the initial question – do you see men wearing these garments to please other men? How utterly ridiculous! These are lucrative businesses run by other women who keep on making money from our own insecurities and our harsh judgments of other women’s bodies! We are participating in a ridiculous “perfection” culture where “just as you are” is never good enough. I bravely took me and my little donut belly out last night and she was free from any intestinal sufferance. She wiggled and jiggled when I walked and laughed. I occasionally hid her behind my bag or my hand or pressed her against the table or tucked her into my jeans which then gives you a camel toe let me give you the tip but we were free to breath, my intestines weren’t squooshed up and sitting in my throat (talk about bad breath!) and well it was kinda liberating. Scary but liberating. Another bonus I got to pee in 2 minutes! Yep in and out just like that! No ballerina dancing to get some unhygienic labia suffocating material over the bits of my body some entrepreneurial sells to the women world as unsightly!

What’s next ladies – shape wear for our daughters? Let’s hope not!

One love,

DRK xxx

Losing a Sh!t Load of Weight

I recently blogged about “passengers in the bus” or #voicesinmyhead that I have slowly but surely started to drown out. I got tired of hearing their daily hourly fat, ugly taunts and I finally got the courage up to just drive that bus, #myself, toward my destination warning those demons (or as I affectionately call them, fucktards) along the way that if they didn’t shut up they would be booted out at #itsnotmeitsdefinitelyyou and #hellwasbacktherefucktards. Surprisingly my firm tone of voice, my confidence in my decisions and my ability to ignore them most of all has actually started working. They have been relatively quieter lately and I can see my journey ahead, my headspace is becoming a lot more peaceful. A lot happier. A hell of a lot more satisfied with me, as I am, right now!

With those demons sitting a little quieter on the bus things have obviously changed for me. The major thing is my scales no longer dictate my day. They don’t tell me to be happy or sad. That I am a good or unworthy person and they certainly don’t say if I am a success or a failure in this world. I’ve also been given the freedom of food. I can now eat what I want, when I want and however much of it I want to eat without feeling guilty. Without beating myself up and claiming to the world what an awful person I must be. The emotionally painful connection I have with food has almost completely ceased and so instead of eating and eating and eating to feed my demons, to satisfy their negative judgements on me and to starve myself of acceptance and love I now eat when I’m hungry.

In the mornings I wake up starving and my belly grumbles louder than my head ever did. So I eat. My favourite for the past month has been honey on toast. Ok, more so, it’s butter on toast with a small drizzle of honey…. Ok, ok it is actually just butter with a small serve of toast and an even smaller drizzle of honey! But I eat it lovingly and I enjoy it deeply and I don’t feel bad about it … at all! The other night my husband took me out for dinner. It was a surprise dinner. An early birthday present. I ate three courses. Yes, an entree, a main AND sweets – unheard of normally in my world! I didn’t finish every bite but I ordered and I ate each course til I felt satisfied. My demons didn’t say a word. This is a huge deal for me! I eat salad, I eat rice, I eat lean protein, I eat pasta. I eat a balanced diet and I am not stick thin or at the gym working my arse off and I am totally ok with it because there is so much more to me than what size I am. There is so much I have to give to this world and it has nothing to do with the number on the scales, a long awaited/yearned for flat stomach, a bullet repellant arse or a body that other women are secretly jealous of. My calling is much deeper than that. My health starts with my mind.

I weighed myself the other day, for the first time in ages, this is also a huge deal for me – I was a ‘three times a day’ weigher once upon a very short time ago!! With all this eating and enjoying I have been doing I was surprised to see I haven’t put on any weight, in fact I’ve lost a couple of Kay Gees. But I really, honestly, don’t care because the greatest loss I have made is the huge weight, crazy huge burden that I have been carrying on my shoulders. The pressure. The judgement. The harsh critic. The meanness. The constant battery of thy mirror self. I don’t have to be perfect. I don’t have to look like the women in the magazines. I don’t have to look like my neighbour, my best friend, my frenemy. I can just be. I choose to just be. I choose to eat to survive. Eat to enjoy. Eat to live. I chose to wear what makes me happy. Wear my size, proudly, confidently, whatever size that is and you never know from one brand to the next! I can wear whatever I damn well please including a bathing suit when the sun starts shining warmth again. I can smile with happiness. Smile with confidence. Smile because I know who I am and I don’t have to struggle to be someone I’m not. My head sits high on my shoulders. My happy, smiley head.

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I now know that chasing the better version of yourself doesn’t always have to mean being buff, being skinny, being thinner than what you are. That’s a sales tool that is used in the fitness and health industry – and that’s ok. For some. Not for all of us. Being the better version of yourself is being happy with who you are … Right Now! Because every day that you are living and breathing is a bloody successful day! Every day you get to learn something new about yourself and your body. It’s functions, capabilities, it’s fucken awesomeness! Every day you can choose happiness and acceptance over those fucktardish demons. Body love, body acceptance, body embracing is a choice, every day, all day. This is the best version of yourself. Body hating, body judging, body shaming should be left on the bus, sitting quietly, in time out until they learn the value of love and acceptance.

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Now give your body a hug! It works hard to take you through each day – especially if you treat it as badly as I have treated mine over the last two decades! Speak kindly to yourself because you are listening!

One love

DRK xxx

The Reality of Parenting

I recently went on a holiday, a five day holiday, without my kids, without my big kid – aka my husband – and without any concern for anything other than myself and enjoying time with my girlfriends. Five days where I didn’t have to think about shitty nappies, who hit who, what to cook for dinner or more so what not to cook for dinner, which shirt I should wear, hey one that doesn’t have dirty handprints on it or mashed up banana glued to it is good enough, who has soccer practise, tennis, basketball, football, work or a project due. I didn’t have to think about washing, hanging, ironing and putting away for 7 people. I didn’t have to vacuum and mop only to have it look like it needed a vacuum and mop moments later. I didn’t have to hear that dreaded question every stay-at-home mum hates … “What’s for dinner?” Or the even more painful “I’m bored.”

It was a holiday that I desperately needed as I face challenges with my teenager as he turns into an arsehole …. ahem sorry of course I really meant to say, as he turns into a real life teenager (or pre-man or better yet a pre-man-pre-man). Challenges that include dealing with a 17 year old girl who is in year 12 and will only settle for A grades – yes it’s admirable but it is also a highly stressful aspiration. Challenges with that prementioned 14 year old boy and his preteen 11 year old brother who looks up to him and his behaviours. Attention for the wild and crazy and all consuming world of a 5 year old and the tantrums and tribulations of a non-speaking 2 year old. Yes the fact he isn’t talking worries me and I’m getting help… Oh hey let’s not forget also the 39 year old male who needs my love and affection too. Sometimes he needs it more than the others all put together. So with testosterone overload a girls getaway was totally called for!

My holiday consisted of all the things a womans holiday should. There was plenty of shopping, walking, eating, wining (as in actually drinking wine not listening to my children whine), seeing talented people in talented shows, watching a live football game – yes I’m interested in football … C’mon there are hot men running around in teeny tight shorts – need I justify this anymore?! And of course the best ingredient of our holiday was the laughter. Real side splitting, chest hurting, stomach-muscle-cramping type of laughing. It was the best medicine for my overwhelmed heart and mind.

On our last day I knew it was all coming to an end. We wandered around for over 2 hours trying to find a place worthy to have our last supper at. We knew it had to be awesome so we could fill up with a happy ending to an awesome holiday and where we finally settled was well worth the calories burnt and the blisters earnt. We spent the evening eating Italian, being served by an Italian stallion and we drank plenty of Italian fluids – white wine, red wine and champagne. We laughed and laughed and laughed. We laughed until we were crying. Until we were unable to even speak. Until we thought everything was really funny and risked being kicked out of a Melbourne restaurant for well laughing too much!

The next morning we came home and my children welcomed me with open arms. Ok *inserting brutal honesty here* my 14 year old grunted at me – there was no open arms but I did get hugs and kisses from everyone else followed by “what did you buy us?”. My husband puffed out his chest when he saw me because he had ‘done it’ – ‘it’ being my role for a whole five days but not with all five kids I need to point that out coz it really isn’t the same BUT I am so thankful he stepped up to be a single Daddy for me so I could go away! Then the morning after my arrival home he left for his working week away and of course my real reality hit. In fact truth be told that reality up and kicked me in the gut, then it quickly filled my head with all the stuff that it had been missing and I cried, a lot. Not because I didn’t want to be there with my family but because what I do day in and day out is hard – don’t judge me! And so the day after the day before the onslaught began – packing for the 14 year olds camp, football games that coincided with a 2 year olds sleep, two big projects due, birthday parties to attend, presents to buy, appointments to get to, school runs, sports practice, lunches, early mornings, fussy eater dinners and oh did I mention washing. Fucking washing – take me to live at a nudist colony please!

Reality bites

When you go on holidays there really should be a law to say you must slowly reintroduce yourself into the ‘normal’ world in which you live. Kind of like weaning. Weaning yourself into your regular old self, with regular old chores and a billion regular things to remember. And while I may sound completely ungrateful for my life I’m not. My children make me and they break me. They teach me patience and how to not completely lose my shit. My role as a stay-at-home mum is completely frustrating, rarely rewarding and certainly never with commendations. But I have an amazing family who I can only hope and pray will grow into happy adults. That my children will know that I loved them and tried my best every day, that I never gave up and I may have struggled but that was only coz I wanted better for them. I hope they will understand and accept my imperfections and my desperate need to escape them for a five day holiday. I hope they know that my ‘reward’ is their future happiness. Their contentment in life will bring me the greatest reward of all.

My vision, a hundred years from now (ok maybe just half of that), has my husband and I sitting on our rocking chairs on our front porch reminiscing and laughing at all the times we nearly killed our offspring – it’s ok I am exaggerating, laugh with me. We will wrinkle up our noses that are already well and truly wrinkled and observe how funny it is to see our little darlings with little darlings of their own #karma.

I can only hope my children will be a better parent and a better person than me. It’s called evolution right? If so, then I know all the sacrifices, all the giving, all the tears and trying will be worth it. Parenting is a tough gig. I don’t know any gig that is harder and it really hits home when they become teens because you know adulthood is only just around the corner and all you have taught them or haven’t taught them is about to show up, for real. So fingers crossed I’ve done ok.

Reality struggle

So here’s my mission for you Superwomen…. Find a parent, whether you know them or not, someone who is doing it tough or appears to be struggling right now. The one who smiles and says she’s ok, the one looks overwhelmed, the one whose toddler is screaming on the floor in the supermarket while the mother is copping judgemental stares from fellow shoppers, she has bags under her eyes and the weight of the world on her shoulders. Your mission is to go up to her and tell her she is doing an awesome job. A lady once said that very thing to me as I dealt with a tired, unruly 18 month old who did not want to sit in the trolley, who had snot from left nostril to chin and a blood curdling scream to welcome the Vampires. Those kind words from a stranger gave me the strength, that day, to pull back my shoulders, to keep calm and to not feel like a complete failure. It’s really important to spread the parental pats on the back, to share the enormous weight a parent carries and to let them know they are a great parent and that it’ll all be ok.

You are doing ok xx

One love

DRK xxx