Mummyfried

Every day, I push a boulder up a hill. It’s shaped like my daughter — brilliant, sensitive, misunderstood. But I’m not pushing her. I’m pushing the weight of judgment, bureaucracy, and the constant need to prove she belongs. She was bullied again. The more it happens, the more she retreats, becoming “weird” in their eyes. And now the school says she should go to a special school. Bullshit. They don’t want to support her — they want to pass her on. We’ve changed schools before. A kind but clueless principal shut the door. I had high hopes for this one, but here we are. I’m heartbroken and angry. At the same time, I’m searching for a therapist who sees her, not just as a case file or a checklist. This is someone’s life — not a 9 to 5. Your words and your choices shape her happiness. I’m not asking for the answer I want. I’m asking you to look at my daughter and see the brilliance she carries. The fire, the sparkle, the potential. Neurotypical kids need a break, not a shove. ...

The gender drought has officially broken.  No, I am not dating. But the Mummyfried household moved in a male - and we're all hopelessly in love. Each in our own way. He's demanding, exhausting, loves unconditionally, eats constantly, sleeps constantly, and poops wherever he pleases. We have welcomed a puppy into the fold. Mr. Milo. And yes, I feel like a toddler in a candy store: thrilled but clueless. This furry little tornado spins through the house on FULL CYCLE. Despite the cute ads, online puppy training courses have been ignored. Instead, I'm trawling the internet for free puppy tips while imagining the vet rolling his eyes with every phone call. But here's my truth bomb: I'm not paying someone to teach me how to train my dog when I can wing it. How hard can it be? (Cue ominous music.) Miss Tween-soon-to-be-Teen—adores Milo. She's all heart-eyes and giggles. Until it's time to pick up his "presents." That's where the romance fades. My pho...

I met a girl some years ago who told me she hated February. She thought it was a wasteful month—too few weekends, silly changes every four years, and the older you get, the more complex its grip seems to tighten. It’s the month of Aquarius moving into Pisces—water, water, drowning everything away. The month specifically allocated to romantic love—a ridiculous, cruel notion when relationships fail, people are desperate for love (or sex), and during a water month, most are going through a love drought.  Every February I think of this girl and agree with her sentiment.  February is a wasteful month. And yet, my first love, my firstborn, was born in February, so I am forced to recognize it. It's the month you need to start functioning again because the New Year hangover is over, and January's festive glow has worn off—reality sets in. And so has my need to blog. 2025 rolled in with all the grace of stepping into a giant pile of dog shit. Slippery, stinky, ugly—with the end result ...