Erica Barlow is an English expat who, having had enough of SAD, settled for the warmer shores/better coffee of Sydney four years ago. Now mum to two-year-old Anton and five-month-old Nuria, she divides her time between writing, teaching English and hanging out with her wee family. She rarely gets time to relax but if she did, she wouldn't have half as much to write about...
As a waitress, I thought children were the pits. Now, as karma would have it, I am often that parent. My two-year-old son is not that quiet in cafes. He does not eat tidily and he gets ants in his pants within two minutes of sitting down. Our pram takes up more space than I would like. How times have changed.
The day before Good Friday, my vaguely productive afternoon was cut short by a phone call from my son's daycare: he is coughing wildly; please come and take him home. Sure enough, my son's coughing fits sounded like a hurried conversation between a walrus and an old donkey.
I remember being struck, even as a kid, by how rude I thought it was that anyone would openly feel the need to disapprove of your choice, whether that same name belonged to some imbecile they once knew or whether it just wasn't their cup of tea.