An honest account of gentle parenting, six children, cold tea and the slow disappearance of my last remaining brain cell. Before I had children, I had some very strong opinions about parenting. I was going to be calm. Patient. Understanding. The sort of mother who crouches down to her child's eye level and says things like, "I can see you're having some big feelings right now." I would never shout. I would never lose my temper. My children would eat vegetables, tidy up after themselves and communicate their emotions in healthy, age-appropriate ways. We would bake bread together. Read books under trees. Spend our afternoons collecting wildflowers. I would be one of those beautifully grounded, emotionally available mothers who smells faintly of lavender and homemade sourdough.
Anyway.
I have six children now. And yesterday I found myself shouting, "WHO HAS PUT A WET SOCK IN THE FRIDGE?" Nobody answered. Nobody ever answers. Apparently, I live with six highly trained government agents who have all signed confidentiality agreements. Gentle Parenting Is Going Brilliantly, Thanks for Asking I genuinely believe in gentle parenting. I believe children deserve respect, understanding and the freedom to express their emotions. I believe in listening. I believe in connection before correction. I believe in recognising that children are human beings, not tiny robots designed to make our lives easier. I also believe that if I have to ask someone to put their shoes on seventeen more times, I may spontaneously combust. Both things can be true. There's a moment in every parent's life when they hear themselves say something so utterly ridiculous that they briefly wonder whether they've been possessed.
Things I have actually found myself saying, or could easily imagine saying in this house:
"Please stop licking your brother."
"Why is there a potato in your bed?"
"Don't put that in the dog's mouth."
"Whose pants are these?"
"WE DO NOT THROW CHEESE AT PEOPLE."
And my personal favourite:
"Can everybody please stop shouting?"
Shouted.
At full volume.
By me.
The emotionally regulated adult. Wonderful.
Six Children, One Mother, Approximately 4,000 Questions People often ask what it's like having six children. Imagine you're trying to make a cup of coffee. Simple enough. You put the kettle on.
Child one asks what happens when we die.
Child two needs help finding something that is literally in their hand.
Child three wants to know whether worms have feelings.
Child four is crying because somebody looked at them.
One of the twins has discovered that a wooden spoon makes an excellent weapon.
The other twin has decided that sleep is a conspiracy.
Somebody needs the toilet. Somebody else has already been to the toilet but has left behind evidence of a small-scale natural disaster.
The dog is barking.
The kettle has gone cold.
You start again.
This is repeated until approximately 7pm.
Then somebody asks why you're tired.
I HAVE NO IDEA, DARLING. IT'S A MYSTERY.
Unschooling Has Really Added an Exciting New Level of Chaos
We unschool. Which means our children have the freedom to explore their interests, follow their curiosity and learn through real life.
It's wonderful.
It's beautiful.
It's liberating.
It also means that on any given Tuesday, my kitchen might contain a science experiment, three half-finished craft projects, a collection of suspicious-looking rocks and a child researching whether they could theoretically build a working catapult. And because we encourage curiosity, I'm apparently supposed to respond enthusiastically.
"That's fascinating, darling! What made you interested in medieval siege weapons?"
Rather than:
"ABSOLUTELY NOT. PUT THE WOOD DOWN."
Some days we have gorgeous, wholesome moments. The children are outside discovering nature, asking thoughtful questions and working together. I stand there thinking, This. This is why we chose this life.
Then someone hits someone else with a stick. And we're back. I'm a Witch. Apparently That Doesn't Mean I Can Make Anyone Listen.
You would think being a modern witch would give me some sort of advantage.
A little extra intuition.
A stronger connection to the universe.
Perhaps the ability to manifest five minutes of peace.
No.
I can light a candle for calm.
I can cleanse the house.
I can set intentions.
I can pull tarot cards.
But apparently I cannot magically convince a child to put their dirty washing in the basket that is positioned approximately eight centimetres away. I have considered creating a spell specifically for this.
Something involving rosemary, a full moon and a strongly worded letter to the universe.
Dear Universe,
Please grant me the strength to remain patient, the wisdom to pick my battles and the supernatural ability to make socks find their way into the laundry basket. Also, if you could locate the missing television remote, that would be lovely.
Blessed be.
Honestly, forget love spells. The real money is in finding lost shoes and making children flush the toilet. Nobody warned me about the washing.
I knew children needed clothes. I understood the general concept of laundry. What I did not anticipate was that six children could generate enough washing to sustain a small industrial cleaning facility. I finish one load. Another appears. I empty a basket. It refills. I fold a pile. Somebody knocks it over. At this point, I don't even think the clothes are dirty. I think they're reproducing. There is a cardigan somewhere in this house that I have washed seventeen times and never actually seen anybody wear. I don't know whose it is. I don't know where it came from. But it's part of the family now. I've named it Susan. Everyone Wants a Snack. Nobody Wants the Food We Actually Have.
Another fascinating aspect of motherhood is the snack situation.
My children can eat breakfast. A perfectly reasonable breakfast.
A substantial breakfast. A breakfast that would keep a Victorian farm labourer going until lunchtime.
Four minutes later:
"Mum, I'm hungry."
Of course you are.
Would you like an apple?
"No."
A banana?
"No."
Toast?
"No."
What would you like?
"Something nice."
WHAT DOES THAT MEAN?
We have a kitchen full of food, yet apparently nothing edible. Unless it's the last biscuit I've hidden for myself. Then suddenly everyone has the instincts of a highly trained sniffer dog. The Bathroom Is Not a Safe Space. I've heard people recommend taking a few minutes alone in the bathroom when motherhood gets overwhelming. This is adorable.
Who are these people? Do they have children? Have their children ever seen a closed door? Because mine view a closed bathroom door as a direct threat to national security. I can be completely ignored for forty-five minutes. Nobody needs me. Nobody speaks to me. I might as well be invisible. But the second I sit on the toilet?
"MUM?"
"MUM, WHERE ARE YOU?"
"MUM, CAN I SHOW YOU SOMETHING?"
"MUM, WHAT ARE YOU DOING?"
Well, darling. Considering I'm sitting on the toilet, I thought I might be building a small extension. What do you think? And somehow, by the time I emerge, there are three children waiting outside, somebody is crying and an argument has broken out about a pencil.
Here's the thing, though. Underneath all the noise, mess, washing and slightly unhinged conversations, I really do want to be a gentle, patient mother. And sometimes I am. Sometimes I respond beautifully. Sometimes I listen without interrupting. Sometimes I handle big emotions with compassion and understanding. Sometimes I even manage to drink a hot tea. Those are very special days. But sometimes I'm tired. Sometimes I'm overstimulated. Sometimes I've answered so many questions that my brain has simply stopped accepting new information. Sometimes I get cross. Sometimes I shout. And when that happens, I try to apologise, reconnect and do better. Because gentle parenting was never supposed to mean being a perfect parent. It means treating our children with kindness and respect, even while we're learning how to manage our own emotions. It means repairing things when we get them wrong. It means remembering that we're human too.
And honestly, I think our children learn something important from seeing that. They don't need a mother who never makes mistakes.
They need a mother who loves them, takes responsibility and keeps showing up. Preferably one who hasn't completely lost her mind. But we'll work with what we've got. One Day, I'll Miss This. Apparently.
People love telling you that one day you'll miss the noise. You'll miss the tiny shoes by the door. The sticky fingerprints. The endless questions. The little voices shouting your name. And I know they're right. I already see how quickly it all changes.
The children grow.
Their voices change.
They need you differently.
The things that once seemed endless quietly disappear. One day there won't be six children needing me for everything. One day the house will be quieter. One day I'll probably make a cup of coffee, drink it while it's hot and wonder what to do with myself. And I imagine part of me will desperately wish I could come back to this moment.
The noise.
The chaos.
The muddy footprints.
The laughter.
The ridiculous questions.
The beautiful, exhausting madness of it all. But I would also like to make one thing very clear. I can love this season of life and still want to go to the toilet alone. Those two things are not mutually exclusive. So Here's to the Slightly Unhinged Mothers. The mothers who start the day with good intentions and end it negotiating with a toddler over a piece of toast. The mothers who believe in gentle parenting but occasionally need to stand in the garden and stare into the distance. The mothers who are raising curious, confident, independent children and sometimes deeply regret encouraging quite so much independence. The mothers who have read all the parenting books but still have absolutely no idea what to do when someone puts a fish finger in their shoe. The mothers who love their children more than anything in the world. And also love it when everyone goes to sleep. You're allowed to be both. You can be patient and overwhelmed. Grateful and exhausted.
Gentle and occasionally very, very loud. You can adore your children and still wonder whether a shepherd's hut at the bottom of the garden might be a sensible investment. Because motherhood isn't a perfectly curated Instagram reel.
It's messy.
It's noisy.
It's hilarious.
It's sometimes completely ridiculous.
And somewhere amongst the missing shoes, cold coffee and suspicious objects in the fridge…
It's actually rather magical.
Now, if you'll excuse me, somebody is shouting "MUM" from another room.
I'm going to pretend I haven't heard them.
Just for thirty seconds.
With love, chaos and probably another load of washing,
The Unschooling Witchy Mum
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