Some Words and a Wee Catch up | March 2024

The magic of birthdays and how much my son earns brushing my hair

It was my birthday. And I need you to know I will never be the person who declares birthdays are just like any other day (hi, dad!). Nor will I ever be the person claiming they are just another meaningless marketing sham (hi, husband!). I truly, wholly, hand-on-my-heart believe in the magic of birthdays.

But on this birthday, it was like any other day. 

Yes, there were pastel-coloured balloons and thoughtfully generous gifts, quirky cards and kind words. There were squeals and surprises and my favourite thai food. There was lingering over brunch and hand-holding in the park, cake and conversation and kisses in the rain.

But there was also the morning scramble to get everyone ready and a feverish husband putting on a brave face. There were long-lost spelling books and equally lost patience, refused naps and diarrhoea and chesty coughs. There were defiant refusals to follow instructions and dinner time tantrums and some next-level huffing, despite the special food sitting in front of us. There was a last-minute cake thrown together at 5 pm by yours truly, with a teething baby on my hip and a cheap Amazon mixer refusing to do its one job.

There were multiple naked boys and edible chocolate gifts gone missing and smashed eggs splattered across a shopping bag. There were deadlines unmet and courses unattended and apology emails galore. There was, would you believe it, a positive covid test (sorry, March 2020 called and asked for it’s trauma back?!) There were dishes on every kitchen surface and an overflowing bath leaking through the roof and a new jumpsuit covered in snotty snail trails. There was an afternoon coffee gone cold and new fiction books left unopened and a collapsed birthday banner strewn across the floor.

It was truly like any other day over here.

But I think that’s why I believe in the magic of birthdays. I believe in celebrating a day of this beautiful and complex life in technicolour. Sure, you didn’t get a choice in being born and you didn’t do anything brave or impressive on your date of birth. But I believe you’ve sure as heck been brave every day since. I believe you wake up every morning and you summon the courage to live another day in this hair-raising world and I believe in saying I’m glad you’re here—I’m glad you're in the world and in my world. I’m glad you’re holding on.

It was like any other day. But where the birthday banner has fallen, the happy banner remains—and I think that’s one I can leave up for a few more days to come.

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Life Lately, or a list of very ordinary delights that are keeping me sane—salvaged from my notes app:

For the feeling of a fluffy blanket pulled down over uncovered toes. For the entrepreneurial ten-year-old, brushing his mother’s hair every night and charging her 50p each time. For the feeling of freshly untangled hair and freshly empty pockets—for a good cause. For the sneaky opportunity to pull the car over and write with a drive-thru coffee. And for a husband who comes to the rescue when said car won’t start up again. Oh, and for the toddler who tags along wearing a high-vis vest for the occasion. 

For the kind of Big YOLO Energy™️ that leads to a nose piercing and an Aperol Spritz at midday on a grey Saturday in February¹. For Taylor Swift lyrics, screamed at the top of your lungs in an effort to get hyped for the bedtime battle. For Taylor Swift and Travis Kelce content. For the perfect funky birthday jumper, discovered and gifted by a friend—£160 down to £30. For whippy ice cream on a Monday.

For the almost-three-year-old who the Lord commissions to be extra sweet on the days when things are extra sucky. For a pilgrimage to TK Maxx and air fryer French toast. For the combat crawl of a ninja baby on a mission. For cinnamon buns pronounced as simminnimim bums. For yoto players and Julia Donaldson and Blippi, God bless his energy². For a husband who thinks orange juice heals all ailments.

And for doctors who do something, anything at all.

For the Libby app, even in its very limited options—especially at 11 pm and 2.30 am. For the boy who stays home from youth club on a Friday night to write a story for Mother’s Day. For those first two teeth, making babies look like cartoons. For the comfort of rolling into the indent of your husband on his side of the bed—an imperfect fit but perfect for feeling held, much like marriage itself. 

For all of these things, amen.

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Words I can’t stop thinking about:

"It’s so hard sometimes to Be Here. It can feel like Over There is much more interesting, and plus, those Over There people don’t have any problems! I don’t want to miss it, though. I don’t want to miss the divine presence that is only ever found right where I am.” from ‘Being Here’ by Megan Hogg.

This poem by Michelle Windsor. That last stanza—oof.

"The mice started to taunt me with their audacity… One night, while I sat quietly in the living room, I watched one run back and forth across the kitchen floor as though he owned the place. The next night, two came out at once, briefly, as though they had a scheduled meeting near the piano. I honestly wouldn’t have been surprised to see one fly out from underneath the refrigerator on a tiny, toy motorcycle.” Only Molly Flinkman can tell a story about mice, make it hilariously charming AND make me feel seen in my marriage. Shout out to the husbands who are the stability to our spiralling.

“Name and birthdate. Have you ever realized that everyone in that waiting room behind us has a story behind them, trailing like dusty clouds in their wake? How every last one of us was once held inside another’s flesh and blood, pushed wailing or pulled forth from a wound into a waiting world, given a name and the start of a story?” from ‘Name-And-Birthdate, Please’ by Laura Kelly Fanucci. I also deeply appreciate Laura’s dark humour as she simultaneously writes stunning words and kicks cancer’s butt. What is it they say—get a girl who can do both?

Lastly, poetry written by 9-year-olds is officially my favourite genre of poetry.

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Stuff I can’t stop yakking about:

This is the aforementioned birthday jumpsuit from Beyond Nine. It’s like wearing a hug while still feeling semi-cute. Their stuff is extremely pricey but usually I buy one piece a year, pay it off in instalments, and wear it every day. An investment. 10/10 recommend the Poppy and Sahara for Summer too. But we live in an eternal winter so I’ll be wearing this one long into April or May. I could probably write a dissertation on Beyond Nine sizes and styles at this point of motherhood, so feel free to discuss with me anytime!

In our house, we call this Reb’s Boujie Tea. You’re welcome.

I’m a million years late to the party, as always, but The Handmaids Tale has such a stronghold on me right now. I know it’s brutal. And I know it’s not for everyone, but if it’s your dystopian cup of tea then please message me so I can send you all of my niche Handmaids Tale memes. I think the series is even better than the book.

The Bear was a work of art, albeit a stressful one.

One Day was a cosy wholesome watch in between.

I’ve made peace with the fact that I’m firmly in my audiobook/ebook era—in 2024 so far, I’ve read and held THREE books in the flesh, but listened to or read FOURTEEN on my phone. What can I say? I have a baby who won’t sleep without assistance from my body. I literally never have free hands. All of that is to say there’s a lot of Emily Henry and Taylor Jenkins Reid going on, but here are some other honourable mentions:

I didn’t want Tom Lake to end, especially when I got to the weird ending. You Could Make This Place Beautiful by Maggie Smith was heartbreaking and stunning. I’m already re-reading Demon Copperhead because I missed having the main character’s voice in my life. Currently in the middle of The School for Good Mothers and it is haunting, but I cannot look away. The Break Up Clause by Derry-born writer, Niamh Hargan, was the best romcom I’ve read in a while. I’m curious to know if others agree or if her Northern Irish voice just especially resonates with me. Oh, and How To Stay Married has become one of my all-time favourite books, ever. Please just read it. The Explosive Child by Ross Greene gets Bible status in neurodiversity circles so I was a little eye-rolly going in and I really don’t love the title, but honestly, this book was life-changing. I kind of want to hand it out to every parent and teacher I know but that’s a lot of people.

Daily life is still pretty gnarly and I’m mostly not on the ol’ socials in an effort to make my world as quiet as possible, but I can’t stop logging into Instagram to look at two things: this knitted frog and this series on saying goodbye to fashion rules and wearing what makes you feel happy 😍 Reels for the lols: boy mum decor and the story of my marriage and female friendship and Dublin Airport and this is my life.

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A wee heads up: I’ve been slowly transitioning my writing/subscribers from my blog over to Substack. You don’t have to do anything, I just wanted to explain why my online home decor might look a little different. The Substack app is fun but if that isn’t your kind of thing, don’t worry—you’ll continue to get my words in email form as always.

Substack forces you to give your newsletter a name—cue the identity crisis. Just Reb. is a little nod to my first blog, Maverick Mum. Writing saved me in those early years as a young single mum, and as different as life looks now, it’s been saving me a little ever since.

I hope to be more regular with these posts going forward, but I promise I won’t bombard you more than once or twice a month. These days most of my minimal margin time is swallowed up by the odd freelance job, but this is still my favourite place to wrestle my thoughts onto a page. Thank you for being here. I’m sending a virtual tight squeeze to every single person who lets me take up precious space in their inbox ❤️

1. When all of my friends were getting their noses pierced ten years ago, I was too scared of looking like a chavvy teen mum. Now I’m almost thirty and I just. Don’t. Care.
You best believe there’s an essay coming about this newfound freedom.

2. Did you know Blippi was in the Air Force before he was Blippi? I genuinely searched Google to find out what drama school he attended and it turns out he didn’t go to college. It’s never too late for a career change, folks.