Mrs Walsh

Mother. Wife. Writer. Millennial.

Millennial. Writer. Mother. Wife.

Human nature and society are forever trying to put different aspects of our lives into certain neat little boxes. Not through any ill meant motives but to try and make sense of this increasing complicated world.

Sometimes we like being in those boxes. We like our companions in there, the shape of the box is roomy and we don’t feel alone. They help us making peace with the sides of our personalities which can sometimes conflict.

But sometimes we don’t. We’re wrongly categorised.

We have the right to define ourselves and the right to grow and change – moving out of our boxes into new ones like a hermit crab outgrowing its shell and finding a snazzier one.

These are some of the boxes I fit into, aged 26, and what they mean to me – although as my husband will attest, I can change like the wind.


A millennial is, approximately, the generation born between 1984 and 1994. If you were coming of age around the Millennium (and know all the words to the Robbie Williams track) then you’re probably one too.

We come in several different skin colours and sexual orientations and believe strongly in higher education, the EU, an inclusive multicultural society, Crossfit and cheese.

Millennials are the perfect mix between growing up with technology but still being allowed to play outside until the street lights came on. I would not wish to be a part of any other generation, although the music can be sketchy at times.

Some of us have even started having babies (see below).

Our ‘box’ is pizza shaped, extra cheese, possibly considering going vegan to save the environment but never managing to follow it through past lunchtime.


At some point I decided that being responsible for another human life would be a good idea. There were ideals of pristine white rocking baby cots and long walks in the sunshine with a laughing child.

Well the cot is covered in teeth marks and now he barely gets through a day and a half at school without needing a clean jumper.

In almost five years I have dropped him into the toilet (whole other story), spent three of those years exclusively pumping breast milk (yep, another long story), and realised how grateful I am that I can read because at the moment the process of learning the English language seems like bloody hard work.

It is the greatest thing in the world – especially if you needed a lesson in appreciating alone time – and I am the perfect mother. When I say ‘perfect’, I don’t mean I don’t shout or never feed him beige food, but I love him and occasionally force him to eat a vegetable so it’s the same thing.

As a mum you’re a boss, a servant, an advocate, a teacher and a demigod. It’s my dream job, although he does put me in ‘jail’ quite a lot.

Our ‘box’ is eye bag shaped. Very, very spacious. But dark.


You may be getting old when you start getting school friends confused between their married and maiden names in conversation.

I used the old fashioned tradition of getting married young (23) but the modern way around (pregnancy, house, engagement, baby, wedding).

I told MR I mainly just wanted a new surname but even the ardent feminist in me loves being married, most of the time. Plus I get to threaten anyone who annoys me with that fact that MR is 6ft 6 and could stand on them if he wanted to.

You know what the secret to finding the perfect partner is – a mutual love of WWE and Gilmore Girls coupled with great self-restraint not to kill him when he snores.

However: 4 1/2 stars, would recommend.

The wife ‘box’ is W shaped. If it’s W monogrammed I’m buying it.


Guess what you create when you mix a young avid reader with an only child with lots of time on their hands? A writer with a brain that can create whole people out of thin air in under 20 seconds.

I didn’t realise this wasn’t normal.

I can’t draw or create artistic things from my head and I don’t mind that. Words are my currency. I’m a good counterfeiter.

It took me about 23 years to admit that writing was the part of my life I could not live without (apart from the family obviously but child labour is frowned upon as a career path). Sometimes I wear a journalist hat, a blogger hat, a copywriter hat and sometimes I just write dirty things about imaginary people.

Writer ‘box’ might as well be a literal dirty dog-eared cardboard box in an alleyway. As long as it had wifi the creative living would continue.

Other boxes I don’t mind hiding in:





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