A Warning Message
About being exposed over a babychino.
I push his wooden cot across the floor, out of his room and into mine. A permanent resident of my self-chosen village is coming to stay, so the guest room needed reclaiming. I’d been thinking about it for days before he arrived, and it already had me on edge.
Then there was the other problem. The one I couldn’t ignore.
Not Sent
Yasmin is typing… stop. Delete. No message.
Yasmin is typing again… delete. Again, nothing.
My best friend will never know what I almost sent him.
Last week he flew to Barcelona to spend a few days with little-us and me.
A subscriber pointed out in the comments of my last newsletter how special that is - someone booking a flight just to hang out with you and your kid. I hadn’t clocked it until she said it.
I had been nervous about the visit.
Before little-us, a friend coming to stay meant maximum fun. Coffee spots, good wine, long tapas lunches, vermouth, wandering without a plan, conversations that just kept going.
Now a toddler runs the day. Playground, park, bath time, books. Nap time means someone stays home even if the sun is doing its best work outside. Bedtime takes an hour and is non-negotiable. We are summoned awake at seven by our tiny indoor rooster.
I can read people. No poker face hides unmet expectations from me, and I would have known immediately - if the playground felt like a waste of trip time, if the nap window felt like a punishment. So I started drafting a warning message.
Yasmin is typing… Hey, really excited you’re coming - just so you know, there’s a small human involved. Our mornings start sort of early. At seven. Afternoons happen at home. Restaurant dinners involve our dining table and me cooking. See you soon, ok bye!
Friends obviously know there’s a tiny human involved. Somehow I still forget that part.
I never sent it.
He arrived, dropped his stuff, and we went straight to our local coffee spot. He added a babyccino to the order without asking. That evening he did bedtime stories while I cooked, put the Duplos away, woke up at seven without a trace of bad mood, and slipped into our rhythm like it had always been his.
Most of my pre-worries were a waste of a perfectly good nervous system.
We had a blast. Little-us got so attached that now, every time the doorbell rings, he screams his name.
I was reminded again: the right people don’t need a warning message. They show up, read the room, and meet you where you are.
Put them in your village, and lock that gate.
Unhinged Recipes
Wannabe Italian
After a week of gambas al ajillo, pan con tomate, and fried sardines (the best, by the way), I started craving an Italian sandwich. My kitchen cabinets informed me there was no bread. Could I walk two blocks to the bakery? Of course. Am I going? Absolutely not. Luckily, I have a strong imagination.
Eggplant becomes the bread. Mozzarella, fried paprika, tomatoes, sautéed spinach in garlic.
Roast until soft and slightly charred. Stack like a sandwich, finish with pine nuts, press together.
Ha un sapore delizioso. And I didn’t have to put on shoes.
Elevator Mom Diaries
Exposed
Fuck, fuck, fuck - fuckkkk.
Not me because the elevator is broken and I’m dragging a stroller and a 13-kilo toddler upstairs. Honestly, I wish it was that.
No. This is the newest addition to my two-year-old’s vocabulary.
Excellent parenting, Yasmin.
I know exactly where he got it. I use it mid-sentence. Not angry, just… conversationally. Add a week of me talking non-stop with my best friend, and the word was fully locked in.
My first reaction didn’t help. Horror, surprise, and - I’ll admit it - a small laugh. That was enough.
We tried damage control. I introduced a replacement: “Chipsie.” It worked for about two days.
Then he ran an experiment. “Chipsie” gets nothing. “Fuck” gets everything. Especially when his dad is around - big reactions, instant attention, sometimes a full chase through the apartment while he runs away laughing. From his perspective, this is a perfect system.
Yesterday, we stepped into the elevator. He looked at our older neighbour - strong grandmother energy - smiled, and said it three times, directly into her face.
Like WTF?!
Full confidence. Perfect delivery. Wrong moment.
I just stood there, my bad habits publicly exposed, without notice.
Our Spanish grandma neighbour, who doesn’t speak English, understood this one perfectly.
Outro
This week reminded me: the right people give you energy. The wrong ones leave you tired. Not bad people - just not yours. And honestly, the only one allowed to fully drain me is my toddler. That’s his role in this household.
It took me a while to see it. I kept overriding the feeling, making it work, being nice.
Now the village is smaller. Less polite. Much better.
And the difference is obvious. My energy runs so high that my toddler sometimes looks at me like: okay, calm down mom.
- X - Yasmin
See you Sunday, 9:00 CET
Love it. Since we moved to the UK, we've had lots of friends and family fly to visit us. But, of course, our new home is tiny, so this always requires a reconfiguration of our sleeping arrangements. I actually find it quite difficult to share a room with my toddler. She has turned me into a light sleeper.
Lolllll screaming at the elevator story 😂