Some people meditate. I’ve got a robot hoover with a hedgehog sticker. It does more for my sanity than yoga ever could.
For the past six months, our Dreame L40 Ultra – affectionately (and usually sarcastically) called Moron, has been quietly holding my mental health together. It’s not just about the clean floors, though they are a thing of beauty. It’s about the fleeting illusion of order in a house otherwise ruled by teenage lads and two Weimaraners with deeply inflated egos.
Oh, morning. That sacred, hallowed time before the world, and indeed, before the humans of the house decide to collectively assault my ears. In our humble abode, there’s a hard and fast rule, carved into the very stone of our hearth: Thou Shalt Not Disturb Connie Before 7 AM. Unless, of course, the house is on fire or a tidal wave has just swept through the garden. These are, as you can imagine, rare occurrences.
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School meetings are usually dull. Today, not so much.
One of the kids I care for is changing schools tomorrow, and after a horrendous few weeks of paperwork, a new chapter is finally beginning.
During a meeting today, the professionals from school kept calling me “mum.” Repeatedly. Almost like they were daring him to correct them. Aaaand… He didn’t – not once.
Instead, he tried not to laugh, giving me side glances with a knowing twinkle in his eye that said, “You see what just happened?” So I quietly joined in, doing my best to keep a straight face.
Later, I mentioned that R would be picking him up for therapy. The school asked, “Who’s R?” and without thinking, I shot back, “His brother.” That was it – instant coughing fit as he tried to smother his laughter. By the time we got home, the car had turned into a comedy sketch, with him chanting “mum, mum, mum” on repeat like the seagulls in Finding Nemo squawking “mine.” I was howling.
I leave it to him to decide what to call me. After a rocky few months, he’s settled on “Auntie” to most of his friends, and if he chooses, “Mum” at school. It’s his choice, his life, and I trust him to decide how he wants me to be known in public.
I’m not here to replace anyone from my foster kids’ lives before me. But I will mother them in every sense that counts: fiercely protecting them, fighting for them, and loving them unconditionally. They need patience, care, acceptance, and laughter – I will give them all of that, every single day.
And I’m lucky to have my birth kids along for the ride, especially when R starts conspiring – you just know it’s going to get interesting.
At least I didn’t get called Gran.
Anyway.
You know what I’d like people to take away from this rambling?
Professionals, friends, anyone involved: respect the voice of the kids in care. Let them tell you what they need. Let them guide you on what matters most.
Because, in the end, it’s not about what I’m called – it’s about them feeling seen, safe, and loved.
I have worked from home for years before Covid hit.
Work and home life blurring boundaries can be very difficult without hard rules in place to separate them. My biggest issue now is the relentless lockdowns bringing family members into the home. Juggling work in a house when there are two teenagers doing school and University work is a challenge in itself, especially as I am an unsociable creature who is too used to an empty house in the daytime. Checking in on the youngest as he tries his best to avoid school work – the eldest constantly teasing his brother so there is the unexpected roar of lost tempers… It’s enough for me to turn into Smaug at least three times every day.
Having said that, this is how I do it.
Continue readingA weary mother returned from the store
lugging groceries through the kitchen door
Awaiting her arrival was her eight year old son
Anxious to relate what his younger brother had done.
The Art of Stupidity 