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Little legs

“Mummy I get pants for meeeeee”.

Long little legs go running down the hall, with the pitter patter of new red leather shoes beating out the allegretto of a single-focused mission.

I gaze in wonder at the space before my eyes where she passed by with her announcement. Those little legs. Strong and certain, holding her to the earth; lifting her to the sky, where she was once a star.

A star, waiting for just the right time to take up the long-extended invitation to come and be loved by us.

And here she is, full of life, full of words. Full of erroneous requests at 4:00 am.

And as she is full, so does she fill me.

With a love so heart-expanding that I too, grow taller. With a joy so face-opening that my smile lines stretch further. With a giddying glow so all-encompassing that I’m sitting here in the kitchen, awe-struck.

That those little legs are the result of an orgasm.

Mind. Blown.

International Women’s Day

Grateful this

International Women’s Day

For my:

💜right to vote

💚reproductive freedom

💜access to education

💚freedom to marry who I choose, and to not marry at all

💜property rights

💚freedom to work

💜ability to gather with other women

💚daughters being raised in a time when they know their voices are powerful

💜independence

💚freedom to dress as I choose

💜feminist allies of all genders

💚fire in my belly

💜certainty that we will continue to be part of more and more positive change until systems operate from a basis of true equality for all people all over the world

💚ultimate mother, our planet Earth

💜great fortune at living in a time when so much hard work has already been done to make it possible for me to list all these things safely

💚privilege, and my awareness that I can use it to bust oppression

Attend your local IWD Rally! Gather in solidarity to celebrate and agitate!

On striving

“Good better best, never let it rest, until your good is better, and your better best”.

Urgh. I wasn’t in scouts or whatever place this ditty comes from. But I was in a dysfunctional family with a judgy single mum who used to say this, and busted her nut to put me through dance training.

Ballet brain.

That conditioning instilled from early childhood that there is always more trying to be done.

So I’m 40. I’m raising a teen and a toddler. The teen is home schooling.

I’ve been admired, adored, adulated, and very bloody good in every job I’ve ever worked.

And yet, amongst all the life work I’m already doing, I’m trying to complete a Masters degree.

Why?

It’s hard work. It’s indoor, screen based work, on days where I put the little one into care, when the days outside beckon me into them, with garden chores, bird conferences, and subtle shifts in the breeze, all waiting to shower me with the joy of being alive.

But here I sit, generating feelings of inadequacy, panic, fatigue…

for what?

I am already great. I believe this.

I am already contributing.

I am already employable.

I am already tired.

I am already tired.

I have worked hard enough for long enough.

This one does not spark joy today.