Archive for the ‘Personal’ Category

How does that saying go, if the shoe fits then wear it? What if it never does.

I have never been able to just ‘purchase a pair of boots’ and I am certain I cannot be alone in this battle.  The struggle is real, not only for our more feminine friends but for the tom boys as well.

Boot shopping for me is an all day event which usually ends in me going home empty handed or with another pair of casual shoes to make up for the loss of the boots I never owned. While I know I am a little more plus sized than the socially accepted norm, I never thought I would categorize my own calves as plus size – I did not even know that plus sized for calves existed! Because of my ‘socially unacceptable’ calves, I have resorted to ankle boots (The UK phenomenon). Something I swore I would never do.

I decided (3 months ago) that I needed a new pair of flat, knee high, work appropriate, flat boots. I wanted to find a pair of boots that would see me through winter that I could wear to work and could comfortably cover my calf tattoo (New job so the work attire must be up to scratch). I had ordered a pair of boots online after discovering that in the UK, your items actually get delivered to your door, but when they arrived realised that they were mid calf boots. I was not upset, instead I thought that I would go on a hunt for some boots for myself and spent what felt like an entire day out looking for unicorn footwear… but alas, no success. I then went the online route again, this time ensuring that the look, size and feel of the boot was exactly what I wanted but when they arrived they barely zipped up my ankle – let alone up to my knees! Disgruntled and disheartened, I returned the boots and after a few more searches I gave up on ever owning a pair of boots that would fit my dancing calves again.

I have since seen some desirable boots by trolling the interwebs and have been recommended various boot outfitters by friends, but to be fair, I will not be ordering boots online knowing that my success rate is nil for 2. I had some time to kill over the weekend so decided to brave the sales at my local shopping centre and see what I would be able to find (if anything) in the hopes that I would fulfil my boot desires months old. Boy, was I mistaken.

For those of you that know The Oracle in Reading, it is safe to say that I entered every single boot selling shop inside the mall and tried on almost every single size 8 pair of boots I could possibly find. There is the first problem, I wear a size 8 shoe. The most beautiful boots are made to a size 7 (Docs excluded of course) and thereafter the dregs of the factory floor have been sewn by a small slave child to create a shoe bigger than they are.

In and out of store after store I pursued this quest and repeatedly failed. Here is why.

1. Size 8 shoes should not be made without a zip to the knee. The retarded little zip at the ankle that is created to allow space for your foot to go into the shoe does not work. Not only does it NOT create any space, it looks daft when the top of the boot doesn’t go past mid calf – That is IF you can even get your foot in, which I cannot. Ever.

2. XXX / EEE / XXL / XL fit or whatever the shop would like to name or brand it is a load of bollocks. Just because you have sewn in a small square of elasticated fabric at the back of the boot does not make said boot  WIDE fit. Also, boots should not be made with a toughened material in the front and elasticated material behind, it looks daft.

3. If I manage to get my apparently obese foot into your midget made shoe, it is an even bigger task to get my foot out again. In many a shop I could be seen yanking, tugging and even blowing into the boot to get it off again – I am starting to wonder if I have grown a shoe size?

4. Hey – Let’s sell boots and shoes and pretty things but if they want to try them on, it is tough. We have no space for chairs. Well, when I am sat on your store floor trying to get boots on / off, don’t bother helping me up again when they don’t fit.

5. Ok so I see what you did there – You really did make the calf of this boot a WIDE FIT – The problem is that this boot looks like Barbie. Big boobs, no waist. Big calves, tiny ankles. It is all very well I can fit my calf into your boot but that is not going to make my ankle feel any better about itself.

6. Screw it – I will buy these cute Wellingtons instead. Oh wait… no size 8’s.


In the end I went home with nothing but shoe envy that day. I have not found any boots that fit my description to date and sadly, stumbled upon a different pair of casual boots that have now been added to the ‘Calves need to lose weight to fit into’ category. I will continue wearing ankle boots in the meantime and hope that my calf muscles are not opposed to some cardio… apparently they need it.

How do you direct your thoughts onto something far less selfish when all that occupies your mind is what is currently happening to you? And by ‘to you’ I mean to me and by ‘currently happening’ I mean separation from my family. The truth is, you just don’t. When what you feel like you are experiencing is all encompassing and rules everything you say and do, there is no room for thoughts of anything else. This may make me boring, selfish, self-centred or reclusive even but to be fair, I cannot be bothered what people think it makes me. I am fixed onto one thought, one goal, one light in sight – Being reunited with my husband and my children, the reason that all this was put into motion.

4 months ago (16 weeks and 2 days to be exact) I landed in the UK with only my suitcases in tow and a dream that I was prepared to sacrifice everything for to achieve. People disagreed with my decisions, disapproved of my methods and judged my choices and yet despite all of this, with the support of my closest friends and family I persevered. I put myself into a lonely situation for which there was no alternative and the desired result? That my family would join me as soon as possible.

When the conversation between my husband and I took place and we discussed our move to the UK, we knew the sacrifices that would have to be made. We did every investigation possible and based on our individual circumstance, at the confirmation of various experts, the only way that I was going to be able to move my family was for me to go first without them and build a life here ready for their arrival. I came under fire many times for this, for the fact that as a mother and a wife I could desert my husband and my children and throw our lives into utter disarray for my own selfish desires… to those naysayers I say up yours. Extended time without my children beside me is most certainly not what I wanted but it was the only way that our future could be forged, ‘small’ sacrifice for a grand ambition.

We knew it would be difficult, we knew that the girls being without their mother was not the best idea. We anticipated that our relationship could take a knock or two with a prolonged marital separation and I knew that being away from my family was going to kill me…  Kill me? I did not know, understand or realise the half of it. If I thought what I would endure would ‘kill me’ then I am in fact feline and have died multiple times since I have been here. I cry for my children every night that they are not with me and every morning I wake to my empty, quiet house is another day in self-made hell that I have only myself to blame for. Don’t get me wrong, I am happy for this change and our move but without my family it is worth nothing. It means nothing. It will continue to mean nothing until they are here.

16 weeks later and here I sit alone, still. Each day we wait on the visa a new torture for us to endure. I find myself checking on the visa tracking almost hourly and requesting constant updates from my husband that I know haven’t come. While we thought that we had gone through the worst of the waiting, it was impossible to anticipate these last few weeks that have been nothing short of unbearable. Each day drags. Each night endless. Each minute silent. I try to throw myself into work, into a hobby, into writing (which has come to an almost standstill) and yet all I can think about is what they are doing, who they are with, what they are wearing and try to prompt myself to remember what they smell like. We thought that modern technology would aid in our communication but due to travelling, working hours and a horrible 2 hour time difference, that has barely been possible. In fact once a week is probably all I get, along with the various pictures that are sent to me sporadically. It is expected that the visa should only take a ‘few more days’ but that was said almost 2 weeks ago so I guess we are back on South African time, waiting while the paperwork gathers dust on the desk of an underpaid administrative clerk.

I have never been more ready for them to arrive. Everything that we have done for the past 4 months and more is about to culminate into a glorious reuniting. A very tearful but long awaited meet that I hope will happen this week, UK visa office permitting. Then this pretty awesome life I have already started working towards for us in a new country can finally begin… We have a beautiful (albeit small) little house, we have food, we have warmth and most importantly we will have each other. My children will know a life in a world not plagued by constant troubles of crime and basic utilities – which I have chosen no longer to voice my opinion about on social media due to being chastised by the very people living in SA and posting these updates. For all its faults, South Africa was home and is the birth place of my children but I am ready for them to know stability, I am ready for them to know the difference between privilege and right. I am ready for them to receive the world and everything I have sacrificed is so that that can happen… none of this has been for me. All who dare to question my motives and my reasons for leaving can go and do one.

So yes, my Facebook updates may be annoying because all that they appear to be is updates on the visa. Yes, my Instagram pictures are full of photo collages of my daughters who I miss as if I had had my limbs removed. Indeed, I sit at home most nights (weekdays and weekends) because first and foremost, finances do not currently permit a social life and secondly, I cannot bare to be false and to be out and about and pretend as if I am not going through the most painful experience of my life. I am sorry if this worries or offends people, this is just how I am dealing with it. Unfortunately the only other person who has even the slightest idea of what I am going through is the one person who has to appear to be the strongest, for the children and especially for me.

Do I think we made a mistake? No. I know that the life that I am making possible for my family is the best life for us. I know that the choices we made, however debilitating, were the right ones and I have no hesitation about the advantages of such a drastic change for our family.

I gave up almost everything I owned.

I sacrificed time I will never get back.

I left a forged career and reputation.

I walked away from lifelong friendships.

I waved goodbye to family…

The hardest part of all is about to come to an end and while everything else will remain just as difficult, as with any family who relocates countries, at least I will have my life partner and my little best friends here to endure it with me.

So friends and family, I ask that you bear with me just a little while longer – It is almost over and regular ‘Shevy’ programming will resume as soon as humanly possible. Thanks for sticking by us, for being our rocks and for lifting us up when getting out of bed has been a challenge in itself.


Dark blankets shadow the night

A moon, ever glowing, ever white

Hidden and removed from my sight

Lost to me, sadness, my only light

Sinking, swallowing, feeling alone

Tired of listening, hearing me moan

No ring, no message, no telephone

The sound of silence, the lingering drone

No one around to see me weep

No human touch, my hand to keep

Tangled emotion locked away deep

From pit to pillar, my love does leap

Away from them, myself I did shove

Thought of my actions only for love

Hurting, aching, longing to see their face

Smell their hair, feel their embrace

So difficult on my own it has been

Many aches, many nights, my tears unseen

So it draws near, the end that is nigh

Each dragging day, ending with a sigh

So close you are, so far away

Why does tomorrow always feel like today?

And yet soon I’ll wake up and so it shall be

Finally, you here with me

Yesterday was the worst day of my life.

While I have never been the ‘Christmas’ kind of person, I have always done my best to make an effort with Christmas, to make sure that my children have an amazing day and to make sure that we spend the day as a family with family, the way it is intended. Yesterday, I spent my first Christmas separated from my children and my first Christmas separated from my husband – A Christmas tradition I would sooner not repeat.

I have been in the UK for 10 weeks without my family now (10 weeks and 1 day) and yet I remember that day at the airport as if it were yesterday. The awkward uncertainty of goodbye and the fear of not seeing my family for what felt like forever, with no end in sight. I remember checking in and walking down the hall towards the security desks as they walked alongside me on the other side of the pillars – I stopped to reach for my phone and when I looked up, they had gone. The emptiness that swallowed me at that point was something that can never be described and was only the beginning of the loneliness to come.

Many people have told me how proud they are of me for doing what I have done so far, for leaving my family for months to build up to a new life for them. As far as I am concerned, no matter how good of a life I am trying to give them, no one can take away the guilt I feel every second of every day for deserting my family. No one can take away the loss I feel. No one can give me back all the days I have and continue to miss with my children, no one can give me Christmas or my 30th, my husband’s birthday or H’s 9th birthday. The truth is, I made this bed and now I must lie in it until it has all played out and everything we are fighting for finally comes to fruition…

That said, supposedly, we are almost there. In 10 weeks, I have moved countries, started a new job, found a house, moved, familiarised myself with public transport and have tried to fit right in as I have been here for much longer.  Just the other day, a train was cancelled and I shared a cab with a South African woman who immediately heard my accent and was curious to my origins. After chatting briefly on our journey home she was under the impression that I have lived here for a long time, she was surprised that I had only been in the country a little over 2 months. In the time that I have been here, my husband has sold up everything we owned, lived with his mother-in-law, single parented two daughters and made sure that we are ok financially. The girls now have their British passports and my husband’s visa application has been submitted – The waiting game has begun and now the ball is in the court of the UK home office to issue his visa, hopefully sooner rather than later.

The truth is, the hard times are only just beginning. As soon as J-P and the girls arrive we need to find him a job, the girls need their placements in schools, we have to figure out how to manage without our full time nanny and instead work out after hour child care. We have to learn how to be a family again, without the support that we have in South Africa. We have to learn to fend for ourselves, our little family, alone and in a new country. Am I nervous? Absolutely. Right now though, all I can focus on is my family and their arrival… I cannot even count the days because we do not have a definite date, but I count each moment that passes as another one on my own without them. Something I vow to never do again. I will never be separated from my family for this long, ever again.

Merry Christmas everyone, I am not sorry that it is finally over.

I had every intention of boarding this train to write a blog to rival the best of them. A piece of work that would have each and every reader rivoted from the very first line. A piece of writing that incorporated only the most sophisticated of writing styles on one of the most controversial topics I could find. A blog that would perhaps one day be recognised by a blogging council and maybe even win an award, the blog that would get me recognised in the blogging community and not just writings of a misunderstood mind. The truth is that the blog I am talking about doesn’t exist because, well, it just is not me.

When I started writing, I fooled myself into believing that I wrote for myself. That writing was therapeutic and it was the only way that I knew how to channel this big personality. For a time I believed that my thoughts and pieces were written for me and me alone, I kept written and printed copies of my writings and referred back to them when I needed inspiration, motivation or when I just wanted a reminder of why I was as dark and brooding as I was. Then social media flew onto the scene and suddenly writing was not just for me anymore, it was a way to get noticed.

I spent a lot of time lonely growing up… I was constantly surrounded by people and yet never had I felt more alone than in my early teens. I was not looking for attention, I was not trying to mimic the ‘wannabes’ that surrounded me. I was just a really confused kid, I did not know where I was going and chose to forget where I had been. I liken myself to Hank Moody’s Becca in Californication sans the guitar playing. I was an emo kid, before emo kid was cool. I was a black sheep before being a black sheep was mainstream. I tested the waters of many a label before I realised there was no label for me and I tried to put myself into many boxes knowing that there was no box I would be comfortable in. I spent hours pouring my confusion, my thoughts and my misguided aspirations into words on paper. It was only when the idea of a blog or social media arrived that I realised my writing could be put out there, that someone somewhere may understand what I have written and perhaps even identify with me… Maybe someone out there was like me? Maybe I did not have to be screwed up on my own…

I remember the first time I put a piece of my own writing on the internet. Long after I was chastised in my English writing class for submitting a piece of work based on the fight between good and evil, the unwritten book of Revelations that I was told was blasphemous and earned me an F for that particular piece of writing. Long after I had started writing poetry and started writing my own book (numerous times may I add, I still have not gotten that right). I became part of the 5FM blogging community and suddenly there were people around me, anonymous ‘people’ that were interested in what I had to say. They were encouraging me to post my writings online. They wanted to READ my most private thoughts and for some unknown reason, I was willing to give it to them!

I remember how belittled I felt when the criticism started, suddenly every one was a writer and I had the grammar police critiquing my English more than people were actually commenting on the subject matter. Surely these people should care about what I have written? Surely the importance of the content far outweighed the fact that I put a comma after the word and (Which is now acceptable I believe). I did not write to become a writer, I was writing to heal myself. I was writing because I wanted to make sense of my thoughts. I was writing because, I had nothing else to do. Now that I could write and post these writings online, it was time to have a concrete shake and deal with the criticism – Suddenly my misguided self medication was not for myself anymore, I was writing to please the people in the PC. I was writing because I wanted to get noticed, I was writing because I wanted someone to care.

How ‘special’ I felt when these bloggers started giving me positive comments, like I was doing something right! This only encouraged me to post as much as possible online and I felt like people finally understood me, I was not alone anymore. How ridiculous a thought that I was seeking approval from people I had never met (Some that I still am in contact with) instead of those closest to me. I was completely misguided in feeling comfortable posting my most emotional works on a blogging site when I could not even share these with friends or family.

Many years was spent posting my life’s work online… Poems I had written in dark times (Available on this blog under the writings section), stories, pieces, rants, reviews… Admittedly, I wanted to be heard and I still do – I am still here aren’t I? I am comfortable now, posting my thoughts here on my own site for the world including those closest to me to see. Do I still seek approval? Or course. Writing is still therapeutic to a degree but at the end of the day, I am in a position where I feel like I have a voice and I want it to be heard, posting these thoughts online is my way to get noticed and my audience is global. I feel honoured, accepted, approved of when people from all around the world take the time to get interested in my work…

Thanks to the internet, I am not just some dark brooding female holed up in a room with a pen and paper.Thanks to the people who actually give a crap, I still have a blog and even if I only get 1 view a day I know that someone took the time to read what I had to say… and that is worth far more than self medicating with a dictionary. I am not always intelligent, I am not always linguistically superior and I am not always controversial. Sometimes I want to write for the sake of writing, like today, like now sitting on this train when I decided that my award winning blog could wait because my desire to ramble was far more important…

Shevy Xxx

Don’t you find it strange how you can decide to buy a blue car and suddenly every second car on the road is blue. Or you hear of someone being pregnant and suddenly everyone around you is falling pregnant. Now that I have moved, now that I have removed myself from a country rife with crime I feel like all I see is bad news and crime reports on South Africa.

I am writing this post out of anger, something any writer will tell you never (or always) to do. Recently, I have seen many news headlines of criminal activity in and around Southern Africa. Violent, racial, sexual or abusive crimes that no human being should have to endure and no savage be allowed to inflict. Now more than ever, these headlines grab my attention because I am here in the UK but my family have been left behind temporarily in South Africa. Just the other night, while my family were all asleep in their beds, someone cut the electric fencing whilst there was a power outage in the attempt to break into the property and ultimately, rob the house. You can understand how this would be extremely worrying for me, not around to protect those I love with no control of how quickly I can remove them as well from the crime rife city of Johannesburg.

I have said it repeatedly and I will say it again – I do not want to bitch about South Africa. I grew up there, it is still classified as my home. I met my husband in South Africa and my children were born and so far raised there as well. If the crime were to have driven me out, I would have left a long time ago – I have been held at gunpoint with my toddler in my arms, I have been hijacked and inappropriately frisked by my assailants, I have had men follow me home and attempt to run me off the road, I have had a man attempt at hijacking me on my bike… the list is endless and does not stop there, so if crime was the problem I doubt I would have been in South Africa for as long as I was.

The plans to move to England have been around for some time. I knew when I had my children that South Africa is no place to raise a family (My personal opinion, bound to upset people). When the opportunity presented itself and the decision was made, there was no question that it was time to give up everything we knew to make the move – For our future and for the future of our daughters, after all this is who I am doing it for. If not to give my husband and myself a better life, to ensure that my children are not raised in fear. Do not flinch at every noise in and around the house, do not have to ask me questions about the violent attacks on the news, it was a no brainer to me to take their vulnerable bodies away from a country raping its people.

I am sick to death of people accusing other people of being traitors to their country if and when they want to get out. First and foremost, I am not a traitor, I did not choose to grow up in South Africa – I was born in the UK and the first opportunity to move, I did it. Secondly, I have every right to remove my family from a dangerous situation. If something criminal happens, why should we feel scared or ashamed to discuss it? We have the right to be angry, have the right to voice our opinion and have the right to moan without being told that if you don’t like it, you can leave. After having done the leaving myself (As I didn’t like it) I understand why this country move is not for everyone. IT IS NOT easy, in fact it is one of the most difficult things I have ever done. Thankfully I am young enough that my career is still wide open, my children are young enough that they can adapt and I know that I will settle and quite easily make new friends as I learn the rhythm of my new life. Not everyone can just get out. I would not expect people to be able to move who are held down by strong family ties, careers, financial responsibility and the basic ability to move without a foreign passport. I am irritated at the fact that every ‘Happy South African’s’ solution is if you don’t like it you can move instead of ‘What can I do to help you and your situation?’

Now I am not saying that England is where the grass is greener. Every single country in the world has their crimes, for goodness sake a man was eating off his girlfriends’ face just the other day. The differences between South Africa and England when raising a family are what matters… AND TRUST ME, there are many. I am free to walk around, in the dark, alone as a woman, with my phone in my hand to and from the train station and I am not scared that I will be raped or attacked on my walk home. I grew up in South Africa, of course I am still aware and make a noticeable effort to be vigilant, much to the curiosity of the innocent joggers that come past. There are children out and about, playing and cycling. Cars give way to pedestrians. There are no burglar bars on the houses. Cars sit unlocked in the car park. Public transport is safe. Hundreds of different cultures and ethnicities can live so comfortably together (Still with some degree of discrimination but not noticeably so).  England is not perfect but since I have arrived I have felt exactly what Rantchick has described in her blog…  I have felt the fear lift, I have finally felt what it is to be free and I cannot wait for my husband and my children to be with me to feel it to.

What has to upset me the most is that when someone in South Africa is hijacked, everyone else will say at least you weren’t injured. When someone is injured they will say at least you weren’t killed. When someone is murdered they will say at least it was only one person and when a family is murdered they will say at least they went together. It is NOT OK to walk around scared for your life or your children’s lives – In the same breath it is not ok to say that you accept the crime and are prepared to die. Rape is not ok, it is sick. Murder is not ok, it is sick. Theft or Xenophobia is not ok. Racism is not ok. Millions of tax payers money for a presidential house is not ok. Your children not being able to grow up in a country that has their best interests at heart, that IS NOT OK!

Everyone has a right to be angry and complain about the criminal state of South Africa or any other country for that matter. Everyone has a right to get upset when someone else is a victim of the violent criminality prevailing in South Africa. Everyone has a right to love their country and want to make the most of living there but everyone also has a right to leave. No one has the right to judge others for the decisions they make to better their or their families lives. No one has the right to judge freedom of speech and no one has the right to speak out against the exodus when they themselves are one of the very few people left yet to experience the wave of crime that I have. I get it, people want to stand up for and defend the country that they have lived in their whole life and that is admirable but I am afraid to defend, you must be informed and to be informed you must understand what has been experienced by those around you.

The next time someone shares an awful story about South Africa, take a minute to realise just how awful things have gotten and instead of attacking those that choose to leave, think of what you can do to make it better for those who decide to stay… because trust me, if everyone could actually leave, South Africa wouldn’t have any educated people left.



You’re pregnant!

Ok, not really, but this is about the time that you figure out you’re in need of a new home. It’s an exciting time of possibility, opportunity and anticipation. You want to name it but you need to see it first before you can lovingly call it home. You have all these ideas of what kind of parent (tenant or home owner) you’ll be and just how you plan on raising your newest arrival (by raising I mean turning house into home). You’re completely motivated at this point and know exactly what you need to do, it’s only a question of time and money. You start picturing life with (in) your new addition and life as you know it is about to change forever.

Morning sickness.

After finding out you’re expecting (a new abode) it’s time to go through the motions and emotions. You will search and search for a possibility, you will register to as many websites as humanly possible, you will contact every real estate agent in the country. You will auto pilot your requirements into your browser and suddenly Google starts directing you straight to Zoopla. You will feel ill at the number of possibilities and suddenly the realisation of what you’re doing has hit home… Nausea and bile rise constantly, reminding you of what you’ve given up and how you’ve put yourself into a position of homelessness. Suddenly your search because a matter of urgency and you’re annoyed with the fact that morning sickness doesn’t only last in the morning, instead it’s a 24 hour a day, 7 day a week situation. Despite all this, you’re also starving.

OB/Gyn appointments.

The annoying thing is, these doctors (estate agents) work the same hours that you do and the possibility they’ll work out of hours is slim to none. You’re forced to set up ‘viewings’ for your new baby during office hours and take your hard earned leave to do so… They’ll keep you waiting, keep you baited and keep sending you new reasons to feel the afore mentioned sickness. Sadly, one viewing is never enough so of course you set up multiple opportunities to take a look at potential housing. The agent arrives, takes you in, shows you around and explains what you’re looking at. He gets you all excited and ready to sign, only to be let down by the fact that you may not actually have this one or can’t afford it. It feels like the appointments are never ending and suddenly all you’re seeing is the same thing repeatedly, searching for a new reason to be excited but trying not to get your hopes up too high for fear of disappointment.

Braxton Hicks.

There is always that one appointment that makes everything you’ve endured seem worthwhile. You’ve seen it, you want it, you can afford it, you love it, you’re ready… It’s almost too good to be true, surely a few more appointments are needed before you can be certain… But no, the doc (agent) reassures you that you’re good to go and shouldn’t panic. You go home picturing your new life, already hanging the family portraits on the wall, filling up your online shopping cart with the goodies you need in anticipation… It hurts a little, you’re not sure if it’s too good to be true, you think it’s time but maybe you just need to pee… Your back hurts, your back always hurts, you’re tired of looking at it and are ready to own it, you feel like it’s coming, it’s almost there…

False alarm. If it’s too good to be true, it probably isn’t true. You’ve wound yourself up, you’ve been let down, you’re over it.


You can’t be sure after the next appointment because let’s be real, you’ve been let down before. The same reassurances abound and you wait patiently to sign the forms… You stare at the wall, decide you’re going to forget it because it’ll probably be a repeat of the last time you got excited for nothing…. Like paying the hospital administration fee, you get the referencing fees out the way. You’re not in the clear yet, they’ve got to check your (financial) health to ensure you’re truly ready for what’s about to happen. After which they’ll make you wait agonising hours while they deliberate on your fate… It’s so close you can almost touch it. Then, as if you weren’t expecting it, you get told that it’s happened and you are now the proud tenant to your new home! You did it, you got through it, you aren’t sure how and most of the time you were just in pain but suddenly that pain is forgotten and replaced with excitement about the future that awaits you…

So now you’ve got your new baby, what do you do with it??? Why you dress it of course… And you spend as long as you need making your house a home, because isn’t that what moms do?