Anchor Baby – the audio

When I get back to my car after our first session with our new couples’ therapist, I have a parking ticket.I have parked on the street, in downtown Fort Wayne, where there are actually quite a lot of car parks. There is not, however, a lot of clarity as to who has the right to park in said car parks, so I almost always opt to park on the street.This is not, I should add, my first parking ticket. When I lived in Dublin, I would run – nay, sprint – to my car to avoid going over on my paid parking. I’d fallen afoul of the clampers more than once, and paid the (literal) price; by the time I moved to the US, I had a healthy phobia of overstaying my parking. Anchor Baby is a reader-supported publication. To receive new posts and support my work, consider becoming a free or paid subscriber.But in downtown Fort Wayne, where parking never costs more than $2, a parking ticket is $10. If I overstay my parking, I just think… oh well. I’d be paying that for 10 minutes in the Trinity Street Car Park in Dublin city centre. What’s a tenner for the convenience of parking right around the corner from where I’m going, and not having to go back to my car to feed the meter? (This, I know, is an incredibly privileged position to take, and possibly also a very stupid one, coming from someone who’s in an astonishing amount of debt. BUT LET’S NOT DWELL ON THAT.) The thing is, on this balmy, loud – you don’t know loud until you’ve walked around Fort Wayne in cicada season – August evening, I know I paid my parking, feeding the meter until it told me I’d reached the limit, not of payment but of paid-parking-time. That is to say, after 5pm in Fort Wayne, on-street parking is free. I should not have been fined; I did everything I was supposed to do! To add insult to injury, my parking fine is $20, not $10; I appear to have broken some kind of rule I don’t understand, at least judging by the ticket, which says “OPPOSITE SIDE VIOLATION”. What does this mean, I wonder, looking around to see if there are any signs on the opposite side of the road that tell me I shouldn’t be parking here. This “looking around” is a learned behaviour, not an innate one; on a previous occasion, I received a parking ticket (an affordable $10 that time) for parking opposite a work site, where there were, to be fair, multiple signs telling people that, while the work was going on, they couldn’t park on this street.Sometimes I feel as though I walk aound with blinkers on, seeing only the things I want to see (attractive men and my phone screen, mostly), ignoring everything that doesn’t suit or would inconvenience me, in even the most minor of ways. It is, let me tell you, quite a nice way to live.(This skill of mine will come back to haunt us shortly.)I wonder about why I got this parking ticket for approximately 7 seconds, then I tuck it away in my handbag, file it under “things to worry about later” (suddenly wondering if I should create a Note on my phone of “things to worry about later”, because filing them away in my mental filing cabinet is… less useful than you’d think), and drive home.In my defense, I have a lot to think about. I went into our first couples therapy appointment feeling cautiously optimistic about what we could achieve if we gained some better communication skills, but I’ve emerged feeling stressed and anxious, as though the divide between our modes of engaging with the world, and one another, is perhaps more of a chasm than a crack, and might never be bridged. So it’s fair to say that the parking ticket is, truly, the least of my worries. I tell Brandin about it when I get home. He – a man who has, to my knowledge, never got a parking ticket in his life – rolls his eyes, asks, “how does this keep happening you?” I tell him, honestly, that I have no idea. “I paid my parking up to 5pm!” I protest. I show him the ticket; he reads through it. “Did you park opposite a work site?” he asks – proof that I’m not the only one who had this question. “Not to my knowledge?!” I say, genuinely baffled. We move on to other things: dinner, bathtime, bedtime. The usual routine. The parking ticket is back in my handbag. I do not, in fact, worry about it later. I forget it exists.Until, of course, the following week, when I drive downtown for our therapy appointment and drive on to the same street I parked on last week (a creature of habit). I decide to turn on to another street this time, not trusting the space I occupied last week. It’s free, again, but who’s to say I wouldn’t get another ticket this week?! I still don’t know why I got last week’s ticket! As I exit my car and lock the door (with the key, because the fob ran out of battery about a year ago and – ADHD things, apparently – I haven’t got around to replacing it), I spot a police officer a few feet from me, in the direction I’m walking (so I have to stroll past him), and I decide to get over my general fear of the police and ask him, as he will surely know, why I incurred this extortionate parking fine.As I approach, I notice that he’s using some kind of brush to clean up his utility-slash-gun-belt thing. This action is comforting to me somehow. Look at him there, polishing up his little uniform. This does not seem like an intimidating man. (Is it misogynistic to feel comforted by the sight of a man doing a little in-public tidying up?!)“Excuse me?” I say. I can’t bring myself to say “sir” or “officer”; I’m too Irish for that. “Yes, ma’am?” he replies. (NOT Irish.) “Could you help me figure out why I got a parking ticket, please?” I ask him. “Absolutely!” he says. He is very enthusiastic about this project.I tell him about my situation. I parked over here – I point – last week. I paid up to 5pm. When I got back to my car (I do not tell him about couples therapy, although I feel like it, because maybe he’d feel sorry for me if I did), I had a parking ticket. I can’t figure out why! He looks confused. That is a valid parking space. It has a meter (I fed the meter). “Do you have the parking ticket on you?” he asks. I start to dig around in my ludicrously capacious handbag. “Maybe?” I tell him. He smiles indulgently at me, a silly woman with a too-big bag. I emerge, mere moments later, triumphant, with the ticket in hand. I feel like Grandpa Joe when he finds the golden ticket. Only short of doing a wee jig. “Let me see this,” he says, and begins to read through the ticket slowly, painstakingly, taking each line in turn. I bet he’s the kind of man who walks up and down every aisle in the supermarket, I think (but do not say). “Ah,” he says. (By jove, I think he’s got it!) “See here?” He points at the line – OPPOSITE SIDE VIOLATION – and nods. There. You see? I don’t see. I must look as flummoxed as I feel, because he then does me the courtesy of explaining it. “You parked facing the wrong way, on the opposite side of the road,” he says. The flummoxation does not clear from my visage, obviously, as he tries again. “You have to park facing the same direction as the traffic on that side of the road.”Anchor Baby is a reader-supported publication. To receive new posts and support my work, consider becoming a free or paid subscriber.It’s as though the scene before us – cars, lots of them, parked up and down in rows – has gone from black and white to technicolour. I look around. I see that each and every car – bar one (ahem) – is parked in the exact same direction as the traffic would be going on that side of the road. How have I never noticed this before?! Is this… is this a trick? An early (or late) April Fool’s? Is this for real?! He hands me back the ticket. He’s done with me now. Mystery solved. I hesitate. “So are you telling me…” I start, slowly, then turn to point at my car, “that, if that was my car, parked right there” (the only car, you can imagine, facing the opposite direction to the traffic on the same side as it is parked) “I should probably flip it around?” He laughs again, then. “Yes,” he says. “You probably should.” When I get back to my car, I think about driving around the block, and coming back up in the opposite direction, rather than doing a painstaking six-point turn here and there, something that could, I worry, also be against the law.Then, despite the fact that he’s been very nice; he cares about his appearance; he helped solve my mystery (take that, Starlee Kine), I think to myself, ACAB, and also, I’ll be damned if I’m going to go out of my way to appease him, and I get into my car (unlock it with the key, which takes longer than I’d like it to), start the engine, leave my seatbelt off (ACAB! ACAB!) and turn it around right there in the middle of the street. It’s around about turn number four that I can see over to where he was standing, polishing, and that it dawns on me that he’s walked away, unconcerned with however many more traffic violations I’m about to indulge in. (This stings.) What also stings is that I’ve lived here for six years now, and never once have I noticed that all of the cars parked on the side of the road are facing the same direction. Furthermore, I’ve never ever thought to myself, oh, I should probably do the same. If nothing else, I’m no sheep. Except when it comes to fashion trends. This is a public episode. If you'd like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit rosemarymaccabe.substack.com/subscribe

In honour of Hayden Panettiere, I’ve donated $100 to the Whaleman Foundation; and in honour of Hayden Panettiere, Britney Spears, Lindsay Clancy, and all of the many, many women who are failed by society and the system when it comes to maternal mental health, I’ve donated $100 to the Maternal Mental Health Leadership Alliance.Anchor Baby is a reader-supported publication. To receive new posts and support my work, consider becoming a free or paid subscriber.I woke up to pee at 4.11am last night – since having kids, I can’t sleep through the night without waking to pee, so honestly they’d better not end up being Republicans or none of this will have been worth it – and brought my phone to the bathroom, which is one of my top three worst habits. I like to check Instagram, to see if anyone’s sent me any mean messages; then I look at my emails, God knows why because all I ever get are solicitations to spend money (I mean… I KNOW WHY, because I’m always dying to spend some money); then I play Royal Match for a few minutes, just in case my brain isn’t wide awake yet – I need to make it as difficult as possible to fall back to sleep when I finally wipe and stand and wash and get back under the covers, manoeuvring my body in around the cat.This morning, I didn’t get past Instagram, where I saw this post from the New York Times (deeply problematic coverage of the Israeli genocide in Gaza aside, one of the very few mainstream US news publications I feel is in any way reliable). I’m not really one for waxing poetic about celebrity deaths. That feels like an odd sentence to write, but there are people out there who are ones for waxing poetic about celebrity deaths. Whenever a famous person shuffles off this mortal coil, I know where to go for wordy recitations about what, exactly, they contributed to the world, and how their contribution will echo through the ages. You know yourself. It’s just not my “thing”. (What is my thing? I couldn’t help but wonder. Rambling diary-style entries about my life in consumerism, with the odd piece of misandrist bigotry thrown in for good measure?)This morning – maybe it was the hour, the time that exists in that kind of liminal space between sleeping and waking – I felt, honestly, a type of grief I’ve never imagined feeling for someone I’ve never met, someone I knew relatively little about. Hayden Panettiere was 36 years old when, on a hot afternoon in Greenville, South Carolina, a friend called 911 to report having found her unresponsive and in cardiac arrest. She was pronounced dead at the scene.Thanks for reading Anchor Baby! This post is public so feel free to share it.I was a big fan of the TV show, Heroes, in which Panettiere starred as cheerleader Claire Bennet, who discovers she’s impervious to harm. Her survival becomes a central tenet of the show, as Masi Oka’s time travelling Hiro Nakamura imparts the crucial message to Milo Ventimiglia’s Peter Petrelli: “Save the cheerleader, save the world.” I can’t stop thinking about that phrase, in terms of Panettiere’s untimely death (36! way too young). A child star who got her “big break” in the soap opera One Life to Live at the age of four, Panettiere is yet another woman who was chewed up and, rather than spat out, swallowed whole, by Hollywood. She would go on to star both in Heroes and in Nashville (also worth a watch, even if – and I know this is blasphemy – Connie Britton’s Rayna James becomes painfully earnest and worthy about halfway through season one, and never recovers), and to struggle, publicly, with severe postpartum depression following the birth of her daughter, Kaya, in 2014, with then-fiancé, former professional boxer Wladimir Klitschko (50; they met in 2009, when Panettiere was 19 and Klitschko was 33).Following her daughter’s traumatic birth – she suffered a postpartum hemorrhage and, according to news sources, required seven blood transfusions and a life-saving operation to save her life – Panettiere suffered from severe PPD, which then led to her becoming addicted to alcohol and opioids.Three years later, Klitschko and Panettiere would break up, followed that same year by the pair’s highly publicised decision to give sole custody to Klitschko, who would eventually move back to his native Ukraine with their daughter. (Today, they live in Kyiv, where Klitschko enlisted in Ukraine’s territorial reserve army in February of 2022, when Russia declared its “special military operation" in the country, a war that remains ongoing.)It’s easy, sometimes, to ascribe meaning to people’s deaths – and lives – in ways that are dramatic, exaggerated or borderline ridiculous. But somehow, Panettiere’s death – the absolute failure of the system and structures around her to help, protect, and shelter her – could be read as a damning indictment of the world at large. We could, at any stage, have saved the cheerleader. We didn’t.Hers is a descent that feels, instead inexorable. She was a child star who became incredibly successful as a teenager; then, a young mother, suffering from postpartum depression; later, losing both her fiancé and her child, and subsequently sliding into substance abuse. She would later meet Brian Hickerson, a man who would go on to be arrested (and convicted) for assaulting her.“I am prepared to do my part to make sure this man never hurts anyone again,” she told People in 2020, following Hickerson’s arrest, but the pair were on and off again up to the day before her death, when they flew to South Carolina from LA.That she died in the middle of another highly publicised case involving the failure of a system – and society at large – to support another mother whose postpartum period was marred by mental illness and what appear to be exhaustive efforts to get help for said illness feels somehow significant. (Lindsay Clancy, the Boston-area mother charged with murdering her three young children in 2023, suffered from postpartum psychosis, a very different illness to that documented by Panettiere, but it’s fair to say that the system failed them both.) In Panettiere’s case, it’s clear that her public profile had a major impact on her perceived ability to get help. She spoke about not wanting to call 911 when she was abused by Hickerson, because of the publicity that would surround her; is it fair to assume that decisions made around her addiction, and treatment (or lack thereof) for said addiction, were made with the same considerations in mind? It’s difficult, too, not to think of Britney Spears, whose very public breakdown, in February of 2007, occurred when her second child was just five months old (her first was 17 months old). In Spears’ own memoir, The Woman in Me, released in 2023, she wrote about being beside herself with grief following the death of her aunt that January, and suffering from postpartum depression following the births of her sons. Her marriage had broken down that November, two months after she gave birth, and resulted in an increase in the already-intense media scrutiny which saw her being stalked by paparazzi 24/7; who doesn’t remember footage of the 25-year-old Spears sitting in a cafe, pregnant, crying, holding her then-eight-month-old?There are so many moments at which we, as a society, failed these women – and so many women, worldwide, who suffer from postpartum depression or psychosis or both, whose stories haven’t ever been, and perhaps won’t ever be, told – that it’s almost impossible to pinpoint the moment. But it does feel as though there should have been one: a moment when the paparazzi, hounding Britney Spears as she drove around LA in her wedges, could have chosen to give her a break; a moment when someone could have (should have?) told Panettiere to take a year, or two, after the birth of her daughter (she was in the midst of the third season of Nashville when her daughter was born, a gruelling production schedule that filmed for nine months of each year); several moments when Lindsay Clancy could have been given the intensive support she so desperately needed (and asked for). Like I said, I just feel so f*****g sad – about Hayden Panettiere, dead at 36 (and her parents, who have now lost both of their children, at horrifying, unimaginably young ages); about Britney Spears, and what we, as a society, do to women who soar too high, too young, and too unencumbered; about Lindsay Clancy, whose life has been destroyed by something (someone) she could never have hoped to control. We could have saved the cheerleader. (We should have saved the cheerleader.) This is a public episode. If you'd like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit rosemarymaccabe.substack.com/subscribe

Let me tell you some things I am sick of. Rain. It’s been raining for about three days straight which, to the Irish among you, is nothing, I know. But in the winter, us Hoosiers (Indiana residents, no one knows why) have to endure months upon months of freezing cold, such cold that the snow – which falls in abundance during these months – doesn’t melt, and car parks all over the place end up piled high with filthy mounds of snow-turned-to-ice, and there is truly no respite from this cold and this snow, and sometimes it snows past April into May, and the one compensation we get for this is that the summer, at least, is hot, and dry. So. I’m sick of the rain. I’m sick of men. I keep seeing the joke that men should have to start their lives in prison and work their way out and it doesn’t really seem like a joke to me? (Except not my angel baby boys, they’re fine. So maybe “not all men” is accurate. How about this: all men who don’t live in my house.) Anchor Baby is a reader-supported publication. To receive new posts and support my work, consider becoming a free or paid subscriber.The other day, I sat in a cafe doing my work and a man sat down at the counter and started to tell people – people he didn’t know, at least not that I could tell – that “knowledge isn’t the only thing that goes into our decision making” at a volume that implied he was rehearsing for a TED talk and I just thought, guillotine. I’m sure, if given the option, he’d choose prison over certain death (but I’ve been wrong before). It would be nice if there were women-only hours in cafes, and bars, and libraries. Sometimes, men sit beside me, and I think, please don’t talk to me, and then, mere minutes later, I think, why hasn’t he tried to talk to me? Is it because I’m over 40? Is it because my boobs look terrible in this top? What if he hasn’t even looked at my boobs? Is it because I have a resting b***h face? I should smile at him. Then I think, no, I definitely shouldn’t smile at him. But my traitor brain has already had the first thought and already I feel like a simp for the patriarchy, a wolf in feminist’s clothing.Maybe I’m just sick of my own brain. I’m sick of being told what to do by men I don’t know, which has been happening a lot this past week. (Gosh, I wonder why?!) To be perfectly fair, there have been women telling me what to do, too. Somehow, that rankles less; the internalised misogyny is hard to get away from, sometimes, quite aside from which, women spend so much of their lives considering all avenues, carefully manoeuvering their way around other people’s feelings, managing the emotions of their partners and their children and their partner’s children (and their partner’s parents) and their friends and their friend’s partners and and and… they’re allowed to get it wrong sometimes. But men* have no such excuse. They’ve been at the top of the pecking order for so long that they have no excuse for making the wrong choice. Jail first, remember?All week, men have been telling me to be quiet, to go away, or both, but in far less polite terms. Today, a man came into my Instagram comments and called me “mate”; a few exchanges later, when I responded in kind, “good job not engaging with a single point, mate”, he said, “I’m not your mate”. Can they… hear themselves? Read themselves? What happens in those brains of theirs? He started out asking a question I’d already answered, many times over; why didn’t I “come out” and make my “accusations” about Glen Hansard before he died? As if defamation law doesn’t exist; as if those who know don’t know that Hansard was extraordinarily litigious (in a way that feels very anti-Irish, by the way); as if it’s really easy to accuse someone of something and not be made small, or poor, or criminalised (or all three) as a result. I’m never more patient than I am when I’m in the middle of a social media firestorm, so I answered him, repeating all of the above, despite having repeated it many times already, in the same comment thread; he stated (erroneously; men love to be loudly wrong, in my experience) that “defamation exists when someone dies mate” (wrong), that “his family can sue you” (wrong), that “you were all too worried about career repercussions, not lawsuits” (also wrong). I’m sorry, sir, what career repercussions do you think I would have incurred, had I spoken out about Glen Hansard’s proclivities while he was still alive? I mean, it might have been hard to have a career from prison, although, had he sued me, I would’ve been rendered bankrupt, and I actually think bankruptcy would be good for my subscriber numbers. People love a rags-to-riches story, almost as much as they love to see a broke person make bad purchasing decisions, and I’m very good at that last bit. I told him I “couldn’t give a s**t about the impact on my career of calling out powrful men who are also creepy, pedophilic pieces of s**t, but I’ve been threatened with lawsuits enough times to know that it’s not always possible” and then I asked, “what is it you think you’re fixing by trying to silence women speaking out about abusers, though?”His response? “Keep yapping.” Anchor Baby is a reader-supported publication. To receive new posts and support my work, consider becoming a free or paid subscriber.All of this – the reaction to the “revelations” (sometimes we need a revelation, amirite) about Glen Hansard – has really activated me, I must confess. I am really sick of men telling me why, exactly, I chose to speak out about this; telling me I’m money-hungry (lol) and don’t care about the friends and family of Glen Hansard, who are grieving (timing is a big issue with these people); telling me that I’m making this up, that I’m trying to destroy a man’s reputation for no reason; telling me that I’m a failed journalist and pathetic loser who self-describes as a “content creator” and is, therefore, a loser and an idiot.You’d probably be sick of this, too. But the reaction has also made me think, wow, this is necessary. We need to speak up more about the terrible behaviour of powerful men. We need to push back more against men who tell us to shut up or sit down or be small, and honestly, when I talk about men, here, I’m not even talking about men in terms of biology or anatomy or gender identity I’m talking about patriarchy, and the tools of same, the people who feel as though we have roles in life that are tied to gender and that we shouldn’t stray from those roles lest we disturb Elton John’s great circle of life, or some such ridiculousness. Those are the “men” I’m talking about (and therefore I’m talking about some women, too).The idea of patriarchy; the idea of gender roles; the strict, rigid confines of masculinity and femininity and women’s roles and men’s roles and how those definitions inform our lives serve only to restrict and hurt and hinder not just women, by the way, but all of us. These are the rules that make men feel they can’t cry; these are the rules that make women think complaining makes them shrill; these are the rules that cause children to say they can’t wear this, or that; these are the rules that make it so that women are less likely to become CEOs and men are less likely to become teachers and women are more likely to feel competitive with other women because they are told, all along, that there’s not enough room at the top for more than one.These are the rules that keep us quiet and fearful and prevent us from being open and tender and honest, because we’re all too afraid of showing up in a role that’s not for us, in a way that’s not for us, in an identity that jars, that rankles, that rattles and shakes and scratches and doesn’t “fit”, and it all serves to make us – all of us – feel less free to be ourselves. It makes us all less free.So yeah, keep yapping, mate. Keep yapping. I know I’m going to.*Please, never forget that “men” is shorthand for cishet, white men and cishet white men, alone. Everyone else is great.Thanks for reading Anchor Baby! This post is public so feel free to share it. This is a public episode. If you'd like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit rosemarymaccabe.substack.com/subscribe

This post is supported by Hiya Health, a 100% made-for-kids vitamin brand developed with pediatricians and nutritionists. Save 50% on your first order at hiyahealth.com and get a FREE sunscreen with the code SUMMERSUN.1. A family calendarA few months ago, I was sent a Hearth Display family calendar*, with the promise that this was about to transform all of our lives. (The 2026 starter pack must be an ADHD diagnosis and a digital calendar, but I digress.) Transform our lives, it did not – at least, not really – but it did make a massive difference in terms of having the children do their chores without being asked, begged, cajoled, multiple times. There’s something in taking out the us of it all; sadly, I do suspect they’re more likely to do things when instructed by a piece of tech than when instructed by a parental figure. Still, who cares?! They’re actually doing the chores we used to have to beg them to do (even then, with a 50/50 success rate), as we assigned each one a points value within the calendar, points they can then “cash in” for things they want (we set up the rewards shelf to include things like Robux, McDonald’s, a trip to their favourite sushi restaurant, $20 to spend at the bookshop etc…), and aside from the fact that I truly dread the day they try to cash all of their points in, it’s been a great success.Anchor Baby is a reader-supported publication. To receive new posts and support my work, consider becoming a free or paid subscriber.2. White noise at nightI used to be a bit of a white noise skeptic, thinking it just another crutch to prevent one’s children from sleeping independently, but now that I have four of them, each of whom goes to bed at a different time and, crucially, is constitutionally unable (or unwilling?!) to be quiet when their younger sibling is abed, I have found our white noise machines absolutely invaluable. The two littlest children have Hatch sound machines in their rooms; Atlas’ is the new Hatch Baby*, which has sleep stories (narrated by the moon, or a cat, his two favourites) while Roman has the rest of us drowned out by the Hatch Rest*, both of which have light as well as sound features. As for the rest of us, the Calm app is my new obsession (having had a lifetime membership for about five years now, I’ve just started using it). I like to listen to rain on a window at night time, or thunderstorm sounds, although I’m currently staying with my sister, and the thunder effect had the unfortunate result of rousing her from her bed in the middle of the night to look out at the lightning which was, obviously, nowhere to be seen. So you can infer: it’s very realistic.3. Sowing seeds in the minds of the older childrenThere’s nothing more relaxing – for me, you understand – than when some (or all) of my children have been plucked from my loving arms and taken out of the house, so that I may watch my shows or listen to my music or otherwise enjoy my house without being asked to make food or wash clothes or find dinosaurs, missing among the 300 other dinosaurs in the dinosaur bin. This past week, I suggested to our older boys that they might want to go to see the new Spider-Man movie. “I’m sure your Dad would love to take you,” said I, cunningly, knowing that, once a seed has been sown, it will take root and flourish, never to be forgotten or neglected, at least not until the task has been completed. And so, off to the cinema they went (without me). I’m already thinking of next week’s seed. 4. Bedtime vitaminsFor a while there, we’d gone down the melatonin gummy route with the kids in an attempt to get them to bed at bedtime, rather than 90 minutes past bedtime, when each and every avenue of distraction had been exhausted. But the jury is most firmly out on the long-term safety of giving melatonin to children, so when Hiya Health sent us their Bedtime Essentials* I was only delighted to make the switch. I’m not sure if it’s a placebo effect – I firmly believe children to be disgustingly impressionable, not unlike myself – or if the combination of magnesium and chamomile is really sending them off to sleep, but I’ve learned not to question it when things work, and this works.I’ve also managed to get two of our kids, including Atlas, whose diet is basically cheese, meaning he’s the one who most needs greens, to take daily “chocolate shakes” in the form of the Daily Greens + Superfoods* powder, which is alleviating a lot of my guilt over his diet.5. Forcing the children to choose their clothes the night beforeIn the moment of forcing them to do this – “go on, get your clothes out, no, not in the morning, right now please, yes, right now” – this is no fun, and has caused more than one argument. But we’re finally getting to a place of acceptance, and the way the morning is far less stressful now… This is probably, actually, my top tip to improve family life and reduce stress in the mornings, already a stressful time trying to get everyone out the door on time and with everything they need.6. Childcare!!!Okay, this might be obvious, but taking a break from having childcare – we moved house in December and I decided to just see how we did if I was the full-time stay-at-home parent alongside having a pretty much full-time job and guess what?! WE DIDN’T DO GREAT – showed me just how important it is for me to be able to leave the house without my children every now and then. From this week on, with Atlas starting back at school, we’ll have full-time childcare, but for the last few weeks, we enlisted the help of our older boys’ Mum to mind the boys three days a week, and we also got their granddad to come over one morning a week and when I tell you I felt like I could finally breathe again, I’m ot exaggerating. If you can at all, please, enlist a friend or family member to help you out, even if all they can manage is an hour a week. Because we all deserve to have that time to breathe or shower or stare at our phones without having to answer endless questions or listen to a (tiny, adorable, adored) voice asking “Mom? Mammy? Mam? Mum?” over and over again. 7. Physical activity (for the children okay; leave me alone!!!)A few months before we moved house, our trampoline fell afoul of a heavy gust of wind, collided with our fence and ended up in our neighborhood pond. It was eventually retrieved with the help of a neighbour, some ratchet straps and Brandin’s truck, but one of the legs was bent, meaning it took us a while after we moved to order the new leg and reassemble it. And when I tell you I’m now raging at us for the delay, I’m not over-egging it. I know people are very divided about trampolines, and concerned about the injury risk – and while that is a very real concern (although apparently we did choose the world’s safest trampoline), I feel like, if we ran a cost-benefit analysis, we’d still come out on the pro side. Our kids will honestly spend hours jumping around outside on the trampoline – the older boys practice flips and WWE moves (questionable), while the littles run around and practice landing on their bums and balancing on one leg (also questionable) and it’s all so cute and wholesome! Not a screen in sight! 8. Making friends with the neighboursAnother wholesome activity – and, granted, not one that’s available to everyone (my childhood was spent bemoaning my parents’ decision to buy a house in the middle of nowhere, when all I wanted was to live in an estate where I could bazz around with my mates) – befriending our next door neighbours is one of the best things we’ve done. Along with the trampoline, seeing the neighbour’s son outside is the number one best way to get Atlas up off the couch and outside in the fresh air, and seeing them play in the sandpit or at the water table or with the myriad outdoor toys in ours or our neighbours’ garages is just the cutest thing. 9. Bulk buying snacksIf there’s one phrase guaranteed to send me into a fit of rage, it is “there’s nothing to eeeeeat”, said, almost always, by a child who is standing, at that second, in front of an array of things they could, in fact, be eating. It’s almost as irritating to me as “I’m bored”, the ultimate non-problem (oh, to be bored! what a luxury!).Anyway, the only way I’ve managed to solve this – and of course I’ll still hear that dreaded phrase every once in a while – is by bulk buying snacks in Costco and telling them that they can have one snack of their choice between each meal. (Otherwise, they can have fruit, cheese or yogurt, because snacks are expensive and we’re not made of money.)Current favourites include Nutella snack packs (although, annoyingly, two of our children like the breadsticks and the other will only eat the pretzels, while Roman can’t see anyone eating a Nutella snack pack or he loses his mind entirely and we can’t just give him one because he ends up with Nutella everywhere), apple sauce packets and veggie straws (ranch flavoured, so gross).10. Searching “Nuuly” on AnthropologieOkay, this is only stress-relieving for me, but as the household manager (unwilling) and most important member of the household (clearly), being able to buy otherwise expensive clothes at a mega discount relieves some of my own stress, okay?! Anyway, I recently discovered, thanks to my friend L, that if you search “Nuuly” on Anthropologie.com*, you find previously-rented items at a major discount (e.g. Citizens of Humanity jeans reduced from $260 to $60). I can’t guarantee how great the condition of the pieces will be (they’re esentially pre-owned / pre-worn), but at that hefty a discount*, can you really complain?!Thanks for reading Anchor Baby! This post is public so feel free to share it.This post is supported by Hiya Health, a 100% made-for-kids vitamin brand developed with pediatricians and nutritionists. Save 50% on your first order at hiyahealth.com and get a FREE sunscreen with the code SUMMERSUN.*These are affiliate links. If you click through and buy something, I’ll make a small commission. It won’t cost you anything extra. This is a public episode. If you'd like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit rosemarymaccabe.substack.com/subscribe

Content warning: This piece contains reference to sexual assault. It will not be suitable for all readers or listeners. First (always), protect your own peace. xo (Normal service – ie, money diaries! – will resume soon, I promise.)In the early months of 2017, the year I turned 32, I wrote a piece about a sexual assault I had experienced – suffered? endured? unsure of the terminology which, I’m sure, has to change to fit the wearer – in my college years.I titled it, “Why I Didn’t Report My Rapist”. You can read it, in full, at this footnote.The headline I’d chosen was with two important aspects in mind: firstly, I wanted it to be clear, from the off, what I was writing about, so that anyone who chose to click through was doing so knowingly. Secondly, as someone who had been publishing her writing online for a decade by then, it was chosen to get clicks. Of course it was. I wasn’t trying to be sensationalist, necessarily, but anyone who publishes their work online and claims not to want as many people as possible to read it is lying or, at the very least, exercising willful ignorance.In the wake of its publication, there was a wide variety of responses. Some – the accusation that the headline was clickbait, for one – weren’t exactly shocking. Others were. A well-known and then-popular podcast, fronted by two self-described “feminists”, released an entire episode in which, without naming me, they called my experience into question. They asked whether I was really raped, because I hadn’t kicked or screamed; because I had simply stopped saying anything; because I’d let him into my bed, not for the first time. Don’t these kinds of accusations, they asked, hurt men? They would later retract the episode, and made an apology “for it”, although it would be years before they would apologise to me directly.Anchor Baby is a reader-supported publication. To receive new posts and support my work, consider becoming a free or paid subscriber.I was horrified, at the time, by their questions – but, as I think about it now, a year later, they were the same questions I’d asked myself. Was it really rape-rape, if there was no violence? I had no scratches, no bruises, no skin beneath my fingernails. Was it really rape-rape, if the man in question didn’t realise that’s what it was? Was it really rape-rape, if I’d slept with him before? Was I harming other women by categorising my assault (was it assault at all?!) with theirs, when they – so many women, whose stories we read in headlines all the time – had suffered so much more than I had? This wasn’t the only assault I would suffer in my life. Of course it wasn’t; according to the comprehensive Central Statistics Office (CSO) Sexual Violence Survey, 52% of women in Ireland have experienced some form of sexual violence (including non-contact abuse, harassment, assault, or rape) in their lifetime. In a Dublin bar one night, I was surrounded by a group of young men, pints in hand. One of them reached out and groped my breast; his friends laughed. I laughed, too (what was the alternative?), then moved out of their trap and back to my own group of friends. I didn’t tell them what had happened; it felt significant, but also like something I was making a big deal out of. In another Dublin bar, another man-with-pint asked if my breasts were real. It was a rude question, but I was young and potentially more carefree than I am now (potentially! lol) and so I laughed it off. He reached out and gave them a rough squeeze, then laughed, too, and walked away. That time, I did tell a male friend, who immediately tried to find the man in question. “I’ll f*****g kill him,” he told me. Male violence begetting male violence. A third incident: in a Galway bar this time, walking up – or down, I’m not sure (“why aren’t you sure? Could you be misremembering?”) – a man reached his hand up the back of my (short…) skirt and inside my underwear, touching my flesh. I didn’t even react quickly enough to give him a shove; we were carried off in the throngs going up (or down) and away from one another.A fourth: I punched a man in the face for grabbing my breast once, then twice, refusing to stop even when I told him to, pushed him away. A bouncer found me within minutes and asked, “Did you just punch someone in the face?” I told him yes; he’d grabbed me, and I’d told him to stop, he’d done it again, so I’d hit him. “Well,” he said, “there were better ways to handle that.” He walked away before I could ask what they were. Please, sir, that feels like something I need to know.A survey by the Dublin Rape Crisis Centre reveals that “a staggering 71% of victims did not report the incident(s) to the Gardaí; 70% did not seek medical treatment following the experience and 59% did not seek counselling or support services”. These figures are likely to be higher; a lot of women don’t realise they’ve been assaulted until days, months, years after the fact, if even then. And when it comes to grooming, things are even more complicated. According to research by RAINN, “Many women do not realize they have been groomed because the process is slow, subtle, and disguised as care, love, or mentorship. Groomers build deep trust by fulfilling emotional needs, making the manipulation feel like a special connection rather than a threat.”In response to the piece I wrote this week about Glen Hansard’s problematic behaviour over the years (yes, I chose that headline carefully, too), hundreds, if not thousands, of people protested my assertions on the basis that his victims don’t believe themselves to be victims. This belies a fundamental misunderstanding of how grooming works, and the effect it has on victims. Not to mention the fact that, when a man confesses to falling in love with a child, the important part of the story is not how that child feels about him, at the time or even years later, when he or she is an adult.There are myriad reasons why any woman might choose not to report her assault, and for the avoidance of any doubt: that is her right. She is not under any obligation to speak to anyone about anything unless and until she feels ready.And while people frequently talk about how important it is to keep these predators off the streets, make no mistake: the onus there is on the pepetrators themselves, the people who knew (and know) about their behaviour, and the authorities, who need to find a way to better support victims and ensure their safety throughout the process, because right now neither of those things is assured.I asked this week, on Instagram, for women to share with me – anonymously why they chose not to report their assaults. I used an anonymous question-asking app I’ve used before; I didn’t realise that it has a limit when it comes to how many responses you receive before it starts booting older answers off and into the unrecoverable ether. I tried to capture as many responses as I could, but I’m sorry if yours got lost. I’ve never got this many replies to anything I’ve ever shared, and they were hard to keep up with. Please know that I read every single one that I could. I believe you. I’m with you. I hate the man (and men, and women) who did this to you. I hope they rot in whatever hell exists out there for them. I hope you live the best life you can, and find a way to heal and be happy despite (and in spite of!) them. I believe you.Thanks for reading Anchor Baby! This post is public so feel free to share it.These responses have been copied and pasted and published as they were sent in to me. No edits have been made.I was 17, in shock and didn’t want to upset anyone. I’m 49 and still won’t walk in parks/closed off spaces alone.Fear of not being believed because previously I had had a lot of crushes/boyfriend’sIt was at a house party in my home so felt a sense of blame. Also fear of backlash from the friend group as he was popular.I was inebriated. I didn’t even know I had, had sex, only for the fact I was naked. I felt it was my stupidity that resulted in it happening.because it was one of my best friends brother at the end of a night out and my entire friend group would be destroyedAs a child, didn’t understand it. As a teenager, I fancied him despite being older than me. As an adult, he was my boss. 3 different men. Also, 2 cousins “tried” and I kicked them (was an older teen then)He was my partner at the time. I was scared of him and didn’t think anyone would believe me. I was afraid of what he would do to me if I ever told anyoneIt was my stepfather, my mother married him after he assaulted me, he went on to continue to assault and rape me after she died for almost ten years. His son was a Garda Sergeant and my stepfather was a retired school principal. No faith that I would be believed by anyone after the marriage happenedW my rape I never actually said no I just panicked and completely froze . I think this is really missunderstood- that fight/flight are nor the only responses and freeze and fawn are v common. It took months for me to even realise it was an assault and not a bad date bcos of freeze response.I was 10. I didn’t want my family to know. I didn’t want to keep going over it. It didn’t seem as big a thing then as I know it is now age 41The trauma of reporting/statements/court case and nothing happens to them anyway. Spend the time/money on therapy to heal yourself. Legal system no good 😢I also have a history of depression and knew this would be used against me somehow. And seeing how awful the legal process can be meant I never even considered reporting it. Didn’t want to have to relive it and have everything questioned to within inch of life. Thanks RosemaryWas on Erasmus, guy offered to give me a lift home- drove me somewhere else. I was scared but went along with it. I never reported as i had been a bit drunk and it would seem I allowed it to happen. Also I was in a foreign country.Because it was a friend and alcohol was takenHe worked in UCD and my dad said that the university would close ranks because it was just his word against mineStatutory rape. Was too scared to go through the process of reporting. Myself and my friends had been physically threatened after the “relationship” ended. Wanted him out of my life!Acceptance of what happened.GriefGuiltPeople pleasingImpact on other pplFall outVictim blamingExposingWhats the point?JudgementScapegoatHi Rosemary, i didnt report it years ago cause I was drunk and he was my friend. I felt I shouldn’t have gotten so drunk, he must have thought I was leading him on, it was a mess. It’s the shame of it.He was friend of my friend. My friend had said he had a gf. He told me they had split. Following morning woke me with SA, I pushed him away. He rang me a taxi as his gf was on the way. Thought it was my fault for believing him and had consensual sx beforehand so was ashamed of myselfI didn’t want our kids to know their dad was capable of doing that, and it only happened onceFelt like I wouldnt be listened to by the Gardai, and I downplayed it. I think it was sadly normalised at the time (early 2000s)It was a neighbours father and he rubbed my fanny through my trousers. I was 13 and knew it was wrong. His four daughters were there at the time and I was so stunned. I never really went to their house again if he was around. Never told anyone because I didn’t think I’d be believed and you are the first person I’ve ever told. He’s dead now but I always wondered had he done anything to his daughtersVictim shamingBecause everyone knew I fancied him so who would believe meI was a 14 yo lad, i worked in a pub at weekends collecting glasses, a drunk woman shoved her tongue down my mouth & slapped my ass in front of everyone, they all laughed, I quit the next day after i came in & a photo from the cctv of it was posted behind the bar, thats why i didnt report itI was 15. He was 31. He worked at a local swimming pool. His girlfriend was 19/20 and people would 100% have believed that I encouraged him to cheat on his girlfriend with me rather than what actually happened. Months of grooming in the lead up to it. I would have believed I was wrong, too.I got sexually assaulted by a friend of a friend at a house party 20 yrs ago. I had taken to bed, hadnt had any interaction with the guy that night or before. I woke up to him sexually asaulting me. I didnt tell anyone the extent to what happened as I was utterly convinced I wouldn’t be believed.I felt like i had put myself in that unsafe situation so couldnt say anythingHe was much older and got me alone at 16 in the daytime and I thought it was my fault such was the shame I carried for years. Took a lot of time for me to realise what had happened.Because I fully thought at the time I would not be believed. And that was perpetuated by the language and narrative around the brave women who reported their attackers both in society and media (in the 90s/00s)As a young teen, my best friend’s Dad, when I’d have to kiss his cheek st xmas or a bday, would turn his head at last second so he could kiss me on the lips. My mother later told me when she was out with him and others socially, she was returning to her seat & he had his open palm of his hand on itBecause I was married to him, another one was my boss… and because I didn’t trust the police and the system to operate in a way that my safety was garanteedHe is a neighbour,would open can of worms.I see him around most days.I was 15, he was 40.groomed me and lasted 3 years.Cant wait for him to die and never have to see him.My mum was abused by her brother when she was young. No one knew about it until our lives blew up, my Dad left and she shared her experiences of abuse with me. I’m stunned she survived. She’s now happily remarried and our lives are great. I won’t risk that by sharing my experience.1. I think I blamed myself , I thought initially I’d drank tooo much but I def think I was spiked , girls targeted myself and my friend who were out for a quiet drink and asked us if we wanted to go to a party after in the upstairs of a local house in south Dublin after a late night bar. 2. We’d not drank much but I woke up with someone on top of me in a mezzanine type cozy area up a stairs .. I managed to get him off me and got out and flagged a taxi , got home and was like a blood bath , went to women’s health for STI screening and they were great but I never reported it 3. Felt awful for years - I’m sure it’s happened to so many others and I should have reported but knew even next am that once I’d had a shower etc the evidence probably was limitedI was sexually assaulted by a then male friend in my own bed in my very own home after a party I held. I was drunk & sleepy. The “friend” figured it was an invitation. It was not. I was seeing his best mate at the time. I woke to find him on top of me, biting my breasts & fingering me. He got off me & left.I didn’t report it at the time because I was a mix of emotions....guilt, mortification, shame, rage, disbelief. I buried it deep down until it raises its head a couple of years ago. This time the rage was all encompassing.Family friend. I didnt want the further turmoil it would have caused in my life and my family’s lifeLast year. Pregnant. Twins. Married. 32 weeks, husband violently assaulted. Preeclampsia admitted. Elderly parents know. Complicated can’t leave. V well educated, both good jobs. Would never have believed I would be in this situation.Shame. Feeling as though I’m wrong, could be proved wrong, a slut, promiscuous. The idea of someone saying I’m lying. Reputation at the idea of someone telling stories about me. I’d prefer to take it to the grave than have the it kept alive during prosecution. My family knowing.He’s my best friends brother. It would devastate her.I did and a judge said she didn’t believe me even though all the evidence was there (the crime, breach of a protection order) oh and the judge was a woman. He got worse after that, sure he felt invincible. That day was probably the worst of my life.Because I think it would cause me more trauma ,going to court can take up to 5 years ,and I wanted to start my healing journeyLack of physical proof/marksThinking their behaviour was normal, expected, not a big deal, “it happens to everyone...”Also thinking it must have been MY fault, I must have done something.... ShameI didnt report SA when i was 16 because , it was my my aunts husband, i was ashsmed , embarrassed, thought no one would believe me, it was my fault , felt it would cause trouble in the extended family. Im 52 now , still get really sad for 16 yr old meI was 17 and had been drinking and he was the captain of the rugby team and even then I knew that nobody would believe me/care so I said nothing and developed a drug addiction that lasted years. I’m able to say what happened to me now but I’ve never once told anyone who he is cause of the fear.Abused by my brother 30yrs ago, how do you prove it?? Ive blocked alot of it out so dont remember majority of it. How do you report something youve no proof of and hardly rememberMy best friend’s mother passed away. Her dad was really down, and asked for help with a creative project which I offered, once a week in their kitchen. I came to see him as a second father, until he assaulted me and told me his dead wife sent me as an angel to be with him.A friend reported a man she invited to her apartment. Consented to oral sex but when it came to penetration she said no and in the moment he didnt take no for an answer and proceeded to force himself on her. It went to court and was dismissed because she had consented to oral sex.Thank you for doing this. I didn’t report an assault because I just didn’t want the thoughts of the event in my head. I was also concerned about disgracing the company where the man was employed (a somewhat charitable organisation that rely on their good name). I am sure the man was using this To his advantage. I believe he is retired now so somewhat hoping people are not still at risk.Nobody would believe it & in my mind I lead him on as I brought him back to my place. I said we weren’t going to have sex and I didn’t want to and he said don’t worry we are just hanging out but we had sex. It wasn’t violent or abusive but I said no and I didn’t want to. Is this rape? It’s my faultIt was my own fault and nobody would believe it.Because it would completely break my whole immediate family apart and Dad would die of shameI was 9 months pregnant and at my friends fathers funeral the afters in a hotel it was a particularly large funeral when I was leaving a man in his sixties literally fingered me from behind I hate that word but there is no other word to describe it…a very respected person in parish I wasn’t believedFear of hurting or losing people I love. Fearing being seen as overly dramatic or misunderstanding social cues even though his actions were forceful. Fear of my own anger.Honestly, at the time i knew it was yuck but i didnt know it was rape. Only now with a mature mind i see what it was , not sure i trust the system to report now if it even happened again but i would speak out and seek support.It was a family member and I was too afraid of what it would do to my family. I was also very young (10ish) so for a long time I didn’t even know what it was & felt I was somehow to blame? When I was old enough to realise, it felt like too much for me and I would still hate to rip my family apart.I was in disbelief that it could happen to a smart street wise girl (me). I was ashamed and embarrassed and convinced myself that I’m tough and I’ll get through this. If I turned back the clock I know I still wouldn’t report it as the legal system is not good enough for he said / she said cases.I was a child and felt ashamedBecause i was so drunk. Knew i didnt want anything to happen, had my period and a tampon in. I didnt even know he had gone there until he realised the tampon was in the way. I was way too drunk, he took advantage. I was embarassed. Trying to retrieve tampon was an ordeal 😵Because he was best friends with my best friend’s husband. And i felt it would put them in an uncomfortable position and ruin our friendship. I wasn’t positive they would believe me and didn’t want to risk it.Don’t consider myself as been raped.the narrative on my situation has changed in the 30 years since it happened and some people would argue now as to what sexual assault is. I was having sex with someone consensually, they took condom off, without my consent. Looking back I didn’t know it was so wrongFirst month living in Canada, one of the roomates. It was so coersive, alcohol was involved, I said no 20 times but because I didnt think I said it forcefully enough, I didnt think id done enough to prevent it and therefore how could I report it.I didn’t know what was happening when it was happening to meRe SA cases - I work in law and if my friend came to me and said I was SA’d by the rugby lads/GAA lads/Jason Da Rula’s entourage whatever and asked should she report, I would say no. As a feminist and activist, that is horrific but it is the truth. It’s too hard, the system is broken and it will break her. So if the perpatrator offers cash , take it , pay for therapy and recover and live your life well.What’s the point. Lot of drink had. Knew it would have caused so much drama. Wanted it forgotten immediatelyHe was a family friend and a neighbour next door so I was afraid of issues down the line and his family were also helping mine after my father died when I was 12.I’m a female guard.I was out socialising with 5+ other guards. All male.1 of them, 20 yrs my snr put his hand up my skirt, inside my underwear&essentially SA me. Lasted few secs.I pushed his hand away embarrassed. He did this multiple times. I didn’t share bc I didnt want to be THAT girl who causedBecause I thought it “didn’t count” and felt like it was “my fault” - a situation where I withdrew consent or didn’t consent for certain aspects (unprotected sex)Two families (related) would have been destroyed by me telling my story, and I couldn’t destroy all their lives and see their devastation. Sexually abused at age 9.I didn’t want to blow my world up.I was drunk with work colleagues and didn’t remember how I ended up in his bedBecause I was afraid I had caused it and I deserved itDrinking , wouldn’t be believed, friends not even believing ,small town ( so my life ruined if I did ) so many reasonsBecause the circumstances in which it happened there was a lot of fun and flirting & drink so why would anyone believe? Unsure if I really believe…maybe I wasn’t totally clear? plus really don’t want to cause an event or a situation.Shame that I put myself in a position where it could happen in the first place. And knowing it would be my word against hisWoke up to my ex trying to force ‘himself’ into my mouth,tried to diminish it at the time,needless to say i got out,never told anyone for agesI don’t really know why. Back then (15 years ago) it was normal behaviour, or acceptable behaviour, which now makes me feel so sad.Because he was in a position of power over me at work and I, as a junior, had no hope of being believed over himBecause surviving came before speaking.I buried it to cope.Afraid I was to blame even though I said no about 20timesWanted to forget it asap (I never forgot)Thought people would not believe me or that I was being foolishDidn’t want to relive itDidn’t want to be viewed as no craic or a dry shiteFelt ashamed and like people would blame me for drinking and think I played some part in instigating it despite the fact my drink was spiked and I ened up ni hospitalI didnt report childhood SA that I went through until I had a breakdown as an adult. I blocked it out until I was 19, and it took me intil 26 to fully report. I was in denial, and he was in me and my familys life until he fled the country when i was 21 due to a SA incident. When he fled, my family still defemded him so i felt huge guilt. Eventually i reported him to Tusla/ the Guards.I was SA’d in my sleep, woke to a stranger digitally penetrating me. I froze, literally until he stopped. I didnt report him because I fell asleep in his bed, drunk and high and felt it was my fault. I also didnt want my boyfriend to find out.Because I was so drunk I didn’t remember details and he was someone my friend was dating. I honestly just wanted to ignore it and pretend like the whole thing never happened because I didn’t want to lose my friend. She never found out and I just tried to avoid him as much as possible.Embarrassed, fear of upsetting family, fear of backlash/no one believing you.#1 i was 7yo. He was elderly neighbour. Didn’t report because I didn’t know the words. Only admitted it when I read his death notice. # friend of my mother. 13yo. He was pillar of community. # is/was a Garda. Self explanatory.I didn’t think anyone would believe me. Separate situation, I told parents when I was young maybe 7 about a family member that was inappropriate and it never dealt with.I was afraid i wouldn’t be believed. My family didn’t believe my drink was spiked (it most assuredly has been). I couldn’t quite believe it myself but it happe. I was so young and innocent that I didn’t even have the vocabulary to articulate or understand what had happened me. 1990s Ireland was s**tI thought it wasn’t ‘bad enough’ to report🚘So I’ve 2 separate stories about not reporting. I put a car so you can link them.When we were teenagers we didn’t even know we were being assaulted. We used to call it the pity/safety f**k. No we didn’t want it.They knew.But it was so much easier to give in than face the violence that might come 🚘 I was in a relationship with a married man. We were “exploring” BDSM (see exploiting me). I liked it for the most part. Told him some fantasies. Then he raped me in a car park because he said that’s what I said I’d like. Untrue but also not the point. I can’t report. Sure he’d say I asked for it. 🚘 and he’s married. I’d be setting my life on fire. Everyone would blame me. It was easier and safer for me to just try and leave the “relationship”. I couldn’t deal with the fallout 🚘 a man also put his hands inside my underwear as I was walking up the stairs in a club. Like between my Labia. 🚘last one. I am a nurse. I was walking down the hall with a box so my hands were full. A male nurse stepped out from a side room and slapped my arse. I said it to the boss and he said “ah go way girl, you loved it”. How could I report it then?I didnt report my SA as i was scared it would impact my career (he was older more established etc) also i had been drinking alcohol at this work event. He entered my hotel room at the conference having had a key made. I felt shame. He apologised by email. Wtf.Because who would have cared?Woke up to a ‘friend’ (who I’d never had a sexual relationship with) with their hand in my pants, I made such a fuss that other friends came in and told him how unacceptable it was. Didn’t take it further because at the time I was quite ‘promiscuous’, and also what would the point have been….Because the line between creepy, criminal and convictable is so blurred. Women surviving really severe assault rarely get justice so anyone with anything deemed less serious would absolutely never. Also, embarrassment and just wanting to forget about it and move on.My uncle (aunt’s husband) acted really weird, not inappropriate necessarily, but odd, with me about 20 years ago and I didn’t want to be responsible for ruining our entire family with accusations when there was no proof and it wasn’t concrete, just enough to make me uncomfortableOverwhelming feeling at first in a vunerable position! How do you prove? Self blame! Was it the clothes i was wearing? Does being friendly look like flirting? Shame it happened? Lack of emotional support to face it and backlash? Are women just sex toys? Effected me for life 😪Believing you did something to deserve it!People thinking your just looking for attention? Embarressing for anyine to know ot happened to you! People knowing it happened is not going to reverse the effects! Are we asking for it by dressing good and looking good?Abused by Uncle, didn’t report because afraid of family rejection, upheaval, chaosHe was friends with everyoneI would have been blamed for sleeping at a partyThere was no evidenceIn Dublin 40 year’s ago I was beaten to crap by ex husband. It was shameful then so I said nothing. Now I would 💯 if anyone laid a hand on me. No second chance.I was violently attacked by an ex who broke into my house while i was sleeping with a knife. I went to the Garda station to report it and the Garda wanted me to explain it at the desk witj other people waiting there. I walked out.I think for me it would make it bigger than it was, as in I’m coping better without everyone knowingAssaulted by a childhood friend while I slept. I didn’t want to embarrass him. I didn’t think I would be believed by others. Felt I’d be blamed for allowing him to sleep beside me after a night out. I still hate that I didn’t raise it with him. He moved abroad not long afterwards.Shame because I was drunk 😢I didn’t report the grooming, the rape & my abuser because in spite of being left with a feeling of shame, & knowing that something very wrong had happened to me, it took me years to fully realise & I just had no idea what to do. I didn’t think anyone would believe me either.My husband hit me once in a drunken argument, gave me a concussion and two black eyes as a result. He never did it before and hadn’t done it since. I didn’t tell a soul because I was embarrassed. That he did it & I forgave him. I didn’t report it because I didn’t want that trouble in my own house.Not enough evidence, my word against hisToo traumatic to go through it all again and not get a convictionI was raped as a child, by many men, my mam knew. When I was 16, I confronted her. She told me it was all my fault and she would have me arrested for lying! I believed her. I was very naive. She killed herself 3 years ago and I live with this, I’m now 61. I was raped and assaulted as an adult.As an adult I was assaulted by a man and had to prove I was on my period before he would stop. I called the Gard, they said he was such a good man in the community. How could I do that to his family?Mostly happened to me on nights out. I was always made feel that I put myself in that position of being assaulted. Also I was reared never to bring trouble to the door so reporting would definitely be a no go.My rape: I was blackout drunk, woke up to him inside me, somehow thought it was my fault for being so drunk. My abusive partner: He was so charming and nice to everyone else. I didnt think anyone would believe me.It was my 1st cousin and I didn’t want to hurt my dad or family with his (my cousins) actions. My dad and my aunt are very close!I went to a victim support counsellor and I was advise To consider if I had the capacity mentally and financially to fight this. I battled with this decision in the future but now that I am older I realise that she was right. I didn’t have the support network around me to survive going to the copRan into difficulties with gardai & doctor. It was 2004. Was told basically that it was too difficult to prove and to give up.I was 🍇 by cousin. I was 8 he was 15. Possible grooming also. Family have intimidated me into staying quiet about it. He’s also Garda Sergent now so chances are i would not be believed.I knew I would not survive it. I also believed that it was my fault for about 10 yearsBeing treated like the villain and dragging it out any further. No way I ever wanted to relive that never mind publicly in front of everyone in court if I would have been lucky enough to get that far. Also a massive fear of not being believed but trust me it happened I was there.The main reason I never reported domestic violence for both physical and verbal was that because I was afraid nobody would believe me and that I would lose access to our then 2 year old. He was the nice guy, the upstanding citizen, a real people person who went out of his way to help others! I was a stay at home mom from a broken family who felt thats all the love I deserved. When it got really bad I did report it and showed the cops my bruises . They showed up to our hse that evening to question him. Without my permission. Which made things a lot worse. He convinced them I was lying … now they believe me. But only after his life fell apart and I am now thriving. Even my free legal aid lawyer at the time was taking his side. I had to find a stronger one who saw through him. It was really really hard. But nobody wants to believe it.Was abused by my neighbour as a child. Embarrassed and never told my parents because of this embarrassment. Also my previous boss pinned me against a wall at a work night out. Put his hand up my skirt.. he is a very well known car dealer. He is a narcissist and a bully.I thought people would say it was my faultI was embarrassed. Years ago and I think differently now but I felt like I’d let myself get into the situation (I was seeing the guy when he raped me).He was in a position of power over me in the company. When I tried to report to HR they didn’t believe me so I never went further. Years later I had to be interviewed by him for my own job during a company restructure (different company) and he made me redundant.I didnt realise it was rape at the time, it wasn violent. Didnt happen down a dark alley. It was a partner.I repeatedly said no, he ignored, pushed my legs open and just did it. I didnt scream or run away. And when I finally did realise I had been raped it was too late to report and tbh I didnt think I would be believed.I was abused as a child and thought I could take the secret to the grave because they only harmed me. Also the shame of having to tell someone was too much. Then, 20 years later, the shame manifested into physical and psychological illness till I broke and had to share what happened.Once I shared the details with friends and family. They urged me to report this as it could have been done to someone else. That’s the only reason I reported it, to ensure it didn’t happen to anyone else or at least showed a repetitive nature of abuser1st time as child- Didn’t understand fully what had happened/that is was assault, until older. Although always knew/suspected wasn’t ok. 2nd time as adult-Victim blamed myself for being drunk, the shock, went away the next day and time passed so just “got on with it”Afraid my sexual choices would get brought up and go against meI was embarrassed as I was drunk there was implied consent the person took it further than I was comfortable. I was 15 and so were theyHi Rosemary, I did report it. It was by an ex and I never heard a word after. I was told not to follow it up from a lawyer because it could have negative effects on me but I guess that he was contacted because he stopped contacting me. It’s crazy for something so serious that it plays out like thisHe still lives in the same city as me. I can’t cope with going to the guards, having to give a statement and go through the whole process of a possible conviction- or lack there of. Choosing to put my health and energy back into myselfIf you were affected by any of the content in this essay, please reach out to help. Your local rape crisis centre is a good place to start. This is a public episode. If you'd like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit rosemarymaccabe.substack.com/subscribe

I’m in a cafe, “working”. That’s in inverted commas because I forgot to take my ADHD medication this morning, so now working looks a lot like scrolling the internet and chatting to my mates and wondering why I can’t seem to find any fun clothes right now that aren’t from Next. (Also searching for new kids’ clothes because kids’ clothes are so fun to buy but truly my children have more than enough clothes so what am I even doing?!)A woman has come in and sat across from me. She’s drinking an iced latte, which I suppose is a choice I understand, as it’s 30 degrees outside today (and it’s not even noon), but I’m just not an iced latte person, especially since I went on a GLP-1 and became someone who’s cold almost all of the time. (The only exception is when I’m sitting directly in the sun, like a snake.)She’s drinking her iced latte and she’s swaying from side to side and it’s kind of noticeable because it’s, you know, a kind of dramatic sway. And while I generally try not to stare at people in cafes, I look up and I realise she’s got a tiny baby in a Solly Baby wrap on her chest and suddenly the swaying makes sense. Anchor Baby is a reader-supported publication. To receive new posts and support my work, consider becoming a free or paid subscriber.I swayed for the first nine months of Roman’s life, mostly because I was wearing or holding him for 20 out of every 24 hours. But then I did it even when I wasn’t, because when you get in the rhythm of something it’s hard to get out. I’d find myself standing and swaying, or standing and rocking the buggy, or standing and tapping my arm because tapping his bum also seemed to soothe him and sometimes I was so tired I couldn’t quite figure out whether he was in the buggy or out, or in the wrap or out, and the risk of not swaying was much greater than the risk of swaying, just in case. When I was in it – in those heady, colicky days when he didn’t want to be put down at all, whether it was on someone or beside someone – I wished for very little other than for this time to be over, even though so many (well-meaning, I’m sure) arseholes would say things to you like, “just don’t wish the days away; they’ll go by so quickly!” and you’d think, yeah, with any f*****g luck they will, you dickhead. Why should I be forced to feel bad for wishing away a time in my life that is exhausting and draining and stressful?! And no matter how many people tell you that some babies just cry, and some babies just don’t like to be put down, and some babies just don’t sleep for long stretches (or even medium stretches), when you’re in it – in the mire of sleeplessness and aching shoulders and worry and holding your pee because when you sit down, even on the toilet, even for two minutes, the baby wakes up – it’s hard not to think there’s something wrong. Wrong with the baby, and wrong with whatever it is you’re doing (you can’t call it parenting or mothering, because those words imply correctness and, like I said, you’re definitely doing something wrong, because why else would your baby be crying non-stop?!). Just wrong. (She’s stopped swaying now and is eating a sandwich and seems not to be dropping crumbs on the baby which, honestly, is Olympic-level skill, right there, and I would tell her, except that I remember the time I went to the library with Atlas and Roman and Roman was crying and Atlas didn’t want to leave so he was running from me – and then started crying – and a woman came up and told me I was doing a good job and then I was crying, too.) It’s weird, though, how biology or our brains (or both?) work, because now, when I see a woman with a baby in a sling, I don’t really remember – not properly, not viscerally – the back pain or the exhaustion, I just remember the smell of Roman’s head and the feel of his soft little body cocooned against mine, and I think, not with any small amount of sadness (I wouldn’t go so far as to call it grief), I miss that. He’s 19 months old now and we don’t really cuddle much, unless the conditions are absolutely ideal: we must be sitting on the couch, in the evening, or right before nap time; he must have his little rag in hand, a burp cloth that’s turned into a comforting blankie by virtue of its always being present when I was breastfeeding, to mop up the excess milk that would inevitably drip down the side of his face; there must be nothing more exciting going on in the house, a condition that is more rare than ever now that we have kittens running around, kittens who are never more entertaining to him than when they’re being squashed, sat on, or some combination of both.He’s still nursing, before naps and bedtime if – and this is a big if – I’m in the house. When I’m not, he doesn’t really seem to miss me. He gets put in a long-sleeved onesie and zipped into a sleep sack and someone who’s not me holds him and rocks him and sings him a song or two, and he closes his eyes and sucks his thumb while the other hand holds his rag and rubs it over his eyes and his nose and his cheeks and, once those three things have happened, he’s ready to be put down and he rarely complains. When I’m there, the nursing takes the place of the singing – although I suppose I do sometimes sing to him while I’m nursing – and when he’s done nursing he replaces me with his thumb and he rolls away from me to indicate, “okay, now, I’m ready now”. When Atlas was his age, he would nurse all day long. We’d sit on the couch, side by side, and he’d start to rummage my top until it was up and the bra was down and he’d press his sticky little body up against mine with my boob in his mouth and he’d watch the TV while he nursed, his face slightly angled to the side, eyes firmly affixed on the screen. Sometimes, I’d have to gently tell him that I thought he’d had enough – usually around the time Dwayne Johnson says “well, honestly I could go on and on” (if you know, you know) – and he’d grumble a bit but he’d accept that, until, inevitably, an hour later, the boob would be back in the mouth again and he’d be happy, suckling away as he watched Moana for the hundredth time.Roman is a different child altogether. He has zero interest in my boobs – or in me, I suspect – except when he’s in his room, with the lights off, about to lay down for a nap. Even when he puts his hands up to be lifted, mouth open, saying “aah! aah!” which I could interpret as “up” but also could mean pretty much anything, as it’s the only sound he makes, the main way he communicates what he wants, no matter what that thing is, he is using me as a means to an end. He wants to get up to reach whatever contraband has caught his eye at any given moment: the remote, maybe, or the unsuspecting kitten, or the packet of grated cheese someone has left out on the counter, not remembering how quickly that cheese will disappear, 50% of it in the bellies of my small children, the other 50% on the floor, or in the crevices of the high chair (or both).His appeals to me – to be held or to get up or to get down or to get this or that – always feel like means to a different end. He is, as my friend C once remarked (about my dog, to be fair) “always on the take”. This doesn’t hurt my feelings (although perhaps that statement in itself is telling), but I do think it contributes to my sense that Roman’s and my relationship is somehow less close than my relationship with Atlas was, at the same age, and is now, as a result of that continuing closeness. Roman has recently started sleeping through the night, having, until about two weeks ago, been consistently waking up three times nightly to nurse (again, a perfunctory exercise). We decided we’d like to wean him, not just because I couldn’t remember the last time I slept a whole night through, but also because I have some upcoming travel as part of one of my new social media gigs, and I’d rather not have to bring my 19-month-old along. (There’s nothing I like more than a solo flight – several undisturbed hours in which to read my book.) When I told my husband that it was time, that we needed to night wean him which – because I couldn’t see another way to do it – would involve him going in to Roman whenever he woke up, instead of me, rocking or singing or soothing him back to sleep without the aid of nursing, he responded, “Well, that’s going to be very tough on me.” There have been a handful of moments in my marriage (thus far) that, I think, could have ended in justifiable homicide, and this was one of them. “The last four years,” I responded, “have been pretty tough on me too, you know.”“I do know!” he protested. “And I’m not denying that. I’m just saying this is going to be tough on me.” As it happens, it was tough on us both. For 10 days, Roman woke up twice or three times, a night, and cried – and when Brandin went in to calm him down, he cried harder, and when, eventually, he fell into a fitful sleep and Brandin tried to put him back down in his crib, he woke up and screamed.I’d told myself that the most important thing was not to give in, not to go into him – even though I lay awake in bed, listening to him crying, and found myself dying to go in, knowing that I had in my possession the thing that would stop his crying, that would put him back to sleep in an instant, that would make him feel loved and held and comforted, all at once, and sure, I thought to myself, what harm is it doing me? But, like I said, I have this travel coming up – and while I could, I suppose, bring him (free flights for under-twos, you know), there would then be the issue of what to do with him once we got there. It’s not like he’d be happy to sit on the floor and play with blocks while I went to meetings and, in any case, he can’t be within two feet of a keyboard or he loses his mind altogether, just dying to tap, tap, tap at the keys. So we toughed it out, and he’s now sleeping through the night, waking some mornings at 9.30am, even 10. He’s been unzipping his sleep sack and getting his legs out, although the arms are proving a greater challenge. I’m still nursing him before naps, when I’m there, and at bedtime (I’m almost always there) – but next weekend, I will go to the airport for a five-day work trip, and he’ll be left to fend for himself (or, rather, Brandin will be fending for them both). I don’t have a breast pump any more (I gave it away in a Facebook group for moms), so I won’t be pumping while I’m away; I do have a little vacuum pump I can stick on my boobs if and when they become uncomfortable, so I’ll pack that in my carry-on and hope for the best. When I get back, five days later, I won’t offer to nurse him again. As I say this, I feel immense guilt. I feel like I’m forcing him to grow up too fast, as though I’m severing this last link between us before he’s ready, because I just had to take this job, because I have to take this trip, because I need to feel as though my body is my own again, after almost half a decade of its being dedicated to someone else. (Two someone elses.) I’m prioritising my own health and happiness over his, and that feels wrong. (I’m doing mothering wrong, remember?) Atlas breastfed until he was two and a half, at which point I was pregnant with Roman and was too uncomfortable to carry on. Considering he’d been so attached to the boob, he adjusted well. Occasionally, now, he’ll come in while I’m nursing Roman to sleep and he’ll ask if he can have some milk, too, and I’ll say “sure”, but when he puts his mouth to my breast, it’s as if he’s forgotten what to do. He blows raspberries; we laugh. He goes back to whatever else he was doing.Anchor Baby is a reader-supported publication. To receive new posts and support my work, consider becoming a free or paid subscriber.In a way, it’s galling to me that neither of them will remember these months, years I gave over to their needs – although, as I write that, I suppose I had needs, too. I craved their closeness (even when I didn’t); breastfeeding releases oxytocin, which I could always do with more of; it gave me a great excuse to come home early, to give into my homebody tendencies, to turn down invitations I didn’t really want to accept, anyway. Things are different now. I no longer want to hide from the world (I don’t think I suffered from postpartum depression, but the depression that I’ve always suffered from has definitely been present throughout), and I yearn for a freedom that means being able to stay out even if it means missing bedtime. As an avid declutterer – sometimes as a sign, honestly, of my ailing mental health, which in the past has manifested as my divesting myself of every item of clothing that made me feel fun or as though I might ever have somewhere to go – I’m also very excited to throw all of my nursing bras in the bin (although that also feels wasteful; as I type this, I can’t help but wonder, could I not use them to make some keepsake bears?!). I recently invested in some grown-up bras – I own this Panache bra in two colours and it’s supportive and cute and keeps my boobs completely separated, which is important as, of late, I can’t bear anything to be touching them, even each other; I also own two of these Elomi bras, which also boast full bra separation and come in quite nice colours (in the battle of Elomi vs Panache I would say I feel like the Elomi is marginally more comfortable but the Panache gives a slightly nicer shape, which feels a manifestation of the eternal bra struggle) – and am looking forward to the day I can wear them without having to unfasten them from the back in order feed Roman to sleep (nursing in a non-nursing-specific bra is especially annoying because the boob I’m not nursing from often leaks, and unlike my trusty Target nursing bras, my glam bras are all handwash only).This all feels rather self-serving, and selfish, in the way that, I suspect, only women feel that prioritising their needs is selfish. I think, too, that this is a sense of guilt that is heavily emphasised by the Irish, a kind of don’t you love yourself insinuation that makes any decision based in what you, as an individual human being, want – rather than, say, what’s best for your kids, or your family, or your community in a more general sense – feel somehow dirty, or tainted. Anyway – here we are. I’m not taking Roman with me on my upcoming trip. And when I get back, I’m not going to offer him “milk?” at nap or bedtime any more. I’m not sure I’ll ever not feel a tinge of guilt at this decision, but I do know that, with time, that tinge will fade to an echo. The true irony of motherhood is that, while two pregnancies and the subsequent sleep deprivation and stress have absolutely decimated my memory, and often my ability to remember the word I want to use, or the point I’m trying to make, that kind of maternal amnesia never strikes in a way that would be helpful. If there was a god, wouldn’t I forget all about these moments of guilt and shame and feelings of maternal inadequacy, instead of the names of women I’ve met half a dozen times (and quite like), or whether or not I’ve read this or that novel?! (Between this and the success of Mel Robbins, though, it’s clear that god does not exist. In this TED Talk I shall, etc.)Thanks for reading Anchor Baby! This post is public so feel free to share it. This is a public episode. If you'd like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit rosemarymaccabe.substack.com/subscribe

Yes, I’m still on my budget. In theory. Somehow, I’ve still managed to – and you’ll know this if you read my money diaries – spend a zillion dollars a week. Which really makes me feel like… why bother?! If the money gets spent either way, shouldn’t I just be buying all the things I want to buy?!?! (The answer is no.) Anyway, here are the things I’m not buying lately (although I really want to).Anchor Baby is a reader-supported publication. To receive new posts and support my work, consider becoming a free or paid subscriber.This Yellow Top by Essentiel Antwerp (€135 €94.50)Luckily, this one isn’t just hampered by my financial inadequacies; it’s sold out in all but size S, and though she be designed to be oversized, I always like to wear my oversized things as they are designed to be worn; that is to say, GIANT. Still, the colour of this top calls to me, as does almost everything on the Essentiel Antwerp site. Case in point: this incredible cardigan, reduced from €245 to €196. (Buy the yellow top in the US here.) Damson Madder’s Multi-Wear Myrtle Trench (€200 €83)If there’s one thing I can’t resist, it’s a bargain, and this is less than half-price! And if there’s a second thing I can’t resist, it’s an interesting / fun coat, and this is an interesting / fun coat! Still, the truth of the matter is, I very rarely wear coats here, except in the depths of winter, and then they must be down-lined winter coats. The in-between seasons – the time when the weather is cool enough for you to wear a coat like this – are just too short, and the rest of the time it’s either too hot or too cold for it. But if you live in Ireland, I feel like you’d get loads of wear out of this (and you’d look cool doing it…). I also love their Liu raincoat, but I truly can’t remember the last time I got caught in the rain here, so there would be no justifying that purchase whatsoever.Seminal x Lauren Emmet Dogs PJ set from Next (€34.50)Yes, these are described as PJs but honestly, ever since I started wearing my Hanna Anderssoon x Oeuf pyjamas (currently reduced from $150 to $51.79!!!) around the place, I’ve finally accepted the delightful truth: you can wear whatever you want, whenever you want, however you want, no matter what that item was originally intended to be worn as. I would be slightly worried about the (very short) length of these shorts, but I’d be willing to give it a go if I wasn’t on a strict budget. You know yourself. (Buy them in the US here.)Faherty’s Laidback Linen Pants from Evereve ($168 $134.99) I lately scratched my itch for a pair of dopamine-laden linen drawstring trousers when I found the Rails pants I’d been coveting in a downtown Fort Wayne boutique’s moving sale, but if I hadn’t, I would be seriously considering investing in these Faherty pants. They’re 100% linen, which means they’d be borderline sweat-proof, and even though I tend to avoid clothes I can’t throw in the dryer, I think I’d make an exception for these! Long-Sleeved Boat-Neck Top from H&M ($19.99)I can’t find this top on the Irish H&M site, but it’s probably just as well cos I’d be raging if you all got it and I didn’t. Do I think I’d also have to buy the blue shirt to go underneath it? Yes. Do I think I’d never ever wear that shirt except with that top? No, I don’t. Would that stop me?! NO IT WOULD NOT. Thanks for reading Anchor Baby! This post is public so feel free to share it.Toddler Balloon Pants from Hanna Andersson ($45 $31.50)More stripes – and more Hanna Andersson – here in the form of these adorable trousers, which I would absolutely love to buy for Roman, but won’t, because (a) he has more clothes than the rest of the family combined but also (b) he won’t be wearing trousers again until October. But if I lived in a more temperate climate I would be seriously considering buying these. Any Hanna Andersson stuff I’ve bought has lasted so well, and Roman is currently wearing several pairs of pyjamas that Atlas wore (a lot!) at his age, so I do feel like it’s a good brand to buy if you have a few kids you can hand things down to.Caroline Hirons’ Firm and Glow Kit ($160)Late last year, I invested in Caroline Hirons’ Kitmas kit; it cost £140, contained skincare worth £488, and while I have no idea whether or not it made any real difference to my skin, I do know that having this little twice-daily skincare routine just felt like a lovely way to spoil myself. Now, she’s come out with her latest drop, right as I’ve drained the last bit of my eye cream, and I’m very tempted… This latest kit is aimed at people who are worried about dehydration, loss of firmness (who isn’t!) and tired-looking skin, and contains five cult skincare products with a combined value of £324, being sold together – with a cute little kit bag – for £120. (My one complaint would be that not every kit needs an eye cream because, in my experience at least, any eye cream I’ve ever owned has lasted at least twice as long as any other product! Maybe I’m not using enough, I don’t know.) Ruggable x Jonathan Adler Venom Sapphire Rug ($299 $239.20)I want a cool runner for our entryway, and while I do – of course – need this runner to be cool and colourful and spark joy (lol), I also need it to be washable. Which is why I’ve been looking at Ruggable. Their Jonathan Adler collaboration is very much up my street – snakes! tigers! colour! – and this runner is seriously tempting me, especially as they’ve recently reconfigured their rugs so that you no longer need a rug pad + rug. This is an all-in-one machine washable runner that would look so cute in our house… (This may also be the ADHD talking but that picture above is making me think I should take a paintbrush and some black paint and start splashing it at my wall…)Varley’s Half-Zip Sweat ($148) and Matching Shorts ($98)Okay, I know these are a million dollars, but I’m here to give you some terrible news: Varley’s Doublesoft fabric is worth every single cent. I was recently at The Find downtown in Fort Wayne, a boutique that was having a massive moving sale (yes, that’s where I found my beloved Rails trousers), and I tried on some Varley stuff and when I tell you it felt like butter… I’m not exaggerating. They didn’t have the right sizes for me (these run small!), but if they had I’m almost positive I would have indulged. I’ll be keeping an eye on any and all chances to buy Varley on sale from now until the day I die.And that’s all, folks! Am I getting less covetous? Have I just stumbled upon fewer cute things? (Could it be both?!) Anchor Baby is a reader-supported publication. To receive new posts and support my work, consider becoming a free or paid subscriber. This is a public episode. If you'd like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit rosemarymaccabe.substack.com/subscribe

5-star discoveries from my travels* noise-cancelling headphones for the plane. Life-CHANGING. * James by Percival Everett* this IKEA chair* Foster by Claire Keegan (no, I haven’t seen the film but now want to)* flying to London for a day on your own (10/10, even on Ryanair)* Marks & Spencer’s mid-rise barrel-leg jeans, which are just €39 and excellent (I now own three pairs)* Aimee Connolly’s Second Skin dewy foundation (I also bought the Liquid Lights blush in Real Rosy and that’s gorgeous too)* The Pitt, which I watched on the plane home because I just couldn’t commit to a movie with my children writhing around on my lap non-stop. I know I’m late on this one but I’m now fully invested.* this remix of Lily Allen’s Beg for Me featuring Jade, which I have on repeatAnchor Baby is a reader-supported publication. To receive new posts and support my work, consider becoming a free or paid subscriber.men in groupsOn a wet Thursday night on our recent trip to Ireland, we have dinner in Boco on Bolton Street. It’s a pizza restaurant that opened a decade ago in what used to be known as Bodkins, the regular haunt of (I’m told) DIT Bolton St students (the artist formerly known as DIT Bolton St, now known as one of many TU Dublins). I used to go there a lot, when I lived a mere 10 minutes’ walk away. At a certain time of year, when wild garlic was in season – I was never sure when, and to look it up now would feel like cheating – they’d have the most incredible wild garlic pesto pizza. I was always surprised and delighted to see it make its annual appearance on the menu. That I never missed it speaks to just how often I used to go there. This time, I’m here with my American husband and our four (American) children. We’re coming off a long day: Avoca with my parents for breakfast; a scenic-but-long drive to Avondale afterwards, to walk high up in the trees and then to climb up the viewing tower that houses a large, cylindrical slide (down which, of course, we slid); a less-scenic-but-no-less-long drive to the Red Cow Luas afterwards; a rather fractious Luas ride with a four-year-old who insisted he didn’t need to hold the handrail and, as a result, fell over every single time the Luas stopped and every single time it started again; a mad dash around Penneys to find the shorts we’d stupidly promised we’d buy our older sons (not for the Irish weather, you understand, but for back home in the Midwest). So when we barrel through the doors of what used to be called Bodkins, out of a rain shower that’s come – as they have all come, and will continue to come, throughout our trip – out of nowhere, we’re hardly anticipating the absolute throng of men that greets us, upon opening the doors. As our eyes adjust to the dim light inside the building, we find ourselves – all six of us, as well as the very bulky and old-fashioned buggy my Mum has been hoarding in her downstairs utility room for God knows how long – surrounded by men with pints. There’s something about groups of men – three or more, usually – that immediately causes me to feel my breath catch in my throat, my heart stutter momentarily as I assess the potential level of risk. This, in itself, is a fool’s errand: there is no predicting which group of men will ignore you, and which will make a “funny joke” aimed in your direction; which man will decide to usher you past him with a hand on your waist, your hip, the upper edge of your buttock; which of these men will gaze, lasciviously, at your cleavage, or your lips, or your bum, as you attempt to shuffle past. I have been – as, I suspect, most women have been – assaulted by men in groups, as their friends looked on. I have been sexually harrassed by men in groups, as their friends joined in. I have been stroked and pushed and mocked and belittled by men in groups, enough times that a gathering of any significant number of men induces a modicum of terror, no matter how irrational that may feel in any given moment (early evening on a Thursday, with my husband and family, in the bright lights of a bar-restaurant). As one of these (many, many) men catches my eyes, I ask him, “what’s going on?” It seems unusual that this vast quantity of men would have gathered without a single woman in attendance. “A retirement!” he tells me, happily. I think of the time I went with a friend to the retirement of a colleague of her dad’s, who was a member of An Garda Síochána. We were too young to drink, which makes that more than 23 years ago; I suspect that a similar retirement party today would have a different gender split, although not, I’m sure, anywhere near 50/50. As we’re being seated, because I’m deeply nosy – when I’m feeling like flattering myself, I think of this as a curiosity, “no wonder I studied journalism” etc – I ask our waitress where this person is retiring from, “that hires only men”? She gives a wry smile. “TU Dublin,” she says. “But there are two women over there.” She nods a head in the direction of a far corner. “They work in admin.” There is one exception to the rule that has me feeling deeply suspicious, distrusting and downright displeased at the sight of men in groups, and it is men in groups having breakfast. In Fort Wayne, this is a pretty common occurrence at any of the city’s many diners and breakfast restaurants. I’ve seen so many groups of men in their eighties and nineties, eating eggs and shooting the s**t, in Cosmos and Spyros and Sun Rise Cafe and Liberty Diner and Joanne’s and I’m sure I’m missing some because I’ve seen them every single time I’ve had breakfast in this city. And the thing is, I’m sure they are no less chauvinistic than their younger, more spritely counterparts. They’re probably more, honestly; theirs is not a generation, in my experience, that thinks hard about how their “compliments” might make women feel unsafe. (They probably think Harvey Weinstein’s victims “knew what they were getting into”.)But that’s the thing, isn’t it? They don’t know any better. They get a pass. The rest of them… well. I wouldn’t go quite so far as to say that men shouldn’t be legally allowed to assemble in groups of three-plus (wouldn’t I?!) but I do think compulsory lessons on consent in schools would go a way towards helping men understand that, sometimes, their mere presence makes women uncomfortable. And I mean, if you’re reading this thinking, I’m one of the good ones… I’ve never done any of that stuff, I’m thrilled for you. But if you’re really one of the good ones, you’ll be working hard to feel empathy and compassion for women’s lived experiences – and you might even be trying to have these conversations with your male friends, to help them understand, too. TL;DR I’ll always choose the bear.the digital ageWe’ve bought a digital upright piano. I can’t bring myself to call it a keyboard (which is probably just as well now that I’ve Googled it; they’re not, in fact, the same thing).I grew up with a piano in the house. My Mum would regularly sit down to play Christmas carols, or the first half of Für Elise, while my sister would accompany herself while she practiced her operatic singing. I completed my grade examinations up to seventh, then gave up, inexplicably, one level before I could say I’d “completed” the grades. I was never a huge fan of the classical music I’d have to choose from in the National Academy grade books; instead, I loved to play songs from Coldplay’s first two albums; Goodbye My Lover by James Blunt; Vanessa Carlton’s A Thousand Miles; Once Upon a Dream from Disney’s Sleeping Beauty, the 1959 version. At one stage, I tried my hand at Alicia Keys’ Piano & I, but never got past the opening, Beethoven’s Piano Sonata No. 4, which, in hindsight, I should’ve just learned to play instead. (I did not do the talky bits.)When family came over at Christmas, someone would, inevitably, sit down at the piano and begin accompanying us as we sang Christmas carols as a group. Everyone in my family loves a good sing-song, although I always found it slightly embarrassing in its performative wholesomeness, or at least the perception that it was in some way performative. Looking back on it now, I don’t think it was. Our family is just very musical. One of my cousins taught himself to play piano, not in the way that he can now play Let It Be from memory, but in the way that he can now play almost anything, including very impressive jazz piano. (Yes, his proficiency was – and is – annoying to me, as I struggled through learning my scales.) The idea of buying a digital piano was, at first, horrifying to me – a snob, clearly. It felt a bit like the same sensation I got when the ebook reader was invented, and I insisted that I would never succumb; when streaming started to replace buying music, and I maintained that I’d never give up my CDs. You get the gist – with the notable exception of Twitter, I’ve never been an early adopter. I did buy a handful of CDs recently, when the car I was then driving had a CD player, but neither Bluetooth nor an auxiliary input jack, meaning I couldn’t play music from my phone (where my streaming services live). Brand new, I bought Chappell Roan’s The Rise and Fall of a Midwest Princess. In a secondhand shop, I found a copy of James Taylor’s Sweet Baby James, alongside Phil Collins’ Hits, and Bjork’s Debut. I hunted down TLC’s Crazy Sexy Cool next, and Lauryn Hill’s The Miseducation of Lauryn Hill. I will die on the hill of telling you those five albums make up the perfect CD stack for any road trip. Maybe, if I were driving really far, I’d add the soundtrack to Baz Luhrmann’s Romeo & Juliet, and a Madonna album, probably Like a Prayer, which is my favourite Madonna album solely because it was the first album I ever owned. (This makes me sound kind of cool, but be under no illusions; the first concert I ever went to was fully seated, in the Point Theatre, headlined by The Corrs.)Anyway, all this is to say that I simply couldn’t – wouldn’t – consider buying a glorified keyboard, no matter how much like a piano it looked (or sounded). Instead, I’d asked my husband, for my 41st birthday, to hunt down a free-but-decent piano on Facebook Marketplace, and procure it for me. Asking for a free gift seems kind of humble, but anyone who’s ever tried transporting a piano will know that this task is actually borderline Herculean. It took weeks. This piano fell through. That piano was up a flight of stairs, and not worth the time and effort it would take to get it down in one piece. An aside: my Mum recently told us of a time my Dad decided to push a wardrobe down the stairs in their Kildare home, imagining, I’m sure, that it would slide right down like a pro skateboarder. Instead, it thunked and plunked and crashed right through the window at the bottom. My Dad, she recounted, stood wide-eyed and slightly mollified at the top of the stairs, one foot – the foot with which he had shoved the wardrobe – still slightly extended. “Oops,” he deadpanned. Anyway, we finally found a piano that looked decent and we borrowed a trailer and some caster wheels and enlisted the help of a friend and her husband and went to a stranger’s home at 3pm on a Sunday to pick it up. As it was lifted out the front door, the front left leg of the piano fell clean off, revealing a large, splintered segment of wood, where the leg and the piano had cleaved from one another, something that was caused by, surely, a loud, noticeable, collision.“Oh my goodness,” said the piano’s erstwhile owner (a Facebook marketplace piano shifts ownership the moment you touch it, in my book) as she ushered us out the door, me holding this errant piano leg while Brandin and our friend’s husband lifted the piano carefully on to the casters. I glanced at her with, I hope, a single eyebrow raised sardonically. (This is a high hope as I cannot raise my eyebrows independently of one another. Along with rolling my tongue, this physical shortcoming has been most vexing to me throughout my life.) It took about 30 minutes to load the piano on to the trailer. Between the broken leg and the sheer heft of it and the casters, which were helpful but also awkward to prop up in the right position beneath the base, it was all a bit Mr Bean – now that’s a show I would rewatch on repeat, and which, I’ve just learned, is available to watch on Amazon (in the US anyway; in Ireland, it seems to be available both on Amazon and on NOW). We got it home and in situ – in our downstairs entryway; the idea of bringing it up the stairs was immediately dismissed – with another 30 minutes’ worth of elbow grease, where two further issues, one expected and one not, presented themselves. Firstly, the piano was terribly out of tune. This is normal, with pianos that have been moved – especially in and out of a trailer, especially on and off casters, especially after years of sitting, unplayed and relatively unloved, in a house where (obviously) they’re prone to being bumped and banged and broken – and we’d known that we would, at some point, need to have the piano tuned, but I’d thought (perhaps naively?) that it would be playable, in the meantime. No such luck. The second issue was, and I’m not quite sure how to say this delicately, or non-judgmentally… that the piano stank. I’d been aware of a slight odour from the house, when we arrived to pick it up. It smelled a bit like – and here’s a very niche reference for those of you from Kildare North – Gogarty’s, the bric-a-brac shop on Naas Main Street, which was a treasure trove of toys and antiques and the most random things you never knew you wanted until you saw them, and also seemed to have approximately a dozen cats living in there, something that will, obviously, lend a space a very particular fragrance. If my parents had come home with this piano in 1995, I would have assumed, from my very first whiff of the ivories, that it had come directly from Gogarty’s that very day. I started to Google “piano cleaning”, along with “piano tuning”, quickly learning that there are specialists for the former as well as for the latter, and that a very basic clean-and-tune would be setting us back the guts of $600, an amount of money we didn’t – and don’t – have to spend, at least not on a piano. (Just moments ago I received an alert that we owe $1,500 for the tubes Roman had surgically inserted into his ears a few weeks ago, in a 10-minute procedure for which our insurance company already agreed to fork out $1,600, leaving us to pay the balance.)The piano sat in our entryway for several weeks. I attempted to play Für Elise on it, having printed out the sheet music; I tried to remember my Vanessa Carlton, the opening few bars of In My Place. It was a struggle, not just because I’m geriatric now and remember nothing (but song lyrics), but because, even when I was playing what looked like the right notes, it sounded nothing like it should. Our 13-year-old, who plays trumpet in his school’s marching band, was immediately a very enthusiastic pianist. He downloaded the sheet music for a selection of Panic! At the Disco songs and started to work, diligently, through them.I worried, when he started to play the trumpet, that we’d be subjected to hours of ear-splitting horror, but in fact, it’s the piano I should have been concerned about; I wanted to be encouraging, but there was simply no way you could listen to the notes coming from this untuned instrument of torture without gritting your teeth (and covering your ears). I’m someone who – I’m not sure if this will be a surprise or not – finds it very hard to make decisions. I would, in fact, happily outsource all decision-making (any volunteers?!) for the rest of my life. I struggled, throughout these weeks, to make a decision about this piano; should we keep it, invest the money in cleaning and tuning it, and run the risk that it’s actually just a piece of s**t anyway, and would need to be cleaned and tuned every six months? That seemed like an expensive decision. But what was the alternative? Should we try to find another free piano on Facebook Marketplace? Borrow a trailer and casters and enlist the help of a friend once more and show up and hope that it didn’t have a broken leg and wasn’t infused with the stench of cat pee? Pay $600 to have that piano cleaned and tuned, and then cross our fingers that it was semi-decent? I asked a relative who plays piano (and bassoon, interestingly) and is studying music, what he’d recommend. “You could get a digital piano,” he said, and I thought to myself, well, clearly he doesn’t know as much as I thought he did. But here’s the thing about ideas I immediately pooh-pooh: it doesn’t take long for me to come around. See also: wedge trainers (I owned three different pairs of those Isabel Marant wedge trainers at the time they were very cool, never wore them once, and sold each one on for a profit, as I am an entrepreneur), skinny jeans, barrel leg jeans (lol).It helped that our local music superstore, Sweetwater, had an offer on financing for the Yamaha digital piano I started looking at: pay it off over 36 months at 0% interest, meaning that, for a mere $56, paid monthly for three years, a beautiful digital piano (with built-in metronome! headphone jack! and never needing to be tuned!) could be ours. (Is this why I’m in so much debt?! Don’t answer that.)The biggest issue, then, was what to do with the old piano – you know, the one with the cat stank and the broken leg. Do we list it on Facebook Marketplace and pass our bad piano juju on to someone else? Do we scrap it? (I’ll skip to the good part: we decided to scrap it.) On a Friday evening, Brandin picked the new piano up on his way home from work, and once the children had gone to bed we decided to assemble it (forgetting, as we always do, that any kind of furniture assembly job we attempt to do together leads nowhere good). We wheeled the old piano – painstakingly, awkwardly – out the front door and placed it on the driveway, the plan being that we’d get someone to come and help us load it into Brandin’s truck the following morning. The piano assembly itself took longer than the promised 45 minutes, but neither of us shouted at the other, and only one of us got injured (Brandin, scraped by an errant staple, which later on would necessitate his cleaning the “wound” out with hydrogen peroxide – how, I asked him, have Irish people survived this long without immediately panicking about potentially dying thanks to being scraped with a rusty piece of metal? He didn’t answer me). The children were predictably nonplussed. In other unsurprising news, the old piano sat on the driveway for four days, undoubtedly enraging the neighbours (a perk). I suggested we let the boys take a baseball bat and a mallet to it, but that was immediately shot down as being “too dangerous”. (You may be surprised to hear this but I am, actually, the fun parent, despite my reputation as a feminist killjoy.) Still, Brandin failed to enlist a friend to help him, and so, on a Monday evening at 6pm, I walked out to the piano with a screwdriver and a dream, and we commenced its disassembly. Here’s the thing: kids love destroying things. This was an incredible bonding experience for us. With several screwdrivers and a drill and a crowbar and a mallet and some brute strength and only one injury (to Atlas’ leg, which was scratched by a piece of wood, necessitating the procurement of a bandage and three pieces of Terry’s Chocolate Orange), we finally got each part of the piano into the back of Brandin’s truck. He drew the line at letting us cut the wires that criss-crossed the back of the piano, convinced that one would spring back and split someone’s eyeball in half, which was disappointing, but there was enough destruction and chaos – “can someone please take that mallet away from the baby?!” – to make it a great time, nonetheless.As for the digital piano, much as I’m loath to admit this… it’s really, really nice. The keys are weighted so it feels pretty much exactly the same as playing a regular piano, except that none of them stick, unlike every single piano I’ve ever played. The volume can be adjusted, so no one needs to know what sad music you’re playing on repeat. I haven’t tried the metronome function yet – that always feels a bit too much like being told what to do, which I’m against – but the 13-year-old has, and seems to enjoy it. The one downside is that the baby has figured out how to turn it on and how to up the volume to its highest level. But I suppose I do want to encourage him on his musical journey, so have at it, I say. I even unearthed all of my sheet music when I was at home in Ireland, and though Vanessa Carlton was sadly missing, both James Blunt and Coldplay survived. Lucky Brandin. Thanks for reading Anchor Baby! This post is public so feel free to share it. This is a public episode. If you'd like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit rosemarymaccabe.substack.com/subscribe

Here are a few more things I’ve had clogging up my browser tabs for the last few weeks – from an eminently sensible (I was going to write “misandrist” but why would I write something I didn’t believe?!) T-shirt to the perfect windbreaker (a description I never thought I’d write) and the solution to all of my summer-with-kids woes…I’d love to know what you’ve bought and recommend, if anything, lately! Because I need to be further influenced, you understand. The internet isn’t doing a good enough job of that on its own.Oh and… this post contains affiliate links! If you click through any of these links and buy one of the items I’ve linked, or, in most cases, buy something else from that website within 30 days, I’ll receive a small percentage of your total spend. So, you know, please click on every single one.Anchor Baby is a reader-supported publication. To receive new posts and support my work, consider becoming a free or paid subscriber.Free People’s Chelsea Funnel-Neck Jacket ($168)Specifically in this perfect shade of pink. Am I blaming windbreaker-gate for the fact that I want this?! I’m not sure. All I know is that the $3,200 price tag on the windbreaker Paige DeSorbo lent Hannah Berner (I know too much about the entire Summer House universe, truly) has made this $168 Free People version seem positively bargainous.Rails Emmie Pants in Rio Stripe (€168)Why is everything I want $168?!? Okay two things, but still. Weird. Anyway, these Rails trousers are sold out in the US, which is doing THE ABSOLUTE UTMOST in terms of whetting my appetite for them. There’s nothing like an “Almost Gone!” ticker to make me immediately hit “checkout”, I’ll tell you. Luckily for any of you who are (a) in Europe and (b) feeling flush, they’re still available on the European site, although only in size L which also feels prophetic?! WHY IN MY SIZE IF NOT DESTINED TO OWN?! Step2 Dino Showers Water Table ($68.94 at Walmart)Okay, I’ll accept this may result in my losing those of you who don’t have kids, but I am fully convinced – this is also one of my toxic shopping-related traits – that this Step2 water table is going to absolutely make my summer, in terms of giving my children something to do outside for hours on end, and allowing me to sit next to them (close enough to supervise, far enough to stay dry) reading my book while they do. And while, ordinarily, the items I include in these posts are things I’m not planning on buying, this might be the exception. Can I afford it without putting on a credit card?! Maybe not. So… we’ll see. I’m still debating. (I really do think that, without this, our summer is going to be terrible. See above re toxic trait.)Kulglass bluetooth speaker lamp (€90 at Ikea)Okay. A contrast. I accept that the lack of this cute Ikea lamp in my life is not going to affect me or my children whatsoever. No one would even notice its presence in the house except me. (Although I am the most important person who lives here, so that doesn’t really factor into things.) We absolutely do not need it. But if I was still living like a rich person, buying random things, willy-nilly, just because, I would absolutely buy this. Ergo, you should probably buy it for yourself. And if you’re in the US, buy it here.Shiraleah Samba Neoprene Tote Bag by Anthropologie ($68)So what’s funny about this one is that while I adore it from the pictures, even if I was about to buy it, the reviews might put me off. It’s more muted than it appears in the pics, they say, and smaller than you might think (now that I look at it, it says 10” wide, which is smaller than a ruler?! tiny). So I guess this is a… something I love in theory but probably wouldn’t love in reality. (But if you’re a bag designer and fancy “taking inspiration” from Anthropologie’s mistakes, well, you’re welcome.)Green Top & Trousers Set from Next (€22)Another one that’s not for the childless among us (sorry), but this little outfit is adorable and I’m very tempted to buy it for Roman. I know I’ve mentioned this before, but it’s just so difficult to find cute, colourful, cute clothes for boys! I tend to shop in the girls’ sections a lot, and while I’m not a big fan of bows and ribbons, cutesie little outfits like this tick all of my boxes (and in fact why is this for girls?! That makes no sense). Here it is in the US.We the Free Jet Set Pull-On Pants in Going Green by Free People ($148)A couple of months ago (probably about three years ago, honestly, but in my mind that’s “a couple of months”), a friend of mine showed up to a barbecue in a gorgeous pair of corduroy trousers in exactly this shade. “I got them at Goodwill,” she told me, irritatingly, and I’ve been hunting for similar ever since. Well, I’ve finally found them – and they’d be perfect if it wasn’t for the $150 price tag. I’m also slightly iffy on the length (neither cropped nor full-length), but I think I could get over that, would that I had $150 to spend.Stephanie Yeboah’s ‘Ban Male Podcasts’ tee ($35 from Girlgangshop)Have you ever seen a more perfect T-shirt? I think not. I spotted this on Threads (cursed place, don’t ever go there) this morning and have been trying to find it ever since. I think I’ve found a similar enough version on Etsy, although who knows what it would be like if I actually ordered it. Yes, I know I could message her and ask, but I worry she’d read my message and not respond and then I’d feel embarrassed and like I could never engage with her again (is this another toxic trait?!). [Rosemary from the future: I tagged Stephanie in my IG post and she DMed me to tell me the tee is from Girlgangshop!]HSIA Enchante Minimizer Bra ($24.99 on TikTok Shop)I try really, really hard not to buy things on TikTok Shop because, in the past, I’ve ended up loading my cart up with way too many cheap, undoubtedly not ethically made, things, but I just can’t stop coming back to the HSIA Minimizer bra. It doesn’t help that I see ads for it approximately every four TikToks I scroll through, or that I have a friend who owns and recommends it. Having spent almost $300 (I had a gift card!) a few months ago on two bras and a pair of knickers, I’m desperately trying to find bras that are supportive, boob-separating (I cannot have them touching I just can’t) and ideally not a million dollars. So, like I said, very tempted (but I haven’t pulled the trigger just yet). Anchor Baby is a reader-supported publication. To receive new posts and support my work, consider becoming a free or paid subscriber. This is a public episode. If you'd like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit rosemarymaccabe.substack.com/subscribe

I’ve been having a very up and down time lately in terms of my mental health. There are a lot of factors I could attribute this to. I’ve been working harder than I’ve ever worked before, with less downtime than I’ve ever had at any time in my life, for one thing. I’ve introduced ADHD medication to a cocktail of “bear with me, brain” drugs, a cocktail whose efficacy I was already skeptical about. Anchor Baby is a reader-supported publication. To receive new posts and support my work, consider becoming a free or paid subscriber.And I’m lonely. I’m really, really lonely; trying to make friends as an adult is so hard, especially when you have little to no time to dedicate to the kinds of baby friendships that simply will not grow without time and effort. But, more than any of that, I suffer from depression. I’m depressed. Mine is a chronic illness that ebbs and flows in how debilitating it feels, sometimes giving me weeks or months of relief from its clutches, but it’s always there, waiting to welcome me back into its arms. So. Like I said, a lot of different factors at play. The effect of it all is that I’ve been struggling with feeling low and overwhelmed and, at times, worthless and unlovable and kind of hopeless in the sense of believing I’ll ever get out of this mire. And when this happens? A lot of normal, everyday things get really, really hard. Things like… showering || don’t panic! I can wash myself, on a very basic level. I can tie my hair up in a messy bun and I can turn on the water and I can get in the shower and I can wash my body – mostly my armpits and my crotch, you know yourself – with a bar of soap and I can get out and dry myself off and put on my PJs and get into bed. That feels like a lot. But the type of shower that includes hair washing and conditioning (and then combing and styling and drying), shaving, scrubbing, face-washing… That kind of shower feels like 10,000 steps too many. The “everything shower” becomes a very, very rare occurrence. talking on the phone || texting, voice note-ing, messaging on Instagram or on Facebook or wherever we happen to be messaging? All fine. Talking with my human voice while holding the phone or keeping headphones in (or on) my ears? Impossible. And as for an out-of-the-blue phone call, even if it’s from someone I love and would ordinarily love to talk to?! GET OUT OF HERE WITH THAT. I simply cannot answer the phone and then will spend 20 minutes panicking about what kind of message I can send that person to explain (a) why I didn’t answer the phone and (b) why I’m absolutely not calling them back.reading || I think, for me, these moments of extremely low mood so often come hand in hand with feelings of abject panic and high anxiety that I just find it really hard to slow down and kind of unplug from my sense of ohmygodwhyhaveigotsomuchtodoandwhycantidoitwhenwilligetthetimetodoit – which is exactly what I need to do in order to plug into the world of a good book. This is why, instead, I’ve been watching hours and hours of Summer House. making semi-decent meals || things I’ve had for dinner recently include – but are not limited to – Special K Red Berries; Greek yogurt with honey and peanut butter; many portions of beans on toast (when we found baked beans at Costco we amassed quite the stockpile); pretzel sticks (above: these are elite snacks, FYI) and Dubliner cheese (I believe this is called “girl dinner”); a hard-boiled egg and some cucumber slices; toast with butter; toast with jam; a banana; too many salted caramels (also elite snacks).working out || there’s not a day that goes by that I don’t curse the fact that, in our new house, we don’t have a fenced-in back garden (yet) and, as a result, the dog needs to be walked several times a day – but I do recognise that actually this is a blessing in disguise, because without this dog and his godforsaken need to relieve himself at regular intervals, I’m not sure I’d be moving my body right now at all. (And yes, I know exercise would make me feel better. I know. But at the moment I feel a bit like I’m suspended in some kind of quicksand, and the more I struggle against it, the further down I sink. So I just have to kind of accept it.)flossing || I find it hard to believe there’s anyone out there who flosses every day. I just don’t believe there is. (If you’re about to leave a comment saying you floss every day, know that I will be convinced you’re lying.) At best, I manage it maybe twice a week. At worst, like right now? lolol I’d rather stick pins in my eyes than even attempt to put a string of floss between my teeth.But there are also things I can still do! Things like…showing up for work || would you believe me if I told you I’ve never missed a day’s work due to my depression? I’ve missed deadlines, but I’ve never just not produced the work I’ve said I’ll produce – similar to this Substack (sorry), I’ve just produced it a little later than promised – and I’ve never called in sick to a job because of my mental health. I’m not necessarily proud of this; I think we should be able to take time off from the capitalist machine when we’re really struggling, and the pressure I feel to be productive even when I feel like Atreyu in the swamp of sadness really does nothing but exacerbate the sadness itself.tidying || sometimes, when I feel absolutely and totally overwhelmed by, well, everything, I go into a kind of fugue state where I just clean and tidy my house to within an inch of its life. I think this kind of thing feels easy because I know what I’m doing and I don’t need to make any decisions as I’m doing it. It’s just a kind of autopilot activity, and the rhythm of it all feels weirdly soothing.writing to-do lists || listen, just because I’m in a total state, and feel utterly unable to get started on anything doesn’t mean I can’t sit down and write a completely overwhelming and perhaps unhelpful list of the things I should be doing. That being said, I’m not entirely convinced this is actually unhelpful; in a way, dumping everything on the page feels like opening a valve and letting a little of the pressure out. cuddling my kids || and, truly, anyone who’ll accept cuddles. Right now, that happens to be my two youngest children and my husband. But there’s nothing that makes me feel better than being hugged by someone I love.I’m not listing all of the millions of things I do, when I’m feeling terrible, that I know are not going to make me feel better – and may, in fact, end up making me feel worse. Things like scrolling Instagram or TikTok for hours, filling my online shopping cart with things I can’t afford, eating things I know are going to upset my stomach, or looking up people I’m jealous of, to see how much better they’re doing at life than I am. Let’s just not mention any of those. P.S. A belated happy American Mother’s Day to all who celebrate. These kinds of days can be so fun and affirming and heartwarming but also incredibly difficult and heartbreaking and full of grief for those we’ve lost or those we never got to meet. Either way, my advice is to get someone you love to give you a big hug. Tomorrow might (might!) just be a better day. Anchor Baby is a reader-supported publication. To receive new posts and support my work, consider becoming a free or paid subscriber. This is a public episode. If you'd like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit rosemarymaccabe.substack.com/subscribe

I’m sitting in the lobby of the YMCA. It’s pretty loud. The air conditioning – or, I guess, the heating (it’s below freezing today, when it was 30C on Friday, which is very typical of spring in the Midwest but never ceases to surprise me) – is running, a steady hum coming from the exposed ceiling. The door opens every few seconds; a man enters, two women, a mum with her three kids, bags and jackets and water bottles swinging in all directions. I’m sitting in the lobby of the YMCA, awaiting the call that comes, inevitably, a few minutes after I’ve sat down. Last week it was nine minutes, then seven. The first ever day I came here, I did a workout – ambitious – and the call didn’t come for 47 minutes. It was, as it happens, a record, multiples of moments longer than the attempts that were to follow. They’re always polite, friendly, almost apologetic. “Yeah… he’s still crying. He hasn’t stopped since you left.” I think about how guilty I would have felt, if this was Atlas I was dropping off at the Y’s childcare facility, if this was Atlas who’d spent nine, then seven, minutes crying, panicking, wailing, wondering where I’d gone and, most likely, if I was ever coming back. With Atlas – “your first,” I can hear other, more seasoned parents say, in a way that explains it all – I was incredibly sensitive to his needs, to his moments of upset. I found dropping him to a babysitter, those first few weeks, very difficult, even if I would receive photographs, a mere 10 minutes after I’d left, of him smiling, laughing, playing with friends. He’s now four and a half, and hasn’t been to a babysitter for almost two years, bar a day here or there, as he started preschool four mornings a week, and just last night he told me that he remembers “when I went to [my babysitter’s] house yesterday –” (every day in the past is “yesterday”, and every day in the future is “tomorrow”) “– and I cried and cried and cried, because I just wanted to be with you”. Precious! I thought. But also, you were grand. (He was grand.) Anchor Baby is a reader-supported publication. To receive new posts and support my work, consider becoming a free or paid subscriber.If he’d told me that, then, I think I would have pulled him out entirely. Crying and crying and crying?! Never mind the photographic evidence that said otherwise, I would surely have been overcome with guilt, convinced that the best thing for my child was to bring him home, to keep him home with me, to hold on to him for as long as he’d let me. With his baby brother, however… I don’t know. Sometimes I worry that I don’t love him as much, because I’m less worried about him. The panic I felt at letting Atlas go – letting him go to his babysitter’s, letting him go up the ladder of the climbing frame, letting him go down the slide alone… so much letting go to do, a practice that no one warns you to anticipate being difficult – is entirely absent, when it comes to Roman. I yearn for a time when he climbs ladders on his own, when he doesn’t look for me across the room, when he doesn’t climb into my lap at every opportunity, cling to my hair, my clothes, my skin (the sunburn, you’ll understand, makes this especially challenging). Oh! A handsome man has just walked past. He’s wearing caramel brown pants (Snickers-adjacent, I think to myself, a sartorial weakness of mine when it comes to straight men of a certain ilk), a flannel shirt. He’s carrying what looked like a weekend bag, rather than a backpack. I hate a backpack on a man. Once, years ago, after drinking two bottles of wine (each!), I hooked up with a good friend of mine. We’d been friends for years, and for most of those years both of us had been in a relationship. Now, here we were, drunk and single – what else was there to do?! I remember worrying that things might be awkward the next time we saw one another. Would we have ruined our friendship? Would I feel a sort of… yearning for him that I’d never anticipated feeling, that I didn’t want to mix into the soup of our relationship and just have to leave floating until it finally disintegrated into the broth? As it happens, the next time I saw him, he showed up at my front door with a backpack on. Both straps up, an even distribution across his shoulders. I thought of how often, at school, we’d be admonished for wearing our backpacks slung across just one shoulder, how we’d balk at the idea (so embarrassing!) of hoiking up the opposite strap, of walking around like the kind of nerd you’d see in an American TV show about young inventors. Here he was, a young inventor, on my doorstep. Backpack on right. The yearning, you can imagine, disintegrated on sight. We did get together one more time, I think experimentally, really, to see if there was anything between us without the lubrication of the wine and the late hour and the kind of kismet of that first night. There wasn’t. Our friendship wasn’t affected by the hook-up at all, although it did fade away over the ensuing years. Maybe it was, then, affected. Maybe without that fateful decision, we would have grown closer, rather than further apart. Who knows.Anyway. Back to the weekend bag. Though I’m glad it’s not a backpack, it has given me pause. Is bringing a weekend bag – it didn’t look like a sporty weekend bag, either, more the kind of bag you sometimes see male models carrying in a shopping centre fashion show, when they just don’t really know what to do with men’s accessories, other than pair them with a neatly ironed shirt and a cardigan, tied around the neck – to the gym a bit… I don’t know. Precious? Still, I don’t feel like I see good-looking men all that often these days. I was going to write, “there are no good-looking men in Fort Wayne”, but that feels unfair. There are at least five; I live with them. But to see one in the wild? Even if you catch a glimpse of hotness, it’s usually ruined when they turn around and you realise they’re wearing a jaunty, slogan T-shirt; or when you hear them speak, and they address the cashier as “brother”; or when they lean into their car and emerge with a red baseball cap they place on top of their heads. There’s always a “but” with these guys. There are two tables in the lobby of this YMCA, at which you can work, or lounge, or just… wait, like me, for the call that will inevitably come, that says you have to get your baby. “He’s just not calming down,” is the usual refrain. This marks my fourth morning attempting to get Roman to settle at the YMCA’s childcare, and each morning there has been a woman, sitting at the other of the two tables in the building’s lobby, with paints, and an easel, and, I presume, a painting, although she’s facing me, with her back to the window, so I can’t see what’s on the canvas. The idea that it’s not a painting, now that it occurs to me, is kind of delightful. Imagine if she was sitting there, paintbrush in hand, paints at the ready, child in childcare, with her iPad propped up against her canvas, catching up on her shows or doing the Spelling Bee or playing Royal Match while listening to Giggly Squad. (Yes, I’m deep into the Summer House culture now. I follow Hannah Berner on Instagram. I’m excited about her Hulu special. I listen to Giggly Squad. I’m all. In.)She never seems to get any calls. I wonder if her kids are older, or better adjusted to the idea of being without her (or both)? I suppose it’s possible that she doesn’t have children, but why else would someone come to the YMCA to paint? She could, it’s true, be painting the YMCA. Maybe she’s been commissioned to do a series of paintings of the YMCAs all around town – although who would pay for that? The Y itself? Not the city, or the state; Indiana is a Republican state, with a Republican governor who, I suspect, is not a big patron of the arts. (I could be wrong. Please tell me I’m wrong.) My cousin is an artist. A really good one. I’m not just saying that because he’s my cousin; in fact, his relation to me, it is quite possible, would make me less likely to say he’s a good artist. This is another of my fatal flaws. I find it hard to see genius in those close to me. It’s all just kind of cringe; I worry my bias is showing, that I’m bigging someone up simply because we share (a shred of) the same DNA. I’m not related to Dermot Kennedy, but he went to my school and, in my early 20s, friends of mine would go to a lot of his gigs – in Whelan’s, or in any random pub around town. Some of them would even go to support him while he busked on Grafton St. I never went because I found it all very embarrassing. It’s not that I didn’t think he was any good; I don’t think I’d ever listened to his music. He was just another boy with a guitar, likely to bring it out and ruin a perfectly good house party by earnestly playing Wonderwall while staring dolefully at whatever girl he wanted to kiss that night. It’s safe to say that I was wrong, to worry that he wasn’t any good, or to suspect my friends of some sort of bias when it came to him and their enthusiastic gig-going. A few years ago, he played The Clyde in Fort Wayne and Brandin and I went to see him. You know, support the parish, and all that. It’s safe to say that he showed me! He was incredible. (I was embarrassed.) Anyway. My cousin, Blaise Smith, paints landscapes and still lifes and portraits that are, to me, the ultimate proof that humans aren’t created equally. Sometimes I look at the paintings he’s working on and I think, how did he even do that? How could anyone do that? I have a graphic drawing he did as a child – he was 12 – hanging in my house that’s better than anything I could do now, at the age of 41, and I am, as they say, not bad at drawing. He says, now, that he’s had a lot of practice. Painting is something he does all the time, every day, sometimes for hours at a time. It’s not a skill he just came to overnight. But Blaise, (is what I should have said), what about this drawing you did when you were 12? How much practice had you had, then? Anyway; here’s why I came to this. Here’s the tenuous link my mind made between the mystery woman probably-painting at the YMCA, possibly painting the YMCA (unlikely); Blaise was commissioned by the Irish Army, in 2005, to paint a number of their firearms for a collection titled WEAPONS (to be fair, they could’ve come up with a snappier title than that, but maybe that’s why he’s an artist and not a writer, amirite). I remember thinking, even then, how impressive it was that the Irish Government is so supportive of art as a mode of communication, as a form of documentation, as an integral and life-giving part of our society and culture. It feels like maybe that’s a level of support that’s fallen off, in the intervening years (did an artist show up at the doors of Leinster House one day with a backpack slung over both shoulders and give them the ick, I wonder?), but again, I could be wrong. (Please, tell me I’m wrong.) Now that I live, truly, in hell, I’m not sure I like the idea of a series of paintings focused on firearms. Yesterday, in Shreveport, Louisiana, a man shot and killed his ex-girlfriend, her sister, and seven of his children, as well as an eighth child. Today, I logged on to Facebook to see that someone had posted in one of the Moms groups I’m in (why am I in more than one? I’m not sure – I have serious FOMO about mom group drama, but all the drama does when I do see it is give me serious anxiety, so maybe I need to go cold turkey) asking which parks in Fort Wayne are safe to walk in alone. There’s no nuance, you’ll be surprised to hear, in the comments. Half of the replies are telling her that everywhere is safe, while the other half say that nowhere is. There are people who really know what feeling unsafe is like. “I grew up on the Southside of Chicago, you don’t know how great we have it.” Then there are people who never feel unsafe, because they have guns. “There’s weirdos everywhere,” says one reply. “It’s just the chance you take unfortunately. I carry when I’m out but I’ve never had any bad experiences. (Yet)”Another: “The best thing I did as a mom was learned how to use and carry. I hope I never have to use it but I'm not afraid to either.” That’s… the best thing you did as a mom?! I am baffled. But I’m also struggling, right now, in a lot of ways. As a mom, as a writer, as a wife… as an emigrant. As a Hoosier (am I a Hoosier?!). As a Green Card holder. As a resident of… hell. Like I said. So I don’t respond. I don’t think anything good can come from getting into an argument with an American – someone who views their second amendment right to bear arms as somehow intrinsic to their identity as an American, and to the sense of being “free” (lol! in Trump’s America?!). This is a debate I can do without, honestly. You can’t bring guns into the YMCA, as a related aside. It’s forbidden. But the thing is, Indiana is a state with very few gun laws. You don’t need to register your firearm, for example. You can open carry or concealed carry without a permit. There are very few limitations, in Indiana, on the purchase or ownership of a firearm. This does not, for what it’s worth, make me feel more safe.Roman lasts 14 minutes today, although when I go to pick him up, they tell me he’s been crying since I left him, so it’s not that he lasted longer, necessarily, just that they waited longer to call me. I appreciate that; I know he’s fine. He’s crying because he doesn’t know where his mum is, not because he’s hurt or scared or anything bad is happening to him. When he sees me, he immediately stops crying. He points to me, reaches out one chubby hand, and then another. When he lands in my arms, he takes a deep, calming breath and then smiles at the childcare worker who was just holding him while he wailed. He waves: “Bye-bye!” We’ll try again tomorrow.Anchor Baby is a reader-supported publication. To receive new posts and support my work, consider becoming a free or paid subscriber. This is a public episode. If you'd like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit rosemarymaccabe.substack.com/subscribe

Wednesday is both the hardest and the easiest day of the week. The hardest: the working week – or, rather, Brandin’s working week, the week, for me, of being at home with the children, trying to eke out minutes here and there to write or to record (or both) while they nap or are adequately distracted by the TV, or each other – is more than halfway done, but there are still two long days to go. Those two days feel interminable. I try not to watch the clock, but I do anyway; every time my phone buzzes, or my head turns towards the oven, or the microwave (the only two clocks in the house, as we have yet to hang the enormous nautical clock Brandin’s mum gave us), I’m reminded just how long I have to wait until someone else is there to hold the baby, or to fetch the snacks, or to clean up whatever new mess has been made by the children, or the dog or, less frequently (but always more disgustingly) the cat. The easiest: it’s the first day of the week we have only two children in the evening. Two mouths to feed, one of whom eats only three meals (pasta, pizza, McDonald’s chicken nuggets), the other having not quite got it together enough to complain or to argue. Sure, he can shout, but he saves that for special occasions. Anchor Baby is a reader-supported publication. To receive new posts and support my work, consider becoming a free or paid subscriber.In some respects, these two are the easier of the four children. In others, of course, it’s a relief when they can wipe their own bums, brush their own teeth, grab their own snacks. On this particular Wednesday, Brandin’s late home. He stops at the pharmacy to pick up his prescription. He runs into the supermarket to get some things we need. These are necessary stops, and yet I’m annoyed by them because it means I’m at home, with the children, wiping noses and bums and picking goldfish up off the floor for longer than I’d bargained for.I’ve decided I want to go to the framers when he gets home. A family friend offered to buy us a present for our new house, and we asked if she’d buy us a gift card for the framers. We always have a pile of paintings and prints and photographs to frame. Right now, the pile is the biggest it’s ever been. Framing is an expense that never feels necessary; paying to have your art custom-framed is a rich person’s game, and we haven’t felt like rich people in a while. I’m going to bring my latest acquisition: an oil painting by Marolize Southwood, a South African artist whose work I stumbled across on Instagram. I’d bought it as a gift for my own birthday, earlier this year, before we sat down to look at our debt and began our budget. It’s the last thing I treated myself to, in the before times. When it arrived, it sparked great debate. I see a very specific scene; my sister sees a very specific body part; my children are unsure. One sees the sea. Another, a mountain. It’s called Pulling Teeth, which doesn’t really do much to illuminate things. In any case, it doesn’t matter to me what the artist meant it to be, or what anyone interprets it as, not really. I love the colours. I love the texture. I love the movement of the paint, the way it hangs off the bottom edge. Brandin gets home at 5, which is cutting it close, as the framers closes at 6. Still, it’s only 15 minutes from the house, so I start gathering my things: my glasses, keys, wallet. The painting itself. At the last minute, I decide to bring a set of three prints a friend gave us as a gift when Atlas was born: gummy bears by Irish artist Monika Crowley. I’ve been meaning, ever since, to have them framed beautifully, to hang them in his room. But, like I said, we haven’t felt that rich in a while. I’m not against using shop-bought frames – our art is a combination of custom frames and Ikea – but these are a non-standard size, and the edges are rough, a feature I’d hate to obscure. I’d like them to float on an off-white mat, inside a pale frame. Maybe, I think, we’ll have enough to do them all – the bears and the Marolize Southwood. (I’m nothing if not optimistic.) As I gather my bits, I tell Brandin I’m heading out to the framers. It seems important, somehow, to do this: to get out of the house, to speak to someone else, out in the world, to get in the car and drive, even if it’s only 10 minutes around the corner. We’re on a budget now, so I won’t be stopping for a coffee or a large Diet Coke (much as I’d like to). Nor will I be wandering into Goodwill for a browse, or taking a stroll around Walmart. I’ll go to the framers and back, just that, but that will be something. Brandin tells me that he’s parked in the driveway, he’ll have to move his truck. He hands me the baby, takes his keys off the rack, puts on his shoes back on. I am disproportionately annoyed by this. Not the fact that I have to wait, while holding the baby, necessarily, although I do have a split second where I think, imagine if he just got in his car and drove off, as I would, honestly, quite like to do, quite often. Imagine. I don’t have to imagine, I realise. He does that every day. No: I’m irritated by his parking in a way that prevents me from leaving, as if he’d just assumed I wouldn’t want to. Of course Rosemary’s at home; of course Rosemary will stay at home; Rosemary never goes anywhere; Rosemary never leaves the house. I do sometimes leave the house, you know! I want to tell him, indignantly, but I suppose the truth of it is that mostly I don’t. I walk to the corner with Atlas and he gets on the bus and then I come back and I hang out with Roman and then, when Atlas is home, they both go down for their naps and I sit at the table, or on the couch, or on the bed, and keep vigil.There are places I could go: we’ve gone to the YMCA, where, at last count, Roman lasts nine minutes in childcare before they call me to come pick him up. “He hasn’t really calmed down since you left,” they tell me, and I feel terrible, even worse when I push through the doors and see his face, tears and snot everywhere.I feel less bad, mind you – and more murderous – when they hand him over to me and he immediately starts to clap his hands, a broad smile on his face. He’s grand! I feel like telling them. I contemplate handing him back. Instead, we go home. “We’ll try again tomorrow,” I tell him, but we don’t, because I can’t face packing up all of our things in the car for a nine-minute stay at the Y. Maybe the day after tomorrow. Sometimes we go to the library, but the downtown branch, which opens at 9am, is a 30-minute drive from the house, so we’d have to leave by 10.30am, to be home in time to get Atlas off the bus. The branch nearer us, a five-minute drive, give or take, doesn’t open until 10am, so a trip there feels even more pointless.It doesn’t help that, right now, I’m trying to go to free places. I’m trying not to go to the nice cafes with the play places, where I inevitably spend $20-odd on coffees and cake pops and whatever else I (and my children) fancy. It doesn’t help that, right now, the list of places I could go feels shorter than usual. Once Brandin has moved his car – stopped, quite literally, holding me hostage in the house – I head off without so much as a backwards glance. My mother thinks you should always say goodbye to a child, so that they don’t get a surprise (a bad one) when they realise you’re not there. I think I do a good job of pretending to ignore her advice, most of the time, but it all gets absorbed anyway. In the end, it feels less like advice and more like a directive. Still, today I don’t say goodbye to the children. I’ll be back within the hour, sure, and I can’t face the protracted goodbye, the “where are you going, mommy?!”s, the “can I come with you?!” even though, of course, he can, or could, if I waited long enough for him to ask. Today I don’t. I head out and I drive to the framers listening to The Idiot, a podcast by the creators of Serial, about a man whose cousin – a cousin he’d never really liked – is arrested and jailed as part of an FBI sting operation. It’s got everything: Russian accents (a post-Heated Rivalry fixation of mine), a crazy ex mother-in-law, child abduction (?!), murder for hire… The framers is empty when I walk through the doors. I guess no one’s feeling rich these days, I think, but then she tells me they’re so busy their framing times are three weeks at a minimum. “Do you need this in a hurry?” she asks.What kind of life would I be living if I did need this framed in a hurry? I suppose I could be framing it as a gift for someone else, but I feel as though frames are a very personal choice. The vast majority of options I see lining the walls are, quite frankly, hideous. I dread to think what someone would choose to frame my Marolize Southwood in, or my gummy bears. We start to talk through our options, and I tell her my budget. She is, to her great credit, nonplussed, but she casually halves the pile of frames she’d been gathering for me to choose from. The Marolize Southwood, she tells me, will cost $211 to frame, and that’s with, truly, some of the cheapest options available. “A lot of these frames come from Italy, so that really bumps the prices up…” she says, apologetically. I wonder if the tariffs have had a big impact there, but I don’t ask her, because the word “tariff” feels politically charged, somehow, and honestly? I’d rather not know if she’s someone whose business I shouldn’t be supporting.I ask about the gummy bears, suddenly feeling like I should frame those first. They’re for Atlas, after all, while the other painting is for me and, as a result, feels like it should be lower down the priority list (why do we do this? Do men do this?!).We talk through a few different options for the gummy bears and, again, having whittled our choices down to the most affordable, she goes over to her computer and does the calculations. “For these it’ll be…” she says (tap, tap, tap)… “One hundred and seventy-five dollars each.” I decide to frame my own painting. Maybe, I think (naively, as it happens), we’ll get some money back on our taxes, and I can put that towards the gummy bears. Maybe they can be next.While I’m waiting to pay my extra $11, a notification pops up on my phone. “Attending your appointment virtually? Log on at…” I have a moment of confusion, before I remember I have a psychiatry appointment at… now. Right now, in fact. I’d entirely forgotten about it, despite its being in my calendar. This forgetfulness – forgetting appointments, weekend plans, entire conversations – is, apparently, a symptom of my recently diagnosed ADHD, but as I’m still skeptical about that whole diagnosis (do I really have inattentive ADHD? Am I not just lazy and bad at being an adult?!), I find this hard to accept and, instead, feel a lot of guilt and shame about it. It’s embarrassing, to be constantly forgetting things. It makes me feel old and all over the place.I rush through the payment – “I’m sorry, I just realised I’m supposed to be on a call with my psychiatrist!” I tell her, which is maybe an overshare, as I run out to the car – and log on to my appointment on my phone. I open the car door, sit in the driver’s seat, attach the phone to the magsafe holder on the dashboard.“Hello there,” my psychiatrist says as he comes into view, sitting in the office I was meant to be sitting in. (I try to attend our appointments in person since I learned he prefers it, because I’m nothing if not a people pleaser, but, you know, see above re forgetfulness.) “Where are you today?” I think he’s asking this for legal reasons, so I tell him I’m in my car, near my house, “still in Indiana.” Many medical providers are only licensed in the state they practise in, so if you’re out of state on holidays, you’ve to either lie, and pretend you’re not, or reschedule. I, of course, would never lie.“But where,” he asks, “where are you, what are you doing?”I remember, now, how delighted he was the day I logged on for our appointment from the farm; how many questions he asked me about the blackberry bush I was standing under. He’s a curious man. “Oh,” I say. “I’m at the framers. I’m just having some art framed.”“Ah!” he says (delighted, again). “I didn’t know you were an art aficionado!”I’m embarrassed by this and I’m not sure why. It’s the kind of thing that could be said in a mocking tone, but I’m 99% sure he’s being sincere. (We’re in America, so people are almost always being sincere, which is exhausting.)“Oh, uh, I wouldn’t say aficionado,” I say, “I just… have a lot of art, and a lot of it is unframed, so…”“What are you having framed?!” he asks. “Is it a painting? A photograph?”“A painting,” I say. “An oil painting I bought for my birthday.” If he’s surprised at the idea that I would buy my own birthday gift, he doesn’t show it. “Is it by a local artist? Who did this painting?” He’s nothing if not persistent. “It’s by a South African artist named Marolize Southwood,” I tell him. He nods (go on). “I actually can’t remember where I first saw her work… it’s just a beautiful piece. No one can decide what they see, but I loved the colour and the brushwork…” I trail off. “How wonderful!” he says. Again, seeming very sincere. “Now!” he says, as if we have got through something, and are ready to begin. “How have you been doing?”I tell him. I feel like the ADHD medication has helped. I’m more focused, more productive. For the first time in my entire life, I feel like an adult. (I’m now embarrassed about all of the times I’ve made jokes about how hard adulting is, like I’m Tom Hanks in Big, accidentally in the body of a grown woman when I am but a girl, yearning to jump around on a giant piano.) But it’s not all good, I tell him. I’ve been struggling, these past few weeks, with feeling very anxious and low at times. But I think – who’s the psychiatrist here, I wonder, as I type this – this has something to do with the GLP-1. I’m no longer comfort eating, I tell him, but I’m no longer comfort shopping, either. And, as these two things (eating, shopping) are the tools I used to give myself joy, in the before times, I wonder if I just need to find something else that makes me happy. Or something. I realise I’m rambling, so I stop talking. I remember, when I studied journalism, being told to embrace silence, especially when interviewing. For someone who lives to fill an awkward silence, this has never been easy. But in interviews, as in psychiatry appointments, it feels important to hear what the other person has to say, and to give them the space to say it.“You know what? I want to say something,” he says, then (was he waiting for a silence?! I’m embarrassed by this, too – why do I never know when to shut up?!). “I’m proud of you,” he tells me. “The way you said that – that you know you’ve been using food and shopping this way – a lot of people would feel shame saying that. But you were able to tell me, without shame. That’s a very good thing.”It occurs to me, then, that my psychiatrist doesn’t really understand me at all. He’s proud of me for disclosing something about myself that other people would find shameful, without any shame?! I should put him on to my mother. Maybe he could encourage her to be proud, too. “Are you seeing a therapist at the moment?” he asks, and I say no, I’m not. I had been, but when we moved house, when we didn’t get a new babysitter, when I started working all the hours God gave me, around naps and snacks and nappy changes, I realised I simply didn’t have the time (or, honestly, the money) for therapy. “Well, you should be in psychotherapy,” he says. Written down, it looks like he might have been admonishing me, but it felt like a neutral statement. Or, it would, if, the first time we met, he hadn’t said to me, “I don’t think therapy will work for you – you’re too sensible.” DOES HE NO LONGER THINK I’M SENSIBLE?!?! Not recognising my panic at this pronouncement – is he maybe… not a good psychiatrist?! – he then tells me, “You need to get out of this if… then thinking. You need to stop thinking, if this, then I will be happy. If that, then I will be happy. If I find a hobby, then I will be happy. This is a road to nowhere. This is a road to failure.”Unfortunately, this makes a lot of sense. I’m always looking for The Thing that will make me happy, The Thing that will replace comfort eating and comfort shopping and comfort hanging out with the friends I’ve known since I was four and comfort sitting on my parents’ couch and comfort making inappropriate jokes and knowing no one will think I’m serious and comfort napping and comfort clearing out my wardrobe and comfort cutting my hair and all of the many possibly not great behaviours I employ when I feel like I need something to lift me out of the mire.“Do you use AI?” he asks, then. There’s a pause. “Well,” I tell him, carefully, because I don’t want him to think I’m lecturing him, and I also don’t know where he’s going with this. Is he about to suggest that I sound like someone who’s addicted to Chat GPT? Is he wondering whether I’ve got an AI boyfriend? (Who has the time?!) Is he about to suggest that I go to Chat GPT for suggestions on how to fix my brain? “I’m a writer, you know,” I say. (Does he know?! I suspect he’s forgotten.) “So I’m kind of… [KIND OF?!?!] fundamentally against AI.”“Ah,” he says. “Well, let’s not throw the baby out with the bathwater.” (It’s ironic that he mentions water in this discussion about planet-destroying AI, but go off.) “I think that you could take the advice that I’ve given you, and go to Chat GPT, and say, ‘this is what my psychiatrist suggests. These are the challenges I face. Can you recommend some books I could read on these topics?’”This seems like sound advice, although I do wish there was another way to go about this. Couldn’t he just recommend some good books to me?! My Irish therapist used to recommend books to me all the time, although, now that I think about it, I never read them, and then would feel a sense of abject failure and worry I was about to disappoint her and cancel our next two appointments (and pay full whack), and then hope that, three weeks later, she’d have forgotten all about the homework she’d given me, which I hadn’t done.“Hmmm,” I say. (Hmmm!) “Okay, I can see how that would work.”I tell him I’ll do that. (Reader, I have yet to do it.) He tells me he wants to keep my medication where it’s at, which is fine by me; I feel like I’m still figuring out how my body feels on an anti-depressant plus an anti-anxiety medication plus a stimulant plus a GLP-1 plus a multivitamin (when I remember). My body’s processing a lot of chemicals in there – and we haven’t even touched on perimenopause.Thanks for reading Anchor Baby! This post is public so feel free to share it. This is a public episode. If you'd like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit rosemarymaccabe.substack.com/subscribe

Two Saturdays ago was “picture day” at my four-year-old’s soccer lesson, which takes place in the YMCA near our house. I’ve been in the US for six years now, but only recently have I truly started to partake in the “mom” culture I’ve heard so much about (yes, fine, on TikTok): the four-year-old is in soccer and swimming lessons; as soon as we see a 20-degree forecast we plan a trip to the local playground (which happens to be on the grounds of the local primary school); I’m in a whole gaggle of moms groups on Facebook, ostensibly to make friends but, really, just to argue with people about vaccines and giving ivermectin to their toddlers to help with eczema (my POV, for what it’s worth: please do, and please don’t, respectively). Anchor Baby is a reader-supported publication. To receive new posts and support my work, consider becoming a free or paid subscriber.“Picture day” seems to be a thing in every children’s activity; our 11-year-old has a picture day with his baseball team, another for soccer, a third at school. Our 13-year-old has picture day with his track team, one with marching band, another at school. It’s free to have the pictures taken, but of course then you pay to get the prints, which most Americans seem to frame and hang on the wall lining their staircases. We have dozens of these photographs at home. They live in our document file. Sometimes I’ll put one on the fridge, but only for a few weeks, until the kitchen clutter gets on top of me and the pictures must be relegated to the file. I blame my parents for this. They were never ones for displaying photographs of us in the house, and somehow this has carried on through me. I love hanging art on the walls, but family photos feel cringe, somehow. As for the professional photoshoots beloved by Americans?! I could NEVER. (I mean… could I never? I kind of want to, but I fear the judgment of my Irish friends. It feels like that might be the nail in the coffin of my Irishness. “She’s gone full American now,” I can imagine my mother telling the woman in the local shop.) Anyway. Picture day for soccer. We arrive at the Y, having entirely forgotten it’s picture day – this happened at school, too, and I sent him off with his hair sticking up in 1,000 directions, wearing a stained T-shirt (all T-shirts are stained, and I refuse to just throw them out because that seems so wasteful, although things have improved since I started using the magic stain spray, truly). We go to the court where, thankfully, someone tells me that it’s picture day. We run back to the front of the building. I try to fix his T-shirt, his hair. I must resign myself to the fact that he’s wearing striped shorts and unicorn rainbow shin guards. Nothing can be done about this now. Once his photo has been taken – I urge him to say “poop!” to the photographer in an attempt to elicit a semi-natural smile, rather than the gurning grimace he’d been doing before that – we go back to the court and wait for the rest of the team. I get him out a soccer ball and he runs back and forth with it. I worry he’s going to exhaust himself before practice even starts (this worry was entirely founded). We’re there about five minutes, again, wondering, where is everyone else?! when his coach comes through the doors to tell us that they’re taking the team picture now, and everyone’s waiting for us. How did everyone else know this? I ask myself, when we walk back through the Y, to the room where they’re taking the pictures. Why didn’t I know? What other things am I doing wrong, missing, not knowing? And how will I know that I don’t know?! My sister has had a lot of these moments with her kids, too. When she asked why her son hadn’t been selected for an advanced maths (math, in America) class when – and this was not just a mother’s bias showing, really – he had displayed a great aptitude for maths, for example. It turns out that, unlike in Ireland, where you’re streamed into, for example, higher level maths – although you can push for your kids to do “higher” level, rather than “ordinary”, or vice versa, if you feel that it’s in their best interests – here you have to opt in for your child to take advanced maths. How was she to know that? She didn’t even know that she didn’t know! There’s a lot, particularly about the school system here, that I don’t understand, although I am starting to learn certain aspects, by osmosis. PE is not a mandatory weekly class; in some semesters, kids will have gym once a week, and then in the next they won’t have it at all. In middle school, they do need to complete a “gym” module; if they don’t (say, because they don’t select “gym” as one of their subjects), they can make it up by doing a sport during the summer months, or outside of school hours. I don’t think all sports qualify; I think they need to be linked to school, somehow. Again, I don’t really know. I have American friends, obviously, that I can ask for advice and information on these systems and structures that I’ve never experienced, and know nothing about. I recently had a conversation with a friend whose 16-year-old daughter is going to graduate high school with a certain number of college credits, already under her belt. “How does this work?” I asked her. She explained, but I think I’ll need to ask again, and take notes next time. Already having college credits when you graduate high school seems crazy to me. Let the kids be kids! Free time is important! (Does this attitude make me boomer?! I wonder) But in a country where college costs thousands of dollars per semester, you can cut down the required number of semesters to complete your college course by already having credits in hand. I can ask my friends about this, because I know about it now – but what about the things I don’t know that I don’t know? How will I know to ask about those?! Sometimes my frustration, the sense of being a fish out of water, the strongly held suspicion that I will never feel at home here, that I will never know all of the things I want to know, manifests as anger. Anger with my husband, specifically. He is American. He should know all of these things (I’m sure he’d say he does). Moreover, he should know that I don’t know them, and he should tell me. But only when I’m in the mood to be lectured to, and only things I actually don’t know, not things he just thinks I don’t know, when I do, which would be insulting. I accept that this is a fine line to tread. Obviously, if he just took on the mental and emotional load of doing all of the kids’ stuff, I wouldn’t have to worry about any of it. I wouldn’t be wondering what academic programs I don’t know about, or what group pictures I didn’t realise were being taken. I wouldn’t be Googling “can I bring a dog to an elementary school playground” (the answer is no) or where I can go to post a package, if my new mailbox isn’t big enough to put it in (truly a travesty); in our new housing estate, we have these tiny little lockboxes, instead of a traditional mailbox, which means that anything even remotely chunky we need to post has to be taken to, I’ve learned, a blue USPS postbox, something I had truly never noticed existing before this week. Like I said, you don’t know what you don’t know – and, more specifically, you don’t know what you’ve never needed to know. other things I didn’t know I didn’t know include…* that kids recite the Pledge of Allegiance every single day at school. With hands on hearts, facing a flag. * that you need to bring your ID everywhere with you. I mean, I knew you should probably have your drivers’ license on hand while driving, but going to an urgent care when I thought I had a concussion, only to be sent home for my ID was… unexpected. * CHEQUES. (checks) Yes, they’re still using cheques here, and you’ll need to have them on hand to pay for the most random things. (Our lawn treatment company, for example, didn’t accept card, so the choice was to post them a cheque or to drive to their office with cash.) * there are rules about how long your grass can be, and in certain areas you can be fined for letting it get too long (or too weedy). I’m sure there are more. (That’s kind of the point.)Thanks for reading Anchor Baby! This post is public so feel free to share it. This is a public episode. If you'd like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit rosemarymaccabe.substack.com/subscribe

I can’t remember the last time I wasn’t on a dietAs documented here previously, I’ve been on some diet or other since I first joined Weight Watchers at the age of 14. I remember that first meeting, in Scoil Chrónáin in Rathcoole, in the very room I sat in for my very first year of primary school. Since that first, fateful foray into the diet industrial complex, I’ve tried Slimming World and keto, Atkins and intermittent fasting. I’ve done 90-minute-long morning Bikram yoga sessions; I’ve walked (fast, uphill) on a treadmill while wearing, ostensibly, a wetsuit with vacuum hoses attached to it. I’ve gone to five-star fat camp (planning a look back at that next month, the 10-year anniversary of my time in Ibiza with No1 Bootcamp) and lifted weights five times a week and eaten clean and counted calories and points and syns and, and, and, and…And all of it took root in my brain, embedded deep in my psyche and left me with an attitude to food, hunger and eating that was – and I’m being kind here – problematic, at best. Anchor Baby is a reader-supported publication. To receive new posts and support my work, consider becoming a free or paid subscriber.Once you learn the “points” (Weight Watchers) in an almond croissant, it’s hard to go back to enjoying it, unencumbered by that knowledge. Similarly, once you start viewing your body as wrong and your appetite as a problem, it’s almost impossible to just let yourself eat without feeling guilt (because you know you shouldn’t) and shame (because why can’t you just not). These past seven months on a GLP1 have, honestly, reset all of those broken settings in my brain; I can, for the first time since I can remember, eat – when I’m hungry, and whatever I feel like – without second guessing why or what or how much or if I should at all. And look: I know that this is only because I am losing weight. I feel as though I can trust my hunger cues and my appetite and my desires because I know trusting them won’t result in my putting on weight. Without this drug slowing my digestion and suppressing my appetite, I wouldn’t have this (for want of a less romantic word for it) freedom. And yet I do have it. It feels revelatory. For me, the “food noise” isn’t so much to do with constant thoughts of food – what to eat next, what would be delicious, what to eat after that – it’s more related to the negative self-talk, the constant critical voice I had in my head telling me that I was greedy and gluttonous and lazy and out of control, simply because I was hungry, and wasn’t succeeding in fighting that hunger. Now it feels like I don’t have to fight any more – with the voice, or with the hunger itself. If you’ve never experienced any of this, you won’t know how life-changing this is. But it is life-changing.The side effects have startedI am incredibly lucky that the first few months of taking a GLP1 – I take Mounjaro in its compounded form, prescribed through Midi online, and it costs me about $260 every six weeks (in case you’ve missed previous updates) – I experienced almost no side effects. Yes, I would feel full very quickly, and I might feel slightly nauseous if I ate past that feeling of fullness, but the nausea, the vomiting, the diarrhea and constipation I’d read about other people experiencing? They didn’t affect me at all. It’s only in the last few weeks, as I increased my dose to 5mg, administered weekly, that I’ve started seeing some of those negative side effects. Or, rather, one of those side effects, in the form of diarrhea.One week, late last month, I had diarrhea for five days running (if you’ll excuse the pun). And I won’t sugarcoat things: it was grim. But at no point did I think, this is too much or even, maybe this drug isn’t for me. Is that fucked up?! It feels fucked up. And yet, the freedom (see above) this drug has allowed me is hard to overstate. And, once that first bout of diarrhea was done with (it did feel like it lasted about a year, mind you, and having diarrhea while parenting a 15-month-old is not for the faint of heart), I quickly started to figure out that, as long as I watch what I’m eating, I can pretty much keep it at bay. And when I say “watch what I’m eating”, I mean, try to eat a relatively balanced diet. Protein, fibre, green vegetables. I’m still eating ice-cream, every other evening after dinner; I’m still eating white bread with Kerrygold butter. I had a chicken tikka masala last week, and while I’ll admit it no longer hits the spot like it once did (food just doesn’t spark joy any more), it was still good. (I ate one-third of it, and spread the rest over two further meals, which felt ridiculous, honestly.)I don’t know that I could be someone who experiences extreme side effects –diarrhea, or any of the other gastro stuff – on a very regular basis and would be happy for that to be my life. But then again… like I said, it feels really fucked up. Is there any cost I’d deem too high for the privilege of (relative) thinness? (Again, it all feels very fucked up.) I still worry I’ve become part of the problem I remember reading an essay by Roxane Gay in which she discussed having weight loss surgery; she wrote about how she was tired of waiting for the world to be kinder to fat people, and that she’d accepted that if she had to live in this world (I’m paraphrasing here), this might be a way to make her existence easier. I spent a lot of time trying to reprogramme my brain out of the fatphobia I couldn’t help but internalise (for blame, see: 1990s teenage girls’ magazines, America’s Next Top Model, Bridget Jones’s Diary, heroin chic, The Swan), but no matter how much I agree with everything Aubrey Gordon writes; no matter how invested I am in the fat positivity movement; no matter how fervently I believed (and still believe) that fat people can be beautiful and healthy (and don’t have to be either of those if they don’t want to be!) and deserve clothes that fit and airplane seats that accommodate and healthcare that truly sees them and love and respect and not to be discriminated against at every turn… I still struggled with my own fat body and my feelings about it.So when there appeared a “solution” to this “problem” (in inverted commas, because fatness is not a problem, not really, and if it’s not a problem then GLP1s can’t be the solution), I thought, why not? But also, I thought, am I a traitor to the cause? Am I selling out? Can I be fat positive and pursue intentional weight loss? I don’t know the answers to any of the above questions, and it’s all a conflict that still rages within me. I’m not sure it’ll ever stop. Ideally, I want to live in a world that doesn’t judge human beings by the size or shape of their bodies; I want fat people to be allowed to just exist in their fat bodies, and experience love and joy and respect and all of those great human experiences, without being told they’d be more loved, and happier, and more worthy of respect, if they weren’t fat. And I worry that, as more and more of us give in to the lure of the GLP1, give in to the lure of thinness, a goal that has never before been actually attainable to fat people (the exceptions proving this rule), fat people will be further and more actively marginalised and judged and disrespected, because don’t they know they can just take a GLP1?!Say it with me now… it’s all really fucked up. You may also like… This is a public episode. If you'd like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit rosemarymaccabe.substack.com/subscribe

Good bacteria, bad bacteria and violent chocolate bunniesI’m not quite sure how we get on the topic of bacteria, late on a Sunday evening as Atlas eats two slices of toast with butter at the kitchen counter. He once again refused to eat his dinner – a cheese quesadilla, prepared by his Dad, followed by a bowl of spaghetti, prepared by me, followed by a bowl of strawberries, requested by him – each with a single bite taken out of the offering, and once he’s finished with his nightly bath, he announces, as he does every night, that he’s hungry. My child will now eat a handful of things. Pizza, pasta (but only certain shapes, and he won’t eat them with any kind of sauce any more, just butter or grated cheddar cheese), toast, Rice Krispie treats, McDonald’s chicken nuggets and fries, Doritos, cookies, cinnamon toast crunch bars, donuts and, on a rare occasion, strawberries and bananas. Anchor Baby is a reader-supported publication. To receive new posts and support my work, consider becoming a free or paid subscriber.We’ve tried presenting him with a variety of foods – some “safe”, some not – and encouraging him to try those he claims not to like. Last week, we gave him pasta that had been cooked in chicken noodle soup, thinking, he’ll probably like the flavour once he actually tastes it. (Reader, he spat it out and bawled crying at how “yucky” it was. I felt terrible, as if I’d tricked him into eating something I should have known he would never eat.) We’ve tried bribery. “If you eat this [horrific piece of non-McDonald’s chicken nugget] you can have this [giant chocolate bar].” It doesn’t work. We’ve tried reading books: How do Dinosaurs Eat Their Food? and Daniel Tries a New Food. I thought the latter had worked miracles when Atlas announced he wanted to make banana swirl, just like mommy Tiger; I dutifully froze two bananas, then blended them to a smooth, ice-cream-like texture, only to have him pronounce, “yuck! I not want to eat that.” “But,” I protested, “what does Daniel Tiger say? Try a new food, it might taste good!” “Ew YUCK!” he responded. So now, instead of bribing and cajoling and encouraging and beseeching (and begging, for I’m not above it), I’ve resorted to… letting him. (No, I haven’t read the Mel Robbins book, but I have listened to this podcast about it.) I’ve decided that the most important thing is that he eats, so I focus on calories, rather than what the actual foods are. This morning, for example, when he sees a chocolate chip cookie on the counter and asks if he can have it for breakfast, I say yes. Why not? Is a chocolate chip cookie any “worse” than the other options (croissants or toast with butter or yet another cinnamon toast crunch bar)? And, at night time, when he announces that he’s hungry, I think, that makes sense, and we go downstairs and we make toast or pour out a bowl of Doritos or grab a cinnamon toast crunch bar from the pantry and I sit with him while he eats them and watches Creature Cases or Octonauts or finishes whichever Jurassic film he’s been working on that day. On this occasion, he eats his toast at the counter while Brandin tries to troubleshoot our coffee maker. “It’s taking ages to make the coffee,” he tells me, his voice thick with frustration. He specifically bought this coffee maker because it makes a full pot in about 30 seconds, so I can see how this is a disappointing turn of events.Still, I have no suggestions. I sit next to Atlas and threaten to eat his toast as a way of making him hurry up (I don’t like saying “hurry up and eat!” because eating shouldn’t be rushed but, you know, it’s already past his bedtime) while Brandin tinkers around with the filter. “A-ha!” he announces, in the tone my psychiatrist took when he “discovered” I have ADHD (a month after I told him I thought I had ADHD). He’s found some buildup in one of the filters, probably caused by our hard water, although what do I know? I try not to learn about things I have no interest in, lest the knowledge take up valuable space in my brain where song lyrics could otherwise go, or the names and back stories of every Love is Blind couple in history.“What’s in there, Daddy?” asks the toast-eater, spraying crumbs on every available surface. “It’s just from the coffee maker, bud,” says Brandin (“bud”, by the way, is my least favourite term of endearment ever and I’ve literally no idea why). “Just build-up.”Build-up! Who would tell a four-year-old that there’s BUILD-UP in the coffee maker. “You’ll have to explain a bit better than that,” I tell him, laughing. “Well,” he begins, and then utters the fateful words: “It’s just, uh, hard water and probably bacteria.”“Bath-eeyah,” repeats Atlas, eyes wide. He turns to me. “Mommy! You read me a story about bath-eeyah in bed.” I should tell you now that when Atlas says “read me a story” what he wants is for me to make up an elaborate tale of adventure and mystery with Atlas Eddie Wallace as the main character. His brothers must feature – but not too heavily –and every story must contain at least one of the following: an indoraptor, an indominus rex, a baby T-rex or three ready-to-hatch dinosaur eggs. So. A story about bath-eeyah before bed. I decide to use this tale to lecture him about healthy eating, because nothing else seems to be helping on that front. I tell him that, inside him are two kinds of bacteria: good bacteria and bad bacteria. I don’t bother going into the concept of some good bacteria becoming bad bacteria if found in too large quantities. That seems above his pay grade. And mine. I ask him what he thinks these two types of bacteria are doing inside of him, and he offers, delightedly, “They are fighting! Like an indominus rex and a T-rex!” I’m relieved not to have to shoehorn those into the story all on my own.“Yes, they’re fighting,” I confirm. “And did you know that you can help the good bacteria get stronger and stronger?” He looks sceptical. “When you sleep, you recharge the good bacteria’s batteries,” I tell him. “Because fighting is very tiring. And when you eat good food like strawberries and bananas and vegetables…” (here he volunteers a “yuck!”) “…you give the good bacteria more energy to fight better!” (I never claimed to be a master kids’ storyteller.) “You know what would help the good bacteria fight?!” he suddenly asks, in the excited tone he usually reserves for stories about dinosaur eggs which are in the process of hatching. “What?” I ask him. And my son. My beautiful, adorable, hilarious, genius four-year-old son, remembers the tiny chocolate bunnies I’d fed him earlier that day. The bunnies I’d given him three of and then taken away, telling him, “you can’t eat too many of them, they’re not good for you” (even though I’m not sure I even believe that?! And also who cares?! See above re: calories). “The chocolate bunnies,” he says, making small bunny motions with his hands. “The chocolate bunny army comes to help the good bacteria! They hop, hop, hop and then they fight and they a-stroy the bad bacteria!”My healthy eating allegory has fallen apart spectacularly, but truly the most important thing is that he accepts this as the end of the story. My work here is done. I lie with him for a further five minutes, cuddling. Every now and then he’ll ask me to move over, further away from him. This is very difficult as we’re in a pirate ship bed that fits only a crib mattress, and I am a large, adult woman and he is a medium-to-large sized four-year-old boy. I press myself up against the edge of the bed until I can press no more and I say, “It’s time to go to sleep.” “Goodnight, honey,” he says. He’s never said this before. I laugh. “Goodnight, honey,” I parrot back at him. He laughs, then. “No, mommy. You honey. Not me.” I blow him kisses from the door and tell him to sleep tight. “Dream of bunnies,” I say. “Hop, hop, hop,” he says. Thanks for reading Anchor Baby! This post is public so feel free to share it.To the spoiled go the victoriesThe baby’s crying downstairs. He’s been crying a lot today. He wants the remote control. He wants his Dad’s enormous (plastic – ugh, America) cup of water. He wants the Xbox controller. He wants that can of Mountain Dew he spotted on the counter. He wants, he wants, he wants. He cannot have. It’s very relatable, if you think about it. And honestly? I’m tempted, a lot of the time (most of the time), to just give him what he wants. I’ve become a dab hand at removing batteries from things at speed. “Oh, you want this?” I’ll ask him, and his eyes will light up as I hand over the object of his desire. “Here you go.” I enjoy the moment of handover. He looks at me so adoringly. Sure, he can only say “dada” but I know what he’s thinking is, thank you mama. I love you so much. I just know. My parents didn’t spoil us, growing up. At least, I don’t think they did. I’m sure there are some people who would disagree. I did, at one point, own 32 Barbies, which was a point of great contention for my friend C, who had five. But in my defence, these were hand-me-downs. And several were SINDYS, for shame.(Roman is screaming again; Brandin has taken away the fingernail clippers. That’s one thing I wouldn’t just give him, although I’ll admit I’d be tempted.) But I don’t remember getting everything I wanted, precisely when I wanted it. My Dad would come home from work on Friday with a chocolate bar for each of us. We would receive gifts at Christmas and on our birthdays; sometimes, on our summer holiday – to Kerry, or to Spain, both places my uncle had holiday homes – we would get a souvenir. From Spain, a figurine in a red dress, not entirely unlike the dancing lady emoji. From Kerry, a stick of rock, to be eaten in spurts on the car drive home, which always felt 10 years long. Still, my mum loves to ask: “If you can’t spoil a child, who can you spoil?”She has a point. On Monday evening, Brandin takes the older two boys and Atlas to the shop, to pick out the bike that was our eldest’s Christmas gift. We had ordered one for him in December, but it was sold out and didn’t get delivered. In any case, the sub-zero temperatures we’ve experienced in the weeks coming up to and since Christmas have meant he wasn’t exactly champing at the bit to get out on the bike. Until last week, when false spring arrived and we saw a day of 22-degree weather before things took a sharp right turn back to – checks weather app – a cool -5C (with a realfeel of -10C). So with the warmer weather came a strong desire to get out and bike around the neighborhood, and it was conceded that we couldn’t put things off any longer. Hence the shopping trip. “Do not go down any of the other aisles!” I, a frugal queen, caution as Brandin sets off with the lads. I know what they’re like when they catch sight of something they want. As it happens, they didn’t need to go down any other aisles. There, in the middle, between the bikes and the craft supplies, is a display of Jurassic World: Rebirth merchandise, prime among it a mosasaurus play set that included a boat, a little gun that affixes to said boat and fires bullets at the included mosasaurus, and a lifeboat. Brandin doesn’t buy it – I am impressed with his steely determination, honestly –but, for the ensuing three days, it is all Atlas can talk about. He goes to bed asking if tomorrow is the day he’ll get his mosasaurus with the boat and the crane (the boat comes with a kind of mosasaurus trap, a little cage thing that dangles off its stern). He wakes up asking if the mosasaurus set is here yet.I tell him I’m not sure we’ll be buying the mosasaurus. “You have a lot of toys,” I say. “I don’t have that toy?” he responds, quite rightly. He didn’t have that toy. (Note the past tense. It shouldn’t come as any kind of spoiler to learn that I am nothing if not weak-willed.) “Maybe we can ask Santa to bring it,” I suggest, but once he learns how far away Santa is – “This many days?!” he asks, holding up three fingers and a thumb – he has a better idea. “Mommy!” he exclaims. “The mailman can bring my mosasaurus to me! In a box!”I give in on Thursday and order the mosasaurus set from Walmart, asking Brandin to pick it up on his way home from work, along with bananas, strawberries, bread, eggs and milk (pickup is free but I can’t bring myself to order a single item; that seems ridiculous). I tell Atlas that Brandin is bringing him home a treat, and let me tell you he misses not a single trick. “My mosasaurus?!” he asks, delightedly. “I don’t know,” I tell him. “Daddy didn’t tell me. He just said he’s bringing you home a surprise.” Atlas has just woken up from his afternoon nap when Brandin’s truck rolls into the drive. This is usually a very chill (read: grumpy) time for him, when he sits on the couch sucking his thumb and demanding snacks, but today, he hears the crunch of Brandin’s tires on the asphalt and runs down the stairs at a pace that, honestly, makes me a bit nervous. (He’s not the most coordinated four-year-old, no idea where he gets that from, and still moves a little more like a toddler than a little boy.) “Mommy, MOMMY!” he shouts up the stairs at me. “Daddy got me my mosasaurus! Daddy, you the BEST Daddy getting me my mosasaurus!” I feel a mixture of emotions. Rage, that Brandin is getting all the credit. Slight embarrassment, that my child is getting exactly what he wants, again. But mostly I feel so happy, because he is overjoyed and excited and so, so grateful. And if you can’t spoil a child, I remind myself, who can you spoil?Survival tips (including screen time)I know I can’t be the only one who’s making allllll the parenting mistakes, so I asked on Instagram for other people to share their recent parenting fails. I was heartened to read that I’m not the only one leaning (heavily) into screen time in moments of great stress, and that other people are saying yes to treats and ice-cream when asked. What was slightly disheartening, though, was the sheer number of people who listed co-sleeping as a parenting fail, when there’s an increasing quantity of evidence that shows that safe co-sleeping can have myriad advantages for both mother and baby. (Check out the safe sleep seven here.)There were other avowed parenting fails that I have yet to experience, but I enjoyed hearing about. Among them: “I dress my kids every day before school – they lie there and I dress them, because it’s just easier. I even warm their uniforms in the dryer as an incentive.”“I give my kids marshmallows. I KNOW it’s a choking risk – but I supervise!” [Girl, same, except the most recent choking hazard I gave my angel baby was a lollipop. Similarly, I supervised.]“Only brush their teeth once a day.” [Relatable!] “I compare them to others to shame them into doing things.”“Give them something different to eat when they won’t eat the dinner you cooked.”“I can’t remember the last time I cleaned a dodie.”“TV during meals.”“Screen time! It’s my only saviour at times. Also I’ll sneak her a 7Up every now and again…”What all of this has taught me is that, truly, we’re all just trying to get by. And you know what? We’re doing a great job. This is a public episode. If you'd like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit rosemarymaccabe.substack.com/subscribe

Nobody’s really talking about the cruel downside of losing weight in your 40s. Or maybe they are, but they’re talking about it by a different name: Ozempic face. According to Northwell Health, “Ozempic face… describes the facial changes that can accompany rapid weight loss when using medications like Ozempic… for weight-loss treatment.” Northwell’s own bariatric surgeon, Dr Andrea Bedrosian, goes on to explain that “Ozempic will help you lose a lot of weight in a relatively short period of time [and] a lot of people will see that initial weight loss in their face first."We’ve seen it in a lot of celebrities whose pictures we’re bombarded with online, whether we seek them out or not; suddenly, having lost “the weight” (that’s a gross term, isn’t it? “the weight”, like it’s this enormous burden we’re carrying around with us), they look older and more wrinkled than we’re used to seeing them. But maybe it’s not just the fact that their faces have less fat on them – fat on the face, FYI, is a great substitute for Botox and filler – but that those “extra” few pounds (I hope you know that, when I say “extra’, here, I’m not implying that the weight they’ve lost was bad, but it’s hard to talk about this without kind of writing in a way that feels and seems fatphobic, which I would never intend or believe) were concealing the fact that celebrities are just like us and, just like us, they tend to get older as time goes on. I’m not someone who has ever been especially concerned with aging or, at the very least, the effects of aging on my face or body. I’ve always had pretty clear, smooth skin, thanks to genetics and nothing else, honestly. Right now I’m quite committed to a fairly elaborate skincare regimen thanks to a Caroline Hirons skin kit I treated myself to before Christmas, and while I can say my skin feels lovely and soft and moisturised, I could not say, in all honesty, that it looks any different than it did before I started this twice-a-day, six-step routine. I got Botox once, for the single deep horizontal wrinkle between my eyes that’s also genetic (thanks, Mum!) and I think makes me look a bit cross, sometimes (even on the rare occasion when I’m not actually cross), but aside from that, I’ve never even been tempted to investigate anti-aging interventions for myself. Until now. Anchor Baby is a reader-supported publication. To receive new posts and support my work, consider becoming a free or paid subscriber.In the last few weeks – and this might also be because I’ve started filming a lot of reels for Instagram, the editing of which requires me to stare at myself for longer than I’d like – I’ve started to feel a lot of stupid, negative feelings about my face and the obvious signs of aging that have emerged, as I continue to lose weight. Is this Ozempic face?! I’ve wondered to myself, more than once. (While also adding to cart ridiculous things I truly don’t believe work, like LED light masks and eye masks and extra-strength retinol I’m sure I would sincerely regret using.)And, I mean, it is, right, because I’m losing weight not necessarily quicker than ever before – as previously flagged, I once lost 17lbs in a week; on another occasion, I got “slimmer of the week” in my local Slimming World group, as I’d lost 9lbs – but definitely more consistently. Previously, I’d lose large amounts, week to week, but then put on a few pounds the following week (and probably the week after that, too). While there are definitely days, since starting Mounjaro, where I’ve put on a pound, only to go down on the scale the following day (I don’t generally weigh myself every day, as that way madness lies, but sometimes I do two days in a row for whatever reason), week to week, I’ve continued to lose weight. So that could be it, right? But also – and this feels really important – the last time I was this weight was a decade ago. If ever I weighed less than this, it was in my teens, maybe going into my early twenties (I turned 41 last Friday). It stands to reason that my actual face, emerging from beneath the very youth-giving layers of fat I’m losing, is now the face of a middle-aged woman, when it was once the face of a child. Like I said, I’ve never thought much about my face or body aging, because the signs of it have never been as obvious as they are now that I’ve lost “the weight”, or some of it. And look: I truly believe aging is a gift. I’m not ashamed of being 41; I had a lot of questions, especially coming up to 40, about how I’d feel about the age itself, and my being it. I thought, many times, about writing a piece about it – and I might still – but I couldn’t quite grasp the contours of how I felt, not really. I was glad to have reached 40, honestly (like many emo teens who view themselves as artists of some sort, I truly believed I would die in my twenties), but I had a lot of feelings of shame and regret about the things I had once thought I would have achieved by the age of 40 and which, obviously, I hadn’t.But I also have long placed so much value – I mean, did you read my book?! (you can still buy copies from Gutter Bookshop in Dublin at that link) – in how attractive I am to the opposite sex (ugh, I mean I KNOW). So looking at my face, which is suddenly starting to look its age, throws up a lot of insecurities for me that I could, quite honestly, do without. There’s such a frustration to all of this, which largely boils down to how s**t and complex and difficult it is to be a woman. I’ve been trying, for pretty much my entire adult life (I first joined Weight Watchers at the age of 14), to lose weight – and now that science has finally found a way for me to do that (because, reminder, diets don’t work), I’m finding yet another thing to beat myself up about. At moments like this, I think it might be time for me to do a deep dive into Jessica DeFino’s work “reporting on the absurd world of beauty culture”, and maybe have a re-read of Nora Ephron’s I Feel Bad About My Neck, for solidarity purposes. It all makes me think of the many, many people who’ve asked if I feel taking a GLP-1 is “worth” it. Is it “worth” it, to spend $210 a month to (eventually, hopefully) be thin? Is it “worth” it to take a weight loss medication, if you’ll have to take it for the rest of your life? Is it “worth” it to lose weight, if you’re then going to be worried about looking old and haggard as a result? I don’t know the answer to these questions. What I will say is that, in an ideal world, we wouldn’t have to ask them. Fat people could just be fat, and be happy with their fat bodies and their fat faces, and thin people could just be thin, and be happy with their thin bodies and their thin faces, and none of us would be wondering whether we’re too fat or too thin or too old-looking or too young-looking, and all of the truly smart people who dedicate their lives to anti-aging and weight loss would, instead, be busy finding the cure for colorectal cancer (and more!), because what millennial isn’t absolutely bereft at the news that James van der Beek has died?!? It’s a cruel world, and I mean that sincerely. (Thank you so much for taking time out of your day in this cruel, cruel world to follow and read my work. I appreciate it more than you could know.) This is a public episode. If you'd like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit rosemarymaccabe.substack.com/subscribe

It feels, sometimes, as though I’m the only person in the western hemisphere (am I even in the western hemisphere any more?! I just Googled it. Yes, I am) who hasn’t seen the Northern Lights with her own eyes. This is not because of my weakening eyesight, although that’s certainly an issue. I had laser eye surgery over a decade ago, a freebie offered to me in exchange for an interview with the head of the practice about a new treatment they’d started offering for long-sightedness, a condition that had been, until then, largely untreatable. The interview didn’t end up running in the newspaper I’d written it for, which I felt guilty about, but as a freelancer, you don’t get to make the decisions about what to publish and what not to publish and, in any case, I was always careful to emphasise the fact that there were no guarantees. I didn’t, officially, accept gifts or treatments or trips in exchange for coverage. And yet, there I was, my eyes fixed open with little clamps, gazing into the abyss as my short-sightedness was lasered away, at least temporarily. I’ve just Googled this, too; apparently laser eye surgery is permanent, as it reconfigures the surface of the eye. What’s happened my sight – which has undoubtedly got worse, to the point now that I should probably be wearing my glasses, hitherto worn only for driving, watching TV or going to the cinema, all the time – is a result of ageing and natural changes, not any failure on the part of the lasers. I enjoyed the process itself, I have to say. I felt like James Spader, walking through the Stargate: optimistic, awed, surrounded by stars and, I’ll admit, a bit queasy. But it was more amazing than it was revolting. I’d do that again, I thought, as my eyelids were unclamped. Anyway, I don’t think it’s my eyesight that’s kept the Northern Lights from me. It feels, honestly, like it could be fate. My Mum and I even went to Iceland, once, but the winds were too high for us to take our scheduled trip to see the lights. In fact, we were warned to stay in our hotel, but as we only had those four days, we disobeyed the orders and wandered into downtown Reykjavik, scarves and hats and gloves and coats covering as much of our bodies as possible. Still, by the time we arrived at Hallgrímskirkja, our faces were completely numb. We spent approximately €100 on hot chocolates in a nearby cafe (Iceland is notoriously expensive, something 10,000 people will tell you, if you ever plan a trip). I don’t really mind that I haven’t caught a glimpse them. It gives me something to look forward to and, in any case, I’ve seen enough photographs of them that I have the sensation of having seen them myself.That the Northern Lights have been so much more prevalent lately feels like a glimmer: a tiny, micro moment of joy, compensation for what otherwise looks and feels like a Gileadian hellscape from which there can be no escape. There is, of course, a more pedestrian explanation. According to NPR: Auroras have been happening more frequently in the United States for a while, and will continue to do so for several months. This influx of shimmering colors comes because the sun is reaching the peak of its 11-year cycle and, therefore, its solar maximum. The solar maximum causes solar eruptions, and this increase of activity brings ions, or electrically charged particles, closer to Earth. This stream of particles is known as the solar wind.It doesn’t matter. Communication is about the result. If I feel the existence of the Northern Lights – the fact that my friends and neighbours have seen them, that they’ve brought this joy, this awe, this wonder, to people I love – as a glimmer, then surely that’s what they are, solar cycles be damned. It’s not the only glimmer around – so I thought I’d share a few more. Of course, your glimmers will be different to mine. They should be. You might have more than I do (good, I hope you do). You might have fewer (look for them, they’re out there). You might feel, as I do sometimes, as though there are no glimmers that can in any way soothe the sense of hopelessness you feel right now. That’s okay. Shiny lights aren’t going to solve our problems. They’re just glimmers. Bask in them while you can. Anchor Baby is a reader-supported publication. To receive new posts and support my work, consider becoming a free or paid subscriber.a few more ✨glimmers✨Heated RivalryI know, I know, everyone’s been talking about this, but truly, this show is just… oof. I can’t even explain it. A friend of mine described it as “soft porn, with a little romance”, but I corrected her immediately (friends love when you do that). It’s a romance, with a little soft porn. It’s a show about really, really fancying someone and missing someone and yearning for someone and then, later, yes, loving someone (and, all along, yes, f*****g someone) and it’s just so beautiful and, crucially, no fictional women are harmed in the making of this love story and, really, how many love stories can say that? (Plus, once you watch it, the creepy algorithm will serve you every Heated Rivalry meme out there and you’ll be reminded of how gorgeous it is every time you check your social media apps and for once you’ll be glad your phone is spying on you.)RobynIn the year of our lord, 2026, it’s more important than ever that we seek out art that subverts and distorts and confounds expectations, and Robyn’s performance of Sexistential on The Late Show is so utterly weird and brilliant and gorgeous. I love, love, love watching women do things no one expects them to do (and not doing the things people do expect them to do). And no, I’m not talking about, like, wearing red with pink or whatever. I’m talking about doing whatever Robyn’s doing here. “Actually…”Maybe it’s because my 4-year-old has a speech delay, but sometimes, he starts saying words he’s never said before and it just brings me so much joy. The latest is “actually”, which he uses correctly (this cannot be said for all of his new words) and very, very frequently. I’m putting him to bed one particularly windy afternoon this week – yes, he still takes daily naps, a fact for which I am exceedingly grateful – when he asks, “Mommy, what is that rumbling noise?” (he pronounces this wumb-oween)The rumbling noise is the wind, wailing against the front of our house with great gusto. Our housing estate is new, and so our house is exposed on almost all sides. The houses that will eventually protect us from the elements have yet to be built, and there are no established trees in the estate, just a sad little sapling, about five feet tall, across the road.“Oh,”I tell him, “That’s the washing machine.” This is a very believable lie because, as you can imagine in a household with four children, we do a lot of washing. “Actually,” he says to me, his eyes round as saucers, lower lip wobbling, “I think it is…” (he chokes back a tiny sob) “…the wind.”I tell him, for the hundredth time, that it’s okay. The wind can’t get in the house. I’ll protect him from the wind. His red dinosaur (a T-rex teddy he seems to have imbued with Herculean strength and the heroism of Joan of Arc) will protect him. Wind can’t hurt him. Look! (Here, I blow on him.) This doesn’t hurt, does it?! (I dread the day he learns about hurricanes.) He falls asleep, actually. A cafe owner in Michigan is building a cute ‘n’ quirky shopping mall out of shipping containersAnd I am SO GRIPPED BY THIS.It’s not just that 22-year-old Kyle here, who owns a cafe in Caseville, Michigan, has had this kooky lil idea and is running with it, but it’s the fact that her creative project is going to have such a ripple effect in Caseville (because I, for one, am planning a trip there this summer to see the mall in person). I’m loathe to say it but it also made me think about the Happy Pear and how their kind of odd and unexpected rise to fame must have made a big difference to Greystones’ hospitality trade. I mean, the glimmer is that I love watching these videos, but there’s an overarching sense of… you just never know the impact you might have by just doing your little idea. No matter what else is going on in the world. (P.S. If Kyle is a Republican please, for the love of god, don’t tell me.) Do, however tell me……what your glimmers have been lately. We could probably all do with sharing a little micro-moment of joy! Thanks for reading Anchor Baby! This post is public so feel free to share it. This is a public episode. If you'd like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit rosemarymaccabe.substack.com/subscribe

This piece – obviously – talks about intentional weight loss, the (totally b******t) BMI scale, weight loss medication and weight loss programmes, so if any of that feels like it might be difficult for you to read, please, don’t. I should also give the disclaimer that I am not, nor have I ever been, over 300lbs, or in the categories of superfat or infinifat. I probably haven’t even been large fat. For most of my life, I’ve been small fat, and for a short period, I’ve been medium fat. Only in the latter category was I sized out of mainstream fashion. I have a lot of privilege in terms of my body, my fatness and the barriers and difficulties I’ve faced as a result of them. I am very aware of that, and never want to come across like I’ve experienced every discrimination every fat person will ever experience (that would be a wild assertion to make). So please, bear all of that in mind when reading.Someone messaged me on Instagram the other day to tell me how great I look [since losing weight]. They told me they, too, were considering going “on the jabs”, and asked a few follow-up questions – which, honestly, I’m always happy to answer, although I caveat everything with the reminder that I’m not a doctor, a nurse, or any kind of medical professional, and though I have a qualification that allows me to call myself a nutritionist in Ireland (lol), that’s not a protected term so, essentially, anyone can call themselves a nutritionist in Ireland. FUN. “Do you feel way better in yourself? Like, do you notice a massive difference?” they asked. I chose honesty (I almost always choose honesty; as a rule, I lie only – and always – when my Mum asks me, “is that new?!”). “Not really,” I said. “I don’t feel any different, honestly, at least not physically.” This was not a satisfactory answer. “But,” she continued, “is it way easier to run around after the lads now?”I assured her that I wouldn’t know: “In general, I try not to run around after the lads at all, if I can avoid it.” I’m sure she thought I was joking, but I wasn’t, because (a) I truly don’t run around after my children, unless it’s first thing in the morning and Atlas is trying to avoid putting on his coat and I am literally running in circles around the couch trying to catch him while he gets increasingly hysterical with laughter and I get increasingly enraged and (b) running around does not feel easier or in any way different since I lost weight. Another message, this week, from someone who was considering joining the ever-growing ranks of those of us taking a GLP-1 medication for weight loss, read: “I have a really high BMI and feel sluggish”, the implication being that, once they lost weight, not only would their BMI be lower but they would automatically feel, well, not sluggish. “BMI is a made-up concept,” I told her, not (I hoped) unkindly, “and feeling sluggish is about fitness more than it is about weight”. Ilona Maher, for example, is “overweight” going by her BMI, but is not, it’s a fair assumption to make, someone who feels sluggish all that often.Anchor Baby is a reader-supported publication. To receive new posts and support my work, consider becoming a free or paid subscriber.The thing is, the idea of losing weight is so often sold to us as a catch-all, a panacea for everything that ails us. Not only will we look better (by the almost universal body standards that tell us thin is beautiful and fat is, well, not) but we’ll feel better (because fatties are unhealthy and therefore feel sluggish and unable to run around after their children); we’ll have more energy; brighter skin, eyes and nails; our fertility will improve; any digestive issues we’ve ever had will disappear; our thighs won’t chafe when we walk long distances in the heat; in fact, we’ll probably stop sweating (like pigs) when we’re hot or exerting ourselves; we’ll sleep better and have more sex and be less jealous of our friends and finally manage to write that novel and clear out the basement and finish that craft project and and and AND. I’m not even joking when I write this out; weight loss is absolutely marketed to fat people as something that will change every single aspect of their lives for the better. And this – I’m sure you could see where this was headed – is total and utter b******t.There are things that change when you lose weight, but being overweight has not been established as a causative factor in most of the huge number of aches, pains and ailments that are attributed to it. In other words, sometimes your body feels like s**t for reasons other than your fatness. So getting less fat is not going to solve, or even change, those problems in any way, shape (lol) or form. That’s not to see that things won’t change as you lose weight. I should know; I’m currently losing weight and, like the vast majority of fat people I know, this is not the first time I’ve done it. I’ve yo-yoed up and down 30 or so pounds several times. I once lost over a stone in a week, for crying out loud!When it comes to weight loss and the effects of weight loss, I’m practically an expert. So, believe me when I tell you that the changes one experiences as one loses weight are not the ones people tell you to expect and, when you drill down, most of them have nothing to do with your body at all. Confused? Allow me to explain.You’ll feel better (about yourself)Every single article, pamphlet, opinion piece, film, TV show or ad that features weight loss tells the lie that, when you lose weight, your body itself will feel radically different, and by “different”, it’s very clear that they mean “better”. But they don’t really mean better the way I’m experiencing it; they mean better because you’re healthier, so your body is, of course, functioning at some kind of elite level now that you’ve stopped being such a greedy slob (this is how society views fat people and we all know it). In truth, losing weight via GLP-1 – so, you know, simply by eating less, not necessarily by eating better, exercising more, or drinking more water (the old-fashioned, and useless, ways) – hasn’t, for me at least, led to any of those physical health improvements. But I’d be lying if I said I didn’t feel better; it’s just not a physical improvement. I feel better because I’m no longer embarrassed about my size or weight. I feel better because I’m losing weight – that is to say, I’m being a good fatty (a dieting fatty) and not a bad fatty (one who is determinedly not dieting). I feel as though I am morally better, now that I’m losing weight, than I was before, when I was not losing weight, even though I know that there’s no moral superiority about weight loss, or thinness, or any potent combination of the two. And honestly? This is really fucked up! It’s gross that I feel like I’m some kind of better version of myself now, when I was a perfectly brilliant version of myself before! It’s disturbing that I was so ashamed of my body and my fatness that simply knowing I’m losing weight has lifted a certain amount of that shame. I know this is all rooted in the internalised fatphobia that led me to want to lose weight in the first place, so I guess I shouldn’t be surprised, but it’s still really disappointing to experience.Thanks for reading Anchor Baby! This post is public so feel free to share it.You’ll fit into clothes you couldn’t fit into beforeSure, this is a bit of a “duh” change, but also feels groundbreaking, honestly. Having lost a not-insignificant-but-not-life-changing amount of weight – I’m not gatekeeping this, but I know hearing numbers can be really triggering to people, so message me if you really want to know and I’ll tell you, but also, who cares? – I can now shop almost anywhere, and it feels freeing but also weirdly maddening. Sure, I could buy a size L dress in Mango now (MAYBE), but also, why should I? Why should I give my money to a brand that deliberately, consistently and for no good reason whatsoever excludes fat people, when I’ve spent years being one of those fat people?! It’s like that golf club in Dublin that wouldn’t allow women to be full members for years – I always wondered, WHY would any woman ever want to be a member there?! Why would I want to give my time, my money, my attention to a brand or company or business that purposefully, willfully and blatantly excluded me and people like me because of the size of my body?! Not to mention the fact that, as someone with a decent social media following (ish?! I don’t even know what a “decent social media following” is any more), I feel a certain responsibility not to turn my back on all fat women everywhere by suddenly wearing, posting about and (ergo) promoting brands we can’t all fit into! (If you follow me on Instagram, you will see that I posted an outfit the other day that included a pair of Zara trousers, but these were bought in a blind PANIC the day before I was speaking on a panel for IMAGE magazine’s live Motherload podcast event; more often, you’ll find me in clothes from Old Navy (up to 4X online, terrible selection in stores), Marks & Spencer (up to a UK 24, with a pretty decent selection instore last time I was there), Dunnes (hit and miss; sometimes goes up into the UK 20s, but other things only go up to XL) and Target (a large size range but shitty ethics, a reminder that there’s no ethical consumption under capitalism).One of the most frustrating thing about being plus-sized is feeling incredibly limited when it comes to where you can shop, so I’d be lying if I said it didn’t feel good to know that I have more choice now – even if I’m not sure I’ll be exercising that choice because (see above) I’m not sure I’ll ever get over the fact that brands choose not to include fat people in their offerings for no good reason.You’ll stop feeling guilty about your food choicesThis one comes with a disclaimer, and it is this: as long as you’re still losing weight. Which makes it a really weird thing to observe in yourself. The truth is, my eating habits haven’t massively changed since I’ve gone on Mounjaro. I’m slightly more conscious about my protein intake, and I try to get more vegetables than I once did (mostly due to the fibre fearmongering), but by and large I’m eating the same things as I did before, just in smaller quantities. I’ll still eat the things I want to eat, when I want to eat them: chocolate after dinner and ice-cream in front of the TV and tostitos with guacamole on a Sunday afternoon when dinner feels 10 million years away because I’ve been up with my children since 5am. And where these foods – “treat” foods, foods we’ve been taught to consider “bad”, and do consider bad, even though we know, intellectually, that there are no good or bad foods – once made me feel guilty when I “indulged” in them (even that word, “indulged!” ugh!), now I just… accept that this is what my body wants to eat. Because, if nothing else, four months on a GLP-1 has taught me that, no matter what I eat or when, I will continue to lose weight. That’s something I have never, ever felt before. I’ve always believed that my weight gain is because I was eating the wrong things, at the wrong times (snacking between meals, after 7pm, outside of my “intermittent fasting” hours and so on). Being on a GLP-1 is, I’d imagine, a bit like being a child; I eat when I’m hungry, and I choose what I want to eat based on what I feel like eating. I’m learning to trust my body to know when and what to eat and it feels weird to have this trust, this confidence, that my hunger isn’t working “against” me somehow, that my own greed and lack of willpower aren’t tripping me up.You’ll feel kind of bad for your past selfOne of the things that happens when you lose noticeable amounts of weight – and, like I said, this isn’t my first rodeo – is that people will start to comment on it. I will say that, the last time I lost weight, some 10 years ago, give or take, a lot more people commented on it than do now. There’s definitely been a shift in people’s attitudes towards what they can and can’t say about other people’s bodies, and while I would say that’s, overall, a positive change, I think we could be tricked into thinking that there’s been a correlative change in how we think about fat bodies, when, in fact, I think attitudes towards fatness have got worse, especially since Ozempic and Mounjaro came on the scene.Still, there are, occasionally, people who will comment on how I look in a way that I know they’re talking about my weight. You know, “you’re looking great lately” or “God, I haven’t seen you in ages, you look fantastic!” As nothing else about me has changed – I’m wearing the same things, I haven’t got a drastic haircut (in fact, I haven’t cut my hair in over a year and I’m currently growing out my greys, so I feel like no one’s talking about my hair) and I haven’t suddenly got my teeth whitened – it’s pretty clear what they’re referring to. And while it’s nice to get compliments, there’s always a moment where you realise that there’s an implied comparison in there. “You’re looking great” compared to what you looked like before – and not only did I think I looked nice before (I mean, sometimes!) I’ve been up and down this elevator enough times to know that I may well be back to looking that way very soon. This is part of the reason why I don’t ever post before and after pictures any more. The larger part is that they can be damaging and triggering to people with body image issues and eating disorders, and sharing them is unnecessary and careless at best and harmful at worst, but there’s a small part of me that doesn’t want to look at a side by side of myself where one version is “bad” and the other is “good”, because both the before and the after are versions of me that I try to love and respect. The thing is, none of these changes are actually about my body, or my weight, or even about my health, which is to say, the big carrot society at large likes to dangle in front of fat people. The ways in which I feel different, or better, are, largely, to do with fatphobia and anti-fat bias more than they are about fatness itself. I feel better because I’m being treated better; I feel better because I don’t feel ashamed of my size, or my gluttony (or both); I feel better because I don’t feel guilty about the amount of food I’m eating, or what food I’m eating, or when. I feel better because I’m not excluded from mainstream fashion due to my size. None of this, to repeat, is about fatness. It’s about all of the structural ways in which fat people are discriminated against, and how good it feels to not be treated like s**t any more. The thing is, if I’d thought there was a chance any of that would change in my lifetime, maybe I wouldn’t now be taking an expensive medication to help curb my appetite and trick my body into thinking I’m full after a half portion of pasta. But I knew that, even if change was going to come – and there was a glimmer of possibility that it would, pre-Ozempic, a glimmer that has now turned into a single speck of dust on a distant horizon – it wasn’t going to come quickly enough to repair my relationship with my body, its value (or lack thereof) and my attitudes towards food. So, here we are. I don’t regret starting a GLP-1, and I’m happy it’s working for me, and I’m losing weight. But I wish I’d never felt like I had to.Anchor Baby is a reader-supported publication. To receive new posts and support my work, consider becoming a free or paid subscriber.For a totally different piece about Ozempic and fatness and the ubiquity of weight loss medications, this piece disturbed me in the best way. P.S. I wrote a piece about my experience with GLP-1s and all of my (many) complex feelings around my resulting weight loss for The Irish Times. You can read it here. This is a public episode. If you'd like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit rosemarymaccabe.substack.com/subscribe

Life has never felt quite as messy as it does right now – and I’m including the years I spent freelancing as a writer, podcaster, radio presenter, TV stylist and magazine stylist all while trying to nab the man of my dreams*, going to the opening of an envelope a minimum of three times weekly, while living in a one-bedroom house with no hot running water. (My landlord: “Can’t you just boil the kettle to wash up?) To recap, a couple of weeks ago, a house popped up on Zillow – the US equivalent of Daft – that was perfect for us. Five bedrooms, within budget, in the “right” school area, with three beautiful, tall, established trees in the back garden and solid wooden doors throughout. It had been on the market for a year, with no takers – our realtor suspected it had initially been priced too high, and honestly, I suspect Americans just don’t really like anything they consider “period”, probably because, no disrespect, they don’t seem to really make anything that lasts longer than 20 years.Anchor Baby is a reader-supported publication. To receive new posts and support my work, consider becoming a free or paid subscriber.We immediately decided to sell our house, and within a week we had cleaned and tidied it to within an inch of its life, replaced missing blinds, finished the trim on our faux built-in cabinets (Ikea Billy bookcases, installed and trimmed and caulked to look like bespokes built-ins – if you squinted), had photographs taken and listed it for sale. This is the second house we’ve sold in Fort Wayne, and the first experience – listed on a Friday, viewed on a Saturday, sold on a Sunday – lulled me into a false sense of security. It took a fortnight for this home to sell, which is nothing to an Irish person, but in the US, where houses seem to get snapped up immediately and where, crucially, I was desperately watching the listing of our dream home to make sure it didn’t sell out from under us… it felt like an age.On the day we got our offer, mere hours before we were ready to put an offer on the other house (they wanted us to have accepted an offer before they would consider ours, “no contingencies”, is the real estate jargon for that), the other house sold (to someone else, in case that wasn’t clear). We had 24 hours to decide whether or not to accept the offer, acceptance of which would give us roughly a month to find a new house to move into ourselves. We thought about whether we should just abandon the whole project and relist in the spring, when more people tend to move (to coincide with the end of school, for one thing), but I was so devastated by the loss of our dream home that I just… couldn’t bear to do that to the people who’d put the offer on our house. To be fair, maybe they weren’t as enamoured by the house as I had been with the other one, but the idea of causing someone else to feel the same disappointment I was feeling just didn’t sit right with me. So we accepted the offer, a day before I left for a three-week trip to Ireland. The day I landed in Ireland, Brandin went to see four other houses – all of which were within our budget, most of which had the number of bedrooms we wanted, some of which had the same period features I’d loved so much, and one of which was in a brand new estate, with neither trees nor grass. That would have been my last choice. Readers, that’s the house we bought. The others were either too small or too drafty or too ramshackle or in the wrong school district (which we could possibly have overlooked for an otherwise perfect home, but this particular house was also a bit of a kip, according to Brandin). We put an offer on the new house, a five-bedroom home in a good area, right across the road from the sweet little school Atlas and Roman will end up at. It took a lot of trust for me to agree to buy this house I hadn’t seen, based only on Brandin’s verdict – and honestly, deciding to trust him was something I regretted several times, not least when I mentioned something about the video he’d sent me of the house and he said, “oh that’s not our house, our house isn’t built yet”. Wouldn’t that have been… important to mention?! No?!! (ONLY A MAN.)Thanks for reading Anchor Baby! This post is public so feel free to share it.Anyway. We’re buying the house. The one issue was that this house wouldn’t be ready until a week after we had to move out of our existing home, giving us two problems: firstly, and most importantly (you could argue), where would we stay for that week? And secondly, where would our stuff stay?! In the end, we decided on, respectively, an Airbnb and a storage unit, and started packing our things into boxes the day we arrived back from Ireland, a month before we had to vacate our home. It was, as I’ve mentioned, a long, laborious and, frankly, exhausting process. Give me two days to get out and I’ll get out – but give me 30 and I’ll spend every one of those days stressing and packing and worrying and organising and nothing will get done any better or more efficiently but my life will be hell for a full 30 days instead of two. You know? You know.The weeks leading up to the move both dragged in and flew by, and before we knew it we were packing up all of our earthly belongings to move the final bits – our beds, our mattresses, towels, blankets, bedding, crockery, cutlery… you name it – into the storage unit, taking only the essentials to the Airbnb with us. Except the storage unit filled up fast, and several boxes and bits and bobs didn’t fit. So we offloaded some of them into Brandin’s Dad’s basement; Brandin brought some to the warehouse at work; and we brought the rest to the Airbnb, which was quite a zen little home away from home but is now a kip, the hall lined with boxes and bags and, randomly, our squatty potty, which is an awkward size to box up and almost got left behind.There are three bathrooms in the house, which is just as well, because one of them is now full of huge paintings – things that either wouldn’t fit in the storage unit, or which I was too nervous to offload into a cold garage, basically – and the space beside the TV is stacked with boxes containing our record collection, bedsheets we’ll need for day one in the new house, and toys we forgot to box up until the last minute and which, therefore, ended up with us instead of tucked away neatly somewhere I couldn’t see (and hate) them.We also ended up bringing all of the clothes we had left in the house, which includes all of Roman’s clothes, all of Atlas’ clothes, and every item of clothing Brandin and I have worn over the last four weeks. In other words, the Airbnb is full. And stressing me out. Next: we close on our new house on Wednesday at 3pm and need to be out of our Airbnb by first thing Friday, which gives us, basically, Wednesday night and Thursday to get the new house set up and ready for us to at least sleep in on Friday night. Except Wednesday night marks our eldest son, W’s, school band concert, along with the festival of trees (and visiting Santa etc) at the older boys’ school, something we can’t miss – we missed his marching band semi-final, as we were in Ireland, and we also missed the marching band state final, as it was on the same day as Brandin’s grandma’s funeral. Plus, honestly? I want to go! I missed last year because I was so heavily pregnant I could barely walk, and I don’t want to miss another year because, not to sound like a massive sap, you just don’t get that many years of your kids truly buying into – and loving! – the magic of Christmas. So we’re currently trying to find a moving company who can pack our storage unit up into a truck on Wednesday and bring it to our new house by Thursday morning, then we’re trying to find people who aren’t working on Thursday and can help us unpack. It’s occurred to me, more than once, that the reason moving house was a lot easier the last time we did it is because we didn’t have small children to worry about. We had the older two boys, but I think they stayed with their mum as we were doing the actual moving business, which, another important factor, happened all in one day – we sold one house, bought another, and drove straight from our sold house to our bought house in a U-Haul with all of our stuff. Also? We had a lot less stuff! We had three beds, for example, one king and two twins, whereas now we have, technically, five and a crib: a king, two twins (one is spare), a double and Atlas’ pirate bed. We own three La-Z Boy armchairs (don’t ask), two bar stools, an L-shaped computer desk, a blanket ladder (!!), a ladder bookshelf, two enormous Adirondak chairs, a desk chair, two changing tables-slash-dressers… the list goes on. In case you wondered just how nightmarish this whole thing is… see above. ANYWAY. By this time next week, all of this chaos will be but a speck in the rearview mirror of life (I hope). I’m not imagining we’ll have everything unpacked by then, but I’m hoping we’ll be well on our way. It’s at times like this that I really resent the capitalist machine that means we still need to work and make money and, to a lesser extent, the fact that other obligations – school and speech therapy for Atlas, feeding Roman actual meals, cut up into tiny pieces (time-consuming and messy) – can’t just be ignored until it’s all over. From Atlas’ perspective, I’m sure he would like me to tell you: the Wifi in the Airbnb is so bad that he can’t watch anything without it buffering a dozen times, and it’s causing him no end of anguish. “This is so annoying! It’s happening again!” he wails on a regular basis. (Silver lining: speech therapy is going great.) From Vinny’s perspective: the Airbnb’s floors are all laminate, and he’s having no small amount of trouble getting around. He spends a lot of time whining, teetering on his little tippy-toes like a baby foal on a frozen lake. From Roman’s: I’ve put his pack ‘n’ play in the walk-in closet, because it’s dark and cool in there, and it made sense given the amount of space, or lack thereof, in the bedroom (plus, there’s no door so it’s not like he’s shut in or anything). He hasn’t said anything (because he can’t), but I suspect he feels like the Harry Potter of the family (which makes me Mrs Dursley, an unflattering comparison). For now, I have escaped to a nearby cafe to get away from my children do some work, and to just sit somewhere that isn’t full of the evidence of my rampant consumerism and bad decisions. Because I need this, I wish to tell you some things I’m looking forward to:* Roman going into his own room. I truly cannot wait to sit in my bed at night with a lamp on, reading my book. What a LUXURY. * My parents bought us a gift of new crockery, and I am very excited to unpack it in our brand new shiny kitchen – and then use it, obviously. (Truly the temptation to throw out everything we owned and buy everything new was… almost overpowering, so it’s a good thing I care about the environment and am poor.)* Our new fridge. I’ve never in my life had a new fridge. See also: our brand new shower. It’s double-width! A super big shower!* I’m quite excited about the light in our downstairs kitchen-dining-living area. It feels like a really nice, warm, airy space (I mean, right now, before we fill it full of our mountains of s**t.) * Being closer to the older boys’ school (15 minutes’ drive instead of 45), meaning extracurriculars and events won’t be such a slog, and we’ll hopefully be able to be more available for pick-ups and drop-offs as necessary!* Finally, honestly, living closer to some of my friends – the majority of whom seem to live either north (where we’re going) or downtown in Fort Wayne (closer to where we’re going) – and the mall. I never said my rampant consumerism was going to change, now, did I?*spoiler alert: he was not the man of my dreamsAnchor Baby is a reader-supported publication. To receive new posts and support my work, consider becoming a free or paid subscriber.I’ll leave you with this absolute banger by Irish singer Morgana. Strong Kate Bush… vibes? Inspiration? Imitation? I don’t even know and I DON’T EVEN CARE! This song is so, so great. This is a public episode. If you'd like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit rosemarymaccabe.substack.com/subscribe

I meet a friend for coffee on a Friday morning at The Hive, one of a handful of coffee shops in Fort Wayne that has a play area for children. At one end of the seating area, they have a play kitchen, a table, a shelf full of books and a little egg chair, all in varying sepia tones. The aesthetic is not what I’ve chosen for my own home – thinking that children deserve fun and colour, and shouldn’t suffer as the result of my tedious adherence to Instagram trends, I’ve always gone for bright, primary shades, but now my house looks like s**t so I guess the joke’s on me – but the effect is adorable, and my four-year-old would happily spend a full day here, running back and forth to my table to show me some new toy he’s discovered, or to ask if he can have a cake pop, or a muffin, or to stand on the table (no, he cannot).My friend, L., is running late, but I am running uncharacteristically early. When I take both boys out of the house – Atlas doesn’t have school on Fridays, and Roman’s babysitter only works Monday-Thursday – I’m either very early or egregiously late (there’s no in between). Today, Atlas began to whine that he wanted to watch TV and, knowing that, once it went on, getting him out the door would be a struggle, I decided we’d get our bits together and leave the house to take him away from temptation.At The Hive, I order a Starlit Dirty Chai from their seasonal festive menu, and a breakfast bagel. I plan to share it with Roman, who’s not quite eating enough to warrant his own order (but getting close), but I forget all about him when they ask what I’d like on my bagel, and I choose chipotle ranch, which turns out to be quite spicy.Despite the fact that I think to myself, several times a week, that Indian and Japanese and Middle Eastern babies eat spicy food and survive, I’m not brave enough to risk it today, so I order him his own bagel, with cream cheese, then carefully dissect it when he has trouble chewing the outside. I give him small pieces of bagel inner, slathered in cream cheese, and he seems satisfied.Anchor Baby is a reader-supported publication. To receive new posts and support my work, consider becoming a free or paid subscriber.When L. arrives, she orders a Candy Cane Cold Brew. It’s below zero outside and has been threatening to snow for days. I don’t know whether to feel admiring or judgmental about her choice, although, as I write this down, maybe the lesson is not to feel anything about it. It’s her choice, after all. I would never drink a Candy Cane coffee of any variety, because I firmly believe that mint belongs in toothpaste, chewing gum and Mint Aeros only. No coffee, no (non-mint-Aero) chocolate. Definitely no cheesecake. Yuck. Atlas, having eaten three mini croissants before we left the house, doesn’t seem to warrant a food order, but when he spots the cake pops on the counter, all bets are off, so I go back up to order him one, which he eats in two bites ($1.60 per mouthful). It’s while I’m at the counter ordering his cake pop (would you like to add a tip? 10%? 15%? 20%? I always tap 20%, but for this cake pop, from a glass case, which I carry over to the table myself, I opt for 15% and later feel cheap) that I bump into another woman I know, K., a friend I met through my Wednesday morning farm work. We see one another and smile, say hello, how are you? I missed you at the farm this week. We talk about the weather, which makes me feel very at home; when it comes to meteorology, all Irish people are excellent conversationalists. I sit back down at the table with the cake pop, which Atlas disappears in seconds, and tell L. I just met a friend from the farm. “It’s so nice,” I tell her. “I love bumping into people I know – it makes me feel like I actually live here.”I do, of course, actually live here; I have actually lived here since March of 2020, and I have known that I will actually live here for a long time since January of 2021, when I got pregnant with Atlas. Three months later, I would get married; three years later, I would give birth to my second son, Roman, who turns one later this month. I have, as they say, put down roots. But there’s something about moving to a new place, and knowing no one but a small number of people – in my case, my sister, her husband, and a handful of her friends, all of whom I knew only really in the context of her and her house and her kids’ parties – that makes you feel weirdly invisible. I’m reminded of an early episode of Buffy the Vampire Slayer – there really is, as I told Brandin the other day, an episode of Buffy for everything – in which a Sunnydale High student, Marcie Ross (played by Clea Duvall), becomes invisible as a consequence of being ignored, talked over and disregarded by everyone at school. The school’s location on a hellmouth – a powerful site of demonic energy, don’t you know – turns perception into reality. I felt a bit like that, throughout my first few years in Fort Wayne. Before I’d found friends, and the farm, formed a book club with women I’d met once or twice and thought, I think I’d like to be their friend, I could go days on end without seeing anyone I knew, or, and this felt more significant, without being seen by anyone else. This could be a distinctly Irish way of identifying this state of being, I will admit; I’d say a lot of New Yorkers could also go days without bumping into anyone they know, although I guess it depends on where they work and how they get there and how connected they are to the area they live in and their neighbours (and so on and so forth). It’s not quite loneliness, this. It’s not quite isolation, either. It’s the feeling of being newly of somewhere, but not from there. It’s the feeling of being home, but not quite feeling at home. It’s living an existence that is out of society and time and culture and context, and never quite knowing how to get in. Of course, there is no clear “how to” but, if there was – and here I channel my inner Brené Brown, someone whose books I have not read, but whose cartoon on empathy I have sent to all of my nearest and dearest at least once, and many of whose interviews I have listened to and absorbed and been moved by (so why haven’t I read her books?!) – it would be about connection. It would be about people. It would be about community, which you can’t quite force yourself to be a part of, but you can, I suppose, make inroads into. Slowly, slowly. I met L. – the friend with the bad taste in coffee, although, as I said, we’re not judging – through our children’s babysitter. Her daughter goes there too, and we connected through Instagram with a, “I hope this isn’t weird… my child goes there too”. It wasn’t weird. It was great.We meet for coffee and chats and we do a weird amalgamation of catching up on what we’ve been up to but also learning about who each other is, on a fundamental level. “Making new friends is really… wild,” L. says to me over scones (I made them but they didn’t turn out great) and coffee at my house. “You kind of end up trauma dumping everything at once, don’t you?” You do. I don’t talk about my “trauma”, for want of a better term, with my oldest friends very often, because they were all there. They lived through them with me. We processed a lot of it together, and it informs the way we think of and interact with and love one another – but with new friends, there’s none of that background, none of that context. We learn as we go. What’s most important, though, I’m learning – always learning – with new friends is to actually show up. Not that I don’t show up for my old friends, but I know that, if I can’t make it to x event or y event, they won’t care; I’ll see them next weekend, for the concert we bought tickets to, or I’ll drop over on Wednesday on my way home from town. It’s casual, but it’s also assured. We won’t fall out over it, is the attitude. It’s not that I’m worried about falling out with my new friends. We haven’t quite got there yet; the real worry is that, if I don’t make it to x or y event, there won’t be another invitation. There’s no concert we’re planning on going to together, and we’re not at the stage where we’d drop in on one another, more or less unannounced. And if I don’t make the effort to show up, to have those conversations over coffee where we trauma dump and get to know one another, how will we ever get to that stage?There are things that feel obvious, once you do them, but that which, when people tell you to do them in order to get the desired result, feel absolutely enraging and also stupid, like there’s no way that will work, that’s such a cliche, give me a break etc. You can add to this list: improve your mood by going for a walk; sleep better by getting some fresh air before bed; meet people and make friends by starting a new hobby. Truly, who reads these pieces of advice and thinks, what a sound recommendation – I shall try that immediately! Not I! I just think eyeroll and then I think f**k right off you insufferably smug b******s. But as someone who’s been depressed since her early twenties (and probably before although who am I to say really), I’m here to tell you that going for a walk really can improve your mood. It’s a treatment, not a cure, though – I highly recommend speaking to a professional, going to therapy and taking mood-altering drugs (only as prescribed obviously) – but as a short-term remedy for what ails you, it’s a great option. Similarly, fresh air really does help you sleep – it cools you down, for one thing, mimicking the natural lowering of your core temperature that happens in sleep – and finally, yes, finding and embracing a new hobby or interest will, in fact, place you in the path of people who like similar things to you (or, at the very least, one similar thing). At the farm, I have long conversations with B., a woman who spent her childhood summers in Europe; discuss therapy and AI with E., a psychotherapist who specialises in working with immigrants; practice being late and canceling plans and not apologising with KJ., who’s teaching me a lot about radical self-acceptance and love and community.Back at the café, L. asks how I know the woman I bumped into; I tell her it’s through the farm, through KJ, through this newly shared interest I have in… well, not farming (because the more I farm, the more I realise I could never actually farm), but growing food and engaging with shared agriculture. As I tell her this – the conversations I’ve had with K. about poetry and work and creativity – she looks up. “Oh, hi!” she says and, as I look up too, I realise that she, too, knows K. “We met through our exes,” L. tells me, and they exchange a knowing, slightly shamefaced look. Ain’t no shame in that game, I feel like saying (but don’t).This feels very Irish to me, too, bumping into someone and realising they know someone else in your orbit, or more than one someone; K. knows KJ, too, as does L, but separately. It feels like a circle (a hoop that never ends). Several degrees of Kevin Bacon, but instead of Kevin Bacon, it’s KJ or, I suppose, from her point of view, it’s me. I’m Kevin Bacon. It makes sense that I’m starting to feel at home, that I’m coming out of ghostly hiding and regaining corporeal form. I have, after all, been here for half a decade. I have roots here: a husband, yes, but also children, a part-time job (ish?) at the farm, links to a community that, in some small ways, now includes me.There’s a cafe where the owner recognises me and says hello. Granted, he calls me “Ireland” (I’m not sure he knows my real name), but I’ll take it. I know the owner of the indie bookshop downtown (to say hello to, at least), as well as Britta, the artist who works there. I have a friend I’d text if I want to take a yoga class; I can think of someone to call if I’m dying to go for lunch and don’t want to go alone; I know who I can drop the boys into for an hour in case of emergency. If I started out the story as a ghost, it feels like I’m on my way to gaining full form. Not quite there yet – I’m still not sure I have anyone I’d just drop into, unannounced, for a cup of tea (I’m not sure I know anyone who keeps tea in stock, honestly) – but halfway. So, you know, we’re getting there.If you haven’t already, please listen to this episode of Louise McSharry’s podcast (or all episodes of Louise McSharry’s podcast, honestly, because it’s very good – she’s very good). It’s really honest and vulnerable in all the best ways.I don’t ever really listen to Call Her Daddy, but I listened to this episode because for whatever reason I really, really love Whitney Leavitt (I think you can tell I’m old because I’m linking to her Instagram and not her TikTok) from Secret Lives of Mormon Wives (and I hope she leaves that show behind and never returns). I found the conversation she and her Dancing With the Stars partner Mark Ballas had about the hate they received during the show really confronting and if, like me, you’ve ever indulged in online snark, you might find the same. You’ve probably already seen this – how could you not have? – but this interview with Lily Allen about her new album, her experience of and on the internet, and how she feels about going back on tour in her forties, with teenage children, is great. Finally, I turned to Etsy for my Christmas cards this year. I ordered them yesterday, so I may end up – once again – sending cards that arrive in mid-January, but I’m excited to send out these little cuties once they get here. I love sending Christmas cards; it’s the one bit of snail mail I truly enjoy sending (don’t even talk to me about the sheer volume of cheques I end up posting in this backwards country), and a festive habit I won’t ever give up. This is a public episode. If you'd like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit rosemarymaccabe.substack.com/subscribe

hunger (həŋ-gər) nouna: a craving or urgent need for food or a specific nutrientb: an uneasy sensation occasioned by the lack of foodThe small meal wasn't enough to satisfy his hunger.c: a weakened condition brought about by prolonged lack of fooddied of hunger2: a strong desire : CRAVINGa hunger for successI’d never heard the term “food noise” before the emergence of GLP-1s, or, rather, before their massive boom in popularity in the latter half of 2023. I’d heard the word “hunger”, of course, and I thought that was what I was experiencing; a near-constant stream of consciousness in which I thought about what I’d just eaten, what I’d eat next, what food I could consume that would, I hoped, satisfy the hunger that simply never seemed to go away. Anchor Baby is a reader-supported publication. To receive new posts and support my work, consider becoming a free or paid subscriber.The food noiseIn the three months since I took my first dose of Mounjaro, I’ve been, honestly, shocked by the difference in my inner monologue. It feels… if not quiet, at least not quite, dulled, dampened, muted slightly by the noticeable decrease in appetite. When people talk about “getting rid of” this “food noise”, there seems to be a generally accepted feeling of relief that comes hand in hand. Indeed, search “food noise” and you’ll find multiple articles telling you how to “quiet”, “get rid of”, or “combat” it.“I haven’t stopped thinking about food altogether, but I’ve stopped craving it, wishing for it and, in a lot of ways, experiencing it as joyful or exciting.”What I have yet to see is a robust discussion of how disorienting this sudden shift can be, or how confusing – because I haven’t stopped thinking about food altogether (I still have to eat, after all), but I’ve stopped craving it, wishing for it and, in a lot of ways, experiencing it as joyful or exciting. And for someone who really, truly, frequently experiences food as both joyful and exciting, this has been really difficult to get my head around. I feel no shame in telling you that I am a big fan of comfort eating. I eat when I’m anxious and stressed and sad, and it soothes me in a way I can’t quite explain, although I’m happy to try: the feeling of fullness is somehow related to the feeling of being held, of lying next to someone with the solid mass of their arm around you, of sinking into a couch beneath the weight of a cosy blanket.And to no longer have that, as someone who suffers from depression and, occasionally, anxiety, is, quite frankly, terrifying. How do I soothe myself when this method I’ve used for decades no longer works?! To be clear, I still try. I sit down with something I used to find deeply satisfying: a butter chicken from my favourite Indian restaurant in Fort Wayne (for which I have to fork out an extra $4 for delivery because it’s too far from my house); a tub of Ben & Jerry’s Salted Caramel Brownie Topped ice-cream; hot toast, freshly buttered (with Kerrygold, of course). But the magic isn’t there. At best, I eat and I feel… not much at all. At worst, I eat and I am almost immediately besieged by cramping which abates only when my stomach has emptied itself (through the back door rather than the front, which is my one small comfort; I don’t think there’s any end “result” that would allow me to justify regular vomiting bouts). The side effectsThe cramping – and diarrhea, to be absolutely clear – are the only “negative” side effects I feel from my time on tirzepatide (the generic name for Mounjaro, which, technically, is on my prescription, as I get mine from a compounding pharmacy), at least physically speaking. I do think the lack of satisfaction from food is a negative side effect, too, albeit one that has less of an obvious impact on me and my everyday life.As for the positive side effects, there are some of those, too. In a way, the lack of excitement that comes with food, now, allows me to be more considered in my choices. There’s no urgency, any more, either to my hunger or to my desire to eat something delicious to make myself feel better; even when I feel hungry (and I do; as I said, that hasn’t gone away, although I am still on a very low dose, as my nurse practitioner has recommended we stay on as low a dose as possible for as long as possible), it’s as if there’s now space inside my brain to stop and think about what I’d like to eat, or what I should eat. Sometimes, I’ll snack on Greek yogurt with peanut butter and a little honey; other times, I’ll have a banana, or a hard-boiled egg (when I think to consider my protein intake which, honestly, I don’t do enough). And look, other times I’ll have a packet of crisps (which I never would have gone for before, so maybe my taste buds have changed, too) or four squares of Cadbury’s chocolate or a bowl of Coco Pops or some toast with Dubliner cheese (and butter, obviously). I haven’t suddenly turned into some sort of perfect weight watcher. “For the first time in my life, I know that my hunger has a limit.”But the new thing is that I’ll then stop eating after the four squares of chocolate, or one bowl of cereal, or two slices of toast – and I don’t feel as though I’m consciously restricting, or having to employ whatever sliver of willpower I’m able to access that day. The new thing is that, no matter what I’m eating, no matter what time I’m eating it at, and no matter when I last ate, I’m not feeling guilty or ashamed or as though I probably shouldn’t be eating that because, for the first time in my life, I know that my hunger has a limit, and that it will tell me when I need to stop eating. Not only will it tell me, but I’ll be able to listen to it. The weight lossOf course, none of these are the things people really want to know, when they ask how you’re getting on, taking a GLP-1. What they really want to know – what I want to know, when I click into people’s Reels and Stories and Substack posts about Ozempic or Mounjaro or Wegovy or whatever name is being given to whatever GLP-1 they’re taking – is how much weight they’ve lost, and how fast. But truly? This information can also be really harmful, and triggering, to a lot of people who have struggled with their weight, who have struggled with eating disorders, and who continue to struggle with either, or both, of those things. So I’m not going to include it here, for that reason. I’m not trying to gatekeep the numbers (intentional weight loss is a numbers game, after all), but I’m aware that sharing one’s intentional weight loss can be harmful, and I’m trying to mitigate the further harm that could be done by adding numbers to that. If you really feel you need to know, feel free to drop me a message and I will tell you. Like I said, not gatekeeping. What I will say is that I’ve lost more weight than I’d expect, based on how hard it’s been. Because it hasn’t been hard at all. I haven’t had to go to bed hungry, or drink a large glass of water “in case I’m just thirsty”, or limit myself to one of something I want to have four of, or, or, or. I haven’t had to do any of that. I’ve been eating when I feel hungry, and I haven’t been exercising a lot (between the jigs and the reels – that is to say, going home to Ireland and then moving house and trying once again to toilet train Atlas and packing up every single thing we own and booking an AirBnB to move into between houses – I haven’t had a second, honestly), and I probably haven’t been drinking enough water or eating enough vegetables or getting enough sleep. And yet. I’ve been steadily, consistently, losing weight. It’s not the first time I’ve lost weight. It’s not even the first time I’ve lost this much weight, but what’s different, this time around, is that barely anyone has said a single thing about it. The last time I lost a significant amount of weight, almost 10 years ago now, every time I saw anyone – truly, anyone – who’d ever seen me before, they commented on my body. This time around, not one single person has said anything, which has been a weird and marked difference. It’s really made me consider who I wanted to lose weight for – was it for myself, or for the external validation of not being considered fat by other people? or for the compliments?!? (there’s not a lot I wouldn’t do for a compliment, honestly) – and how it feels to be smaller if no one else is acknowledging it. “Even though I know that BMI is objectively a terrible way to measure anything, I’m irritated by that.”To be clear: I’ve lost a lot of weight, considering it’s been three months and I haven’t been starving myself or exercising obsessively, but it’s the kind of weight loss that means all of the clothes that fit me when I started are now looking a bit sloppy, and all of the clothes that were too small for me when I started are… still too small. So that’s annoying! I’m also still in the “obese” BMI category, and even though I know that BMI is objectively a terrible way to measure anything, I’m irritated by that, and want to be out of that category so that I can… what? So that I can what? I’m not sure. Feel smug about not being deemed obese (by a measurement that makes no sense and is not useful in determining health or really anything else). I HAVE A LOT OF COMPLICATED FEELINGS ABOUT EVERYTHING! And the worst thing? I can’t eat my way through any of them. Anchor Baby is a reader-supported publication. To receive new posts and support my work, consider becoming a free or paid subscriber.ANYWAY. I’m sorry if that was rambling. It’s been a bit of a ramble! I’ll try to do more regular updates, I’m happy to answer any and all questions you might have about this whole thing, and I hope that I don’t sound like an ad for GLP-1s or a cautionary tale against them because this is a medication and any decision we make about going on or off medications, whether for weight or mental health or anything, should be made in tandem with our doctors and no one else. Especially not someone with whom we have a parasocial relationship thanks to Instagram, or Substack, or TikTok (or the internet at large). P.S. Please send me any and all things you to do soothe yourselves when you’re feeling shitty or anxious (or both), because peshwari naan isn’t doing it for me any more and I truly worry sometimes that, if I have an especially dark period, I’ll struggle to know how to get a little quick-fix dopamine hit to help myself out of it when my one tried ‘n’ trusted method is no longer working.P.P.S: ROBYN IS BACK! This is a public episode. If you'd like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit rosemarymaccabe.substack.com/subscribe

You’d be surprised how much culture I’ve been consuming over these past few weeks, in between furiously preparing my house to be listed, and dying, over and over again, in Donkey Kong Country Returns, so I thought I’d share with the group, in case you, too, need a break from tossing your large gorilla avatar into the depths of a perilous mine shaft.Anchor Baby is a reader-supported publication. To receive new posts and support my work, consider becoming a free or paid subscriber.ReadingI’m currently reading The Inheritance Games, for a book club I couldn’t make, and which has now already happened, and feeling distinctly mid about it. I get that it’s YA, and maybe I’ve just read too much dark academia fantasy lately, but unless someone sprouts wings, and pretty soon, I think I’m about ready to give up on this. (And I say this as someone who wrote a lot of Annie-influenced fiction as a child, so poor-girl-from-wrong-side-of-tracks-inherits-billions books should be my personal catnip.)I did, however, recently read and love Honey and Spice by Bolu Babalola. The prose is kind of dense in a way that feels a bit self-conscious at times (you’ll see what I mean), but I think this is the first book I’ve read in approximately my entire life that has made me think, wow, these two main characters have a lot of chemistry. It’s very sexy, and for that I commend (and recommend) it.Next up, I’ve a book club on Wednesday (yes, in two days) for which I’m supposed to have read Killers of the Flower Moon, a questionable book club choice (book club is meant to be fun! Does this scream “fun” to you?!), but I missed the book club where it was chosen, so here we are (this would never have happened on my watch, is where I’m going with this).I’ve read quite a few other (smuttier) books recently, but none have been all that great. If you’re particularly interested in the dark truth of my reading habits, you can follow me on Goodreads.Also! Where possible, I’ve linked to Books Upstairs, Dublin’s oldest independent bookshop, which was damaged last night in an arson attack. I created the links via ShopMy, which is an affiliate program, but Books Upstairs isn’t signed up, so I won’t take any commission from the sales (it just allows me to get “points” on ShopMy, I hate it here) – but if you’re buying any books in the next while, please consider buying from Books Upstairs and supporting them during this, frankly, shitty time.WatchingI mean, of course I’m watching Love is Blind, the ninth season of which is based in Denver, where, clearly, no one good-looking or interesting lives. (I mean, correlation doesn’t = causation but could we surmise that winter sports attract bores? I think we could…) I’m only on episode two, because I’m watching at an absolute snail’s pace, taking regular breaks to roll my eyes or pack boxes or do anything other than suffer through this terrible season. AND YET I MUST SUFFER THROUGH IT. Why?! I don’t ask these kinds of useless questions. Suffering is character-building, I learned that from my Catholic upbringing. If you, too, are watching, please join me in discussing. Netflix isn’t all bad, though; I recently watched Sirens, which popped up on the “Emmy nominated” list, and which I hadn’t even heard about before then. It stars Meghann Fahy, Julianne Moore, Kevin Bacon and Milly Alcock and while I couldn’t tell you what it’s about, really – Fahy’s Devon travels to some bougie island full of WASP-y millionaires to find her sister Simone, played by Alcock, who’s working as a personal assistant-slash-best friend for millionaire Michaela Kell (Moore) for reasons and chaos ensues – it’s deeply funny, oddly moving and has some of the most interesting character studies I’ve seen in a series in a long time (Bill Camp is incredible as Bruce, Devon and Simone’s dad, who’s suffering from early-onset dementia). It reminded me a bit of Revenge, more in terms of vibes than anything else, but if you like watching rich people behaving badly (with some truly excellent acting), I’d recommend it.Brandin and I have also been watching The Sandman, the (ugh) Neil Gaman-penned series based on the comic book of the same name. I really struggled with whether to watch this second season, given the allegations against Gaiman that recently came to light in this podcast series by Tortoise Media, also detailed in this New York magazine piece by Lila Shapiro, but ultimately decided that, as this is the final season, any money Gaiman is going to make from it has already been made. And honestly, it’s only okay. I have the same issues with it that I had with American Gods (also by Gaiman); without having read the source material, it’s all too dense and messy to make any kind of narrative sense, and I’m finding myself confused to the point of being deeply bored. But as Brandin refuses to watch Love is Blind with me, here we are. Gwendoline Christie is, as always, a highlight.Finally, I recently suffered through watched Jurassic World: Rebirth (embarrassingly, I paid about $25 to own this piece of trash) with Atlas and it is so incredibly bad that even I – who loves bad movies, truly – couldn’t, in all good conscience, recommend it. Atlas loved it, despite its being, honestly, probably a bit too scary for a four-year-old, but it is almost entirely devoid of plot, the dialogue is laughably bad, and it just felt like so obvious a cash grab that it was embarrassing. Bring back Chris Pratt, is a sentence I never thought I’d write down, but at least he made the previous three World movies kind of quippy, in an irritating way.Listening toI mean, of course I’ve listened to The Life of a Showgirl half a dozen times, despite deciding that I was no longer going to give my time or energy to artists who haven’t said anything about the genocide in Gaza. I’M WEAK, OKAY?!? I needed to know what it was like, and what it is like is a watered-down version of Taylor’s previous albums, in particular 1989, Red and Reputation. Despite the name, there’s not a hint of “showgirl” about it – no jazz! No razzmatazz! – and it really feels a bit like the album a superstar produces when they’re so big and powerful that they no longer have anyone around them to say, “Taylor, babe, this isn’t it – maybe you should take a break to relax after your massive tour and just enjoy being in love and plan your wedding?!” I hope that doesn’t sound sexist, but really, she’s happy and Travis has a big penis (according to her, and actually so does she, at least figuratively – “I can make deals with the devil because my dick’s bigger”, to rhyme with “brown liquor”, I wish I was joking) and her biggest issues are that people don’t understand her oh, and Charli XCX found her irritating once? or something? Now, that all being said, I listened to it another five times after that early (and correct) opinion was formed, and it’s grown on me a bit. Will it be an album I come back to, again and again, like Pure Heroine or Crazy, Sexy, Cool or The Miseducation of Lauryn Hill? lololol clearly not. But I wouldn’t change the station if it came on the radio, you know? Thanks for reading Anchor Baby! This post is public so feel free to share it.Matt Bernstein’s A Bit Fruity podcast continues to be really, really good – this latest episode, which is ostensibly about liberal zionism but rooted in a discussion about Debra Messing’s messy slide to the political right, is a very insightful and interesting discussion about the contradiction of calling yourself a liberal while also supporting an ethno-state conducting a genocide.Finally! Finally, this episode of The Guardian’s Today in Focus podcast, about AI and the porn industry in 2025, was very interesting, especially when viewed as a companion piece to this episode of Em Clarkson and Alex Light’s Should I Delete That? in which they interviewed Lily Phillips, the OnlyFans star who rose to fame for a stunt in which she had sex with 100 men in a day. Their follow-up episode, in which they chat about the backlash to their discussion with Phillips, is also worth a listen.P.S. I considered numbering this piece, then worried that would tie me into yet another regular feature (that I haven’t given a Moanery Lane update in several weeks does make me feel a certain modicum of shame, but it’s actually a testament to how mentally well I’m feeling that I’m not coming up with much to moan about; like Tay-Tay herself, I am not at my most creative when I’m feeling content) and who knows if I will be reading, watching or listening to much of anything in coming weeks, as I travel home to Ireland with my two small children and spend three weeks seeing friends and (mostly) entertaining said children. So, consider this a tentative first installment, and let’s see how we go, shall we? This is a public episode. If you'd like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit rosemarymaccabe.substack.com/subscribe

Well, let me start by saying: WOOF. I have a lot of complex, complicated and, frankly, confusing feelings about My Brain on Mounjaro. This is probably not all that surprising, but it’s been hard to get my head around what to say, and how to say it.The best way for me to get all of this down – and free up space, so to speak, for a more thoughtful, robust examination of all of this, coming soon – is going to be to do up an old reliable list, as well as answer some of the most frequently asked questions that pop up when I speak about any of this (on Instagram, where I do most of my speaking).So, let’s start with…The pros (bear in mind that I am doing this to lose weight and to be smaller, not for any other reasons, so I will not be spouting ableist nonsense here – here’s a link to my “why I’m doing this” post)* I have lost weight. A bit of weight. I probably would have lost more in the first (heady, obsessive, borderline deranged) two weeks on Slimming World or Weight Watchers, but the scale has gone down and, as that’s what I’m aiming for, that goes in the “pro” column.* This weight loss has been, honestly, really f*****g easy. You know why? I’m less hungry. This has been well documented as basically the entire magic bullet of GLP-1s, but as I’m on a super low dose (1.25mg of tirzepatide / Mounjaro), I was not expecting my hunger to be curtailed this quickly. I’m not not hungry at all, but the feelings of intense I-have-to-eat-something-right-now-or-I’ll-die hunger I’d been experiencing on the regular are gone.* The jab itself? It doesn’t hurt. This past week, it bruised, but that’s fine; between the baby kicking me and pulling my hair out and scratching at my face, I look a bit wrecked at the moment anyway, so, you know, what’s another bruise? If you’re a model, you might not be thrilled about this, but you could always just try a different injection site next time, and it might not bruise as easily there (my first two left no trace).* I feel a slow, steady return of the feeling of smug I experienced the last time I lost weight. I feel… weirdly proud of myself. I’m being a good fatty! I’m trying not to be fat! (This is fucked up thinking, and could also go in the “con” column, honestly, but I feel less shame and less guilt about my body and my eating habits, and that feels good so… here we are. Like I said, IT’S COMPLICATED!) * I’m eating less takeout, due to feeling less of the omg-must-eat-something-delicious-immediately hunger that seemed to be my daily default, so in theory I should be richer, but you know how that works out. The money spends itself! The cons* I haven’t lost enough weight. This is a me problem, I know. No matter how much weight I lose in any given time period, it’s never quick enough (or enough-enough). And I want this to be slow and steady. I want to use this as a way to change my eating habits, and to make better food choices for myself – like eating more vegetables and more fibre, and choosing fewer “easy” options. I don’t want this to be a crash diet. I’ve done those before. But there’s so much out there about people who’ve taken GLP-1s and lost stones in the first few weeks… I feel as though, in three weeks, I should feel (and look!) noticeably different. And I don’t.* I’m thinking about food a lot. Like I said, not because I’m hungry, but I’m just… thinking about it. One could say “obsessing”, but I’m trying not to pathologise what is probably normal, human behaviour. Having decided to lose weight, I’m thinking about my food intake a lot more than I’d like to and, yes, when I had two bowls of cereal late last night (because I felt hungry and wanted them – I didn’t say I’m feeling no hunger!), I felt guilty about it. This is not the way I want to feel, although I’m not sure how not to feel this way. * I’m weighing myself regularly, and I’m allowing the number on the scale to affect how I feel about myself. On the one hand, I feel as though it doesn’t make sense to embark on purposeful weight loss via GLP-1 and not weigh oneself, but on the other I feel as though weighing myself is almost always harmful to me. Ugh. * It’s expensive! $250 or so for the first four weeks’ dose which, I’ll grant you, is basically five takeaway meals (and has probably already paid for itself in the absence of said meals), but it’s a lot of money to spend to inject yourself with a chemical that essentially changes how my body does its (vital, important) work. * I kind of hinted at this above, but the excitement I’ve felt about food for pretty much my entire life is, if not entirely gone, then severely dulled. And I didn’t mind that part! I am happy to feel excited about delicious dinners and brunches and pancakes and pastries… and maybe a part of this is due to my not having many hobbies, and feeling like I’m in quite a tough season of my life, living in the US, having a limited circle of friends and two small children who are very reliant on me, but I feel as though this has taken some of the joy out of my life. And that has been really hard and, honestly, made me wonder if it’s “worth it”. (And then we get back to my complicated feelings about all of this because how can removing joy from your life in order to be physically smaller ever be worth it?! But then maybe I’d be more overjoyed if I finally fit into my Levi’s Wedgie jeans??!?!?! I DON’T KNOWWWWWWW.)And some frequently asked questions…A disclaimer: I won’t be answering medical questions and I won’t be giving advice. This is a medication, and those questions are best answered by a medical professional. Ideally your medical professional! I will tell you my experience, to a point, and then you’ll have to go chat to your own doctor about it. (It’s not going to be as scary as you think; I bet they’re talking about this a lot these days!)Are you still breastfeeding? This feels like it’s getting close to a medical question, but it has come up so many times that I feel like I need to answer it. Yes, I am still breastfeeding Roman. I discussed it with my doctor (who happens to be his doctor!) and, based on her knowledge and understanding of the drug, she is happy for me to be on it.Does the food noise actually disappear? I can’t imagine not always wanting something yummy. Like I said, I’m on the lowest of low doses, so a part of me wonders if I’m experiencing a bit of a placebo effect, but all the same I would say that yes, yes it does. I haven’t had what I would understand as a “craving” for food since I took my first injection. Sure, in the evenings, I think, what will I eat? But that feels more like a habit than a desire, and most evenings I just decide to have nothing. IT IS WEIRD. Does it make you feel physically sick? Not so far, no! But I’ll update if that changes. The only side effect I’ve had – and I don’t even know if it was a side effect, or just a coincidence – is that, the morning after I took my first shot, I had a huge bowl of Special K Red Berries for breakfast (my favourite cereal, don’t @ me) and, afterwards, I experienced intense stomach cramping and then had diarrhea. But that sometimes happens me anyway, and at random moments, so I don’t know for sure that it was the injection. The subsequent shots haven’t come with any side effects at all.Do you think you’ll have to stay on them for life? So, this is a pretty common question too, and I think the answer is probably yes, but I obviously don’t know what may change: my own health, finances, the availability of the drugs… From what I’ve read, it is very rare that someone can take these drugs, lose weight and stop taking them without putting on the weight again, and more and more research is showing that weight cycling is worse for than staying fat to begin with – so I feel as though I probably will stay on them, if even at a semi-low or “maintenance” dose, insofar as that is possible for me.Will you do a weekly weigh in for your followers? No. I don’t think knowing other people’s numbers is useful or helpful for people, and carries more of a risk of harm than a chance that it will help. I think I saw before that the injections cause your birth control to stop working, so will you use different barrier methods going forward? This made me laugh because I can’t imagine ever asking someone what kind of contraception they’re using?! (unless that person was my bestie or my sister) But gals, I had my tubes removed when I had Roman, so no eggs are making it into that uterus to be fertilised, weight loss jabs or no. P.S. It’s not that they cause your birth control to stop working, it’s that people can have diarrhea or puke on them, and that can mess with your oral contraception. So, you know, be careful. (When I got pregnant last time I tried a GLP-1, it was unrelated; we hadn’t been using protection, and it turns out that I was pregnant and didn’t know it when I started taking the shots.) Do you feel you’re letting your following down by taking weight loss injections? Is it not a sell out? If I worried about “letting my following down” with decisions I make for me and my body and my life, I’d never get anything done, honestly! So no, I don’t; I don’t think online creators owe it to their followers not ever to change their minds, or to make choices they might once have disagreed with. That being said, I’m making this decision because I am sick of being fat in a world that treats being fat so terribly. I’m sick of not fitting into nice clothes and I’m sick of feeling embarrassed and ashamed of my body and I’m sick of being treated badly because of it (and, having experienced life in a smaller body, I know that I am treated differently, AND I AM A SMALL FAT PERSON SO HOLY F**K WHAT IS IT LIKE TO BE IN A MUCH BIGGER BODY IN THIS TERRIBLE WORLD?!?). But that doesn’t mean that I am not still radically anti-fatphobia, and it doesn’t mean that I will stop advocating for fat people to have access to airplane seating and healthcare and love and respect and clothes and God knows what else! I’ll still write about thin influencers being dicks about fatness, the privilege of being unstylish (as long as you’re thin), how the word “flattering” has come to mean “not fat-looking” and why that’s s**t, because anti-fat bias is one of the last remaining acceptable biases in this world, and that will never stop being s**t. (If it wasn’t for anti-fat bias, maybe I would never have started my first diet, would never have started to think my body was “wrong”, would never have gone to fat camp, would never have tried the cabbage soup diet, would never have etc etc etc.)And look: I don’t know who I’m letting down or not letting down. That’s up to my followers to decide. I don’t feel as though I’m “selling out” because I’m not gaining anything monetarily from this, but I would like to be clear: if anyone wants to pay me for being on a drug I’m already on, or for talking about a drug I’m already talking about, please, FEEL F*****G FREE. This is a public episode. 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I’ve always, as my mother is fond of telling me, been a jealous person. “You’re like my friend Allison*,” she’ll tell me, referring to a friend of hers who died of cancer in her early forties. “She was always very jealous, even when we were children.” That Allison is dead makes no difference to Mum’s assessment of her – truly, the two things I know about her are that “she was always dyeing her hair” (not meant as a compliment, although any critique is more to do with the damage all of that dye must have done) and that she and I are the most jealous people Mum’s ever met. My mother, to her credit, is not someone who will suddenly pretend a recently deceased relative had no flaws. “I mean,” she’ll say, as we chew funeral sandwiches while milling around with their nearest and dearest, “they were always very cheap. They’d be horrified at the expense of this.”That jealousy has only entered Moanery Lane now, some half dozen installments in, is surprising (to my mother as well as to myself, I’m sure). Anchor Baby is a reader-supported publication. To receive new posts and support my work, consider becoming a free or paid subscriber.But here we are: I’m jealous, or, honestly, very homesick, and the two have merged in my mind to the point that I’m not really sure which is which, or why.The homesickness rears its head in weird ways. I’ll get a yearning for a Superquinn sausage, or for the smell of the hops from the Guinness brewery. When I see seagulls in people’s Instagram Stories it sparks something primal in me; I remember, fondly, the giant, feral gulls who used to perch right by the glass partition on the rooftop cafe of Marks & Spencer on Grafton St, thrilling and terrifying me in equal measure.A few summers ago, I went to Lake Michigan with Beatrice and her children. We swam in the lake at St Joseph and I was shocked by the sand at the beach, by the tides of the lake, by the presence of seagulls, so many thousands of miles from the sea. (Shocked and delighted, obviously.) Last week, my homesickness struck me when I watched the Instagram Stories of a group of fashion editors, journalists and influencers, all of whom had been invited to Co Donegal by Magee, the heritage Irish brand known for its tweed and its tailoring, traditional fabrics and classic silhouettes.I wasn’t there, so I can’t say exactly what went on – but I do know they drove in a Land Rover Defender (my dream car, but the old version, covered in dirt, fulfilling a fantasy where I live in the countryside and own an Aga) to explore the great outdoors; there was a trip to the woolen mills; a stay in Lough Eske Castle; and a presentation of their autumn/winter collection – with canapés. It was the kind of trip I used to go on. I travelled to the UK with Dr Martens and to Sligo with Voya. I went paddle boarding in Spain with Fitbit; I explored Turkey with the Turkish tourist board; I was invited to Italy with Davines. I enjoyed my fair share of press trips, and with them, my fair share of goodie bags – I understand that a lamentation of “I don’t get to go on free trips any more!” is not a very legitimate complaint. To be honest, though, it’s not the freebies themselves I miss the most. I do miss them, of course; it’s hard, in the way that I imagine it’s hard for Taylor Swift to truly enjoy a shopping trip (that is to say, LOL, poor her), to go from having your pick of the most expensive skincare, for which you have paid zero pennies, to having to buy your own, especially at a time when you suddenly find yourself earning less than ever before in your adult life. (Life is not a zero sum game, so when I complain, know that I’m doing so with tongue firmly in cheek, one eye on my privilege, the other on my good fortune.)Rather, it’s the sense of being included that I miss, along with, honestly (will I regret admitting this? a question I rarely ask myself but maybe I should do so more often), the sense of being someone. In Ireland, I was “one of” the influencers who got invited to things; I was “one of” a group of journalists who could pretty reliably be expected to show up to the Avoca party, or (the best party of all) the Marks & Spencer summer barbecue; I was “one of” the influencers who was given a car to drive (two years in a row, Volkswagen provided my ride, a fact I declared to Revenue although afterwards, regretted that, as I suspected very few other influencers were doing the same, it being such a new and unregulated industry), a new phone to try, a laptop to work from. But it was the sense of being in a gang, of sorts, that was – in hindsight, a point of view from which everything becomes if not quite clear, then at least less opaque – so nice about that time. Yesterday, I saw a fellow influencer-slash-creative-slash-journalist (we’re all slashies, in one way or another) sharing photographs from the Brown Thomas fashion show, a showcase of the designer clothing that has been selected for purchase from Brown Thomas during any given season. It was always one of the events of the year (twice a year, in fact, for spring-summer and autumn-winter), an event where you’d see people you knew from every job you’d ever had in media. I remember when influencers began to be invited, how scathing those of us in “traditional” (print media, websites, TV and radio) media roles were about these young women (because the earliest influencers were all women, at least any who were being invited to the BT show). There would be a fashion show and then a breakfast, or canapés, along with a goodie bag which included a €200 voucher for a pair of shoes of your choice (crucially, this couldn’t be used for Christian Louboutin, Chanel or Hermès, but everything else was fair game). One year, when I worked at The Irish Times and was feeling guilty about all of the free swag I was getting, I offered my voucher as a reader gift. Brown Thomas’ PR team reached out to me to tell me the voucher was non-transferrable; I simply couldn’t give it away. I said that was fine, but I’d have to tell my readers why the competition had been removed. They let me transfer the voucher. (I was always causing trouble, clearly; that I stopped being invited to the show a year or two before I left Ireland feels, again in hindsight, unsurprising.) There is no voucher, any more, as it happens. Instead, attendees receive a bottle of perfume, the smallest size of which costs €155, (So? eau de toilette this is not). Attendees still clap at the end of the catwalk show, which always felt hilarious to me. At regular fashion shows, you clap for the designer, who emerges from backstage looking slightly awkward, takes a small bow and then retreats, once more; at Brown Thomas, you’re clapping for the buyer, who’s done a great job at, er, picking clothes again this season! They stand up and smile beatifically at the applause. (LOL!)But there’s such a great sense of camaraderie at these things! I miss that a lot. Not to mention the gossip; press events were always great for the gossip. Who’s quit their job? Who’s been fired? Who’s threatening to sue for unfair dismissal; and do you think that person’s really having an affair with the CEO of that legacy newspaper?! The Magee trip made me think, too, of all of the great friends I made through my career in media. There’s the boss who became the person I go to for career advice, for whom I would strongly consider donating a kidney if she needed one (I said “strongly consider”, so I’m not 100% there); the fellow blogger I don’t speak to half as often as I’d like to but who, as I told her this week, will always be one of my favourite people; and the celebrity stylist who I could always trust would have as cynical (I thought about writing “b****y” there, but I feel as though, in a lot of ways, we’re in a post-b****y world, what a dismissive, misogynistic word that is) a take as I did.Interestingly, the vast majority of my favourite people no longer work in media, at least not in the type of roles that would garner them an invitation to the BT show, or to Donegal with Magee, or to much in between. At a certain point, I think, we all started to look at our vast collections of perfumes and our dwindling bank balances and think, perhaps this whole thing isn’t working out all that well.So maybe it’s not jealousy, per se, that I’m experiencing, but a certain wistfulness for a life I once had, freebies I once got, trips I once experienced (the insincere clapping I once did). It was, in a lot of ways, the best of times. I wouldn’t like to go back, at least not all the way. But I wouldn’t mind the odd €150 bottle of perfume. In case this whole thing has left you with a bad taste in your mouth – jealousy is a sin, after all! – comfort yourself with the knowledge that I find jealousy very motivating altogether. And I’m not alone! P.S. Since writing this, I GOT MY GREEN CARD! So I’ll be going home as soon as I can (a) get the money together and (b) get baby Romy’s passport! SUPERQUINN SAUSAGES, HERE I COME!*names have been changed This is a public episode. 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No, we are not pulling any punches here because I. Have. Had. ENOUGH. We’re all (too) familiar with the classic influencer trope of “don’t worry, fatties! I have rolls too!” that’s been doing the rounds ever since IG was founded by a pair of entrepreneurial tech bros in 2010. (Do you think they knew what it was going to do to us all? Forgive me but I suspect two thin white dudes didn’t give much thought to how this photo sharing app was going to affect the body images of women and girls – and, latterly, men and boys, too – all over the world.) You know the one, anyway: your fave thinfluencer, known for sharing her gut healthy smoothie recipes and the 20-minute workouts that’ll “get you glowing” takes a picture of herself, usually sitting down, often hunched over (girl, we all know you have the world’s best posture so give it a rest), to show us plebeians that she, too, is a hideous fatty sometimes. If you like this post, please subscribe! I write about money and spending and body image and parenting and being an IMMIGRANT in AMERICA it’s all very exciting I swear.We’ve long known, now, that this is not the inclusive flex they think it is; there are hundreds, thousands, millions of us who are hideous fatties 24/7 and can’t just, oh, I don’t know, stand up straight, or hoik up our leggings, to make ourselves look like a fitness model. And, to be fair, they’ve largely stopped doing it (although honourable mention for the “IBS girlies” – I count myself among them – who frequently post photographs of their “bloat” as if it’s somehow comforting to fat people to know that thin people occasionally look… less thin?), because the message has finally sunk in that sharing your belly rolls with the world doesn’t make you brave or (puke) “authentic”.But just as the influencers have hopped off a trend, the fashion world – cheers, guys! – has given them a new and exciting way to show us fatties that they’re fine with looking fat (it’s fun! and funny! and fashionable!) as long as it’s super clear to everyone involved that they’re, you know, not actually fat. I first came across this exciting new trend on TikTok, where @venswifestyle was “styling” Acne’s cartoon jeans, a kind of structured, padded denim jean with a floral lining, available to buy for a cool $1,550.To get this out of the way: the jeans are disgusting. Truly, we have reached new sartorial lows – between these and the resurgence of low rise, it’s hard to see any hope for us. But back to brass tacks: it’s worth noting that the jeans only go up to a UK size 14, a 31.5-inch waist, more than five inches smaller than the average woman, so these “fat” jeans – “Are people cosplaying lipedema?” asks one Facebook commenter – aren’t designed to fit actual fat people. (The size 14, by the way, is designed with a 30-inch inseam, so you’d better be a tall size 14 if you want to wear them.) If the TikTok videos are anything to go by, though, the “joy” of these jeans seems to be in the sheer “ridiculousness” of them; the women pulling these up over their very slim legs are delirious with happiness. Look how silly I look with these big fat roundy legs! they seem to be saying. Lol I love the trick mirror effect of these trousers! They are the sartorial equivalent of the funhouse mirror, hilarious only because you get to go back to normal once you walk out the door (or step out of the jeans). Acne’s not the only designer toying with faux-fatness-as-fashion-trend; Ukrainian designer Ksenia Schnaider’s made-to-measure jeans feature a double-wide frame – all the better to showcase the diminutive size of your waist, floating within their structured waistband. It’s giving weightloss transformation, the $750 designer jeans serving to show just how tiny the wearer is compared to the jeans they’re wearing. It feels a lot like the 2025 version of the fat suit; remember the gleeful paparazzi photos of Gwyneth Paltrow as Rosemary (GOD!) in Shallow Hal, Fat Monica in Friends, Tyra Banks’ 2005 experiment which resulted in her being “shocked” by people’s behaviour towards the 350-pound version of herself (evidence, if we needed it, that thin people don’t pay attention when fat people tell them what it’s like to be fat).The thing is, we get it: for a lot of thin, fashionable, subjectively “beautiful” – by whatever standards are in place at the time of their social media presence – people, the very notion of being fat is ridiculous, farcical, or, a lot of the time, terrifying. A follower recently shared with me an exchange she’d had with a friend who was recently diagnosed with cancer. Somehow, the conversation came around to fatness. “Would you rather have cancer, or be fat?” she asked her friend. (They’re still friends – is that a spoiler alert? – so I can only assume this conversation came up somehow organically, and was less offensive in reality than it seems on paper.)“How fat?” her friend asked. “Fat like me,” was the response.“Oh,” said the friend with cancer to the fat friend. “I’d rather have cancer.”I do often wonder what life would be like if there was no stigma, no shame, around fatness. If airplane seats were designed to accommodate all bodies; if fashion designers didn’t get away with designing for the thinnest 20% of us; if no one had ever used the word “fat” pejoratively; if fatness had never been associated with slovenliness, or gluttony, or any and all other negative words. I doubt these jeans would exist, for starters. They don’t look good; the “joke” is that they kind of give this little hint of “imagine if I looked like this!” but then, coupled with the skintight tops each of the influencers above is wearing, emphasise the fact that their wearers are (phew!) slim. What else would we be missing? Weight Watchers? Slimming World? Ozempic and Wegovy might exist as medications for type 2 diabetes sufferers only; surely they wouldn’t be in massive demand, which means the cost would be marginally more reasonable, and the maker of Ozempic, Novo Nordisk, wouldn’t be worth more than the entire GDP of Denmark. It’s interesting to think about how fashion might be different, more broadly; would corsets ever have been designed? Sure, you can argue that it’s about a silhouette, but the silhouette is one of a narrow waist, something that simply does not come naturally to the fatties among us. Push-up bras? Compressive leggings? Peplums, cap sleeves, A-line skirts, all of which, we are told, serve to emphasise our “good” (thin) parts and conceal our “bad” (fat) ones.Fat people know that these jeans are disgustingly ugly precisely because they look like our bodies, bodies we have been told, over and over again, in person and in print and in TV and in movies, are disgustingly ugly. There is no way the thin women laughing their way into their Acne bubble jeans, or doing their best blue steel in their Ksenia Schnaiders, don’t know what life is like for people whose jeans are actually the size their jeans are pretending to be; they just don’t care. So please, don’t give me the “we’re just like you”, ever again. We know you’re not. (And thank God, says you. For if there’s one thing worse than looking fat – when you sit down, bend over, push your stomach out or put on your “cubic” jeans – it’s actually being fat. Like us.) This is a public episode. 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Before we get started, I know weight loss content isn’t for everyone. It might not be for you! If that’s the case, but you’d like to keep reading the rest of my content, you can opt out by heading to the Anchor Baby newsletter home page, clicking on your avatar on the top right and hitting “manage subscription”. In there, you’ll see exactly what you’re getting emails and notifications for, and you can toggle those options on and off! Toggle off the “Ozempic etc” option to make sure you won’t get any posts related to injectable weight loss medications – from me, at least. Let’s start with a little background, shall we? At the start of 2024, I decided –under the careful supervision of, and after great discussion with, my doctor – to try weight loss injections as a way to curb my appetite and, hopefully, lose some weight. It wasn’t an easy decision to come to; you can read all about it here. It was and is a complex choice for myriad reasons; I am, and will always be, personally and politically, an advocate for fat positivity, radical fat acceptance and against the anti-fat bias that pervades our lives, cultures and societies. I believe all people, regardless of body shape, size or ability, should be entitled to the basics: respect, healthcare, love, and a seat on a plane that doesn’t cause them distress, discomfort or pain. I recognise the harm that diet culture does to us, from an incredibly young age – my three-year-old recently remarked to me that, “if you eat that your belly will get big”. I was play-eating a piece of rocket, by the way, so I’m not sure he quite grasped the full concept of what he was saying, but somehow he has already picked up the idea that what we eat can make our tummies bigger, and that a bigger tummy is something to be wary of. “I love my big tummy!” I told him, and then reached out to tickle his (very-not-big) tummy, too. “Don’t you love your big tummy?” I will always advocate for the rights of fat people to dignity, respect, decent healthcare that evaluates their whole selves, and doesn’t just put every little niggle down to their being fat; I will always teach my children that people’s bodies are the least interesting things about them, that the term “fat” is neutral, that some people have bigger bodies and some people have smaller bodies, and that no foods are “good” or “bad”; and I will always want better for fat people. But I’ve also spent 40 years living in this incredibly fatphobic world, and I’ve always felt as though my body was wrong, no matter how hard I worked, whether I was fighting against the constant messaging I was receiving about it, trying my hardest to be body positive and fat positive and not to feed into that messaging, or, truthfully, trying my hardest to lose weight and change that body.And honestly? The last few years have been the hardest, as I’ve inched – quite literally – out of “straight” sizes and into “plus sizes” and found it increasingly difficult to find clothes that (a) fit me and which (b) I like and crucially (c) can afford. I’ve also gone through two pregnancies and two C-sections and turned 40, and none of these things has been easy, physically or psychologically, and I’ve been finding it increasingly difficult, too, to feel in any way positive about my body. In fact, I would say I’ve been feeling increasingly negative about it: from feeling ugly and badly dressed (most of the time) to ashamed to be seen eating in front of people (a lot of the time) to embarrassed to talk to my doctor about certain ailments that I know are associated with (not necessarily caused by, but no one cares about that differentiation) fatness. Thanks for reading Anchor Baby! This post is public so feel free to share it.It’s also been really hard to see the handful of once fat women in the public eye shrink down to a mere fraction of their previous size. That these body changes have happened at the same time as the development and rapid distribution of these weight loss drugs is, apparently, coincidental; Adele lost weight through diet and exercise. Mindy Kaling took up hiking. Kelly Clarkson started walking everywhere (and may or may not have started taking some weird homeopathic gummies). Lizzo and Rebel Wilson decided to focus on their health. Serena Williams worked really hard to lose the post-baby weight. (I suppose Williams is an athlete, so this is plausible, even if it seems unlikely – at her beating-everyone-into-the-ground best, she was incredibly strong and solid.)Alongside all of these noticeable A-list transformations, a tonne (if you’ll excuse the ponne) of formerly plus-sized influencers have visibly shrunk, too,. And look – no one owes us their bodies, whether that’s the size of their bodies or the health of their bodies or the wrinkles on their faces… Each and every one of us has (or should have) bodily autonomy, and is perfectly entitled to do what they want with those bodies. But when the tide is turning all in one direction – smaller, smaller, smaller – it’s hard not to get swept up in that current, or to allow what you’re seeing to make you feel worse about yourself, now that your favourites are no longer as relatable as they once were. And look: I could tell you a host of health-related niggles I’ve noticed in the past few years, things that some people would say are absolutely related to my weight (but on which, truly, the science is still out – did you know, for example, that some studies suggest that being at a higher weight actually improves your life expectancy?!). I could use these niggles as my reasons for wanting to try weight loss drugs again, but the God’s honest truth is that I am tired of being fat and I want to not be fat any more. I’m very aware that, like many other methods of weight loss I’ve tried over my life, this might not work for me. Even if it does work, it might not work forever. These drugs’ efficacy has been known to taper off over time, and early indicators are that the vast majority of people will regain the weight (plus more) if and when they stop taking them. And there are side effects! A lot of gross gastric stuff I think most of us would rather not deal with. People have experienced hair loss, muscle loss, insomnia, depression… all of the many, many negative side effects you might expect from a drug that does something as massive as trick you into thinking you’re full so that you’ll eat less. As someone who’s a big comfort eater, and finds great joy in a great many foods, I’m worried about what will happen if and when that’s taken away. If eating delicious meals is one of the few activities I really enjoy, what will happen when I no longer enjoy it? Will I find something else to enjoy, or will I just… enjoy nothing?! (This seems like a joke question but I’m deadly serious.)I’ll be documenting my experience here – but not my “weight loss journey”, whatever that means. I documented one of those before, and I have a lot of mostly negative feelings about my decision to do so; I think sharing before and after photographs is thoughtless, if not downright harmful, and I think weight, at least the specific number, is such an incredibly individual thing that there’s no point in sharing it – not to mention the fact that doing so has the potential to cause more harm than good.If you have questions, ask them here and I’ll do my best to answer in the comments – or reply to this email with your question and I’ll answer in a future piece (along with questions I received anonymously on Instagram). Like I said, I know this won’t be for everyone – and, if you’re one of those people, there are no hard feelings. We all – in what we consume, who we spend our time with and, yes, what medications we take – have to do what’s best for us, and us alone. Related: this episode of Louise’s McSharry’s Catch Up, with comedian Alison Spittle, discussing weight loss medication and fatphobia and anti-fat bias and media (and more!) is brilliant and smart and funny and moving and I would highly recommend listening to it. This is a public episode. If you'd like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit rosemarymaccabe.substack.com/subscribe

Anchor Baby is a reader-supported publication. To receive new posts and support my work, consider becoming a free or paid subscriber.Fried bread reminds me of my granny. White bread in a hot pan, fried in bacon grease or dripping or a combination of the two; her fridge was never without a small bowl of Frytex into which she’d add the hot fat from whatever food she was frying that day. For breakfast each morning, she’d have two sausages, either with fried or batch bread. The sausages themselves would be seasoned with cigarette ash, a lit cigarette dangling between her lips as she flipped and fried to a Radio One soundtrack. Lyons tea reminds me of Granny, too. In a kitchen cupboard, there were always at least 20 boxes of tea, stacked high. In the days of collecting minstrel tokens (honestly, WHAT were they thinking?!) and sending away for promotional items, she could have had them all. The tea stockpiling was, my mother told me, a habit she’d adopted after the Second World War, during a time when tea was impossible to get. She was determined not to be caught short, should another war break out. I think it was about more than the tea itself, though; in the 1940s, Granny had a baby girl, Rosemary, who was sick. No one knew what was wrong with her, really, or what to do about it – just that she couldn’t eat without vomiting. The only food she could keep down? Bananas, also impossible to source in Dublin in the 1940s. Rosemary died at the age of two, following a long hospital stay. After that, my Granny started to stockpile the tea. Control what you can, I imagine her thinking. I have a collection of my own, now, in a way also driven by a shortage of Irish breakfast tea. This time it’s because of geography, not war. I drink Barry’s, not because I prefer it to Lyons, but because it’s easier to find here, but I’m never without a number of boxes at the top of my pantry. I think of Granny, when I take out a new one, and of her daughter, my namesake who, as it transpired, had celiac disease, something about which the medical establishment knew little, back then.Bolognese reminds me of my mum. “The inevitable bolognese,” she’ll respond, when asked what she’s having for dinner – there’s always a Tupperware of sauce in the freezer, or the fridge, ready to be eaten for dinner with a bowl of pasta or, if the mood strikes you (or you have some leftover), rice.She makes hers with very little fanfare; all of the ingredients (minced beef, onions, garlic, a tin or two of tomatoes, tomato puree, mixed herbs, severa bay leaves and vegetables – carrots, if you have them, mushrooms, too, sometimes some celery and an occasional pepper, should there be one knocking around the fridge) are thrown in a large pot and it’s brought to the boil, then simmered, with a lid on, for as long as possible. At bedtime, the hob is switched off and the bolognese left out overnight – food safety be damned – to cool before being divided for the freezer, with an amount conserved for the fridge, or turned into lasagna, layered with pasta and home-made cheese sauce. Before I moved to America, though I knew of the existence of jars of cheese sauce, it had never really occurred to me to use one. Even now, I don’t like the taste: they’re too creamy, too cloying, they leave a sandy texture on the tongue. Mum’s cheese sauce starts by making a roux, then adding milk, slowly, stirring the sauce until it comes to a boil, then reducing to a simmer for it to thicken. Heaping handfuls of grated cheddar cheese are added until the required flavour is achieved, then it’s seasoned – salt and pepper instead of ash – before being added to the lasagna in layers, or combined with cooked pasta, topped with breadcrumbs and more grated cheese and baked in the oven until lightly browned on top, a delicious, rich macaroni cheese my children refuse to eat.The bolognese is better the day after; if I’m organised enough, I try to make it the day before I intend to eat it, but that’s a big “if”. Another one: if I have red wine, a slosh of that goes in there too. There are no quantities, everything gets measured out by feel. Do I feel like more or less tomato? More or less wine? More or less herbs? (More or fewer, I think would be more accurate.)No two bologneses are the same.Green peas remind me of my sister, specifically in a pasta dish, with pancetta or bacon and, I discovered after the fact, chopped-up anchovies, which add a rich umami flavour that can’t really be faked. (Frozen green peas are a memory of my mother, adding them to a dinner that, otherwise, was too much of the same colour: a Sunday roast with potatoes and parsnips, pork chops with mash, chicken tenders with chips.)During the summer Beatrice and I spent together in Milan, sharing a double futon in the bedroom that doubled as a living room – meaning the bed was folded up and made each and every morning, a habit I’ve often thought I should carry on into my everyday life, but never have – we ate that pasta dish a lot, although she swore blind to me she didn’t add the anchovies, as she knew I didn’t like them.It turns out that what you don’t know will neither kill nor affect you in any way, at east when it comes to tinned fish. Years later, she would laugh uproariously: “You didn’t even notice the anchovies!” She’s right, I didn’t. Hers is not even the only food-related deception I’ve had to suffer through in this life. As a child, I decided I didn’t like stew, so Mum told me she was making casserole, instead. Of course, the recipes are the same, but the exoticism of the name won me over. Even now, at the age of 40, I would rather we call it casserole, not stew, even though the truth of that makes me feel vaguely unpatriotic. And I’d rather not know about the anchovies. Beatrice moved away this week. Four hundred and thirty-six miles away, to be precise, to Knoxville, Tennessee, where the company she’s worked for since last December is located. We’ve known it was coming for a while; she took the job with the proviso that she would relocate at the end of the school year. For the past few months, she has spent one week out of the month in Knoxville and another five days or so in Florida or Georgia or New York, for a customer event or a trade show or a marketing conference. It’s been hectic, and stressful, and chaotic – when you have four chidren, a dog and two cats, no travel is ever straightforward – so I imagine the move, being there, at last, rather than here, must be something of a relief. Still, neither that, nor the knowledge that this move has been coming, drawing ever closer week by week, has made the reality of it easier to brook. I spent the first few days of this week over and back to her house in Fort Wayne, helping sift through the detritus of a decade spent in one place. We hefted bin bags of clothes and toys out into my car, to consign (and then to donate whatever was rejected from the consignment store).I went home with a slushie maker and a bunch of flowers and a litter picker (my dreams of becoming David Sedaris draw ever closer) and several plant pots, one of which would immediately roll out of the boot of my car and smash into smithereens on the driveway. I cried hot tears as I picked up huge pieces of turquoise glazed ceramic and put them into the wheelbarrow, a problem for another day (and no, I don’t have it in me to kintsugi them, but it’s a good suggestion).A team of movers arrived on Tuesday and began to methodically wrap and pack things into boxes. Reams of packing paper stacked up high on the kitchen counter, a sheet for each mug, glass, vase, plate and bowl. We scuttled around among them, being pushed further and further down into one corner, as chairs and stools and cups were packed and stacked away. On Tuesday night, I brought over five mugs and a bottle opener (the essentials) and we ordered pizza, with extra for the movers. Our 10-year-old ordered pasta and was delighted that, for once, he got to eat it with his fingers, buttery noodles that had to be held with just the right amount of pressure, so as not to slip from his grasp. On Wednesday morning I picked up my Dad – my parents are here, to “help” with the move (inverted commas Beatrice’s) – and we went to Jimmy John’s to pick up sandwiches. While we were there, we got a text from Beatrice asking us to pick up medication for the cat while we were out. Everything was done last minute, but everything was done. By Wednesday evening, they were on the road. I’d come back to my house to feed and water the dog, and to pick the boys up from their babysitter. “We’ll probably be over to you with some more stuff for your house,” Beatrice told me as I left. “And I still have to see your garden!”“Don’t worry about it if you don’t,” I said. But what I meant was, do worry about it. Worry about me. Come and say goodbye. They didn’t. I called, two hours later, to see how things were going, and they were on the road already – Beatrice, my parents, one of her four boys (the others are going with their Dad) and their two cats, yowling plaintively from the back – 90 minutes into a seven-and-a-half-hour drive. I wished, for a minute, that I was with them, for the drive and for the unpacking on the other end. I didn’t enjoy the dismantling of the Fort Wayne home but I imagine I’d like the other side – the allocating and the organising and the making a home of a house, using all of the things (so many things) that make up a life. I have a life here, one that’ll go on without my sister and her family living right up the road, although it’s worth mentioning that I’m visiting next week, making the drive with Brandin and three of our children (and no cats, thankfully) to spend the July 4th weekend in Knoxville, sleeping God knows where in a house that already has two extra adults in it.Brandin will fly back on the Monday evening – he has a limited number of days off each year, 15, to be precise, which include sick days, whether or not he has a note from his doctor, or has had an operation, or any number of possibilities – and the rest of us will stay another week, then drive the seven-and-a-half hours back, this time with my parents in tow. They’ll stay with us for almost three weeks before they head home to Ireland, at which point, I suppose, I’ll have to truly grapple with my new reality. Without my sister down the road, who will I drop into when I want to have a cry and can’t face doing it in front of the children? Who will I call on when I need someone to hold my baby for me while I drink ice cold water and take deep breaths? Who will go with me to Marshall’s for no reason whatsoever, or drive 45 minutes to pick up something ridiculous I found on Facebook Marketplace? Things will, most likely, be fine. I’ll figure it out. Before I moved here, five years ago, Beatrice and I hadn’t lived in the same country in more than 15 years. We didn’t even talk every day, something that seems implausible now. At least we’ll still be in the same time zone, on the same land mass, just a drive – granted, a long one – away from one another.And, I suppose, now that I’m working on a farm a few hours a week, I’ll always be able to get my hands on some green peas.To add insult to the injury of being left behind, abandoned, you could say, the consignment store I brought five bags of clothes to – nice clothes, cute clothes, clothes we decided we were done with but which had nothing ostensibly wrong with them other than our own ennui – accepted six items, and gave me $22.50 for my troubles. I was sorry I’d bothered.I’m almost finished Talia Hibbert’s Midnight Heat collection (in times of emotional turmoil, I turn to straightforward romantic fiction with high levels of spice and a happily ever after and I will not be ashamed) and I’m very much enjoying them. Curvy protagonists of colour (bonus points because the word “curvy” doesn’t feature) with men who are truly sexy and likable (a rare combo), they’ve made for very enjoyable reading. This is a public episode. If you'd like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit rosemarymaccabe.substack.com/subscribe

This post contains quotes from threads on Tattle that are dedicated to discussing me. They’re not the only posts on there – some are complimentary! People post about how they like my writing, or our podcast; sometimes they berate meaner posters for what they’ve written about me. But, as tends to happen with these things, it’s not the nice posts that stick with me. It’s the rest of them.She’s next level pathetic, adds no value to society, yet her entitlement knows no bounds.Late last week, a Northern Irish court ordered the identity of a formerly anonymous website owner be made public, after the man in question lost a defamation case against a couple, Neil and Donna Sands, who were subject to defamation and harassment on his website, Tattle Life. It’s a judgment that will mean absolutely nothing to the vast majority of people. For the influencers whose appearances, lives, relationships and businesses have been torn apart on the gossip website Tattle Life, however, knowing the identity of its founder, one Sebastian Bond, also known as Bastian Durward (and who posted on the site as Helen McDougal) marks one step towards unmasking the many anonymous users who spend a lot of their time posting criticism about influencers, business people and celebrities on the site.The website, according to itself, has “a zero-tolerance policy to any content that is abusive, hateful or harmful”, while also hosting threads with titles such as “Katie Price #471 Leg's [sic] like sticks, prancing in her nicks, which went right up her crack, madam really is tack”; “Vicky Pattison #22 Vicky can’t stop posting, always boasting, crap at hosting!”; and “Charlotte Taylor #45 Monjaro speculation, child neglect, oh how I love myself, check”. Posters will defend their “right” to post on Tattle by citing free speech laws; bringing up the fact that influencers can’t take criticism, and frequently respond by blocking their critics; and the old adage, “if you put yourself out there…” while using the site and their anonymity on it to post diatribes about people’s weight, looks, parenting, work ethic and the cleanliness of their homes, as if they’re somehow the internet’s crabby old auntie, just out here telling the truth, for each influencer’s “own good”. The court case has seen a wide range of influencers and social media users commenting on the judgment, and the site more generally, detailing their own experiences of being posted about on Tattle, from mild criticism to threats of calling child services on mothers for the crime of, er, giving their children an “objectionable” nickname.It has – but of course – made me start thinking about (surprise!) myself, my experience being the subject of b****y online posters, and what this experience has done to my confidence, my work and, ultimately, my life.It's only a matter of time before her husband is worn down by the relentless negativity. She really doesn't contribute anything of note to the family unit, emotional or financial.I first started to be posted about online at around the same time as I started posting online, which seems to be a common experience for a broad group of people we can call Women On the Internet™. In the earliest days, I was blogging about fashion from my parents’ kitchen table, posting photographs of my outfits my Dad took for me in the back garden of my childhood home. There I was, in a long grey cardigan, cinched in at the waist by the skinniest brown leather belt imaginable; in another, I’m wearing snake print trousers and a paisley shirt, with the chunkiest necklace you’ve ever seen around my neck. The outfits, I can admit, weren’t great; at the time, the criticism focused largely on my terrible fashion sense, and the fact that my Dad was taking my pics. (I seemed to miss the boat on the blogger boyfriend, a fact that will never cease to irritate me. What was I doing wrong?!)I saw a full body photo Rosemary shared a while back and I was surprised by just how much weight she had put on. If she keeps gaining like that she's on the road to health issues and mobility issues. I'd be surprised if at her weight she doesn't feel impeded by it already.As time went on and I grew more prolific – I started the fashion blog on The Irish Times, Fash Mob (love a pun, so I do, and flash mobs were A Thing back then, FYI); regularly appeared on TV3’s magazine show, Xposé (RIP) as a stylist, contributor and fashion pundit; and wrote and/or styled features for magazines such as Irish Tatler, IMAGE and Irish Country Magazine, the criticism got more personal. People had an issue with: my accent; my (alleged!) lisp; my opinions; the cheek of me to be fat while talking about fashion; the cheek of me to be unfashionable while talking about fashion; the way I tousled my hair when I filmed myself talking to camera on Snapchat; my (undeserved) confidence… the list goes on. The criticism started to feel less and less fair, more and more personal, and more and more subjective, eventually boiling down to: I just don’t like her.Like does she like ever like stop like moaning like about like absolutely everything like?And let’s be clear: we are, each and every one of us, entitled to our own opinions about others. I do, on an academic level, understand that not everybody will like me. I don’t like it, but I understand it as logical fact.But it’s one thing to know this – like when we tell kids, “listen, I don’t know why x or y doesn’t want to be friends with you, but that’s life!” – and entirely another thing to be able to read exactly why and how and how much people dislike you. It can be soul-destroying. Before Tattle – which was founded only in 2018, though it’s difficult to believe it’s only been going for seven years – there was Reddit and, at least for Irish influencers, boards.ie. But the moderators on Boards were notoriously quick to delete comments that were deemed personal in nature, or potentially defamatory, while the Irish blogger snark Reddit never quite got off the ground. Tattle, despite maintaining that its moderators do not allow “hateful” comments, seemed to grow at a feverish pace; today, it has more than 12 million monthly visitors.As for her subscribers going down; does she not get that she is irrelevant now? Her feckless, thoughtless, without consequence spending is disgusting. Sitting in her car wondering where she will eat for breakfast after spending God knows how much on therapy as well as childcare for her self care. I spent €140 on groceries this week and Im dreading next week because the kids won’t be in school and will need 100s of snacks as well as entertaining for two weeks! And crying about her appearance? Please. This is the woman who happily poses naked or in a bikini for tens of thousands of people on the internet.The money diaries have a lot to answer for when it comes to the worst posts on Tattle about me, honestly; had I never started sharing my “without consequence” spending… well, who am I kidding? They would have found something else to criticise. But it does feel as though my wanton consumerism has hit a very specific nerve among the Tattlers that may – and I’m going out on a limb here – have to do with the very crux of their issue. I asked fashion and beauty influencer Grace Mongey Gernon why she thought people felt the need to post about influencers on Tattle. Her answer echoed a lot of my own thoughts: “I feel like maybe because of the opportunities we get and the stuff we are sent and because we don’t have a traditional job,” she suggested. “They don’t see it as work, so why should we get all these nice things?”When you think about it like that – these people are just, you know, normal people, working their 40-hour-a-week jobs, struggling to get by (because it’s 2025; almost everyone’s struggling to get by), forced to fork out for their own mattresses and hair straighteners and “super supplements”, and when they log into Instagram for their daily dose of mindless escapism, they’re faced with reel after reel of women just like them getting paid to post about their lives on Instagram and (they think) never having to put their hands in their pockets. She has to be the laziest person alive. I guess the parents are over keeping her on takeaways. Back to eating shite now she has no injectionsAnd you know what? I GET ALL OF THAT! Even when I was an influencer, I would find myself being absolutely maddened by the freebies that another influencer – one I perceived as being (God help me) even lazier than I am, or less cool, or less (lol) “influential” – and I would think to myself, Jesus Christ, why are they sending that enormous box of lipsticks to that absolute dose?! But guess what I didn’t do? I didn’t immediately run on to an online gossip forum – which, newsflash, may be anonymous, but is also entirely public, meaning anyone, including the person you’re talking about, can read it – to expose all of the worst parts of my jealous, insecure and, frankly, petty personality to other jealous, insecure and petty people. I WhatsApped my friends instead! man she's hard work!! I wonder does the hubby put up with her shite and challenge her or is a he a bit of a gombeen and just stays quiet for an easy life!I’m making light of it now, but honestly, there was a time where I found myself massively affected by – and this sounds stupid, as I write it down – the anonymous postings of anonymous people I don’t (and never will, nor do I want to) know. I felt so exposed, in a way I’d never felt before, possibly because a lot of their criticisms about me were remarkably similar to criticisms I had about myself, especially when going through a particularly depressive episode. My sister once asked, about one specific poster, “Are you sure that’s not you?”, as if I’d be spending my spare time posting anonymous criticism about myself on Tattle (stranger things have happened…). There was also a paranoia to it that leaked into my everyday life. I’d be walking down the road, looking around, wondering, could that person be posting on Tattle? Does that person know (and hate) me? She's lazy and just wants everything in life to be as easy as possible (not just referring to her eating habits) She's not willing to make an effort with anything in life that requires a bit of work.I’d start to wonder what I could possibly do to get them to stop, but I never had any answers. I’d wonder what it was they wanted – for me to change? For me to go away? For me to disappear off the internet altogether, once and for all, forever? But I tried that, of a sort, when I bowed out of being an influencer, deleted my blog, stopped doing my podcast and retrained as a personal trainer, thinking that, once I was out of the fashion and beauty game, they’d relent. Instead, they posted about how anyone could ever go to me as a personal trainer; I was too fat, too undisciplined, too “unfit-looking” to inspire anyone, they said. (I was still posting on Instagram occasionally, trying to promote my PT services – getting new clients is one of the tougher aspects of personal training, and it felt ridiculous not to use my online following to help.)And I know that I could stop reading it, but I also feel as though I can’t. I know it’s there now… it’s like a spot I can’t stop picking at, a loose thread in a jumper I can’t ignore, a misaligned piece of wallpaper I’ll never be able to forget about.I also wondered, sometimes – again, at my lowest ebbs – what they would do if I were to just disappear from life, full stop. Would they be happy? Would they think, phew, I never have to listen to her moan or hear her lisp or look at her smug face ever again? Or would they just think, well, she’s been depressed for ages, and go on to post on someone else’s page? I never thought of myself as a people-pleaser, before Tattle, but the website exposed a deep need in me to be liked, along with, cruelly, a part of me that seems to be, to some people at least, deeply unlikeable. That’s a hard pill to swallow, because, at the ripe age of 40, my personality feels very f*****g firmly established. I’m not sure I’ll be changing any time soon.And when I saw the recent news about Tattle, and the identity of its founder, I felt so incredibly angry – that this man, whatever his name is, has been capitalising off the cultural conditioning that’s made generations of women feel that they will somehow be raised up by tearing other women down. I was raging that these women have wasted so much of their lives posting these nasty, hateful and hurtful things about other women and, honestly, livid that I’ve wasted any of my time reading it and wondering how, exactly, I could make them like me more. It’s all been such a waste. All to make money for a man named – of all things – Sebastian.She does the bare minimum and wants to be rewarded for it.(This one, at least, is true. Isn’t that the dream?!) I asked three influencers – or, rather, two current and one former influencer – about their experiences with Tattle. Here’s what they told me. Georgina Horne, formerly of @fullerfigurefullerbust “I don’t know at what point I became aware of Tattle specifically – but sometimes when people asked me questions about things I’d worn, or old blog posts, I’d search my name and a subject. And it would bring up Tattle results.“To this day, I’ve never been on my own thread. My husband went on it… he’s not told me how many times, but I know he went on it after we had our daughter because someone from my Facebook page posted on Tattle that we’d had her, before I was ready to post publicly about it. It’s almost like, if you put your child on the internet, people berate you. If you don’t put your child on the internet, people berate you. You just can’t win.“It was one of the reasons I stopped wanting to be on the internet. After I had my daughter, they were leaving comments, saying they knew my daughter’s name, asking why I hadn’t posted about her – I just wanted to keep a bit of mystery around her name, face, date of birth. I thought, I’m going to be blogging forever, and I don’t want my daughter’s full details online. “Even after I’d left [social media], they went on to this baby class we go to, where they’d posted pics of her – as just a regular mum who goes there, I allowed them to post those pictures… and I had people sending me messages, asking, ‘oh I thought you weren’t going to allow your daughter to be on the internet’. “Whenever I think about my Tattle page, it makes me feel sick and I think… maybe I should just read it because it might not be as bad as I think? “But I remember, when I first had my daughter, I was talking about night feeds and I was calling her a little gremlin, saying she had a stinky bum – people went on and listed every single thing I’d ever said. ‘You’ve called her a gremlin, you’ve said she’s this, you’ve said she’s that…’ and someone said they were reporting me to social services. That’s when I came off.”Grace Mongey Gernon @facesbygrace“My experience with Tattle has always been negative. About three years ago, I went on after I’d got a couple of messages from people and had a little read. Before then, I’d never gone in depth… but this time, I read a little more than I should have. It really fucked me over, mentally. I started to believe all this s**t I was reading about myself. My anxiety got really bad. “I was already in a really bad head space and it just knocked me for six, reading what people were saying about me. I took a break, pushed all of my campaigns out, and came offline for two weeks. “I couldn’t even tell you what they were saying. It was just the usual – bashing me as a mother, my appearance, my weight, saying stuff about the kids, about my husband, even about my Mam. “I’ve spent so many therapy sessions talking about what other people thought of me. Going on that website was like self-sabotage. I vowed never to go on it again, and I never did, but obviously it all sticks in my mind. “I’m a sensitive person and a people-pleaser, and it really knocked my confidence for a long time. But I wasn’t going to let a few anonymous accounts stop me from doing what I love, even if there was a time when I wanted to give it up because of all the hate.”Siobhan O’Hagan“I used to post freely… but after [hearing about] the commentary on how I act, talk and do everything in my life, I started to second guess everything I posted. Now, I talk as if I know loads of people who hate me are going to sit down and tear me apart. “It’s made it hard to show up authentically, as it’s often easier to just post nothing. To have so many people watching you… you know everything you say is being analysed to be torn apart.“Someone posted their notes about me to my parents’ house, which was a step too far. It was a 24-page document of notes they’d been keeping on me for the last seven years. I just skimmed it, because I knew it would upset me… they just analyse every single thing I do. I brought it to the guards, but they couldn’t do much about it.“I mean… I have a hate campaign against me… and not just me. That’s one thing – I found solace [in the fact that] there are horrible things written about some of the nicest people I know.” This is a public episode. If you'd like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit rosemarymaccabe.substack.com/subscribe

Early on Saturday morning, I drive over to my sister’s house to meet her and a friend for a trip to Markle, a town about 20 minutes south of Fort Wayne where, I’m told, there’s a large antiques “mall” worth checking out. I hear this from a woman on Facebook Marketplace from whom I’m buying some vintage kids’ wallpaper, a Sandra Boynton zoo print with corresponding borders which – to the surprise of no one who’s ever read my money diaries – I absolutely do not need and am not even sure what to do with. As it happens, though we arrange to meet in Markle on Saturday morning, and I then rope the two gals in to come along for the drive – and a vintage shopping trip – my wallpaper lady finds herself in Fort Wayne on Friday evening, where we meet to exchange goods: a big box of wallpaper in exchange for thirty of my American dollars. A bargain.Anchor Baby is a reader-supported publication. To receive new posts and support my work, consider becoming a free or paid subscriber.The plan has been made, though, so, wallpaper or no, we set out to Markle bright and early, and find ourselves browsing through an enormous warehouse of vintage ceramics, clothing, cutlery and curios. If you’ve never been to an antiques mall, they’re set out in “booths”, each owned by a different collector, or consignor, I guess, because can you call yourself a collector if you collect only to resell? I would say not. There are booths dedicated entirely to Hot Wheels toy cars; booths full of prohibition-era glassware; there are booths that seem only to contain wooden crates of varying dimensions, with the odd sackcloth thrown in for good measure. There is what we call a “witchy” booth, with monkeys’ paws and witch balls and taxidermied crocodiles’ heads (Atlas would love that, I think, but of course I don’t buy it) and a shrunken head made, the tag says, of “skin and hair”. There are milkmaid-style dresses – very popular right now thanks to the trad wife movement, you know – and denim jackets and cookie jars and lamps and vases and so many dinner sets: dessert plates and dinner plates and side plates and cereal bowls, set out and displayed on beautiful mahogany dining tables, complete with matching upholstered high-backed chairs. “God,” says my sister at one point as she wanders from one booth to the next, resisting the urge, I know, to buy up every hand-stitched quilt in the place (her personal Roman Empire), “we really don’t need to make any new stuff, do we?” In that context – in the context of the dying planet and chemicals and climate change and the finite resources we pour into the creation of new things as if those resources are, in fact, infinite – wandering around these vintage emporiums is a sobering experience*. It’s sobering, too, for another reason; I have been to maybe a dozen antique shops, boutiques, emporiums, whatever you want to call them, in the Midwest – in Fort Wayne, on the road to Michigan, in towns around Indiana – and at each and every one I have seen many, many racist dolls, posters, sculptures and nick-nacks, and I’m not quite sure what to make of this.I mean, for starters, I make of it: ugh. What a dark, disgusting and heartbreaking past the United States has. I wonder what it must be like, to wander around these malls, as a person of colour, to see how, exactly, your ancestors were depicted by the wealthy residents of a state that still has an active Klan membership. (I have never – not once – seen a Black person in any antiques mall that I’ve been in, which is perhaps unsurprising.) It made me think of the recent fire that burned a former plantation in Louisiana to the ground, and the videos that were subsequently shared on social media, of a white tour guide showing people around the building, telling them just how happy its Black Slaves, who numbered around 155, were with their enslavement.The destruction of the property – which functioned as a “resort” and wedding venue – prompted a deluge of commentary online about what can and should be done with these buildings, built by enslaved people at a time when a Black person could be bought and sold at market, raped or killed by their “owner” with zero repercussions, and whose children were born into that same enslavement, often separated from their parents at a young age to be sold to a different plantation owner, hundreds of miles away, with no more thought than would be given to buying or selling a horse. I wonder if that’s a past people consider when planning their elaborate weddings on plantation property; did Blake Lively and Ryan Reynolds find themselves bogged down in “should we…” thinking as their wedding planner finalised the details of theirs, for example? But while the Nottoway Plantation fire was celebrated – at least, as far as I saw – on social media by a lot of people who feel as though plantations shouldn’t be maintained as some sort of romanticised ode to a shameful era in American history, it’s not like we can burn them all to the ground. But should we? Another Louisiana plantation, the Whitney Plantation, is a 200-acre former sugar plantation that now operates as a non-profit museum, offering visitors a tour of over a dozen historical structures, many of which are listed on the National Register of Historic Places.Is there a difference, then, between visiting the Whitney Plantation and visiting somewhere like Auschwitz-Birkenau, the largest of the German concentration camps, which operated between 1940 and 1945 and saw the extermination of more than 1.1 million men, women and children?The problem, I think, with this comparison – and bear with me here – is almost totally aesthetic. To be clear, I haven’t toured either – though I was absolutely obsessed, in my teens, with Holocaust literature and documentary, and dreamed of visiting Auschwitz one day, I never got there, and don’t think I’d go now; and while we saw several tourable Plantations when we visited North Carolina last summer, the idea of paying to peek through the windows of an entire race’s past trauma seemed… distasteful, to say the least – but there is something about the stark horrors of Auschwitz that make it so clear that this is a Bad Place, while imagery of southern plantations is often so pristine and green that you almost need to remind yourself that all of this beauty has grown from the blood of Black people.It seems to me that it would be entirely possible to walk around on a former plantation and forget its violent, reprehensible and heartbreaking history, something that, from what I’ve heard, is entirely impossible to do somewhere like Auschwitz. Whatever about the plantations themselves — I’m not sure who among us would think we should raze those properties to the ground, even if, when one succumbs to an electrical fire, we’re not exactly getting out the hankies — the remnants of racism like those I see on Saturday morning in Markle are another thing entirely. Do we really need to hold on to Picaninny Freeze posters, or find a place to display our racist dolls and ceramics? And is it morally right to benefit financially from the resale of these items, even now, 160 years after the abolition of slavery in 1865? The items I saw, to be clear, are not the kind of Black dolls that were designed and created to give Black girls a toy they could see themselves in; no, these are golliwogs and Mammy characters, caricatures of Black maids and porters and cooks and chefs, clear representations of Black people in positions of servitude. The thing is, try as we might to find a solution to the problems of the past, it seems like I’m entirely the wrong person to be asking. Maybe I need to look to Black people themselves to ask what they would like done with these items — things that represent the worst of our white privilege and a truly wretched time for our humanity — rather than walking around, tut-tutting under my breath in the very Caucasian antiques mall.Kwame Anthony Appiah, writing in the New York Times, says that, “the destruction of historical artifacts is the wrong response to the moral horrors of the past” and posits that “most contemporary collectors of such items aren’t motivated by racism”, suggesting that any concerns about profiting from the sale of racist memorabilia could be assuaged by “sending the proceeds to the National Museum of African American History and Culture”. David Pilgrim, too, the curator of the Jim Crow Museum, does not recommend the destruction of these objects; since he was a child, he’s been collecting racist curios, eventually donating his entire collection to the museum, the mission of which is to “use items of intolerance to teach tolerance”. Of ridding himself of his collection, Pilgrim writes: “Most collectors are soothed by their collections; I hated mine and was relieved to get it out of my home. I donated my entire collection to the university, with the condition that the objects would be displayed and preserved.” This LA Times feature suggests that these objects — Blackabilia, as they’re termed at one point — are often collected by Black people who wish to reclaim their heritage, or, as Patricia Turner, UC Davis associate professor, says, because there is such a dearth of Black representation in culture of the past, however not-so-distant. “I think about how excited my relatives would be when blacks first showed up on television,” Turner tells the LA Times, “and it really didn’t matter that it was ‘Amos and Andy,’ it was just confirmation that there were blacks in the world.”“The only way that you beat these monsters is look them in the face and laugh at them,” says New York-based collector and writer Jeff Weinstein. “I hope that this can happen. But you shouldn’t be destroying these objects, so that the impulse that produced them will never happen again.”It’s hard to look at them, these remnants of a way-too-recent history, that tell a story of a subordinated, abused and indentured people — but maybe I’m precisely the kind of person who should be looking at them. To remember, to reflect and never to revisit, even if sometimes it feels as though that possibility is closer to us than ever before.*This morning, I started to think about buying waterproof hiking boots and lightweight waterproof pants, a uniform of sorts I could wear to the farm I’ve started working on (more on which anon), and decided to look on Poshmark, because surely there are a lot of those things I could find secondhand, from people like me who buy hiking boots for the one hike they’ll ever go on, and I discovered that one of my main problems is that I just have a distaste for the idea of wearing shoes that someone else has sweated into. Something I’m working on. This is a public episode. If you'd like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit rosemarymaccabe.substack.com/subscribe

It’s been over a month since the AI Barbie trend took over my algorithm – and yours, too, I bet – and I’m still thinking about it. I didn’t partake at the time, because I have complicated feelings about AI. I don’t think we should use it for things we have, up to now, used artists for; I worry about the environmental impact of asking Chat GPT what we should have for lunch; I’m concerned about the effects AI videos of sharks and coral reefs and ageing celebrities have on older and younger people specifically – people who are not especially literate when it comes to online media and discerning fact from fiction; and, lower down the list of concerns, but there all the same, is my discomfort with the kind of bland sameness AI seems to present us with, and that’s without getting into its issues with homogenising race, gender and body type. Anchor Baby is a reader-supported publication. To receive new posts and support my work, consider becoming a free or paid subscriber.There’s also the massive problem of AI in education; a recent New York magazine feature detailed the ways college students are increasingly using ChatGPT to complete their assignments. Out of 1,000 students surveyed, more than 90% of them admitted to using AI to assist with their coursework.It’s not just the students, either – a student at Northeastern College is applying to have their tuition fees returned after catching their professor using ChatGPT to create course notes. I can’t guarantee I wouldn’t have used it myself, when I was a student; I studied Italian and English in my undergraduate degree, and did an MA in International Journalism, and I can think of myriad ways AI would have made my life at third level easier. As a teenager and twenty-something, I would, undoubtedly, have been only delighted to farm some of the more tiresome aspects of my college work out to a bot; as a 40-year-old, I now understand the importance of doing those assignments myself. What impact would using AI have had on the knowledge and skills I gained from my third-level experience? Not a positive one, I’d wager. I used Chat GPT for the first time the other day, to ask for topic suggestions for my podcast, inspired by an episode of Miss Me (a podcast I’m having increasingly complicated feelings about, as it happens*) wherein a listener suggested they ask AI to script an episode for them. The presenters – the singer Lily Allen and TV and radio presenter Miquita Oliver – refused, but the seed was sown, in my brain at least. To be entirely fair (to Chat GPT, an AI programme that has no feelings about the concept of fairness as applied to it I’m sure), its responses were pretty decent. It suggested we talk about Irishness in an American context; try eating and grading American snacks; discuss whether or not we’d be friends with one another if we weren’t sisters. But the suggestions were all very general; the specificity of our episode topics – in one (linked above), we discuss how we should be dead, based on a variety of stupid things we’ve done; in another, what niche content I could offer on my OnlyFans account (we settled on squashing porridge beneath my bare feet) – seemed somehow too weird, too personal, for Chat GPT to grasp.This is, I think, the biggest philosophical problem with AI (as opposed to the practical problems: that it’s stealing our jobs and using up all of our resources LOL): it’s unable to get to the crux of what it is to be human, what it is to think and to feel and to laugh and to cry. What it can do is summarise and assess and deduct and calculate; I heard a news item this morning in which the journalist surmised that, within the next decade, we’ll no longer have need of radiologists, because that’s a job AI will be able to do excellently. We’ll probably also be able to use it to grade maths and language tests; to summarise research studies and surveys. It might be able to do the most basic work of architects, at least architects whose job it is to design low-cost housing, for example, or high-rise office blocks. I’m not under any illusions that AI will be replacing the Frank Lloyd Wrights of the world, or the Antoni Gaudís. ChatGPT could probably do basic news reporting; translate kids’ books into other languages; identify and analyse trends in high schoolers’ grades; drive buses and cars along established routes in perfect road and traffic conditions (another LOL); plan out average-looking garden beds for disinterested homeowners; come up with workout plans for busy 9-to-5ers to do in their home gyms.But it won’t be able to illustrate those same kids’ books (check out the swathe of recent AI-generated kids’ books and TV shows to see the true horrors of AI, the sheer sameness of artificially rendered “art”); pilot planes in imperfect conditions; predict human behaviour in any kind of nuanced, detailed way; write an essay about the emotional impact of reading Life of Pi for the first time, or Carson McCullers’ The Heart is a Lonely Hunter (while we’re at it, nor would it be able to write either of those books); or design Claude Monet’s gardens in Giverny.Not to mention THE BAD ART! Where would we be without bad art – which AI is trained not to do?! Remember this failed restoration of poor beleaguered Jesus (hasn’t he been through enough?!)? AI could never come up with the critically panned Sussudio, the roundly derided True by Spandau Ballet, Emily in Paris, Jupiter Ascending or Sex and the City 2, the world’s worst movie.It seems unnecessary to point out that the world would be a far, far poorer place without these additions to popular culture, however terrible they may (objectively) be. (FYI neither Sussudio nor True are actually terrible, which is why the art of criticism, which is subjective by nature, must be preserved, or, in other words, ChatGPT could never be a critic, either!)I’m also thinking about the world of kind of… awkward art, art that explains the human condition in a way that is awful and embarrassing and relatable. Films like Juno and Frances Ha, TV shows like Girls and The Office, where central characters are lovable and loathsome at the same time, relatable and ridiculous, awkward and sophisticated. Could AI conceive of such contradictions? I’m thinking, too, of my own book, This is Not About You, a memoir which – if you haven’t read it – details my own life through a series of romantic (or not-so-romantic) entanglements. It shows me taking two steps forward and four steps back; coming to conclusions from which I learn absolutely zero lessons; making the same decisions, over and over, and expecting different results, in ways which, I think, are very, very human but make no logical sense and will never be “understood” or “interpreted” by a computer as anything other than confusing, illogical choices that have no real purpose or possible positive outcome.I think the development of AI is a positive one, overall; I think it will be an incredibly useful tool for mathematicians and physicists, for surgeons and astronauts, for accountants and statisticians and all of the myriad fields that involve logic and maths and probabilities and drilling down into facts and figures to reach with broad, measurable conclusions. But for the magic of everyday life – for the joy and the sublime, the farce and the satire, the heartbreak and the bitter pill of failure – the colour of it all, how can we ever expect artificial intelligence to grasp the intricacies of it? (And why would we ever want it to?) *It might just be that I am too attuned to the concept of triggers and sensitivity when it comes to specific issues (usually weight and fatphobia, and violence against women) – but a recent episode in which Allen and Oliver discussed their own weights and body sizes seemed particularly careless, especially in a moment where Oliver declared that they had both “been all sizes”, then went into detail bemoaning a time she was an 8, rather than a 4, a time she frequently refers to on the show as when she was “fat”. Objectively speaking – and, to reiterate here in case this is in question, “fat” is not a feeling – neither of these women has ever experienced the world as a fat person. P.P.S.I’m currently reading John Green’s Everything is Tuberculosis, a book I would most likely never have picked up, were it not the choice for my upcoming book club, and my mind has been blown several times. The thing I just can’t stop thinking about? That 117 billion people have lived on this earth, and 100 billion of those lived before the year 1804. Which means that all of the developments that have come about since then — antibiotics, anesthetic, space travel, air travel, the internet, contraception, the concept of boundaries — have come about in just a fraction of humanity’s time on earth. What the f**k were the rest of them doing with themselves?!?P.P.S. CMAT’s new song, Take a Sexy Picture of Me, is out and it is so, so good. I can’t stop thinking about the very last line, in a good but also bad way. Ain’t that life though?!? (Could Chat GPT write that very bad last line? I think not.) This is a public episode. If you'd like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit rosemarymaccabe.substack.com/subscribe

There are some books which, while reading, make me start to think about their potential as movies, TV shows or, since 2022 I guess, “limited series” (when and why did we start calling TV shows “limited series” and how different would our lives have been, had My So-Called Life been marketed as such?). When I read JM Coetzee’s Disgrace, for example, which was assigned reading in one of my college English tutorials, I remember seeing, so clearly, Kevin Spacey (then not known to be quite so problematic) in the role of David Lurie, whose “disgrace” forms the central theme of the book. The casting of John Malkovich in his stead (full disclosure: I have no idea whether or not Spacey was even considered for this role) ruined the entire thing for me. I watched the film, once it was available on streaming, but spent its duration (120 minutes, almost the perfect film length, which is between 90 and 105 minutes, in case you wondered) seething at this frankly terrible casting. Malkovich was altogether too menacing, I thought; Spacey would (at the time) have been a far less obvious, and therefore more darkly sinister, anti-hero. Anchor Baby is a reader-supported publication. To receive new posts and support my work, consider becoming a free or paid subscriber.I started to think about this – casting and miscasting and, honestly, the fallacy that not all writing can and should be re-interpreted for the small screen – when I saw that Lisa Taddeo’s Three Women, one of the most arresting books I’ve ever read, has been made into an original series on Starz (which I have previously subscribed to so that I could watch Power, and Outlander, the juxtaposition of which with Three Women feels, frankly, insulting to Taddeo). (I’d be lying if I said I definitely won’t watch it, although it’s not at the top of my list. Right now, I’m trying to catch up on The Golden Bachelorette in time for this week’s Men Tell All episode while keeping up to date with Real Housewives of Salt Lake City and, having promised my sister I’d watch Unreal and Nobody Wants This, and promised myself that I’d watch Rivals*, I don’t have much room on the schedule for anything else. Plus, my son has chosen this moment of intense television scheduling to come down with something, which is really getting in the way of my binge-watching.)I’ve just finished reading Audrey Shulman’s Theory of B******s (an aside: whoever chose the cover of this book should never work in books again, or any visual medium, honestly), finally acceding to my sister’s demands (I’m sure she’d prefer that I call them suggestions), and it’s another of those books I adored (five stars!), but hope Hollywood (and whoever else) know well enough to leave it alone. There are, of course, other books I’ve loved whose adaptations, whether on the small or big screen, have always seemed like obvious mistakes. Life of Pi, for example: a stunning book, but in what way was this ever going to be as moving and as beautiful as the book, with as shocking a denouement? Philip Pullman’s His Dark Materials trilogy was, perhaps, always going to be too much – too expansive, too imaginative, too complex and, of course, too expensive – to adapt faithfully, and well, for the screen, but that didn’t stop them releasing the first in the trilogy in 2007. (The following two films were scrapped due to a poor box-office performance by the first.) It was adapted, once again, for television, in 2019, to a better reception, and, crucially, the series was completed in 2022, so you can watch all three of those, starring Dafne Keen, right now should you wish. (I enjoyed the first, but forgot about seasons two and three, so that’s probably not a totally ringing endorsement. If you haven’t, I would just read the books, instead.)When it comes to adaptations I’ve loved, or even approved of (Hollywood is quaking in its boots, I’m sure), the list is shorter. Game of Thrones was done well, at least visually, and the cast was superb, although the books were decidedly less rapey than the show, and left more room for nuance in the relationships, particularly that between Daenerys Targaryen and Khal Drogo.Ian McEwan’s Atonement made a beautiful film, as did Kashuo Ishiguro’s Never Let Me Go (I’m unlikely ever to hate a work of dystopian science fiction, in whatever medium), and The Lord of the Rings was a triumph, even if true Tolkien fans bemoan the loss of the longer, entirely-surplus-to-the-plot scenes, featuring hobbits trekking across endless fields. It’s best if nobody mentions The Hobbit. The Devil Wears Prada is infinitely more watchable than the book is readable; Little Women (the 1994 adaptation starring Winona Ryder and our own Gabriel Byrne; I haven’t watched the Greta Gerwig film, although I know I should) is a beautiful movie; it’s hard to say I enjoy watching The Handmaid’s Tale, but the showrunners’ ability to move the plot beyond what Atwood put on the page continues to impress me (and has not gone down unknown and deranged paths, a la David Benioff and D.B. Weiss’ work on Game of Thrones).There are also those books I’m shocked no one has tried to adapt: Louise Bagshawe’s Venus Envy, a 1990s classic that would definitely be too fatphobic and b****y for 2024 but would’ve sat nicely next to Bridget Jones’ Diary on the shelves in Chartbusters; Louise Lawrence’s Children of the Dust, a post-apocalyptic YA novel released in 1985 that is, quite honestly, rather terrifying and possibly not suitable for many young audiences, but would surely have made an excellent nuclear panic movie; The Gathering by CJ Tudor (which was just released this year so may yet get its 15 minutes of TV or cinema fame), a kind of Fargo meets Mare of Easttown hybrid WITH VAMPIRES and I’ll grant you that vampires aren’t for everyone but has there been any semi-decent vampire content since True Blood ended in 2014?! I would argue that there has not (although full-frontal Alexander Skarsgard was a decent consolation prize).I think there’s a misconception in Hollywood that all “good” books – that is, all books that are bought in their hundreds of thousands and get a relatively good critical reception – deserve to be interpreted for film or for television, when this simply… makes no sense. The joy of reading is in being able to envision things for yourself, in being able to combine the imagination of the author with your own, using the world and the characters they’ve built and building upon them in your reading. It’s an escape that allows you to come up with infinite numbers of possible visuals, to imagine colours and shapes and smells and feels and even facial expressions that are not always put on the page – and once you sit down to watch someone else’s interpretation of that work, you’re immediately hemmed in by that vision, whether you like it or not. Books open up the world, and I would argue that TV and film, to a certain extent, boxes it in – sometimes with excellent results, but other times kind of souring the book itself, no matter how much you loved it before you were told exactly what it was supposed to look like.In the process of writing this, I’ve learned that Naomi Alderman’s The Power was, in fact, adapted for the small screen in 2022. How did I miss this?! Did any of you watch it? Should I??? Similarly, if you’ve watched Rivals and have a review you’d like to share, please do! But no spoilers. I need to be surprised at my smut. This is a public episode. If you'd like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit rosemarymaccabe.substack.com/subscribe

I saw the news on Instagram this morning, and immediately felt an acrid combination of disappointment, anger and, yes, shame. Disappointment because, how could this happen? Anger because, how could I just be reading about this on Instagram, of all places? (As if the proprietors should have contacted me directly: hey, Rosemary, you’ve been here maybe a dozen times, so we thought we’d give you a heads up!) And shame that I’ve been drinking cheap, shitty coffee from other coffee shops when I could – I should! – have been taking an extra 10 minutes to drive downtown and get it from them. It’s not that I haven’t meant to go more often; I make plans, at least once a week, to drive downtown, park near GK, pop in for a coffee and the only good croissant in Fort Wayne, then wander around the corner to the library, where Atlas loves nothing more than to play with a whole host of toys he has at home, with children he doesn’t know and will never see again. They hold a storytime each day at 10am; a member of the children’s library staff will gather attendees in their storytime room and read books, play music, hand out props and teach dance moves to the kids, who range in age from crawlers to toddlers and slightly beyond. Atlas has no interest in following directions, and he simply will not do the dance they’re teaching. Instead, he does a dance of his own, in the style of your farmer neighbour at the local GAA club, a h-aon, dó, trí, to the beat of the music.He loves GK’s croissants, but above all else, he loves your GK croissants; once he has polished off his own, he will reach across the table with a covetous hand. “My!” he’ll shout, at increasing volume, until you give in and hand over the flaky, layered pastry. Sometimes, I resign myself to its loss, but mostly, I go up to the counter and get another. “Stay here,” I tell him, feebly, as I walk the six feet to make my order. He knows as well as I do that, should he decide, he could simply climb out of the high chair and run around the shop, as he has done on more than one occasion, until he is caught, laughing and squealing, and strapped firmly back into his buggy. That we haven’t gone in months is down to, I think, a combination of factors: his speech and occupational therapy schedule has felt quite rigorous, and limited time for anything else; on days I’ve planned to go, it’s rained, or been too hot, or we’ve both woken up too late, so that we’d miss storytime; I worry that I won’t be able to walk the short distance from GK to the library, and I can’t quite face the idea of driving three blocks, even though I know that, on that front at least, I need to accept defeat. Walking, or standing, for any time at all, now causes me a lot of pain, enough at least that I should be able to accept my sedentary lifestyle for what it is – a necessity. I wonder if I’d feel differently if I hadn’t always felt my slovenliness so closely tied to my fatness, and therefore transferred the shame I felt about the latter on to the former. I GUESS I’LL NEVER KNOW! Anyway, the long and short if it is that I haven’t been to GK as often as I’d like – or as often as I’d planned to. I’ve been spending my money on other, less good, coffee, from coffee shops whose survival I truly don’t care about. I’m under no illusions that my patronage alone would have saved GK. Rents are up, the cost of raw materials is up, the price of groceries is up, and I’m sure that all has a knock-on effect not just on the cost of doing business but also on the likelihood that someone wandering by your cute downtown grocery store will mosey on in and buy, on a whim, a bottle of $12.50 spicy honey, or some artisan cheese.But it has made me think that I need to try harder to support the businesses I love with, well, my business. What business closure has bothered you most, over the last 10 or so years? (GK might have to tie for #1 on my list alongside Crackbird, whose soy garlic chicken I still think about at least three times a week. I even DMed the owner, Joe Macken, on Instagram, asking for the recipe, which he would not give up –although he did promise to make it for me next time I’m home, which is, I guess, better than nothing…) This is a public episode. If you'd like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit rosemarymaccabe.substack.com/subscribe

In August of 2018, Bloggers Unveiled, the controversial Instagram account which had been set up with the stated goal of acting as the “unofficial watchdog” of the Irish influencer and content creator scene, posted its last update – and then disappeared entirely. Depending on whether you counted yourself among the influencers or the influenced, the end of BU was a relief, or a shame; while there was no doubting there was a nasty, gleeful, undertone to its “takedowns” of Irish fashion and beauty influencers (largely young women accused of such egregious crimes as Photoshopping their selfies and lying about their clothing sizes), it was also a great time – perhaps the greatest in living memory?! – for gossip. There was barely a day that went by without a new “scandal” being “reported on” (inverted commas to signify that the “scandals” in question were not all that scandalous and that BU’s posts could hardly be considered journalism, although now that @houseinhabit is apparently a citizen journalist, maybe I’m wrong?!), and for those of us who thrive on those message threads that ensue after you’ve asked your friends, “any goss?” it was truly a golden era of LOLs.Timing-wise, too, the demise of BU – which disappeared after a rather fraught campaign wherein some of those influencers who had been targeted by the account tried to “out” the culprit, eventually settling on an unlikely candidate: a beauty therapist from Tullamore who then made the… unexpected decision to speak to the Sunday Times about how, actually, it wasn’t her – was terrible. We didn’t know it then, but with the pandemic coming, we were about to need gossip more than ever before. Regardless of who was behind the account – which lasted a tragically short time, shutting down after eight months, in which it had amassed more than 220,000 followers – there’s no arguing with the fact that it managed to highlight some frankly delicious stories about bad blogger behaviour that will never, ever be forgotten. By me, anyway. PR executive Rob Kenny caught rapid smoking at Dublin Airport, midway through his paid stop smoking campaign with Boots There’s something gross, I’ll admit, about paparazzi photographs of celebrities, especially when they’re just going about their business, having lunch or picking up their shopping or whatever it is celebrities do with their time when they’re not having buccal fat removal procedures or (over) whitening their teeth. I would happily get rid of all paparazzi, and the celeb gossip magazines their work fuels. HOWEVER. When the person in question is not a celebrity, but is, in fact, a burgeoning Irish influencer who’s been caught rapid reneging on a brand campaign they’ve just started – I’d say all bets are off. Rob Kenny had just begun a campaign with Boots Ireland, giving interviews to “news sites” (LOL) like goss.ie about the heartbreaking reason he’d decided to quit smoking, when he was papped outside Dublin Airport having a sneaky fag en route to some foreign idyll or other. “I’m not in a position to comment on any of this,” Kenny, who was subsequently dropped by Boots, told The Irish Mail on Sunday.(FWIW, I think it’s stupid – and borderline predatory – of brands to use influencers or celebrities to promote anti-addiction campaigns, especially when those people are mid-addiction. As someone who smoked for more than 10 years, I know how hard it is to give up. Truly no amount of money could have parted me from my Marlboro Menthols, although I’m sure I, too, would have been tempted.)Anyway, speaking of citizen journalism…Joanne “I don’t use sunbeds” Larby snapped on her way in to a sneaky sunbed seshI’m no stranger to the odd sunbed, something we covered on the podcast a few months back, so please don’t take this as a holier-than-thou anti-sunbed diatribe. (But also: sunbeds are objectively, no-arguments-about-it, bad – it’s just that we’re all human and we all make mistakes, amirite?!)Joanne Larby, a then-makeup and beauty influencer – although now she’s following a well-trodden path from consumerism to homesteading vis-a-vis chicken ownership and #countrylife – was, however, vehemently anti-sunbed, stating, time and time again, that she neither used sunbeds nor wore fake tan, crediting her sallow skin to a “foreign” dad who gifted her with an uncanny ability to go from peachy to chestnut brown over the course of an afternoon in her back garden in Malahide. So when a discerning follower caught Larby – if I recall correctly, wearing a hoodie and a baseball cap, a very leave-me-alone A-lister look – walking through the lobby of a Dublin sunbed salon… WELL. Well, well, well. It wasn’t long before the photograph was on BU and the proverbial cat was out of the bag. While this incident was, truly, amazingly amusing, BU would go on to target Larby fairly relentlessly over its eight months in “business”, posting dozens of photographs of the blogger, usually in an attempt to highlight the “Instagram vs reality” of it all, with highly posed and well-lit selfies juxtaposed with candid shots of her looking, well, totally normal, a contrast that I’m sure we’ve all experienced when we look in the mirror vs when we look at the photograph our partner just took of us. It’s borderline barbaric.So Seagull MeThis is slightly outside of today’s remit, because this particular influencer scandal happened pre-Bloggers Unveiled, but it warrants inclusion because it was just so… weird. In October of 2017, Irish blogger Suzanne Jackson was discovered to be editing her photographs in a rather bizarre manner: inserting a flock of seagulls into otherwise totally normal photographs. The problem was, she did it to several photographs, and used the exact same flock of seagulls, which made the trick of the eye quite, er, obvious to anyone paying attention which, thankfully, a Facebook page called The Chicken Fillet Roll review (also an unlikely culprit) was.As scandals go, this one was incredibly low stakes: who was this decision hurting? Maybe the seagull union, sick of having their images used without credit or payment… but no one else. And yet, the sheer ridiculousness of it made it the perfect type of influencer scandal, one I wish we could have more of in 2024. (It’s quite dark to me that the only current influencer scandals I can think of are the question of whether or not Ballerina Farm was coerced by her husband to give birth without epidural, over and over again, and the case of YouTuber Ruby Franke, currently serving time for torturing her own children.) Terrie McEvoy’s blatant competition riggingAnother off-topic one – in this case, the calling out was done by a different Instagram account that popped up around the same time as Bloggers Unveiled, @bullshitcallerouter – is the scandal that surrounded influencer Terrie McEvoy, who was found to have “randomly” chosen two of her closest friends as winners of competitions she ran in conjunction with Dublin’s Tower Jewellers. McEvoy later addressed the “scandal”, saying that she was “only new to blogging at the time”, presumably so new that she had no idea how competitions worked and thought that they were simply a method by which to get free goodies for your mates.When I asked Instagram followers for their best blogging scandal recollections a few weeks back, McEvoy came up for two other incidents: at one stage, it was alleged that she had done a paid collaboration with an Australian nursing agency, with whom she was working – at the time she lived in Sydney – promoting the company while encouraging newly qualified Irish nurses to move to Oz to work with them, too. What followers told me was that, when they arrived Down Under, there were no such jobs – and McEvoy left the agency shortly thereafter. However, I got no first-hand accounts – who are all these “dozens” of Irish nurses who landed in Australia with nowhere to go?! – and no one could give any further details of McEvoy’s own fault in this (a brand collaboration to promote a product or service that then ceases to exist is not a great look, but more for the brand / agency in question than for the individual, in my opinion). The second incident was a collaboration she did with ReproMed, an Irish fertility clinic, in March of 2021, which involved McEvoy “opening up” about her own “fertility journey” to various Irish media outlets. By May of that same year, however, McEvoy shared news of her pregnancy. It turned out that, at the time of the collaboration, she was already pregnant, and had not needed to pursue any fertility-related services or interventions in the process. Again, though, this feels like a ReproMed problem; why not partner with someone who has had fertility issues, rather than opting to collaborate with an influencer who hasn’t got any first-hand experience of the process? (Or, better yet, honestly, come up with some ways to promote your service that doesn’t involve paying women to share the most intimate details of their personal lives with strangers?) I have to say… it’s been a cold, lonely couple of years since Bloggers Unveiled, especially during the long months of lockdown, when some influencer-related gossip would have been most welcome. Sure, we’ve seen some wild Photoshopping in the intervening years, and the fake eyelashes have truly gone in an absolutely deranged direction, but where are the fake seagulls? Where are the gotcha! moments exposing influencer subterfuge in the airport smoking area?!If I’m missing anything truly hilarious, please, sound off in the comments – and if you were duped into flying to Australia for the promise of a lucrative (ahem) job in nursing, TELL ME EVERYTHING: email me [email protected] and let’s get to the bottom of this, the truly modern version of Watergate. This is a public episode. If you'd like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit rosemarymaccabe.substack.com/subscribe

This essay deals with topics some readers may find uncomfortable, including pregnancy, birth trauma and surgery. Please put your own oxygen mask on first xo I’m not the type of person who avoids revisiting the past. I like to mull over moments of conflict, instances of high emotion, flashes of anger that punctuate my days. What was it about that moment, that response, that look that really – for want of a better word – “triggered” me? Could I have reacted in a different, possibly better, way? How will that moment of conflict, whoever it was with, influence our relationship in the future? What can I do differently, next time around? In a way, I think of it as my attempt to improve myself – to make future interactions better, more compassionate, and less reactive (I’m speaking about my own reactivity here, not anyone else’s) – but in another way I’m just a real dweller. (See also: holding grudges, a sport at which I am champion.)I find it hard to let things go, or to move on, when I don’t feel as though there’s been a satisfactory conclusion – but I don’t avoid those feelings. I approach them head on. I unpick old scabs. I examine old wounds. In this way, at least, I am no coward. This week, though, I found myself somewhere I really didn’t want to revisit. It was a realisation that didn’t quite hit me until I was walking through the front door of my physical therapy office, pushing against it to let myself into the waiting room, sitting down in the scratchy – why are they always so scratchy? – armchair, gazing around at a room that felt familiar, and also not. Anchor Baby is entirely reader-supported. To get new posts, support my work and allow me to offer free subscriptions to those who need them, please consider a paid subscription.The last time I walked through those doors, in the autumn of 2021, I was 39 weeks pregnant: heavy and bloated, with feet – as my friend K. would tell me – like loaves of milk bread, smooth and round, like fermented dough. I’d been attending since the early months of my pregnancy, every fortnight at first, and then with increasing frequency, learning about birthing positions and spinning babies and hypnobirthing, all with the aim of facilitating the “natural” birth I had planned for. At that last appointment, I told my therapist I’d see her after the birth – we had more Bachelor gossip to discuss, quite aside from which, I wanted her to meet the baby, oh, and to help me navigate whatever impact his birth would have on my body. But the birth didn’t quite go to “plan” (I know, god laughs, but I don’t believe in god, which makes me wonder, who’s laughing exactly?!), and among the many complicated feelings I had, after the C-section that brought my now-almost-three-year-old into the world, was shame. I was so very ashamed. It’s not that I think there’s anything shameful about having a necessary surgery to deliver a baby who is reluctant to come into the world “the old-fashioned” way; I’m not a moron. But still: I felt as though, in that moment where my obstetrician said to me, “at this stage” – meaning, 24 hours after the beginning of my induction, enduring hourly injections of penicillin, a healthy dose of pitocin, having my waters manually broken, a Cook’s catheter inserted, and seeing my cervix dilate to 4cm and then, over the course of 12 hours, a further 1cm to 5cm total (when 10cm is the goal) – “I would probably recommend a C-section”, and I said “okay”, I was not only letting my baby down, but also my husband, my physical therapist, and myself… I had, after all, read about all of the benefits of vaginal birth, not just for the baby – whose passage through the birth canal would imbue him with all sorts of magical probiotics while also wringing him out like a wet towel, freeing his lungs from whatever phlegm and liquid were left in there from his long nine months in utero – but for myself, too.I’d been told all about how much easier recovery would be after a natural birth – more specifically, an unmedicated natural birth, something that’s held up as the Holy Grail of giving birth, but actually is, according to statistics, not as common as we’re led to believe; a 2008 CDC study reveals that 61% of people opt for an epidural or spinal anesthesia when giving birth.Furthermore, I wanted so much to feel that moment of elation, of achievement, when I had done something that is, granted, so ordinary and everyday as to happen 267 times per minute, globally, but also wonderful and amazing and awe-inspiring and miraculous (or so I’m told). We’ve all seen those photographs, the videos – like when Kourtney pulled out her own baby on a pivotal early episode of Keeping Up With the Kardashians – of the moment the baby is pushed through the vaginal canal and placed on the woman’s chest. She is elated, awe-struck, suddenly – albeit perhaps temporarily – assured of her own power. They are not images we associate with C-section surgeries, although I will say that I have since heard dozens, if not hundreds, of stories of women who had “healing”, “beautiful”, “amazing” C-section deliveries. Instead, in that moment I felt as if, in acceding to my obstetrician’s recommendations, I’d taken the easy way out by opting to lie still and have my baby removed from my body, rather than delivering him into the world through some combination of heretofore unknown Herculean strength, grit and determination.There is something in this, I know, about women’s suffering and, too, about how women’s suffering is commodified, especially in media; I’m thinking about the stories that emerged throughout the campaign to repeal the 8th amendment in Ireland, and grant abortion access to Irish women (without forcing them to travel to the UK or further), and how hard it was to convince people of our humanity, our need for respect and bodily autonomy, without granting them the privilege of reading our very personal, intimate, heartbreaking, private stories. We had to sacrifice our pound of flesh before we were believed, before we were respected as human beings worthy of respect, who could be entrusted to make the best decisions for their own bodies. I felt like I just hadn’t suffered enough. This, of course, is a laughable feeling to have (although, rest assured, I have allowed myself to feel my feelings on the subject; I know that our emotions can often be so completely divorced from all logic as to seem entirely nonsensical, and yet, feel no less real to us); I was cut open, an incision across my abdomen right through to my uterus, my baby removed (reluctantly, they told me), and then I was stitched back up. I still remember the shock of the pain upon waking the following morning; there was no time for that beautiful, liminal space between sleep and wakefulness in which one has usually forgotten one’s troubles. No: I was immediately assailed by the agonising evidence of what my body had endured. But it still didn’t feel like enough. It truly didn’t even occur to me to go back to my physical therapist, after Atlas’ birth, even though I know – knew then, even – that physical therapy is not just for the “natural” birthers among us. It can work wonders on C-section scars, for example, speeding the healing process and helping to break down any stubborn tissue that may cause stiffness and pain in the area. It can assist in the healing of damage done to the pelvic floor by carrying a baby for almost 10 full months. You learn exercises to help strengthen your core, repair torn muscles, realign hips, re-stablise your pelvis. But I was embarrassed. I could barely speak about Atlas’ birth to my friends and family; the idea of going in to speak to my physical therapist, having to explain to her how and why all of our plans had come to nothing… As I write this down, I’m aware that I wasn’t then – and am not now – obliged to explain anything to anyone. And, furthermore, that she was not going to judge me for how my child was brought into the world. The truly tragic fact of the matter is, the only one judging me for that was (is) me.When I go through the doors this week, I am aware that I have a new therapist. My previous therapist has, I think, left the practice; I don’t ask, because I don’t want to have to decide whether I do or don’t want her to be my therapist again. Maybe it’s nice to have a clean slate. (Plus, I don’t watch The Bachelor any more, so what would we even talk about?!)This time around, we talk about our children. My new therapist has two, one of whom, a girl, is a year older than Atlas. We compare notes on pregnancy-with-a-toddler, a unique form of torture I wouldn’t wish on anyone. She asks about my previous birth, and I give a very top-line outline of how it all went. I’m glad to be lying face down on the massage table, my stomach encased in a very comfortable pregnancy cushion thing. I wonder if I could buy one of those for my bed, I think to myself, as I cry (I hope subtly) into the headrest. She asks what my plan is, this time around, and I tell her I haven’t quite decided. Initially, I’d hoped for a VBAC, but as the weeks have ground on – slowly, oh so slowly – I’ve started to feel as though I won’t be able for it. I’m barely sleeping; energy levels are low; pain ebbs and flows but it’s never at less than a 4 out of 10. How can I go through a vaginal birth in this condition?! I can barely bend to put on my socks. I have to sit down for 30 minutes after I empty the dishwasher. Yesterday, I had to ask Brandin to come and bring a not-very-heavy box down the stairs for me, and I still have 16 weeks to go. How tired and feeble will I be by then?!Then again, if I schedule a C-section, and pick a “convenient” day – maybe a Thursday, so Brandin has the entire weekend off right afterwards, without dipping into the five days’ leave he has allocated for after his son is born (those are his remaining vacation and sick days for the year; there is no statutory paternity leave), probably a week or two before Christmas, so that both the baby and I can be adequately recovered to enjoy the turkey – will I regret not even allowing myself the opportunity to experience a “natural” birth? Not to mention the fact that it feels gross to slot the birth of my child in around Brandin’s work schedule and my desire to eat – and enjoy – my festive feast.“You don’t have to decide now,” she tells me calmly, in a tone that carries no judgment, at least not that I can discern (and trust me, I discern judgment in the tones of strangers a lot, although I make no guarantees as to the accuracy of said discernment). I take a deep breath, resisting the urge to wipe the tear that has now trickled down my nose and is dangling precariously off the edge of my left nostril. I concentrate on my yogic breathing – in through the nose, out through the mouth – and try my hardest not to spiral down a rabbit-hole of what-iffery that I know never leads anywhere good.“You know,” she says, then, “Even if you have a C-section, there’s a lot of work we can do in preparing you for that, and in helping you heal afterwards, like making sure your scar is healing, and even beforehand, that it’s moving well and not too tight.” It’s a weird image, as if my scar will somehow leave my body, do some yoga poses of its own and loosen itself up, so to speak, before coming back to join me again.A lot of my feelings around Atlas’ birth are, I know, tied up in my self-esteem. It feels as if giving birth, like ballet, running, pottery, kickboxing, and myriad other things I’ve tried, might just be something I’m not very good at. Something I just… quit, when the going got tough. Something I failed at. (And again, the logical part of my brain knows that I didn’t. I gave birth. The evidence is currently sucking his thumb and singing to his dinos in the next room.) A day or two after I had Atlas, one of the nurses in Dupont Hospital here in Fort Wayne, where he was delivered, said congratulations to me. I responded in typical me fashion, by deflecting, stuttering, refusing to say thank you. “Oh,” I said, “I had a C-section. I barely did anything.” I remember she stopped whatever she was doing – changing the bedsheets, or clearing up beside my bed, or bringing me medication and saltine crackers, a highlight of each day in hospital, honestly – and looked me in the eye before saying, “Don’t think that you didn’t do anything. You brought him into this world. You kept him alive for the last 10 months and he’s here and you have the scars to show for it. You still did something amazing, mama.”And, despite the fact that I had written, explicitly, on my birth plan – the same plan that talked about a natural, unmedicated birth (lol); where I’d outlined my desire to be as active as possible up to the moment of pushing (I had an IV inserted the minute I arrived at the hospital and subsequently gave up on any ideas I had about walking around, the hassle of it all) – that I didn’t want anyone to call me “mama”, her words were profoundly moving. I’m still not sure if I fully believe her – deep down, where the shame and the sense of failure and the fear that, in that moment, I just wasn’t enough for my son – but, right then and there, I decided that I’d try. I guess I’m still trying: to forgive myself for something I know doesn’t need to be forgiven; to accept the past as something I can’t change; to go into the future without carrying with me that same sense of shame, and fear, and self-flagellation that has made any conversations about Atlas’ birth, or my hopes for this upcoming birth, feel so terrifying to me. I’m still trying. This is a public episode. If you'd like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit rosemarymaccabe.substack.com/subscribe

Sometimes I feel as though my house is just an endless list of things we have to do: wardrobes I need to clear out, paintings I need to hang, doors I’d love to paint (but am nervous to even start), countertop epoxy I bought and own, now need to carve out some time to get done… Today we did get one thing ticked off that list, and hung up two pieces of art I bought at Target a few weeks back, and afterwards I took a picture, thinking I’d share it to Instagram, before I paused… and felt slightly embarrassed at the idea of sharing “art” that I bought at Target, of all places. But why?! If I like them, and am happy to hang them on my wall where I’ll look at them several times a day… why do I care what other people think, or even what they’re “worth”, whether they’re “authentic” or what they say about me and my “taste”, whatever that even means? It’s a question that’s come up a lot in our family, over the years. Not only did my sister Beatrice study art at NCAD and is now an incredibly successful designer, but our cousin, Blaise Smith, is a renowned, prolific and very in-demand Irish artist, and our other cousin, Abigail Smith (his sister, damn that family of creative overachievers) is an artist and award-winning musician. Abigail’s husband John O’Reilly was one of Ireland’s first (and best) graffiti artists; he is now a fine artist, too, with his work featuring in the RHA and the British Royal Academy of Art. And quite aside from the artists in the family, our family has always been very interested in art, too; one of the things I remember most about my grandparents’ house in Kimmage was an enormous print of Jules Breton’s The Song of the Lark, a painting I found a smaller version of recently in a vintage shop in Fort Wayne, and bought to hang in my own bedroom (pictured, above, to the right of the bed).Growing up, I never thought to wonder where the painting in my grandparents’ living room came from; whether or not it was “original” (a definition I probably had no understanding of until I was in my early twenties, honestly); what it meant about them, that they had hung this large-scale replica in their living area, right in front of the dining room table and to the left of the (probably postage stamp-sized) television. It was just there, and as much a feature of the room as my grandfather himself, who I remember as always being in his armchair, elbows on the arms, thumbs circling one another in a soothing, steady rhythm throughout the day.Blaise painted him, actually, in that very same pose, a print of which I have in my own home, hanging above my fireplace; it’s never occurred to me to wonder about its value, at least in a practical or objective sense, maybe because that value is so clear to me (priceless) and would be so whether it was an original or not… We have a lot of art in our house now, too: digital prints, photographs, some original artworks and a lot of prints, or replicas. We have an original painting by Hayley Morée, given to me as a gift from my sister. We have an art print by Rachel Joy Price that says Grá (above), a gift from a friend in Ireland who ordered it from April and the Bear. We have a Jan Do print of Liberty Hall. In our bedroom hangs a nude portrait of me (who else!) painted by Lucy Cullen, from a photograph I took when I was pregnant for the first time. In our living room, there are two original paintings by Liu Weishui that Brandin and I bought for one another for our birthdays, which are two weeks apart, neither of us knowing of the other one’s plans (he one-upped me by commissioning Weishui to do a painting of Vinny, our dog, while I bought one “off the rack”, so to speak, which is enraging). We have paintings and drawings Beatrice did for us (or for herself, which were then pilfered by me). In our nine-year-old’s room hangs a huge painting his Mum, Kasey, did – she happens to be an artist, too, as well as a Fort Wayne wedding photographer and writer. And we have prints – two graphic pieces I bought from Home Goods, the two new arrivals from Target, a replica of the Irish Constitution, hanging in our entryway (lest anyone think I’m no longer a patriot or, worse, an American). I can’t really afford to be a snob about art, or at least that’s what I’ve always thought. I buy (or pilfer) and hang art based solely on what I like and don’t like, on what I think would add to the colour and whimsy of our otherwise very blank canvas of a house. (When we moved in, the walls had all been painted the same very light grey-blue, and we’ve never changed them. Somehow, the fact that every wall in the house is this same nothing shade has made me think it would be too much of an ordeal to start repainting, as if I’d need to cover every square inch of it to truly feel as though I’d made a difference. And if you take a quick look at my Pinterest board on interiors, you’ll see that very, very light grey-blue walls are very much not my vibe.)But my Target related to-share-or-not-to-share dilemma made me think again about my own art snobbery, or perceived lack thereof – why is it that this mass-produced art (although even Target doesn’t call it art, which might contribute to the problem; on the website, they’re described as “Color Blocks Framed Wall Canvases”) doesn’t pass muster, while I’d have no hesitation sharing something I picked up in a random vintage shop, regardless of its provenance? It reminded me of a conversation Beatrice and I had this week, about art and its value; we were talking about all the art we have in our houses, or, more specifically, all the art she has in hers, a collection that dwarfs mine both in quantity and, I’m not ashamed to say, quality. She has this thing that makes buying art a cinch, ditto shopping for clothes somewhere like TK Maxx or Marshall’s; she has what my mother would call “a great eye” and, as well as being able to pick out the one nice thing in a rack of tat from a distance of 100 feet or more, she’s great at envisioning how a space will look with that great thing in it (or with the counter tops moved from this side to that, or with this wall painted blue… a skill we do not share). A lot of Beatrice’s art has been collected over the years, from this or that market in Paris or Milan, when she lived there; from Everything But the House, a site she, unlike me, has great patience for; and, in the case of one particular piece, from a dumpster she simply passed by, and managed to spot, within, a piece of art she now hangs on her living-room wall. “You know,” she told me conspiratorially, one day last week, “I’ve often thought about throwing that particular piece away – and I don’t think I’ve ever thought about throwing any other art away. But the fact that I know I found that in a skip… Somehow makes it feels less valuable.”There are two truths that can be gleaned from this conversation: the first is that, for reasons that are perhaps slightly obvious, we place a higher value on things that cost us more, even if they are no better made than items that cost us less. Think about designer leather handbags that are kept in their dustbags, while their equivalent, off-brand leather sisters are tossed in the back of your wardrobe, or that dress you bought for a wedding that cost €250, compared with, say, a little gúna you picked up randomly because it was reduced to €15… I can guarantee I know which one we’re paying to have dry-cleaned. But the second truth is this: the only value anything has, from art to fashion to writing to time, is however much someone else is willing to pay for it. In other words, the very concept of value itself is subjective, and is entirely dependent on the desires, budgets, needs and, yes, whims of the “buyer”.Of course, there will be people who buy art specifically for investment purposes, and for those people the “value” of that art is not just what they themselves paid for it, but what they can anticipate to be paid for it at some future date when they decide to sell. According to Artelier.com, by the way, investing in art is actually a good investment because, unlike other things – say, property, which we’ve all seen fluctuate massively in price over the past 20 years – art holds its value over time. “Unlike stocks or other investments, art does not tend to go up and down in value based on market fluctuations. This was especially true during the 2020 pandemic where other markets fluctuated significantly while the art market remained stable.”Mind you, Investopedia – which may just have less of a vested interest in promoting art as investment than a site like, say, Artelier.com – says that investing in art is actually quite a risky endeavour, as “the art market is fickle, and there are no guarantees of profitability”. But if, like me, your art purchasing decisions are made with only your own taste and budget in mind, it really doesn’t matter what “return on investment” you’re likely to get in years to come, whether or not other people like your artworks, or even where you bought them (or whether or not they’re originals). So I can be just as proud of my Target “wall canvases” as my original Hayley Morée, or the painting Blaise did of one of the Lord of the Rings ring-wraiths when he was 11, which I pilfered from my parents’ house before I moved. It makes no difference how much any painting is worth if I’m never going to sell it… and times aren’t quite that desperate just yet. (Besides which, I’d be better off waiting til he’s dead, because the one thing more valuable than a piece of art by one of Ireland’s best living artists is a piece of art by one of Ireland’s best dead artists.)If you’re interested in art, value and how the latter is assigned, this Guardian podcast on Damien Hirst’s fudging of dates is a really interesting look behind the curtain at the Great and Powerful Hirst (or, you know, just an ordinary man trying to get the most moolah for his work): This is a public episode. If you'd like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit rosemarymaccabe.substack.com/subscribe

I’m crying too much at the moment. I’m not sure what the appropriate amount of crying even is, but I definitely reached it and roared right on past to where I am now, fresh off a bout of several hours of absolutely-no-reason-for-it crying. The truly galling thing about all of this crying is that there’s even less reason for it than usual. I’m pregnant with the baby I’ve wanted for what feels likes a long time – probably a little over a year, which really isn’t that long, but that’s how long it took me to get over the trauma of the first baby – and that should be enough for me to be smiling non-stop, right? A gorgeous baby! Everything I’ve wanted! But it’s clearly not enough. Anchor Baby is a reader-supported publication. To receive new posts and support my work, consider becoming a free or paid subscriber.My parents are here and I miss them so much when they’re at home but even that isn’t enough to stem the flow of tears and as I’m swallowing them down and trying to do my crying, as much as I can, in private, I can’t help but think how disappointed they must be that I’m so miserable and self-pitying. It’s not even that I am, though – self-pitying, that is. This crying is for no reason I can figure out, because truly nothing is wrong. I think that’s how I know I’m sick, rather than just being miserable: all this crying has nothing to do with what I’m thinking, or doing, or even worrying about. It just is, all of its own frustrating, disruptive volition.I never feel my privilege more acutely than when I’m actively depressed When I’m sunk in this kind of mire that makes everyday activities almost impossible – socialising is out of the question, for example – all of this sadness is compounded by the guilt of wondering what, exactly, I have to be this sad about?! That’s not how depression works, I know that. But it’s hard not to compare my life (charmed, by any measure) to those of others: people who are dying to have children, but can’t; those who are sick, or have loved ones who are; anyone in Gaza, for crying out loud, who definitely doesn’t have time to sit in bed all day, crying about nothing. But again, that’s not how depression works. It’s hard to work, let me tell you, when you’re crying all the time. It’s hard, like I said, to do a lot of things, but when your job is as a freelance writer, depends on your own ability to motivate yourself to work, and your writing is largely focused on your life and opinions… you can see how feeling like the world’s biggest piece of s**t 24/7 would really get in the way. Instead, like I said, I’m crying in bed whenever I can: when the baby is napping; when someone else is watching the baby; when I’m supposed to be having a shower but just need to stop crying long enough to get undressed; when the baby is in the bath and I’m sitting on the toilet lid and he’s making dinosaur noises and I’m trying to remind myself to treasure these moments but I can’t stop crying and so I feel like I’m an even bigger piece of s**t than I was earlier, when I was crying. That the baby never notices me crying is worrying, too; I tell myself it’s just because he’s so young, he’s only worried about himself, he can’t really recognise other people’s emotions and, besides which, I function only as a sort of problem-solving food and remote control fetcher… but then I start to worry that, actually, he’s just used to it. This is what he expects to see when he looks at me: blotchy skin, red eyes, tears. (Piece of s**t, I know.) Today, my mum and I went for a walk – a walk, let me tell you, is not the panacea everyone seems to think it is; I cried before the walk, and on the walk, and after the walk, but I guess I got some fresh air and exercise and today’s step count will be less egregious than it has been for the past few weeks, so it’s probably a net positive – and, towards the end, when I gathered the courage, I told her that I know I’ve been snappy, and grumpy, and upset, and I’m sorry, but I just feel terrible lately and I don’t know why. She asked if there’s anything she can do, and there isn’t, that I know of. I wish there was. No one really talks about that aspect of mental illness: the pressure it puts on your loved ones, who feel like they should be doing something more for you than they’re doing, and the pressure that puts on you, to find something they can do to help, to make them feel less like they’re just standing around watching you spiral desperately into the abyss. If I knew what to do, I’d be doing it myself, I feel like saying, but of course that’s not trueI know, academically, that there are things that are proven to improve mood, even in those among us who are depressed… but in the lowest moments, I barely believe it. Water? A good night’s sleep? Fresh air? Exercise? Pull the other one. “I almost think it would be better if we hadn’t come,” Mum says then. “We disrupt everything, being here… we remind you…” She trails off, but I know what she means. I think of home, more, when I have this part of home here with me, but this sadness has nothing to do with my yearning for home. And, honestly, when I’m crying in my room, there’s a sort of bizarre comfort in knowing that my mum’s downstairs, pottering around the kitchen, making tea and stacking the dishwasher wrong. The one thing that’s difficult about having them here is, surprise surprise, an issue entirely of my own making: I can’t help but think that they’re disappointed in this daughter who’s crying all the time, that they look at me and wonder where they went wrong, what they could have done that would have made me a happy, productive member of society instead of this weeping mess, liable to burst into tears at any moment. I know, of course, that this is not how they think. No, really: I know. These thoughts that are running riot inside my head are thoughts I do not have when I am well. And yet: when I’m unwell, they feel like the truest thoughts I’ve ever had. My mind is never more convincing than it is in moments like this.I know, too, that this won’t last forever…not just because I wouldn’t survive it (I think I could do six months, after which point I’d begin to wither away) but because it doesn’t. I don’t think I’ve been in this exact place before – this feels lower, darker, than previous periods I’ve suffered through – but I’ve been through similar times, and they’ve passed eventually. The sun’ll come out tomorrow, and all that other b******t. It’s just hard, right now, to see how that could possibly be true, how I’ll ever feel differently about myself than I do today. (And then I start to call myself ridiculous: of course you’ll feel better, you’re not the only one ever to have felt like this, sure you’ve nothing to be crying about… ad infinitum.) I’m just crying too much at the moment. A note to my subscribers I know my output hasn’t been as consistent as usual, and I apologise for that. Sometimes I think of all of my paid subscribers as the company that employs me (a co-op?), and I think you’ll all understand when I take sick leave, that you know I’m just a person, and that I’m honestly doing my best. But I also think of you as my supporters, and allies, and friends, in a weird way that perhaps flips the para-social relationship on its head, and I want you to know how much it means to me, that you choose to support me when I’m a moany b***h, and when I’m not. I’m trying not to be one, at least not all the time, but sometimes I fail. I think you probably understand that, too. So thank you. And I’m sorry.  This is a public episode. If you'd like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit rosemarymaccabe.substack.com/subscribe

When it rains in Indiana, I could almost imagine we were in Ireland. I look out my window and I see green fields of crops I know to be corn but could imagine were wheat, or barley, before it turns the colour of glazed corn and creates the summer patchwork that is so characteristic a view from any Irish window. Today, I busy myself making endless cups of tea and for lunch I try to emulate the avocado toast from Two Boys Brew: I smear Costco guacamole on toast and top it with feta and red chili flakes and it’s not the same but it’s close so I close my eyes and I imagine I’m there, drinking overpriced lattes and chatting s**t with Ciara, or Clare, or Liam, or all three, because I miss the avocado toast but I miss them, most of all. Anchor Baby is a reader-supported publication. To receive new posts and support my work, consider becoming a free or paid subscriber.I’ve been listening to the Indo Daily, a podcast I’m enjoying despite being further removed than ever from Irish politics and, honestly, not ever being an Independent reader. On Monday, I’m sure, there will be a new episode about the Cathal Crotty assault case (in which a soldier beat a woman unconscious when she and her friend asked him to stop shouting “f****t” at a stranger on the street, and avoided any prison time because, according to Judge Tom O’Donnell, if he goes to jail, “his career is over”), and I’m imagining it will be presented by Ellen Coyne, because it seems like that would be her beat, but maybe that’s just wishful thinking. The Indo Daily is one of the few podcasts I listen to that is presented by a man, at least what seems like the majority of the time. I don’t choose women-fronted podcasts on purpose, necessarily, but I no longer choose books written by women on purpose, either, and somehow they’re all I seem to read. It’s not that I don’t want to hear men’s perspectives; it’s that their perspective is, so often, the prevailing perspective, that I feel like evening the score somewhat. Not to mention the fact that, as someone with an English degree, it’s fair to say I’ve read my share of male authors. In terms of podcasts, I’m enjoying: (Actually, presented by a man so maybe I mean cishet men?!)I will put in a note to say that despite loving The Rest is Entertainment, I was disappointed by Marina Hyde – who I’ve always really admired as a journalist – in a recent episode absolutely dismissing the boycotts of Latitude festival by performers who didn’t want to be associated with Barclays (who are heavily associated with companies who supply weaponry to the IDF). It was… not great, to be frank. But I’m not one to toss baby and bathwater out in one fell swoop, so I’m still listening.As for books, recent titles I’ve enjoyed include (*these are all affiliate links!):Not in Love, by Ali Hazelwood ⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️Spicy, content warnings for food insecurity & difficult childhoods, also for slightly involved science talk I glossed overFace Off, by Chelsea Curto ⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️Spicy, content warning for sports, abusive (former) relationshipDemon Copperhead, by Barbara Kingsolver ⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️Not spicy, content warning for poverty, foster care and, opioid useBride, by Ali Hazelwood ⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️Spicy but also VAMPIRES!!!The Gathering, by CJ Tudor ⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️ (my top book of 2024 thus far!)Not spicy, vampires, echoes of Fargo, True Detective and Mare of Easttown, THIS IS SO SO GOODAsk Again, Yes, by Mary Beth Keane ⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️Zero spice (see I contain multitudes!), content warning for knife violence, also content warning for cops but they don’t seem that badAnchor Baby is a reader-supported publication. To receive new posts and support my work, consider becoming a free or paid subscriber.I feel as though reading is one of the best ways for me to get out of my own head, whether that head is focused on how homesick I am or how worried I am that I’m going to lose the baby I’m currently pregnant with (a fear I’d hoped was just a first-pregnancy fear, but no, it seems it’s a second-pregnancy fear, too) or how can I even call it homesickness if Ireland isn’t my home any more?! Podcasts are a close second, but with a podcast I can sometimes find myself wandering off down an entirely separate path and missing a large portion of the episode, which is annoying (although bonus points for podcasts because I can listen while emptying the dishwasher, or playing Block Cat Jam on my phone).I’m never sure if homesickness, though – that feeling of yearning for home, of grief for a life, a homeland, that I feel I can’t really lay claim to any more, at least not in any practical sense of the word – is something that should be embraced or ignored. Is it better to try to distract myself from my feelings, or to allow myself to feel them? Give myself grace, as my therapist would say? I’m grieving her, too, now that she’s moved on to pastures new, leaving me with a list of therapists to look into but no real roadmap of what to do next. Just tell me who to call, I felt like saying to her, but also worried that would make her think she’d failed in her job as therapist. I don’t think they want their clients to end their time together acting like totally co-dependent weirdos who can’t make a decision on their own. Joke’s on her though, because I’m like that with everyone (just ask my Dad). I’m not sure what it would look like to truly embrace this homesickness lark. Maybe I’m doing it today, drinking tea and eating avocado-and-feta on toast, but I listened to a podcast while I ate, so maybe I’m both embracing and obscuring my feelings, simultaneously. This feels confusing.What I do believe would cure me, honestly, is a trip home – something I can’t do until I get my Green Card, an eventuality which exists in the ether of the future. I’m not worried that I won’t get it; I’m married to an American with whom I share a child, or, rather, 1.3 children, if you’re counting the lemon-sized fetus I’m currently working on. I’ve been told the outcome is pretty much guaranteed. But if it does come through before September, I’m planning on making a trip home for a few weeks. My previous trips were two-pronged: see people and eat food. This one, though, I think I want to focus on seeing Ireland: taking walks in the rain; sitting on the beach and soaking up the sounds and smells of the sea; driving from one place to another and looking at the trees and the mountains – God, the mountains!! I’ve heard Montana is flatter than Indiana but it doesn’t seem as though that could be possible – and beeping aggressively at other cars (where appropriate, obviously) without worrying someone will shoot me. I want to go to the local shop and be asked personal questions by the shopkeeper I’ve known since I was a baby; I want to get the train and the Luas and then walk around town on feet that haven’t really walked anywhere in weeks, and I want to bump into someone I’d hoped never to bump into again and I want to say, and mean it, in the moment (although wonder, later, where that came from), “oh my God it’s so nice to see you!”I want to go and see my friend’s new home renovation and my cousin’s new kitten and the new roundabout they put in down the road, “totally unnecessarily” and I want to go to Krewe and to Jean-Georges at the Leinster and to other restaurants that didn’t exist when I left (and also to Pickle and Proper Order and fine maybe food is also a factor). I want to drive past friends’ houses and just POP IN! because sure I’ve an American phone and I’d no wifi and I thought I’d just chance it and I’d love a cup of tea and are you sure you don’t mind and I’ll just sit down for a few minutes.And I want to relish – truly relish – the fact that, no matter how long I’m there, no matter how many people I meet or restaurants I go to or bus drivers I thank, not one person is going to ask, “is that an accent I hear?!” This is a public episode. If you'd like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit rosemarymaccabe.substack.com/subscribe

Do you remember when George Clooney first met human rights lawyer Amal Alamuddin (now Clooney)? The feminist internet was up in arms at the Daily Mail (et al) referring to her as “Clooney’s girlfriend” and, later, “Clooney’s wife”, and myriad pithy thinkpieces emerged pointing out that, actually, the power disparity should have tilted in her favour, rather than his. “Amal Alamuddin, a 36 year old London-based dual-qualified English barrister and New York litigation attorney who has long been a high-profile figure in international refugee and human rights law has gone against the trend for professional women in her field and married… an actor,” wrote Karla Pincott over on The Business Woman.A decade later, according to The Cut, “Amal was one of eight experts who published a review of the International Criminal Court’s investigation into war crimes committed by both Hamas and Israeli officials”, and it seems as though George might still be a bit salty about being put in the ha’penny place. So determined is he to show the world who wears the Versace pants in his relationship, Georgie called up none other than Joe Biden (yes, the President of the United States of America) to defend his better half, after Biden called the ICC warrant for the arrest of Israeli president Benjamin Netanyahu for war crimes “outrageous”. Sadly, Biden was busy – too busy for Georgie?! Inconceivable! – but he did have a little chat with Steve Richetti, one of Biden’s top aides, apparently stoking concern among Biden’s team that he might back out of a campaign fundraiser he’s agreed to participate in later this month, alongside Julia Roberts and Barack Obama. “Be nice to my wife or I’m not coming to your party!” he is alleged* to have said. (*by me. Alleged by me)This next part is going to be shocking, so you might want to make sure you’re sitting down as you read on: George Clooney is not the only man in history to take it upon himself to get involved in his wife (slash-partner-slash-girlfriend)’s business, in the name of defending her work, honour, or reputation. Oh, no: men, you see, are all the exact same (except Robin Williams and Michael D Higgins, angels, both of them) and simply cannot resist when presented with the opportunity to shake out their tail feathers and make a bit of a scene.Anchor Baby is a reader-supported publication. To receive new posts and support my work, consider becoming a free or paid subscriber.Come with me, if you will, on a little stroll down memory lane – not to be confused with Moanery Lane, my new series on, well, things that are driving me mad, topic suggestions welcome – to the year 2015, when I was living my best life, working as deputy editor of STELLAR magazine and trolling Irish influencers in my spare time. It was a period in which I was an avid reader of any and all boards.ie threads that were dedicated to bloggers. For the uninitiated, boards.ie was then (and is now) an online forum a little like Reddit, but Irish and – at least in my experience – more closely moderated. For example, in those days, anything deemed to be defamatory or speculative was removed; similarly, posters didn’t get away with accusing influencers they followed of “stealing” ideas, or of neglecting their children. Anything that even vaguely nodded to the possibility of a crime was moderated away immediately; Tattle.Life, it was not. One particular day, I spotted a chat on an Irish influencers forum – as far as I can remember, the threads dedicated to bloggers, influencers and Snapchatters were more generalised than you’d see today, so for example there was a thread for “Irish fashion influencers”, and maybe another for “Irish beauty YouTube” – about which influencers and content creators were the most and least likely to respond to their followers. Some never responded to anyone, which was deemed incredibly rude and ungrateful; others replied to everyone, which of course earned them brownie points galore. But it was one that didn’t name the blogger in question that piqued my interest; this poster talked about how they had messaged an Irish influencer to suggest that they reserve their effusive praise for a particular skin cream until they’d used the product for more than one day. “How dare you tell me how to run my account?” came the response, followed by the swift blocking of said follower who had, by their own telling, been nothing but supportive of said influencer up to that point, sending her multiple DMs admiring her clothes, her makeup, asking for links and so on. This will shock you almost as much as the earlier revelation that all men are eejits, but: I used to be quite the rabble-rouser, and immediately shared this post to my Facebook page. “Blind item!” I wrote. “Which Irish blogger is this about?” Then – and here’s my mistake, folks – I got on a train across the country, I think going to Cork for some hotel freebie or another (those were the days etc), thus entering a veritable black hole of signal and connectivity and catching only snippets of the responses to said post as I hurtled across the country. But in the name of full disclosure: I did catch several responses in which the blogger was named, with people sharing their own dealings with her. “That’s obviously [redacted] – she’s notorious for replies like this!” was the kind of response people were sharing. I felt a kind of gleeful sense of mischief at the whole thing, and while I’ll admit there was a modicum of guilt sparking somewhere deep within my brain (very deep, far down, almost undetectably so), I also just felt like, well… if you’re going to send that in a message, you can’t really be all that shocked when it goes public, can you?AS IT TURNS OUT, YOU CAN!!! Within 30 minutes of my uploading the post, I received a call from the STELLAR offices. “Hey, [redacted] just called the office looking for you,” said G, STELLAR’s receptionist. “[Redacted],” I clarified, “As in, [redacted]’s fiancé?!?” “Yes,” she confirmed. “He said he needed to speak with you urgently and asked me to give him your mobile number. I said I couldn’t do that but that I’d call you and ask you to give him a call…”I think I laughed; I absolutely did not want to speak to this man, who was clearly very displeased that I had “exposed” his beloved. But what was more confusing to me was the fact that I knew [redacted], at least, in a professional sense. We had met several times; I had creative directed a shoot she had been in; we had each other’s phone numbers and followed one another on Instagram. If she wanted to talk to me, she could easily have done so. I sent her a message – and though I can’t remember exactly the content of the text, I remember saying something like, “Hey, [redacted] just tried to call me at the office. I’m not in, but I’m imagining it has something to do with the post I shared on Facebook – if you want to talk to me about it, I’m here.”“I didn’t know he’d done that,” she responded, almost immediately. “I didn’t ask him to. He’s just seen how upset I am and he’s worried about me.”I told her I’d remove the post, partially because I don’t really like the idea that I’m upsetting people, even if I think the reason they’re upset is… kind of silly. But mostly because I didn’t want to keep fielding calls from her angry soon-to-be husband, hell-bent on defending her honour against journalists determined to expose the slightly shitty way she spoke to her followers. He wasn’t the only partner-of-influencer I’ve dealt with in my time, sadly. Years later, I made the mistake of speaking on Instagram stories about what I saw as the lie people were telling themselves about wanting authenticity from influencers. It’s something we were hearing a lot about all the time: people didn’t want to see perfectly “curated” dining room tables; surely they didn’t just wake up with their full faces of make-up on; why do people keep apologising for having messy hair?! But at the same time, one of the fastest-growing Irish Instagram accounts back then was @smythsisters, where fashion stylist Marianne Smyth shared mirror selfies of her very Copenhagen-chic (I mean that in the best way) outfits. Her pose was the same every day; there was very little insight into her “real” life; she didn’t share much beyond what she wore, and people loved it. So, I surmised, even though people said they wanted warts-and-all authenticity, what they really wanted were aesthetically pleasing photographs of beautiful people wearing beautiful clothes, the exact content that Marianne was providing. This shouldn’t really need to be said, but: I wasn’t insulting her, or her content. I was just pointing something out that I’d noticed – that people said they wanted one thing, but that the growth chart said otherwise. It wasn’t a dig at her, or at what she was doing; she was obviously, by the numbers, doing something right. But that didn’t matter to Marianne’s husband, who was in my DMs like a shot, accusing me of tearing another woman down, betraying my self-professed “feminist” ideals, and spreading negativity, among other things. There was mention of how selfless Marianne was, what a great mother she is, how nasty I was for saying any of this (to remind you, I said that people loved her content, which was super chic minimalism without any of the ‘gritty’ authenticity they purported to want from their influencers. I was hardly accusing her of extortion or the exploitation of children). I would love to say that I didn’t respond to him, but I’m pretty sure I did, attempting to explain that I was not, in fact, doing any of the things he accused me of, and that my stories were in no way meant to disparage or insult her, her mothering, or her content. But when you’re explaining, you’re losing, and there was no defending my position. I (sadly) added @smythsisters to the number of content creators who’ve blocked me (she joined an illustrious list that includes PJ Gallagher and Joe Duffy).The thing that really got me about both of these experiences is this: where do these men come from? Where do you find them? I honestly cannot imagine anyone I have ever dated being willing to call up a journalist, or another social influencer, to scold them for being mean to me. In fact, I asked my boyfriend at the time why he never came to my rescue online. He turned to me, deadpan, and said, “I wouldn’t have time to do anything else.” He was sometimes very funny.I also wondered if the women in question were delighted by these moments of “gallantry” (in inverted commas because that word, like “chivalry”, seems archaic and borderline useless to me – what does it even mean to be gallant, in the year 2024?! I’d settle for someone asking how I like my tea and letting me pick the movie, honestly), or if they were as embarrassed as I imagined I would be. Somehow, I suspect the former (although I’d be willing to bet that Amal Clooney is ever-so-slightly mortified by Georgie’s shenanigans…) This is a public episode. If you'd like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit rosemarymaccabe.substack.com/subscribe

Warning: This post contains references to intentional weightloss and pregnancy. If you’re not in the right head space to read about either (or both!) of those, please skip this one. There’s a really irritating saying people tend to trot out when you’re struggling to accept the lack of something in your life: maybe you’re single and you’re finding it hard to meet someone you’d consider sitting next to on a bus, never mind going on a date with; you’re house hunting and every single house you see ends up going for €100k over asking (Irish house hunters, I see you); you’re hoping to get pregnant and it’s just not happening. “You know,” they’ll say, sagely, not realising the red mist that’s about to descend from behind your eyelids at the uttering of their very next words, “It’ll probably happen when you stop trying…” (It’s a wonder more of us aren’t murderers, honestly.)In a lot of instances, these sayings are completely and utterly without merit (and entirely unhelpful). In the year of our Lord 2024, it’s very rare that you’ll meet someone you fancy, and who fancies you back, entirely by accident. It’s even less likely, still, that you’ll end up finding the perfect house for you to buy – at the perfect price – if you’re not actively looking. And as for pregnancy… well. We don’t really need to go into the basics of the birds and the bees, do we?!Anchor Baby is a reader-supported publication. To receive new posts and support my work, consider becoming a free or paid subscriber.An asideWhere does that phrase come from?! Birds and bees don’t mate with one another, so trying to use them as a way of explaining sex seems… ill-advised, at best. No wonder children are confused. According to Grammarist, “The origin of the phrase is uncertain. Many give credit to the poem Work without Hope, written by Samuel Taylor Coleridge in 1825, however the poem in question simply references bees that are stirring and birds on the wing, not the phrase the birds and the bees.” All Nature seems at work. Slugs leave their lair—The bees are stirring—birds are on the wing—And Winter slumbering in the open air,Wears on his smiling face a dream of Spring!And I the while, the sole unbusy thing,Nor honey make, nor pair, nor build, nor sing.“I have not-so-secretly wanted to have another baby for a while now, driven, in part, by the…opportunity to redo my birth experience”Anyway, it will be no secret to those of you who listen to the podcast, or follow me on Instagram, that I have not-so-secretly wanted to have another baby for a while now, driven, in part, by the fact that Atlas is so adorable and I’d love him to have a little friend, as his older brothers have each other… but also, I can admit (although I’m slightly ashamed by the selfishness of it all) as an opportunity to redo my birth experience, which I didn’t love.But Brandin – my husband and other deciding force in our household’s major life changes, for better or worse – has been less keen, worried about how our (badly managed) budget would stretch to a fourth child, along with logistical concerns like having to switch my car out for one that fits six of us, where to slot a baby into a house that’s already quite tight for space, and whether or not I’m too old to have another child. (Yes, he has the bad sense to say that last part out loud.)The last few months have seen a lot of debate being had about whether or not another baby will be happening, and ultimately I’d concluded that it just wasn’t going to be in the cards for us. And while I’d like to say that I was fine with that, I wasn’t, not really. I was disappointed and heartbroken and felt as though I was in mourning for something or someone I never even knew. There were a lot of complicated feelings that I struggled to express or share, and that, honestly, I felt quite isolated in because I knew that the disappointment I was feeling wasn’t shared by the other person in my relationship. Now, for the Ozempic of it all…Part of my deciding to take semaglutide injections, I think, was in response to this grief. It felt as though, if I wasn’t going to have this second baby I’d been dreaming of (we have two older boys from Brandin’s previous marriage), at least I could achieve my other lifelong dream: of getting skinny. The night before I was due to take my second shot, I sat on our bed next to Brandin and I wept. I told him that I felt as though I was finally okay with us not having another baby (he may not have believed me, due to the weeping), but that I felt like I was mourning that dream, and even though I loved our three boys and was optimistic about the life we’d have as a little family of sometimes-five and sometimes-three (we share 50/50 custody with the boys’ mom), I was still kind of sad about this other potential baby I’d been imagining and dreaming of and hoping for. And I remember, too, turning to Brandin and saying, “you probably think I’m just getting my period but I’m also just really sad about this!” and him looking slightly skeptical (again, what judge in the land would convict me?!) but (for once, wisely) saying nothing. The following day, though, there was no period, and I decided to check on my Health app to see when I was due. As it turns out, I was two days late. My period’s pretty predictable, by and large, and though I can be a day or two late, or early, here and there, this time I had a weird feeling about it; I’d noticed, a few days previously, that I was very bloated around my mid-section. “I could literally be six months pregnant,” I’d said to Brandin, who’d said absolutely nothing, in the style of a man with a death wish. Not just that, but my nipples, which have more or less lost all sensitivity in the three whole years I’ve been breastfeeding Atlas, had started to feel really sensitive and sore to the touch. These two factors combined made me decide to take a test, which Brandin picked up for me on his way home from work, and which I took, alone, in our upstairs bathroom, before I was due to take my third semaglutide shot. You’ll know, by now, how that went. I’m pregnant! But I’ve been taking Ozempic…Honestly? I was freaked. Beyond freaked. Brandin was freaked, too, but for, I think, different reasons – the aforementioned finances, his obsession with children each needing their own room, his concern about jamming a football team’s worth of kids into our cars – while my freakout was almost exclusively around the fact that I’d been pregnant for the full two weeks I’d been injecting myself with appetite-suppressing drugs that have not been studied in pregnancy except in rabbits and rats, where they’ve shown to result in fetal abnormalities. So, you know, it wasn’t a great feeling. That night, I called Bea and strong-armed her into meeting me for dinner at Three Fires, a pizza restaurant near both of our houses. She tried to reassure me that everything would be okay: I’d taken two of the very lowest doses you can take; it’s very early days; people smoke and drink to excess and take drugs, and it’s not great for the babies, but they survive. “Everything will be fine,” she told me, as I cried while shoving slice after slice of spicy sausage-and-ricotta pizza into my face.The following morning, I called my gynecologist’s office and asked to speak to a nurse, to whom I explained my predicament. She took notes and asked questions and said she’d speak to my OB, but that I should schedule my first two appointments – at 12 and 16 weeks – while I was on the phone. Later that day, the office called me back to say that, while my doctor wasn’t overly concerned about my Ozempic use, she did want to see me at eight weeks “for an early scan to check viability”. At the time, we estimated that I was about five weeks pregnant, so I had three weeks to wait for this scan that would tell me whether or not my desire to lose weight had irrevocably damaged my baby. It was, honestly, a really difficult few weeks. I told some close family and friends, while Brandin wanted to wait until we’d been for the first scan before sharing the news with his side. I do understand why the general advice is not to tell people until you’re past the 12-week mark, when the chance of miscarriage isn’t quite as high as it is in thosee first three months, but I’ve just always felt as though, if something did go wrong, I would hate to feel like I couldn’t talk to people about that, or to have to start with, “So, I was pregnant…” Plus, you know, I’ve never been great at keeping things to myself.On the day of the scan itself, I felt a sticky, kind of nauseating anxiety. I took Atlas to his occupational therapy appointment and tried to read my book, Demon Copperhead by Barbara Kingsolver, which is brilliant, but maybe not what I’d recommend for this kind of high-stress time. I’ve since switched to Ruby Dixon’s Ice Planet Barbarians series and finding that is much more appropriate for my current needs – I’d highly recommend the books but, if you’re considering checking them out, please read my footnote below first. I dropped him back to his babysitter’s and I went home and I let Vinny out to do his business and I made myself a cup of coffee and I sat outside and looked at my garden (which had not, at this stage, been destroyed so thoroughly by the bunnies that seem to look at it as their very own all-you-can-munch buffet) and when it was time to leave I grabbed a bottle of water (all the better to prepare for a urine sample) and my bag and set off for the clinic. I’d forgotten not only how incredible it is to hear the heartbeat of this little person you’re growing inside your own body (like WHAT?! how is this how people are made it’s bonkers), but also how uncomfortable it is to have a trans-vaginal ultrasound (yuck), so I guess every rose really does have its thorn. Out of the ultrasound room, a lovely nurse admired my Van Halen T-shirt and told me that everything was looking great; the baby’s looking good, heartbeat was perfect, my blood pressure is great. Great, great, great. She told me she wouldn’t worry too much about two weeks of semaglutide at a low dose; that I should avoid deli meat, “but there’s a TikTok trend going around that’s making a lot of my moms-to-be crave Jersey Mike’s subs, have you seen this?”; and then, before I left she said, “congratulations! I’m glad it’s you.”I laughed, and asked, “as opposed to you?!” Yes, she told me; she’s a grandmother and has zero desire to go back to those early days of child-rearing but, you know, good luck to me! I’m now eight weeks pregnant, well before the traditional time to tell everyone, but honestly I’ve been struggling with feeling as though I lured people over here to read all about my Ozempic journey and owe them an explanation as to why updates have not been so forthcoming. So I would love if you’d stick around (but I understand if you don’t want to). I still have it in my head that, once this baby’s out and in the world, I’ll revisit my weightloss injection journey – and, in the interim, I’m particularly interested in speaking to experts about their knowledge and experience of prescribing and monitoring patients on these drugs. I am, after all, a journalist – and as a journalist, I do occasionally write about things without always having first-hand experience – and now that I’ve started down the rabbit-hole of researching these medications, I do think there’s a lot to be written about them that isn’t yet out there (and no, I don’t trust Oprah, TYVM). If you have any suggestions as to who I should speak to, or what you’d like to read, please, reply to this email, drop me a comment on Substack or DM me (button below!). While I’d always love if you’d sign up as a paid subscriber to receive the full Anchor Baby experience, I know that’s not an option for everyone. So if ever you like my writing, the content I share on Instagram or just think, I’d buy her a coffee if I met her out and about, you can do that on Ko-Fi here. This is a public episode. If you'd like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit rosemarymaccabe.substack.com/subscribe

I received an email the other day which, at first – like so many emails I suppose – seemed promising. I would put this in the same category as the dozens of emails I receive each week asking if I’d like to collaborate with x or y brand on Instagram. “We’re offering $50 for a grid post with 3 dedicated stories – let us know if you’re interested!” I say no to each and every one, insulted by the paltry sum, but now that I write it down, $600 per week to post on Instagram doesn’t seem like the worst deal in the world. This email promised not a career opportunity but something better: the perfect Mother’s Day gift that would, crucially, “make you her favorite child”. I thought, momentarily, about sending it to my sister but she has a lot on and, in any case, I supposed I’d better read through it first. (Mother’s Day in the US, confusingly, is the second Sunday in May; I know that for any of my European readers, Mother’s Day is in the rear view mirror by now but, you know, mothers are just women who’ve given birth, so who knows who you might find a great gift idea for.)The first item on the list? A $300 “washable” silk robe – because mothers may still be glamorous, but there’s bound to be a spill somewhere along the line, lol #momlife – from a brand I’ve never heard of that comes in three sizes only (XS/S, M and L/XL, not promising) and, crucially, reaches to mid-thigh only. Who wants this robe? Not me, A Mother; and not, I’d be pretty confident in saying, my own mother either. Anchor Baby is a reader-supported publication. To receive new posts and support my work, consider becoming a free or paid subscriber.Things can only get better, I thought, foolishly, and was immediately buoyed by item two: a three-month subscription to The Bouqs, a mail-order florist that offers genuinely beautiful arrangements (even if the $137 you’ll spend on a bouquet of Bouqs flowers each month for three months could get you a house full of flowers for that same length of time from Trader Joe’s, or Joseph Duffy & Sons in Smithfield, say). But that was simply a way to lure me further into the list of doom, because at number three we find a teeny tiny bunch of “preserved” (are these basically… taxidermied flowers?!) flowers from Anthropologie, and by the time I’ve clicked through the very Clueless (in more ways than one) $300 Coach bag and the $400 bakeware set by Caraway I’m ready to throw that entire article into the fire and, inspired by my ire, use the time to, instead, share with you some items that I have bought, received or otherwise taken possession of (borrowed? stolen? who’s to say?) that would make anyone – A Mother, A Woman, A Feminist, A Taxidermist – happy. (I cannot guarantee favourite child status at this time.)The Yeedi M12 Pro+A few weeks ago, I was approached by Yeedi to ask if I would like an early sample of their new M12 Pro+ vacuum and mop robot, which was released yesterday. A couple of years ago, I stopped accepting free PR samples – I was getting such a massive amount of makeup, skin and haircare products, so many that not only would I not get around to using them all, but I wouldn’t get around to reviewing them, either, which made me feel awful for taking them in the first place – but I will make an exception for a robot vacuum, something I’d been going back and forth with Brandin about investing in for a while now. (I couldn’t help but feel as though it was kind of taking the lazy way out; we have a perfectly good hoover and how much time could it even take to just hoover and mop the house ourselves every other day?! It turns out: a lot of time, and so we rarely – if ever – did it.)I will never ever stop telling people how great the Yeedi M12 Pro+ is. Sure, it vacuums and mops – two things I hate doing – but it can also be programmed to do so while you’re in bed; it has this crazy “smart mopping” technology so it mops quite literally up to the very edge of the carpet, and its sensors are so incredible that I have watched it vacuum its way right up to the cat and then gently re-direct itself to vacuum around him. (That the cat does not get out of the way of Freeda, as we are calling our robot vacuum, is also worrying.) It seems to have totally eliminated the dog hair problem I thought we’d just have to live with forever – Vinny sheds, the groomer told me, three times more than any other pit bull she’s ever met, and his hairs are all tiny white spikes that are embedded in every piece of soft furnishing we have, as well as, until Freeda came into our lives, every inch of our carpet – and it’s also really quiet, so you can set it to go on while you’re watching TV, or listening to a podcast, and it just… goes about its business. It honestly just does a far better job than I could ever have imagined (and than I could ever do with a vacuum and mop and bucket combo, honestly) and I can say with certainty that, like the Dyson Airwrap, this is one freebie I would pay to replace if I had to. (Also, I know cleaning stuff is a bit passé when it comes to “gifts for her” – why are we always buying domestic products for women?! I think I know the answer – but this is just such a great little gadget that I think whoever received this could overlook that faux pas.)Laneige’s Sleeping Lip Mask I know this is very 2020 of me (and actually I’ve been using this product that long), but I was recently thinking about products I couldn’t live without and the Laneige Lip Sleeping Mask (I don’t really have a scent preference; right now I’m using an apple one that I don’t really detect much of a flavour from, honestly) is up there at the top of that list. I used to carry lip balm around in my bag with me 24/7, and apply religiously at various intervals throughout the day. And I won’t pretend that I don’t ever have to apply lip balm – sometimes a gal gets dehydrated, okay?! – but since I started applying a thick layer of this soft, silky goop to my lips each and every night, I can go days, maybe even weeks, without using anything during the day. It. Is. Magic. (And I know it’s $24, which is pricey if you use it as an everyday lip balm, which I heard lately people are doing even though it specifically says “masque de nuit” on it!!! but if you use it like I do, the $24 will give you at least three months of soft, hydrated smackeroonies.)Pineapple-design solar hanging bird feederThis is an especially valuable recommendation because it really doesn’t matter which bird feeder you get. This is the one we have – it’s currently not available on UK Amazon so I guess you could put a watch on it? or just idk get a different one – and though I would never have considered myself an avid birdwatcher, or even bird-payer-attention-to, it has given me so much joy to watch the birds congregate (and fight) at the bird feeder for the past three years. Actually, the base fell off this feeder after about two years (those damn birds are just getting bigger and bigger, is there an avian obesity epidemic?!?! that’s a joke the “obesity epidemic” is made up) so I glued it, and then when the Gorilla Glue failed me, we ended up buying a second one. I’ve learned that this particular bird feeder, as the mesh is quite loose, is best for larger feed, so birdies who come to this feeder get sunflower seeds, meaning that the ground beneath the feeder will be covered in sunflower seed husks. I don’t care about this, but you might. Bear in mind if you’re investing in some bird feeders. On the opposite side of the garden, I have a disgusting suet cake bird feeder which seems to attract a few different species – at a guess, I’d say redwing blackbirds and common grackles seem to like the suet, the sunflower seeds get a lot of starlings – but also seems to be the site of more violence, so take from that what you will. Anyway, this bird feeder cost $24 and I spend about $20 every three months on enormous bags of bird feed and even though they take up a lot of prime real estate in my pantry I will never give up my newfound bird obsession. Also, I’m entirely crediting the bird feeders for the fact that I’m now basically Dr Dolittle. The Simple Modern 40oz TumblerNot, crucially, a Stanley cup because I may be a sheep but I am a cheap sheep, and a sheep who hates being waitlisted. I’ve shared the above image in the hopes that you might initially think I wanted this Simple Modern tumbler because of its technical specs – 24-hour insulation! Dishwasher safe! Ergonomic handle! (how can I have reached the age of almost-40 and still be very uncertain as to what that word even means) – but, in fact, you should know that I wanted this tumbler because it reminds me of the flip phone of dreams, the primary-coloured Motorola my sister had as her first phone, and which I have coveted from that good day to this.Just look at it! A glorious little thing, and, according to Google, the world’s first flip phone! She should have kept it, maybe it would be worth money now. Anyway, you can see how the Boardwalk Mix colourway of the above tumbler reminded me of the phone, and therefore, why I had it on my wishlist for months, dying to buy it but reminding myself that I had, months previously, bought two Simple Modern tumblers (for myself and Brandin) in muted, chic colours, because every now and then I imagine I am a chic person. Anyway, it just took a terrible sinus infection and for our 11-year-old to ask if he could have the sage-green tumbler for Brandin to finally submit to my desires and come home from work to present me, coughing in my sick bed, with the gift to end all gifts: this primary-coloured tumbler. On a more serious note, it’s so handy to be able to carry around this enormous water bottle with me; I find I drink way more through a straw than I would otherwise (why? I don’t know, ask a scientist); if it didn’t fit in the cup holder I would inevitably lose it down the side of the car seats or in the passenger footwell, where all of my debit cards go to die; and the fact that it goes in the dishwasher is the clincher. 10/10. No notes.Tell me: what have you bought, received, or taken possession of recently that you feel has truly become an essential part of your life? (Is it a $300 robe that doesn’t go past your knees?! If so I apologise. I guess it takes all sorts.) This is a public episode. If you'd like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit rosemarymaccabe.substack.com/subscribe

I’ve been reading a lot lately. I was going to write, “I’ve been reading a lot lately about…” and lead into the real meat of this piece, but I have a word count to fill, so I may as well give you the full back story.Around October of last year, I decided that I really, really wanted to hit my Goodreads target, the one I set for myself way back in January of 2023. I was aiming to read 100 books, but by the end of September I was a mere 24 titles in. You would think that I might, therefore, throw in the towel, maybe assure myself that I could set a lower, more achievable target, in 2024, and forget about the whole thing. But no: I had failed too many times before (2020: 50/100 books; 2021: 16/50; 2022: 5/100, which seems unbelievable but I suppose I did have the baby and spent most of the year watching And Just Like That and staring into the abyss). So, between October 3rd and December 31st, 2023, I read 76 books. That’s only slightly less than one book a day, and among them, I read Iron Flame (640 pages). I was determined. The key, I found, was to go for books that didn’t involve too much… well, for want of a better term, too much brain power. I went for the Indian takeaway of books: convenient, goes down easily, tastes delicious, not incredibly valuable, nutritionally, but, y’know, moderately nutritious all the same (fats? tick! carbs? tick! protein? tick! micronutrients be damned). Us takeaway addicts might not be great at seeing in the dark, and I mean, is it any wonder I take a B vitamin, but we’re unlikely to starve to death any time soon. It’s weird, how admitting that I’ve been reading contemporary women’s fiction – a lot of romance, a bit of fantasy, a smattering of romantasy – feels like something I should make excuses or apologise for. “I have an English degree,” I told someone just the other day. “I’m making up for all of that worthy literature with some smut.”That implies, though, doesn’t it? that the books I’m reading now are somehow unworthy. But unworthy of what? My time? My effort? My brain power? LOL! My brain is currently 23% Paw Patrol theme tune, which won an Emmy, I’ll have you know, 27% Vanderpump Rules (I’ve thoroughly gone off Katie Maloney, and went so far as to unfollow her on Instagram today, such is the conviction behind my gone-offed-ness) and 50% those tiny marshmallow cuties from Ghosbusters: Frozen Empire, on which I bestow a solid three stars, although a curse on both of its houses for finally turning me off Paul Rudd. Anchor Baby is a reader-supported publication. To receive new posts and support my work, consider becoming a free or paid subscriber.Just look at them! These little marshmallow babies are the ghost equivalent of contemporary women’s fiction. Cute! Entertaining! Kind of make you want to bite them! Easy on the eyes! And would anyone dare call them unworthy?! (Now seems like as good a time as any to tell you that I’ve spent the morning figuratively gnawing on my fingernails and literally crying into my keyboard for a variety of reasons I’m sure I’ll overshare with you eventually and am, as a result, feeling quite unhinged.)Anyway. This might surprise you, but I have not come to any deep and meaningful conclusions about myself, as a result of this light reading I’ve been doing. I don’t feel as though I somehow needed a period of rest, relaxation and romantasy in order to process some major, unrecognised trauma or other (my therapist may say otherwise). But it’s just been… nice! It’s been relaxing! It’s been like what I imagine it would be like to be an elite athlete, and to come home from the Olympics and take time off and then decide that you really miss… curling, or whatever it is you’re busy being the best in the world at, but that you don’t want to compete any more so, instead of training at your sport you just start playing it.You’re still doing the same thing, but now, instead of its being work, it’s play.For years now – I did an English degree, then a Master’s in Journalism, then was a working journalist for over a decade (I don’t quite consider myself not a working journalist, I still do the odd freelance piece but I’m just exceptionally lucky in that it’s no longer my bread and butter and I get to pick and choose when to dabble), now am a working writer – I’ve been approaching reading as a major part of my work. And that’s because it is. “Read!” is the number one piece of advice I give everyone and anyone who asks how to become a journalist, or a writer, or how to improve their writing in either (both!) of the above. I suppose “write” is also good advice, but I truly believe you could write all day, every day, and never get any better or gain any more insight into your craft if you don’t accompany that writing with reading. It’s just that I’ve long been going on the assumption that the reading I was doing needed to be somehow worthy and valuable, above and beyond its being worthy and valuable just for being a book that someone else had written and put out in the world (a staggering feat in and of itself, honestly). It needed to teach me something profound and life-changing; it had to be written in a way that changed, utterly, the way I thought about prose; it was a requirement that it be worth recommending to a friend, something I wouldn’t feel embarrassed to tell a colleague about.The obvious truth is – and though it may be obvious, it was not a truth that I really accepted – books don’t need to teach us anything. They don’t need to be amazing or mind-blowing or even memorable, honestly, in order to be enjoyable. We don’t need to take anything away from them except the knowledge that we just had a cosy little time with a cosy little book and now we get to move on to the next one. But in case you think books do, in fact, need to teach lessons, I’m going to pick, at random, five books I read in the past few months (full disclosure: they’re not all smut), and tell you something each one taught me, with absolutely zero context. You are welcome.Chase Me (Dragons Love Curves #1) by Aidy AwardThe summary: “She’s stolen a priceless relic from his treasure, and his heart.”The lesson: Turns out Prague is a very short flight from America (unspecified city) if you’re a dragon.The Fake Out (Vancouver Storm, #2) by Stephanie Archer The summary: “The best way to get back at my horrible ex? Fake date Rory Miller – my ex’s rival, the top scorer in pro hockey, and the arrogant, flirtatious hockey player I tutored in high school.”The lesson: Physiotherapy is a dangerous job.Twisted Love (Twisted, #1) by Ana Huang The summary: “He has a heart of ice… but for her, he’d burn the world.”The lesson: You can’t always trust #Booktok.Leave the World Behind by Rumaan Alam The summary: “Amanda and Clay head to a remote corner of Long Island expecting a quiet reprieve from life in New York City, quality time with their teenage son and daughter and a taste of the good life in the luxurious home they’ve rented for the week. But with a late-night knock at the door, the spell is broken.”The lesson: I should probably stop relying so much on the Maps app.Fourth Wing (The Empyrean, #1) by Rebecca YarrosThe summary: “Twenty-year-old Violet Sorrengail was supposed to enter the Scribe Quadrant, living a quiet life among books and history. Now, the commanding general – also known as her tough-as-talons mother – has ordered Violet to join the hundreds of candidates striving to become the elite of Navarre: dragon riders.”The lesson: Sometimes #Booktok does get it right. (All is forgiven.) This is a public episode. If you'd like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit rosemarymaccabe.substack.com/subscribe

I’d love to say this was my idea, but if you listen to Not Without My Sister you’ll note that, in a recent episode, Beatrice raised the idea of “required reading”, as she waxed lyrical about Women, Language & Power: Giving Voice to Our Ambition by Susannah Baldwin. She then – off-mic – suggested that I do a series on “required reading”, recommending different books for different times, situations and seasons of life. I have a lot of broad themes in mind, books to read if: you’re pregnant; you’re a step parent; you’re feeling disempowered; you’re looking for answers; you’re getting into gardening; you have a Buffy-shaped hole in your life. And so on. The world truly is my (our) oyster. Do let me know if you have any required reading lists you need in your life, or would simply love for someone else to collate for you. Unless otherwise stated, all of the books listed will be books I’ve read, and liked well enough to recommend to other people. No two-star books here, friends!This American Ex-Wife: How I Ended My Marriage and Started My Lifeby Lyz LenzThat the cover of this book – part memoir, part political treatise examining and annihilating the reasons women choose to marry men – depicts a burning wedding dress should tell you something about This American Ex-Wife, but it’s not the full story. Sure, writer and fellow Substacker lyz is writing about the demise of her own marriage, the burning down of her life as a Midwestern mom and all-round Good Girl, and its reincarnation from the ashes of what once was, but she’s also writing about all of our lives, all of our marriages.It’s the kind of book that has you humming along in recognition, feeling soothed by the fact that no, it’s not just you going through this or that, but on the next page feeling an incandescent rage at the fact that so many heterosexual women in marriages to men undergo the same mistreatments over and over and over again, and are expected just to grin and bear it “for the sake of the marriage” or “for the sake of the kids”. What about for your own sake? Lenz asks. What about that? This American Ex-Wife is powerful and funny and moving and enraging but there is also a hopefulness to the idea that we’re all here, looking behind the curtain at the same time, seeing that the Great and Powerful Oz is nothing but another self-aggrandizing little man, after all. It’s just been released in the US, so I’m not sure if and when it will reach European shores – but you can buy Lenz’s first book, God Land, from Easons.My Dark Vanessaby Kate Elizabeth RussellI read My Dark Vanessa in the time it took to fly from Dublin to Chicago, on March 14th of 2020, a few days before the whole world would seem to shift on its axis. (Don’t confuse the fact of its being a quick read with its being an easy read, at least not in the emotional sense.)What I was expecting: a modern Lolita tale of girlish attraction, this time stripped of the male lens and told through the eyes of the eponymous Vanessa.What I got: an examination of sexual attraction and power, and the ways in which each can be wielded, and perceived, with an almost Gothic horror style undertone. That I related to Russell’s debut novel a lot seemed to say much about me, as I read it – but afterwards, as I spoke to friends who’d also read it, as I gorged myself on reviews and think pieces about the book, I realised, as with Lenz’s This American Ex-Wife, that there is much to relate to in this book for many women who have, at one stage or another, been lusted after by men – or, perhaps more aptly, felt somehow imbued with the power of perceiving that lust, as it was directed at them. Russell deftly marries power and desire, lust and loyalty, to create a book that is a mirror held up to the experience of being a straight woman coming of age around the turn of the century, and lays bare the struggles many of us have with the #MeToo movement and the complex categorisation of man-as-predator. Three Womenby Lisa TaddeoAnother debut author (don’t you just hate that?!), Lisa Taddeo’s Three Women is a work of journalistic brilliance: she spent years with the three women of the book, speaking to them at length about their sexual and romantic histories. Though biographical writing can often seem a bit flat, Taddeo avoids that by instilling her writing with just enough graphic – although not sordid – detail to keep you entranced, and it helps that one of the three tales she tells comes to a climax in the form of a courtoom battle that serves as the sort of denouement of the book. Ultimately, Three Women tells three stories of frustration, longing and life, each specific and discrete but – this is truly the theme of this list, I guess – universal in that specificity. There are so many moments in Three Women that had me wanting to shout at the book, at the women therein, “WHY DON’T YOU JUST WALK AWAY?!” But they’re the same kinds of moments I’ve experienced all too many times, moments at which I didn’t walk away, either.Because of its very nature – the narrative is incredibly well constructed by Taddeo, but these are real women’s stories, told by them and interpreted by the author – this is the kind of book that leaves you with more questions than answers. A lot like life, really. It won’t be for everyone, but if you can suspend your scepticism – and, perhaps, impatience with people who make obviously dumb decisions – you might glean a lot from it.This is Not About Youby Rosemary Mac Cabe (er, me)Is it tacky to include one’s own book in a list of “required reading”? I don’t think I care. This is Not About You is the story of my life thus far, told via the romantic and sexual relationships dotted throughout it – all of which have, for better or for worse (worse, I think, honestly) – been with men. It’s an unorthodox way to craft a memoir, but it felt the most honest to me; I had spent so much of my life planning my days and my outfits and my calendar to directly cater to the boy I was with or the man I was pursuing or, or, or. It feels pathetic, to write it down like that – but it also feels like there is a certain universality in it, too. So many women are conditioned, almost from birth, to want to find a man, have a marriage, be a wife. Is it any wonder that I moulded myself so carefully to achieve those goals? I could spend more time waxing lyrical about my own book, but instead I’ll share some reviews of the book from people I don’t know personally (or, at least, I don’t think I do):“I loved this book so much and couldn’t put it down. I’ve got so many comparable experiences, and I thought I was unique (weird/even broken) in that.” “I wish I had this book to read in my teens - it’s a lesson in self respect and being true to yourself… I was looking forward to reading her book for the writing alone, but I hadn’t realised just how moving her story would be. Parts were joyful, parts funny, parts heartbreaking but ultimately it is a book filled with hope. I loved it - it’s definitely in to reread pile.” “The book is so well written that I could barely put it down, Mac Cabe’s writing is captivating, endearing, emotional, and brutally honest. I loved how the streets of Dublin were brought to life in the stories, and I found myself laughing along and nodding with the familiarity of it all. Mac Cabe is self-deprecating in many areas she needn’t be, but it makes the truth of her stories even more creditable. A lot of heterosexual women will be able to relate to the parts of ourselves that we give away for the sake of thankless men.”It was also reviewed by The Irish Times, but heads up: you’ll need to be a subscriber to read it.What books would you say are required reading for the cishet women among us?! (And if you are a member of the LGBTQIA+ community and you’d like to write me a guest post with some recommended reading that sits outside of my sphere of knowledge and insight, please reply to this email and let’s make a deal!) This is a public episode. If you'd like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit rosemarymaccabe.substack.com/subscribe

I’ve been waiting for the right time to write about the experience of becoming a stepmom (is it a coincidence that my phone automated that to “becoming a demon”?!) and my experience, thus far, of step parenting two gorgeous, challenging, adorable, frustrating children. I had somehow thought I’d just wake up one day and feel as though I’d finally cracked it, like I’d figured it all out. I’d suddenly have completed the stepmom exam and be ready to share with the world.But… surprise, surprise, as in life, so too in step parenting, and I’m not sure I’ll ever be “done” learning the lessons these children, and this life, have to teach me. So either there’ll never be a “right” time to write this piece, or (depending on your outlook), there’ll never be a “wrong” time.Right now, I’m in glass-half-full mode (I don’t have a headache! And I passed my Indiana driving test!), so this feels like as right a time as any. (Lucky you.)Anchor Baby is a reader-supported publication. To receive new posts and support my work, consider becoming a free or paid subscriber.This week marked my three-year wedding anniversary, which is also the anniversary of my becoming a stepmom to two little (but getting bigger every day) boys. It’s not a long time, in the grand scheme of things – but in terms of their lives (they’re 9 and 11), it’s a pretty big chunk. I first met Brandin in the summer of 2019, while I was in Indiana staying with my sister, and hunting for a husband looking to meet people on Tinder. I met Finn (9) and William (11) a few months later, when we went for burgers to Brava’s downtown. I remember thinking they were very shy – entirely unlike their Dad, who would chat to anyone, with absolutely zero encouragement – and worrying that they didn’t like me. As we left the restaurant, one of them – I can’t remember which one – asked Brandin if I could come back to their house with them, like I was a new friend they’d just met at the playground. It was the first sign that maybe we were going to get on okay.Less than a year later, in the summer of 2020 – and that was a really weird time, when all of my Irish friends and family were cocooned in their homes, while Brandin was still going into his office every day and not everyone was wearing a mask in the supermarket – I moved in with them. Since then, I’ve made a lot of mistakes with these sweet, sensitive boys. I like to think I’ve done some things right, too – but you’d probably have to ask them. For now, here’s some wisdom I’ve distilled from my experience as the world’s most average stepmom.Keep changes to a minimum When I first moved in with them, it was to the house Brandin had bought shortly after his divorce, when it was just the three of them (and, at that, just half the time, as he and his ex have 50/50 custody). It’s a 1,300 sq ft ranch-style home, with a large family room and a small adjoining kitchen, three small bedrooms and one bathroom. You can check it out here if a visual aid would help, or if you just want to see my decor choices.Within a few weeks, I had added about $1,000 worth of Ikea furniture – a coffee table in the living room, instead of the black pleather eyesore storage ottoman that had been there before; a beautiful sideboard in the living area – and repainted the kitchen cabinets. We got rid of their bunkbeds, and replaced them with “grown-up” twin beds, complete with matching spotty duvet sets. I bought a lovely vintage couch on Facebook Marketplace, and gave it pride and place in the living room, replacing a beaten-up greige number Brandin had got from a friend.I should have known then – she says, now, with the benefit of much hindsight – that I was making a mistake, when the boys went on (and on and on) about how much they missed that ottoman, that all of these changes were coming at them too quickly, but I didn’t really stop to think about it at all. I just thought, honestly, that they were weirdly attached to that ottoman.Which is why when, in the following year, about six months after I’d moved in, I found out I was pregnant, neither Brandin nor I thought twice about putting the house on the market and looking for a new place to live for the soon-to-be-five of us. Looking back at it now, it was all way too much to drop on two already-quite-confused-and-disrupted little boys, who had gone through the unpheaval of divorce, their Dad moving out, their new 50/50 schedule and their Dad’s girlfriend coming to live with them, in a very short space of time. I was just so excited to be living with Brandin and the boys, all of whom I love so much, and I was determined to be someone who brought with her good things: new furniture and colourful rugs and a bigger house with a bigger garden in an estate with loads of other kids, and a baby brother! I didn’t really stop to think that (a) little boys don’t really care about furniture and also, and more importantly (b) they needed time to adjust.Sure, our family was getting bigger, but we could have done another year in that house – Atlas was in our bedroom for that long anyway – and they were happy as Larry in their bunkbeds and I suppose we didn’t need a different, admittedly less comfortable, couch. They talk, sometimes, about the old house, and oh, the embellishments they add: they wax lyrical about the fun they had, playing in the back garden (it didn’t have a back garden); and how big their old room was (smaller than their new one); and how much more they loved the old house because they had friends, four doors up (friends who had moved across town several months before we sold up). And while I’ll never know if this rose-tinted nostalgia would have been different, had they had more time to get used to each change as it came along, I can’t help but wonder if all of this revisionist history could have been avoided, had we been a little less trigger-happy when it came to all of the massive life changes we foisted on those two small boys in such a short period of time.You and your partner need to be on the same page …in decor choices, and in life. This is why, really the “be their friend, not their parent” advice really doesn’t work. As a parental figure, if not an actual parent, I need to present a united front with their Dad, so that neither one of us gets pitted against the other. If I say they can have ice-cream, Brandin can’t come in and tell them that they can’t, and vice versa. It holds true, too, when it comes to replacing furniture – it can’t be something Rosemary did – and setting bedtimes. I know good cop, bad cop, can work for some people, especially when it comes to the witching hour pre-bedtime, but this really will not work if you’re set up as the bad cop, because you don’t want to add any further resentment to a situation they may already be struggling with (having a new step-parent in the first place). Nor will it work if you’re the good cop, because there’s a very fine line between “good cop” and “soft touch”, and whatever about trying to get kids to like you, in my experience it’s more important, at least at first, that they respect you. Liking can come afterwards.And it really helps, I’ve found, to talk to your partner about all of this, so that they can support you when those sticky moments come up. Sometimes, the boys will ask Brandin why I can’t be with Atlas so that he can be freed up to play with them, especially on weekends when I might be working a lot and he’ll look after Atlas so I can take a bath or read my book.And at first, Brandin would tell them, “Rosemary’s been with Atlas all week, she needs some time to herself now”, but I realised this was, in a way, turning Atlas and me into a kind of obstacle that was somehow hindering their ability to spend time with their Dad. So I sat Brandin down and told him this, and asked if he could, instead, take the blame – by saying he wanted to spend some time with Atlas, or that he just wasn’t in the mood to play catch right this second. Because even though they might be annoyed or disappointed with him, he’s their Dad – they have to love him anyway. Me, on the other hand…? The jury’s still out.Know someone who has recently – or will soon – become a step parent? This post is public so feel free to send it to them.You won’t be their best friend I remember, early on, someone on Instagram telling me – when I asked for step-parenting advice – to remember that they already had two parents, and that I should see myself as more of a friend than anything else. And I like to think that I tried – I really tried – to be a friend to them. But the mistake I made was in thinking of myself as a peer, rather than an adult friend. I went through a (very short, granted) period of trying not to be the one to admonish, correct, or discipline them, thinking that those were tasks that fell to their Mom and Dad, and not in my remit. But, as it happens, what children value most is a steady hand – and, in that sense, they need all guidance and discipline to be constant, and to come from all of the adults in the house. It won’t work, if I ignore their arguments, or allow them to eat a bar of chocolate before dinner, or tell them they can play Fortnite when their Dad has expressly forbidden it, because not only does it undermine his authority, but it just makes life difficult for me, as I am forced to listen to them argue, or watch them leave their entire dinner, uneaten, or hear the ambient racket of children playing Fortnite. I know I’m not their parent (noun), but I am someone who is responsible for parenting (verb) them, all the same. Which leads me nicely on to…You won’t be their mom, eitherI’ve never used the word “Mom” when describing myself and my relationship to the boys, except when it’s preceded by the word “step”, and even then, it’s rare that I give myself that title at all. I feel as though it’s up to them, how they refer to and talk about me, and I don’t want them to feel forced into recognising or feeling a relationship to me that doesn’t feel natural.Because that’s the thing: in the very basic, biological definition of things, I’m no relation to them. I didn’t birth them, and I wasn’t there for those early years of their lives. I can’t sign off on their medical procedures and I’m not the one they call out for in the middle of the night and I’m not the one who signs their school permission slips, even if I am sometimes the one who washes their baseball jerseys and drives them to practice and cleans the gross bits of food out of the bottom of their schoolbags.In a lot of ways, step-parenting is a bit like regular parenting, just without all of the warm, fuzzy, gorgeous bits that make it all worthwhile. I have to manage their fights and moderate their screen time and cut the crusts off their peanut butter and jelly sandwiches and wash their underwear and make their beds and pick up the bits of ceramic that are all over the kitchen after they drop a plate but I’m still not the one whose lap they ever want to sit on.When they hurt themselves, I’m not the one they run to, and when it’s time to go somewhere fun, 99.9999% of the time, I’m not the one they want to go with.Sometimes, in fact, I feel pretty certain that they actively dislike me, and it’s hard to deal with that when you don’t feel like you can say things like, “Well, I’m sorry you hate me, but I’m your Mom and I love you” or “you are not getting out of this car until you say you love me too.” Us step parents do not get the luxury of forced affection.And in those moments when they’re running around, making loud, repetitive snorting noises, shooting Nerf guns in the house even though they know they’re not allowed to, smashing Cheetos into the carpet that they should only ever have been eating in the kitchen for this very reason… I don’t have access to the same vast reserves of love that their Mom and Dad can tap into when they need to be reminded just how much they love these adorable little monsters.Don’t take anything personally This is something, you will be shocked to read, that I am famously bad at. I take offence easily, I read into everything that’s said to me, and I almost always jump to the worst possible conclusion. Cashier in the supermarket is rude? She probably didn’t like my face. Someone’s laughing within earshot? They’re definitely laughing at me. The person sitting next to me in the library looks at me for a split second? They’re 100% judging my parenting.So you can probably imagine how totally unbothered I am by the kind of casual insults that get thrown at you by children. Ours are a bit old for the kind of innocently cutting insults you might get from a smaller child – my nephew once asked me, “why does your belly look like a burger?” – but there’s a lot of, “why can’t Rosemary do that?” (when their Dad says, “sorry, I can’t play with you right now because I’m making dinner / sitting with Atlas / cleaning out the kitty litter” and “I want Dad to come!” about, well, pretty much everything. And I’ve sometimes found myself trying to appeal to their compassionate souls, telling them how bad it makes me feel when they (best case scenario) act indifferent to me, not to mention how much it hurts me when they treat me like “a bit of dirt on your shoe” (that was a last-minute improvisation when I realised I couldn’t very well say “s**t”).The thing is, and this has become my catchphrase at this point, it’s not about me. They don’t even really see me as a person, in the same way I didn’t see my parents as people, at least not really, until I was well into my twenties. And even if sometimes, I feel as though they hate me… they don’t. They just really love their Mom and Dad, in a way that they won’t ever love me – and even though sometimes it’s a hard pill to swallow, it’s also something that makes perfect sense. It’s how I would want it to be, if Brandin and I ever broke up and one or both of us remarried. They might hate that their parents aren’t together any more, and that they split their time between two separate households. They probably hate being told that “only boring people get bored”, and having it suggested to them that they fill their time by tidying their rooms, or putting away their clean laundry. They definitely hate to be reminded that they need to wash their hair tonight.They have a lot of big feelings at this age, and most of them have nothing whatsoever to do with me.Comparisons help no one These boys – and this is the most galling thing, honestly – love their mom’s boyfriend, who they refer to as their stepdad to anyone who will listen. It’s an adoration I simply don’t think I’m getting from them when we’re not together, although I will accept that it is, at the very least, possible. Not probable, though. (I am definitely not getting it when we are together.)Sometimes I try to comfort myself by telling myself, it’s because he’s a man and boys get on better with men or, it’s because he’s into wrestling and so are they. But I think the first point is kind of rubbish, and as for the second, they’re only into wrestling because he and their Mom are into wrestling. It’s very clear that the chicken came before the egg in this scenario. And the thing is, I don’t really have any interests that they share right now. I tried to get them into The Hunger Games, but they seemed deeply bored by the political scheming of it all; they do not want to learn to knit (but have been demanding incredibly intricate creations from me that I simply can’t produce); I’m not sure Love is Blind or Vanderpump Rules are going to appeal to them (although they’d probably like the swearing).But I am trying to read to them at night – Finn and I are currently reading The Catstronauts while William and I are five chapters into Estranged – and once the weather gets nicer I’m hoping we can plant some things together and bond over the garden. I don’t think I’m in any danger of beating their stepdad and his wrestling and the fact that he plays the drums, for crying out loud, but I don’t think it was meant to be a competition in the first place.Highlight the positives I don’t think there are all that many advantages to having a step-parent, at least from the kids’ point of view. Your parents got divorced, which sucks, right, and just when you’re beginning to see the silver lining of having each parent to yourselves for the first time, they meet someone new and their focus shifts away from you again. It must be hard. But the one true high point of having separated parents?! You get double the presents at Christmas times and on birthdays – and, if your new step-parent’s parents are alive, you get double the grandparents presents, too.I also try to go out of my way to buy them little things, at random times, just because I think they might like them or because I’m thinking of them. Some might see this as buying their love, but those people are very cynical. Not like me. I am just a glass-half-full, “look on the bright side” kind of gal.Hunter Harris has been hosting chat threads for S6 of Love is Blind, and though I, too, have a chat thread… hers is better. She’s a great culture writer and deeply, deeply funny. We did a live Zoom book club on the podcast last week and it was so much fun! If you’ve never listened to Not Without My Sister there is never a bad time to start. This episode has, time and time again, been voted the listeners’ fave. This is a public episode. If you'd like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit rosemarymaccabe.substack.com/subscribe

I’ve been seeing a lot about love, this week – of course, as Valentine’s Day is smack-bang in the middle of it. I’ve seen banners declaring these Valentine’s Day gifts the perfect Valentine’s Day gifts. I’ve seen thinkpieces about the very idea of love itself. I particularly liked this one, by Maria Del Russo, and especially this line:I realize now that, when people talk about “just knowing” when you meet the right person, the knowing is less about recognizing a feeling, or experiencing peace, or looking at the other person and thinking, “Oh, that’s right.” The knowing is more about knowing yourself, and your limits, and your boundaries, and what you’er willing to deal with, and what you truly want in that moment.I’ve seen Valentine’s-themed jumpers and, bizarrely, matching family ensembles (are there families who dress up for Valentine’s Day?!). In short, I’ve seen quite enough Valentine’s content to last me… if not a lifetime, then at least the year. But you know what I haven’t seen enough of? Pancake content. Where are the pancake content creators?! Anchor Baby is a reader-supported publication. To receive new posts and support my work, consider becoming a free or paid subscriber.I am someone who adheres religiously to the observance of Pancake Tuesday, which falls, this year, the day before Valentine’s Day (making Valentine’s Day also Ash Wednesday, so any Catholics among us can pretty much forget about looking cute on their V Day dates), in no small part thanks to the adherence of my parents to Pancake Tuesday. Now, for any Americans in the room (hi, Doug!), I should clarify: the pancakes I speak of, when I speak of Pancake Tuesday, are crepes, in other words, proper pancakes. They are not these puffy, fluffy, stacks of fried batter Americans refer to as pancakes, no. They are paper-thin, spread to encompass the diameter of a pan, fried in a little butter and, ideally, flipped dramatically at the halfway point (approximately 30 seconds in, once the batter begins to bubble). They are then eaten with, really, whatever you like, but I’m a purist so I choose lemon and sugar – granulated, so there’s some bite to it, a sandy sensation between the teeth – or, if I’m feeling truly decadent (or, more likely, someone else is making the pancakes), folded around a chunk of ice-cream, dipped in batter and deep-fried.My mother spent a year in France, au pairing for a family in Paris who had 17 children under the age of five and never threw out a single scrap of food as it was all produced on Sundays in the form of leftovers. The way she talks about it, you’d swear she was there for a decade, or longer; that she managed to pack so many life lessons – and recipes! – into one year is truly astonishing, what with the time she must have spent changing nappies and sucking up to the maman of the family, with whom she is still great friends. In any case, when one of the many French babies was a teenager, they came to visit my parents one February, not, I would think, the ideal month to visit Ireland but who knows what logic lay behind the decision. It was Pancake Tuesday during her visit and she, like a good guest, volunteered to make the pancakes. (That my parents allowed this doesn’t paint their hosting skills in the best light, I’ll admit, but that’s beside the point.)To hear them tell it, they sat at the dining room table for hours awaiting the delivery of crepes from the kitchen, not wanting to appear rude by asking what, exactly, was holding things up. I imagine my mother asking if she needed any help, if she could do anything. “Non, ça va!” Frenchie would have said, wiping her forehead with the skirt of her apron.Finalement, out from the kitchen emerged la Française, holding a plate of perfect pancakes, stacked, says Dad, almost to the ceiling. Accustomed to cooking for her dozens of siblings, she had made enough pancakes to feed a small army. My Dad – not having yet discovered the smug superiority that comes from dieting – ate twenty-something, he says, before he had to abandon his post. Maybe that’s why he spends so much time, reading in his La-Z-Boy; he’s still recovering.In honour of that French visitor and her mile-high stack of crepes, Pancake Tuesday is the one day of the year when, without fail, my mother makes too much food. (Ordinarily, she’s killed telling you how a meal for four will feed 16 over the course of a week – hers is a very creative arithmetic.)It’s not about overeating, per se, but it’s a day of plenty. No one’s left wanting more, and there’s no fighting over the last pancake because there’s always another where that came from.I’ve let go of a lot, since moving to the US. I say “wadder” now, because no one understands me otherwise; I’ve given into my husband and his love of hamburger helper; I’ve even stopped trying to sneak vinegar on to my family’s chips (which, of course, I now call fries); I never beep my horn, a great hobby of mine before I moved to the country of road rage with guns. But what I will not let go of is Pancake Tuesday, and it must be done right. The rules are simple (but important). * The pancake recipe is essential. Americans think they know how to make pancakes, and they do, I guess, but not these pancakes. (Brandin even told me, once, that it didn’t matter if there were lumps in the pancake batter! Sacrilege!) I use this BBC recipe that has never failed me.* There must be too many. See above. But seriously: that BBC recipe claims to feed eight, but I would double it for our family of five. Because…* The pancakes are the meal. They’re not dessert. They’re not a side dish. They are in place of dinner and dessert, and we don’t want anyone leaving the table hungry.* The lemon juice must be fresh. Fresh lemons, cut into wedges. Granulated sugar, as I mentioned. Lemon juice in a little squeezy bottle? Icing (confectioner’s) sugar? An abomination! * The first pancake is always terrible, but still it belongs to the chef and the chef alone. * Though the making of the pancake feast may take an hour or so, no one eats until everyone is seated. Including the chef. (This does not apply to pancake #1, which may be eaten immediately.) The pancakes are kept warm on a plate, atop a pot of simmering water, while all of the batter is used up.Once the pancakes have been eaten, you must commence a nonsensical conversation about what you’ll be giving up for Lent (which begins the following day), even – and especially – if you know you’ll be giving up nothing. I always say I’m going to give up Diet Coke, and cursing. Wishing you all a week full of pancakes, and, I guess love. Anchor Baby is a reader-supported publication. To receive new posts and support my work, consider becoming a free or paid subscriber.No idea why now, today, this week, but I’ve been listening to this song a lot. This is a public episode. If you'd like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit rosemarymaccabe.substack.com/subscribe

It’s so cold this week that even the Hoosiers* are complaining. Schools have been closed due to “wind chill”, a phrase I swear I never heard before I moved here, to the flattest place on earth, where there is nowhere, ever, to shelter from the wind. Right now, it’s a balmy -13C, with a RealFeel of -17C. Mild, compared to yesterday’s -16C (RealFeel -27C). You feel the cold right down to your bones, no matter how many layers of clothing you’re wearing. As an Irish person, I’ve always seen a ski mask as a frightening, and dramatic, fashion choice; right now, it is not a choice but a necessity, at least if you’re planning on spending any amount of time outdoors. (I am not. I am staying indoors as much as possible, writing and knitting and drinking hot drinks.)Anchor Baby is a reader-supported publication. To receive new posts and support my work, consider becoming a free or paid subscriber.On Monday, I drive Atlas the .1 of a mile up the road to his babysitter’s house. The car is in the garage, but still it’s cold when we get in. All of the safety manuals tell you not to put a coat on a baby in a car seat, but I can’t help wondering which would be worse: to be wearing a coat when the car slides across the ice going 20mph and hits someone’s postbox, or to die of hypothermia in the back seat. He’s wearing a warm jumper, long trousers, socks and Ugg boots handed down to us from my sister, but still, his cheeks begin to redden before we’ve even reversed out the driveway. Later, my husband will tell me that I should have started the car earlier, allowed it to warm up before driving it out on to the road and around the corner. “We were fine,” I tell him, and then, because I can’t help myself, “A little cold won’t kill him.” Brandin gives me a look I have grown worryingly familiar with – the what-kind-of-moron-are-you look – and says, “It’s bad for the car,” as if my thinking he was concerned for the baby is somehow ridiculous. As it happens, the car isn’t really the issue, where Atlas is concerned; it’s the 10 or so feet between the car and his babysitter’s house. As soon as I open the door and the wind whips its way inside, his little face begins to screw up into an expression of dismay, disgruntlement and disgust, all at once. By the time I’ve got him out of the car, a task made infinitely more difficult by his death grip on the Duplo Lightning McQueen I had to use as a bribe to get him out of the house, he’s crying. His head is buried into my shoulder, but it’s a tactical move, rather than one borne out of any kind of affection. I can tell that he is raging with me by how stiff his legs are, how clenched his fists. What’s truly inexplicable is that, as we reach the threshold of Robin’s house, and I deposit him over the lintel and kick the snow off my boots, his crying amps up. Doesn’t he realise it’s warm in there? Dry? Windless? Apparently not. Still, he gets over it; as I shut the door behind me, the screams stop. I wait a moment and hear his little footsteps as he runs, away from me, towards the toys, or the other children, or both, who knows.Back home, our older two boys have been suiting and booting themselves up in preparation for going out on the trampoline. They have trousers and T-shirts and jumpers on, then thick socks and snow pants – the ones that are like little snow jumpsuits, with a bib that goes up and over their jumpers – and, as they begin to layer on gloves and coats, we have the first moment of conflict. “Aren’t you wearing a hat?” I ask William, who is 11, and has just finished awkwardly putting on his Dad’s winter gloves, having left his own at his mom’s. “No,” he tells me, “I’m just going to put up my hood.” I look outside. It looks nice enough – the sky is blue and the sun is shining, but I can see the wind whipping through the trees across the pond and his brother, who got out a few minutes ahead of him, is already looking distinctly clown-y, his cheeks, bright red circles on his otherwise pale face.“Put on a hat,” I tell him. “It’s too cold outside today.” He removes the gloves quickly, furiously, slamming them on the kitchen table. I feel sorry for him as they hit the veneer, because thick winter gloves do not make a satisfying slamming sound, and there’s something disappointing about the whole thing. It doesn’t so much seem like an angry gesture as it does a pathetic one. The gloves remind me of an over-ripe cucumber, no longer satisfying and crunchy but soft, squidgy and slightly stomach-churning.I push the hat over his head, brushing his hair back slightly. “There,” I say, and then (because I can’t help myself), “Don’t you look gorgeous!” He scowls at me as he puts his gloves back on, reaching for the rear sliding door and pulling on it, leaning back to get more momentum. The door freezes and sticks each night, and again at random intervals throughout the day, depending on how long it’s been since the dog went out to do his business, and the snow that has compacted on the other side of it makes it hard to open and close. I watch as they climb onto the trampoline together, the jumping surface covered in a thick layer of snow and ice, which begins to break up as they stride across it. Each footstep releases another puff of white dust, blowing up and around them. The sandbox, which, at some point, got filled with rain water, has frozen over, too; inside are gardening tools, a spade, a fork, relics of a warmer time, when children dug for fossils and rocks, built castles and moats and buried hands and feet beneath the sand. Finn stands on top of the frozen box, sliding around the surface in his probably-still-too-big-for-him winter boots (but there’s no point in buying the exact right size for children, is there? They grow so fast). “Can I have a tool?!” he asks me, as I slide open the door to tell them not to throw chunks of ice at the net of the trampoline. “To dig out the gardening fork.”The ice in the sandbox is at least a foot thick, and frozen solid. “It won’t work,” I tell him. “It’s too thick, and you’ll break whatever you try to use, and anyway, your mom’s gonna be here soon.” I say “mom” when I talk to them about her, because they say “mom”, too, and I can’t take another moment of having my pronunciation corrected, especially before 9am.I turn back to my coffee, cooling on the counter. I take a sip, and a moment, too, to appreciate being indoors, in the heat, drinking this warm liquid, instead of being outside, digging for treasure in a frozen box. I suppose I would have thought that fun, too, once. When I look outside again, Finn is leaning down over the outline of the gardening fork – one prong reaching up towards the sky, like Adam reaching out to God on the ceiling of the Sistine Chapel – and breathing on to the ice.“It’s working!” he shouts, excitedly, to William, who has taken off his gloves and is walking around the garden, slowly, like a detective in Fargo, examining the scene. I open the door again. “William,” I say, “Please put your gloves back on.” He does, but not without shooting me a glare over his shoulder, from beneath his fringe. They’ve been out, now, for seven minutes, almost eight. There’s a chart that tells you how long it takes for frostbite to set in at specific temperatures, and though I haven’t consulted it today – it’s in Fahrenheit, which confuses me – I have decided 10 minutes will be their max.I’m building myself up to tell them to come in when they have a fight – something about ice on the swing set, someone ruining it for someone else – and decide, all on their own, that it’s time to come in anyway. I’m relieved; they rarely listen to my directives, at least not the first time, and calling them from the back door embarrasses me. I imagine the neighbours, watching the Irish woman down the road shouting at her kids from the back door. I may as well be shaking a sack cloth out the window, I think, or threatening someone with a wooden spoon. They don’t know they’ve done me this small favour, though, and in any case my gratitude wanes as they begin to disrobe by the back door. “Where does this go?” I ask, pointing at a pair of snow pants, abandoned on the floor in a way that makes them look a bit like their wearer just – poof! – disappeared into thin air, or turned into a mouse. Finn shrugs. “It’s wet,” he says, flatly, as if that explains why he left it on the floor, as if all wet things belong on the floor. William’s things are on the floor too, but he is now so involved in a game on the Switch that he’s unable to hear or see anything else. I empathise; that’s why I rarely play video games. During my Theme Hospital phase, I truly believe the house could have burnt down around me and I wouldn’t have noticed, too busy trying to level up enough to hire a top-rated surgeon. When their mom arrives to pick them up, she comes with bad news.“Is there e-learning today?” Finn asks, enthusiastically, before he’s even said hello. “No,” she says, “just a two-hour delay.” The morning trampoline escapades seem, I’m sure, like a lifetime ago as they get back into their coats – wet now, because I’m an idiot who didn’t think through what would happen when they rolled around in the snow right before going to school – and shove their feet into, inexplicably, their Crocs. “Your feet will be cold,” their mom tells them, and they shrug in response. I catch her eye and we shrug, too. Maybe they’ll learn a lesson. Maybe they won’t. Recess is cancelled anyway, so they’ll be inside all day. I tell them, then, about the school I went to, where classes were held in prefabs for years as the money was raised for renovations, and the heaters frequently didn’t work. “And would school be cancelled?” William asks, earnestly. The past may be a foreign country, but so is Ireland, as I tell him that, no, it wouldn’t. “But it doesn’t get so cold there,” I say. “I don’t think I’d like Ireland,” he says, then. “You don’t get enough snow and it’s always raining.” As they drive off to school, and I warm up my coffee and get out the ingredients for rice pudding for breakfast, because no one’s here to stop me, I think, at least some of what I tell them goes in.*A Hoosier is a person from, or currently living in, Indiana. It’s also, apparently, the name of our National Forest. Here are some theories on the origin of the word, in case you’re interested. This is a public episode. If you'd like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit rosemarymaccabe.substack.com/subscribe

I asked my Instagram followers to send me any problems or issues they needed help with or just advice for, and I received way more questions than I’d expected! So I’m starting a regular advice column where I’ll give my best advice to questions I’ve been sent via DM, or here (just reply to this email if you have anything you need help with!) – but I would also love it (and think it would be really helpful) if you would get involved and share your thoughts in the comments. In this case, I think actually, there’s no such thing as too many chefs. So buckle up and settle down, because this may be a long one… “What’s your favorite way to unwind after a busy week? I’m finding it nearly impossible.”This, I’d imagine, is a common issue for a lot of people. We’re so “on” – answering work emails on weekends, jotting down to-dos in our phones while we’re watching TV, taking pictures of “inspiration” for work when we’re out and about (obviously depending on industry) – that it can be really difficult to properly switch off. I personally find that the only way I can do it is to do something that requires my full – or almost full – concentration. So a bath isn’t a great one for me, because while in the bath I can be on my phone, and even if I leave the phone in the other room, my brain’s going a mile a minute reminding me of things I need to do once I get out of the bath! I find the same thing happens when I do yoga, or try to meditate. Instead, I like to do something like read, do a jigsaw puzzle or knit – although the knitting only really works for me because I’m really crap at it and need to concentrate fully. I can just about have something low-brow on the TV (right now it’s Real Housewives of Salt Lake City) in the background, but nothing I have to concentrate on or I start purling where I’m meant to be plaining, or forget to slip the first stitch, or drop stitches (and am absolutely useless at picking them back up again so then the whole project has to go out the window). I also find – or, at least, I found, one day last month, before it got to absolute nose-atrophyingly cold temperatures – that walking the dog is good, but only if I switch my phone on Airplane Mode and listen to music (not podcasts, because most of them make me think too much).Beatrice and I joined a weekly pottery class and had our first session on Thursday, and that was actually a great exercise in mindfulness because, again, I was so crap at it that it required my full attention, leaving me no brain space for worrying or planning my tasks for the following week. This is also quite a personal thing, though, and I know that what works for me won’t work for everyone, so it might be a case of trying a few different things to find what does it for you. Maybe it’s going to be a sweaty workout (if you have an exercise bike, YouTube has some great spin tutorials that can be good – while yoga leaves me too much thinking space, anything that has me sweating profusely seems to keep my mind on the task at hand) or baking or doing Sudoku or just a good old-fashioned phone call with a friend. I also highly recommend a regular massage habit – when I stopped going to therapy, I started going for a massage every six weeks or so, hoping that would give me a similarly relaxed feeling, and it’s one of my favourite things to do now (surprise, surprise), and much cheaper than weekly therapy. (Although I am in the process of finding a new therapist so… the massage habit might end up being curbed.)Anchor Baby is a reader-supported publication. To receive new posts and support my work, consider becoming a free or paid subscriber.I’m about to be a first-time mum. Any advice or tips? Honestly, the temptation to craft this response by telling you all of the things I did wrong is strong, which makes me think that the most important thing you’ll do over the next year is to give yourself grace. Seriously. There are so many moments ahead where you will think you’ve totally and utterly fucked up – mine include one particularly terrible moment where I left the door open and Atlas, who had just learned to crawl, rolled all the way down the stairs – and the guilt and shame you’ll feel as a result will seriously hinder your ability to sleep, breathe and parent effectively.Try not to have too many fixed ideas about any of it, from how you want the birth to go to what kind of toys you want your baby to play with or what kind of books you want to read to them. They are unpredictable little humans, above all else, and as such they’ll end up dictating a lot of it while you’re just along for the ride (and, ideally, to provide a soft landing for them). I was going to say to ask for help, but I’d actually say: demand help. If you have friends or relatives over, ask them to do things that will make your life easier, like put on a load of washing or hold the baby while you have a shower or help you tighten the car seat. (On which note, as often as you possibly can, outsource any and every car seat related activity you need to do. The amount of times I’ve cried trying to get that seat in or out of the car…)However much stuff you think you need, you don’t. By all means, spoil your baby – and yourself – if that will make you happy, but do not allow yourself any stress whatsoever when it comes to bassinets and playards and play mats and outfits and baby hairbrushes… because, honestly, you could get by with a few soft, cosy blankets; a handful of soft, cosy babygros; and a lot of burp cloths. (Obviously, if you plan to bottle feed, you’ll also need bottles and sterilising equipment and formula and all that good jazz.)People were killed telling me to sleep when the baby slept, but that always felt like a waste, because when the baby slept was the only time I got to make tea or coffee for myself, stand and stare aimlessly out the window, have a bath or shower, clip my toenails, wash my hair… you get the gist. Nap when there’s someone else there to hold the baby, is my mantra.And just… don’t let anyone make you feel like you’re doing it wrong. If your baby ends up only falling asleep in your arms, so be it – this is a season of time, and it’ll be over before you know it. Oh, and mute anyone and everyone on social media whose babies seem to be “better” babies than yours. People with babies who sleep through the night, people with babies who never get gassy, people with babies who sleep in their bassinets from day one… mute, mute, mute. It’ll just make you feel bad and, like I said, you’ll get enough of that. I’m married 13 years and our financial situation has hugely changed. Is it insulting to my partner if I want to upgrade my engagement ring, for example resetting and upgrading two stones… I don’t think he would mind, but is it rude? This, I think, is going to depend on a variety of factors. If, for example, the ring is a family heirloom that was given to your husband to give to you, the idea of resetting it might not sit well with him, or with the extended family – in which case I would maybe suggest doing something like getting a different ring to serve as an engagement ring, and switching that to another finger, or adding an eternity ring. Similarly, if it’s a ring that he agonised over choosing for you and was really proud of the design he ultimately went with, I can imagine that might be slightly upsetting for him to hear that you want to change it (as he may think that you weren’t happy with it all along).In both of these cases, though, the best course of action would be to talk to him – I did ask Brandin what he would think, and he said that it’s not something that would upset him at all, but he did point out that one of his friends proposed using his grandmother’s ring, and he can’t imagine that his friend would like the idea of making changes to that particular ring.Because I’m fancy, though, I have a friend who is a jeweller by trade so I decided to ask her for her thoughts. Sydney Pacula Owens is part of Fort Wayne’s Pacula Diamonds, along with her father, and they do everything from designing bespoke engagement rings and fine jewellery to redesigning antique and vintage pieces. Sydney says: “I love this question 😁 I see it as a very personal choice! Typically when couples get married they are young and in a very different place budget wise than 5/10/15 years later so it is very common to upgrade/reset. “I think a ring should reflect a couple’s journey and 13 years together is no small feat and upgrading the ring is a beautiful way to honor that. If she wants to involve him they could do it together and discuss options. “Often I encourage customers who upgrade to then reset the original diamonds into a pendant or ring to keep it! Refreshing a ring not only feels good symbolically but after 13 years the ring could have seen a decent amount of wear so a reset could also be a good idea practically. I’ve never had someone regret redesign/reset but wish they had done it even sooner 😊”Is phone sex cheating? Why are no questions ever straightforward?! Because this one may be short and sweet, but I truly feel like there’s a lot of nuance there. In short, I think that phone sex is cheating if you, the person in the relationship with the person engaging in phone sex, feel betrayed or “cheated on” by the action. If, however, you’re someone who’s totally fine with the idea of your partner having sexy conversations with someone else, then it’s not a problem, right? But obviously, both of these answers require that there is open, honest communication in the relationship around one another’s expectations and needs when it comes to sexual or even sex-related interactions that happen outside of the relationship. For me personally, I think I would consider phone sex cheating, if it was the case that my partner was engaging in it with someone he knew. If, however, he was calling a phone sex hotline (are they still a thing?!) or having conversations with someone on OnlyFans whose services he was paying for, I don’t think I would consider that cheating (although I would probably be a bit upset if he hadn’t come to me first to ask if this is something we could do together).I guess, in my mind, if it involves engaging the services of a sex worker, it sits more in a category alongside watching porn. If, however, he was having phone sex with a co-worker or a friend, that would definitely constitute cheating in my book. But, like I said, if it’s something that makes you uncomfortable, you are well within your rights to sit down and make that clear to your partner, and if he or she isn’t willing to take your feelings into consideration, that might then lead to a bigger, and possibly more difficult, conversation. Please, do weigh in if you have any advice or ideas to share on any of the above questions – and, if you have a question of your own, DM me on Instagram, email me at [email protected] or simply reply to this email! All correspondence will remain anonymous. This is a public episode. If you'd like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit rosemarymaccabe.substack.com/subscribe

The end of any year brings with it – along with an incredibly strong impulse to declutter – an urge to reflect on what’s happened that year, and with that, to sit in judgment of anything I’ve done (and, more often, failed to do). There’s a lot of popular rhetoric about the concept of looking back, arguing both for and against it. On the one hand, we get to learn from our past missteps; on the other, we can often get bogged down in the mire of worrying about things we can’t change any more. My sister is a big proponent of looking forward, rather than back. Historically, I’ve always argued that there’s value in analysing and “processing”, whatever the hell that means, situations that have been in some way significant to us. After the last argument we had about this, I appealed – on Instagram, of course, where I make all of my appeals – for feedback from professionals (therapists, psychiatrists, psychologists): am I right, in that we need to delve into the past in order to inform the present, or is Beatrice right, in that there’s more value in being proactive and looking forward? It turns out – for any of you who have been in, or are in, therapy, you will find this deeply predictable – that we’re both right, at least sometimes. Whatever value I might find in analysing my mistakes (or sulking over my failures, more like), is mine to find. For other people, looking over their shoulder just serves to trip them up and knock them off their current path. I REALLY, REALLY WANTED TO BE RIGHT. Anyway, I suppose what I’m trying to say is: don’t feel like the end of the year means you absolutely must look back on the year with a critical (or, worse, grateful eye). Feel free to look forward, instead. Or do both! It’s important, in life, to take what serves you, really, and leave the rest behind. For my part, here are a few thoughts I’ve had about the year that was – thoughts that I hope will inform and influence and help me do better in the year that will be. Writing a book wasn’t exactly what I thought it would beI think this is one of those “big life events!” that just couldn’t possibly live up to the hype, no matter how “successful” (by what measurement?!) it was. I’d put it in the same category as getting engaged, getting married, and having a baby – all gorgeous, incredible, lovely, wanted, arguably life-changing moments, but not quite as perfect, best-days-of-my-life as I’d somehow thought they would be.Having spent the guts of five years writing This is Not About You, any release that didn’t involve a full fireworks display, flash mob and crystal dome-style cash whirling around my head was bound to be, if not a disappointment, then just… less than. Don’t get me wrong: I’ve been blown away by the feedback This is Not About You has received. It’s got 4.5 stars on Amazon, 4.4 on Goodreads and 5 on Barnes & Noble (from 3 reviews but that’s not the point). I was thrilled and overwhelmed and incredibly shocked by the fact that it went straight to number one in the non-fiction charts. I get messages every day from people who’ve just started, or finished, reading it, sharing their – very relatable and all-too-familiar – stories of dating and romance and breakups and romantic trauma.But I just thought publishing a book – a bestseller! with great reviews! – would be more… life-changing than it has been. That feels slightly ridiculous to write down, but one thing I managed to hold on to in 2023 is honesty, so here we are.Mental illness is not a straight lineI’m going to write about this in more detail, but 2023 has been really challenging for me, in terms of my mental health. I started the year feeling as though I’d got a good handle on things; I’d been managing my depression pretty well with medication, and had recently added an anti-anxiety drug to take, as needed, for the random periods of heightened anxiety I’d been feeling in the months after Atlas was born. But this year has seen more mercurial shifts in my headspace than I’d ever experienced before, and I found them disorienting and frustrating and, at times, they caused me to feel hopeless in a way I hadn’t quite experienced before. While, previously, my depression would manifest itself in periods – days, sometimes weeks – of low mood and anxiety, this year it happened in terms of hours. One morning, I’d be feeling fine, and later that afternoon I would, seemingly out of nowhere, feel as though I’d been wound up tightly, in an intense rage, entirely on edge and on the verge of screaming, or tears, or both. It might last through the night and into the next day, or it might not. Nothing felt predictable, or even manageable, in a way it had felt previously. And it has been dramatic. One day last week, I found myself sobbing on the floor of my kitchen, thinking that my family, my friends, my son, the world, would be better off without me in it; that all I am, is a strain on their resources; that no one should have to suffer through spending time with me, or hearing me moan about my dumb, dumb brain. The worst thing is, these feelings all seem completely rational in the moment – as though I’ve just had an incredibly smart revelation. It’s only when the dust settles, and I’m coming out of that wave of… I don’t know what to call it, honestly. Anxiety? Nerves? Horror? It’s only when I’m out that I start to think, wow, I really lost the plot yesterday, didn’t I? I think what I’m trying to say is: I need to find a new therapist, and possibly start doing some actual real, tangible, measurable, hard work on myself. And I was really hoping I was done with all that. I guess we’re never quite done. The one silver lining is that, when I’m feeling truly overwhelmed with rage, I find cleaning quite therapeutic. My clothes have never been more neatly folded in my life.Buying things no longer makes me happy I’ve always had a dirty little consumerist soul, and ever since I discovered, at the age of around 14, the thrill of coming home from town with bags of clothes, I’ve found that few things soothe me more than buying something new. It didn’t even really have to be for myself. At various times, I’ve tried to soothe a bad mood by buying: gifts for people (sometimes for birthdays, but often for no reason); clothes for the boys; plants; cushions; kitchen appliances; subscriptions; YMCA memberships… you name it, I’ve reached for it in a time when I felt like I needed to be cheered up.(I’m trying not to make this a shame- or guilt-themed post, but I do realise that this is a truly terrible admission to make, when it comes to the carbon emissions and the state of the world’s landfill and probably myriad other reasons… I realise all of this, and yet I have been an avid shopper for most of my life. I’m nothing if not imperfect.)This year, though, I finally started to feel… nothing, really, after an online splurge or trip to the “mall” (I cannot say the word “mall” without putting on my best Valley girl accent, and I’m sure that’s very annoying, so, sorry to anyone who has to listen to me). No matter how cute the toddler outfit, how gorgeous the dress, how perfect the plant… I’ve felt nothing.This could, obviously, be related to my unpredictable mood, but it might also be a sign of something greater. Maturity?! Surely not. Maybe my desires are just shifting somewhat, and I’ll need to find my comfort elsewhere. (I do keep meaning to get back to my knitting, so maybe 2024 will see me enter my crafting era.)Gratitude isn’t all sunshine, rainbows and latte artMy sister bought me a gratitude journal and I will admit, I was… puzzled. Me? A gratitude journal? Have we met? Still, I supposed it fit with her persistence in buying me writing-themed books, notepads and planners – with her determination to enthusiastically encourage me to write more, write better, write often. (That b***h.) And, though I scoffed at the very notion of it, reading out examples, “I’m grateful for the sandwich my husband made me” and LOLing uproariously at them (maybe my laughs came from a place of knowing, not the Glennon Doyle style knowing, but the normal knowing, that my husband would never make me a sandwich that I’d approve of because the cheese would be sliced too thickly and there would be too much mayonnaise on it and honestly does everything need pickles?!?!)… but this morning – so I will acknowledge that this is a late addition to the 2023 lessons cohort – I sat down to write in it and I struggled. What am I grateful for? What would make this day great? What affirmations can I write down about myself that are (a) honest and (b) things I wouldn’t mind someone else reading, should this gratitude journal somehow find its way into someone else’s hands?It has a daily habit tracker, too, and a page for goals – three of them – for the year, side by side with another list, of things that need to be done in order to achieve those goals. I’ve already filled them out, imbued, weirdly, with a sense of optimism and determination (is this what motivation feels like?!) that 2024 might just be the year I achieve what I set out to. So maybe I am grateful for the journal, and. my sister, after all. In case you’re interested, this is the journal that’s about to change my life (except on US Amazon it actually has “gratitude journal” written on the front, because Americans aren’t so afraid of their feelings I guess).Start writing today. Use the button below to create your Substack and connect your publication with Anchor Baby This is a public episode. If you'd like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit rosemarymaccabe.substack.com/subscribe

As I wrote these pieces – vignettes, I suppose, from a life thus far – down, I felt embarrassed by how much power I have allowed men (so many men) to hold over me. I envy Jennifer Connelly’s Sarah her moment of rebellion. I long to echo her words: “You have no power over me.”I might add this to my (growing) list of things to discuss with a future therapist, but for now I thought I’d share them with you. Because why? I don’t know. I think there is a sort of kinship in recounting the ways people’s words have hurt us, even if they didn’t mean them to, or if they barely remember what they said, anyway.Sticks and stones? Those bruises heal. But words, they leave an imprint.#1 Can’t dance? Don’t danceIn the very early ‘oughts, I started going to hip hop dance class on Aungier Street with my cousin Roseanne and, occasionally, one or other of my friends who fancied trying it out. Run by a woman named Jane Shortall, the classes took place in an enormous sports hall within the Aungier Street YMCA. In each one-hour period, we would learn the choreography to a portion of a specific song, led by Jane, standing on a stage with one, sometimes two, assistant dancers. Towards the end of the class, we would split into two groups and turn towards the middle, taking turns to “perform” for the other group. There was a dance-off vibe, but any competition was friendly. We were as likely to cheer on the other side as we were to feel any sense of superiority or satisfaction when we saw someone trip over their feet, forget the move halfway through. That the one song I can remember performing to, in that time, is S Club 7’s Don’t Stop Movin’ speaks to how loosely we were interpreting the word “hip hop”, but I loved it. There is something so beautiful, so freeing, about moving your body to loud music, especially when that’s in communion with other people – and, a crucial aspect for me, takes place in a space entirely devoid of mirrors. I understand the utility of a mirror in a dance setting, as I do in a weight lifting setting. It helps to see exactly what your body’s doing, where exactly you’re going wrong in one move or another. But when the experience of looking at your body is uncomfortable, alien or filled with shame, as it is for many of us, the mirror itself can serve, I find, to take us out of the moment, a reminder of the discomfort we usually feel towards, and as a result of, it.In any case, my time under Jane Shortall’s tutelage was sporadic, at best. At no point would I have been considered “intermediate” or, even that consolation prize of “advanced beginner”. And I didn’t consider myself a great dancer. Maybe an “okay” dancer, “good”, at a stretch. But it somehow didn’t matter: I wasn’t dancing for any reason other than to dance, to spend an hour moving and sweating and celebrating movement itself. The night I met my ex, Scott (not his real name), I was performing a dance routine, miming the act of removing a glove with my teeth, a move I had learned at the burlesque class I’d attended in the Liffey Trust Studios on Sheriff Street with my friends Clare and Emma. There, we were not afforded the dignity of a blank wall to stare at, instead charged with looking directly into our own eyes as we shimmied and shook, ran our feather boas down our arms, reached a pointed finger towards a toe (resplendent in a heeled shoe, I barely remember the version of myself who was able for this), kicked a heel up behind us. I did not, needless to say, feel exceptionally comfortable, or competent, at burlesque. But that night, something came over us, as if we were musical performers of old, a kind of adorable, coquettish double act. When my ex and his friend came over to ask what we were doing, I was convinced that their tone was one of awe and incredulity. We had lured them in with our invisible gloves, those invisible fingers, gently grasped between our teeth. There are many ways to ask someone what they are doing. I imagine it written down, as in a play. [seductively]: “What are you doing?” [curiously} “What are you doing?” [accusingly]: “What are you doing?” [mockingly] “What are you doing?”I guess I’ll never know how he meant it, but it doesn’t seem important now. We were in conversation, then, and from being in conversation we were soon in bed and, later, in love. It wasn’t long after this meeting that I danced in front of Scott for, I guess, the second time, although this one was in earnest, in a bar with a dance floor, no invisible gloves to be (not) seen. I dragged him with me and began to move, not in any specific or particular way that I remember, just in a way that felt good. He balked. [laughingly] “What are you doing?”There is a very specific kind of shame that comes with having someone point out, quite calmly, as if they thought you knew, that you are bad at something you enjoy or, worse, that you look stupid doing it. He was the type of person who did not enjoy looking stupid in front of other people, seeking to avoid that eventuality at all costs, which made his laughing at me all the more galling. He was embarrassed, second-hand, for me, for this false impression I had of myself as someone who could (who should) dance.He wasn’t doing it to hurt me. I think, in that moment, he truly thought that I knew how bad a dancer I was, and that I simply didn’t care, an attitude he might even have admired, had he thought long enough about it. But I did care, very much, and I suddenly felt as though a spell had broken, as if he was that mirror (the one I didn’t want to dance in front of), reminding me of how ungainly, how uncooperative and shameful my body was. I don’t think I’ve really danced – and I mean danced, thrown my hands in the air and let my body move and allowed myself to enjoy the sensation – since. As I write this down, it seems painfully sad to me that someone else’s self-consciousness did so much to stymie what little joy I had once found in my physical body, but it’s a hole I can’t seem to shore up. The mirrors have come out and they follow me around now and I don’t know if I’ll ever get to dance like that again.#2: “Shame about the face.”When I was around 13 years old, I was obsessed with a boy named Barry Eustace, who was in the year above me in secondary school. I don’t remember ever actually talking to Barry – as in, what we talked about, or why – but I do remember calling him on the landline in my parents’ house, asking his mum if I could speak to him. We kissed one night at a community disco, held in the same hall where, a year previously, I had cried hot, embarrassed tears when it was discovered that I had stolen a small tub of glittery play dough from the large basket of Santa gifts left behind after the Christmas bazaar. Santa had long since left the building – he would arrive on a helicopter each year, and we would all stand on the tarmacadam a safe distance away, waving into the gale force wind whipped up by the helicopter propellor blades – and I figured that the toys that had been left behind were fair game.I was wrong, of course, and someone else’s mother caught us red-handed, a small group of 11- and 12-year-olds, pockets full of someone else’s Christmas gifts. She marched me over to my mother, shouting loudly at and about me as I wept. Now, I can’t ever imagine shouting at someone else’s child – maybe my sister’s, now that I think about it, but definitely not some other woman’s child, at a public school event. I guess times have changed. Anyway, the hall was decked out differently the night of the disco – or, at least, the lights were dim enough that we didn’t notice the decoration, or lack thereof. I sent a friend to ask Barry if he’d “meet” me, or maybe I said “shift”; at some point in my youth, one fell out of favour, and the other in, but I can’t remember when, or in which order. He must have said yes, because we ended up kissing. I straddled his lap on one of the seats lined up around the edges of the hall. He put a hand up my top and squeezed my left boob in a way that felt thrilling, all the more so when an adult – some poor schmuck who’d been talked into chaperoning – marched over to separate us with a tsk-tsk and a “don’t make me kick you out!”Much as I can’t imagine shouting at someone else’s child, I can’t imagine getting involved in the adolescent wranglings of someone else’s teenagers. I feel sick just thinking about it, mostly because it would make me feel terribly old, and desperately uncool. I wonder if that’s how that man felt, that night when he surely drew the short straw and was dispatched to prevent the progression of our ardour. The following day at school, I expected to begin the kind of dance that would precede the commencement of a boyfriend-girlfriend relationship. His friend would whisper to mine, and mine to his, and so on and so forth until we were holding hands at lunchtime and kissing one another behind the maintenance shed.Instead, what happened was this: my friend Chris, being a neighbour of one of Barry’s friends, had been chatting to a group of lads that included Barry, the neighbour, God knows who else, and someone had brought me up. I don’t know how, exactly, but I can imagine: they heard we’d kissed the night before; “what’s going on with you and Rosemary”; a bawdy, “so… Rosemary, eh?”What mattered, what matters, is what he replied, nonchalantly and with a shrug of his shoulder. “Rosemary,” he’s said to have laughed, and then, a summary: “Nice tits. Shame about the face.” Of course, Chris should never have relayed any of this to me. I would have discovered, sooner or later, that Barry wasn’t interested in me or, honestly, I might have discovered that he was. Maybe this was all bravado, big talk in front of “the lads”. Maybe the whisper machine would have worked its magic eventually. What did happen, instead, was that I cried. I cried in front of Chris, in front of my friends, who consoled me, assured me that Barry was a dickhead, not deserving of my time, my tears or my tits. I never called him again; I don’t think. I never even made eye contact with him again, I was so hurt and embarrassed.His was a throwaway comment: cruel, and thoughtless but, ultimately, not something said to my face and probably not something he imagined would get back to me so swiftly. But his opinion of me was something I internalised, picked up in my arms and tucked away inside myself, and for years afterwards, it rang in my ears as I got dressed, always choosing the push-up bra, the low-cut top, the nipped-in waist that would emphasise my “nice tits” and, I hoped, draw attention away from my shameful face.It’s not that I thought I was a supermodel, before that, but I was somehow operating under the assumption that my own feelings about my face – it wasn’t great, too much chub and not enough eyelashes and why was one eye smaller than the other? – were mine alone, and that other people didn’t really notice it, one way or another. But now I knew: I was wrong. They did notice it, and found it lacking.#3 “How come you never learned to cook?”Johnny (not his real name) was someone I never should have dated, for myriad reasons. I was just out of a five-year relationship that had ended, if not particularly dramatically, then traumatically enough, at least for me. My self-esteem was at an all-time low and I was terribly afraid that I was too old, too fat, too depressed and too much of an internet pariah for anyone to ever fancy me again. This would have been the perfect time for me to throw myself into therapy, spend time with friends, take up a new hobby in an attempt to see life as having more to offer than romance and the validation of sexual interest. But no: I did what I had always done, and threw myself into my next relationship with what can only be described as gusto, and within weeks of our first date we were spending Friday nights (and Saturday nights… and, honestly, a lot of weekday nights, too) in my house, cooking meals or ordering in, watching old movies and falling asleep on the couch. (I have never been great at dating, and “relationship mode” seems to be my default.)It was on one of those early cosy nights in that he first began to criticise my cooking. I was making bolognese, I think, a recipe of my mother’s that’s pretty straightforward: a base of onions and garlic, ground beef, carrots, mushrooms, tinned tomatoes, tomato puree and mixed herbs, simmered for as long as you can simmer it, until it is a rich red colour and thick enough to coat a piece of penne, a bowl of spaghetti.I have never been especially interested in cooking, and my repertoire has always been fairly limited, but I can follow a recipe and I try to make things tasty, at the very least, so when he stuck a finger (red flag #1, honestly) into my bolognese sauce and laughingly exclaimed at how bland it was, I was taken aback. Still laughing, he asked, “How come you never learned to cook?” while rifling through my spice drawer, taking out onion and garlic powders, dried basil, then a small bottle of worcestershire sauce and a beef stock cube, neither of which I would ever have added to bolognese. He mixed as he added, a drop of this, a soupćon of that, until it was to his taste, pronouncing, “I mean, it’s not great but it’s better”, before going back to the couch to await his serving. His criticism was like that: dropped, seemingly out of nowhere, and then just brushed past (by him, not by me) as if it hadn’t been criticism or, at the very least, as if I shouldn’t have interpreted it as such. “I can’t control how you choose to react to what I say,” he said to me once, weaponising the years of therapy he had done, a fact I initially thought would make him a great communicator, an understanding partner, a thoughtful lover. Instead, honestly, it felt like it just gave him an excuse for his bad behaviour, and a reason to bemoan mine. His therapist agreed with him, he once told me, that there was no point in his apologising for something (terrible) he’d done. “I’ll just end up thinking about it non-stop and that will set me back,” he’d said, as if his were the only feelings that mattered. Another time, when I pointed out that I felt – I used a lot of “I feel” or “it seems to me” statements with him, because anything stronger was met with an aggressive level of defensiveness – as though he never really asked how I was, or how my day had been, he took no time to tell me I was right. “I can’t ask how you are – because what if you tell me you’re doing terribly, and then I have to take that on? I have enough to deal with.”Despite, really, his being an opinion I shouldn’t have had much faith in, his derision of my cooking abilities really knocked me for six (of course, that sent me down a rabbit hole: “knocked for six” a phrase that is said to have originated in cricket). I don’t think I’ve ever really regained that confidence. Like I said, I wasn’t knocking out gourmet meals with ingredients like gochugaro or anything in “reduction” or “foam” form, but I had a few recipes I was pretty happy to whip up for friends. By the time Johnny was done with me, I was saying things like “I can’t really cook” or “I mean, I can make it, but I can’t guarantee it’ll be nice!” with a nervous laugh.It’s taken more than five years, but the way out of the mire of cooking insecurity has, for me, been through the bellies of children. I’ve found myself making simple, straightforward dishes – orange chicken with jasmine rice; pasta, layered with (that very same) bolognese, shredded mozzarella and a little pasta sauce, topped with cheese and breadcrumbs and baked in the oven until golden; a kind of smorgasbord of sorts with celery and peanut butter dotted with raisins, pita breads and home-made hummus, chicken nuggets, tater tots and watermelon, feta and basil salad. That last one probably doesn’t count as cooking, but you get the gist. Children, I find, are very straightforward food critics. They like something. Or they don’t. There’s no “this is bland” or “you should’ve added more salt” with children. (That could have something to do with the fact that they just add ketchup to everything, but that’s beside the point.) In making food I know they’ll like, I’m slowly reminding myself that I’m not entirely crap at this and, in any case, you don’t have to be good at your hobbies. I’m not sure we’re quite at hobby level just yet, but we’ll get there.If you’d like to read more of my dating stories, my menmoir, This is Not About You, is available now in most good bookshops and on Amazon here. This is a public episode. If you'd like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit rosemarymaccabe.substack.com/subscribe

It’s been pretty hard to miss the news that Taylor Swift has been designated Time’s 2023 Person of the Year (and, arguably, harder to ignore the discourse that this is an egregiously cowardly and apolitical stance, in a year where we’ve seen the courage, strength and tenacity of the Palestinian journalists who are reporting from the front lines of their own genocide by Israeli forces, in a conflict that has seen the highest number of journalist casualties of any conflict since records began… but I digress).Multiple articles have been written about the news, some of which even include warnings from Elon Musk, the 2021 title holder (what a difference two years makes…), and her interview with Time has been disseminated and quoted as far as the eye can see. Anchor Baby is a reader-supported publication. To receive new posts and support my work, consider becoming a free or paid subscriber.One of the moments most often referred to is her “beef” with Kanye West, and subsequent back-and-forth with Kim Kardashian, who does, it must be said, know first hand, the power of video. Now, seven years later, Swift is talking about the effect Kardashian’s social media postings – in defence of her then-husband, West – going as far as to say that it felt, to her, like the death of her career. (This assertion has also been given a lot of tabloid inches; the first single Swift released after the Kardashian “drama”, a duet with Zayn for the Fifty Shades Darker soundtrack, I Don’t Wanna Live Forever, went straight to #1.) Still, Swift is frank about the emotional impact of these events. “That took me down psychologically to a place I’ve never been before. I moved to a foreign country. I didn’t leave a rental house for a year. I was afraid to get on phone calls. I pushed away most people in my life because I didn’t trust anyone anymore. I went down really, really hard.”Regardless of how impactful you feel Kardashian’s Snapchat showdown really was – seven years later, Swift is smashing records with the Eras tour, the first ever concert tour to gross more than $1 billion – the true takeaway from all of this Time chatter is that, despite her talent, money and ability to nab, honestly, every and any man she sets her sights on, Taylor Swift is just like the rest of us: petty, bitter, and holding on tightly to her grudges.What makes it all so much sweeter is that, without a doubt, grudge-holding is not the done thing. A quick Google search – this advanced methodology is, perhaps, why I never did a PhD – for “holding a grudge” shows a pretty definitive verdict. “When we hold onto grudges and resentment, it’s like drinking poison and expecting the other person to get sick,” says Angela Buttimer, MS, NCC, RYT, LPC, a licensed psychotherapist at Thomas F. Chapman Family Cancer Wellness at Piedmont. “It causes us to carry negative, tense energy in our biology.”I may not be a doctor of any kind, but even I know that the notion of “carrying” energy, negative or otherwise, in our “biology” is some kind of massive quackery that doesn’t bear too much delving into. (For more on quackery of all kinds, by the way, I highly recommend the podcast If Books Could Kill, which deep dives into an array of the kinds of self-help and “succeed in business” titles you’re likely to see in an airport bookshop’s bestsellers display.)And while the broad consensus is that the holding of grudges is, overall, not good for us, there’s no denying that we all do it. Thankfully, there are some dissenting voices – like Sophie Hannah (of course, a Brit, probably tied with the Irish as the world’s champion grudge-holders), whose book, How to Hold a Grudge, is a self-help book that extols “the power of grudges to transform your life”. There’s even an accompanying podcast.If you think about it, the centuries-old wisdom that tells us how very important it is to forgive and forget is a kind of insidious form of gaslighting, inducing us to just… move on and ignore the fact that we have been willfully hurt by someone who simply may not deserve our forgiveness (or to have their bad behaviour forgotten). It can also often pile guilt and shame on top of a sincere sense of hurt or a deep wound that we are not permitting ourselves to give the appropriate respect and consideration to. How can we heal if we’re too busy telling ourselves that we should be over it, that we should, instead of processing our own trauma, be focusing on forgiving and forgetting? But don’t forget: while holding a grudge might feel like the right thing for you, your feelings and your ability to process those feelings, it’s also possible that it could be standing in the way of your moving forward, and that’s no bueno. For me, a lot of my grudge-holding has been emboldened by the knowledge that the perpetrator in question isn’t even sorry, but it turns out I’ve been barking up the wrong tree because, according to the experts, “forgiveness exists separately to reconciliation.” I’ll admit I have my doubts, but I’m willing to look into it a bit more. For now, though, I’m just happy in the knowledge that billionaire superstar Taylor Swift and I have more in common than cat ownership and fancying every man we’ve ever set our eyes on – and hers is company I’m quite happy to be in, thank you very much. I might – might – consider dropping those grudges next year. Stranger things have happened…Anchor Baby is a reader-supported publication. To receive new posts and support my work, consider becoming a free or paid subscriber. This is a public episode. If you'd like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit rosemarymaccabe.substack.com/subscribe

I listened to an episode of the Give Them Lala podcast today in which Vanderpump Rules Lauren “Lala” Kent interviewed Real Housewives of New York’s Brynn Whitfield, which proved to be the perfect confluence of my two guiltiest pleasures. The two gals – with sporadic, kind of weird interjections from Jessica and Easton, Kent’s regular co-hosts – covered a wide array of topics, from how to give a great b******b (honestly, I almost turned off at that point, not because I’m a prude, obviously, but just because that’s not something I think can be taught through the medium of podcasting but maybe I’m just a visual learner) to the difference between LA and New York and why it is that Whitfield goes for men with money. Anchor Baby is a reader-supported publication. Subscribe between now and Oct 31st, and 100% of your first payment will go to the United Nations Relief and Works Agency for Palestine Refugees in the Near East.I’m paraphrasing here, because I can’t find the exact time stamp and the episode is over an hour long, but she ultimately tells Kent that she just really, really values ambition, and goes on to say that wealth is such a sign that a man is ambitious, and that’s very sexy to her. Kent does a lot of mmm-hmming throughout this explanation, only short of shouting “yeah, girl!” at Whitfield – I am pretty sure she does, in fact, shout this at several points throughout the interview, which was another bug bear for me. I hate a sycophantic podcast interview; while I love Elizabeth Day’s writing, I stopped listening to her podcast, How to Fail, as each and every interview (without fail) was preceded by a monologue in which she expressed just how much she enjoyed speaking to this person, with a (slight) variation on the sentence, “I could have kept on talking to them for hours!” I was particularly aggrieved when she said this about Made in Chelsea’s Jamie Laing, who seems like someone who is best taken in small doses, but maybe that’s just me. Anyway. Whitfield’s assertion that wealth is so closely related to ambition gave me pause, because it’s simply – and obviously –not true. I remember reading a Refinery29 money diary (no, they didn’t copy me, I copied them, so sue me) a few years back in which the diary-writer spoke about how she and her partner worked out who paid for what. He worked on Wall Street, in some high-paid financial role that had to do with aircraft leasing or hedge funds (or both, who knows), while she was a teacher, who also tutored high-school students in her spare time. They both worked long hours as a result, but in the diary, she detailed how she did more of the housework than he did, because – and she wasn’t complaining about this, merely stating it as fact – he contributed more financially. So: because her work time was quite literally worth less than his work time, due to some arbitrarily decided notion that teaching is less valuable than money management, he seemed also to think that her leisure time was worth less than his, and should be spent tidying the house. Because he contributed more in terms of money, she had to somehow “make up for that” by taking on more of the housework (which, honestly, who among us doesn’t anyway… but I digress). His time off was more important, because his time on was more important, and the reason he thought this? Because he was equating his salary with the value of his work. Of course, there’s the argument that she could have gone into finance, too, and maybe she could have. Money diaries don’t do a great job of giving a tonne of context, so we didn’t know what her background was; how much her parents earned; how she did at school; whether or not she could have made it to an Ivy League school, or toughed it out in the world of finance and accounting, which sounds, honestly, exhausting and horrible. But what if she didn’t want to go into finance? What if she wanted to go into teaching, in the knowledge that a career in teaching is never going to be the best paid career going? Does that mean that she’s not ambitious? If ambition is best displayed in terms of one’s salary – six figures plus only, please – does that mean that teachers can’t be considered ambitious? What about nurses? Paramedics? Graphic designers? Artists, even? Sure, there are artists who will “make it”, and by “make it”, I mean, produce work that sells for five figures, although that work can often take months, even a year or more, to create, and earning five figures for a year’s work is not exactly Richie Rich territory by most standards – but for the majority of artists, and florists, and make-up artists, and hair stylists… they are not career choices that are made with high earnings in mind. Oxford defines ambition in the following two ways:* a strong desire to do or to achieve something, typically requiring determination and hard work."her ambition was to become a pilot"* desire and determination to achieve success."life offered few opportunities for young people with ambition"…while “success” is defined as “the accomplishment of an aim or purpose”, and there is nothing to say that aim or purpose is in any way related to finances. In a capitalist society, of course, we can assume that the broad definition of success includes a nod – several nods – to monetary success. Dolly Parton wasn’t pouring herself a cup of ambition before chilling out for the day and maybe taking her dog for a walk, after all, was she?There is an almost evangelical belief that prolonged, persistent hard work will lead to material success; a rudimentary search for quotes about ambition leads to numerous suggestions that ambition is nothing without persistence; ambition is nothing without hard work. What’s interesting about this belief, in fact, is that, according to a 2012 report by the Pew Research Center, titled, peppily, ‘Pervasive Gloom About the World Economy’, the more money a person has, the more they are likely to hold tight to this idea that “most people can get ahead if they apply themselves”.The fact that this correlation is made by Whitfield – a biracial woman who was born in Indiana to a mother with addiction issues, later going on to be raised by her grandmother – is where my surprise truly takes wing. Surely, as someone who was born into poverty and experienced child neglect at a very early age, Whitfield would have seen ambition take many forms in her family and the society she grew up in, and recognise that people can be ambitious in ways that don’t define success in monetary terms. Maybe I’m just asking for too much critical thinking from my Bravo stars. (I’m mostly joking; I genuinely think both Kent and Whitfield are smart women who have a lot to say on a variety of important and interesting topics, but I know that their origin stories – on Bravo reality shows – might lead people to think otherwise.)I would love to know, though, do you consider yourself ambitious? And, if you do, what does success look like to you?I just finished People We Meet on Vacation, an Emily Henry book I thought I’d already read – and, honestly, wasn’t sure I hadn’t read until probably halfway through – and I… didn’t love it? Maybe there’s only a certain number of books I can read by a single author without feeling as though they’re repeating themselves, I’m not sure. I was also… bored by yet another “petite” lead character! Ali Hazelwood is terrible for a tiny science woman. Can someone please, for the love of god, suggest some contemporary women’s fiction (heavy on the romance, smut always welcome) that features either a plus-sized girlie or a female character whose weight and size is never mentioned?! PLEASE.Anchor Baby is a reader-supported publication. To receive new posts and support my work, consider becoming a free or paid subscriber. This is a public episode. If you'd like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit rosemarymaccabe.substack.com/subscribe