Confessions of a Country Mum 

There’s a common myth that country life is “slower.” I would like to formally invite whoever started that rumour to spend a week with me. Slow? The only slow thing around here is the dog and occasionally the Wi-Fi.

The Morning Symphony (Also Known as Chaos in G Major) begins with birdsong. Beautiful, gentle birdsong.

And then, a chicken screams like it’s auditioning for a heavy metal band. The youngest yells, “Mum, where are my socks?” and I’m awake. I’m so awake. My husband makes me a strong tea (the type of strong where it could resurrect historical figures) and I stand at the kitchen window, looking over hills and pretend I’m in a wholesome musical. Then I notice the muddy shoes that need to be cleaned in record speed and shout the f word as there’s a missing tie to add to the list of lost things.

The other day someone on the school Whatsapp group announced that little Jimmy had only brought home one shoe. I immediately responded “Can everyone do some SOLE searching” (I’m not sure that went down well).

There are animals to feed, uniforms to wash, permission slips to sign, mysterious school projects requiring “one recycled shoebox, glitter, and your remaining will to live.” The current “project” is building a Motte & Bailey castle. A half term treat for sure.

Somewhere in there, I attempt to reply to messages, remember my own appointments and drink some water.

I know who is currently mad at who. I hold everyone’s feelings in my brain like a fragile egg box. And then someone drops an actual egg.

Here’s the plot twist: somewhere between feeding livestock and feeding children, I am trying to feed my soul too. I’m an artist. Being an artist in the country is beautifully inconvenient. My “studio time” looks like twelve minutes before school pickup, fifteen minutes while something bakes and nine minutes before someone needs help locating their emotional stability.

I’ve sketched while stirring soup. I’ve wiped acrylic off my hands with a tea towel that definitely used to be white. But here’s the thing: creating feels like breathing properly. Like I’m not just the engine of the household—I’m a person who needs to create. If I don’t, I am not myself.

People imagine artists floating around in linen, sipping herbal tea, pondering the light. I hate herbal tea. I might float occasionally, but it’s not like that. It’s way messier than that.

Country life seeps into everything I create. The land. The air. The wide skies. Mud. The feeling of being small but rooted. The constant motion. The mess.

Sometimes I think my art is just my brain trying to process the sheer magnitude of caring for everyone but art is the one thing that belongs entirely to me. Even if I have to guard it with my life and a locked studio door.

Let me gently confess: I do not have it all together.

Most days, dinner is questionable, the laundry wins, the house looks like a farm-themed obstacle course and I forget what day it is. But the kids and husband are loved. The animals are fed. The paintings exist. And somehow, so do I. It’s muddy boots by the door. It’s tired eyes and a heart stretched wider than the horizon. Every now and then, everything pauses. The sky turns pink over the hills. The kids crack up at something silly.  The dog is asleep at my feet. Someone does a kitchen dance.  Paint dries on a canvas that feels honest.

And I think: this is it. This wild, busy, beautiful life. I am raising humans. I am raising animals. I am raising vegetables and flowers.  And I am still raising myself. Messy. Creative. Exhausted. Grateful. Country life might not be slow. But it is full. If you need me, I’ll be in the studio. Unless someone can’t find their socks… again.