I touched on this briefly last week but I really think it’s a separate discussion that needs to look deeper into the misunderstanding – from both sides, as we parent and grandparent our children together.

Now tell me this, not have you ever, but how many times this week have you felt judged by your own parents for the way you are raising your children? Not always out loud – but in the looks, the comments, the ‘we never did it like that’ remarks?

And grandparents – do you remember your parents making you feel the same way?

Seems a bit like a cycle to me?

Regardless, suddenly were not just parenting our children, we are managing a whole other layer of emotion.

Now, as a disabled mum, I have very specific and intentional ways in which I parent my children, there is no book on how to raise both a disabled child and a typical child at the same time. What works for one does not work for the other and one child, the typically developed child, is often sidelined. Not on purpose, but out of necessity.  My mother was a single parent who raised three polarised girls, each of us is a complete opposite of the other. We were raised in the late 80’s, through the nineties and the youngest into the 2000’s, three diffident decades of childcare, and back then, whilst the differences are not so extremer as they are now, there were adaptions in parenting that needed to be made. Us ‘eldest children’ were able to see perfectly well on our own how the youngest sibling was raised and how it was different to us. We believe that its because our parents learned through raising us how to eventually raise the last one, but was it maybe a bit of ‘changing parent times’ too? Maybe a question to raise with our parents.

My mother and I have healthy debates on childcare, unfortunately for my mother, I do say this with a heartfelt meaning, she usually loses. Why – she wasn’t given an option to win. Not necessarily because I’m stubborn (although I am) but because we are taking about MY children and in the instance, my word goes. Not because I know better, most of the time I’m just making things up as I go along, but because I know different.

Our parents were taught to focus on behaviour, we are being taught to focus on emotions. They were told consistency and discipline mattered most… we are told connection and regulation come first. Its not just a different method, it’s a completely different language.

How often have you looked back at your childhood and thought to yourself, I wish my child was that obedient, or I wish my child was that independent – for me it’s been often, that tells me that our parents did not get it wrong – it was just a simpler time when children were children and not ‘future leaders’ or ‘aspiring entrepreneurs’. There was absolutely no way that I was viewed as a protentional trailblazer as a child, but now, with our children, and this ‘you can be whatever you want to be’ mindset – there is a recognition that our children can potentially be quote/unquote ‘someone’ in the world. That stops our children from just being children and it turns them into ‘someone’.

This means that its not just different parenting styles we are talking about, its two completely different generations trying to understand each other. Our parents raised us with what they had – the knowledge, the tools, the norms of that time. So when we do things differently now, it can feel personal to them…. Even though we don’t mean it that way. Because what they often hear isn’t, this works better for my child, but, what you did wasn’t good enough.

This is where the tension comes, from somewhere in the middle of it all, there is us… trying to respect where we came from – while also being intentional about where we are going. Were setting boundaries that feel normal to us, but can feel like rejection to them, were trying to break cycles, while they are trying to feel like they didn’t get it wrong. No one talks about how heavy that is – being the one who holds both sides, the child of your parents and the parent of your child.

But, I think its really important to pause here for a moment, because there is another side to this, and a side that always almost gets missed.  For our parents, now grandparents, this can be really hard too, because they are not just watching us parent differently, they are watching the way they raised us be quietly rewritten….

And if you are listening as a grandparent – this part really matters….

This isn’t your child rejecting you, this is your child trying to be intentional. The way we parent now isn’t a criticism of how you did it, it’s a reflection of what we have learned since. And the truth is…. Everything that we are building now is built on the foundation that you gave us.

We don’t need you to agree with every decision, but we do need you to trust that we are trying, and more than anything, we still need you, just in a slight different way.

Because this isn’t about one generation being right and one being wrong, its about understanding that we are all trying to do the same thing, just from different starting points.

And maybe, if we can meet each other there, not in agreement, but in understanding, this doesn’t have to feel like conflict, it can feel like growth, and maybe…. One day….. our children will do the same to us.

I think I’ve accidentally stumbled into writing a memoir with my dad.

Now, when I say memoir, I need everyone to understand that this was not the plan. I am not sat in a countryside cottage wearing linen trousers and smoking a pipe while I reconnect with my ancestry. I’m usually recording these podcasts while somebody is shouting for snacks, the dog is emotionally buffering in the corner, and there’s washing in the machine that’s been washed three times because I forgot to hang it up.

But recently I started talking to my dad about his life growing up in Northern Rhodesia and Southern Rhodesia, now Zambia and Zimbabwe, and I have realised something that has honestly unsettled me a little bit.

Those stories are disappearing.

Like… actively disappearing.

And I don’t mean disappearing in some dramatic “the library is burning down” kind of way. I mean disappearing in the very ordinary way that stories disappear when people get older and nobody asks the questions anymore.

My dad started telling me about moving house on a train. A TRAIN. Imagine explaining that to a modern child. Not “we hired movers.” Not “we got a van.” They literally loaded their lives into train carts and travelled north through Africa.

And suddenly I had this really emotional moment where I realised my children will never naturally encounter these worlds unless somebody deliberately preserves them.

And I don’t mean preserves them politically. That’s not what this is. I mean preserves them humanly.

The texture of life.

The dust.

The heat.

The baboons in the maize fields.

The black mamba whose head disappeared into soft mud because the rain had loosened the earth.

Those details matter.

Because that’s the difference between history and lived experience.

History says, “There was political unrest.”

A story says, “The adults started speaking quietly at night and people stopped travelling after dark.”

That’s what I care about.

And honestly, I think that’s why I’ve become so obsessed with objects and atmosphere and all these weird symbolic things in my apartment. Because modern life can feel so emotionally sterile sometimes. Everything is beige and temporary and replaceable. Nobody wants to inherit grandma’s cabinet anymore. Everybody just wants clean lines and LED lighting.

And I sit there looking at a hundred-year-old object thinking… yes, but somebody touched this. Somebody cried near this. Somebody moved this across continents. Somebody loved this enough to keep it alive long enough for it to end up in my home.

That matters to me deeply.

I think we underestimate how psychologically important continuity is for human beings.

And I know this sounds dramatic, but I genuinely think part of the reason people feel emotionally untethered now is because we are losing our relationship to inherited stories. Everything is becoming so fast that nothing has time to emotionally settle anymore.

My daughter is 11 and she’s currently devouring mythology books. Percy Jackson, all of it. And I realised recently that what I actually want more than anything is to raise children who can see deeper into the human experience.

Not children who simply consume content.

Children who feel life.

Who understand that behind every old photograph, every strange object, every family story, there was once a real person sitting in sunlight somewhere having an ordinary Tuesday.

And maybe that’s why this memoir project suddenly feels so important to me.

Because my dad carries these worlds inside him so casually. He’ll start telling me about one thing and suddenly two hours later we’re discussing prison riots near the Congo border, guerrilla warfare, moving cattle, giant snakes, and stories about his brothers that sound like something out of Wilbur Smith.

And the whole time he’s speaking, I’m thinking:

“How are these stories not written down already?”

And maybe they were never written down because the people who lived them were too busy surviving them.

That happens a lot throughout history actually. The people most capable of writing beautiful memoirs are often the people who finally have enough stillness to reflect. Previous generations didn’t always have that luxury.

So maybe my role is not necessarily to be the person who lived the extraordinary story. Maybe my role is to preserve it properly.

To take oral history and carry it carefully into permanence.

And honestly, I think that’s become my purpose a little bit lately.

Not fame.

Not becoming some celebrity author.

Not proving I’m intelligent.

I just don’t want these worlds to vanish.

Because one day my dad won’t be here anymore. And all those stories — the train carts, the baboons, the dust storms, the black mamba, the farm, the laughter, the grief — they could disappear in one generation if nobody stops long enough to listen.

And I think listening may actually be one of the deepest forms of love we have.

I find myself caring deeply about preserving these stories, like somehow, not necessarily unwillingly, but without really noticing, I assumed the responsibility of sharing these pieces of family history. Even though I never got to meet or remember most of the characters. I recognise that they are part of me. They are where I came from. And if not me, then who?

My child finishes a task and stops. Not because he’s done, but because he’s waiting. And I clap. And I didn’t realise until recently that I might have trained that moment into existence.

There’s a moment in my house that I didn’t notice becoming a moment until it had already become a system.

It isn’t dramatic. There’s no big breakthrough music. No emotional montage. It’s just a pause.

My child finishes something — a task, a step, a small sequence of actions that technically counts as success — and then he stops. Not because he’s done in the abstract sense, but because he’s waiting.

Waiting for something to tell him it is done.

And, almost without thinking, I supply it.

I clap.

Not a polite clap. Not an understated acknowledgement. A full, slightly over-committed performance of approval. The kind of clap that says: yes, that was correct, that was real, that counts, we are all witnessing it together.

At the time, it never felt strange. It felt useful. It felt like communication. It felt like I was making the world clearer.

Because clarity is a big part of parenting a child who experiences the world differently. You’re constantly trying to translate invisible processes into visible signals. You’re trying to make success legible.

And applause is legible.

It’s immediate. It’s unambiguous. It says “yes” in a language that doesn’t require interpretation.

So we used it.

A lot.

But here’s the thing I only started to notice later, in the quieter gaps between moments.

My child doesn’t just respond to the applause.

He waits for it.

Not in a performative way. Not in a seeking attention way. In a completion way.

As if the act itself is not fully finished until the signal arrives.

And that’s where something shifted for me — not suddenly, but slowly, like noticing a background noise you’ve lived with for years.

Because I realised that what I had been calling encouragement might also be functioning as something else entirely.

A kind of completion cue.

A signal that doesn’t just celebrate success, but defines it.

And once you see that, you can’t entirely unsee it.

There’s a particular kind of pause now that I recognise in him. He finishes something and stops, just for a fraction of a second. Not uncertain, exactly. More like… waiting for confirmation that reality has acknowledged what just happened.

And I find myself noticing my own response inside that pause.

Do I clap immediately, as I always have?

Do I wait?

Do I let silence sit there and see what it does?

And in that moment, I become aware of something slightly uncomfortable: I am now part of the system I am observing.

This is the strange thing about parenting — especially parenting a child who relies on external cues to navigate understanding. You don’t just teach behaviours. You build languages. And then those languages start to exist independently of your intention.

What began as encouragement can quietly become structure.

What began as support can become rhythm.

What began as helping can become choreography.

I don’t think this is something I “did wrong.” That isn’t quite the feeling. It’s more subtle than that. More ambiguous.

It’s the feeling of realising that something you thought was optional has become part of how the world is understood in your home.

And once that realisation arrives, it brings a slightly uncomfortable question with it:

If I stop clapping, does the moment still complete itself?

Or have I become the punctuation mark at the end of every action?

There are days when I experiment with that question in small ways.

I pause a second longer than usual.

I soften the response.

Sometimes I don’t respond immediately at all, just to see what happens in the space that opens up.

And what I notice isn’t confusion or distress in any dramatic sense.

It’s more like a search. A brief scan for the missing signal. A checking of the air.

And then, often, I still clap.

Because I understand what the clap is doing. It isn’t just praise. It’s orientation. It’s confirmation. It’s a way of saying: you did it, and I see it, and it is complete.

But now I also see the cost of that clarity, which is that clarity can become dependency if you’re not careful about how it’s learned.

And that’s where I get stuck. Not in guilt, but in awareness. In the strange position of being both the person who helped build a system and the person who is now noticing it operating.

While writing this, I realised something about our home that I hadn’t fully named before.

What I thought of as encouragement has, in practice, become part of how my child understands completion — a signal in the loop between us. Not because that was the intention, but because repetition turns communication into structure.

And that realisation didn’t feel like a judgement. It felt like a shift in visibility.

Like suddenly seeing the outline of something you’ve been walking through every day.

It made me pause and wonder not just about my own experience, but about how often this happens quietly in other homes too. Not in the dramatic sense. Not in the “we created a dependency” sense. But in the small, repeated ways we teach each other how to recognise completion.

How we learn what counts.

How we know when to stop.

How we understand that something is finished.

Because sometimes we think we are just encouraging. And sometimes, without meaning to, we become the signal that tells someone the moment is complete.

So… apparently I’m not coping correctly.

Which is interesting, because I thought I was just… living my life.

But no.

There seems to be a right way to react to certain situations, and if you don’t follow the emotional script properly, people get… unsettled.

And in my case, I have a disabled child—which, as it turns out, comes with a very specific storyline that I was apparently supposed to stick to. When I applied for the job as special needs parent, my agent failed to provide me with the screenplay.

There’s an expectation. There’s a tone. There’s… a vibe. And I seem to have missed it completely.

Because from what I can gather, the expected reaction is something along the lines of: struggle, grief, quiet overwhelm, maybe a soft-focus montage of me staring out a window while processing everything.

And listen—fair enough. That is a reality for a lot of people.

But the confusion seems to come from the fact that… I’m okay. Like, genuinely. Not in a “she’s clearly suppressing something” way. Not in a “this will all come crashing down in six months” way. Just… okay. And that seems to make people deeply uncomfortable. Because when you don’t match the expected emotional tone, people start trying to… correct it. Gently. Politely. Slightly concerned. You’ll get things like: “Are you sure you’re dealing with everything?”

…yes.

“Have you thought about talking to someone?” I mean, I’ve talked to a lot of people. None of them seem qualified, but we’ve covered ground. Or my personal favourite: “You’re very strong.” Which sounds like a compliment, but often feels like: “this doesn’t match what I would expect, so I’m going to label it strength instead of questioning it further.”

And then there’s the subtle suggestion—sometimes not even that subtle—that maybe I’m… avoiding it. That I’m hiding behind the day-to-day. That I’m so busy managing everything that I haven’t actually processed it. Which is always fascinating to me, because… I didn’t realise processing something had to be a lifelong public performance.

Like, at some point… I dealt with it. Not in a dramatic, cinematic, breakthrough moment. Just… over time. In real life. In between appointments and paperwork and trying to remember why I walked into a room. And I think this is the bit that gets lost. Because people are very comfortable with visible struggle. It makes sense. It fits the narrative. It’s recognisable. But quiet acceptance? Just getting on with it? That seems to throw people off completely.

Personally, I enjoy seeing them unsettled… (cue nervous laughter) And I don’t actually think this is just about me.

I think we do this all the time. We decide how someone should feel about something… and then when they don’t match that, we get a bit… suspicious. Like: “Are you sure you’re okay?” And you’re like: “…was I supposed to not be?” You see it everywhere. Someone handles something well, and instead of people being relieved, there’s this slight confusion. Like you’ve skipped a step. Like you’ve gone off-script. And I think when it comes to having a disabled child, the script is just… stronger. Heavier. There’s this unspoken belief that you should be carrying something visibly difficult at all times. And if you’re not… then maybe you’re not doing it properly.

But here’s the thing. Functioning well doesn’t mean I don’t understand the reality. Being okay doesn’t mean I haven’t been through it. And just because I’m not performing it in a way that’s recognisable… doesn’t mean it hasn’t happened.

I’m not avoiding my life. I’m living it. Very efficiently, I might add. I’m not in denial… I’m scheduling things. And I think sometimes what makes people uncomfortable is not that you’re struggling… it’s that you’re not struggling in the way they expected you to.

Because if they were in your position, they imagine they would feel a certain way. And when you don’t reflect that back to them… it unsettles the whole picture. So the easiest explanation becomes: “Maybe she just hasn’t dealt with it yet.” Which is a very neat way of restoring the storyline.

But maybe… maybe the storyline is just wrong. Maybe some people do fall apart. Maybe some people take years to process. Maybe some people need therapy, support, space—all of it. And maybe some people… quietly, gradually, without announcing it… deal with something, accept it, and then carry on.

And I think the problem isn’t that I’m not coping. I think the problem is… I’m not coping in a way that makes other people comfortable. Which, to be honest… sounds like a them issue.

And I’m already fully booked.

Its not a lifestyle. It’s a mild narrative crisis in homeware form.

I need to start by saying I don’t believe my salt lamp has powers. I’m not one of those people who thinks it’s secretly filtering the air or communicating with my ancestors or doing whatever the internet claims it does when you Google it at 1am. I’m rational enough to know it’s a glowing rock. A warm, slightly damp glowing rock.

And yet.

And yet it is, in a deeply unofficial capacity, holding me together.

Not emotionally curing me. Not fixing my life. Just… quietly existing in a corner of my house like a very low-stakes lighthouse saying, “We are still here. No one has been fully consumed by chaos yet.” Which, honestly, feels like a win most days.

Because the thing is, I think we’ve all started building lives out of objects that don’t actually do anything, but feel like they mean something. Not in a grand spiritual way. In a “if this lamp is on, I am technically a person who has their life in order” kind of way.

I have a salt lamp. I also have a kettle that I put on the stove. Yes. I know. It takes about seven minutes longer than an electric kettle. Seven minutes in modern life is practically a Victorian hardship. I could boil water faster with friction and regret. And yet I use it anyway.

Because when it whistles, something happens in my brain. It’s not hydration. It’s not efficiency. It’s narrative. It’s sound. It’s drama. It says: something is happening now that requires attention, but not urgency.

Have I overcomplicated my life for a kettle? Yes. Do I care? No.

Because those seven minutes are not about boiling water. They are about becoming the kind of person who stands in a kitchen while something gently announces itself to the world.

And that’s the theme I keep coming back to: we are all surrounding ourselves with unnecessarily complicated things that bring us a very specific, slightly irrational kind of joy.

Not everything in life is optimised. Some things are just… felt.

Like my salt lamp. Which I turn on at night like I’m initiating a very low-budget transformation sequence. The room goes orange. The chaos of the day gets slightly softer at the edges. Nothing has actually changed, but my nervous system gets the message: “we are transitioning now.”

And I think that’s what a lot of this is really about. Not healing. Not fixing. Just signalling.

Because life doesn’t naturally come with clean transitions anymore. Everything is just… ongoing. Work bleeds into home. Rest bleeds into scrolling. You don’t finish the day so much as you slowly lose momentum and end up staring at something glowing in your hand wondering what you were doing five minutes ago.

So we create signals. We light the lamp. We put the kettle on. We sit in the same chair that apparently tells our brain it is safe to stop being a functional human for a while.

And then there are the other objects. The ones that are not calming, but strangely persistent.

Like the macramé table runner I’ve been halfway through for six months.

Will I use it? No.

Do I enjoy seeing it half finished? Also no.

It just exists. Hanging there like a craft project that lost its sense of direction somewhere around week two and never quite recovered. It’s not décor. It’s not clutter. It’s emotional ambience. It’s the physical manifestation of “I started something with enthusiasm and then had to go lie down for several months.”

And I think that’s important too. We don’t just live among intentional calming objects. We also live among unfinished things that quietly remind us we are human and therefore not particularly linear.

So in my house right now, I have a salt lamp for calm, a kettle for ritual, and a half-finished macramé table runner that represents unresolved ambition.

Am I a ‘closet witch’ – I think try to be… but much like my craft projects, the idea of it is much more enticing than actually committing to a life altering directional change before dinner. The intent is there, the stamina needs warming on the lamp first; or on the stove if I’m trying to be more efficient…

What I’m saying is that this ‘stuff’ is not a lifestyle. It is a mild narrative crisis in homeware form.

And maybe that’s the most honest version of adulthood I’ve come across so far. Not mastery. Not optimisation. Not everything in its place.

Just a collection of objects that help us feel slightly more like ourselves in between everything else asking us to be something else.

And if that means I need a glowing rock, a whistling kettle, and a string-based identity crisis hanging off a chair to get through the week… then honestly, that feels like a perfectly reasonable system. Not efficient. But understandable.

And some days, that’s more than enough.

I think in the middle of emotional regulation, boundary setting, and fighting over screen time… we forget about the small, strange, slightly unhinged moments that somehow become your everyday life.

“We don’t eat crayons.”

When would a normal person ever say that? How did we wake up one day and that became a completely reasonable sentence?

Along with:

“Please stop putting that in your nose.”

“No, the dog does not want to wear your shoes.”

“Yes, we do have to wear pants.”

And the worst part is… we don’t even question it anymore.

Do you remember the type of parent you were when your children were still imaginary? Clean, organised, calm. Raising a small von Trapp Family… who said “yes ma’am and never once had a visible booger. Those were simpler times.

I have two children, 11 and 10, and I regularly find myself shouting at them… at the house… at myself… I’m not entirely sure

But it’s usually something like: “I can only deal with one ridiculous person at a time, please.”

There’s a level of chaos in parenting that no one fully explains to you. You think its going to be busy, but, you don’t realise its going to be confusing.

You walk into a room and immediately forget why you are there. Not in a normal way, In a…something has happened here…. And I don’t have the full story kind of way.

And the objects? Why are there so many objects. None of them belong to you anymore, your house slowly fills up with things you don’t remember buying. Your amazon basket used to be copper pots and silk bedsheets, now is slime and magic erasers…. And somehow you are just expected to know where everything is . At all times.

And then are public moments where everything unravels… in front of other adults. And you are trying to remain calm… while internally, absolutely nothing is calm. You’re sweating, you’re negotiating, you’re making deals that you have no intention of keeping. Yeah, we’ll absolutely do that later… there is no later.

Sometimes all the ridiculousness can sting a bit… and it’s never just one person feeling it.

When you use the wrong plate. Or you cut the cheese. Or you didn’t cut the cheese. Or there was no cheese.

Who knew cheese could cause carry that level of emotional weight? I’m fairly sure there are relationships out there that didn’t survive cheese.

And then somehow, in the middle of all of that chaos, they hug you like you’re the best thing that’s ever happened to them. And you just stand there thinking… I don’t really know what just happened… but I’m going to take the hug.

We find ourselves saying things like: “Why are you naked?” “That is not a snack.” “We cannot bring the rock to bed.” And we say it so calmly… like this is just a completely normal way to spend your day.  Unreasonable things become normal. Eating cold food. Going to the bathroom with an audience. Celebrating silence like it’s a luxury item. and hot coffee…. What happened to hot coffee? And at some point, this just becomes your baseline.

And maybe that’s the most ridiculous part of all. Not the milestones. Not the big emotional moments. But the in-between. The slightly chaotic, slightly absurd, completely ordinary days. … that’s where most of life is actually happening.

Because one day, this won’t be your normal anymore. You won’t be asked to look at something every 30 seconds. Or explain why we don’t eat toothpaste. And I don’t think we’ll miss the chaos… But we might miss the version of life where everything felt this alive.

My 11 year old has stated moving into that space, she doesn’t need me the same way, she doesn’t want the cuddles or the hair strokes. Now she wants privacy, a closed bathroom door, a salmon bagel instead of heart shaped sandwiches. Her friends are her audience now and I’ve been gently reassigned… to something closer to a bank manager

Its easy to take these unhinged moments for granted because we’re focus on the ‘big’ things. We get so busy raising our children and forget to ‘be’ with them. We move through the chaos sometimes without really noticing it.

And every now and then you catch a glimpse of yourself in a mirror, or a window. Holding something random, covered in something questionable… and you just think: how did I get here.

So if today felt a bit ridiculous… you’re probably right where you’re supposed to be.