Recently, on a walk home, I saw a young boy run out of his house and hide behind his garden wall. I thought several things… Firstly, Is he alright? Does his mum know? I severely hoped that there wasn’t any predators crawling around, (Who knows…) Anyway, while walking down the street thinking these things, it hit me. I am that child. I am very much that child. Crouching desperately behind a less than adequate wall ( symbolic of my procrastination) in an attempt to hide from my big scary problems. Well, really my privileged first world problems, but my education system hasn’t really taught me a great deal else. I hide, knowing the inevitability of being caught, by deadlines, moaning teachers and my own guilt, and I shut my eyes and hope for the best. Only to be met for the awful realisation that I am actually the mother. Slightly scared, anxious and ultimately irritated that I have hid for so long, rather than just getting on with life and facing the fact that ‘it has to be done.’ The child in me is left recovering, clutching a slightly sore cheek, and the mother that I am so frequently likened to is giving me the lecture that it’s not just me I’ve let down, it’s the whole family. Which is also me in this situation… How odd.