Once upon a time there was a girl. After a relatively normal childhood, and relatively abnormal teenage-hood and a relatively INSANE few years at uni (I use the term ‘at uni’ loosely – I was THERE, but usually under the influence) I met a boy, had a few babies (three to be exact – Miss E1, Mr L and Mr T – and a step kid – Miss E2) got myself a 5 year career plan (who the hell does that?) and settled myself into a small seaside community. We have a pony that lives half a block down the road that Miss E1 is learning to ride at Pony Club, a school around the corner that she can walk to and a Playcentre right next to that for the boys (and me) to hang out with some of the other townsfolk. I get to drink a whole coffee there. While its still hot. Without having to reheat it. I hold office bearing positions at both there and the Pony Club. I study. I sew things and make cakes for a bit of money on the side. Im not sure when it happened, but I became a grown up and its not all it cracked up to be. In short Im busy. And tired. So, so tired.
And I am rapidly approaching 30.
Why did no one warn me how much hard work this would be?