I woke up New Year’s Day, shivering in a tent for two on the cold ground near the herb garden on my friend’s farm. On account of my clumsily spilling an entire bottle of red wine the night before, I had soaked myself in the good stuff and was paying dearly as I slid my frozen, wine-stained clothing back on in the early hours. My tent companion slipped away to converse with the other outdoor sleepers, the chickens nearby, as I hastily packed up the tent. I scurried upstairs to the farmhouse, content to find proper breakfast, coffee and a hot shower awaiting me.
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Alone /
As any mother of small children will tell you, there’s never much time to be alone. And regardless of your profession or work status, mothering is a full-time position. I’d be lying if I said it wasn’t overwhelming. Some days it’s overwhelmingly full of big joy and laughter and other days it looks more like me barely keeping it all together, summoning all the patience I can manage to make it work.
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