Anchor Baby – the audio

Warning: This post contains references to intentional weightloss and pregnancy. If you’re not in the right head space to read about either (or both!) of those, please skip this one.

There’s a really irritating saying people tend to trot out when you’re struggling to accept the lack of something in your life: maybe you’re single and you’re finding it hard to meet someone you’d consider sitting next to on a bus, never mind going on a date with; you’re house hunting and every single house you see ends up going for €100k over asking (Irish house hunters, I see you); you’re hoping to get pregnant and it’s just not happening.

“You know,” they’ll say, sagely, not realising the red mist that’s about to descend from behind your eyelids at the uttering of their very next words, “It’ll probably happen when you stop trying…” (It’s a wonder more of us aren’t murderers, honestly.)

In a lot of instances, these sayings are completely and utterly without merit (and entirely unhelpful). In the year of our Lord 2024, it’s very rare that you’ll meet someone you fancy, and who fancies you back, entirely by accident. It’s even less likely, still, that you’ll end up finding the perfect house for you to buy – at the perfect price – if you’re not actively looking. And as for pregnancy… well. We don’t really need to go into the basics of the birds and the bees, do we?!

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An aside

Where does that phrase come from?! Birds and bees don’t mate with one another, so trying to use them as a way of explaining sex seems… ill-advised, at best. No wonder children are confused.

According to Grammarist, “The origin of the phrase is uncertain. Many give credit to the poem Work without Hope, written by Samuel Taylor Coleridge in 1825, however the poem in question simply references bees that are stirring and birds on the wing, not the phrase the birds and the bees.”

All Nature seems at work. Slugs leave their lair—The bees are stirring—birds are on the wing—And Winter slumbering in the open air,Wears on his smiling face a dream of Spring!And I the while, the sole unbusy thing,Nor honey make, nor pair, nor build, nor sing.

“I have not-so-secretly wanted to have another baby for a while now, driven, in part, by the…opportunity to redo my birth experience”

Anyway, it will be no secret to those of you who listen to the podcast, or follow me on Instagram, that I have not-so-secretly wanted to have another baby for a while now, driven, in part, by the fact that Atlas is so adorable and I’d love him to have a little friend, as his older brothers have each other… but also, I can admit (although I’m slightly ashamed by the selfishness of it all) as an opportunity to redo my birth experience, which I didn’t love.

But Brandin – my husband and other deciding force in our household’s major life changes, for better or worse – has been less keen, worried about how our (badly managed) budget would stretch to a fourth child, along with logistical concerns like having to switch my car out for one that fits six of us, where to slot a baby into a house that’s already quite tight for space, and whether or not I’m too old to have another child. (Yes, he has the bad sense to say that last part out loud.)

The last few months have seen a lot of debate being had about whether or not another baby will be happening, and ultimately I’d concluded that it just wasn’t going to be in the cards for us.

And while I’d like to say that I was fine with that, I wasn’t, not really. I was disappointed and heartbroken and felt as though I was in mourning for something or someone I never even knew. There were a lot of complicated feelings that I struggled to express or share, and that, honestly, I felt quite isolated in because I knew that the disappointment I was feeling wasn’t shared by the other person in my relationship.

Now, for the Ozempic of it all…

Part of my deciding to take semaglutide injections, I think, was in response to this grief. It felt as though, if I wasn’t going to have this second baby I’d been dreaming of (we have two older boys from Brandin’s previous marriage), at least I could achieve my other lifelong dream: of getting skinny.

The night before I was due to take my second shot, I sat on our bed next to Brandin and I wept. I told him that I felt as though I was finally okay with us not having another baby (he may not have believed me, due to the weeping), but that I felt like I was mourning that dream, and even though I loved our three boys and was optimistic about the life we’d have as a little family of sometimes-five and sometimes-three (we share 50/50 custody with the boys’ mom), I was still kind of sad about this other potential baby I’d been imagining and dreaming of and hoping for.

And I remember, too, turning to Brandin and saying, “you probably think I’m just getting my period but I’m also just really sad about this!” and him looking slightly skeptical (again, what judge in the land would convict me?!) but (for once, wisely) saying nothing.

The following day, though, there was no period, and I decided to check on my Health app to see when I was due. As it turns out, I was two days late.

My period’s pretty predictable, by and large, and though I can be a day or two late, or early, here and there, this time I had a weird feeling about it; I’d noticed, a few days previously, that I was very bloated around my mid-section. “I could literally be six months pregnant,” I’d said to Brandin, who’d said absolutely nothing, in the style of a man with a death wish.

Not just that, but my nipples, which have more or less lost all sensitivity in the three whole years I’ve been breastfeeding Atlas, had started to feel really sensitive and sore to the touch.

These two factors combined made me decide to take a test, which Brandin picked up for me on his way home from work, and which I took, alone, in our upstairs bathroom, before I was due to take my third semaglutide shot. You’ll know, by now, how that went.

I’m pregnant! But I’ve been taking Ozempic…

Honestly? I was freaked. Beyond freaked. Brandin was freaked, too, but for, I think, different reasons – the aforementioned finances, his obsession with children each needing their own room, his concern about jamming a football team’s worth of kids into our cars – while my freakout was almost exclusively around the fact that I’d been pregnant for the full two weeks I’d been injecting myself with appetite-suppressing drugs that have not been studied in pregnancy except in rabbits and rats, where they’ve shown to result in fetal abnormalities.

So, you know, it wasn’t a great feeling.

That night, I called Bea and strong-armed her into meeting me for dinner at Three Fires, a pizza restaurant near both of our houses. She tried to reassure me that everything would be okay: I’d taken two of the very lowest doses you can take; it’s very early days; people smoke and drink to excess and take drugs, and it’s not great for the babies, but they survive. “Everything will be fine,” she told me, as I cried while shoving slice after slice of spicy sausage-and-ricotta pizza into my face.

The following morning, I called my gynecologist’s office and asked to speak to a nurse, to whom I explained my predicament. She took notes and asked questions and said she’d speak to my OB, but that I should schedule my first two appointments – at 12 and 16 weeks – while I was on the phone.

Later that day, the office called me back to say that, while my doctor wasn’t overly concerned about my Ozempic use, she did want to see me at eight weeks “for an early scan to check viability”. At the time, we estimated that I was about five weeks pregnant, so I had three weeks to wait for this scan that would tell me whether or not my desire to lose weight had irrevocably damaged my baby.

It was, honestly, a really difficult few weeks. I told some close family and friends, while Brandin wanted t…

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I received an email the other day which, at first – like so many emails I suppose – seemed promising. I would put this in the same category as the dozens of emails I receive each week asking if I’d like to collaborate with x or y brand on Instagram. “We’re offering $50 for a grid post with 3 dedicated stories – let us know if you’re interested!” I say no to each and every one, insulted by the paltry sum, but now that I write it down, $600 per week to post on Instagram doesn’t seem like the worst deal in the world.

This email promised not a career opportunity but something better: the perfect Mother’s Day gift that would, crucially, “make you her favorite child”. I thought, momentarily, about sending it to my sister but she has a lot on and, in any case, I supposed I’d better read through it first. (Mother’s Day in the US, confusingly, is the second Sunday in May; I know that for any of my European readers, Mother’s Day is in the rear view mirror by now but, you know, mothers are just women who’ve given birth, so who knows who you might find a great gift idea for.)

The first item on the list? A $300 “washable” silk robe – because mothers may still be glamorous, but there’s bound to be a spill somewhere along the line, lol #momlife – from a brand I’ve never heard of that comes in three sizes only (XS/S, M and L/XL, not promising) and, crucially, reaches to mid-thigh only. Who wants this robe? Not me, A Mother; and not, I’d be pretty confident in saying, my own mother either.

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Things can only get better, I thought, foolishly, and was immediately buoyed by item two: a three-month subscription to The Bouqs, a mail-order florist that offers genuinely beautiful arrangements (even if the $137 you’ll spend on a bouquet of Bouqs flowers each month for three months could get you a house full of flowers for that same length of time from Trader Joe’s, or Joseph Duffy & Sons in Smithfield, say).

But that was simply a way to lure me further into the list of doom, because at number three we find a teeny tiny bunch of “preserved” (are these basically… taxidermied flowers?!) flowers from Anthropologie, and by the time I’ve clicked through the very Clueless (in more ways than one) $300 Coach bag and the $400 bakeware set by Caraway I’m ready to throw that entire article into the fire and, inspired by my ire, use the time to, instead, share with you some items that I have bought, received or otherwise taken possession of (borrowed? stolen? who’s to say?) that would make anyone – A Mother, A Woman, A Feminist, A Taxidermist – happy. (I cannot guarantee favourite child status at this time.)

The Yeedi M12 Pro+

A few weeks ago, I was approached by Yeedi to ask if I would like an early sample of their new M12 Pro+ vacuum and mop robot, which was released yesterday.

A couple of years ago, I stopped accepting free PR samples – I was getting such a massive amount of makeup, skin and haircare products, so many that not only would I not get around to using them all, but I wouldn’t get around to reviewing them, either, which made me feel awful for taking them in the first place – but I will make an exception for a robot vacuum, something I’d been going back and forth with Brandin about investing in for a while now. (I couldn’t help but feel as though it was kind of taking the lazy way out; we have a perfectly good hoover and how much time could it even take to just hoover and mop the house ourselves every other day?! It turns out: a lot of time, and so we rarely – if ever – did it.)

I will never ever stop telling people how great the Yeedi M12 Pro+ is. Sure, it vacuums and mops – two things I hate doing – but it can also be programmed to do so while you’re in bed; it has this crazy “smart mopping” technology so it mops quite literally up to the very edge of the carpet, and its sensors are so incredible that I have watched it vacuum its way right up to the cat and then gently re-direct itself to vacuum around him. (That the cat does not get out of the way of Freeda, as we are calling our robot vacuum, is also worrying.)

It seems to have totally eliminated the dog hair problem I thought we’d just have to live with forever – Vinny sheds, the groomer told me, three times more than any other pit bull she’s ever met, and his hairs are all tiny white spikes that are embedded in every piece of soft furnishing we have, as well as, until Freeda came into our lives, every inch of our carpet – and it’s also really quiet, so you can set it to go on while you’re watching TV, or listening to a podcast, and it just… goes about its business.

It honestly just does a far better job than I could ever have imagined (and than I could ever do with a vacuum and mop and bucket combo, honestly) and I can say with certainty that, like the Dyson Airwrap, this is one freebie I would pay to replace if I had to.

(Also, I know cleaning stuff is a bit passé when it comes to “gifts for her” – why are we always buying domestic products for women?! I think I know the answer – but this is just such a great little gadget that I think whoever received this could overlook that faux pas.)

Laneige’s Sleeping Lip Mask

I know this is very 2020 of me (and actually I’ve been using this product that long), but I was recently thinking about products I couldn’t live without and the Laneige Lip Sleeping Mask (I don’t really have a scent preference; right now I’m using an apple one that I don’t really detect much of a flavour from, honestly) is up there at the top of that list.

I used to carry lip balm around in my bag with me 24/7, and apply religiously at various intervals throughout the day. And I won’t pretend that I don’t ever have to apply lip balm – sometimes a gal gets dehydrated, okay?! – but since I started applying a thick layer of this soft, silky goop to my lips each and every night, I can go days, maybe even weeks, without using anything during the day.

It. Is. Magic. (And I know it’s $24, which is pricey if you use it as an everyday lip balm, which I heard lately people are doing even though it specifically says “masque de nuit” on it!!! but if you use it like I do, the $24 will give you at least three months of soft, hydrated smackeroonies.)

Pineapple-design solar hanging bird feeder

This is an especially valuable recommendation because it really doesn’t matter which bird feeder you get. This is the one we have – it’s currently not available on UK Amazon so I guess you could put a watch on it? or just idk get a different one – and though I would never have considered myself an avid birdwatcher, or even bird-payer-attention-to, it has given me so much joy to watch the birds congregate (and fight) at the bird feeder for the past three years.

Actually, the base fell off this feeder after about two years (those damn birds are just getting bigger and bigger, is there an avian obesity epidemic?!?! that’s a joke the “obesity epidemic” is made up) so I glued it, and then when the Gorilla Glue failed me, we ended up buying a second one.

I’ve learned that this particular bird feeder, as the mesh is quite loose, is best for larger feed, so birdies who come to this feeder get sunflower seeds, meaning that the ground beneath the feeder will be covered in sunflower seed husks. I don’t care about this, but you might. Bear in mind if you’re investing in some bird feeders.

On the opposite side of the garden, I have a disgusting suet cake bird feeder which seems to attract a few different species – at a guess, I’d say redwing blackbirds and common grackles seem to like the suet, the sunflower seeds get a lot of starlings – but also seems to be the site of more violence, so take from that what you will.

Anyway, this bird feeder cost $24 and I spend about $20 every three months on enormous bags of bird feed and even though they take up a lot of prime real estate in my pantry …

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I’ve been reading a lot lately. I was going to write, “I’ve been reading a lot lately about…” and lead into the real meat of this piece, but I have a word count to fill, so I may as well give you the full back story.

Around October of last year, I decided that I really, really wanted to hit my Goodreads target, the one I set for myself way back in January of 2023. I was aiming to read 100 books, but by the end of September I was a mere 24 titles in.

You would think that I might, therefore, throw in the towel, maybe assure myself that I could set a lower, more achievable target, in 2024, and forget about the whole thing. But no: I had failed too many times before (2020: 50/100 books; 2021: 16/50; 2022: 5/100, which seems unbelievable but I suppose I did have the baby and spent most of the year watching And Just Like That and staring into the abyss).

So, between October 3rd and December 31st, 2023, I read 76 books. That’s only slightly less than one book a day, and among them, I read Iron Flame (640 pages). I was determined.

The key, I found, was to go for books that didn’t involve too much… well, for want of a better term, too much brain power. I went for the Indian takeaway of books: convenient, goes down easily, tastes delicious, not incredibly valuable, nutritionally, but, y’know, moderately nutritious all the same (fats? tick! carbs? tick! protein? tick! micronutrients be damned).

Us takeaway addicts might not be great at seeing in the dark, and I mean, is it any wonder I take a B vitamin, but we’re unlikely to starve to death any time soon.

It’s weird, how admitting that I’ve been reading contemporary women’s fiction – a lot of romance, a bit of fantasy, a smattering of romantasy – feels like something I should make excuses or apologise for. “I have an English degree,” I told someone just the other day. “I’m making up for all of that worthy literature with some smut.”

That implies, though, doesn’t it? that the books I’m reading now are somehow unworthy. But unworthy of what? My time? My effort? My brain power? LOL! My brain is currently 23% Paw Patrol theme tune, which won an Emmy, I’ll have you know, 27% Vanderpump Rules (I’ve thoroughly gone off Katie Maloney, and went so far as to unfollow her on Instagram today, such is the conviction behind my gone-offed-ness) and 50% those tiny marshmallow cuties from Ghosbusters: Frozen Empire, on which I bestow a solid three stars, although a curse on both of its houses for finally turning me off Paul Rudd.

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Just look at them! These little marshmallow babies are the ghost equivalent of contemporary women’s fiction. Cute! Entertaining! Kind of make you want to bite them! Easy on the eyes! And would anyone dare call them unworthy?!

(Now seems like as good a time as any to tell you that I’ve spent the morning figuratively gnawing on my fingernails and literally crying into my keyboard for a variety of reasons I’m sure I’ll overshare with you eventually and am, as a result, feeling quite unhinged.)

Anyway. This might surprise you, but I have not come to any deep and meaningful conclusions about myself, as a result of this light reading I’ve been doing. I don’t feel as though I somehow needed a period of rest, relaxation and romantasy in order to process some major, unrecognised trauma or other (my therapist may say otherwise).

But it’s just been… nice! It’s been relaxing! It’s been like what I imagine it would be like to be an elite athlete, and to come home from the Olympics and take time off and then decide that you really miss… curling, or whatever it is you’re busy being the best in the world at, but that you don’t want to compete any more so, instead of training at your sport you just start playing it.

You’re still doing the same thing, but now, instead of its being work, it’s play.

For years now – I did an English degree, then a Master’s in Journalism, then was a working journalist for over a decade (I don’t quite consider myself not a working journalist, I still do the odd freelance piece but I’m just exceptionally lucky in that it’s no longer my bread and butter and I get to pick and choose when to dabble), now am a working writer – I’ve been approaching reading as a major part of my work. And that’s because it is.

“Read!” is the number one piece of advice I give everyone and anyone who asks how to become a journalist, or a writer, or how to improve their writing in either (both!) of the above. I suppose “write” is also good advice, but I truly believe you could write all day, every day, and never get any better or gain any more insight into your craft if you don’t accompany that writing with reading.

It’s just that I’ve long been going on the assumption that the reading I was doing needed to be somehow worthy and valuable, above and beyond its being worthy and valuable just for being a book that someone else had written and put out in the world (a staggering feat in and of itself, honestly).

It needed to teach me something profound and life-changing; it had to be written in a way that changed, utterly, the way I thought about prose; it was a requirement that it be worth recommending to a friend, something I wouldn’t feel embarrassed to tell a colleague about.

The obvious truth is – and though it may be obvious, it was not a truth that I really accepted – books don’t need to teach us anything. They don’t need to be amazing or mind-blowing or even memorable, honestly, in order to be enjoyable. We don’t need to take anything away from them except the knowledge that we just had a cosy little time with a cosy little book and now we get to move on to the next one.

But in case you think books do, in fact, need to teach lessons, I’m going to pick, at random, five books I read in the past few months (full disclosure: they’re not all smut), and tell you something each one taught me, with absolutely zero context. You are welcome.

Chase Me (Dragons Love Curves #1) by Aidy Award

The summary: “She’s stolen a priceless relic from his treasure, and his heart.”

The lesson: Turns out Prague is a very short flight from America (unspecified city) if you’re a dragon.

The Fake Out (Vancouver Storm, #2) by Stephanie Archer

The summary: “The best way to get back at my horrible ex? Fake date Rory Miller – my ex’s rival, the top scorer in pro hockey, and the arrogant, flirtatious hockey player I tutored in high school.”

The lesson: Physiotherapy is a dangerous job.

Twisted Love (Twisted, #1) by Ana Huang

The summary: “He has a heart of ice… but for her, he’d burn the world.”

The lesson: You can’t always trust #Booktok.

Leave the World Behind by Rumaan Alam

The summary: “Amanda and Clay head to a remote corner of Long Island expecting a quiet reprieve from life in New York City, quality time with their teenage son and daughter and a taste of the good life in the luxurious home they’ve rented for the week. But with a late-night knock at the door, the spell is broken.”

The lesson: I should probably stop relying so much on the Maps app.

Fourth Wing (The Empyrean, #1) by Rebecca Yarros

The summary: “Twenty-year-old Violet Sorrengail was supposed to enter the Scribe Quadrant, living a quiet life among books and history. Now, the commanding general – also known as her tough-as-talons mother – has ordered Violet to join the hundreds of candidates striving to become the elite of Navarre: dragon riders.”

The lesson: Sometimes #Booktok does get it right. (All is forgiven.)

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I’d love to say this was my idea, but if you listen to Not Without My Sister you’ll note that, in a recent episode, Beatrice raised the idea of “required reading”, as she waxed lyrical about Women, Language & Power: Giving Voice to Our Ambition by Susannah Baldwin.

She then – off-mic – suggested that I do a series on “required reading”, recommending different books for different times, situations and seasons of life.

I have a lot of broad themes in mind, books to read if: you’re pregnant; you’re a step parent; you’re feeling disempowered; you’re looking for answers; you’re getting into gardening; you have a Buffy-shaped hole in your life. And so on. The world truly is my (our) oyster.

Do let me know if you have any required reading lists you need in your life, or would simply love for someone else to collate for you.

Unless otherwise stated, all of the books listed will be books I’ve read, and liked well enough to recommend to other people. No two-star books here, friends!

This American Ex-Wife: How I Ended My Marriage and Started My Life

by Lyz Lenz

That the cover of this book – part memoir, part political treatise examining and annihilating the reasons women choose to marry men – depicts a burning wedding dress should tell you something about This American Ex-Wife, but it’s not the full story.

Sure, writer and fellow Substacker lyz is writing about the demise of her own marriage, the burning down of her life as a Midwestern mom and all-round Good Girl, and its reincarnation from the ashes of what once was, but she’s also writing about all of our lives, all of our marriages.

It’s the kind of book that has you humming along in recognition, feeling soothed by the fact that no, it’s not just you going through this or that, but on the next page feeling an incandescent rage at the fact that so many heterosexual women in marriages to men undergo the same mistreatments over and over and over again, and are expected just to grin and bear it “for the sake of the marriage” or “for the sake of the kids”.

What about for your own sake? Lenz asks. What about that?

This American Ex-Wife is powerful and funny and moving and enraging but there is also a hopefulness to the idea that we’re all here, looking behind the curtain at the same time, seeing that the Great and Powerful Oz is nothing but another self-aggrandizing little man, after all.

It’s just been released in the US, so I’m not sure if and when it will reach European shores – but you can buy Lenz’s first book, God Land, from Easons.

My Dark Vanessa

by Kate Elizabeth Russell

I read My Dark Vanessa in the time it took to fly from Dublin to Chicago, on March 14th of 2020, a few days before the whole world would seem to shift on its axis. (Don’t confuse the fact of its being a quick read with its being an easy read, at least not in the emotional sense.)

What I was expecting: a modern Lolita tale of girlish attraction, this time stripped of the male lens and told through the eyes of the eponymous Vanessa.

What I got: an examination of sexual attraction and power, and the ways in which each can be wielded, and perceived, with an almost Gothic horror style undertone.

That I related to Russell’s debut novel a lot seemed to say much about me, as I read it – but afterwards, as I spoke to friends who’d also read it, as I gorged myself on reviews and think pieces about the book, I realised, as with Lenz’s This American Ex-Wife, that there is much to relate to in this book for many women who have, at one stage or another, been lusted after by men – or, perhaps more aptly, felt somehow imbued with the power of perceiving that lust, as it was directed at them.

Russell deftly marries power and desire, lust and loyalty, to create a book that is a mirror held up to the experience of being a straight woman coming of age around the turn of the century, and lays bare the struggles many of us have with the #MeToo movement and the complex categorisation of man-as-predator.

Three Women

by Lisa Taddeo

Another debut author (don’t you just hate that?!), Lisa Taddeo’s Three Women is a work of journalistic brilliance: she spent years with the three women of the book, speaking to them at length about their sexual and romantic histories.

Though biographical writing can often seem a bit flat, Taddeo avoids that by instilling her writing with just enough graphic – although not sordid – detail to keep you entranced, and it helps that one of the three tales she tells comes to a climax in the form of a courtoom battle that serves as the sort of denouement of the book.

Ultimately, Three Women tells three stories of frustration, longing and life, each specific and discrete but – this is truly the theme of this list, I guess – universal in that specificity.

There are so many moments in Three Women that had me wanting to shout at the book, at the women therein, “WHY DON’T YOU JUST WALK AWAY?!” But they’re the same kinds of moments I’ve experienced all too many times, moments at which I didn’t walk away, either.

Because of its very nature – the narrative is incredibly well constructed by Taddeo, but these are real women’s stories, told by them and interpreted by the author – this is the kind of book that leaves you with more questions than answers. A lot like life, really.

It won’t be for everyone, but if you can suspend your scepticism – and, perhaps, impatience with people who make obviously dumb decisions – you might glean a lot from it.

This is Not About You

by Rosemary Mac Cabe (er, me)

Is it tacky to include one’s own book in a list of “required reading”? I don’t think I care.

This is Not About You is the story of my life thus far, told via the romantic and sexual relationships dotted throughout it – all of which have, for better or for worse (worse, I think, honestly) – been with men. It’s an unorthodox way to craft a memoir, but it felt the most honest to me; I had spent so much of my life planning my days and my outfits and my calendar to directly cater to the boy I was with or the man I was pursuing or, or, or.

It feels pathetic, to write it down like that – but it also feels like there is a certain universality in it, too. So many women are conditioned, almost from birth, to want to find a man, have a marriage, be a wife. Is it any wonder that I moulded myself so carefully to achieve those goals?

I could spend more time waxing lyrical about my own book, but instead I’ll share some reviews of the book from people I don’t know personally (or, at least, I don’t think I do):

“I loved this book so much and couldn’t put it down. I’ve got so many comparable experiences, and I thought I was unique (weird/even broken) in that.”

“I wish I had this book to read in my teens - it’s a lesson in self respect and being true to yourself… I was looking forward to reading her book for the writing alone, but I hadn’t realised just how moving her story would be. Parts were joyful, parts funny, parts heartbreaking but ultimately it is a book filled with hope. I loved it - it’s definitely in to reread pile.”

“The book is so well written that I could barely put it down, Mac Cabe’s writing is captivating, endearing, emotional, and brutally honest. I loved how the streets of Dublin were brought to life in the stories, and I found myself laughing along and nodding with the familiarity of it all. Mac Cabe is self-deprecating in many areas she needn’t be, but it makes the truth of her stories even more creditable. A lot of heterosexual women will be able to relate to the parts of ourselves that we give away for the sake of thankless men.”

It was also reviewed by The Irish Times, but heads up: you’ll need to be a subscriber to read it.

What books would you say are required reading for the cishet women among us?!

(And if you are a member of the LGBTQIA+ community and you’d like to write me a guest post with some recommended reading that sits outside of my sphere of knowledge and insight, please reply to this email and let’s make a deal!)

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I’ve been waiting for the right time to write about the experience of becoming a stepmom (is it a coincidence that my phone automated that to “becoming a demon”?!) and my experience, thus far, of step parenting two gorgeous, challenging, adorable, frustrating children.

I had somehow thought I’d just wake up one day and feel as though I’d finally cracked it, like I’d figured it all out. I’d suddenly have completed the stepmom exam and be ready to share with the world.

But… surprise, surprise, as in life, so too in step parenting, and I’m not sure I’ll ever be “done” learning the lessons these children, and this life, have to teach me. So either there’ll never be a “right” time to write this piece, or (depending on your outlook), there’ll never be a “wrong” time.

Right now, I’m in glass-half-full mode (I don’t have a headache! And I passed my Indiana driving test!), so this feels like as right a time as any. (Lucky you.)

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This week marked my three-year wedding anniversary, which is also the anniversary of my becoming a stepmom to two little (but getting bigger every day) boys. It’s not a long time, in the grand scheme of things – but in terms of their lives (they’re 9 and 11), it’s a pretty big chunk.

I first met Brandin in the summer of 2019, while I was in Indiana staying with my sister, and hunting for a husband looking to meet people on Tinder. I met Finn (9) and William (11) a few months later, when we went for burgers to Brava’s downtown.

I remember thinking they were very shy – entirely unlike their Dad, who would chat to anyone, with absolutely zero encouragement – and worrying that they didn’t like me. As we left the restaurant, one of them – I can’t remember which one – asked Brandin if I could come back to their house with them, like I was a new friend they’d just met at the playground. It was the first sign that maybe we were going to get on okay.

Less than a year later, in the summer of 2020 – and that was a really weird time, when all of my Irish friends and family were cocooned in their homes, while Brandin was still going into his office every day and not everyone was wearing a mask in the supermarket – I moved in with them.

Since then, I’ve made a lot of mistakes with these sweet, sensitive boys. I like to think I’ve done some things right, too – but you’d probably have to ask them. For now, here’s some wisdom I’ve distilled from my experience as the world’s most average stepmom.

Keep changes to a minimum

When I first moved in with them, it was to the house Brandin had bought shortly after his divorce, when it was just the three of them (and, at that, just half the time, as he and his ex have 50/50 custody). It’s a 1,300 sq ft ranch-style home, with a large family room and a small adjoining kitchen, three small bedrooms and one bathroom. You can check it out here if a visual aid would help, or if you just want to see my decor choices.

Within a few weeks, I had added about $1,000 worth of Ikea furniture – a coffee table in the living room, instead of the black pleather eyesore storage ottoman that had been there before; a beautiful sideboard in the living area – and repainted the kitchen cabinets. We got rid of their bunkbeds, and replaced them with “grown-up” twin beds, complete with matching spotty duvet sets. I bought a lovely vintage couch on Facebook Marketplace, and gave it pride and place in the living room, replacing a beaten-up greige number Brandin had got from a friend.

I should have known then – she says, now, with the benefit of much hindsight – that I was making a mistake, when the boys went on (and on and on) about how much they missed that ottoman, that all of these changes were coming at them too quickly, but I didn’t really stop to think about it at all. I just thought, honestly, that they were weirdly attached to that ottoman.

Which is why when, in the following year, about six months after I’d moved in, I found out I was pregnant, neither Brandin nor I thought twice about putting the house on the market and looking for a new place to live for the soon-to-be-five of us.

Looking back at it now, it was all way too much to drop on two already-quite-confused-and-disrupted little boys, who had gone through the unpheaval of divorce, their Dad moving out, their new 50/50 schedule and their Dad’s girlfriend coming to live with them, in a very short space of time.

I was just so excited to be living with Brandin and the boys, all of whom I love so much, and I was determined to be someone who brought with her good things: new furniture and colourful rugs and a bigger house with a bigger garden in an estate with loads of other kids, and a baby brother! I didn’t really stop to think that (a) little boys don’t really care about furniture and also, and more importantly (b) they needed time to adjust.

Sure, our family was getting bigger, but we could have done another year in that house – Atlas was in our bedroom for that long anyway – and they were happy as Larry in their bunkbeds and I suppose we didn’t need a different, admittedly less comfortable, couch.

They talk, sometimes, about the old house, and oh, the embellishments they add: they wax lyrical about the fun they had, playing in the back garden (it didn’t have a back garden); and how big their old room was (smaller than their new one); and how much more they loved the old house because they had friends, four doors up (friends who had moved across town several months before we sold up).

And while I’ll never know if this rose-tinted nostalgia would have been different, had they had more time to get used to each change as it came along, I can’t help but wonder if all of this revisionist history could have been avoided, had we been a little less trigger-happy when it came to all of the massive life changes we foisted on those two small boys in such a short period of time.

You and your partner need to be on the same page

…in decor choices, and in life.

This is why, really the “be their friend, not their parent” advice really doesn’t work. As a parental figure, if not an actual parent, I need to present a united front with their Dad, so that neither one of us gets pitted against the other.

If I say they can have ice-cream, Brandin can’t come in and tell them that they can’t, and vice versa. It holds true, too, when it comes to replacing furniture – it can’t be something Rosemary did – and setting bedtimes.

I know good cop, bad cop, can work for some people, especially when it comes to the witching hour pre-bedtime, but this really will not work if you’re set up as the bad cop, because you don’t want to add any further resentment to a situation they may already be struggling with (having a new step-parent in the first place).

Nor will it work if you’re the good cop, because there’s a very fine line between “good cop” and “soft touch”, and whatever about trying to get kids to like you, in my experience it’s more important, at least at first, that they respect you. Liking can come afterwards.

And it really helps, I’ve found, to talk to your partner about all of this, so that they can support you when those sticky moments come up. Sometimes, the boys will ask Brandin why I can’t be with Atlas so that he can be freed up to play with them, especially on weekends when I might be working a lot and he’ll look after Atlas so I can take a bath or read my book.

And at first, Brandin would tell them, “Rosemary’s been with Atlas all week, she needs some time to herself now”, but I realised this was, in a way, turning Atlas and me into a kind of obstacle that was somehow hindering their ability to spend time with their Dad.

So I sat Brandin down and told him this, and asked if he could, instead, take the blame – by saying he wanted to spend some time with Atlas, or that he just wasn’t in…

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I’ve been seeing a lot about love, this week – of course, as Valentine’s Day is smack-bang in the middle of it. I’ve seen banners declaring these Valentine’s Day gifts the perfect Valentine’s Day gifts. I’ve seen thinkpieces about the very idea of love itself. I particularly liked this one, by Maria Del Russo, and especially this line:

I realize now that, when people talk about “just knowing” when you meet the right person, the knowing is less about recognizing a feeling, or experiencing peace, or looking at the other person and thinking, “Oh, that’s right.” The knowing is more about knowing yourself, and your limits, and your boundaries, and what you’er willing to deal with, and what you truly want in that moment.

I’ve seen Valentine’s-themed jumpers and, bizarrely, matching family ensembles (are there families who dress up for Valentine’s Day?!).

In short, I’ve seen quite enough Valentine’s content to last me… if not a lifetime, then at least the year. But you know what I haven’t seen enough of? Pancake content. Where are the pancake content creators?!

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I am someone who adheres religiously to the observance of Pancake Tuesday, which falls, this year, the day before Valentine’s Day (making Valentine’s Day also Ash Wednesday, so any Catholics among us can pretty much forget about looking cute on their V Day dates), in no small part thanks to the adherence of my parents to Pancake Tuesday.

Now, for any Americans in the room (hi, Doug!), I should clarify: the pancakes I speak of, when I speak of Pancake Tuesday, are crepes, in other words, proper pancakes. They are not these puffy, fluffy, stacks of fried batter Americans refer to as pancakes, no.

They are paper-thin, spread to encompass the diameter of a pan, fried in a little butter and, ideally, flipped dramatically at the halfway point (approximately 30 seconds in, once the batter begins to bubble).

They are then eaten with, really, whatever you like, but I’m a purist so I choose lemon and sugar – granulated, so there’s some bite to it, a sandy sensation between the teeth – or, if I’m feeling truly decadent (or, more likely, someone else is making the pancakes), folded around a chunk of ice-cream, dipped in batter and deep-fried.

My mother spent a year in France, au pairing for a family in Paris who had 17 children under the age of five and never threw out a single scrap of food as it was all produced on Sundays in the form of leftovers. The way she talks about it, you’d swear she was there for a decade, or longer; that she managed to pack so many life lessons – and recipes! – into one year is truly astonishing, what with the time she must have spent changing nappies and sucking up to the maman of the family, with whom she is still great friends.

In any case, when one of the many French babies was a teenager, they came to visit my parents one February, not, I would think, the ideal month to visit Ireland but who knows what logic lay behind the decision.

It was Pancake Tuesday during her visit and she, like a good guest, volunteered to make the pancakes. (That my parents allowed this doesn’t paint their hosting skills in the best light, I’ll admit, but that’s beside the point.)

To hear them tell it, they sat at the dining room table for hours awaiting the delivery of crepes from the kitchen, not wanting to appear rude by asking what, exactly, was holding things up. I imagine my mother asking if she needed any help, if she could do anything. “Non, ça va!” Frenchie would have said, wiping her forehead with the skirt of her apron.

Finalement, out from the kitchen emerged la Française, holding a plate of perfect pancakes, stacked, says Dad, almost to the ceiling.

Accustomed to cooking for her dozens of siblings, she had made enough pancakes to feed a small army. My Dad – not having yet discovered the smug superiority that comes from dieting – ate twenty-something, he says, before he had to abandon his post. Maybe that’s why he spends so much time, reading in his La-Z-Boy; he’s still recovering.

In honour of that French visitor and her mile-high stack of crepes, Pancake Tuesday is the one day of the year when, without fail, my mother makes too much food. (Ordinarily, she’s killed telling you how a meal for four will feed 16 over the course of a week – hers is a very creative arithmetic.)

It’s not about overeating, per se, but it’s a day of plenty. No one’s left wanting more, and there’s no fighting over the last pancake because there’s always another where that came from.

I’ve let go of a lot, since moving to the US. I say “wadder” now, because no one understands me otherwise; I’ve given into my husband and his love of hamburger helper; I’ve even stopped trying to sneak vinegar on to my family’s chips (which, of course, I now call fries); I never beep my horn, a great hobby of mine before I moved to the country of road rage with guns.

But what I will not let go of is Pancake Tuesday, and it must be done right. The rules are simple (but important).

* The pancake recipe is essential. Americans think they know how to make pancakes, and they do, I guess, but not these pancakes. (Brandin even told me, once, that it didn’t matter if there were lumps in the pancake batter! Sacrilege!) I use this BBC recipe that has never failed me.

* There must be too many. See above. But seriously: that BBC recipe claims to feed eight, but I would double it for our family of five. Because…

* The pancakes are the meal. They’re not dessert. They’re not a side dish. They are in place of dinner and dessert, and we don’t want anyone leaving the table hungry.

* The lemon juice must be fresh. Fresh lemons, cut into wedges. Granulated sugar, as I mentioned. Lemon juice in a little squeezy bottle? Icing (confectioner’s) sugar? An abomination!

* The first pancake is always terrible, but still it belongs to the chef and the chef alone.

* Though the making of the pancake feast may take an hour or so, no one eats until everyone is seated. Including the chef. (This does not apply to pancake #1, which may be eaten immediately.) The pancakes are kept warm on a plate, atop a pot of simmering water, while all of the batter is used up.

Once the pancakes have been eaten, you must commence a nonsensical conversation about what you’ll be giving up for Lent (which begins the following day), even – and especially – if you know you’ll be giving up nothing. I always say I’m going to give up Diet Coke, and cursing.

Wishing you all a week full of pancakes, and, I guess love.

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No idea why now, today, this week, but I’ve been listening to this song a lot.

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It’s so cold this week that even the Hoosiers* are complaining. Schools have been closed due to “wind chill”, a phrase I swear I never heard before I moved here, to the flattest place on earth, where there is nowhere, ever, to shelter from the wind.

Right now, it’s a balmy -13C, with a RealFeel of -17C. Mild, compared to yesterday’s -16C (RealFeel -27C). You feel the cold right down to your bones, no matter how many layers of clothing you’re wearing.

As an Irish person, I’ve always seen a ski mask as a frightening, and dramatic, fashion choice; right now, it is not a choice but a necessity, at least if you’re planning on spending any amount of time outdoors. (I am not. I am staying indoors as much as possible, writing and knitting and drinking hot drinks.)

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On Monday, I drive Atlas the .1 of a mile up the road to his babysitter’s house. The car is in the garage, but still it’s cold when we get in.

All of the safety manuals tell you not to put a coat on a baby in a car seat, but I can’t help wondering which would be worse: to be wearing a coat when the car slides across the ice going 20mph and hits someone’s postbox, or to die of hypothermia in the back seat. He’s wearing a warm jumper, long trousers, socks and Ugg boots handed down to us from my sister, but still, his cheeks begin to redden before we’ve even reversed out the driveway.

Later, my husband will tell me that I should have started the car earlier, allowed it to warm up before driving it out on to the road and around the corner.

“We were fine,” I tell him, and then, because I can’t help myself, “A little cold won’t kill him.”

Brandin gives me a look I have grown worryingly familiar with – the what-kind-of-moron-are-you look – and says, “It’s bad for the car,” as if my thinking he was concerned for the baby is somehow ridiculous.

As it happens, the car isn’t really the issue, where Atlas is concerned; it’s the 10 or so feet between the car and his babysitter’s house. As soon as I open the door and the wind whips its way inside, his little face begins to screw up into an expression of dismay, disgruntlement and disgust, all at once.

By the time I’ve got him out of the car, a task made infinitely more difficult by his death grip on the Duplo Lightning McQueen I had to use as a bribe to get him out of the house, he’s crying. His head is buried into my shoulder, but it’s a tactical move, rather than one borne out of any kind of affection. I can tell that he is raging with me by how stiff his legs are, how clenched his fists.

What’s truly inexplicable is that, as we reach the threshold of Robin’s house, and I deposit him over the lintel and kick the snow off my boots, his crying amps up. Doesn’t he realise it’s warm in there? Dry? Windless? Apparently not.

Still, he gets over it; as I shut the door behind me, the screams stop. I wait a moment and hear his little footsteps as he runs, away from me, towards the toys, or the other children, or both, who knows.

Back home, our older two boys have been suiting and booting themselves up in preparation for going out on the trampoline. They have trousers and T-shirts and jumpers on, then thick socks and snow pants – the ones that are like little snow jumpsuits, with a bib that goes up and over their jumpers – and, as they begin to layer on gloves and coats, we have the first moment of conflict.

“Aren’t you wearing a hat?” I ask William, who is 11, and has just finished awkwardly putting on his Dad’s winter gloves, having left his own at his mom’s.

“No,” he tells me, “I’m just going to put up my hood.”

I look outside. It looks nice enough – the sky is blue and the sun is shining, but I can see the wind whipping through the trees across the pond and his brother, who got out a few minutes ahead of him, is already looking distinctly clown-y, his cheeks, bright red circles on his otherwise pale face.

“Put on a hat,” I tell him. “It’s too cold outside today.”

He removes the gloves quickly, furiously, slamming them on the kitchen table. I feel sorry for him as they hit the veneer, because thick winter gloves do not make a satisfying slamming sound, and there’s something disappointing about the whole thing. It doesn’t so much seem like an angry gesture as it does a pathetic one. The gloves remind me of an over-ripe cucumber, no longer satisfying and crunchy but soft, squidgy and slightly stomach-churning.

I push the hat over his head, brushing his hair back slightly. “There,” I say, and then (because I can’t help myself), “Don’t you look gorgeous!”

He scowls at me as he puts his gloves back on, reaching for the rear sliding door and pulling on it, leaning back to get more momentum. The door freezes and sticks each night, and again at random intervals throughout the day, depending on how long it’s been since the dog went out to do his business, and the snow that has compacted on the other side of it makes it hard to open and close.

I watch as they climb onto the trampoline together, the jumping surface covered in a thick layer of snow and ice, which begins to break up as they stride across it. Each footstep releases another puff of white dust, blowing up and around them.

The sandbox, which, at some point, got filled with rain water, has frozen over, too; inside are gardening tools, a spade, a fork, relics of a warmer time, when children dug for fossils and rocks, built castles and moats and buried hands and feet beneath the sand.

Finn stands on top of the frozen box, sliding around the surface in his probably-still-too-big-for-him winter boots (but there’s no point in buying the exact right size for children, is there? They grow so fast). “Can I have a tool?!” he asks me, as I slide open the door to tell them not to throw chunks of ice at the net of the trampoline. “To dig out the gardening fork.”

The ice in the sandbox is at least a foot thick, and frozen solid.

“It won’t work,” I tell him. “It’s too thick, and you’ll break whatever you try to use, and anyway, your mom’s gonna be here soon.” I say “mom” when I talk to them about her, because they say “mom”, too, and I can’t take another moment of having my pronunciation corrected, especially before 9am.

I turn back to my coffee, cooling on the counter. I take a sip, and a moment, too, to appreciate being indoors, in the heat, drinking this warm liquid, instead of being outside, digging for treasure in a frozen box. I suppose I would have thought that fun, too, once.

When I look outside again, Finn is leaning down over the outline of the gardening fork – one prong reaching up towards the sky, like Adam reaching out to God on the ceiling of the Sistine Chapel – and breathing on to the ice.

“It’s working!” he shouts, excitedly, to William, who has taken off his gloves and is walking around the garden, slowly, like a detective in Fargo, examining the scene.

I open the door again.

“William,” I say, “Please put your gloves back on.”

He does, but not without shooting me a glare over his shoulder, from beneath his fringe.

They’ve been out, now, for seven minutes, almost eight. There’s a chart that tells you how long it takes for frostbite to set in at specific temperatures, and though I haven’t consulted it today – it’s in Fahrenheit, which confuses me – I have decided 10 minutes will be their max.

I’m building myself up to tell them to come in when they have a fight – something about ice on the swing set, someone ruining it for someone else – and decide, all on their own, that it’s time to come in anyway.

I’m relieved; they rarely listen to my directives, at least not the first time, and calling them from the back door embarrasses me. I imagine the neighbours, watching the Irish woman down the road shouting at her kids from the back door. I may as well…

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I asked my Instagram followers to send me any problems or issues they needed help with or just advice for, and I received way more questions than I’d expected! So I’m starting a regular advice column where I’ll give my best advice to questions I’ve been sent via DM, or here (just reply to this email if you have anything you need help with!) – but I would also love it (and think it would be really helpful) if you would get involved and share your thoughts in the comments. In this case, I think actually, there’s no such thing as too many chefs.

So buckle up and settle down, because this may be a long one…

“What’s your favorite way to unwind after a busy week? I’m finding it nearly impossible.”

This, I’d imagine, is a common issue for a lot of people. We’re so “on” – answering work emails on weekends, jotting down to-dos in our phones while we’re watching TV, taking pictures of “inspiration” for work when we’re out and about (obviously depending on industry) – that it can be really difficult to properly switch off.

I personally find that the only way I can do it is to do something that requires my full – or almost full – concentration. So a bath isn’t a great one for me, because while in the bath I can be on my phone, and even if I leave the phone in the other room, my brain’s going a mile a minute reminding me of things I need to do once I get out of the bath! I find the same thing happens when I do yoga, or try to meditate.

Instead, I like to do something like read, do a jigsaw puzzle or knit – although the knitting only really works for me because I’m really crap at it and need to concentrate fully. I can just about have something low-brow on the TV (right now it’s Real Housewives of Salt Lake City) in the background, but nothing I have to concentrate on or I start purling where I’m meant to be plaining, or forget to slip the first stitch, or drop stitches (and am absolutely useless at picking them back up again so then the whole project has to go out the window).

I also find – or, at least, I found, one day last month, before it got to absolute nose-atrophyingly cold temperatures – that walking the dog is good, but only if I switch my phone on Airplane Mode and listen to music (not podcasts, because most of them make me think too much).

Beatrice and I joined a weekly pottery class and had our first session on Thursday, and that was actually a great exercise in mindfulness because, again, I was so crap at it that it required my full attention, leaving me no brain space for worrying or planning my tasks for the following week.

This is also quite a personal thing, though, and I know that what works for me won’t work for everyone, so it might be a case of trying a few different things to find what does it for you. Maybe it’s going to be a sweaty workout (if you have an exercise bike, YouTube has some great spin tutorials that can be good – while yoga leaves me too much thinking space, anything that has me sweating profusely seems to keep my mind on the task at hand) or baking or doing Sudoku or just a good old-fashioned phone call with a friend.

I also highly recommend a regular massage habit – when I stopped going to therapy, I started going for a massage every six weeks or so, hoping that would give me a similarly relaxed feeling, and it’s one of my favourite things to do now (surprise, surprise), and much cheaper than weekly therapy. (Although I am in the process of finding a new therapist so… the massage habit might end up being curbed.)

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I’m about to be a first-time mum. Any advice or tips? 

Honestly, the temptation to craft this response by telling you all of the things I did wrong is strong, which makes me think that the most important thing you’ll do over the next year is to give yourself grace.

Seriously. There are so many moments ahead where you will think you’ve totally and utterly fucked up – mine include one particularly terrible moment where I left the door open and Atlas, who had just learned to crawl, rolled all the way down the stairs – and the guilt and shame you’ll feel as a result will seriously hinder your ability to sleep, breathe and parent effectively.

Try not to have too many fixed ideas about any of it, from how you want the birth to go to what kind of toys you want your baby to play with or what kind of books you want to read to them. They are unpredictable little humans, above all else, and as such they’ll end up dictating a lot of it while you’re just along for the ride (and, ideally, to provide a soft landing for them).

I was going to say to ask for help, but I’d actually say: demand help. If you have friends or relatives over, ask them to do things that will make your life easier, like put on a load of washing or hold the baby while you have a shower or help you tighten the car seat. (On which note, as often as you possibly can, outsource any and every car seat related activity you need to do. The amount of times I’ve cried trying to get that seat in or out of the car…)

However much stuff you think you need, you don’t. By all means, spoil your baby – and yourself – if that will make you happy, but do not allow yourself any stress whatsoever when it comes to bassinets and playards and play mats and outfits and baby hairbrushes… because, honestly, you could get by with a few soft, cosy blankets; a handful of soft, cosy babygros; and a lot of burp cloths. (Obviously, if you plan to bottle feed, you’ll also need bottles and sterilising equipment and formula and all that good jazz.)

People were killed telling me to sleep when the baby slept, but that always felt like a waste, because when the baby slept was the only time I got to make tea or coffee for myself, stand and stare aimlessly out the window, have a bath or shower, clip my toenails, wash my hair… you get the gist. Nap when there’s someone else there to hold the baby, is my mantra.

And just… don’t let anyone make you feel like you’re doing it wrong. If your baby ends up only falling asleep in your arms, so be it – this is a season of time, and it’ll be over before you know it. Oh, and mute anyone and everyone on social media whose babies seem to be “better” babies than yours. People with babies who sleep through the night, people with babies who never get gassy, people with babies who sleep in their bassinets from day one… mute, mute, mute. It’ll just make you feel bad and, like I said, you’ll get enough of that.

I’m married 13 years and our financial situation has hugely changed. Is it insulting to my partner if I want to upgrade my engagement ring, for example resetting and upgrading two stones… I don’t think he would mind, but is it rude? 

This, I think, is going to depend on a variety of factors. If, for example, the ring is a family heirloom that was given to your husband to give to you, the idea of resetting it might not sit well with him, or with the extended family – in which case I would maybe suggest doing something like getting a different ring to serve as an engagement ring, and switching that to another finger, or adding an eternity ring.

Similarly, if it’s a ring that he agonised over choosing for you and was really proud of the design he ultimately went with, I can imagine that might be slightly upsetting for him to hear that you want to change it (as he may think that you weren’t happy with it all along).

In both of these cases, though, the best course of action would be to talk to him – I did ask Brandin what he would think, and he said that it’s not something that would upset him at all, but he did point out that one of his friends proposed using his grandmother’s ring, and he can’t imagine that his friend would like the idea of making changes to that particular ring.

Because I’m fancy, though, I have a friend who is a jeweller by trade so I decided to ask her for her …

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The end of any year brings with it – along with an incredibly strong impulse to declutter – an urge to reflect on what’s happened that year, and with that, to sit in judgment of anything I’ve done (and, more often, failed to do).

There’s a lot of popular rhetoric about the concept of looking back, arguing both for and against it. On the one hand, we get to learn from our past missteps; on the other, we can often get bogged down in the mire of worrying about things we can’t change any more.

My sister is a big proponent of looking forward, rather than back. Historically, I’ve always argued that there’s value in analysing and “processing”, whatever the hell that means, situations that have been in some way significant to us.

After the last argument we had about this, I appealed – on Instagram, of course, where I make all of my appeals – for feedback from professionals (therapists, psychiatrists, psychologists): am I right, in that we need to delve into the past in order to inform the present, or is Beatrice right, in that there’s more value in being proactive and looking forward?

It turns out – for any of you who have been in, or are in, therapy, you will find this deeply predictable – that we’re both right, at least sometimes. Whatever value I might find in analysing my mistakes (or sulking over my failures, more like), is mine to find. For other people, looking over their shoulder just serves to trip them up and knock them off their current path.

I REALLY, REALLY WANTED TO BE RIGHT.

Anyway, I suppose what I’m trying to say is: don’t feel like the end of the year means you absolutely must look back on the year with a critical (or, worse, grateful eye). Feel free to look forward, instead. Or do both! It’s important, in life, to take what serves you, really, and leave the rest behind.

For my part, here are a few thoughts I’ve had about the year that was – thoughts that I hope will inform and influence and help me do better in the year that will be.

Writing a book wasn’t exactly what I thought it would be

I think this is one of those “big life events!” that just couldn’t possibly live up to the hype, no matter how “successful” (by what measurement?!) it was. I’d put it in the same category as getting engaged, getting married, and having a baby – all gorgeous, incredible, lovely, wanted, arguably life-changing moments, but not quite as perfect, best-days-of-my-life as I’d somehow thought they would be.

Having spent the guts of five years writing This is Not About You, any release that didn’t involve a full fireworks display, flash mob and crystal dome-style cash whirling around my head was bound to be, if not a disappointment, then just… less than.

Don’t get me wrong: I’ve been blown away by the feedback This is Not About You has received. It’s got 4.5 stars on Amazon, 4.4 on Goodreads and 5 on Barnes & Noble (from 3 reviews but that’s not the point).

I was thrilled and overwhelmed and incredibly shocked by the fact that it went straight to number one in the non-fiction charts.

I get messages every day from people who’ve just started, or finished, reading it, sharing their – very relatable and all-too-familiar – stories of dating and romance and breakups and romantic trauma.

But I just thought publishing a book – a bestseller! with great reviews! – would be more… life-changing than it has been. That feels slightly ridiculous to write down, but one thing I managed to hold on to in 2023 is honesty, so here we are.

Mental illness is not a straight line

I’m going to write about this in more detail, but 2023 has been really challenging for me, in terms of my mental health. I started the year feeling as though I’d got a good handle on things; I’d been managing my depression pretty well with medication, and had recently added an anti-anxiety drug to take, as needed, for the random periods of heightened anxiety I’d been feeling in the months after Atlas was born.

But this year has seen more mercurial shifts in my headspace than I’d ever experienced before, and I found them disorienting and frustrating and, at times, they caused me to feel hopeless in a way I hadn’t quite experienced before.

While, previously, my depression would manifest itself in periods – days, sometimes weeks – of low mood and anxiety, this year it happened in terms of hours. One morning, I’d be feeling fine, and later that afternoon I would, seemingly out of nowhere, feel as though I’d been wound up tightly, in an intense rage, entirely on edge and on the verge of screaming, or tears, or both.

It might last through the night and into the next day, or it might not. Nothing felt predictable, or even manageable, in a way it had felt previously.

And it has been dramatic. One day last week, I found myself sobbing on the floor of my kitchen, thinking that my family, my friends, my son, the world, would be better off without me in it; that all I am, is a strain on their resources; that no one should have to suffer through spending time with me, or hearing me moan about my dumb, dumb brain.

The worst thing is, these feelings all seem completely rational in the moment – as though I’ve just had an incredibly smart revelation. It’s only when the dust settles, and I’m coming out of that wave of… I don’t know what to call it, honestly. Anxiety? Nerves? Horror? It’s only when I’m out that I start to think, wow, I really lost the plot yesterday, didn’t I?

I think what I’m trying to say is: I need to find a new therapist, and possibly start doing some actual real, tangible, measurable, hard work on myself. And I was really hoping I was done with all that. I guess we’re never quite done.

The one silver lining is that, when I’m feeling truly overwhelmed with rage, I find cleaning quite therapeutic. My clothes have never been more neatly folded in my life.

Buying things no longer makes me happy

I’ve always had a dirty little consumerist soul, and ever since I discovered, at the age of around 14, the thrill of coming home from town with bags of clothes, I’ve found that few things soothe me more than buying something new.

It didn’t even really have to be for myself. At various times, I’ve tried to soothe a bad mood by buying: gifts for people (sometimes for birthdays, but often for no reason); clothes for the boys; plants; cushions; kitchen appliances; subscriptions; YMCA memberships… you name it, I’ve reached for it in a time when I felt like I needed to be cheered up.

(I’m trying not to make this a shame- or guilt-themed post, but I do realise that this is a truly terrible admission to make, when it comes to the carbon emissions and the state of the world’s landfill and probably myriad other reasons… I realise all of this, and yet I have been an avid shopper for most of my life. I’m nothing if not imperfect.)

This year, though, I finally started to feel… nothing, really, after an online splurge or trip to the “mall” (I cannot say the word “mall” without putting on my best Valley girl accent, and I’m sure that’s very annoying, so, sorry to anyone who has to listen to me).

No matter how cute the toddler outfit, how gorgeous the dress, how perfect the plant… I’ve felt nothing.

This could, obviously, be related to my unpredictable mood, but it might also be a sign of something greater. Maturity?! Surely not. Maybe my desires are just shifting somewhat, and I’ll need to find my comfort elsewhere. (I do keep meaning to get back to my knitting, so maybe 2024 will see me enter my crafting era.)

Gratitude isn’t all sunshine, rainbows and latte art

My sister bought me a gratitude journal and I will admit, I was… puzzled. Me? A gratitude journal? Have we met?

Still, I supposed it fit with her persistence in buying me writing-themed books, notepads and pla…

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As I wrote these pieces – vignettes, I suppose, from a life thus far – down, I felt embarrassed by how much power I have allowed men (so many men) to hold over me. I envy Jennifer Connelly’s Sarah her moment of rebellion. I long to echo her words: “You have no power over me.”

I might add this to my (growing) list of things to discuss with a future therapist, but for now I thought I’d share them with you. Because why? I don’t know. I think there is a sort of kinship in recounting the ways people’s words have hurt us, even if they didn’t mean them to, or if they barely remember what they said, anyway.

Sticks and stones? Those bruises heal. But words, they leave an imprint.

#1 Can’t dance? Don’t dance

In the very early ‘oughts, I started going to hip hop dance class on Aungier Street with my cousin Roseanne and, occasionally, one or other of my friends who fancied trying it out.

Run by a woman named Jane Shortall, the classes took place in an enormous sports hall within the Aungier Street YMCA. In each one-hour period, we would learn the choreography to a portion of a specific song, led by Jane, standing on a stage with one, sometimes two, assistant dancers.

Towards the end of the class, we would split into two groups and turn towards the middle, taking turns to “perform” for the other group. There was a dance-off vibe, but any competition was friendly. We were as likely to cheer on the other side as we were to feel any sense of superiority or satisfaction when we saw someone trip over their feet, forget the move halfway through.

That the one song I can remember performing to, in that time, is S Club 7’s Don’t Stop Movin’ speaks to how loosely we were interpreting the word “hip hop”, but I loved it. There is something so beautiful, so freeing, about moving your body to loud music, especially when that’s in communion with other people – and, a crucial aspect for me, takes place in a space entirely devoid of mirrors.

I understand the utility of a mirror in a dance setting, as I do in a weight lifting setting. It helps to see exactly what your body’s doing, where exactly you’re going wrong in one move or another. But when the experience of looking at your body is uncomfortable, alien or filled with shame, as it is for many of us, the mirror itself can serve, I find, to take us out of the moment, a reminder of the discomfort we usually feel towards, and as a result of, it.

In any case, my time under Jane Shortall’s tutelage was sporadic, at best. At no point would I have been considered “intermediate” or, even that consolation prize of “advanced beginner”. And I didn’t consider myself a great dancer. Maybe an “okay” dancer, “good”, at a stretch. But it somehow didn’t matter: I wasn’t dancing for any reason other than to dance, to spend an hour moving and sweating and celebrating movement itself.

The night I met my ex, Scott (not his real name), I was performing a dance routine, miming the act of removing a glove with my teeth, a move I had learned at the burlesque class I’d attended in the Liffey Trust Studios on Sheriff Street with my friends Clare and Emma.

There, we were not afforded the dignity of a blank wall to stare at, instead charged with looking directly into our own eyes as we shimmied and shook, ran our feather boas down our arms, reached a pointed finger towards a toe (resplendent in a heeled shoe, I barely remember the version of myself who was able for this), kicked a heel up behind us.

I did not, needless to say, feel exceptionally comfortable, or competent, at burlesque.

But that night, something came over us, as if we were musical performers of old, a kind of adorable, coquettish double act. When my ex and his friend came over to ask what we were doing, I was convinced that their tone was one of awe and incredulity. We had lured them in with our invisible gloves, those invisible fingers, gently grasped between our teeth.

There are many ways to ask someone what they are doing. I imagine it written down, as in a play. [seductively]: “What are you doing?” [curiously} “What are you doing?” [accusingly]: “What are you doing?” [mockingly] “What are you doing?”

I guess I’ll never know how he meant it, but it doesn’t seem important now. We were in conversation, then, and from being in conversation we were soon in bed and, later, in love.

It wasn’t long after this meeting that I danced in front of Scott for, I guess, the second time, although this one was in earnest, in a bar with a dance floor, no invisible gloves to be (not) seen. I dragged him with me and began to move, not in any specific or particular way that I remember, just in a way that felt good. He balked. [laughingly] “What are you doing?”

There is a very specific kind of shame that comes with having someone point out, quite calmly, as if they thought you knew, that you are bad at something you enjoy or, worse, that you look stupid doing it.

He was the type of person who did not enjoy looking stupid in front of other people, seeking to avoid that eventuality at all costs, which made his laughing at me all the more galling. He was embarrassed, second-hand, for me, for this false impression I had of myself as someone who could (who should) dance.

He wasn’t doing it to hurt me. I think, in that moment, he truly thought that I knew how bad a dancer I was, and that I simply didn’t care, an attitude he might even have admired, had he thought long enough about it.

But I did care, very much, and I suddenly felt as though a spell had broken, as if he was that mirror (the one I didn’t want to dance in front of), reminding me of how ungainly, how uncooperative and shameful my body was. I don’t think I’ve really danced – and I mean danced, thrown my hands in the air and let my body move and allowed myself to enjoy the sensation – since.

As I write this down, it seems painfully sad to me that someone else’s self-consciousness did so much to stymie what little joy I had once found in my physical body, but it’s a hole I can’t seem to shore up. The mirrors have come out and they follow me around now and I don’t know if I’ll ever get to dance like that again.

#2: “Shame about the face.”

When I was around 13 years old, I was obsessed with a boy named Barry Eustace, who was in the year above me in secondary school. I don’t remember ever actually talking to Barry – as in, what we talked about, or why – but I do remember calling him on the landline in my parents’ house, asking his mum if I could speak to him.

We kissed one night at a community disco, held in the same hall where, a year previously, I had cried hot, embarrassed tears when it was discovered that I had stolen a small tub of glittery play dough from the large basket of Santa gifts left behind after the Christmas bazaar.

Santa had long since left the building – he would arrive on a helicopter each year, and we would all stand on the tarmacadam a safe distance away, waving into the gale force wind whipped up by the helicopter propellor blades – and I figured that the toys that had been left behind were fair game.

I was wrong, of course, and someone else’s mother caught us red-handed, a small group of 11- and 12-year-olds, pockets full of someone else’s Christmas gifts. She marched me over to my mother, shouting loudly at and about me as I wept.

Now, I can’t ever imagine shouting at someone else’s child – maybe my sister’s, now that I think about it, but definitely not some other woman’s child, at a public school event. I guess times have changed.

Anyway, the hall was decked out differently the night of the disco – or, at least, the lights were dim enough that we didn’t notice the decoration, or lack thereof.

I sent a friend to ask Barry if he’d “meet” me, or maybe I said “shift”; at some point in my youth, one fell out of favour, and the other in, but I can’t remember when, or in which order.

He must have said yes, because we ended up kissing. I straddled his lap on one of the seats lined up around the edges of the hall…

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