I’m baaaackkk!!
And oh my doodle (if you don’t want to hear toddlers f-ing and blinding, this is the flip side. Everything has its price), what a long time it’s been. This is the start of a new leaf, turned, more regular (as in, any) posts, and a whole new phase of Countrified Writerly Mumming.
Report One: Writerly Mumming
It certainly seems to have taken off. Right now it’s 6:20am, and my two earliest risers, Threebs (he’s 2, and the “Threebs” still comes from Beautiful Baby Boy) and Quarta (our fourth child, ironically now 5) are sitting on the sofas looking at books, cats draped alongside.
(In the time it took to write that, Threebs finished his board book of fingertrails and is now throwing slippers at me. But the moment happened – two settled kids and me peacefully blogging – and I’m clinging to it, airborne slippers or no.)
Aaanyway, they all love books, huzzah, Mum-win. No one tells you when they’re hyping literate kids that this is the start of a whole slippery slope of confiscating lightbulbs, frantically (then grumpily, then stoically) trying to save soggy books that the older ones left on the bathroom floor and the toddler sunk while playing cannonball in the bath, and having books pile up in every. Conceivable. Space. Prima and Secondus seem to shed books like hair. It’s baffling. And don’t even get me started on arming toddlers with board books. Quickest way to a black eye, honestly.
Report Two: Mummily Writing
I have soldiered (boogied? doggedly danced?) on with writing and nudging the results into agents’ inboxes. I have carved out time, then dealt with the consequences (poo on the driveway being one of my least faves. Far worse than flooded bathroom). I have learnt stuff, improved stuff, and essentially in terms of traditional publishing, got nothing more than some goodwill and nice comments to show for it. Turns out to “sell” a book to an agent, you also have to be Marketing Mum, which I’m not sure is in my toolkit. Nevertheless, onward!
Current book count: 2 unpublished, still being submitted (with dwindling hope)
Report Three: Country Mumming
I confess, while we still live in our village-edge country vibes home (at least from the outside. The inside is more like an art installation visualising “The Mess We Live In” or possibly “Silent Cries of Chaos”.
I swear last weekend the kitchen felt like someone had carefully placed a cross-section of human-made items across every surface (counters, tables, chairs, floor, even hob) to get an even balance of chaos), the countrying has seriously downgraded. Gone are the chickens, happily passed on while living rather than into the long dark night. There are only so many times you can wake up at 2am and rush to the window in case the fox is back. Gone are Prima’s beloved rabbits, in The Great Tragedy of 2025. Gone are the Shetland ponies (thank the good Lord. One of them died in its new home with its lovely new herd and doting new horse-mummy, and while I’m not unmoved, I also cannot express the depths of my gratitude to not have to deal with a dead horse). I resolved no more hoofed beasts, and no more prey animals. I’ve gone back to my North London childhood and we are now only allowed the following: cats. Boom.
Current cat count: 6. We had to get a consolation kitten for Prima after the unmentionable rabbit tragedy. And clearly the kitten needed a kitten buddy.
Which segues nicely into my final update…
Current kid count: 5 on the outside, and around 2 months until a wriggly Child #6 will be joining us. 🥳
So at least the kid count will match the cat count again. Everyone loves a balance.
Country Mum Writes 