There are some people in this world who should never have children. My mother is one of them. As a product of Ireland, and married at the tail-end of the 1960s, she had little choice but to have babies, though. Unfortunately for me, I was one of them. I’m not going to bore you with [...]
Category Archive for 'All About My Mother'
Dealing with her is no longer a way of life: my mother is unreliable, a unique instance of probability where everything that could, went wrong. It’s a dreadful sight; she weighs nothing, shuffles, she’s broken and bumpy all over, wan and lost. Her hugs are what birch branches must feel like to sleep on, harsh [...]
A note from the editors: This is the first in a new regular series of posts, All About My Mother, in which Anti-room writers reflect on the women who made them the women they are today. Some are their own biological mothers, some are not. But all are important. This month my mum turned 70. [...]