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1. A family calendar

A few months ago, I was sent a Hearth Display family calendar*, with the promise that this was about to transform all of our lives. (The 2026 starter pack must be an ADHD diagnosis and a digital calendar, but I digress.) Transform our lives, it did not – at least, not really – but it did make a massive difference in terms of having the children do their chores without being asked, begged, cajoled, multiple times. There’s something in taking out the us of it all; sadly, I do suspect they’re more likely to do things when instructed by a piece of tech than when instructed by a parental figure.

Still, who cares?! They’re actually doing the chores we used to have to beg them to do (even then, with a 50/50 success rate), as we assigned each one a points value within the calendar, points they can then “cash in” for things they want (we set up the rewards shelf to include things like Robux, McDonald’s, a trip to their favourite sushi restaurant, $20 to spend at the bookshop etc…), and aside from the fact that I truly dread the day they try to cash all of their points in, it’s been a great success.

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2. White noise at night

I used to be a bit of a white noise skeptic, thinking it just another crutch to prevent one’s children from sleeping independently, but now that I have four of them, each of whom goes to bed at a different time and, crucially, is constitutionally unable (or unwilling?!) to be quiet when their younger sibling is abed, I have found our white noise machines absolutely invaluable.

The two littlest children have Hatch sound machines in their rooms; Atlas’ is the new Hatch Baby*, which has sleep stories (narrated by the moon, or a cat, his two favourites) while Roman has the rest of us drowned out by the Hatch Rest*, both of which have light as well as sound features.

As for the rest of us, the Calm app is my new obsession (having had a lifetime membership for about five years now, I’ve just started using it). I like to listen to rain on a window at night time, or thunderstorm sounds, although I’m currently staying with my sister, and the thunder effect had the unfortunate result of rousing her from her bed in the middle of the night to look out at the lightning which was, obviously, nowhere to be seen. So you can infer: it’s very realistic.

3. Sowing seeds in the minds of the older children

There’s nothing more relaxing – for me, you understand – than when some (or all) of my children have been plucked from my loving arms and taken out of the house, so that I may watch my shows or listen to my music or otherwise enjoy my house without being asked to make food or wash clothes or find dinosaurs, missing among the 300 other dinosaurs in the dinosaur bin.

This past week, I suggested to our older boys that they might want to go to see the new Spider-Man movie. “I’m sure your Dad would love to take you,” said I, cunningly, knowing that, once a seed has been sown, it will take root and flourish, never to be forgotten or neglected, at least not until the task has been completed. And so, off to the cinema they went (without me). I’m already thinking of next week’s seed.

4. Bedtime vitamins

For a while there, we’d gone down the melatonin gummy route with the kids in an attempt to get them to bed at bedtime, rather than 90 minutes past bedtime, when each and every avenue of distraction had been exhausted. But the jury is most firmly out on the long-term safety of giving melatonin to children, so when Hiya Health sent us their Bedtime Essentials* I was only delighted to make the switch.

I’m not sure if it’s a placebo effect – I firmly believe children to be disgustingly impressionable, not unlike myself – or if the combination of magnesium and chamomile is really sending them off to sleep, but I’ve learned not to question it when things work, and this works.

I’ve also managed to get two of our kids, including Atlas, whose diet is basically cheese, meaning he’s the one who most needs greens, to take daily “chocolate shakes” in the form of the Daily Greens + Superfoods* powder, which is alleviating a lot of my guilt over his diet.

5. Forcing the children to choose their clothes the night before

In the moment of forcing them to do this – “go on, get your clothes out, no, not in the morning, right now please, yes, right now” – this is no fun, and has caused more than one argument. But we’re finally getting to a place of acceptance, and the way the morning is far less stressful now… This is probably, actually, my top tip to improve family life and reduce stress in the mornings, already a stressful time trying to get everyone out the door on time and with everything they need.

6. Childcare!!!

Okay, this might be obvious, but taking a break from having childcare – we moved house in December and I decided to just see how we did if I was the full-time stay-at-home parent alongside having a pretty much full-time job and guess what?! WE DIDN’T DO GREAT – showed me just how important it is for me to be able to leave the house without my children every now and then.

From this week on, with Atlas starting back at school, we’ll have full-time childcare, but for the last few weeks, we enlisted the help of our older boys’ Mum to mind the boys three days a week, and we also got their granddad to come over one morning a week and when I tell you I felt like I could finally breathe again, I’m ot exaggerating.

If you can at all, please, enlist a friend or family member to help you out, even if all they can manage is an hour a week. Because we all deserve to have that time to breathe or shower or stare at our phones without having to answer endless questions or listen to a (tiny, adorable, adored) voice asking “Mom? Mammy? Mam? Mum?” over and over again.

7. Physical activity (for the children okay; leave me alone!!!)

A few months before we moved house, our trampoline fell afoul of a heavy gust of wind, collided with our fence and ended up in our neighborhood pond. It was eventually retrieved with the help of a neighbour, some ratchet straps and Brandin’s truck, but one of the legs was bent, meaning it took us a while after we moved to order the new leg and reassemble it.

And when I tell you I’m now raging at us for the delay, I’m not over-egging it. I know people are very divided about trampolines, and concerned about the injury risk – and while that is a very real concern (although apparently we did choose the world’s safest trampoline), I feel like, if we ran a cost-benefit analysis, we’d still come out on the pro side.

Our kids will honestly spend hours jumping around outside on the trampoline – the older boys practice flips and WWE moves (questionable), while the littles run around and practice landing on their bums and balancing on one leg (also questionable) and it’s all so cute and wholesome! Not a screen in sight!

8. Making friends with the neighbours

Another wholesome activity – and, granted, not one that’s available to everyone (my childhood was spent bemoaning my parents’ decision to buy a house in the middle of nowhere, when all I wanted was to live in an estate where I could bazz around with my mates) – befriending our next door neighbours is one of the best things we’ve done.

Along with the trampoline, seeing the neighbour’s son outside is the number one best way to get Atlas up off the couch and outside in the fresh air, and seeing them play in the sandpit or at the water table or with the myriad outdoor toys in ours or our neighbours’ garages is just the cutest thing.

9. Bulk buying snacks

If there’s one phrase guaranteed to send me into a fit of rage, it is “there’s nothing to eeeeeat”, said, almost always, by a child who is standing, at that second, in front of an array of things they could, in fact, be eating. It’s almost as irritating to me as “I’m bored”, the ultimate non-problem (oh, to be bored! what a luxury!).

Anyway, the only way I’ve managed to solve this – and of course I’ll still hear that dreaded phrase every once in a while – is by bulk buying snacks in Costco and telling them that they can have one snack of their choice between each meal. (Otherwise, they can have fruit, cheese or yogurt, because snacks are expensive and we’re not made of money.)

Current favourites include Nutella snack packs (although, annoyingly, two of our children like the breadsticks and the other will only eat the pretzels, while Roman can’t see anyone eating a Nutella snack pack or he loses his mind entirely and we can’t just give him one because he ends up with Nutella everywhere), apple sauce packets and veggie straws (ranch flavoured, so gross).

10. Searching “Nuuly” on Anthropologie

Okay, this is only stress-relieving for me, but as the household manager (unwilling) and most important member of the household (clearly), being able to buy otherwise expensive clothes at a mega discount relieves some of my own stress, okay?! Anyway, I recently discovered, thanks to my friend L, that if you search “Nuuly” on Anthropologie.com*, you find previously-rented items at a major discount (e.g. Citizens of Humanity jeans reduced from $260 to $60). I can’t guarantee how great the condition of the pieces will be (they’re esentially pre-owned / pre-worn), but at that hefty a discount*, can you really complain?!

Thanks for reading Anchor Baby! This post is public so feel free to share it.

This post is supported by Hiya Health, a 100% made-for-kids vitamin brand developed with pediatricians and nutritionists. Save 50% on your first order at hiyahealth.com and get a FREE sunscreen with the code SUMMERSUN.

*These are affiliate links. If you click through and buy something, I’ll make a small commission. It won’t cost you anything extra.

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Content warning: This piece contains reference to sexual assault. It will not be suitable for all readers or listeners. First (always), protect your own peace. xo (Normal service – ie, money diaries! – will resume soon, I promise.)

In the early months of 2017, the year I turned 32, I wrote a piece about a sexual assault I had experienced – suffered? endured? unsure of the terminology which, I’m sure, has to change to fit the wearer – in my college years.

I titled it, “Why I Didn’t Report My Rapist”. You can read it, in full, at this footnote.

The headline I’d chosen was with two important aspects in mind: firstly, I wanted it to be clear, from the off, what I was writing about, so that anyone who chose to click through was doing so knowingly. Secondly, as someone who had been publishing her writing online for a decade by then, it was chosen to get clicks. Of course it was.

I wasn’t trying to be sensationalist, necessarily, but anyone who publishes their work online and claims not to want as many people as possible to read it is lying or, at the very least, exercising willful ignorance.

In the wake of its publication, there was a wide variety of responses. Some – the accusation that the headline was clickbait, for one – weren’t exactly shocking. Others were.

A well-known and then-popular podcast, fronted by two self-described “feminists”, released an entire episode in which, without naming me, they called my experience into question. They asked whether I was really raped, because I hadn’t kicked or screamed; because I had simply stopped saying anything; because I’d let him into my bed, not for the first time. Don’t these kinds of accusations, they asked, hurt men?

They would later retract the episode, and made an apology “for it”, although it would be years before they would apologise to me directly.

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I was horrified, at the time, by their questions – but, as I think about it now, a year later, they were the same questions I’d asked myself. Was it really rape-rape, if there was no violence? I had no scratches, no bruises, no skin beneath my fingernails.

Was it really rape-rape, if the man in question didn’t realise that’s what it was? Was it really rape-rape, if I’d slept with him before? Was I harming other women by categorising my assault (was it assault at all?!) with theirs, when they – so many women, whose stories we read in headlines all the time – had suffered so much more than I had?

This wasn’t the only assault I would suffer in my life. Of course it wasn’t; according to the comprehensive Central Statistics Office (CSO) Sexual Violence Survey, 52% of women in Ireland have experienced some form of sexual violence (including non-contact abuse, harassment, assault, or rape) in their lifetime.

In a Dublin bar one night, I was surrounded by a group of young men, pints in hand. One of them reached out and groped my breast; his friends laughed. I laughed, too (what was the alternative?), then moved out of their trap and back to my own group of friends. I didn’t tell them what had happened; it felt significant, but also like something I was making a big deal out of.

In another Dublin bar, another man-with-pint asked if my breasts were real. It was a rude question, but I was young and potentially more carefree than I am now (potentially! lol) and so I laughed it off. He reached out and gave them a rough squeeze, then laughed, too, and walked away.

That time, I did tell a male friend, who immediately tried to find the man in question. “I’ll f*****g kill him,” he told me. Male violence begetting male violence.

A third incident: in a Galway bar this time, walking up – or down, I’m not sure (“why aren’t you sure? Could you be misremembering?”) – a man reached his hand up the back of my (short…) skirt and inside my underwear, touching my flesh. I didn’t even react quickly enough to give him a shove; we were carried off in the throngs going up (or down) and away from one another.

A fourth: I punched a man in the face for grabbing my breast once, then twice, refusing to stop even when I told him to, pushed him away. A bouncer found me within minutes and asked, “Did you just punch someone in the face?” I told him yes; he’d grabbed me, and I’d told him to stop, he’d done it again, so I’d hit him. “Well,” he said, “there were better ways to handle that.” He walked away before I could ask what they were. Please, sir, that feels like something I need to know.

A survey by the Dublin Rape Crisis Centre reveals that “a staggering 71% of victims did not report the incident(s) to the Gardaí; 70% did not seek medical treatment following the experience and 59% did not seek counselling or support services”. These figures are likely to be higher; a lot of women don’t realise they’ve been assaulted until days, months, years after the fact, if even then.

And when it comes to grooming, things are even more complicated. According to research by RAINN, “Many women do not realize they have been groomed because the process is slow, subtle, and disguised as care, love, or mentorship. Groomers build deep trust by fulfilling emotional needs, making the manipulation feel like a special connection rather than a threat.”

In response to the piece I wrote this week about Glen Hansard’s problematic behaviour over the years (yes, I chose that headline carefully, too), hundreds, if not thousands, of people protested my assertions on the basis that his victims don’t believe themselves to be victims. This belies a fundamental misunderstanding of how grooming works, and the effect it has on victims. Not to mention the fact that, when a man confesses to falling in love with a child, the important part of the story is not how that child feels about him, at the time or even years later, when he or she is an adult.

There are myriad reasons why any woman might choose not to report her assault, and for the avoidance of any doubt: that is her right. She is not under any obligation to speak to anyone about anything unless and until she feels ready.

And while people frequently talk about how important it is to keep these predators off the streets, make no mistake: the onus there is on the pepetrators themselves, the people who knew (and know) about their behaviour, and the authorities, who need to find a way to better support victims and ensure their safety throughout the process, because right now neither of those things is assured.

I asked this week, on Instagram, for women to share with me – anonymously why they chose not to report their assaults. I used an anonymous question-asking app I’ve used before; I didn’t realise that it has a limit when it comes to how many responses you receive before it starts booting older answers off and into the unrecoverable ether.

I tried to capture as many responses as I could, but I’m sorry if yours got lost. I’ve never got this many replies to anything I’ve ever shared, and they were hard to keep up with.

Please know that I read every single one that I could. I believe you. I’m with you. I hate the man (and men, and women) who did this to you. I hope they rot in whatever hell exists out there for them. I hope you live the best life you can, and find a way to heal and be happy despite (and in spite of!) them. I believe you.

Thanks for reading Anchor Baby! This post is public so feel free to share it.

These responses have been copied and pasted and published as they were sent in to me. No edits have been made.

I was 17, in shock and didn’t want to upset anyone. I’m 49 and still won’t walk in parks/closed off spaces alone.

Fear of not being believed because previously I had had a lot of crushes/boyfriend’s

It was at a house party in my home so felt a sense of blame. Also fear of backlash from the friend group as he was popular.

I was inebriated. I didn’t even know I had, had sex, only for the fact I was naked. I felt it was my stupidity that resulted in it happening.

because it was one of my best friends brother at the end of a night out and my entire friend group would be destroyed

As a child, didn’t understand it. As a teenager, I fancied him despite being older than me. As an adult, he was my boss. 3 different men. Also, 2 cousins “tried” and I kicked them (was an older teen then)

He was my partner at the time. I was scared of him and didn’t think anyone would believe me. I was afraid of what he would do to me if I ever told anyone

It was my stepfather, my mother married him after he assaulted me, he went on to continue to assault and rape me after she died for almost ten years. His son was a Garda Sergeant and my stepfather was a retired school principal. No faith that I would be believed by anyone after the marriage happened

W my rape I never actually said no I just panicked and completely froze . I think this is really missunderstood- that fight/flight are nor the only responses and freeze and fawn are v common. It took months for me to even realise it was an assault and not a bad date bcos of freeze response.

I was 10. I didn’t want my family to know. I didn’t want to keep going over it. It didn’t seem as big a thing then as I know it is now age 41

The trauma of reporting/statements/court case and nothing happens to them anyway. Spend the time/money on therapy to heal yourself. Legal system no good 😢

I also have a history of depression and knew this would be used against me somehow. And seeing how awful the legal process can be meant I never even considered reporting it. Didn’t want to have to relive it and have everything questioned to within inch of life. Thanks Rosemary

Was on Erasmus, guy offered to give me a lift home- drove me somewhere else. I was scared but went along with it. I never reported as i had been a bit drunk and it would seem I allowed it to happen. Also I was in a foreign country.

Because it was a friend and alcohol was taken

He worked in UCD and my dad said that the university would close ranks because it was just his word against mine

Statutory rape. Was too scared to go through the process of reporting. Myself and my friends had been physically threatened after the “relationship” ended. Wanted him out of my life!

Acceptance of what happened.

Grief

Guilt

People pleasing

Impact on other ppl

Fall out

Victim blaming

Exposing

Whats the point?

Judgement

Scapegoat

Hi Rosemary, i didnt report it years ago cause I was drunk and he was my friend. I felt I shouldn’t have gotten so drunk, he must have thought I was leading him on, it was a mess. It’s the shame of it.

He was friend of my friend. My friend had said he had a gf. He told me they had split. Following morning woke me with SA, I pushed him away. He rang me a taxi as his gf was on the way. Thought it was my fault for believing him and had consensual sx beforehand so was ashamed of myself

I didn’t want our kids to know their dad was capable of doing that, and it only happened once

Felt like I wouldnt be listened to by the Gardai, and I downplayed it. I think it was sadly normalised at the time (early 2000s)

It was a neighbours father and he rubbed my fanny through my trousers. I was 13 and knew it was wrong. His four daughters were there at the time and I was so stunned. I never really went to their house again if he was around. Never told anyone because I didn’t think I’d be believed and you are the first person I’ve ever told. He’s dead now but I always wondered had he done anything to his daughters

Victim shaming

Because everyone knew I fancied him so who would believe me

I was a 14 yo lad, i worked in a pub at weekends collecting glasses, a drunk woman shoved her tongue down my mouth & slapped my ass in front of everyone, they all laughed, I quit the next day after i came in & a photo from the cctv of it was posted behind the bar, thats why i didnt report it

I was 15. He was 31. He worked at a local swimming pool. His girlfriend was 19/20 and people would 100% have believed that I encouraged him to cheat on his girlfriend with me rather than what actually happened. Months of grooming in the lead up to it. I would have believed I was wrong, too.

I got sexually assaulted by a friend of a friend at a house party 20 yrs ago. I had taken to bed, hadnt had any interaction with the guy that night or before. I woke up to him sexually asaulting me. I didnt tell anyone the extent to what happened as I was utterly convinced I wouldn’t be believed.

I felt like i had put myself in that unsafe situation so couldnt say anything

He was much older and got me alone at 16 in the daytime and I thought it was my fault such was the shame I carried for years. Took a lot of time for me to realise what had happened.

Because I fully thought at the time I would not be believed. And that was perpetuated by the language and narrative around the brave women who reported their attackers both in society and media (in the 90s/00s)

As a young teen, my best friend’s Dad, when I’d have to kiss his cheek st xmas or a bday, would turn his head at last second so he could kiss me on the lips. My mother later told me when she was out with him and others socially, she was returning to her seat & he had his open palm of his hand on it

Because I was married to him, another one was my boss… and because I didn’t trust the police and the system to operate in a way that my safety was garanteed

He is a neighbour,would open can of worms.I see him around most days.I was 15, he was 40.groomed me and lasted 3 years.Cant wait for him to die and never have to see him.

My mum was abused by her brother when she was young. No one knew about it until our lives blew up, my Dad left and she shared her experiences of abuse with me. I’m stunned she survived. She’s now happily remarried and our lives are great. I won’t risk that by sharing my experience.

1. I think I blamed myself , I thought initially I’d drank tooo much but I def think I was spiked , girls targeted myself and my friend who were out for a quiet drink and asked us if we wanted to go to a party after in the upstairs of a local house in south Dublin after a late night bar. 2. We’d not drank much but I woke up with someone on top of me in a mezzanine type cozy area up a stairs .. I managed to get him off me and got out and flagged a taxi , got home and was like a blood bath , went to women’s health for STI screening and they were great but I never reported it 3. Felt awful for years - I’m sure it’s happened to so many others and I should have reported but knew even next am that once I’d had a shower etc the evidence probably was limited

I was sexually assaulted by a then male friend in my own bed in my very own home after a party I held. I was drunk & sleepy. The “friend” figured it was an invitation. It was not. I was seeing his best mate at the time. I woke to find him on top of me, biting my breasts & fingering me. He got off me & left.

I didn’t report it at the time because I was a mix of emotions....guilt, mortification, shame, rage, disbelief. I buried it deep down until it raises its head a couple of years ago. This time the rage was all encompassing.

Family friend. I didnt want the further turmoil it would have caused in my life and my family’s life

Last year. Pregnant. Twins. Married. 32 weeks, husband violently assaulted. Preeclampsia admitted. Elderly parents know. Complicated can’t leave. V well educated, both good jobs. Would never have believed I would be in this situation.

Shame. Feeling as though I’m wrong, could be proved wrong, a slut, promiscuous. The idea of someone saying I’m lying. Reputation at the idea of someone telling stories about me. I’d prefer to take it to the grave than have the it kept alive during prosecution. My family knowing.

He’s my best friends brother. It would devastate her.

I did and a judge said she didn’t believe me even though all the evidence was there (the crime, breach of a protection order) oh and the judge was a woman. He got worse after that, sure he felt invincible. That day was probably the worst of my life.

Because I think it would cause me more trauma ,going to court can take up to 5 years ,and I wanted to start my healing journey

Lack of physical proof/marks

Thinking their behaviour was normal, expected, not a big deal, “it happens to everyone...”

Also thinking it must have been MY fault, I must have done something.... Shame

I didnt report SA when i was 16 because , it was my my aunts husband, i was ashsmed , embarrassed, thought no one would believe me, it was my fault , felt it would cause trouble in the extended family. Im 52 now , still get really sad for 16 yr old me

I was 17 and had been drinking and he was the captain of the rugby team and even then I knew that nobody would believe me/care so I said nothing and developed a drug addiction that lasted years. I’m able to say what happened to me now but I’ve never once told anyone who he is cause of the fear.

Abused by my brother 30yrs ago, how do you prove it?? Ive blocked alot of it out so dont remember majority of it. How do you report something youve no proof of and hardly remember

My best friend’s mother passed away. Her dad was really down, and asked for help with a creative project which I offered, once a week in their kitchen. I came to see him as a second father, until he assaulted me and told me his dead wife sent me as an angel to be with him.

A friend reported a man she invited to her apartment. Consented to oral sex but when it came to penetration she said no and in the moment he didnt take no for an answer and proceeded to force himself on her. It went to court and was dismissed because she had consented to oral sex.

Thank you for doing this. I didn’t report an assault because I just didn’t want the thoughts of the event in my head. I was also concerned about disgracing the company where the man was employed (a somewhat charitable organisation that rely on their good name). I am sure the man was using this To his advantage. I believe he is retired now so somewhat hoping people are not still at risk.

Nobody would believe it & in my mind I lead him on as I brought him back to my place. I said we weren’t going to have sex and I didn’t want to and he said don’t worry we are just hanging out but we had sex. It wasn’t violent or abusive but I said no and I didn’t want to. Is this rape? It’s my fault

It was my own fault and nobody would believe it.

Because it would completely break my whole immediate family apart and Dad would die of shame

I was 9 months pregnant and at my friends fathers funeral the afters in a hotel it was a particularly large funeral when I was leaving a man in his sixties literally fingered me from behind I hate that word but there is no other word to describe it…a very respected person in parish I wasn’t believed

Fear of hurting or losing people I love. Fearing being seen as overly dramatic or misunderstanding social cues even though his actions were forceful. Fear of my own anger.

Honestly, at the time i knew it was yuck but i didnt know it was rape. Only now with a mature mind i see what it was , not sure i trust the system to report now if it even happened again but i would speak out and seek support.

It was a family member and I was too afraid of what it would do to my family. I was also very young (10ish) so for a long time I didn’t even know what it was & felt I was somehow to blame? When I was old enough to realise, it felt like too much for me and I would still hate to rip my family apart.

I was in disbelief that it could happen to a smart street wise girl (me). I was ashamed and embarrassed and convinced myself that I’m tough and I’ll get through this. If I turned back the clock I know I still wouldn’t report it as the legal system is not good enough for he said / she said cases.

I was a child and felt ashamed

Because i was so drunk. Knew i didnt want anything to happen, had my period and a tampon in. I didnt even know he had gone there until he realised the tampon was in the way. I was way too drunk, he took advantage. I was embarassed. Trying to retrieve tampon was an ordeal 😵

Because he was best friends with my best friend’s husband. And i felt it would put them in an uncomfortable position and ruin our friendship. I wasn’t positive they would believe me and didn’t want to risk it.

Don’t consider myself as been raped.the narrative on my situation has changed in the 30 years since it happened and some people would argue now as to what sexual assault is. I was having sex with someone consensually, they took condom off, without my consent. Looking back I didn’t know it was so wrong

First month living in Canada, one of the roomates. It was so coersive, alcohol was involved, I said no 20 times but because I didnt think I said it forcefully enough, I didnt think id done enough to prevent it and therefore how could I report it.

I didn’t know what was happening when it was happening to me

Re SA cases - I work in law and if my friend came to me and said I was SA’d by the rugby lads/GAA lads/Jason Da Rula’s entourage whatever and asked should she report, I would say no. As a feminist and activist, that is horrific but it is the truth. It’s too hard, the system is broken and it will break her. So if the perpatrator offers cash , take it , pay for therapy and recover and live your life well.

What’s the point. Lot of drink had. Knew it would have caused so much drama. Wanted it forgotten immediately

He was a family friend and a neighbour next door so I was afraid of issues down the line and his family were also helping mine after my father died when I was 12.

I’m a female guard.I was out socialising with 5+ other guards. All male.1 of them, 20 yrs my snr put his hand up my skirt, inside my underwear&essentially SA me. Lasted few secs.I pushed his hand away embarrassed. He did this multiple times. I didn’t share bc I didnt want to be THAT girl who caused

Because I thought it “didn’t count” and felt like it was “my fault” - a situation where I withdrew consent or didn’t consent for certain aspects (unprotected sex)

Two families (related) would have been destroyed by me telling my story, and I couldn’t destroy all their lives and see their devastation. Sexually abused at age 9.

I didn’t want to blow my world up.

I was drunk with work colleagues and didn’t remember how I ended up in his bed

Because I was afraid I had caused it and I deserved it

Drinking , wouldn’t be believed, friends not even believing ,small town ( so my life ruined if I did ) so many reasons

Because the circumstances in which it happened there was a lot of fun and flirting & drink so why would anyone believe? Unsure if I really believe…maybe I wasn’t totally clear? plus really don’t want to cause an event or a situation.

Shame that I put myself in a position where it could happen in the first place. And knowing it would be my word against his

Woke up to my ex trying to force ‘himself’ into my mouth,tried to diminish it at the time,needless to say i got out,never told anyone for ages

I don’t really know why. Back then (15 years ago) it was normal behaviour, or acceptable behaviour, which now makes me feel so sad.

Because he was in a position of power over me at work and I, as a junior, had no hope of being believed over him

Because surviving came before speaking.

I buried it to cope.

Afraid I was to blame even though I said no about 20times

Wanted to forget it asap (I never forgot)

Thought people would not believe me or that I was being foolish

Didn’t want to relive it

Didn’t want to be viewed as no craic or a dry shite

Felt ashamed and like people would blame me for drinking and think I played some part in instigating it despite the fact my drink was spiked and I ened up ni hospital

I didnt report childhood SA that I went through until I had a breakdown as an adult. I blocked it out until I was 19, and it took me intil 26 to fully report. I was in denial, and he was in me and my familys life until he fled the country when i was 21 due to a SA incident. When he fled, my family still defemded him so i felt huge guilt. Eventually i reported him to Tusla/ the Guards.

I was SA’d in my sleep, woke to a stranger digitally penetrating me. I froze, literally until he stopped. I didnt report him because I fell asleep in his bed, drunk and high and felt it was my fault. I also didnt want my boyfriend to find out.

Because I was so drunk I didn’t remember details and he was someone my friend was dating. I honestly just wanted to ignore it and pretend like the whole thing never happened because I didn’t want to lose my friend. She never found out and I just tried to avoid him as much as possible.

Embarrassed, fear of upsetting family, fear of backlash/no one believing you.

#1 i was 7yo. He was elderly neighbour. Didn’t report because I didn’t know the words. Only admitted it when I read his death notice. # friend of my mother. 13yo. He was pillar of community. # is/was a Garda. Self explanatory.

I didn’t think anyone would believe me. Separate situation, I told parents when I was young maybe 7 about a family member that was inappropriate and it never dealt with.

I was afraid i wouldn’t be believed. My family didn’t believe my drink was spiked (it most assuredly has been). I couldn’t quite believe it myself but it happe. I was so young and innocent that I didn’t even have the vocabulary to articulate or understand what had happened me. 1990s Ireland was s**t

I thought it wasn’t ‘bad enough’ to report

🚘So I’ve 2 separate stories about not reporting. I put a car so you can link them.

When we were teenagers we didn’t even know we were being assaulted. We used to call it the pity/safety f**k. No we didn’t want it.They knew.But it was so much easier to give in than face the violence that might come 🚘 I was in a relationship with a married man. We were “exploring” BDSM (see exploiting me). I liked it for the most part. Told him some fantasies. Then he raped me in a car park because he said that’s what I said I’d like. Untrue but also not the point. I can’t report. Sure he’d say I asked for it. 🚘 and he’s married. I’d be setting my life on fire. Everyone would blame me. It was easier and safer for me to just try and leave the “relationship”. I couldn’t deal with the fallout 🚘 a man also put his hands inside my underwear as I was walking up the stairs in a club. Like between my Labia. 🚘last one. I am a nurse. I was walking down the hall with a box so my hands were full. A male nurse stepped out from a side room and slapped my arse. I said it to the boss and he said “ah go way girl, you loved it”. How could I report it then?

I didnt report my SA as i was scared it would impact my career (he was older more established etc) also i had been drinking alcohol at this work event. He entered my hotel room at the conference having had a key made. I felt shame. He apologised by email. Wtf.

Because who would have cared?

Woke up to a ‘friend’ (who I’d never had a sexual relationship with) with their hand in my pants, I made such a fuss that other friends came in and told him how unacceptable it was. Didn’t take it further because at the time I was quite ‘promiscuous’, and also what would the point have been….

Because the line between creepy, criminal and convictable is so blurred. Women surviving really severe assault rarely get justice so anyone with anything deemed less serious would absolutely never. Also, embarrassment and just wanting to forget about it and move on.

My uncle (aunt’s husband) acted really weird, not inappropriate necessarily, but odd, with me about 20 years ago and I didn’t want to be responsible for ruining our entire family with accusations when there was no proof and it wasn’t concrete, just enough to make me uncomfortable

Overwhelming feeling at first in a vunerable position! How do you prove? Self blame! Was it the clothes i was wearing? Does being friendly look like flirting? Shame it happened? Lack of emotional support to face it and backlash? Are women just sex toys? Effected me for life 😪

Believing you did something to deserve it!

People thinking your just looking for attention? Embarressing for anyine to know ot happened to you! People knowing it happened is not going to reverse the effects! Are we asking for it by dressing good and looking good?

Abused by Uncle, didn’t report because afraid of family rejection, upheaval, chaos

He was friends with everyone

I would have been blamed for sleeping at a party

There was no evidence

In Dublin 40 year’s ago I was beaten to crap by ex husband. It was shameful then so I said nothing. Now I would 💯 if anyone laid a hand on me. No second chance.

I was violently attacked by an ex who broke into my house while i was sleeping with a knife. I went to the Garda station to report it and the Garda wanted me to explain it at the desk witj other people waiting there. I walked out.

I think for me it would make it bigger than it was, as in I’m coping better without everyone knowing

Assaulted by a childhood friend while I slept. I didn’t want to embarrass him. I didn’t think I would be believed by others. Felt I’d be blamed for allowing him to sleep beside me after a night out. I still hate that I didn’t raise it with him. He moved abroad not long afterwards.

Shame because I was drunk 😢

I didn’t report the grooming, the rape & my abuser because in spite of being left with a feeling of shame, & knowing that something very wrong had happened to me, it took me years to fully realise & I just had no idea what to do. I didn’t think anyone would believe me either.

My husband hit me once in a drunken argument, gave me a concussion and two black eyes as a result. He never did it before and hadn’t done it since. I didn’t tell a soul because I was embarrassed. That he did it & I forgave him. I didn’t report it because I didn’t want that trouble in my own house.

Not enough evidence, my word against his

Too traumatic to go through it all again and not get a conviction

I was raped as a child, by many men, my mam knew. When I was 16, I confronted her. She told me it was all my fault and she would have me arrested for lying! I believed her. I was very naive. She killed herself 3 years ago and I live with this, I’m now 61. I was raped and assaulted as an adult.

As an adult I was assaulted by a man and had to prove I was on my period before he would stop. I called the Gard, they said he was such a good man in the community. How could I do that to his family?

Mostly happened to me on nights out. I was always made feel that I put myself in that position of being assaulted. Also I was reared never to bring trouble to the door so reporting would definitely be a no go.

My rape: I was blackout drunk, woke up to him inside me, somehow thought it was my fault for being so drunk. My abusive partner: He was so charming and nice to everyone else. I didnt think anyone would believe me.

It was my 1st cousin and I didn’t want to hurt my dad or family with his (my cousins) actions. My dad and my aunt are very close!

I went to a victim support counsellor and I was advise To consider if I had the capacity mentally and financially to fight this. I battled with this decision in the future but now that I am older I realise that she was right. I didn’t have the support network around me to survive going to the cop

Ran into difficulties with gardai & doctor. It was 2004. Was told basically that it was too difficult to prove and to give up.

I was 🍇 by cousin. I was 8 he was 15. Possible grooming also. Family have intimidated me into staying quiet about it. He’s also Garda Sergent now so chances are i would not be believed.

I knew I would not survive it. I also believed that it was my fault for about 10 years

Being treated like the villain and dragging it out any further. No way I ever wanted to relive that never mind publicly in front of everyone in court if I would have been lucky enough to get that far. Also a massive fear of not being believed but trust me it happened I was there.

The main reason I never reported domestic violence for both physical and verbal was that because I was afraid nobody would believe me and that I would lose access to our then 2 year old. He was the nice guy, the upstanding citizen, a real people person who went out of his way to help others! I was a stay at home mom from a broken family who felt thats all the love I deserved. When it got really bad I did report it and showed the cops my bruises . They showed up to our hse that evening to question him. Without my permission. Which made things a lot worse. He convinced them I was lying … now they believe me. But only after his life fell apart and I am now thriving. Even my free legal aid lawyer at the time was taking his side. I had to find a stronger one who saw through him. It was really really hard. But nobody wants to believe it.

Was abused by my neighbour as a child. Embarrassed and never told my parents because of this embarrassment. Also my previous boss pinned me against a wall at a work night out. Put his hand up my skirt.. he is a very well known car dealer. He is a narcissist and a bully.

I thought people would say it was my fault

I was embarrassed. Years ago and I think differently now but I felt like I’d let myself get into the situation (I was seeing the guy when he raped me).

He was in a position of power over me in the company. When I tried to report to HR they didn’t believe me so I never went further. Years later I had to be interviewed by him for my own job during a company restructure (different company) and he made me redundant.

I didnt realise it was rape at the time, it wasn violent. Didnt happen down a dark alley. It was a partner.

I repeatedly said no, he ignored, pushed my legs open and just did it. I didnt scream or run away. And when I finally did realise I had been raped it was too late to report and tbh I didnt think I would be believed.

I was abused as a child and thought I could take the secret to the grave because they only harmed me. Also the shame of having to tell someone was too much. Then, 20 years later, the shame manifested into physical and psychological illness till I broke and had to share what happened.

Once I shared the details with friends and family. They urged me to report this as it could have been done to someone else. That’s the only reason I reported it, to ensure it didn’t happen to anyone else or at least showed a repetitive nature of abuser

1st time as child- Didn’t understand fully what had happened/that is was assault, until older. Although always knew/suspected wasn’t ok. 2nd time as adult-Victim blamed myself for being drunk, the shock, went away the next day and time passed so just “got on with it”

Afraid my sexual choices would get brought up and go against me

I was embarrassed as I was drunk there was implied consent the person took it further than I was comfortable. I was 15 and so were they

Hi Rosemary, I did report it. It was by an ex and I never heard a word after. I was told not to follow it up from a lawyer because it could have negative effects on me but I guess that he was contacted because he stopped contacting me. It’s crazy for something so serious that it plays out like this

He still lives in the same city as me. I can’t cope with going to the guards, having to give a statement and go through the whole process of a possible conviction- or lack there of. Choosing to put my health and energy back into myself

If you were affected by any of the content in this essay, please reach out to help. Your local rape crisis centre is a good place to start.

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I’m in a cafe, “working”. That’s in inverted commas because I forgot to take my ADHD medication this morning, so now working looks a lot like scrolling the internet and chatting to my mates and wondering why I can’t seem to find any fun clothes right now that aren’t from Next. (Also searching for new kids’ clothes because kids’ clothes are so fun to buy but truly my children have more than enough clothes so what am I even doing?!)

A woman has come in and sat across from me. She’s drinking an iced latte, which I suppose is a choice I understand, as it’s 30 degrees outside today (and it’s not even noon), but I’m just not an iced latte person, especially since I went on a GLP-1 and became someone who’s cold almost all of the time. (The only exception is when I’m sitting directly in the sun, like a snake.)

She’s drinking her iced latte and she’s swaying from side to side and it’s kind of noticeable because it’s, you know, a kind of dramatic sway. And while I generally try not to stare at people in cafes, I look up and I realise she’s got a tiny baby in a Solly Baby wrap on her chest and suddenly the swaying makes sense.

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I swayed for the first nine months of Roman’s life, mostly because I was wearing or holding him for 20 out of every 24 hours. But then I did it even when I wasn’t, because when you get in the rhythm of something it’s hard to get out. I’d find myself standing and swaying, or standing and rocking the buggy, or standing and tapping my arm because tapping his bum also seemed to soothe him and sometimes I was so tired I couldn’t quite figure out whether he was in the buggy or out, or in the wrap or out, and the risk of not swaying was much greater than the risk of swaying, just in case.

When I was in it – in those heady, colicky days when he didn’t want to be put down at all, whether it was on someone or beside someone – I wished for very little other than for this time to be over, even though so many (well-meaning, I’m sure) arseholes would say things to you like, “just don’t wish the days away; they’ll go by so quickly!” and you’d think, yeah, with any f*****g luck they will, you dickhead.

Why should I be forced to feel bad for wishing away a time in my life that is exhausting and draining and stressful?! And no matter how many people tell you that some babies just cry, and some babies just don’t like to be put down, and some babies just don’t sleep for long stretches (or even medium stretches), when you’re in it – in the mire of sleeplessness and aching shoulders and worry and holding your pee because when you sit down, even on the toilet, even for two minutes, the baby wakes up – it’s hard not to think there’s something wrong. Wrong with the baby, and wrong with whatever it is you’re doing (you can’t call it parenting or mothering, because those words imply correctness and, like I said, you’re definitely doing something wrong, because why else would your baby be crying non-stop?!). Just wrong.

(She’s stopped swaying now and is eating a sandwich and seems not to be dropping crumbs on the baby which, honestly, is Olympic-level skill, right there, and I would tell her, except that I remember the time I went to the library with Atlas and Roman and Roman was crying and Atlas didn’t want to leave so he was running from me – and then started crying – and a woman came up and told me I was doing a good job and then I was crying, too.)

It’s weird, though, how biology or our brains (or both?) work, because now, when I see a woman with a baby in a sling, I don’t really remember – not properly, not viscerally – the back pain or the exhaustion, I just remember the smell of Roman’s head and the feel of his soft little body cocooned against mine, and I think, not with any small amount of sadness (I wouldn’t go so far as to call it grief), I miss that.

He’s 19 months old now and we don’t really cuddle much, unless the conditions are absolutely ideal: we must be sitting on the couch, in the evening, or right before nap time; he must have his little rag in hand, a burp cloth that’s turned into a comforting blankie by virtue of its always being present when I was breastfeeding, to mop up the excess milk that would inevitably drip down the side of his face; there must be nothing more exciting going on in the house, a condition that is more rare than ever now that we have kittens running around, kittens who are never more entertaining to him than when they’re being squashed, sat on, or some combination of both.

He’s still nursing, before naps and bedtime if – and this is a big if – I’m in the house. When I’m not, he doesn’t really seem to miss me. He gets put in a long-sleeved onesie and zipped into a sleep sack and someone who’s not me holds him and rocks him and sings him a song or two, and he closes his eyes and sucks his thumb while the other hand holds his rag and rubs it over his eyes and his nose and his cheeks and, once those three things have happened, he’s ready to be put down and he rarely complains.

When I’m there, the nursing takes the place of the singing – although I suppose I do sometimes sing to him while I’m nursing – and when he’s done nursing he replaces me with his thumb and he rolls away from me to indicate, “okay, now, I’m ready now”.

When Atlas was his age, he would nurse all day long. We’d sit on the couch, side by side, and he’d start to rummage my top until it was up and the bra was down and he’d press his sticky little body up against mine with my boob in his mouth and he’d watch the TV while he nursed, his face slightly angled to the side, eyes firmly affixed on the screen.

Sometimes, I’d have to gently tell him that I thought he’d had enough – usually around the time Dwayne Johnson says “well, honestly I could go on and on” (if you know, you know) – and he’d grumble a bit but he’d accept that, until, inevitably, an hour later, the boob would be back in the mouth again and he’d be happy, suckling away as he watched Moana for the hundredth time.

Roman is a different child altogether. He has zero interest in my boobs – or in me, I suspect – except when he’s in his room, with the lights off, about to lay down for a nap. Even when he puts his hands up to be lifted, mouth open, saying “aah! aah!” which I could interpret as “up” but also could mean pretty much anything, as it’s the only sound he makes, the main way he communicates what he wants, no matter what that thing is, he is using me as a means to an end.

He wants to get up to reach whatever contraband has caught his eye at any given moment: the remote, maybe, or the unsuspecting kitten, or the packet of grated cheese someone has left out on the counter, not remembering how quickly that cheese will disappear, 50% of it in the bellies of my small children, the other 50% on the floor, or in the crevices of the high chair (or both).

His appeals to me – to be held or to get up or to get down or to get this or that – always feel like means to a different end. He is, as my friend C once remarked (about my dog, to be fair) “always on the take”.

This doesn’t hurt my feelings (although perhaps that statement in itself is telling), but I do think it contributes to my sense that Roman’s and my relationship is somehow less close than my relationship with Atlas was, at the same age, and is now, as a result of that continuing closeness.

Roman has recently started sleeping through the night, having, until about two weeks ago, been consistently waking up three times nightly to nurse (again, a perfunctory exercise).

We decided we’d like to wean him, not just because I couldn’t remember the last time I slept a whole night through, but also because I have some upcoming travel as part of one of my new social media gigs, and I’d rather not have to bring my 19-month-old along. (There’s nothing I like more than a solo flight – several undisturbed hours in which to read my book.)

When I told my husband that it was time, that we needed to night wean him which – because I couldn’t see another way to do it – would involve him going in to Roman whenever he woke up, instead of me, rocking or singing or soothing him back to sleep without the aid of nursing, he responded, “Well, that’s going to be very tough on me.”

There have been a handful of moments in my marriage (thus far) that, I think, could have ended in justifiable homicide, and this was one of them.

“The last four years,” I responded, “have been pretty tough on me too, you know.”

“I do know!” he protested. “And I’m not denying that. I’m just saying this is going to be tough on me.”

As it happens, it was tough on us both. For 10 days, Roman woke up twice or three times, a night, and cried – and when Brandin went in to calm him down, he cried harder, and when, eventually, he fell into a fitful sleep and Brandin tried to put him back down in his crib, he woke up and screamed.

I’d told myself that the most important thing was not to give in, not to go into him – even though I lay awake in bed, listening to him crying, and found myself dying to go in, knowing that I had in my possession the thing that would stop his crying, that would put him back to sleep in an instant, that would make him feel loved and held and comforted, all at once, and sure, I thought to myself, what harm is it doing me?

But, like I said, I have this travel coming up – and while I could, I suppose, bring him (free flights for under-twos, you know), there would then be the issue of what to do with him once we got there. It’s not like he’d be happy to sit on the floor and play with blocks while I went to meetings and, in any case, he can’t be within two feet of a keyboard or he loses his mind altogether, just dying to tap, tap, tap at the keys.

So we toughed it out, and he’s now sleeping through the night, waking some mornings at 9.30am, even 10. He’s been unzipping his sleep sack and getting his legs out, although the arms are proving a greater challenge.

I’m still nursing him before naps, when I’m there, and at bedtime (I’m almost always there) – but next weekend, I will go to the airport for a five-day work trip, and he’ll be left to fend for himself (or, rather, Brandin will be fending for them both).

I don’t have a breast pump any more (I gave it away in a Facebook group for moms), so I won’t be pumping while I’m away; I do have a little vacuum pump I can stick on my boobs if and when they become uncomfortable, so I’ll pack that in my carry-on and hope for the best. When I get back, five days later, I won’t offer to nurse him again.

As I say this, I feel immense guilt. I feel like I’m forcing him to grow up too fast, as though I’m severing this last link between us before he’s ready, because I just had to take this job, because I have to take this trip, because I need to feel as though my body is my own again, after almost half a decade of its being dedicated to someone else. (Two someone elses.)

I’m prioritising my own health and happiness over his, and that feels wrong. (I’m doing mothering wrong, remember?)

Atlas breastfed until he was two and a half, at which point I was pregnant with Roman and was too uncomfortable to carry on. Considering he’d been so attached to the boob, he adjusted well.

Occasionally, now, he’ll come in while I’m nursing Roman to sleep and he’ll ask if he can have some milk, too, and I’ll say “sure”, but when he puts his mouth to my breast, it’s as if he’s forgotten what to do. He blows raspberries; we laugh. He goes back to whatever else he was doing.

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In a way, it’s galling to me that neither of them will remember these months, years I gave over to their needs – although, as I write that, I suppose I had needs, too. I craved their closeness (even when I didn’t); breastfeeding releases oxytocin, which I could always do with more of; it gave me a great excuse to come home early, to give into my homebody tendencies, to turn down invitations I didn’t really want to accept, anyway.

Things are different now. I no longer want to hide from the world (I don’t think I suffered from postpartum depression, but the depression that I’ve always suffered from has definitely been present throughout), and I yearn for a freedom that means being able to stay out even if it means missing bedtime.

As an avid declutterer – sometimes as a sign, honestly, of my ailing mental health, which in the past has manifested as my divesting myself of every item of clothing that made me feel fun or as though I might ever have somewhere to go – I’m also very excited to throw all of my nursing bras in the bin (although that also feels wasteful; as I type this, I can’t help but wonder, could I not use them to make some keepsake bears?!).

I recently invested in some grown-up bras – I own this Panache bra in two colours and it’s supportive and cute and keeps my boobs completely separated, which is important as, of late, I can’t bear anything to be touching them, even each other; I also own two of these Elomi bras, which also boast full bra separation and come in quite nice colours (in the battle of Elomi vs Panache I would say I feel like the Elomi is marginally more comfortable but the Panache gives a slightly nicer shape, which feels a manifestation of the eternal bra struggle) – and am looking forward to the day I can wear them without having to unfasten them from the back in order feed Roman to sleep (nursing in a non-nursing-specific bra is especially annoying because the boob I’m not nursing from often leaks, and unlike my trusty Target nursing bras, my glam bras are all handwash only).

This all feels rather self-serving, and selfish, in the way that, I suspect, only women feel that prioritising their needs is selfish. I think, too, that this is a sense of guilt that is heavily emphasised by the Irish, a kind of don’t you love yourself insinuation that makes any decision based in what you, as an individual human being, want – rather than, say, what’s best for your kids, or your family, or your community in a more general sense – feel somehow dirty, or tainted.

Anyway – here we are. I’m not taking Roman with me on my upcoming trip. And when I get back, I’m not going to offer him “milk?” at nap or bedtime any more. I’m not sure I’ll ever not feel a tinge of guilt at this decision, but I do know that, with time, that tinge will fade to an echo.

The true irony of motherhood is that, while two pregnancies and the subsequent sleep deprivation and stress have absolutely decimated my memory, and often my ability to remember the word I want to use, or the point I’m trying to make, that kind of maternal amnesia never strikes in a way that would be helpful. If there was a god, wouldn’t I forget all about these moments of guilt and shame and feelings of maternal inadequacy, instead of the names of women I’ve met half a dozen times (and quite like), or whether or not I’ve read this or that novel?! (Between this and the success of Mel Robbins, though, it’s clear that god does not exist. In this TED Talk I shall, etc.)

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Yes, I’m still on my budget. In theory. Somehow, I’ve still managed to – and you’ll know this if you read my money diaries – spend a zillion dollars a week. Which really makes me feel like… why bother?! If the money gets spent either way, shouldn’t I just be buying all the things I want to buy?!?! (The answer is no.)

Anyway, here are the things I’m not buying lately (although I really want to).

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This Yellow Top by Essentiel Antwerp (€135 €94.50)

Luckily, this one isn’t just hampered by my financial inadequacies; it’s sold out in all but size S, and though she be designed to be oversized, I always like to wear my oversized things as they are designed to be worn; that is to say, GIANT. Still, the colour of this top calls to me, as does almost everything on the Essentiel Antwerp site. Case in point: this incredible cardigan, reduced from €245 to €196. (Buy the yellow top in the US here.)

Damson Madder’s Multi-Wear Myrtle Trench (€200 €83)

If there’s one thing I can’t resist, it’s a bargain, and this is less than half-price! And if there’s a second thing I can’t resist, it’s an interesting / fun coat, and this is an interesting / fun coat! Still, the truth of the matter is, I very rarely wear coats here, except in the depths of winter, and then they must be down-lined winter coats. The in-between seasons – the time when the weather is cool enough for you to wear a coat like this – are just too short, and the rest of the time it’s either too hot or too cold for it. But if you live in Ireland, I feel like you’d get loads of wear out of this (and you’d look cool doing it…). I also love their Liu raincoat, but I truly can’t remember the last time I got caught in the rain here, so there would be no justifying that purchase whatsoever.

Seminal x Lauren Emmet Dogs PJ set from Next (€34.50)

Yes, these are described as PJs but honestly, ever since I started wearing my Hanna Anderssoon x Oeuf pyjamas (currently reduced from $150 to $51.79!!!) around the place, I’ve finally accepted the delightful truth: you can wear whatever you want, whenever you want, however you want, no matter what that item was originally intended to be worn as. I would be slightly worried about the (very short) length of these shorts, but I’d be willing to give it a go if I wasn’t on a strict budget. You know yourself. (Buy them in the US here.)

Faherty’s Laidback Linen Pants from Evereve ($168 $134.99)

I lately scratched my itch for a pair of dopamine-laden linen drawstring trousers when I found the Rails pants I’d been coveting in a downtown Fort Wayne boutique’s moving sale, but if I hadn’t, I would be seriously considering investing in these Faherty pants. They’re 100% linen, which means they’d be borderline sweat-proof, and even though I tend to avoid clothes I can’t throw in the dryer, I think I’d make an exception for these!

Long-Sleeved Boat-Neck Top from H&M ($19.99)

I can’t find this top on the Irish H&M site, but it’s probably just as well cos I’d be raging if you all got it and I didn’t. Do I think I’d also have to buy the blue shirt to go underneath it? Yes. Do I think I’d never ever wear that shirt except with that top? No, I don’t. Would that stop me?! NO IT WOULD NOT.

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Toddler Balloon Pants from Hanna Andersson ($45 $31.50)

More stripes – and more Hanna Andersson – here in the form of these adorable trousers, which I would absolutely love to buy for Roman, but won’t, because (a) he has more clothes than the rest of the family combined but also (b) he won’t be wearing trousers again until October. But if I lived in a more temperate climate I would be seriously considering buying these. Any Hanna Andersson stuff I’ve bought has lasted so well, and Roman is currently wearing several pairs of pyjamas that Atlas wore (a lot!) at his age, so I do feel like it’s a good brand to buy if you have a few kids you can hand things down to.

Caroline Hirons’ Firm and Glow Kit ($160)

Late last year, I invested in Caroline Hirons’ Kitmas kit; it cost £140, contained skincare worth £488, and while I have no idea whether or not it made any real difference to my skin, I do know that having this little twice-daily skincare routine just felt like a lovely way to spoil myself. Now, she’s come out with her latest drop, right as I’ve drained the last bit of my eye cream, and I’m very tempted… This latest kit is aimed at people who are worried about dehydration, loss of firmness (who isn’t!) and tired-looking skin, and contains five cult skincare products with a combined value of £324, being sold together – with a cute little kit bag – for £120. (My one complaint would be that not every kit needs an eye cream because, in my experience at least, any eye cream I’ve ever owned has lasted at least twice as long as any other product! Maybe I’m not using enough, I don’t know.)

Ruggable x Jonathan Adler Venom Sapphire Rug ($299 $239.20)

I want a cool runner for our entryway, and while I do – of course – need this runner to be cool and colourful and spark joy (lol), I also need it to be washable. Which is why I’ve been looking at Ruggable. Their Jonathan Adler collaboration is very much up my street – snakes! tigers! colour! – and this runner is seriously tempting me, especially as they’ve recently reconfigured their rugs so that you no longer need a rug pad + rug. This is an all-in-one machine washable runner that would look so cute in our house… (This may also be the ADHD talking but that picture above is making me think I should take a paintbrush and some black paint and start splashing it at my wall…)

Varley’s Half-Zip Sweat ($148) and Matching Shorts ($98)

Okay, I know these are a million dollars, but I’m here to give you some terrible news: Varley’s Doublesoft fabric is worth every single cent. I was recently at The Find downtown in Fort Wayne, a boutique that was having a massive moving sale (yes, that’s where I found my beloved Rails trousers), and I tried on some Varley stuff and when I tell you it felt like butter… I’m not exaggerating. They didn’t have the right sizes for me (these run small!), but if they had I’m almost positive I would have indulged. I’ll be keeping an eye on any and all chances to buy Varley on sale from now until the day I die.

And that’s all, folks! Am I getting less covetous? Have I just stumbled upon fewer cute things? (Could it be both?!)

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5-star discoveries from my travels

* noise-cancelling headphones for the plane. Life-CHANGING.

* James by Percival Everett

* this IKEA chair

* Foster by Claire Keegan (no, I haven’t seen the film but now want to)

* flying to London for a day on your own (10/10, even on Ryanair)

* Marks & Spencer’s mid-rise barrel-leg jeans, which are just €39 and excellent (I now own three pairs)

* Aimee Connolly’s Second Skin dewy foundation (I also bought the Liquid Lights blush in Real Rosy and that’s gorgeous too)

* The Pitt, which I watched on the plane home because I just couldn’t commit to a movie with my children writhing around on my lap non-stop. I know I’m late on this one but I’m now fully invested.

* this remix of Lily Allen’s Beg for Me featuring Jade, which I have on repeat

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men in groups

On a wet Thursday night on our recent trip to Ireland, we have dinner in Boco on Bolton Street. It’s a pizza restaurant that opened a decade ago in what used to be known as Bodkins, the regular haunt of (I’m told) DIT Bolton St students (the artist formerly known as DIT Bolton St, now known as one of many TU Dublins).

I used to go there a lot, when I lived a mere 10 minutes’ walk away. At a certain time of year, when wild garlic was in season – I was never sure when, and to look it up now would feel like cheating – they’d have the most incredible wild garlic pesto pizza. I was always surprised and delighted to see it make its annual appearance on the menu.

That I never missed it speaks to just how often I used to go there.

This time, I’m here with my American husband and our four (American) children. We’re coming off a long day: Avoca with my parents for breakfast; a scenic-but-long drive to Avondale afterwards, to walk high up in the trees and then to climb up the viewing tower that houses a large, cylindrical slide (down which, of course, we slid); a less-scenic-but-no-less-long drive to the Red Cow Luas afterwards; a rather fractious Luas ride with a four-year-old who insisted he didn’t need to hold the handrail and, as a result, fell over every single time the Luas stopped and every single time it started again; a mad dash around Penneys to find the shorts we’d stupidly promised we’d buy our older sons (not for the Irish weather, you understand, but for back home in the Midwest).

So when we barrel through the doors of what used to be called Bodkins, out of a rain shower that’s come – as they have all come, and will continue to come, throughout our trip – out of nowhere, we’re hardly anticipating the absolute throng of men that greets us, upon opening the doors.

As our eyes adjust to the dim light inside the building, we find ourselves – all six of us, as well as the very bulky and old-fashioned buggy my Mum has been hoarding in her downstairs utility room for God knows how long – surrounded by men with pints.

There’s something about groups of men – three or more, usually – that immediately causes me to feel my breath catch in my throat, my heart stutter momentarily as I assess the potential level of risk. This, in itself, is a fool’s errand: there is no predicting which group of men will ignore you, and which will make a “funny joke” aimed in your direction; which man will decide to usher you past him with a hand on your waist, your hip, the upper edge of your buttock; which of these men will gaze, lasciviously, at your cleavage, or your lips, or your bum, as you attempt to shuffle past.

I have been – as, I suspect, most women have been – assaulted by men in groups, as their friends looked on. I have been sexually harrassed by men in groups, as their friends joined in. I have been stroked and pushed and mocked and belittled by men in groups, enough times that a gathering of any significant number of men induces a modicum of terror, no matter how irrational that may feel in any given moment (early evening on a Thursday, with my husband and family, in the bright lights of a bar-restaurant).

As one of these (many, many) men catches my eyes, I ask him, “what’s going on?” It seems unusual that this vast quantity of men would have gathered without a single woman in attendance.

“A retirement!” he tells me, happily. I think of the time I went with a friend to the retirement of a colleague of her dad’s, who was a member of An Garda Síochána. We were too young to drink, which makes that more than 23 years ago; I suspect that a similar retirement party today would have a different gender split, although not, I’m sure, anywhere near 50/50.

As we’re being seated, because I’m deeply nosy – when I’m feeling like flattering myself, I think of this as a curiosity, “no wonder I studied journalism” etc – I ask our waitress where this person is retiring from, “that hires only men”?

She gives a wry smile. “TU Dublin,” she says. “But there are two women over there.” She nods a head in the direction of a far corner. “They work in admin.”

There is one exception to the rule that has me feeling deeply suspicious, distrusting and downright displeased at the sight of men in groups, and it is men in groups having breakfast.

In Fort Wayne, this is a pretty common occurrence at any of the city’s many diners and breakfast restaurants. I’ve seen so many groups of men in their eighties and nineties, eating eggs and shooting the s**t, in Cosmos and Spyros and Sun Rise Cafe and Liberty Diner and Joanne’s and I’m sure I’m missing some because I’ve seen them every single time I’ve had breakfast in this city.

And the thing is, I’m sure they are no less chauvinistic than their younger, more spritely counterparts. They’re probably more, honestly; theirs is not a generation, in my experience, that thinks hard about how their “compliments” might make women feel unsafe. (They probably think Harvey Weinstein’s victims “knew what they were getting into”.)

But that’s the thing, isn’t it? They don’t know any better. They get a pass.

The rest of them… well. I wouldn’t go quite so far as to say that men shouldn’t be legally allowed to assemble in groups of three-plus (wouldn’t I?!) but I do think compulsory lessons on consent in schools would go a way towards helping men understand that, sometimes, their mere presence makes women uncomfortable.

And I mean, if you’re reading this thinking, I’m one of the good ones… I’ve never done any of that stuff, I’m thrilled for you. But if you’re really one of the good ones, you’ll be working hard to feel empathy and compassion for women’s lived experiences – and you might even be trying to have these conversations with your male friends, to help them understand, too.

TL;DR I’ll always choose the bear.

the digital age

We’ve bought a digital upright piano. I can’t bring myself to call it a keyboard (which is probably just as well now that I’ve Googled it; they’re not, in fact, the same thing).

I grew up with a piano in the house. My Mum would regularly sit down to play Christmas carols, or the first half of Für Elise, while my sister would accompany herself while she practiced her operatic singing.

I completed my grade examinations up to seventh, then gave up, inexplicably, one level before I could say I’d “completed” the grades. I was never a huge fan of the classical music I’d have to choose from in the National Academy grade books; instead, I loved to play songs from Coldplay’s first two albums; Goodbye My Lover by James Blunt; Vanessa Carlton’s A Thousand Miles; Once Upon a Dream from Disney’s Sleeping Beauty, the 1959 version.

At one stage, I tried my hand at Alicia Keys’ Piano & I, but never got past the opening, Beethoven’s Piano Sonata No. 4, which, in hindsight, I should’ve just learned to play instead. (I did not do the talky bits.)

When family came over at Christmas, someone would, inevitably, sit down at the piano and begin accompanying us as we sang Christmas carols as a group. Everyone in my family loves a good sing-song, although I always found it slightly embarrassing in its performative wholesomeness, or at least the perception that it was in some way performative.

Looking back on it now, I don’t think it was. Our family is just very musical. One of my cousins taught himself to play piano, not in the way that he can now play Let It Be from memory, but in the way that he can now play almost anything, including very impressive jazz piano. (Yes, his proficiency was – and is – annoying to me, as I struggled through learning my scales.)

The idea of buying a digital piano was, at first, horrifying to me – a snob, clearly. It felt a bit like the same sensation I got when the ebook reader was invented, and I insisted that I would never succumb; when streaming started to replace buying music, and I maintained that I’d never give up my CDs. You get the gist – with the notable exception of Twitter, I’ve never been an early adopter.

I did buy a handful of CDs recently, when the car I was then driving had a CD player, but neither Bluetooth nor an auxiliary input jack, meaning I couldn’t play music from my phone (where my streaming services live). Brand new, I bought Chappell Roan’s The Rise and Fall of a Midwest Princess. In a secondhand shop, I found a copy of James Taylor’s Sweet Baby James, alongside Phil Collins’ Hits, and Bjork’s Debut. I hunted down TLC’s Crazy Sexy Cool next, and Lauryn Hill’s The Miseducation of Lauryn Hill.

I will die on the hill of telling you those five albums make up the perfect CD stack for any road trip. Maybe, if I were driving really far, I’d add the soundtrack to Baz Luhrmann’s Romeo & Juliet, and a Madonna album, probably Like a Prayer, which is my favourite Madonna album solely because it was the first album I ever owned. (This makes me sound kind of cool, but be under no illusions; the first concert I ever went to was fully seated, in the Point Theatre, headlined by The Corrs.)

Anyway, all this is to say that I simply couldn’t – wouldn’t – consider buying a glorified keyboard, no matter how much like a piano it looked (or sounded).

Instead, I’d asked my husband, for my 41st birthday, to hunt down a free-but-decent piano on Facebook Marketplace, and procure it for me. Asking for a free gift seems kind of humble, but anyone who’s ever tried transporting a piano will know that this task is actually borderline Herculean.

It took weeks. This piano fell through. That piano was up a flight of stairs, and not worth the time and effort it would take to get it down in one piece.

An aside: my Mum recently told us of a time my Dad decided to push a wardrobe down the stairs in their Kildare home, imagining, I’m sure, that it would slide right down like a pro skateboarder. Instead, it thunked and plunked and crashed right through the window at the bottom. My Dad, she recounted, stood wide-eyed and slightly mollified at the top of the stairs, one foot – the foot with which he had shoved the wardrobe – still slightly extended. “Oops,” he deadpanned.

Anyway, we finally found a piano that looked decent and we borrowed a trailer and some caster wheels and enlisted the help of a friend and her husband and went to a stranger’s home at 3pm on a Sunday to pick it up. As it was lifted out the front door, the front left leg of the piano fell clean off, revealing a large, splintered segment of wood, where the leg and the piano had cleaved from one another, something that was caused by, surely, a loud, noticeable, collision.

“Oh my goodness,” said the piano’s erstwhile owner (a Facebook marketplace piano shifts ownership the moment you touch it, in my book) as she ushered us out the door, me holding this errant piano leg while Brandin and our friend’s husband lifted the piano carefully on to the casters.

I glanced at her with, I hope, a single eyebrow raised sardonically. (This is a high hope as I cannot raise my eyebrows independently of one another. Along with rolling my tongue, this physical shortcoming has been most vexing to me throughout my life.)

It took about 30 minutes to load the piano on to the trailer. Between the broken leg and the sheer heft of it and the casters, which were helpful but also awkward to prop up in the right position beneath the base, it was all a bit Mr Bean – now that’s a show I would rewatch on repeat, and which, I’ve just learned, is available to watch on Amazon (in the US anyway; in Ireland, it seems to be available both on Amazon and on NOW).

We got it home and in situ – in our downstairs entryway; the idea of bringing it up the stairs was immediately dismissed – with another 30 minutes’ worth of elbow grease, where two further issues, one expected and one not, presented themselves.

Firstly, the piano was terribly out of tune. This is normal, with pianos that have been moved – especially in and out of a trailer, especially on and off casters, especially after years of sitting, unplayed and relatively unloved, in a house where (obviously) they’re prone to being bumped and banged and broken – and we’d known that we would, at some point, need to have the piano tuned, but I’d thought (perhaps naively?) that it would be playable, in the meantime. No such luck.

The second issue was, and I’m not quite sure how to say this delicately, or non-judgmentally… that the piano stank. I’d been aware of a slight odour from the house, when we arrived to pick it up. It smelled a bit like – and here’s a very niche reference for those of you from Kildare North – Gogarty’s, the bric-a-brac shop on Naas Main Street, which was a treasure trove of toys and antiques and the most random things you never knew you wanted until you saw them, and also seemed to have approximately a dozen cats living in there, something that will, obviously, lend a space a very particular fragrance.

If my parents had come home with this piano in 1995, I would have assumed, from my very first whiff of the ivories, that it had come directly from Gogarty’s that very day.

I started to Google “piano cleaning”, along with “piano tuning”, quickly learning that there are specialists for the former as well as for the latter, and that a very basic clean-and-tune would be setting us back the guts of $600, an amount of money we didn’t – and don’t – have to spend, at least not on a piano. (Just moments ago I received an alert that we owe $1,500 for the tubes Roman had surgically inserted into his ears a few weeks ago, in a 10-minute procedure for which our insurance company already agreed to fork out $1,600, leaving us to pay the balance.)

The piano sat in our entryway for several weeks. I attempted to play Für Elise on it, having printed out the sheet music; I tried to remember my Vanessa Carlton, the opening few bars of In My Place. It was a struggle, not just because I’m geriatric now and remember nothing (but song lyrics), but because, even when I was playing what looked like the right notes, it sounded nothing like it should.

Our 13-year-old, who plays trumpet in his school’s marching band, was immediately a very enthusiastic pianist. He downloaded the sheet music for a selection of Panic! At the Disco songs and started to work, diligently, through them.

I worried, when he started to play the trumpet, that we’d be subjected to hours of ear-splitting horror, but in fact, it’s the piano I should have been concerned about; I wanted to be encouraging, but there was simply no way you could listen to the notes coming from this untuned instrument of torture without gritting your teeth (and covering your ears).

I’m someone who – I’m not sure if this will be a surprise or not – finds it very hard to make decisions. I would, in fact, happily outsource all decision-making (any volunteers?!) for the rest of my life. I struggled, throughout these weeks, to make a decision about this piano; should we keep it, invest the money in cleaning and tuning it, and run the risk that it’s actually just a piece of s**t anyway, and would need to be cleaned and tuned every six months? That seemed like an expensive decision.

But what was the alternative? Should we try to find another free piano on Facebook Marketplace? Borrow a trailer and casters and enlist the help of a friend once more and show up and hope that it didn’t have a broken leg and wasn’t infused with the stench of cat pee? Pay $600 to have that piano cleaned and tuned, and then cross our fingers that it was semi-decent?

I asked a relative who plays piano (and bassoon, interestingly) and is studying music, what he’d recommend. “You could get a digital piano,” he said, and I thought to myself, well, clearly he doesn’t know as much as I thought he did.

But here’s the thing about ideas I immediately pooh-pooh: it doesn’t take long for me to come around. See also: wedge trainers (I owned three different pairs of those Isabel Marant wedge trainers at the time they were very cool, never wore them once, and sold each one on for a profit, as I am an entrepreneur), skinny jeans, barrel leg jeans (lol).

It helped that our local music superstore, Sweetwater, had an offer on financing for the Yamaha digital piano I started looking at: pay it off over 36 months at 0% interest, meaning that, for a mere $56, paid monthly for three years, a beautiful digital piano (with built-in metronome! headphone jack! and never needing to be tuned!) could be ours. (Is this why I’m in so much debt?! Don’t answer that.)

The biggest issue, then, was what to do with the old piano – you know, the one with the cat stank and the broken leg. Do we list it on Facebook Marketplace and pass our bad piano juju on to someone else? Do we scrap it? (I’ll skip to the good part: we decided to scrap it.)

On a Friday evening, Brandin picked the new piano up on his way home from work, and once the children had gone to bed we decided to assemble it (forgetting, as we always do, that any kind of furniture assembly job we attempt to do together leads nowhere good). We wheeled the old piano – painstakingly, awkwardly – out the front door and placed it on the driveway, the plan being that we’d get someone to come and help us load it into Brandin’s truck the following morning.

The piano assembly itself took longer than the promised 45 minutes, but neither of us shouted at the other, and only one of us got injured (Brandin, scraped by an errant staple, which later on would necessitate his cleaning the “wound” out with hydrogen peroxide – how, I asked him, have Irish people survived this long without immediately panicking about potentially dying thanks to being scraped with a rusty piece of metal? He didn’t answer me). The children were predictably nonplussed.

In other unsurprising news, the old piano sat on the driveway for four days, undoubtedly enraging the neighbours (a perk). I suggested we let the boys take a baseball bat and a mallet to it, but that was immediately shot down as being “too dangerous”. (You may be surprised to hear this but I am, actually, the fun parent, despite my reputation as a feminist killjoy.)

Still, Brandin failed to enlist a friend to help him, and so, on a Monday evening at 6pm, I walked out to the piano with a screwdriver and a dream, and we commenced its disassembly.

Here’s the thing: kids love destroying things. This was an incredible bonding experience for us. With several screwdrivers and a drill and a crowbar and a mallet and some brute strength and only one injury (to Atlas’ leg, which was scratched by a piece of wood, necessitating the procurement of a bandage and three pieces of Terry’s Chocolate Orange), we finally got each part of the piano into the back of Brandin’s truck. He drew the line at letting us cut the wires that criss-crossed the back of the piano, convinced that one would spring back and split someone’s eyeball in half, which was disappointing, but there was enough destruction and chaos – “can someone please take that mallet away from the baby?!” – to make it a great time, nonetheless.

As for the digital piano, much as I’m loath to admit this… it’s really, really nice. The keys are weighted so it feels pretty much exactly the same as playing a regular piano, except that none of them stick, unlike every single piano I’ve ever played.

The volume can be adjusted, so no one needs to know what sad music you’re playing on repeat. I haven’t tried the metronome function yet – that always feels a bit too much like being told what to do, which I’m against – but the 13-year-old has, and seems to enjoy it.

The one downside is that the baby has figured out how to turn it on and how to up the volume to its highest level. But I suppose I do want to encourage him on his musical journey, so have at it, I say.

I even unearthed all of my sheet music when I was at home in Ireland, and though Vanessa Carlton was sadly missing, both James Blunt and Coldplay survived. Lucky Brandin.

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Here are a few more things I’ve had clogging up my browser tabs for the last few weeks – from an eminently sensible (I was going to write “misandrist” but why would I write something I didn’t believe?!) T-shirt to the perfect windbreaker (a description I never thought I’d write) and the solution to all of my summer-with-kids woes…

I’d love to know what you’ve bought and recommend, if anything, lately! Because I need to be further influenced, you understand. The internet isn’t doing a good enough job of that on its own.

Oh and… this post contains affiliate links! If you click through any of these links and buy one of the items I’ve linked, or, in most cases, buy something else from that website within 30 days, I’ll receive a small percentage of your total spend. So, you know, please click on every single one.

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Free People’s Chelsea Funnel-Neck Jacket ($168)

Specifically in this perfect shade of pink. Am I blaming windbreaker-gate for the fact that I want this?! I’m not sure. All I know is that the $3,200 price tag on the windbreaker Paige DeSorbo lent Hannah Berner (I know too much about the entire Summer House universe, truly) has made this $168 Free People version seem positively bargainous.

Rails Emmie Pants in Rio Stripe (€168)

Why is everything I want $168?!? Okay two things, but still. Weird. Anyway, these Rails trousers are sold out in the US, which is doing THE ABSOLUTE UTMOST in terms of whetting my appetite for them. There’s nothing like an “Almost Gone!” ticker to make me immediately hit “checkout”, I’ll tell you. Luckily for any of you who are (a) in Europe and (b) feeling flush, they’re still available on the European site, although only in size L which also feels prophetic?! WHY IN MY SIZE IF NOT DESTINED TO OWN?!

Step2 Dino Showers Water Table ($68.94 at Walmart)

Okay, I’ll accept this may result in my losing those of you who don’t have kids, but I am fully convinced – this is also one of my toxic shopping-related traits – that this Step2 water table is going to absolutely make my summer, in terms of giving my children something to do outside for hours on end, and allowing me to sit next to them (close enough to supervise, far enough to stay dry) reading my book while they do. And while, ordinarily, the items I include in these posts are things I’m not planning on buying, this might be the exception. Can I afford it without putting on a credit card?! Maybe not. So… we’ll see. I’m still debating. (I really do think that, without this, our summer is going to be terrible. See above re toxic trait.)

Kulglass bluetooth speaker lamp (€90 at Ikea)

Okay. A contrast. I accept that the lack of this cute Ikea lamp in my life is not going to affect me or my children whatsoever. No one would even notice its presence in the house except me. (Although I am the most important person who lives here, so that doesn’t really factor into things.) We absolutely do not need it. But if I was still living like a rich person, buying random things, willy-nilly, just because, I would absolutely buy this. Ergo, you should probably buy it for yourself. And if you’re in the US, buy it here.

Shiraleah Samba Neoprene Tote Bag by Anthropologie ($68)

So what’s funny about this one is that while I adore it from the pictures, even if I was about to buy it, the reviews might put me off. It’s more muted than it appears in the pics, they say, and smaller than you might think (now that I look at it, it says 10” wide, which is smaller than a ruler?! tiny). So I guess this is a… something I love in theory but probably wouldn’t love in reality. (But if you’re a bag designer and fancy “taking inspiration” from Anthropologie’s mistakes, well, you’re welcome.)

Green Top & Trousers Set from Next (€22)

Another one that’s not for the childless among us (sorry), but this little outfit is adorable and I’m very tempted to buy it for Roman. I know I’ve mentioned this before, but it’s just so difficult to find cute, colourful, cute clothes for boys! I tend to shop in the girls’ sections a lot, and while I’m not a big fan of bows and ribbons, cutesie little outfits like this tick all of my boxes (and in fact why is this for girls?! That makes no sense). Here it is in the US.

We the Free Jet Set Pull-On Pants in Going Green by Free People ($148)

A couple of months ago (probably about three years ago, honestly, but in my mind that’s “a couple of months”), a friend of mine showed up to a barbecue in a gorgeous pair of corduroy trousers in exactly this shade. “I got them at Goodwill,” she told me, irritatingly, and I’ve been hunting for similar ever since. Well, I’ve finally found them – and they’d be perfect if it wasn’t for the $150 price tag. I’m also slightly iffy on the length (neither cropped nor full-length), but I think I could get over that, would that I had $150 to spend.

Stephanie Yeboah’s ‘Ban Male Podcasts’ tee ($35 from Girlgangshop)

Have you ever seen a more perfect T-shirt? I think not. I spotted this on Threads (cursed place, don’t ever go there) this morning and have been trying to find it ever since. I think I’ve found a similar enough version on Etsy, although who knows what it would be like if I actually ordered it. Yes, I know I could message her and ask, but I worry she’d read my message and not respond and then I’d feel embarrassed and like I could never engage with her again (is this another toxic trait?!). [Rosemary from the future: I tagged Stephanie in my IG post and she DMed me to tell me the tee is from Girlgangshop!]

HSIA Enchante Minimizer Bra ($24.99 on TikTok Shop)

I try really, really hard not to buy things on TikTok Shop because, in the past, I’ve ended up loading my cart up with way too many cheap, undoubtedly not ethically made, things, but I just can’t stop coming back to the HSIA Minimizer bra. It doesn’t help that I see ads for it approximately every four TikToks I scroll through, or that I have a friend who owns and recommends it. Having spent almost $300 (I had a gift card!) a few months ago on two bras and a pair of knickers, I’m desperately trying to find bras that are supportive, boob-separating (I cannot have them touching I just can’t) and ideally not a million dollars. So, like I said, very tempted (but I haven’t pulled the trigger just yet).

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I’ve been having a very up and down time lately in terms of my mental health.

There are a lot of factors I could attribute this to. I’ve been working harder than I’ve ever worked before, with less downtime than I’ve ever had at any time in my life, for one thing. I’ve introduced ADHD medication to a cocktail of “bear with me, brain” drugs, a cocktail whose efficacy I was already skeptical about.

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And I’m lonely. I’m really, really lonely; trying to make friends as an adult is so hard, especially when you have little to no time to dedicate to the kinds of baby friendships that simply will not grow without time and effort.

But, more than any of that, I suffer from depression. I’m depressed. Mine is a chronic illness that ebbs and flows in how debilitating it feels, sometimes giving me weeks or months of relief from its clutches, but it’s always there, waiting to welcome me back into its arms.

So. Like I said, a lot of different factors at play.

The effect of it all is that I’ve been struggling with feeling low and overwhelmed and, at times, worthless and unlovable and kind of hopeless in the sense of believing I’ll ever get out of this mire. And when this happens? A lot of normal, everyday things get really, really hard.

Things like…

showering || don’t panic! I can wash myself, on a very basic level. I can tie my hair up in a messy bun and I can turn on the water and I can get in the shower and I can wash my body – mostly my armpits and my crotch, you know yourself – with a bar of soap and I can get out and dry myself off and put on my PJs and get into bed. That feels like a lot. But the type of shower that includes hair washing and conditioning (and then combing and styling and drying), shaving, scrubbing, face-washing… That kind of shower feels like 10,000 steps too many. The “everything shower” becomes a very, very rare occurrence.

talking on the phone || texting, voice note-ing, messaging on Instagram or on Facebook or wherever we happen to be messaging? All fine. Talking with my human voice while holding the phone or keeping headphones in (or on) my ears? Impossible. And as for an out-of-the-blue phone call, even if it’s from someone I love and would ordinarily love to talk to?! GET OUT OF HERE WITH THAT. I simply cannot answer the phone and then will spend 20 minutes panicking about what kind of message I can send that person to explain (a) why I didn’t answer the phone and (b) why I’m absolutely not calling them back.

reading || I think, for me, these moments of extremely low mood so often come hand in hand with feelings of abject panic and high anxiety that I just find it really hard to slow down and kind of unplug from my sense of ohmygodwhyhaveigotsomuchtodoandwhycantidoitwhenwilligetthetimetodoit – which is exactly what I need to do in order to plug into the world of a good book. This is why, instead, I’ve been watching hours and hours of Summer House.

making semi-decent meals || things I’ve had for dinner recently include – but are not limited to – Special K Red Berries; Greek yogurt with honey and peanut butter; many portions of beans on toast (when we found baked beans at Costco we amassed quite the stockpile); pretzel sticks (above: these are elite snacks, FYI) and Dubliner cheese (I believe this is called “girl dinner”); a hard-boiled egg and some cucumber slices; toast with butter; toast with jam; a banana; too many salted caramels (also elite snacks).

working out || there’s not a day that goes by that I don’t curse the fact that, in our new house, we don’t have a fenced-in back garden (yet) and, as a result, the dog needs to be walked several times a day – but I do recognise that actually this is a blessing in disguise, because without this dog and his godforsaken need to relieve himself at regular intervals, I’m not sure I’d be moving my body right now at all. (And yes, I know exercise would make me feel better. I know. But at the moment I feel a bit like I’m suspended in some kind of quicksand, and the more I struggle against it, the further down I sink. So I just have to kind of accept it.)

flossing || I find it hard to believe there’s anyone out there who flosses every day. I just don’t believe there is. (If you’re about to leave a comment saying you floss every day, know that I will be convinced you’re lying.) At best, I manage it maybe twice a week. At worst, like right now? lolol I’d rather stick pins in my eyes than even attempt to put a string of floss between my teeth.

But there are also things I can still do!

Things like…

showing up for work || would you believe me if I told you I’ve never missed a day’s work due to my depression? I’ve missed deadlines, but I’ve never just not produced the work I’ve said I’ll produce – similar to this Substack (sorry), I’ve just produced it a little later than promised – and I’ve never called in sick to a job because of my mental health. I’m not necessarily proud of this; I think we should be able to take time off from the capitalist machine when we’re really struggling, and the pressure I feel to be productive even when I feel like Atreyu in the swamp of sadness really does nothing but exacerbate the sadness itself.

tidying || sometimes, when I feel absolutely and totally overwhelmed by, well, everything, I go into a kind of fugue state where I just clean and tidy my house to within an inch of its life. I think this kind of thing feels easy because I know what I’m doing and I don’t need to make any decisions as I’m doing it. It’s just a kind of autopilot activity, and the rhythm of it all feels weirdly soothing.

writing to-do lists || listen, just because I’m in a total state, and feel utterly unable to get started on anything doesn’t mean I can’t sit down and write a completely overwhelming and perhaps unhelpful list of the things I should be doing. That being said, I’m not entirely convinced this is actually unhelpful; in a way, dumping everything on the page feels like opening a valve and letting a little of the pressure out.

cuddling my kids || and, truly, anyone who’ll accept cuddles. Right now, that happens to be my two youngest children and my husband. But there’s nothing that makes me feel better than being hugged by someone I love.

I’m not listing all of the millions of things I do, when I’m feeling terrible, that I know are not going to make me feel better – and may, in fact, end up making me feel worse. Things like scrolling Instagram or TikTok for hours, filling my online shopping cart with things I can’t afford, eating things I know are going to upset my stomach, or looking up people I’m jealous of, to see how much better they’re doing at life than I am. Let’s just not mention any of those.

P.S. A belated happy American Mother’s Day to all who celebrate. These kinds of days can be so fun and affirming and heartwarming but also incredibly difficult and heartbreaking and full of grief for those we’ve lost or those we never got to meet. Either way, my advice is to get someone you love to give you a big hug. Tomorrow might (might!) just be a better day.

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I’m sitting in the lobby of the YMCA. It’s pretty loud. The air conditioning – or, I guess, the heating (it’s below freezing today, when it was 30C on Friday, which is very typical of spring in the Midwest but never ceases to surprise me) – is running, a steady hum coming from the exposed ceiling.

The door opens every few seconds; a man enters, two women, a mum with her three kids, bags and jackets and water bottles swinging in all directions.

I’m sitting in the lobby of the YMCA, awaiting the call that comes, inevitably, a few minutes after I’ve sat down. Last week it was nine minutes, then seven. The first ever day I came here, I did a workout – ambitious – and the call didn’t come for 47 minutes. It was, as it happens, a record, multiples of moments longer than the attempts that were to follow.

They’re always polite, friendly, almost apologetic. “Yeah… he’s still crying. He hasn’t stopped since you left.”

I think about how guilty I would have felt, if this was Atlas I was dropping off at the Y’s childcare facility, if this was Atlas who’d spent nine, then seven, minutes crying, panicking, wailing, wondering where I’d gone and, most likely, if I was ever coming back.

With Atlas – “your first,” I can hear other, more seasoned parents say, in a way that explains it all – I was incredibly sensitive to his needs, to his moments of upset. I found dropping him to a babysitter, those first few weeks, very difficult, even if I would receive photographs, a mere 10 minutes after I’d left, of him smiling, laughing, playing with friends.

He’s now four and a half, and hasn’t been to a babysitter for almost two years, bar a day here or there, as he started preschool four mornings a week, and just last night he told me that he remembers “when I went to [my babysitter’s] house yesterday –” (every day in the past is “yesterday”, and every day in the future is “tomorrow”) “– and I cried and cried and cried, because I just wanted to be with you”. Precious! I thought. But also, you were grand. (He was grand.)

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If he’d told me that, then, I think I would have pulled him out entirely. Crying and crying and crying?! Never mind the photographic evidence that said otherwise, I would surely have been overcome with guilt, convinced that the best thing for my child was to bring him home, to keep him home with me, to hold on to him for as long as he’d let me.

With his baby brother, however… I don’t know. Sometimes I worry that I don’t love him as much, because I’m less worried about him. The panic I felt at letting Atlas go – letting him go to his babysitter’s, letting him go up the ladder of the climbing frame, letting him go down the slide alone… so much letting go to do, a practice that no one warns you to anticipate being difficult – is entirely absent, when it comes to Roman.

I yearn for a time when he climbs ladders on his own, when he doesn’t look for me across the room, when he doesn’t climb into my lap at every opportunity, cling to my hair, my clothes, my skin (the sunburn, you’ll understand, makes this especially challenging).

Oh! A handsome man has just walked past. He’s wearing caramel brown pants (Snickers-adjacent, I think to myself, a sartorial weakness of mine when it comes to straight men of a certain ilk), a flannel shirt. He’s carrying what looked like a weekend bag, rather than a backpack.

I hate a backpack on a man.

Once, years ago, after drinking two bottles of wine (each!), I hooked up with a good friend of mine. We’d been friends for years, and for most of those years both of us had been in a relationship. Now, here we were, drunk and single – what else was there to do?!

I remember worrying that things might be awkward the next time we saw one another. Would we have ruined our friendship? Would I feel a sort of… yearning for him that I’d never anticipated feeling, that I didn’t want to mix into the soup of our relationship and just have to leave floating until it finally disintegrated into the broth?

As it happens, the next time I saw him, he showed up at my front door with a backpack on. Both straps up, an even distribution across his shoulders. I thought of how often, at school, we’d be admonished for wearing our backpacks slung across just one shoulder, how we’d balk at the idea (so embarrassing!) of hoiking up the opposite strap, of walking around like the kind of nerd you’d see in an American TV show about young inventors.

Here he was, a young inventor, on my doorstep. Backpack on right. The yearning, you can imagine, disintegrated on sight.

We did get together one more time, I think experimentally, really, to see if there was anything between us without the lubrication of the wine and the late hour and the kind of kismet of that first night. There wasn’t.

Our friendship wasn’t affected by the hook-up at all, although it did fade away over the ensuing years. Maybe it was, then, affected. Maybe without that fateful decision, we would have grown closer, rather than further apart. Who knows.

Anyway. Back to the weekend bag. Though I’m glad it’s not a backpack, it has given me pause. Is bringing a weekend bag – it didn’t look like a sporty weekend bag, either, more the kind of bag you sometimes see male models carrying in a shopping centre fashion show, when they just don’t really know what to do with men’s accessories, other than pair them with a neatly ironed shirt and a cardigan, tied around the neck – to the gym a bit… I don’t know. Precious?

Still, I don’t feel like I see good-looking men all that often these days. I was going to write, “there are no good-looking men in Fort Wayne”, but that feels unfair. There are at least five; I live with them. But to see one in the wild?

Even if you catch a glimpse of hotness, it’s usually ruined when they turn around and you realise they’re wearing a jaunty, slogan T-shirt; or when you hear them speak, and they address the cashier as “brother”; or when they lean into their car and emerge with a red baseball cap they place on top of their heads. There’s always a “but” with these guys.

There are two tables in the lobby of this YMCA, at which you can work, or lounge, or just… wait, like me, for the call that will inevitably come, that says you have to get your baby. “He’s just not calming down,” is the usual refrain.

This marks my fourth morning attempting to get Roman to settle at the YMCA’s childcare, and each morning there has been a woman, sitting at the other of the two tables in the building’s lobby, with paints, and an easel, and, I presume, a painting, although she’s facing me, with her back to the window, so I can’t see what’s on the canvas.

The idea that it’s not a painting, now that it occurs to me, is kind of delightful. Imagine if she was sitting there, paintbrush in hand, paints at the ready, child in childcare, with her iPad propped up against her canvas, catching up on her shows or doing the Spelling Bee or playing Royal Match while listening to Giggly Squad. (Yes, I’m deep into the Summer House culture now. I follow Hannah Berner on Instagram. I’m excited about her Hulu special. I listen to Giggly Squad. I’m all. In.)

She never seems to get any calls. I wonder if her kids are older, or better adjusted to the idea of being without her (or both)? I suppose it’s possible that she doesn’t have children, but why else would someone come to the YMCA to paint?

She could, it’s true, be painting the YMCA. Maybe she’s been commissioned to do a series of paintings of the YMCAs all around town – although who would pay for that? The Y itself? Not the city, or the state; Indiana is a Republican state, with a Republican governor who, I suspect, is not a big patron of the arts. (I could be wrong. Please tell me I’m wrong.)

My cousin is an artist. A really good one. I’m not just saying that because he’s my cousin; in fact, his relation to me, it is quite possible, would make me less likely to say he’s a good artist. This is another of my fatal flaws. I find it hard to see genius in those close to me. It’s all just kind of cringe; I worry my bias is showing, that I’m bigging someone up simply because we share (a shred of) the same DNA.

I’m not related to Dermot Kennedy, but he went to my school and, in my early 20s, friends of mine would go to a lot of his gigs – in Whelan’s, or in any random pub around town. Some of them would even go to support him while he busked on Grafton St. I never went because I found it all very embarrassing.

It’s not that I didn’t think he was any good; I don’t think I’d ever listened to his music. He was just another boy with a guitar, likely to bring it out and ruin a perfectly good house party by earnestly playing Wonderwall while staring dolefully at whatever girl he wanted to kiss that night.

It’s safe to say that I was wrong, to worry that he wasn’t any good, or to suspect my friends of some sort of bias when it came to him and their enthusiastic gig-going. A few years ago, he played The Clyde in Fort Wayne and Brandin and I went to see him. You know, support the parish, and all that. It’s safe to say that he showed me! He was incredible. (I was embarrassed.)

Anyway. My cousin, Blaise Smith, paints landscapes and still lifes and portraits that are, to me, the ultimate proof that humans aren’t created equally. Sometimes I look at the paintings he’s working on and I think, how did he even do that? How could anyone do that? I have a graphic drawing he did as a child – he was 12 – hanging in my house that’s better than anything I could do now, at the age of 41, and I am, as they say, not bad at drawing.

He says, now, that he’s had a lot of practice. Painting is something he does all the time, every day, sometimes for hours at a time. It’s not a skill he just came to overnight. But Blaise, (is what I should have said), what about this drawing you did when you were 12? How much practice had you had, then?

Anyway; here’s why I came to this. Here’s the tenuous link my mind made between the mystery woman probably-painting at the YMCA, possibly painting the YMCA (unlikely); Blaise was commissioned by the Irish Army, in 2005, to paint a number of their firearms for a collection titled WEAPONS (to be fair, they could’ve come up with a snappier title than that, but maybe that’s why he’s an artist and not a writer, amirite).

I remember thinking, even then, how impressive it was that the Irish Government is so supportive of art as a mode of communication, as a form of documentation, as an integral and life-giving part of our society and culture. It feels like maybe that’s a level of support that’s fallen off, in the intervening years (did an artist show up at the doors of Leinster House one day with a backpack slung over both shoulders and give them the ick, I wonder?), but again, I could be wrong. (Please, tell me I’m wrong.)

Now that I live, truly, in hell, I’m not sure I like the idea of a series of paintings focused on firearms. Yesterday, in Shreveport, Louisiana, a man shot and killed his ex-girlfriend, her sister, and seven of his children, as well as an eighth child.

Today, I logged on to Facebook to see that someone had posted in one of the Moms groups I’m in (why am I in more than one? I’m not sure – I have serious FOMO about mom group drama, but all the drama does when I do see it is give me serious anxiety, so maybe I need to go cold turkey) asking which parks in Fort Wayne are safe to walk in alone.

There’s no nuance, you’ll be surprised to hear, in the comments. Half of the replies are telling her that everywhere is safe, while the other half say that nowhere is. There are people who really know what feeling unsafe is like. “I grew up on the Southside of Chicago, you don’t know how great we have it.” Then there are people who never feel unsafe, because they have guns.

“There’s weirdos everywhere,” says one reply. “It’s just the chance you take unfortunately. I carry when I’m out but I’ve never had any bad experiences. (Yet)”

Another: “The best thing I did as a mom was learned how to use and carry. I hope I never have to use it but I'm not afraid to either.”

That’s… the best thing you did as a mom?! I am baffled.

But I’m also struggling, right now, in a lot of ways. As a mom, as a writer, as a wife… as an emigrant. As a Hoosier (am I a Hoosier?!). As a Green Card holder. As a resident of… hell. Like I said. So I don’t respond. I don’t think anything good can come from getting into an argument with an American – someone who views their second amendment right to bear arms as somehow intrinsic to their identity as an American, and to the sense of being “free” (lol! in Trump’s America?!). This is a debate I can do without, honestly.

You can’t bring guns into the YMCA, as a related aside. It’s forbidden. But the thing is, Indiana is a state with very few gun laws. You don’t need to register your firearm, for example. You can open carry or concealed carry without a permit. There are very few limitations, in Indiana, on the purchase or ownership of a firearm.

This does not, for what it’s worth, make me feel more safe.

Roman lasts 14 minutes today, although when I go to pick him up, they tell me he’s been crying since I left him, so it’s not that he lasted longer, necessarily, just that they waited longer to call me. I appreciate that; I know he’s fine. He’s crying because he doesn’t know where his mum is, not because he’s hurt or scared or anything bad is happening to him.

When he sees me, he immediately stops crying. He points to me, reaches out one chubby hand, and then another. When he lands in my arms, he takes a deep, calming breath and then smiles at the childcare worker who was just holding him while he wailed. He waves: “Bye-bye!”

We’ll try again tomorrow.

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Wednesday is both the hardest and the easiest day of the week.

The hardest: the working week – or, rather, Brandin’s working week, the week, for me, of being at home with the children, trying to eke out minutes here and there to write or to record (or both) while they nap or are adequately distracted by the TV, or each other – is more than halfway done, but there are still two long days to go.

Those two days feel interminable. I try not to watch the clock, but I do anyway; every time my phone buzzes, or my head turns towards the oven, or the microwave (the only two clocks in the house, as we have yet to hang the enormous nautical clock Brandin’s mum gave us), I’m reminded just how long I have to wait until someone else is there to hold the baby, or to fetch the snacks, or to clean up whatever new mess has been made by the children, or the dog or, less frequently (but always more disgustingly) the cat.

The easiest: it’s the first day of the week we have only two children in the evening. Two mouths to feed, one of whom eats only three meals (pasta, pizza, McDonald’s chicken nuggets), the other having not quite got it together enough to complain or to argue. Sure, he can shout, but he saves that for special occasions.

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In some respects, these two are the easier of the four children. In others, of course, it’s a relief when they can wipe their own bums, brush their own teeth, grab their own snacks.

On this particular Wednesday, Brandin’s late home. He stops at the pharmacy to pick up his prescription. He runs into the supermarket to get some things we need. These are necessary stops, and yet I’m annoyed by them because it means I’m at home, with the children, wiping noses and bums and picking goldfish up off the floor for longer than I’d bargained for.

I’ve decided I want to go to the framers when he gets home. A family friend offered to buy us a present for our new house, and we asked if she’d buy us a gift card for the framers. We always have a pile of paintings and prints and photographs to frame.

Right now, the pile is the biggest it’s ever been. Framing is an expense that never feels necessary; paying to have your art custom-framed is a rich person’s game, and we haven’t felt like rich people in a while.

I’m going to bring my latest acquisition: an oil painting by Marolize Southwood, a South African artist whose work I stumbled across on Instagram. I’d bought it as a gift for my own birthday, earlier this year, before we sat down to look at our debt and began our budget. It’s the last thing I treated myself to, in the before times.

When it arrived, it sparked great debate. I see a very specific scene; my sister sees a very specific body part; my children are unsure. One sees the sea. Another, a mountain. It’s called Pulling Teeth, which doesn’t really do much to illuminate things.

In any case, it doesn’t matter to me what the artist meant it to be, or what anyone interprets it as, not really. I love the colours. I love the texture. I love the movement of the paint, the way it hangs off the bottom edge.

Brandin gets home at 5, which is cutting it close, as the framers closes at 6. Still, it’s only 15 minutes from the house, so I start gathering my things: my glasses, keys, wallet. The painting itself. At the last minute, I decide to bring a set of three prints a friend gave us as a gift when Atlas was born: gummy bears by Irish artist Monika Crowley.

I’ve been meaning, ever since, to have them framed beautifully, to hang them in his room. But, like I said, we haven’t felt that rich in a while. I’m not against using shop-bought frames – our art is a combination of custom frames and Ikea – but these are a non-standard size, and the edges are rough, a feature I’d hate to obscure. I’d like them to float on an off-white mat, inside a pale frame. Maybe, I think, we’ll have enough to do them all – the bears and the Marolize Southwood. (I’m nothing if not optimistic.)

As I gather my bits, I tell Brandin I’m heading out to the framers. It seems important, somehow, to do this: to get out of the house, to speak to someone else, out in the world, to get in the car and drive, even if it’s only 10 minutes around the corner.

We’re on a budget now, so I won’t be stopping for a coffee or a large Diet Coke (much as I’d like to). Nor will I be wandering into Goodwill for a browse, or taking a stroll around Walmart. I’ll go to the framers and back, just that, but that will be something.

Brandin tells me that he’s parked in the driveway, he’ll have to move his truck. He hands me the baby, takes his keys off the rack, puts on his shoes back on.

I am disproportionately annoyed by this. Not the fact that I have to wait, while holding the baby, necessarily, although I do have a split second where I think, imagine if he just got in his car and drove off, as I would, honestly, quite like to do, quite often. Imagine. I don’t have to imagine, I realise. He does that every day.

No: I’m irritated by his parking in a way that prevents me from leaving, as if he’d just assumed I wouldn’t want to. Of course Rosemary’s at home; of course Rosemary will stay at home; Rosemary never goes anywhere; Rosemary never leaves the house.

I do sometimes leave the house, you know! I want to tell him, indignantly, but I suppose the truth of it is that mostly I don’t. I walk to the corner with Atlas and he gets on the bus and then I come back and I hang out with Roman and then, when Atlas is home, they both go down for their naps and I sit at the table, or on the couch, or on the bed, and keep vigil.

There are places I could go: we’ve gone to the YMCA, where, at last count, Roman lasts nine minutes in childcare before they call me to come pick him up. “He hasn’t really calmed down since you left,” they tell me, and I feel terrible, even worse when I push through the doors and see his face, tears and snot everywhere.

I feel less bad, mind you – and more murderous – when they hand him over to me and he immediately starts to clap his hands, a broad smile on his face. He’s grand! I feel like telling them. I contemplate handing him back. Instead, we go home. “We’ll try again tomorrow,” I tell him, but we don’t, because I can’t face packing up all of our things in the car for a nine-minute stay at the Y. Maybe the day after tomorrow.

Sometimes we go to the library, but the downtown branch, which opens at 9am, is a 30-minute drive from the house, so we’d have to leave by 10.30am, to be home in time to get Atlas off the bus. The branch nearer us, a five-minute drive, give or take, doesn’t open until 10am, so a trip there feels even more pointless.

It doesn’t help that, right now, I’m trying to go to free places. I’m trying not to go to the nice cafes with the play places, where I inevitably spend $20-odd on coffees and cake pops and whatever else I (and my children) fancy. It doesn’t help that, right now, the list of places I could go feels shorter than usual.

Once Brandin has moved his car – stopped, quite literally, holding me hostage in the house – I head off without so much as a backwards glance.

My mother thinks you should always say goodbye to a child, so that they don’t get a surprise (a bad one) when they realise you’re not there. I think I do a good job of pretending to ignore her advice, most of the time, but it all gets absorbed anyway. In the end, it feels less like advice and more like a directive.

Still, today I don’t say goodbye to the children. I’ll be back within the hour, sure, and I can’t face the protracted goodbye, the “where are you going, mommy?!”s, the “can I come with you?!” even though, of course, he can, or could, if I waited long enough for him to ask.

Today I don’t. I head out and I drive to the framers listening to The Idiot, a podcast by the creators of Serial, about a man whose cousin – a cousin he’d never really liked – is arrested and jailed as part of an FBI sting operation. It’s got everything: Russian accents (a post-Heated Rivalry fixation of mine), a crazy ex mother-in-law, child abduction (?!), murder for hire…

The framers is empty when I walk through the doors. I guess no one’s feeling rich these days, I think, but then she tells me they’re so busy their framing times are three weeks at a minimum. “Do you need this in a hurry?” she asks.

What kind of life would I be living if I did need this framed in a hurry? I suppose I could be framing it as a gift for someone else, but I feel as though frames are a very personal choice. The vast majority of options I see lining the walls are, quite frankly, hideous. I dread to think what someone would choose to frame my Marolize Southwood in, or my gummy bears.

We start to talk through our options, and I tell her my budget. She is, to her great credit, nonplussed, but she casually halves the pile of frames she’d been gathering for me to choose from. The Marolize Southwood, she tells me, will cost $211 to frame, and that’s with, truly, some of the cheapest options available.

“A lot of these frames come from Italy, so that really bumps the prices up…” she says, apologetically. I wonder if the tariffs have had a big impact there, but I don’t ask her, because the word “tariff” feels politically charged, somehow, and honestly? I’d rather not know if she’s someone whose business I shouldn’t be supporting.

I ask about the gummy bears, suddenly feeling like I should frame those first. They’re for Atlas, after all, while the other painting is for me and, as a result, feels like it should be lower down the priority list (why do we do this? Do men do this?!).

We talk through a few different options for the gummy bears and, again, having whittled our choices down to the most affordable, she goes over to her computer and does the calculations. “For these it’ll be…” she says (tap, tap, tap)… “One hundred and seventy-five dollars each.”

I decide to frame my own painting. Maybe, I think (naively, as it happens), we’ll get some money back on our taxes, and I can put that towards the gummy bears. Maybe they can be next.

While I’m waiting to pay my extra $11, a notification pops up on my phone. “Attending your appointment virtually? Log on at…” I have a moment of confusion, before I remember I have a psychiatry appointment at… now. Right now, in fact.

I’d entirely forgotten about it, despite its being in my calendar. This forgetfulness – forgetting appointments, weekend plans, entire conversations – is, apparently, a symptom of my recently diagnosed ADHD, but as I’m still skeptical about that whole diagnosis (do I really have inattentive ADHD? Am I not just lazy and bad at being an adult?!), I find this hard to accept and, instead, feel a lot of guilt and shame about it. It’s embarrassing, to be constantly forgetting things. It makes me feel old and all over the place.

I rush through the payment – “I’m sorry, I just realised I’m supposed to be on a call with my psychiatrist!” I tell her, which is maybe an overshare, as I run out to the car – and log on to my appointment on my phone. I open the car door, sit in the driver’s seat, attach the phone to the magsafe holder on the dashboard.

“Hello there,” my psychiatrist says as he comes into view, sitting in the office I was meant to be sitting in. (I try to attend our appointments in person since I learned he prefers it, because I’m nothing if not a people pleaser, but, you know, see above re forgetfulness.) “Where are you today?”

I think he’s asking this for legal reasons, so I tell him I’m in my car, near my house, “still in Indiana.” Many medical providers are only licensed in the state they practise in, so if you’re out of state on holidays, you’ve to either lie, and pretend you’re not, or reschedule. I, of course, would never lie.

“But where,” he asks, “where are you, what are you doing?”

I remember, now, how delighted he was the day I logged on for our appointment from the farm; how many questions he asked me about the blackberry bush I was standing under. He’s a curious man.

“Oh,” I say. “I’m at the framers. I’m just having some art framed.”

“Ah!” he says (delighted, again). “I didn’t know you were an art aficionado!”

I’m embarrassed by this and I’m not sure why. It’s the kind of thing that could be said in a mocking tone, but I’m 99% sure he’s being sincere. (We’re in America, so people are almost always being sincere, which is exhausting.)

“Oh, uh, I wouldn’t say aficionado,” I say, “I just… have a lot of art, and a lot of it is unframed, so…”

“What are you having framed?!” he asks. “Is it a painting? A photograph?”

“A painting,” I say. “An oil painting I bought for my birthday.”

If he’s surprised at the idea that I would buy my own birthday gift, he doesn’t show it.

“Is it by a local artist? Who did this painting?” He’s nothing if not persistent.

“It’s by a South African artist named Marolize Southwood,” I tell him. He nods (go on). “I actually can’t remember where I first saw her work… it’s just a beautiful piece. No one can decide what they see, but I loved the colour and the brushwork…” I trail off.

“How wonderful!” he says. Again, seeming very sincere. “Now!” he says, as if we have got through something, and are ready to begin. “How have you been doing?”

I tell him. I feel like the ADHD medication has helped. I’m more focused, more productive. For the first time in my entire life, I feel like an adult. (I’m now embarrassed about all of the times I’ve made jokes about how hard adulting is, like I’m Tom Hanks in Big, accidentally in the body of a grown woman when I am but a girl, yearning to jump around on a giant piano.)

But it’s not all good, I tell him. I’ve been struggling, these past few weeks, with feeling very anxious and low at times. But I think – who’s the psychiatrist here, I wonder, as I type this – this has something to do with the GLP-1. I’m no longer comfort eating, I tell him, but I’m no longer comfort shopping, either. And, as these two things (eating, shopping) are the tools I used to give myself joy, in the before times, I wonder if I just need to find something else that makes me happy. Or something.

I realise I’m rambling, so I stop talking. I remember, when I studied journalism, being told to embrace silence, especially when interviewing. For someone who lives to fill an awkward silence, this has never been easy. But in interviews, as in psychiatry appointments, it feels important to hear what the other person has to say, and to give them the space to say it.

“You know what? I want to say something,” he says, then (was he waiting for a silence?! I’m embarrassed by this, too – why do I never know when to shut up?!). “I’m proud of you,” he tells me. “The way you said that – that you know you’ve been using food and shopping this way – a lot of people would feel shame saying that. But you were able to tell me, without shame. That’s a very good thing.”

It occurs to me, then, that my psychiatrist doesn’t really understand me at all. He’s proud of me for disclosing something about myself that other people would find shameful, without any shame?! I should put him on to my mother. Maybe he could encourage her to be proud, too.

“Are you seeing a therapist at the moment?” he asks, and I say no, I’m not. I had been, but when we moved house, when we didn’t get a new babysitter, when I started working all the hours God gave me, around naps and snacks and nappy changes, I realised I simply didn’t have the time (or, honestly, the money) for therapy. “Well, you should be in psychotherapy,” he says. Written down, it looks like he might have been admonishing me, but it felt like a neutral statement.

Or, it would, if, the first time we met, he hadn’t said to me, “I don’t think therapy will work for you – you’re too sensible.” DOES HE NO LONGER THINK I’M SENSIBLE?!?!

Not recognising my panic at this pronouncement – is he maybe… not a good psychiatrist?! – he then tells me, “You need to get out of this if… then thinking. You need to stop thinking, if this, then I will be happy. If that, then I will be happy. If I find a hobby, then I will be happy. This is a road to nowhere. This is a road to failure.”

Unfortunately, this makes a lot of sense. I’m always looking for The Thing that will make me happy, The Thing that will replace comfort eating and comfort shopping and comfort hanging out with the friends I’ve known since I was four and comfort sitting on my parents’ couch and comfort making inappropriate jokes and knowing no one will think I’m serious and comfort napping and comfort clearing out my wardrobe and comfort cutting my hair and all of the many possibly not great behaviours I employ when I feel like I need something to lift me out of the mire.

“Do you use AI?” he asks, then. There’s a pause.

“Well,” I tell him, carefully, because I don’t want him to think I’m lecturing him, and I also don’t know where he’s going with this. Is he about to suggest that I sound like someone who’s addicted to Chat GPT? Is he wondering whether I’ve got an AI boyfriend? (Who has the time?!) Is he about to suggest that I go to Chat GPT for suggestions on how to fix my brain?

“I’m a writer, you know,” I say. (Does he know?! I suspect he’s forgotten.) “So I’m kind of… [KIND OF?!?!] fundamentally against AI.”

“Ah,” he says. “Well, let’s not throw the baby out with the bathwater.” (It’s ironic that he mentions water in this discussion about planet-destroying AI, but go off.) “I think that you could take the advice that I’ve given you, and go to Chat GPT, and say, ‘this is what my psychiatrist suggests. These are the challenges I face. Can you recommend some books I could read on these topics?’”

This seems like sound advice, although I do wish there was another way to go about this. Couldn’t he just recommend some good books to me?!

My Irish therapist used to recommend books to me all the time, although, now that I think about it, I never read them, and then would feel a sense of abject failure and worry I was about to disappoint her and cancel our next two appointments (and pay full whack), and then hope that, three weeks later, she’d have forgotten all about the homework she’d given me, which I hadn’t done.

“Hmmm,” I say. (Hmmm!) “Okay, I can see how that would work.”

I tell him I’ll do that. (Reader, I have yet to do it.) He tells me he wants to keep my medication where it’s at, which is fine by me; I feel like I’m still figuring out how my body feels on an anti-depressant plus an anti-anxiety medication plus a stimulant plus a GLP-1 plus a multivitamin (when I remember).

My body’s processing a lot of chemicals in there – and we haven’t even touched on perimenopause.

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Two Saturdays ago was “picture day” at my four-year-old’s soccer lesson, which takes place in the YMCA near our house.

I’ve been in the US for six years now, but only recently have I truly started to partake in the “mom” culture I’ve heard so much about (yes, fine, on TikTok): the four-year-old is in soccer and swimming lessons; as soon as we see a 20-degree forecast we plan a trip to the local playground (which happens to be on the grounds of the local primary school); I’m in a whole gaggle of moms groups on Facebook, ostensibly to make friends but, really, just to argue with people about vaccines and giving ivermectin to their toddlers to help with eczema (my POV, for what it’s worth: please do, and please don’t, respectively).

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“Picture day” seems to be a thing in every children’s activity; our 11-year-old has a picture day with his baseball team, another for soccer, a third at school. Our 13-year-old has picture day with his track team, one with marching band, another at school. It’s free to have the pictures taken, but of course then you pay to get the prints, which most Americans seem to frame and hang on the wall lining their staircases.

We have dozens of these photographs at home. They live in our document file. Sometimes I’ll put one on the fridge, but only for a few weeks, until the kitchen clutter gets on top of me and the pictures must be relegated to the file.

I blame my parents for this. They were never ones for displaying photographs of us in the house, and somehow this has carried on through me. I love hanging art on the walls, but family photos feel cringe, somehow.

As for the professional photoshoots beloved by Americans?! I could NEVER. (I mean… could I never? I kind of want to, but I fear the judgment of my Irish friends. It feels like that might be the nail in the coffin of my Irishness. “She’s gone full American now,” I can imagine my mother telling the woman in the local shop.)

Anyway. Picture day for soccer. We arrive at the Y, having entirely forgotten it’s picture day – this happened at school, too, and I sent him off with his hair sticking up in 1,000 directions, wearing a stained T-shirt (all T-shirts are stained, and I refuse to just throw them out because that seems so wasteful, although things have improved since I started using the magic stain spray, truly).

We go to the court where, thankfully, someone tells me that it’s picture day. We run back to the front of the building. I try to fix his T-shirt, his hair. I must resign myself to the fact that he’s wearing striped shorts and unicorn rainbow shin guards. Nothing can be done about this now.

Once his photo has been taken – I urge him to say “poop!” to the photographer in an attempt to elicit a semi-natural smile, rather than the gurning grimace he’d been doing before that – we go back to the court and wait for the rest of the team. I get him out a soccer ball and he runs back and forth with it. I worry he’s going to exhaust himself before practice even starts (this worry was entirely founded).

We’re there about five minutes, again, wondering, where is everyone else?! when his coach comes through the doors to tell us that they’re taking the team picture now, and everyone’s waiting for us.

How did everyone else know this? I ask myself, when we walk back through the Y, to the room where they’re taking the pictures. Why didn’t I know? What other things am I doing wrong, missing, not knowing? And how will I know that I don’t know?!

My sister has had a lot of these moments with her kids, too. When she asked why her son hadn’t been selected for an advanced maths (math, in America) class when – and this was not just a mother’s bias showing, really – he had displayed a great aptitude for maths, for example.

It turns out that, unlike in Ireland, where you’re streamed into, for example, higher level maths – although you can push for your kids to do “higher” level, rather than “ordinary”, or vice versa, if you feel that it’s in their best interests – here you have to opt in for your child to take advanced maths.

How was she to know that? She didn’t even know that she didn’t know!

There’s a lot, particularly about the school system here, that I don’t understand, although I am starting to learn certain aspects, by osmosis.

PE is not a mandatory weekly class; in some semesters, kids will have gym once a week, and then in the next they won’t have it at all. In middle school, they do need to complete a “gym” module; if they don’t (say, because they don’t select “gym” as one of their subjects), they can make it up by doing a sport during the summer months, or outside of school hours. I don’t think all sports qualify; I think they need to be linked to school, somehow.

Again, I don’t really know.

I have American friends, obviously, that I can ask for advice and information on these systems and structures that I’ve never experienced, and know nothing about.

I recently had a conversation with a friend whose 16-year-old daughter is going to graduate high school with a certain number of college credits, already under her belt. “How does this work?” I asked her. She explained, but I think I’ll need to ask again, and take notes next time.

Already having college credits when you graduate high school seems crazy to me. Let the kids be kids! Free time is important! (Does this attitude make me boomer?! I wonder) But in a country where college costs thousands of dollars per semester, you can cut down the required number of semesters to complete your college course by already having credits in hand.

I can ask my friends about this, because I know about it now – but what about the things I don’t know that I don’t know? How will I know to ask about those?!

Sometimes my frustration, the sense of being a fish out of water, the strongly held suspicion that I will never feel at home here, that I will never know all of the things I want to know, manifests as anger. Anger with my husband, specifically.

He is American. He should know all of these things (I’m sure he’d say he does). Moreover, he should know that I don’t know them, and he should tell me. But only when I’m in the mood to be lectured to, and only things I actually don’t know, not things he just thinks I don’t know, when I do, which would be insulting.

I accept that this is a fine line to tread.

Obviously, if he just took on the mental and emotional load of doing all of the kids’ stuff, I wouldn’t have to worry about any of it. I wouldn’t be wondering what academic programs I don’t know about, or what group pictures I didn’t realise were being taken.

I wouldn’t be Googling “can I bring a dog to an elementary school playground” (the answer is no) or where I can go to post a package, if my new mailbox isn’t big enough to put it in (truly a travesty); in our new housing estate, we have these tiny little lockboxes, instead of a traditional mailbox, which means that anything even remotely chunky we need to post has to be taken to, I’ve learned, a blue USPS postbox, something I had truly never noticed existing before this week.

Like I said, you don’t know what you don’t know – and, more specifically, you don’t know what you’ve never needed to know.

other things I didn’t know I didn’t know include…

* that kids recite the Pledge of Allegiance every single day at school. With hands on hearts, facing a flag.

* that you need to bring your ID everywhere with you. I mean, I knew you should probably have your drivers’ license on hand while driving, but going to an urgent care when I thought I had a concussion, only to be sent home for my ID was… unexpected.

* CHEQUES. (checks) Yes, they’re still using cheques here, and you’ll need to have them on hand to pay for the most random things. (Our lawn treatment company, for example, didn’t accept card, so the choice was to post them a cheque or to drive to their office with cash.)

* there are rules about how long your grass can be, and in certain areas you can be fined for letting it get too long (or too weedy).

I’m sure there are more. (That’s kind of the point.)

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