60 days! And a whole year in Canada!

 Hello my dear friends and readers, let me just get my cup of tea... I want to celebrate the fact that I have maintained my sobriety for 60 days. It wasn't easy, I will tell you that. In fact, for the first month, my newly 4 year old daughter became a demon. Almost as if she knew that this was the time to do it, because Mummy isn't self medicating every night anymore. She was a feral, non sleeping, manipulative, whining, non eating, little monster who held her bowel movements just to add a little poison to the already toxic ointment.  But then, just as suddenly and miraculously, she changed. Within the last two weeks, she has, as everyone said she would "gotten better". "It will get better," everyone said to me when I showed up to anything looking like I'd been dragged across an 8 lane motorway during rush hour and then trodden underfoot by a herd of stressed out Buffalo who are late for an important meeting. I would look at them through the one eye that

We are out of tea bags

Today is the first day that I have felt better after my third (or fourth? I've lost count) bout of Covid. Or, the 'vids, as we like to say around this house. I have had it four days, and it's not been fun. My husband has been working full time, taking care of me, taking care of our 4 year old daughter (who, by the way, seems to be super talented at knowing the exact moment when one of us is sick and the other is exhausted, and goes completely feral) and cleaning the house in the few minutes free he has here and there. I'm still pretty tired, and need to be careful that I don't overdo it, but it's a downhill slope from here I believe. Still haven't had a drop to drink for, now, 50 days. That's a long, long time for me! 

Driving in Victoria B.C. - a MOAN

I have driven in many cities. Toronto and London being two of them. I have been driven in Italy and India, both of which leave you feeling like you are lucky to be alive as you hurl yourself out of the vehicle that was three minutes ago travelling at 1 million miles an hour, kiss the ground and swear you will give your life to Jesus, confess everything and never sin again, as per your very recent, very desperate conversation with Him. I have seldom, however, driven in a city where, as you come out of your driveway, in order to stay intact, you must assume that everyone in a car today has left their house with an unwavering determination to crash into you. The utter incompetence, pettiness and plain idiocy of drivers in this city leave me thinking that there is no other explanation for their unfathomably terrible driving.  When I first arrived a year ago, I was so outraged, so baffled, that it took me this long to write about it. I just spent the entire time on the roads shaking my head

Sober October ... or sleepless in October

I toyed with the idea of writing this as a new blog. But then I thought, no. This is all part of it.  So...I'm doing sober October. Or Stop-tober. Or whatever you want to call it. Mock-tober? (as in, mocktail - tober?) Whether I finish it or not, whether I get through the next week or not, or whether I never drink again (preferable), I am quite proud of myself, because I am on day 6 tonight. I am not proud that I am on day 6. I am proud that I am on day 6 after two of the most stressful nights of my life.  Last week my little pickle, newly 4 years old, decided that she was just not going to have a poo for 48 hours. I won't go into details, but my God. I went almost out of my mind with the worry of it. You can't force 'em to eat, and you can't force 'em to have a poo. She held it and held it and held it. I was having visions of her body poisoning itself, although my husband kept sagely (though not entirely helpfully) saying "Noone ever died from not having a

Tornado in the living room

  I've said it before and I'll say it again. Our children are our best teachers.  Yesterday, in the midst of continuous meltdowns, back to back battles and torrid tantrums, and immediately following a particularly nasty spitting sound that expectorated (good word eh? my mum was an English teacher) from my toddler as she resisted YET ANOTHER thing, I made the decision to shout. I very rarely do, but I thought that she needed to snap out of this powerful little vortex of chaos that she was causing, and I essentially said to myself "fuck gentle parenting" and I shouted "YOU DO NOT SPIT AT ME!" which cued (as I knew it would) a torrent of tears, to which I instantly responded by enfolding her in the biggest softest longest cuddle I could muster, while murmuring loving things into her hair. I know, I'm a sucker for tears. They undo me.  While I was murmuring, between her gasps and sobs, she kept wailing "Be HAPPY mummy!" I thought about it. This wa

Terrible twos?

Terrible Twos.   Whoever invented that idiom did it with malicious and insidious intent. That phrase was created to make new parents think that the twos are the worst it gets. When new parents are reduced, every night, to a puddle of exhaustion and stress after dealing with their two and a half year old child all day long, these two words give them a sense that things will get better. "Ah yes but this is the terrible twos. Things can't possibly get any worse."  Oh.  My.  God. Things get so, so, so much worse.  I have a psychologist friend who once compared having a 3 year old child to being on the front lines of a war. She said being on the front lines was, according to a study, less stressful. Where the f*%$ can I sign up.  I don't even know where to start, my head is pounding, my spine is aching, and I feel symptoms of depression coming on. Here's what happened this morning.  2:30 am - Pickle comes into our room and lies down on her little mat we've put ther


 This blog is everything I'm thinking at the moment. It's my therapy. I need this. Please bear with me. I am so tired I can hardly see straight because Pickle has stopped sleeping properly again. Not only this but every night it is at least a two hour BATTLE to get her anywhere near sleep. We are in this weird window of her development where she still needs a nap in the day, even if it's just 20 minutes, and so if she doesn't nap, she makes our life a living hell until she goes to sleep at night, which she fights with body and soul, so in the evening it's approximately 4 hours of horrendousness which I start dreading around noon. If she does nap, however, no matter what we do, like go to the beach or the playground right after daycare, or go and climb one or two of the Himalayas with her, she still will not fall asleep until after 10. 11:30 was the worst one, one of the weeks when my husband was in the UK and we were here. By the end, she was crying, I was sobbing,