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Most evenings, around 6pm, my child means one thing to me: MESS.
Pure, unadulterated mess. Crayons in the carpet, milk on the sofa, books and cushions and dried rice and sticky ketchup strewn around the house and smeared up walls. This is the evidence I live with a small person. The evidence I am a mum.
But that mess - the stuff that makes me want to tear my hair out at the end of a long day - is what keeps me going. Continue reading »