Let’s get the obvious out of the way; it’s called St Patrick’s Day. Paddy’s Day is also acceptable. What it is never called is, Patty’s Day. Never.

I honestly struggle to remember how we survived without having a facility to record multiple episodes of a rude little pig, with exceptionally broad vowels, when we had our first child, writes Lindsay Woods.

There is no guide book to navigate grief. It is messy and uncomfortable. It is uncomfortable to even write about it.

The comedown is real. I have not entered into such a state of mourning since the makers of Toblerone announced the ridiculous addition of ‘extra spacing’ between the pointed triangles of delicious nougat loaded chocolate.

There is nothing that causes me to experience cold sweats, nightmares or a considerable migraine than the note detailing the costume guidelines for the Christmas play, writes Lindsay

The day the dishwasher packed in, I baked two dozen chocolate chip cookies.

There comes a point in your adult life when you think: ‘Yes, this is it! This is what it surely means to be a grown-up?’ I have yet to reach that point. I am now afraid that I may never reach it and will be doomed to spend eternity in a wannabe adult limbo of sorts: not being allowed the freedom associated with youth yet still expected to pay the mortgage.

September is the new January. But,without the festive burnout, increased waistlines and frantic Google searches to locate several recipes as to how best to use up/conceal the leftover turkey in each and every meal.

”You must have patience!” Said by a woman as my then two-and-a-half-year-old was in the grip of a meltdown of nuclear proportions.

It's safe to say that I took networking for granted prior to becoming a parent.

Today, we all wake up in a very different country from the one we knew yesterday.

It has begun. The waking in the middle of the night, drenched in sweat to gently nudge my husband from his peaceful slumber to ask: “Did you get the copy of the birth cert?”

By Lindsay Woods

It happened over a bowl of Cheerios. As most things generally do. My daughter saves her best work for when we all sit down to eat. She is six-and-a-half. The half is important.

Congratulations. You made it through Christmas. You were a triumph of festive frivolity, a domestic goddess of all things culinary, you jingled, you jangled, regaled visitors with your sparkling wit and tinkling laughter and had Santa himself questioning his prospects for early retirement, writes Lindsay Woods.