Rose about five. Had breakfast. Got my housework done about time. Baked six loaves of bread. Made a kettle of mush and how now a suet and beef boiling. I have managed to put my house in order … Nine o’clock p.m. was delivered of another son.

– Mary Walker

I found the quote in an article by Donna Lee Brien, who was quoting Robinson, J ed (1999) Parrot pie for breakfast: an anthology of women pioneers, Oxford and New York: Oxford University Press.

For what it’s worth, I rose around 8am, did three loads of washing, handed the kid over to my mother, tidied up a little, and wrote. Then I cooked tea, ate it in the presence of a very very tired toddler (he doesn’t sleep at my Mum’s house) and then returned to bed. Dinner was what we affectionately call Crap Pasta, tonight’s version was eggplant with tomato sauce. The eggplant wasn’t completely cooked by dinner time, so I left it cooking and returned to my writing. Fortunately I remembered it about three seconds before ‘reducing’ turned into ‘burnt’, so all’s well. The Bloke has done the dishes, the kid is asleep, and I am not in labour.

There are so many things to be grateful for in this life. Maybe tomorrow I will get dressed.

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