You can head over to the ‘About Cogito Ergo Mum’ page to discover what this blog is all about. If you want to know a little more about me personally, read on and then, if you fancy, pop across to like the Facebook page. Continue reading
There’s a little boy’s birthday in the house tomorrow. Actually, it’s today – it’s 4am here at the moment.
It’s not sugar crafting and gift wrapping that awoke me, with that un-pinnable downable anxiety that creeps in if you wake between 3 and 5. It’s something more. It’s the overwhelming burden of being a Mum. Pinterest is good for hacks on cake decorating and gift making: parenting existential birthday angst? Not so much. Continue reading
Me “Gosh. Ok. So, how do we decide if this is real or not I wonder?”
“I don’t know Mummy. And Mummy the other thing I think is that when I am asleep, the person who is dreaming me wakes up.”
I am proud.
I am a little afraid.
I am wondering why my parents forked out for my philosophy degree – the five year old pretty much has it nailed.
Half way through the six week holidays. So far so good. But what to do for the next 3 weeks?
Out of money, out of ideas, I thought I’d jot down those day trips that the boys still talk about fondly. Things that were so good, so epic, and so awesome that it would be a shame not to do them all over again.
I was expecting tales of bonfires, of sleeping outdoors, of trips to Peppa Pig world, of frolicking in the sea. After mining my kids’ treasure trove of all time favourite memories , what do they actually talk about constantly?
Here are the day trips that my kids would recommend you all try: Continue reading
Me: Please don’t throw that food on the floor.
The five year old: Why Mummy?
Me: Because if you do I shall cry. Continue reading
The naked rambler’s brother installed our staircase. Fact. He was fully clothed when he did it. Public nudity is not a family trait. Continue reading
The kids are watching some film or other on Netflix when I hear them sigh. When I investigate I see the circle on the screen spinning round and round. Inundated with info and struggling to find space or capacity or to hear itself above all the other techno babble, the computer is buffering.
“I’m bored” moans the 7 year old when faced with this momentary glitch in his passive entertainment. “Being bored” is a new phrase for him, and a thoroughly depressing one at that. I feel a pang of shame: how did I let this happen? Continue reading