Anchor Baby – the audio

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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This is a public episode. If you'd like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit rosemarymaccabe.substack.com/subscribe

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 rel…

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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 …

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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 ar…

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I can’t remember the last time I wasn’t on a diet

As documented here previously, I’ve been on some diet or other since I first joined Weight Watchers at the age of 14. I remember that first meeting, in Scoil Chrónáin in Rathcoole, in the very room I sat in for my very first year of primary school.

Since that first, fateful foray into the diet industrial complex, I’ve tried Slimming World and keto, Atkins and intermittent fasting. I’ve done 90-minute-long morning Bikram yoga sessions; I’ve walked (fast, uphill) on a treadmill while wearing, ostensibly, a wetsuit with vacuum hoses attached to it.

I’ve gone to five-star fat camp (planning a look back at that next month, the 10-year anniversary of my time in Ibiza with No1 Bootcamp) and lifted weights five times a week and eaten clean and counted calories and points and syns and, and, and, and…

And all of it took root in my brain, embedded deep in my psyche and left me with an attitude to food, hunger and eating that was – and I’m being kind here – problematic, at best.

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Once you learn the “points” (Weight Watchers) in an almond croissant, it’s hard to go back to enjoying it, unencumbered by that knowledge. Similarly, once you start viewing your body as wrong and your appetite as a problem, it’s almost impossible to just let yourself eat without feeling guilt (because you know you shouldn’t) and shame (because why can’t you just not).

These past seven months on a GLP1 have, honestly, reset all of those broken settings in my brain; I can, for the first time since I can remember, eat – when I’m hungry, and whatever I feel like – without second guessing why or what or how much or if I should at all.

And look: I know that this is only because I am losing weight. I feel as though I can trust my hunger cues and my appetite and my desires because I know trusting them won’t result in my putting on weight. Without this drug slowing my digestion and suppressing my appetite, I wouldn’t have this (for want of a less romantic word for it) freedom. And yet I do have it. It feels revelatory.

For me, the “food noise” isn’t so much to do with constant thoughts of food – what to eat next, what would be delicious, what to eat after that – it’s more related to the negative self-talk, the constant critical voice I had in my head telling me that I was greedy and gluttonous and lazy and out of control, simply because I was hungry, and wasn’t succeeding in fighting that hunger.

Now it feels like I don’t have to fight any more – with the voice, or with the hunger itself. If you’ve never experienced any of this, you won’t know how life-changing this is. But it is life-changing.

The side effects have started

I am incredibly lucky that the first few months of taking a GLP1 – I take Mounjaro in its compounded form, prescribed through Midi online, and it costs me about $260 every six weeks (in case you’ve missed previous updates) – I experienced almost no side effects.

Yes, I would feel full very quickly, and I might feel slightly nauseous if I ate past that feeling of fullness, but the nausea, the vomiting, the diarrhea and constipation I’d read about other people experiencing? They didn’t affect me at all.

It’s only in the last few weeks, as I increased my dose to 5mg, administered weekly, that I’ve started seeing some of those negative side effects. Or, rather, one of those side effects, in the form of diarrhea.

One week, late last month, I had diarrhea for five days running (if you’ll excuse the pun). And I won’t sugarcoat things: it was grim.

But at no point did I think, this is too much or even, maybe this drug isn’t for me. Is that fucked up?! It feels fucked up. And yet, the freedom (see above) this drug has allowed me is hard to overstate.

And, once that first bout of diarrhea was done with (it did feel like it lasted about a year, mind you, and having diarrhea while parenting a 15-month-old is not for the faint of heart), I quickly started to figure out that, as long as I watch what I’m eating, I can pretty much keep it at bay.

And when I say “watch what I’m eating”, I mean, try to eat a relatively balanced diet. Protein, fibre, green vegetables. I’m still eating ice-cream, every other evening after dinner; I’m still eating white bread with Kerrygold butter. I had a chicken tikka masala last week, and while I’ll admit it no longer hits the spot like it once did (food just doesn’t spark joy any more), it was still good. (I ate one-third of it, and spread the rest over two further meals, which felt ridiculous, honestly.)

I don’t know that I could be someone who experiences extreme side effects –diarrhea, or any of the other gastro stuff – on a very regular basis and would be happy for that to be my life. But then again… like I said, it feels really fucked up.

Is there any cost I’d deem too high for the privilege of (relative) thinness? (Again, it all feels very fucked up.)

I still worry I’ve become part of the problem

I remember reading an essay by Roxane Gay in which she discussed having weight loss surgery; she wrote about how she was tired of waiting for the world to be kinder to fat people, and that she’d accepted that if she had to live in this world (I’m paraphrasing here), this might be a way to make her existence easier.

I spent a lot of time trying to reprogramme my brain out of the fatphobia I couldn’t help but internalise (for blame, see: 1990s teenage girls’ magazines, America’s Next Top Model, Bridget Jones’s Diary, heroin chic, The Swan), but no matter how much I agree with everything Aubrey Gordon writes; no matter how invested I am in the fat positivity movement; no matter how fervently I believed (and still believe) that fat people can be beautiful and healthy (and don’t have to be either of those if they don’t want to be!) and deserve clothes that fit and airplane seats that accommodate and healthcare that truly sees them and love and respect and not to be discriminated against at every turn… I still struggled with my own fat body and my feelings about it.

So when there appeared a “solution” to this “problem” (in inverted commas, because fatness is not a problem, not really, and if it’s not a problem then GLP1s can’t be the solution), I thought, why not? But also, I thought, am I a traitor to the cause? Am I selling out? Can I be fat positive and pursue intentional weight loss?

I don’t know the answers to any of the above questions, and it’s all a conflict that still rages within me. I’m not sure it’ll ever stop.

Ideally, I want to live in a world that doesn’t judge human beings by the size or shape of their bodies; I want fat people to be allowed to just exist in their fat bodies, and experience love and joy and respect and all of those great human experiences, without being told they’d be more loved, and happier, and more worthy of respect, if they weren’t fat.

And I worry that, as more and more of us give in to the lure of the GLP1, give in to the lure of thinness, a goal that has never before been actually attainable to fat people (the exceptions proving this rule), fat people will be further and more actively marginalised and judged and disrespected, because don’t they know they can just take a GLP1?!

Say it with me now… it’s all really fucked up.

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Good bacteria, bad bacteria and violent chocolate bunnies

I’m not quite sure how we get on the topic of bacteria, late on a Sunday evening as Atlas eats two slices of toast with butter at the kitchen counter.

He once again refused to eat his dinner – a cheese quesadilla, prepared by his Dad, followed by a bowl of spaghetti, prepared by me, followed by a bowl of strawberries, requested by him – each with a single bite taken out of the offering, and once he’s finished with his nightly bath, he announces, as he does every night, that he’s hungry.

My child will now eat a handful of things. Pizza, pasta (but only certain shapes, and he won’t eat them with any kind of sauce any more, just butter or grated cheddar cheese), toast, Rice Krispie treats, McDonald’s chicken nuggets and fries, Doritos, cookies, cinnamon toast crunch bars, donuts and, on a rare occasion, strawberries and bananas.

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We’ve tried presenting him with a variety of foods – some “safe”, some not – and encouraging him to try those he claims not to like. Last week, we gave him pasta that had been cooked in chicken noodle soup, thinking, he’ll probably like the flavour once he actually tastes it. (Reader, he spat it out and bawled crying at how “yucky” it was. I felt terrible, as if I’d tricked him into eating something I should have known he would never eat.)

We’ve tried bribery. “If you eat this [horrific piece of non-McDonald’s chicken nugget] you can have this [giant chocolate bar].” It doesn’t work. We’ve tried reading books: How do Dinosaurs Eat Their Food? and Daniel Tries a New Food.

I thought the latter had worked miracles when Atlas announced he wanted to make banana swirl, just like mommy Tiger; I dutifully froze two bananas, then blended them to a smooth, ice-cream-like texture, only to have him pronounce, “yuck! I not want to eat that.”

“But,” I protested, “what does Daniel Tiger say? Try a new food, it might taste good!”

“Ew YUCK!” he responded.

So now, instead of bribing and cajoling and encouraging and beseeching (and begging, for I’m not above it), I’ve resorted to… letting him. (No, I haven’t read the Mel Robbins book, but I have listened to this podcast about it.)

I’ve decided that the most important thing is that he eats, so I focus on calories, rather than what the actual foods are.

This morning, for example, when he sees a chocolate chip cookie on the counter and asks if he can have it for breakfast, I say yes. Why not? Is a chocolate chip cookie any “worse” than the other options (croissants or toast with butter or yet another cinnamon toast crunch bar)?

And, at night time, when he announces that he’s hungry, I think, that makes sense, and we go downstairs and we make toast or pour out a bowl of Doritos or grab a cinnamon toast crunch bar from the pantry and I sit with him while he eats them and watches Creature Cases or Octonauts or finishes whichever Jurassic film he’s been working on that day.

On this occasion, he eats his toast at the counter while Brandin tries to troubleshoot our coffee maker. “It’s taking ages to make the coffee,” he tells me, his voice thick with frustration. He specifically bought this coffee maker because it makes a full pot in about 30 seconds, so I can see how this is a disappointing turn of events.

Still, I have no suggestions. I sit next to Atlas and threaten to eat his toast as a way of making him hurry up (I don’t like saying “hurry up and eat!” because eating shouldn’t be rushed but, you know, it’s already past his bedtime) while Brandin tinkers around with the filter.

“A-ha!” he announces, in the tone my psychiatrist took when he “discovered” I have ADHD (a month after I told him I thought I had ADHD). He’s found some buildup in one of the filters, probably caused by our hard water, although what do I know? I try not to learn about things I have no interest in, lest the knowledge take up valuable space in my brain where song lyrics could otherwise go, or the names and back stories of every Love is Blind couple in history.

“What’s in there, Daddy?” asks the toast-eater, spraying crumbs on every available surface.

“It’s just from the coffee maker, bud,” says Brandin (“bud”, by the way, is my least favourite term of endearment ever and I’ve literally no idea why). “Just build-up.”

Build-up! Who would tell a four-year-old that there’s BUILD-UP in the coffee maker.

“You’ll have to explain a bit better than that,” I tell him, laughing.

“Well,” he begins, and then utters the fateful words: “It’s just, uh, hard water and probably bacteria.”

“Bath-eeyah,” repeats Atlas, eyes wide. He turns to me. “Mommy! You read me a story about bath-eeyah in bed.”

I should tell you now that when Atlas says “read me a story” what he wants is for me to make up an elaborate tale of adventure and mystery with Atlas Eddie Wallace as the main character. His brothers must feature – but not too heavily –and every story must contain at least one of the following: an indoraptor, an indominus rex, a baby T-rex or three ready-to-hatch dinosaur eggs.

So. A story about bath-eeyah before bed.

I decide to use this tale to lecture him about healthy eating, because nothing else seems to be helping on that front. I tell him that, inside him are two kinds of bacteria: good bacteria and bad bacteria. I don’t bother going into the concept of some good bacteria becoming bad bacteria if found in too large quantities. That seems above his pay grade. And mine.

I ask him what he thinks these two types of bacteria are doing inside of him, and he offers, delightedly, “They are fighting! Like an indominus rex and a T-rex!” I’m relieved not to have to shoehorn those into the story all on my own.

“Yes, they’re fighting,” I confirm. “And did you know that you can help the good bacteria get stronger and stronger?” He looks sceptical.

“When you sleep, you recharge the good bacteria’s batteries,” I tell him. “Because fighting is very tiring. And when you eat good food like strawberries and bananas and vegetables…” (here he volunteers a “yuck!”) “…you give the good bacteria more energy to fight better!” (I never claimed to be a master kids’ storyteller.)

“You know what would help the good bacteria fight?!” he suddenly asks, in the excited tone he usually reserves for stories about dinosaur eggs which are in the process of hatching.

“What?” I ask him.

And my son. My beautiful, adorable, hilarious, genius four-year-old son, remembers the tiny chocolate bunnies I’d fed him earlier that day. The bunnies I’d given him three of and then taken away, telling him, “you can’t eat too many of them, they’re not good for you” (even though I’m not sure I even believe that?! And also who cares?! See above re: calories).

“The chocolate bunnies,” he says, making small bunny motions with his hands. “The chocolate bunny army comes to help the good bacteria! They hop, hop, hop and then they fight and they a-stroy the bad bacteria!”

My healthy eating allegory has fallen apart spectacularly, but truly the most important thing is that he accepts this as the end of the story. My work here is done.

I lie with him for a further five minutes, cuddling. Every now and then he’ll ask me to move over, further away from him. This is very difficult as we’re in a pirate ship bed that fits only a crib mattress, and I am a large, adult woman and he is a medium-to-large sized four-year-old boy. I press myself up against the edge of the bed until I can press no more and I say, “It’s time to go to sleep.”

“Goodnight, honey,” he says. He’s never said this before. I laugh.

“Goodnight, honey,” I parrot back at him. He laughs, then.

“No, mommy. You honey. Not me.”

I blow him kisses from the door and tell him to sleep tight. “Dream of bunnies,” I say. “Hop, hop, hop,” he says.

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Nobody’s really talking about the cruel downside of losing weight in your 40s.

Or maybe they are, but they’re talking about it by a different name: Ozempic face. According to Northwell Health, “Ozempic face… describes the facial changes that can accompany rapid weight loss when using medications like Ozempic… for weight-loss treatment.” Northwell’s own bariatric surgeon, Dr Andrea Bedrosian, goes on to explain that “Ozempic will help you lose a lot of weight in a relatively short period of time [and] a lot of people will see that initial weight loss in their face first."

We’ve seen it in a lot of celebrities whose pictures we’re bombarded with online, whether we seek them out or not; suddenly, having lost “the weight” (that’s a gross term, isn’t it? “the weight”, like it’s this enormous burden we’re carrying around with us), they look older and more wrinkled than we’re used to seeing them.

But maybe it’s not just the fact that their faces have less fat on them – fat on the face, FYI, is a great substitute for Botox and filler – but that those “extra” few pounds (I hope you know that, when I say “extra’, here, I’m not implying that the weight they’ve lost was bad, but it’s hard to talk about this without kind of writing in a way that feels and seems fatphobic, which I would never intend or believe) were concealing the fact that celebrities are just like us and, just like us, they tend to get older as time goes on.

I’m not someone who has ever been especially concerned with aging or, at the very least, the effects of aging on my face or body. I’ve always had pretty clear, smooth skin, thanks to genetics and nothing else, honestly.

Right now I’m quite committed to a fairly elaborate skincare regimen thanks to a Caroline Hirons skin kit I treated myself to before Christmas, and while I can say my skin feels lovely and soft and moisturised, I could not say, in all honesty, that it looks any different than it did before I started this twice-a-day, six-step routine.

I got Botox once, for the single deep horizontal wrinkle between my eyes that’s also genetic (thanks, Mum!) and I think makes me look a bit cross, sometimes (even on the rare occasion when I’m not actually cross), but aside from that, I’ve never even been tempted to investigate anti-aging interventions for myself.

Until now.

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In the last few weeks – and this might also be because I’ve started filming a lot of reels for Instagram, the editing of which requires me to stare at myself for longer than I’d like – I’ve started to feel a lot of stupid, negative feelings about my face and the obvious signs of aging that have emerged, as I continue to lose weight.

Is this Ozempic face?! I’ve wondered to myself, more than once. (While also adding to cart ridiculous things I truly don’t believe work, like LED light masks and eye masks and extra-strength retinol I’m sure I would sincerely regret using.)

And, I mean, it is, right, because I’m losing weight not necessarily quicker than ever before – as previously flagged, I once lost 17lbs in a week; on another occasion, I got “slimmer of the week” in my local Slimming World group, as I’d lost 9lbs – but definitely more consistently. Previously, I’d lose large amounts, week to week, but then put on a few pounds the following week (and probably the week after that, too).

While there are definitely days, since starting Mounjaro, where I’ve put on a pound, only to go down on the scale the following day (I don’t generally weigh myself every day, as that way madness lies, but sometimes I do two days in a row for whatever reason), week to week, I’ve continued to lose weight. So that could be it, right?

But also – and this feels really important – the last time I was this weight was a decade ago. If ever I weighed less than this, it was in my teens, maybe going into my early twenties (I turned 41 last Friday). It stands to reason that my actual face, emerging from beneath the very youth-giving layers of fat I’m losing, is now the face of a middle-aged woman, when it was once the face of a child.

Like I said, I’ve never thought much about my face or body aging, because the signs of it have never been as obvious as they are now that I’ve lost “the weight”, or some of it.

And look: I truly believe aging is a gift. I’m not ashamed of being 41; I had a lot of questions, especially coming up to 40, about how I’d feel about the age itself, and my being it. I thought, many times, about writing a piece about it – and I might still – but I couldn’t quite grasp the contours of how I felt, not really. I was glad to have reached 40, honestly (like many emo teens who view themselves as artists of some sort, I truly believed I would die in my twenties), but I had a lot of feelings of shame and regret about the things I had once thought I would have achieved by the age of 40 and which, obviously, I hadn’t.

But I also have long placed so much value – I mean, did you read my book?! (you can still buy copies from Gutter Bookshop in Dublin at that link) – in how attractive I am to the opposite sex (ugh, I mean I KNOW). So looking at my face, which is suddenly starting to look its age, throws up a lot of insecurities for me that I could, quite honestly, do without.

There’s such a frustration to all of this, which largely boils down to how s**t and complex and difficult it is to be a woman. I’ve been trying, for pretty much my entire adult life (I first joined Weight Watchers at the age of 14), to lose weight – and now that science has finally found a way for me to do that (because, reminder, diets don’t work), I’m finding yet another thing to beat myself up about.

At moments like this, I think it might be time for me to do a deep dive into Jessica DeFino’s work “reporting on the absurd world of beauty culture”, and maybe have a re-read of Nora Ephron’s I Feel Bad About My Neck, for solidarity purposes.

It all makes me think of the many, many people who’ve asked if I feel taking a GLP-1 is “worth” it. Is it “worth” it, to spend $210 a month to (eventually, hopefully) be thin? Is it “worth” it to take a weight loss medication, if you’ll have to take it for the rest of your life? Is it “worth” it to lose weight, if you’re then going to be worried about looking old and haggard as a result?

I don’t know the answer to these questions. What I will say is that, in an ideal world, we wouldn’t have to ask them. Fat people could just be fat, and be happy with their fat bodies and their fat faces, and thin people could just be thin, and be happy with their thin bodies and their thin faces, and none of us would be wondering whether we’re too fat or too thin or too old-looking or too young-looking, and all of the truly smart people who dedicate their lives to anti-aging and weight loss would, instead, be busy finding the cure for colorectal cancer (and more!), because what millennial isn’t absolutely bereft at the news that James van der Beek has died?!?

It’s a cruel world, and I mean that sincerely. (Thank you so much for taking time out of your day in this cruel, cruel world to follow and read my work. I appreciate it more than you could know.)

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It feels, sometimes, as though I’m the only person in the western hemisphere (am I even in the western hemisphere any more?! I just Googled it. Yes, I am) who hasn’t seen the Northern Lights with her own eyes.

This is not because of my weakening eyesight, although that’s certainly an issue.

I had laser eye surgery over a decade ago, a freebie offered to me in exchange for an interview with the head of the practice about a new treatment they’d started offering for long-sightedness, a condition that had been, until then, largely untreatable.

The interview didn’t end up running in the newspaper I’d written it for, which I felt guilty about, but as a freelancer, you don’t get to make the decisions about what to publish and what not to publish and, in any case, I was always careful to emphasise the fact that there were no guarantees.

I didn’t, officially, accept gifts or treatments or trips in exchange for coverage.

And yet, there I was, my eyes fixed open with little clamps, gazing into the abyss as my short-sightedness was lasered away, at least temporarily.

I’ve just Googled this, too; apparently laser eye surgery is permanent, as it reconfigures the surface of the eye. What’s happened my sight – which has undoubtedly got worse, to the point now that I should probably be wearing my glasses, hitherto worn only for driving, watching TV or going to the cinema, all the time – is a result of ageing and natural changes, not any failure on the part of the lasers.

I enjoyed the process itself, I have to say. I felt like James Spader, walking through the Stargate: optimistic, awed, surrounded by stars and, I’ll admit, a bit queasy. But it was more amazing than it was revolting. I’d do that again, I thought, as my eyelids were unclamped.

Anyway, I don’t think it’s my eyesight that’s kept the Northern Lights from me. It feels, honestly, like it could be fate.

My Mum and I even went to Iceland, once, but the winds were too high for us to take our scheduled trip to see the lights.

In fact, we were warned to stay in our hotel, but as we only had those four days, we disobeyed the orders and wandered into downtown Reykjavik, scarves and hats and gloves and coats covering as much of our bodies as possible. Still, by the time we arrived at Hallgrímskirkja, our faces were completely numb.

We spent approximately €100 on hot chocolates in a nearby cafe (Iceland is notoriously expensive, something 10,000 people will tell you, if you ever plan a trip).

I don’t really mind that I haven’t caught a glimpse them. It gives me something to look forward to and, in any case, I’ve seen enough photographs of them that I have the sensation of having seen them myself.

That the Northern Lights have been so much more prevalent lately feels like a glimmer: a tiny, micro moment of joy, compensation for what otherwise looks and feels like a Gileadian hellscape from which there can be no escape.

There is, of course, a more pedestrian explanation. According to NPR:

Auroras have been happening more frequently in the United States for a while, and will continue to do so for several months. This influx of shimmering colors comes because the sun is reaching the peak of its 11-year cycle and, therefore, its solar maximum. The solar maximum causes solar eruptions, and this increase of activity brings ions, or electrically charged particles, closer to Earth. This stream of particles is known as the solar wind.

It doesn’t matter. Communication is about the result. If I feel the existence of the Northern Lights – the fact that my friends and neighbours have seen them, that they’ve brought this joy, this awe, this wonder, to people I love – as a glimmer, then surely that’s what they are, solar cycles be damned.

It’s not the only glimmer around – so I thought I’d share a few more. Of course, your glimmers will be different to mine. They should be. You might have more than I do (good, I hope you do). You might have fewer (look for them, they’re out there).

You might feel, as I do sometimes, as though there are no glimmers that can in any way soothe the sense of hopelessness you feel right now. That’s okay. Shiny lights aren’t going to solve our problems. They’re just glimmers. Bask in them while you can.

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a few more ✨glimmers✨

Heated RivalryI know, I know, everyone’s been talking about this, but truly, this show is just… oof. I can’t even explain it. A friend of mine described it as “soft porn, with a little romance”, but I corrected her immediately (friends love when you do that). It’s a romance, with a little soft porn. It’s a show about really, really fancying someone and missing someone and yearning for someone and then, later, yes, loving someone (and, all along, yes, f*****g someone) and it’s just so beautiful and, crucially, no fictional women are harmed in the making of this love story and, really, how many love stories can say that? (Plus, once you watch it, the creepy algorithm will serve you every Heated Rivalry meme out there and you’ll be reminded of how gorgeous it is every time you check your social media apps and for once you’ll be glad your phone is spying on you.)

RobynIn the year of our lord, 2026, it’s more important than ever that we seek out art that subverts and distorts and confounds expectations, and Robyn’s performance of Sexistential on The Late Show is so utterly weird and brilliant and gorgeous. I love, love, love watching women do things no one expects them to do (and not doing the things people do expect them to do). And no, I’m not talking about, like, wearing red with pink or whatever. I’m talking about doing whatever Robyn’s doing here.

“Actually…”Maybe it’s because my 4-year-old has a speech delay, but sometimes, he starts saying words he’s never said before and it just brings me so much joy. The latest is “actually”, which he uses correctly (this cannot be said for all of his new words) and very, very frequently.

I’m putting him to bed one particularly windy afternoon this week – yes, he still takes daily naps, a fact for which I am exceedingly grateful – when he asks, “Mommy, what is that rumbling noise?” (he pronounces this wumb-oween)

The rumbling noise is the wind, wailing against the front of our house with great gusto. Our housing estate is new, and so our house is exposed on almost all sides. The houses that will eventually protect us from the elements have yet to be built, and there are no established trees in the estate, just a sad little sapling, about five feet tall, across the road.

“Oh,”I tell him, “That’s the washing machine.” This is a very believable lie because, as you can imagine in a household with four children, we do a lot of washing.

“Actually,” he says to me, his eyes round as saucers, lower lip wobbling, “I think it is…” (he chokes back a tiny sob) “…the wind.”

I tell him, for the hundredth time, that it’s okay. The wind can’t get in the house. I’ll protect him from the wind. His red dinosaur (a T-rex teddy he seems to have imbued with Herculean strength and the heroism of Joan of Arc) will protect him. Wind can’t hurt him. Look! (Here, I blow on him.) This doesn’t hurt, does it?! (I dread the day he learns about hurricanes.)

He falls asleep, actually.

A cafe owner in Michigan is building a cute ‘n’ quirky shopping mall out of shipping containersAnd I am SO GRIPPED BY THIS.

It’s not just that 22-year-old Kyle here, who owns a cafe in Caseville, Michigan, has had this kooky lil idea and is running with it, but it’s the fact that her creative project is going to have such a ripple effect in Caseville (because I, for one, am planning a trip there this summer to see the mall in person).

I’m loathe to say it but it also made me think about the Happy Pear and how their kind of odd and unexpected rise to fame must have made a big difference to Greystones’ hospitality trade.

I mean, the glimmer i…

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This piece – obviously – talks about intentional weight loss, the (totally b******t) BMI scale, weight loss medication and weight loss programmes, so if any of that feels like it might be difficult for you to read, please, don’t. I should also give the disclaimer that I am not, nor have I ever been, over 300lbs, or in the categories of superfat or infinifat. I probably haven’t even been large fat. For most of my life, I’ve been small fat, and for a short period, I’ve been medium fat. Only in the latter category was I sized out of mainstream fashion. I have a lot of privilege in terms of my body, my fatness and the barriers and difficulties I’ve faced as a result of them. I am very aware of that, and never want to come across like I’ve experienced every discrimination every fat person will ever experience (that would be a wild assertion to make). So please, bear all of that in mind when reading.

Someone messaged me on Instagram the other day to tell me how great I look [since losing weight]. They told me they, too, were considering going “on the jabs”, and asked a few follow-up questions – which, honestly, I’m always happy to answer, although I caveat everything with the reminder that I’m not a doctor, a nurse, or any kind of medical professional, and though I have a qualification that allows me to call myself a nutritionist in Ireland (lol), that’s not a protected term so, essentially, anyone can call themselves a nutritionist in Ireland. FUN.

“Do you feel way better in yourself? Like, do you notice a massive difference?” they asked.

I chose honesty (I almost always choose honesty; as a rule, I lie only – and always – when my Mum asks me, “is that new?!”). “Not really,” I said. “I don’t feel any different, honestly, at least not physically.”

This was not a satisfactory answer.

“But,” she continued, “is it way easier to run around after the lads now?”

I assured her that I wouldn’t know: “In general, I try not to run around after the lads at all, if I can avoid it.”

I’m sure she thought I was joking, but I wasn’t, because (a) I truly don’t run around after my children, unless it’s first thing in the morning and Atlas is trying to avoid putting on his coat and I am literally running in circles around the couch trying to catch him while he gets increasingly hysterical with laughter and I get increasingly enraged and (b) running around does not feel easier or in any way different since I lost weight.

Another message, this week, from someone who was considering joining the ever-growing ranks of those of us taking a GLP-1 medication for weight loss, read: “I have a really high BMI and feel sluggish”, the implication being that, once they lost weight, not only would their BMI be lower but they would automatically feel, well, not sluggish.

“BMI is a made-up concept,” I told her, not (I hoped) unkindly, “and feeling sluggish is about fitness more than it is about weight”. Ilona Maher, for example, is “overweight” going by her BMI, but is not, it’s a fair assumption to make, someone who feels sluggish all that often.

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The thing is, the idea of losing weight is so often sold to us as a catch-all, a panacea for everything that ails us. Not only will we look better (by the almost universal body standards that tell us thin is beautiful and fat is, well, not) but we’ll feel better (because fatties are unhealthy and therefore feel sluggish and unable to run around after their children); we’ll have more energy; brighter skin, eyes and nails; our fertility will improve; any digestive issues we’ve ever had will disappear; our thighs won’t chafe when we walk long distances in the heat; in fact, we’ll probably stop sweating (like pigs) when we’re hot or exerting ourselves; we’ll sleep better and have more sex and be less jealous of our friends and finally manage to write that novel and clear out the basement and finish that craft project and and and AND. I’m not even joking when I write this out; weight loss is absolutely marketed to fat people as something that will change every single aspect of their lives for the better.

And this – I’m sure you could see where this was headed – is total and utter b******t.

There are things that change when you lose weight, but being overweight has not been established as a causative factor in most of the huge number of aches, pains and ailments that are attributed to it. In other words, sometimes your body feels like s**t for reasons other than your fatness. So getting less fat is not going to solve, or even change, those problems in any way, shape (lol) or form.

That’s not to see that things won’t change as you lose weight. I should know; I’m currently losing weight and, like the vast majority of fat people I know, this is not the first time I’ve done it. I’ve yo-yoed up and down 30 or so pounds several times. I once lost over a stone in a week, for crying out loud!

When it comes to weight loss and the effects of weight loss, I’m practically an expert. So, believe me when I tell you that the changes one experiences as one loses weight are not the ones people tell you to expect and, when you drill down, most of them have nothing to do with your body at all.

Confused? Allow me to explain.

You’ll feel better (about yourself)

Every single article, pamphlet, opinion piece, film, TV show or ad that features weight loss tells the lie that, when you lose weight, your body itself will feel radically different, and by “different”, it’s very clear that they mean “better”.

But they don’t really mean better the way I’m experiencing it; they mean better because you’re healthier, so your body is, of course, functioning at some kind of elite level now that you’ve stopped being such a greedy slob (this is how society views fat people and we all know it).

In truth, losing weight via GLP-1 – so, you know, simply by eating less, not necessarily by eating better, exercising more, or drinking more water (the old-fashioned, and useless, ways) – hasn’t, for me at least, led to any of those physical health improvements.

But I’d be lying if I said I didn’t feel better; it’s just not a physical improvement. I feel better because I’m no longer embarrassed about my size or weight. I feel better because I’m losing weight – that is to say, I’m being a good fatty (a dieting fatty) and not a bad fatty (one who is determinedly not dieting).

I feel as though I am morally better, now that I’m losing weight, than I was before, when I was not losing weight, even though I know that there’s no moral superiority about weight loss, or thinness, or any potent combination of the two. And honestly? This is really fucked up! It’s gross that I feel like I’m some kind of better version of myself now, when I was a perfectly brilliant version of myself before! It’s disturbing that I was so ashamed of my body and my fatness that simply knowing I’m losing weight has lifted a certain amount of that shame.

I know this is all rooted in the internalised fatphobia that led me to want to lose weight in the first place, so I guess I shouldn’t be surprised, but it’s still really disappointing to experience.

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You’ll fit into clothes you couldn’t fit into before

Sure, this is a bit of a “duh” change, but also feels groundbreaking, honestly. Having lost a not-insignificant-but-not-life-changing amount of weight – I’m not gatekeeping this, but I know hearing numbers can be really triggering to people, so message me if you really want to know and I’ll tell you, but also, who cares? – I can now shop almost anywhere, and it feels freeing but also weirdly maddening.

Sure, I could buy a size L dress in Mango now (MAYBE), but also, why should I? Why should I give my money to a brand that deliberately, consistently and for no good reason whatsoever excludes fat …

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