makar [ˈmækər]
n (Literature / Poetry) Scot a creative artist, esp a poet
[a Scot variant of maker]

Monday, March 10, 2014




It's nearly four years since I started writing this blog. At the time, I was trying to find a way of writing that suited my new way of living. I was completely preoccupied with little people and our domestic world. I was feeling a bit desperate and I wanted to find a way of celebrating our days and being positive about the position I had found myself in. I once thought being a housewife was the worst possible fate for a woman but the blogs I'd discovered seemed to portray an altogether more appealing image, and one I was very attracted to. Here's what I wrote:

My recent thirtieth birthday prompted me to consider how different my life is from the one I once imagined I’d have. I thought I’d be a successful writer or artist, consumed by work, living somewhere fast-paced and urban, possibly married, but without kids. Babies were something you did after 35; then I’d get a nanny, so I could carry smoothly on with my brilliant career. Well, things haven’t exactly panned out like that! The girl who was once so angry and determined, who saw everything in black and white, seems to have mellowed into something far softer and far less serious. A mother of two, the bank lists my occupation as “homemaker”. I have one unpublished novel to my name and another simmering on the back-burner. I still wear a lot of black, but now it is covered in baby sick, mashed banana, and all manner of other best left unidentified substances. I don’t drink; I don’t smoke. My only vice is coffee, which I’ve limited to two a day (due to breastfeeding), but refuse to give up. I pad around barefoot in my 1950s cottage and more often than not, I feel like a 1950s housewife, cooking, cleaning and caring for the babies. And for the most part, I’m surprisingly happy doing this!

The down side to all this domestic bliss is that it’s near impossible to switch to writer-mode in the evening. When you’ve spent the day dealing with the relentless needs and demands of small children, your mind is not free to wander, but cemented down in the reality of moment-to-moment existence. How do you slip into the world of ideas when you have been so consumed by the thousand little things that occupy each day?

But why fight it? Why not just embrace all that is wonderful about being a mother at home? I am told, time-and-time again, that it will all be over before I know it and to make the most of these years because one day I will wish that I could do it all again.

So this is my blog; my way of sharing all the wonderful little things that make up our days. Here you’ll find recipes, photographs, a few hastily constructed sentences, maybe even paragraphs, the odd craft project, and many book recommendations. “Just enjoy it!” is my new mantra, so I hope you do…


As I've told people about my blog and they've started reading what I post, I've felt, at times, self-conscious about what I write. I don't want to offend people; I don't want them to think that I might be writing about them. I have no desire to hurt anyone, or exert power over them. I just want this place to be true. I have no objective with this blog, other than to use it as a means of expression, a place to vent what's in my head, and to communicate with others. Sometimes, I think I might just give it up, but I like blogging. I like the immediacy. Writing novels is a lonely slog through many, many drafts. Hitting the "Publish" button on a post provides a brilliant counterbalance to all that wading through page after page of words. Yep, I might keep doing it for a little while yet.

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