Friday, 4 July 2014

My Blog Needs Defibrillation


I'm in the midst of trying to make it through the day without adding more white hairs to my alarming collection. Dan's had a ton of work commitments, LB still generally thinks sleep is for the weak, is growing and figuring out ways to open doors and escape our apartment, is destroying everything her toddler hands can access, applying mom's favourite lipsticks to her face and hair, and generally being a nearly two year old.

And me? How am I? Well, I accidentally wore my pajama t-shirt to get groceries today. So that sums me up.

Oh yeah! Welcome to my sexy, glamourous, rested, life.


But we hit Paris next week and I am so ready for a vacation.

Bring. It. On.

Chat soon!

Wednesday, 28 May 2014


It's a hashtag circulating on twitter, and it's an important one.

If you've been following along I have been doing an On Raising A Daughter series of blogposts. They're important to me because my daughter is going to be a woman one day, and I have concerns for her in how she will navigate a misogynistic society that doesn't admit it is one.

Because that's today's climate, and yesterday's, and it's not okay for anyone to think differently. Maybe in your little pocket of the enchanted forest you live in you don't see discrimination and violence towards women, but you can't ignore it isn't real. Just because you don't see it, doesn't mean it's not real.

It's real.

I am lucky. I'm so lucky because I have never been molested or raped. God I'm lucky. But that doesn't mean I haven't been in uncomfortable situations.  I have been sexually harassed by a slow-moving truck full of teen guys wolf whistling at me, asking me to turn around and show them my tits, then calling me a bitch and telling me I have a fat ass before speeding away. I guess I was supposed to be flattered they noticed me? That was on a Monday afternoon while I was walking on a very public river trail. I have been groped in bars, grabbed, been assumed to be public property just because I was a woman in a bar, then angrily called a tease when I told them to stop. I've 'accidentally' had my ass grabbed by a skeevy perv when standing in line at the bank machine.

I've been in a roomful of guys where they talked about my breasts like they weren't attached to me. A person.

I've been told to show more cleavage.

I've been told I'm ugly. By a stranger. Because I wouldn't kiss him.

Remember, I'm lucky.

I was in an emotionally abusive relationship for three years. How do you break-up with someone who makes you believe you are unlovable? Unwanted? How do you confess to people that you now believe that, too?

So you stay.

And stay.

And stay.

Until you're not even 1/10th the person you used to be.

He did that to me.

Remember, I'm lucky.

We're told that if we don't want the attention, we shouldn't dress like whores. I watched a reality t.v. show where a dad told his daughters that "men get ideas when too much skin is shown. It can be really hard on a man to have all those feelings churning inside him, so you girls need to be modest so you don't tempt men."

It's emphatically wrong that a woman should modify her wardrobe so a man doesn't have to modify his behaviour.

We are told that it's her fault for always dating losers. It's not the abusers fault, it's her fault for continuing to choose them.

 We blame the victim, because surely she played a role in bringing it on herself.

As teenagers, in our hormonal craze of wanting a boyfriend (perfectly normal) we learn to accept unacceptable male behaviour because isn't that attention better than no attention? We learned this from our sisters. And they learned it from theirs. Boys will be boys, don't forget. They can't help it.

Feminists are crazies.

We should ignore their entire message.

We shouldn't classify ourselves as feminists, despite being females. It's a dirty word and the men don't like it. So let's allow them to continue voting and passing laws on what we should be able to do with our bodies. They know best.

Let's not speak up when they dismiss a woman's competency because she's a woman; let's say nothing when a sexist joke makes you feel uncomfortable because Jesus H. lighten up, IT'S JUST A JOKE. It's your fault you don't find it funny.

You're the problem.

Women are told they can't do the same job as a man.

Women earn less.

All women are scared walking home alone, at night. Because what if...

#NotAllMen are like this, but #YesAllWomen should be passionate about this. And their husbands, and brothers, and fathers, too. Passionate about it for your daughters. Your sisters. Your mothers. Your sons.

I want better for my daughter.

Thursday, 22 May 2014

Lotions and Potions

You know how cigarette packages must have mandatory health warnings printed on them just to remind people, "Hey! Might not be a good idea! Why don't you go drink a green juice instead?!" Well, I'm starting to think babies should come with a similar warning. As in, every time you stop to admire someone's newborn there should be a little sign around its neck stating the following:

"Hey, just so you know my parents are going to be exhausted for the next five years! Hope they like feeling sluggish and fuzzy-headed, because neither caffeine nor sleep is going to cure this kind of tired! And I'm so freaking cute I'm playing mind games with them as they dance between remembering those days when they were rested and functional, but feeling conflicted and torn because I wasn't there. HAHAHAHA. Suckers."

Hey Ma, I'm just chilling against this wall right now, wearing my wooden bead necklace you bought me so I'd stop breaking your necklaces. I've got my doll and my ball. Life is sweet, and what? Who? Me? I'm not that much trou.....

MEOW! I'm outta here mom, just saw a cat. Don't even try to catch me.

Oh my lord Internet, she is so stinkin' cute. SO CUTE. It takes all my effort not to photo-bomb Facebook and random strangers with the hundreds of pictures I take of her. I just love her to a million little bits, but Lord, she makes me tired.


I said to Dan a couple of weeks ago that it looks like Ma Ingalls just took my face and ran it up and down a scrub board. That's how perma-tired I always look. The fact I don't go to bed until 11:30 probably isn't helping matters...but WHATEVER. 

Night owls unite! For Life!

Recently I was in The Body Shop to get some of my Shea body butter, and I saw these two products and thought I'd give them a try to perk up my skin.

Cleansing Oil and Vitamin E serum

In addition to being tired, my skin is so dehydrated and dry. This is a massive change for me, since you used to be able to oil griddle pans with my acne riddled complexion. But not anymore. Now my skin is Dryee McDryerson.

These are really nice. The cleansing oil doesn't leave me skin oily at all, but it does add some hydration. It's recommended for all skin types, in case anyone with oily skin is interested, and the Vitamin E serum has just given me a concentrated hit of moisture, which I then follow-up with my regular moisturiser. After a couple of weeks of using these every night they have managed to even bring back a smidge of glow to my otherwise dimly-lit face. 

The grooves under my eyes that look like tire tracks are another matter. One that an earlier bedtime might solve, but then how am I supposed to stare for hours at pictures of my baby girl if I'm sleeping?



Wednesday, 14 May 2014

Beautiful Things

It's storming outside.

Downpour, thunder, lightening, the whole works. I do love a good storm...except when we're on week three of stormy weather. Yes, it's unofficially Switzerland's monsoon season. Err, minus the monsoons.

My dad called me last week to say he was golfing with a European fellow, and when finding out Dan and I were in Switzerland, the man commented: "Ah Switzerland, beautiful country. Crappy weather." Yes, that about sums it up.

So instead of feeling droll about the weather, I thought I'd post a few beautiful things that are acting as my sunshine these days.

The first is that we have booked a Paris trip for the beginning of July. Oh yes! God I love Paris. Every cliche exists for a reason and this is my fourth time going; I can hardly wait to bite into my flaky, daily breakfast, pain au chocolat, and picnic under the Eiffel Tower, take LB to the Versailles gardens (we're skipping the actual Palace this time, because lord there is only so many times a person can be interested in the Hall of Mirrors), and avoid any and all attractions pertaining to Napoleon. Because, ugh, no Dan I don't care about that short little dude who needed to lift his leg and piss all over Europe and claim it as his own. I CARED THE FIRST THREE TIMES, NOT ANYMORE. I'm also excited to just be in Paris.

There is still so much of Europe we haven't seen. Scotland was a contender for I wanted to shut myself away in a stone cottage on a moor, teach LB to skip stones on a Loch, while Dan bombed around the countryside getting pissed at distilleries. It was a beautiful idea, but holy: it costs a lot of money to go get drunk in Scotland while your wife and daughter are skipping stones on a Loch. Since we fail at long-term vacation planning, that was out for our July holiday.

Then there was Sweden. Oh Sweden, I wanted to stay in a forest hotel. As in, the hotel is built INTO THE TREES. See above, re: shit, it costs a lot to sleep like Tarzan for a few nights.

Dan refuses to go back to Italy anymore because he's too Swiss, and Italy literally causes his brain to short circuit.


Dan floated Germany, and I was all, "Deutsch, pretzels, and bratwurst...PASS."

So Paris it is, and oh I am glad.

The next thing making me happy are the following:

Angle One

Angle Two

So the first thing I'll draw your attention to is the make-up bag with the birds on it. I don't own a lot of make-up, but I learnt my lesson (see Cheap Nudes, somewhere in the archives...), so the little bit of make-up I own is good stuff, and I was keeping that good stuff in a ratty cardboard box. 


I was out last Saturday, saw this bag, and snatched it up. Yes, a cardboard box is utilitarian but there's nothing beautiful about it, and I have been making a concerted effort lately that when it's time to replace something, I'm replacing it with the most beautiful option I can find. 

This brings me to the next item, which is the blue-flowered placemat. LB is eating at the table now, and after she dragged her cloth placemat through her dinner for the fifth time, I thought, 'It's time for plastic placemats!' 

Except, dudes, plastic placemats are capital U ugly. I did not want Tweety Bird, Cars, Tinkerbell, or farm animals at my dinner table. So I found these plastic placemats by Rice DK and boom. Problem solved.

Yes, I am fully willing to admit I am a snob when it comes to kid stuff. An utter snob. Which brings us to the third item: LB's new pj's. I have this thing where I think that children should be dressed just like little well-groomed adults. What I mean by this is I don't want her wearing anything that is ugly as fuck and clearly made 'for kids'. That means no Disney characters on her clothes, no juvenile prints, and NO SWEATPANTS IN PUBLIC.

You see? I am a snob. This snobbery is my financial burden to bear, for I'm sure there are a lot of parents out there who are shaking their head a little ol' fiscally irresponsible me because everything I categorised above is cheap. And kids grow fast.

And I don't care! 

So LB outgrew most of her jammies, and I needed to find her new ones that fit within my snobby parameters. This whale number did the trick. In fact, I also asked if they carried them in adult sizes, because damn, I totally want them too.

But they didn't, so I bought some peonies instead. 

My favourite flower, they're in season, enough said. 

I always have fresh flowers in the house lately, because why not. Fresh blooms are beautiful, and beauty is the point of life.

The end.

P.S. What's bringing you guys sunshine, if you're living under clouds?

Friday, 25 April 2014

Missing in Action

Oh it's been awhile!

I'd like to say my prolonged absence was for a super cool reason like we were on a safari, or holidaying on a remote island with no internet, or else on a shopping spree bender, but alas none of those are the reasons. We've been kicking around here the whole time.

The reason I haven't blogged, and oh I am about to bust out my most loathed reason, is because I've been...gulp...busy.


I'm so ashamed of myself!

Once upon a time I wrote a ranty blog post about this very excuse and to this day I still stand by that rant. I absolutely loathe it when you ask how someone is and they reply 'busy'. But here I sit with absolutely no other reason to give you. Well, okay, here's one...lazy.

Yes! That's why I haven't blogged: laziness.

Just about every single day LB and I are meeting up with friends for play dates, we're hiking the Gurten, we're having coffee and babyccino dates, we're at the park, we're checking out the horses. Essentially, we're never home.  When we are home she's napping and I'm working. When evening rolls around, I'm usually working for a bit.

I suppose I could blog after I stop work but this is the exact thought that goes through my head every night: "Blog, or watch True Detective/Girls. TV WINS TV WINS TV WINS."

Then I watch t.v. while refurbishing a used dollhouse I found at a local Brocki.

I haven't blogged because I straight up haven't wanted to.

But I have a new post brewing for my 'On Raising A Daugther' series, so I thought I'd pop in and say hi before I drop another ranty post on everyone. Hi. How's it going? I'm good, thanks for asking.

Do you like yogurt? Yes?

Oh good, us too. I have a good yogurt trick up my sleeve if anyone is interested?

You are?

Good. Cool.

So, LB loves yogurt. LOOOVVVEEESS it. Her favourites are the flavoured ones, but there's a hella lot of sugar in those yogurts for her to be eating them every day. And trust me, she likes to eat them every day. So I've started pimping my own yogurt for her to enjoy and oh is she ever. To be honest, every time I make a yogurt for her I feel like quite a smug super-mom, so I thought I should share my secrets so my head doesn't explode from my growing smug-ego.

The first one I'll share with you is one I like to make her for a dip. She eats this with celery, carrots, apples, or cucumber. It's peanut butter yogurt. YES IT IS. And it's delicious. I take about a 1/2 cup (roughly) of plain Greek yogurt (it must be Greek for all recipes to watery low-fat crap, cool?) and I mix in roughly a tablespoon of peanut butter. Then I sweeten it with just the tiniest squeeze of honey, and *bam* LB's got herself a yummy dip for her afternoon snacks.

The second one is her Saturday morning yogurt treat. Again, I take about a 1/2 cup of yogurt, and then I mix in...Nutella! Oh yes I do. And you should, too. It's yummy, and you're in total control of the amount of sugar going in. We love Saturday's for this very reason.

The next one I do is take yogurt and mix in frozen berries and oats, and that's her standard muesli in the morning for the week.

Finally, when she just wants a little treat to spoon up, I will mix applesauce into plain yogurt. Also a mega-win, and one of her favourite post-nap snacks.


Be back soon.

Wednesday, 26 March 2014

The Mother Load

Oh lord, I am weary.

I want to do my best in this post to articulate the struggles I am having with motherhood at the moment. Not with LB. Though LB has made me a mother, so obviously my in-the-moment overwhelmedness with motherhood is directly related to our relationship as it is becoming increasingly the norm that our mild-mannered daily tangos seem to be more often turning into tangles. She is getting older and is more and more determined to show me that she is her own person who knows best. Who knows what she wants to do. What she should do. And she doesn't want to be told what to do. Ever.

I have a friend here who has a theory that if you only have one child, you only have a yellow belt in parenting. The more kids you have, the more belt levels you move up because every child--with their own unique personalities--brings a new level of parenting experience you can add to your repertoire. I think she's very right about this.

I have a lot of friends here who only have one, and when I talk to them about what I'm going through with LB they can't seem to fathom that these issues are 'real' because they didn't experience them with their kids at her age.

"She's just little. She can't be that determined yet."

"Tantrums don't start that young."

"Little kids don't like exploring on their own. They like to be with their parents."

None of these are true of LB.

She is little. She is very determined. A friend was over on Sunday, and the only thing LB wanted to do was bang the keys on my computer. My computer was turned on for work, and it's a pain-in-the-ass to close all my programs, shut if off, turn it back on, reopen my programs, so I had it in sleep mode for the two hours I was off. Putting it away was not an option for me, and she had to respect that.

Tricks don't work on LB. She will not be distracted with another toy, she will not divert her attention to a book, or playing with you, or chasing you, or being chased, or anything.

She wants what she wants what she wants.


My friend, who has a little one who is very easy to distract, tried to see if she could flex her parenting muscle with her powers of distraction and was confident she'd succeeded. Great. I am open to learning. We all went down to LB's room to admire Dan's feat of Brio train track engineering, complete with block structures, and as we looked at it we didn't notice LB sneak out. At this point it had been 1.5 hours she'd been trying to bang on that computer. I noticed she wasn't there and told my friend, "I bet you a $100 I know where she is."

"Surely not. She wouldn't be on there. She can't be that determined."

Guess where she was?

Dogged persistence is going to be her greatest strength, I just need to teach her how to harness it, and I don't know how to do this. I am at a loss.

Yesterday was a truly awful day, complete with the most epic tantrum she's every thrown, and every single calming trick I know wouldn't work. I stepped out of her room to count to ten and collect myself, and she threw-up. To say I felt like the shittiest mom ever would be an understatement. If only I'd diffused the situation earlier. If only I'd noticed the signs. If only, if only, if only.

The blame game, it goes on and on and on.

I am going to be very, very clear here: LB is strong willed. She is not developmentally frustrated. She is not on any spectrum other than, "Parents, I will do what I want. Period." Our girl has an amazing strength of will that I don't know how to work through with her. She is not a hitter, she does not shove, she does not bite. She honestly gets along fairly well with most kids her age. When she doesn't want them near her, she will scream at them. Fair enough, it's the only way she knows how to communicate 'back-off', though we're working on 'nay' being used in those situations.

Her strength of will comes down to being absolutely against whatever instructions her dad or I give her. She wants to show us she can do it. I allow her to do this within the safe confines of certain situations. Others are non-negotiable and that's where we tangle. It's my job to give her the tools to work through her frustration, but I have no idea what tools to give her.

There were other situations that arose yesterday (all on less sleep than I've had since she was a week old) and I found myself getting short-tempered. Yelling. Mirroring her frustration.

It's very rarely I read any form of parenting literature, and it's not because I think I know best. It's because I don't want my natural instincts for my child to be secondary to anything I read that might contradict what I know is best for my child. However, last night I logged onto a blog written by a child-psychologist, whose advice I respect within certain situations. But there wasn't any solace there, last night. She wrote that children who explore with disregard to their parents' location, who won't listen, or who are reluctant to follow their parents' instructions, are not emotionally attached to their parents.

Cue the crying.

I felt. like. shit.

LB doesn't feel attached to me, is what she was saying. So I found myself tossing and turning last night, feeling like I don't know what I'm doing and that I'm failing. I got up and wrote in my journal for her. Honest in the bad-day we'd had, and honest in writing out the verbal apology I'd given her earlier. "I'm sorry that I lost my temper with you today. We were both grumpy and we weren't our best selves. We will do better tomorrow. I love you so much, tiny Sparrow. You're my girl."

And as I wrote to her, I found clarity and belief in my own self. Of course she is attached to me. I am her mom. I am the one she runs to when she is hurt. She runs up to give me kisses, just because. She rests her head on my shoulder when we read stories. I have her heart, and she has mine. And we have bad days.

And she is her own person, and she wants us to respect that. And I do, but I am her mom and her safety and her growth are my job. We will tango again, but right now we are working through the tangle.

And that's okay.

That's life. That's parenthood.

But yes, it's hard.

Friday, 14 March 2014

Generation Whoa

Last night Dan and I were chilling out and listening to some music after LB went to bed. We were listening to, what Dan proudly refers to, as Dan's Mix I. The man takes his mixed compilations very seriously, and each is a perfectly blended mix of tunes designed to invoke a mood and attitude. I was even regaled with the story of how he used to make mixed tapes: it was a multi-day process that involved exact planning and timing so that each sixty minute side of the tape was seamless; there were appropriate delays between songs, and no song was ever left unfinished at the end of Side A or Side B.

My only reaction to this was, "Oh my lord, YOU ARE SO SWISS."

My mix tapes were messy affairs, usually taken right from the radio (commercials included) and there was always one song sacrificed at the end of Side A or Side B.

So we were chilling, letting the soft wave of nostalgia sweep over us as Dan's Mix I took us right back to the 90's and our high school years. There was a lot of Red Hot Chili Peppers on there, and we couldn't believe that this band used to be considered hard core. I mean damn, their music is downright peaceful and MUSICAL compared to all this new-age digitally remastered mumbo-jumbo. Now someone get me my cane so I can bang the Pandora station and decry all this garbage the youngin's are listening to these days.

"I can't believe these guys were considered out there," Dan said shaking his head.

"I know. They were the hard core druggie band of my youth; the bad influence. My god, their behaviour is like a gangly puppy compared to most artists these days."

"I bet when LB's a teen it's going to be commonplace for singers to just be shagging on stage and touching other people's nether regions."

And then I died from laughter.



I didn't know that every day instead of going to work Dan secretly hopped a flight and hung out in the UK, absorbing their posh lingo and just waiting for the day when he got to use 'shagging' and 'nether regions' in a conversation.

But anyhow, back to his point.

It's a curve for sure. Remember when Christina Aguilera's 'Dirty' video caused mass outrage? Her leather chaps that revealed a lot of--to borrow a word from Dan's new lingo--her bottom, while she danced sexily in a boxing ring with other women. Then she switched into some sort of sexy-school-lady-garage-girl-outfit. My god. I saw that video a while ago, and I thought, "Hmm, she's pretty covered up. What was the big deal?" I mean Internet, she was practicing motorcycle safety: she was wearing a jacket and helmet after all. She wasn't totally throwing the impressionable youth under the wheels of the morality bus. Perhaps the most offensive thing about that video, upon recent viewing, is her bleached blond hair being striped with black streaks. Ugh. Talk about a dated hairstyle. Oh, and her chin and nose piercing. Those studs were hideous.

Where does this curve lead us for LB's teen years? Will singers just abandon any pretense for clothing and start naked and then it will be risky as years go on, and they slowly become more covered up? They're all going to be sexual animals corrupting our youth! This leaves me with no other choice than to introduce her to the smooth crooning tunes of Elvis.

Everyone knows he didn't cause any parental angst.

Tuesday, 11 March 2014

Just Put Us On The Cover Of Parenting Weekly

LB is in a very stubborn 'NO' phase. Or rather a very stubborn "Net" or "NAY", followed by violent head shaking, phase. I don't know where she picked up "Net" (pronounced like the Russian word for 'no'); maybe we watched too much Olympic television?

The other night Dan and I were growing weary of our questions being met with NAY, so we decided to turn it into a game for us.

A drinking game.


We were having spicy tacos for dinner (LB's were not spicy, obviously) so of course whenever Mexican's on the menu a cold beer is mandatory to wash it down with. Upon being asked if she wanted her milk (NAY) Dan took a sip of beer, and his eyes lit up with an idea.

"Every time she says no, we have to take a drink."

Then I cackled with delight. "Yes! Let's do it!"

"[LB], do you want some ice cream?"



"Hey [LB], do you want a puppy?"



"Do you want some new books?"

[Insert side-to-side head shaking]


"Do you want to mommy and daddy to leave you alone?"



Oh toddlers. You have to do what you have to do to find the humour, you know? Incidentally we only each drank a bottle of beer.

In other words, it only took about six questions before we switched to water.

I was super hydrated that night.

Monday, 3 March 2014


Right now Bern seems like it's the epicentre of illness. I keep checking over my shoulder to see if Doctors Without Borders, or the WHO, or UN troops are going to storm the city in hazmat suits armed with ghostbuster packs full of liquid hand sanitiser, spraying into the ground any civilian who gets in their way.

Especially the children.

I mean good grief, children are the grossest. Drinking bathwater? Check. Trying to drink puddle water? Check. Licking the elevator buttons? Check. Licking the bus window? Check. All of this unsavoury behaviour means one thing: they are making us ill! Children are the real bacteria of the world! They aren't even invisible or anything! I can see with my own two eyes the giant germs walking around! Hell, we're even growing one in our home; feeding it, cuddling it, loving it, reading it stories, encouraging it to grow. Good lord! It's madness!

It all started a month ago when I was going about my merry day when I felt suddenly and awfully nauseous. I booked it home, and in less than an hour I went from being grand to feeling like my skin was the ickiest and everything that touched it needed to die. Couldn't I just levitate, naked, in mid-air? WHY NOT? OH WHY????

Then I got the cold sweats, had to call Dan, and put Skype on so my parents to could chat to LB while I slowly decomposed on the couch waiting for Dan to come home with chicken broth.

That night, Dan got it too.

We worshipped at the porcelain throne while or baby looked at us in confusion and wondered who these two shivering, sweaty, gross people were, and where were her parents? She wanted a snack, goddammit! And none of this bullshit prepacked stuff! Something homemade! Serves me right for trying to be a wholesome hippie.

We recovered, planned a date night, and came home to discover that our baby girl had been throwing up all night but Dan's kind aunt figured we needed the night off before our weekend got sucked up by a feverish baby. I spent the next four days trying to get my girl to drink water, eat some crackers, while cleaning up puddles of puke and...other stuff.

She recovered, I planned playdates, then I got that damn stomach flu AGAIN. 

Where's the justice?

We've been cooped up for days, so today we're venturing out, and I'll do my part for putting an end to this flu madness by making sure LB doesn't lick the hand rail in the bus...that much.

Tuesday, 18 February 2014

I Don't Even Know Who I Am Anymore

A\ couple of weeks ago I was reclining on the couch, minding my own business, when LB walked over to me, lifted up my shirt, pointed and my stomach, and laughed. Hysterically.


Pointing at my stomach and laughing became her favourite game.

So I did what any rational person does: I wrote her out of the Will then I self medicated with complex carbohydrates.

But seriously.

Dan and I came to the realization that we are only getting older from this point out. Older and more decrepit. And despite having a baby who likes to tear our self-esteem to shreds, we sort of want to be around for her for the long haul. Walking with LB was my daily form of exercise until she insisted upon walking too, now on our daily walks my heart rate spikes just about as much as snail that's found out it's about to become escargot. So in other words, it doesn't.

Now couple all this together with the fact that I have spent the last year thinking I'm 31.

Internet, I'm 32.


I am turning 33 this year, not 32!

To say I panicked would be an understatement.

I had a full on meltdown.

So I have taken charge of my physical health by carving out the only time in the day, at the moment, where I can workout: those early morning hours when everyone else is still sleeping.

I have been getting up at 6 a.m. to do yoga (I can do that since my knees and elbows bend and shit now), and I don't even know who I am anymore. I HATE MORNINGS. But I'm rising for the greater good of looking after myself, and through my bleary and droopy eyes I can see the sun rising.

And sometimes, on good days, my brain even acknowledges the brilliant colours streaking across the sky and feels glad to have been awake to see them.