💌 An Invitation

You are cordially invited… to the moment you are in.

Hello Restless Wonders,

Holy crackerbarrells do I have a story to share from last week’s three peaks challenge hen do extravaganza!

More on that tale in the coming weeks.

For now — this week’s post is a wee reminder. Because we all need those.

A big thank you to those of you that choose to support this newsletter with the cost of a coffee a month. And to Tim who, this week, made me laugh with his comment below:

"Feel like I'm at a crossroads in my life and find myself equally fascinated, inspired and terrified by your life decisions. Not sure whether to emulate you or force myself never to read anything you wrote ever again!"

✌🏻 Until next week,

Anna xx

An Invitation

It’s 7.30am and I’m sat in the living room. The table in front of me is adorned with the usual morning ‘decoration’ — discarded crusts of toast, chopped up pieces of banana, jam smears, a rogue splat of milk. There are even patches of glitter glue — a remnant from yesterday’s evening crafting session.

I’m feeling frustrated because I have been trying to drink a cup of coffee for the past thirty minutes, but I just can’t get to it. I’ve changed two fully loaded nappies (because only mummy can do it), got everyone else fed and somehow forgotten to get myself any breakfast.

Storm, oblivious to my rising levels of frustration, has gone upstairs to rummage through her drawers for clothes. At four-and-a-half years-old this is her new favourite thing to do.

Getting herself dressed is so very grown up. I’ve lost count of the number of times I’ve let her wear her clothes inside out all day, with the label sticking out because, really, who does being dressed ‘correctly’ matter to?

It’s not long before she appears back in the living room, wearing a magenta pink kimono dress that’s a few sizes too big (courtesy of her cousins) and a tiara made of yellow felt.

‘Okay mummy, you’re the Queen and I am the daughter princess.’ She says, standing in front of me, hands on hips — full power pose.

‘Okay…’ I say, wondering if this game involves me needing to do any acting. Thankfully not. Storm races around the room, raising her arms in the air — floating through what is now, I can only assume, her kingdom.

Jupiter toddles over to me, the look on her face stern. ‘I want be princess Mummy!’ She says, her brow furrowed.

I give up on the coffee.

Soon Jupes is wearing a witch’s dress — purple and pink ombre, pink sequins and a silver spider on the front, cobwebs tumbling down black netting.

Jupiter twirls in circles — watching the ragged edges of the skirt puff out as she does. Falling, giggling, getting back up again.

Now Rocky wants in on the action. He selects a superwoman outfit from the dressing up basket, complete with a red cape.

‘Whiskey Mummy’ he says, and I know exactly what he wants. I connect my phone to the speaker, which we keep on a shelf just above the breakfast table, and hit play on Chris Stapleton’s Tennessee Whiskey.

The girls continue dancing, and Rocky and I sway. He wraps his arms around me and pulls me in tight — his head right next to mine. I can feel the warmth of his cheek — his gorgeous squishy cheek. His long eyelashes brush against my skin and I inhale baby shampoo. Lifting his head up for a moment, he smiles and then rests it back on my chest.

He fiddles with the chain around my neck.

‘Neck-ace Mummy.’ He says.

‘Necklace.’ I reply. Kissing him on the cheek and pulling him closer so I can inhale him again.

And so we sway.

Jupiter twirling.

Storm still prancing.

Our living room full of love and colour and life.

It wasn’t until later that day I realised what had happened - somewhere between the felt princess crown and Tennessee Whiskey, I’d completely forgotten to be anywhere else. I hadn’t wanted to be anywhere else.

As one of life’s Hungry Hippos (remember that game?), I will chomp, chomp, chomp, always wanting to be moving, my brain often in three different places at once. I’ve become better at being present over the past year. I say better, but what I mean is, I have got better at remembering to do it. Because all it takes is a reminder.

Even if the moment is quite shitty — like Storm defiantly throwing cereal on the floor and refusing to clear it up — somehow, staying present in that moment, blood boiling and rage rising, rather than wishing myself elsewhere, seems to break the spell.

So this week I wanted to dish out an invitation — for you to call on Chris S and his Tennessee Whiskey, or load up your own favourite song and to

CRANK.

IT.

UP.

To get lost for two minutes. Dance. Sway. Stare into space. Have a cup of tea.

To slow things down and remember that in every second, of every day, we are living through precious moments that we’ll never have again.

👆🏻❤️ P.s Tapping the little heart icon at the top or bottom means that more people will see this post. You may or may not magically grow an exquisite beard like Chris Stapleton, shortly after doing it.