Wool Goddess

One day when my sons are my age now, I hope they laugh when they remember some of the stupid, irrational things I’ve done. Because truth be told, I never claimed to be a perfect mum. What even is one?

I had my first son in my early twenties, handed this tiny little human to look after. I read every parenting book, bought every Mother & Baby magazine going, yet still made a mountain of mistakes.

Why? Because I’m human.

Looking back, there are so many moments I wish I’d handled differently, more calmly, more wisely, with the knowledge I have now.

But I can’t change the past.

I think about my own mum, how she raised us. She made mistakes too. And she was raised by a woman who also made mistakes. It goes back through generations. None of us had a manual, none of us had a picture perfect life to copy. We’re all just figuring it out as we go.

So I own it, my mistakes, my mum’s mistakes, and her mum’s mistakes. I don’t try to rewrite or sugar-coat the past. I don’t need my sons to paint me as some perfect saint of a mother. I’d rather they say, “Mum was a bit of a knobhead sometimes, but she loved us so much.”
Just like I can laugh and say this about my Mum.

Because we are the generation of women who stopped keeping everything “in house,” afraid of what other might say.

We speak our truth.

We admit we struggle.

We made mistakes.

We show we’re human.

Everyone loves to chant “mental health matters” and “be kind”… until they’re faced with a real human being battling tough times Then suddenly, all that compassion evaporates. Hypocrisy at its finest.

But here’s the truth I want my boys to remember: I wasn’t perfect, but I was real. And I loved them fiercely through it all.

Love & healing hugs