Tortillas at Midnight

Who is Amy, you might be wondering? A friend from near or far? Amy Poehler, the star of Parks and Rec (a very noteworthy Amy indeed)? The memorable little girl from Justin Cronin's The Passage  trilogy? A neighbour, a ghost, a bus driver? There really are an abundance of great Amys in the world. However, I'm afraid that none of these possibilities are quite on the money. Lately, it's Amy Sosa who has been on my mind. Kind, responsible, fair and hard-working Amy Sosa of Superstore . The friend of many. The meddler of business that isn’t hers. The let’s-do-the-right thing, the let’s-wear-a-fake-nametag, the ever-relatable and seeker-of-justice Amy. A quick break for a Very Important Memo: if you haven’t already seen  Superstore, you really need to get on it. It’s hilarious, it has great diversity, and best yet it’s on Netflix, divided into bite-sized episodes that are the perfect length for when you’re exhausted but sleep isn’t an option because every evening is Buffet Styl...

Everyone is talking about it. It is devastating and it is entirely unsurprising. It is as ordinary as the air we breathe and unfunnily enough, this is how we come to face this harm. By breathing. By the virtue of existing as female.  I am afraid for my daughters. And I am angry too. This world is not kind, especially to women. And toxic masculinity and the patriarchy are not kind either. To anyone. I don’t want to raise my daughters to hurry through the quiet streets at night, keys clutched tight, and four different exit routes mentally mapped out. I don't want to raise my daughters to never leave the group, to hesitate before hopping in an Uber, and to always text their friends to make sure they got home okay. I don't want to raise my daughters to question what they wear, to put their hair up instead of down, and to always have a polite, ready-made excuse. I don't want to raise my daughters to have to do any of these things. To constantly monitor and adjust their behaviour...

I’m late to this day, I know. I mean, I knew that International Women’s Day was coming up (all thanks to the Bluey family planner hanging in the kitchen; no credit to me), but it didn’t dawn on me that it was today today until I saw others talking about it. This is what happens when you live your life within two different eat-play-(eat-eat)-sleep routines of two small people. Weekdays don’t even register, let alone Important International Days. When is Easter again?  Anyway, today is a day to acknowledge women. To acknowledge how amazing women are and to also acknowledge how much further the world has to go to give women equality. I’m going to keep this brief, because there are countless more articulate words spoken by clever and important people out there to read. I basically just wanted to write a small something for my daughters. So, for my small humans on this International Women’s Day: You both came into this world with a roar. You are both happy and sad and loving and impat...

Yesterday, I almost said, “take a picture, it’ll last longer,” to a bunch of people in the doctor's waiting room. Okay, so we both had know I’d never actually say that, I’m awful at conflict, but my goodness it would have been satisfying. We were having a real time and a half, let me tell you. The baby was getting her immunizations and our toddler was also along for the ride and I’m just going to make the blanket statement that having two small children in a very quiet, confined space which is designated for their least favorite thing - waiting - was about as fun as getting a tooth pulled. Or maybe three teeth pulled. One was crying because she was tired and we’d just gotten out of the car and she hates the car, so it was all too much really. The other was crying because she wanted to run onto the road and I stopped her. I’ll let you decipher who was who. Anyway, to cut a long, painful story very short, there was a lot of crying on both their parts, both in the waiting room and out...

A few days ago I was peacefully scrolling, minding my own utterly mindless business, when I came across something that made me do a double take. It was like something out of a sitcom with a fake laughter track and all. But instead of canned laughter, it was more a horrified exclamation of, “surely this has to be a bad joke?” And then actual, pure horror upon realizing it wasn't. No, The Grudge (2004) with her memorable grumble wasn't waving happily from an ad banner. Nor did the pandemic deniers run an ad, promising that if you join them, you'll get to burn down a 5g tower for free. Far worse, actually. It was this. The Garmin Vivofit Disney Princess Activity Tracker. And this is just one example of the many different fitness trackers out there that are aimed at children. Yes, these devices actually do exist. I would blame it on just being another slice of fresh hell brought to you direct from 2020 itself, but turns out these watches have already been on the market for a f...

I’ve always gotten a weird kick out of doing everything the hard way. In my last year of school, I convinced the assistant principal that I didn’t need a study period, because I had to fill it with calculus instead, even though I was already taking statistics. Did I want to do calculus? No. But that was beside the point. If I could fill my schedule more, I would. If I could take a more challenging subject, I would. If I could empty my cup and then smash it to smithereens, just because I could, I would. I don’t really know where this ridiculous need to make everything difficult and then to suffer through it comes from. I have a few vague ideas, but this is a subject for future blog posts and for when I have time to research. In short, every decision throughout my life has been so strongly influenced by this innate need, this stubbornness, to push myself beyond breaking point. And boy, did I push.  In the past, I’ve ended up in a handful of really bad situations because I just couldn...

Lately, headlines have been filled with *shocking* *controversial* news regarding children’s lunchboxes which are arguably too extravagant or too plain or just too anything really. They keep popping up on my Facebook feed and I'm not sure why. Perhaps this mega controversy has always been around and I've just been blissfully unaware and ignorant of the kerfuffle. I never knew the fury that could spew towards the parent (let's face it, it's always the towards the mum) who packs their kid a lunch with an avocado sliced into the shape of a pine tree. Or the high-pitched shrieks when a different parent includes pistachios. Or heaven-forbid the terror that arises when a parent that makes a sandwich with white bread. It's all extremely controversial, apparently. The comments section for these articles are basically on the same level of hell as anything to do with vegans or feminism. Everyone becomes very enraged by popcorn and bento boxes and wraps. Basically, if a lunchb...

  “Ahh” the doctor said knowingly, as he peered into her mouth. “Looks like hand, foot, and mouth to me,” he then explained while examining her toes. “You’ll need to keep her home and away from everyone.” he concluded, handing me a prescription for more pamol with the cautious warning, “you’ll need it.” I used to think hand, foot, and mouth was something that only plagued unlucky sheep. However, toddlerhood has shown me that if there's a gross bug to catch, they will catch it. They just seem to lick everything in sight. This prognosis of having our usual routine disrupted made me feel a bit all over the place. // I feel dull. And dulled. Each day that stretches before me yawns, gaping, open, an unfathomable expanse of wondering how I’ll possibly cope. The clawing anxiety sets in too - if these days are long and heavy right now, how much more will they swell and expand in a few months time when my second baby arrives? Am I meant to feel this way? Maybe this is the united, fearful st...

Unmartyring: definitely not a real word. But for the sake of my next few rambles - the act of evolving from the martyr within oneself. Removing her from the vessel. Discovering what’s left behind. A whole lot of uncomfortableness. And who knows what else? Anyway, I’m not sure how to even start this. In short, after some very frank conversations I’ve realized that perhaps I might be a bit horribly martyr-y. Even writing that out makes me question it all and feel icky, because surely I’m just a normal mother? But I’m trying to believe that being a mother does not equate to being a martyr, even if it feels like the two are synonymous. Currently, being a martyr is just not working (though really, does it ever work?). It’s not working for me, for my daughter, or for my family. Therefore, I’m on a mission to get her out. I don’t really know how to do this or where to begin, because it feels like such a monumental task and I don’t even know if it’s the right thing to do. Someone important...

There’s nothing more comforting than solidarity from your fellow parents when the going gets tough.  Even more so is when a complete stranger sees that you’re in a Tough Gig and they pass you some of their warmth and “it’ll be okays” in the form of a smile or a word of encouragement or an offer of help. Sure, their perfectly timed generousity or kind smile might be the very thing that tips you over the edge into a Public Cry, but it really is so dang pure. Having someone that you don’t even know simply understand where you are in the moment is so underrated. Humans can be pretty terrible (looking @ u, Trump), but sometimes they can also be wonderful and these are one of those times when you can really see them shine. Especially more so when you’re feeling vulnerable parenting during a tricky situation in plain sight, e.g. amongst your fellow supermarket shoppers. To those kind-hearted, non-judgemental parents in public spaces: you’re all the real MVPs. To these parents who understa...

Last night I had the privilege of reading this post by Emily Writes; a favourite author, advocate, and rebel of mine. And my goodness, her words rang true! When our toddler was about 6 weeks old, we were at one of our first Space sessions where lo and behold she screamed for most of the time. I was trying to hold back the tears as I watched all of my mum friends with their happy babies, seemingly having it all together and knowing what they were doing. I didn’t know why my baby screamed so much and why nothing I did would settle her. After cursing myself for leaving the house and swearing to never go back, I started talking to one of the session coordinators. She told me that she had four kids, much to my absolute horror in that moment. I had no idea how it was even humanly possible to cope with one child, let alone four! I felt as though I would be stuck beneath these tidal waves of desperation and drowning and just wanting it all to end, forever. I asked her how she did it, you know...

Unpopular opinion incoming ahead! I realise how pessimistic this is all going to sound from the get-go (much to my husband’s glee - he is a firm believer that I’m a pessimist, even though I prefer the term realist (which I understand is probably something only a pessimist would say!)). But please do hear me out, internet-void land. And also please do know that this isn’t going to be a post about the fun type of attraction (swoon!), unfortunately. It’s about the ever-popular Law of Attraction and how it irks me. Another small disclaimer before I launch full steam ahead into my rant. I am totally for coping strategies that help your mental health, the Law of Attraction way of thinking included (within reason, but I’ll get to that). I am a huge supporter of practising gratitude and have seen firsthand how much it has helped my recovery. I am also a firm believer in the idea, “what you focus on/pour your energy into, grows.” That might seem confusing at first, given that this is one of the...

Before I begin upon this journey of a ramble, please rest assured that this isn't a woe is me post, because those are boring. Of course it's entirely normal and good and sometimes necessary to throw a bit of a pity party, but all in moderation of course! In short, this piece is not (well hopefully not too much of): a pity party. It is: a ramble, definitely. The rejection pile. The place where we all end up from time to time. Where everything feels too hard and not good enough and you wonder why you even bother, if your work doesn't seem to be getting anywhere. Yeah. I've been there a lot lately. Once I read about a person who printed out every single rejection letter she got in her writing career. There were hundreds. There were acceptance letters hidden in there too of course, but it's so easy to gloss over those and focus on all of the negativity because it can feel like that's all there is. Then she got a book offer. And she will probably have many more rejec...