It’s been a whole year since I last updated this blog. O turned 3 this month, and again, everything’s changed. The first 6 months of 2014 were a bit of a rollercoaster, in fact, and scrolling down through some of these posts I almost don’t recognise some of the entries. So much has changed in so little time,  and other things that seemed out of our reach before are now part of our routine. I’ve always kept records of my life –  now OUR lives – in the form of journals, diaries and blogs (as well as occasionally freelancing as a journalist), and for reasons that I can’t quite explain other than lack of concentration and general mental-blurriness, I’ve stopped writing altogether for about a year. Well, the silence is gone now, I hope. Being a mother has been teaching me along the way that it takes time, patience and a lot of mindfulness to get to where you want to be, or even stay where you are. Three of practice, in fact, and I still think there’s a long, long way to go.

So, to get things going, I’m gonna post below a little short story I found while backing up my computer. I wrote it last year and submitted to a mainstream fashion mag writing contest, before forgetting all about it (I’m guessing it didn’t win anything, as I never heard from anybody). It’s supposed to be about how fashion manifests itself in someone’s life and shapes their view of the world. I chose to write about my confusion at founding out I was having a girl (I thought I wanted a boy because I’m quite tomboy-ish and had mostly male friends till I became a mum), and how we navigated a bafflingly divided world of pink and blue.


Pink and Blue

It started with the little cross sign. It was a faded blue, its intentions not uncertain as its colour seemed to be. An unwelcome accident (aren’t they all?) it meant life could not go on as it was. “I’m way too young for this”, cried my jobless, 28-year-old reflection in the bathroom mirror, all ripped denim and shattered dreams.

The image on the screen of the technician was also blue, electric and fierce. “It’s a little princess”, he says, and my vision blurs. A girl? But I don’t know how to deal with them. Never had many of them around for long. What was I supposed to do with a princess?

“Now we know the sex, we should go shopping!” exclaimed my thrilled mother-in-law. Sensing my bewilderment, she takes me into the girls’ section of a department store, all pink bowls and frills. My eyes blur again. I sneak into the boys section and suddenly blue surrounds me, reassuringly. There, I find it: a tiny denim shirt, the kind I desperately wanted for myself. “I think I’ve found something”, I say. “But that’s a boy’s shirt”, she exclaims while I pay for it. “I know,” I say.

The gifts start arriving, every one of them drops in a sea of pink. I put them away and clear a rack in my overworked bookshelf. Instead of baby manuals, I fill it with feminist authors. My partner raises an eyebrow: “Getting acquainted with the business of being a woman?” he asks, and then says to himself, “better late than never.” I’m suddenly grateful for having chosen him.

Her first outfit is white, a plain cotton onesie, a blank canvas like I thought she would be herself. But she’s far from it. When she arrives, it’s not in the way I wanted her to. It’s my first lesson: “You think you’re a riot? Wait till you get to know me,” she seems to tell me, opening her big brown eyes. My heart pounds in surprise, and my eyes are full and foggy yet again. I’m head over heels with pride and love.

Then time flies out the window, and with it, everything I’ve ever learned, everything I’ve ever thought I wanted. The pink fluffy dresses go, and with them the tiny blue denim shirt. At two, she won’t comply with my rules, or anyone else’s, unless it’s tinged in bright yellow. Hair long and scruffy, Converses dirty with the remains of play dough and paint, she then runs in my direction, arms and smile wide open, and asks me to read her the story of Dorothy and the ruby slippers. “There’s my princess,” says my now exasperated mother-in-law, a glimmer of hope in her tone, aware of this sudden manifestation of girliness.

“There’s no place like home,” ends the story, and then suddenly I get it. A ball of contradictions lying next to me, she’s the embodiment of my most cherished lesson of all: to be nothing but one’s own colourful self.


Gone, Baby, Gone


My baby is gone. And I only realised this after watching this little film of O in her Tiny Trike  (which was kindly sent by the toy wizards of Galt Toys), and realising she’s slightly too big for it already.  It leads me to the rhetorical question of the day: How can she outgrow things? SHE SHOULDN’T. SHE CAN’T. I haven’t had time to have enough of her as a baby. She loves the little bike so much that when she wakes up, she jumps on it and cycles to the living room for her milk. At least that, she still has some of her baby habits: milk, dummies, nappies (yes, not potty training yet. SUE ME.) I can’t help by being nostalgic. I wonder if it’s always gonna be like this? Constantly pining for the fleeting moments that make up a childhood. There was a time in my life when I used to miss my own childhood. Now I’ll be missing hers too.

I know what you’re thinking. And NO, I’m not having another one. Not now anyway. Thanks for asking.

2 Years Old

And she’s two.


A little girl, who speaks two languages (okay, sort of), who’s got her own friends, favourite books, films, shoes and toys.


What happened to my baby?

You see, new mums out there: when people tell you not to worry too much about it – whatever your concern is – because soon it’ll be over, and you’ll be fighting other battles like brushing hair and teeth and picking film options because you bloody memorised all the lines from Finding Nemo, it’s true. People told me about the infamous terrible twos, and now I totally get it: it’s like having a very small teenager at home. The fights and tantrums are all about her trying to establish her independency while suffering from severe bouts of PMT – or in her case, growth HORMONES or something – and me trying to get us to do stuff on time while looking mildly presentable and healthy. No biggie. To be honest, I think it’s great that she WANTS to do stuff by herself. That I just have to put a bowl of (decent) food on the table and she’ll feed herself with considerable skill (and mess, but whatever), that I can pick a spot on the grass and just watch her sing to herself from afar, that she can navigate the kids section on Netflix and pick her favourite episodes of Barney, that she wants to wear the same beat-up pair of shoes everyday (and by that I mean CROCS. YES, I GAVE IN. SUE ME) so I don’t have to worry about what outfits to choose.

So what that her hair is all over the place most of the time and her clothes are constantly dirty from playing outside and eating cherry tomatoes with her hands? So what that I’m lazy when it comes to buying toys and I never seem to remember to take them anywhere, so she’s got no option but her own resources? So what that she’s not in bed before 8pm sometimes, if it means she’ll wake-up 8am and get everyone late?

I think on the whole we’ve been doing alright. O (they call her Mowgli at nursery when she’s in her nappies. I think that’s hilarious) is becoming an extremely happy, loving and bright little girl, with a temperament alright, but then fierceness and assertiveness are extremely valuable personality traits in today’s world. I wish I was more like that.

I’ve started writing this post exactly a month ago, and as regular visitors to this blog must have noticed, I’m not very good at updating things quickly… So at the time I started, her favourite things were the following:

– Singing. All day long. I remember going to a few baby classes when she was a couple of months old, and being embarrassed at not knowing the words to ANY nursery rhymes (I’m Brazilian, remember. Wasn’t brought up in this country.). Believe me, I know them now. Learned them all through OSMOSIS.

– EACH PEACH PEAR PLUM, the book. Memorised all the words, and can point all the hidden characters, even though she doesn’t know the background story of any of them (Tom Thumb? Bo-Peep? Mother Hubbarb? Who ARE THESE PEOPLE? I LOVE them.)

– Nemo. The one from “Finding”. Watched it 849 times, and still gets apprehensive during shark scenes. Also: BARNEY, the Dinosaur, which initially annoyed me tremendously, now I think it’s cool. Bit of an old-school, 90s vibe in the house.

-“Parkie.” The playground at the end bit of London Fields. Lately, quite good for celebrity spotting, I must say. AND next door to E5, the best Bakery in the whole of the UK. Win-win situation.

– A doll version of Jesse, a stuffed Cookie Monster and Charlie The Bear

Now, a MONTH later, which is the equivalent of 10 light-years in toddlerhood, I can safely report that her current obsessions are:

– The Wizard of Oz: which she refers to as “Dorothy” or “Tin-Man”. I’m quite glad she got into it through a book that our cleaner gave to her (bless her), and it made me finally watch the DVD that’s been sitting in our shelves for the past decade. It’s really sweet, isn’t it? I can even skip like Dorothy on the yellow brick road while walking to Dalston Junction. There’s no place like home indeed.

– Blueberries: will eat a bowlful like popcorn. Convenient, as they’re in season and don’t yet cost £4 a box.

– Trains: will say “Choo-choo” at least 25 times a day, because of Dora the Explorer, not freaking Thomas The Tank Engine, thank god.

– Crocs: Did I mention I gave in? Yes. I’m trying to claw my way back in her shoe closet by pushing the Vans and Jordans, quite unsuccessfully. She will partake of Converses once in a while though, which brings me great relief.

– Pushing Toy buggies (not hers though – other children’s, a cause for endless tantrums from everyone), Cookie Monster and Charlie the Bear (Jesse has fallen on the train tracks at Marylebone station, my fault. I had to tell her she “escaped” to go home earlier. She hasn’t questioned me about it yet.)

#WOWSERS: Top London Mummy Blogger Nominee



What a pleasant surprise, dear friends. This humble blog, which gets updated once in a full moon, has been nominated Top London Mum Blogger by the readers of West London . Thank you so much for the 5 of you who come here to read my questionable babbling about motherhood and still felt compelled enough to vote for us – I’m just terribly sorry for being so inefficient at posting on a regular basis. If it’s any consolation, this inefficiency is applied with extreme determination at all other areas of my life. Motherhood, specially.

But I’ll be back soon with more tales, specially now that we’re out of babyhood and just entering the much anticipated (cue drums, TAM TA RAN TAAAAM) Terrible Twos. OH, THE JOY. SCREAMING, TANTRUMING JOY.


lotta love xx

Motherhood Zine is now ONLINE

Hey, you mama: it’s your lucky day. I’ve decided to publish my printed zine Motherhood on, so you can read it online. Unfortunately the printing costs were getting a bit high for such a small personal project, and this way you can choose to download and print it yourself, if you wish.

I’ll be working on a second one with friends this time, so keep your eyes peeled for Motherhood #2, coming soon.

If you can’t see the embedded version below, click here to read it.


Not Even Two, and There Must Be The Right Shoe.

O is not even 2, TWO YEARS OLD, and she already knows exactly what kind of shoes she wants to wear. And I’m not talking trainers over sandals, boots over slippers, etc, NO. She is capable of telling the difference between her very similar black Melissas, one by Vivienne Westwood and the other by the Campana Brothers. To the untrained eye, and I say this coming from a fashion background, there isn’t an immense difference between the two – they’re simply variations of the same theme, little black Mary Janes with little design features in them.

But she REFUSES, point blank, to wear the Campana Bros ones (the ones on the left in the picture), and whenever I try to sneak the shoe on her feet while she’s distracted by Curious George or something, she needs only to glimpse my furtive act to scream a furious “NO!”, kicking the shoe away as if it’s boiling hot. Then she points to the Westwood ones, and sighs in relief. If she could roll her eyes, silently reprimanding me for my lack of better judgment, I’m sure she would.

I just REFUSE to see this as a genetic disposition. But I’m looking forward to applying this distinctive eye for design to other areas. Maybe by the age of three she will be in charge of interior decoration in our family. I could make use of that.


Raising Little Feminists : Films

So my daughter O. is about to turn 2.

I’ve been worried about her being enraptured by the pink princess culture from the moment I found out through a scan I was having a girl, and since then I’ve been adamant at not buying into this trap. For months I refused to dress her in anything containing pink, ruffles or bows, and avoided girly toys such as baby dolls and little prams like the plague, but then I realised that forbidding her to wear or play with whatever she wanted was not the point, really. If anything, instead of leading her into a path of critical-thinking and self-fulfilment, my shielding tactics could do the exact opposite, and eventually push her straight into a pink, glittery pool of extreme girliness. What she needs to understand is that there are options.

So I’ve relaxed a bit, and lately a fairy dress and a tiny buggy made their ways into our house (via two mischievous aunties who insist on ignoring my silly feminist ways), but so did little cars and trains and even a toolbox. She plays with them all, although she does give preference to the buggy lately because, I assume, it’s something on wheels. She does the same to walkers or scooters that appear on her way, so I’m guessing the she doesn’t make any elaborate considerations on the impact of a toy pushchair upon a little girl’s psychological perspective of motherhood. Not YET.

She’s also started making distinctions between her clothes, and so far, to my surprise and amusement, she always wants to wear trainers rather than the girly shoes with sparkly detailing (I have no idea how these things end up in her wardrobe), and her favourite coat is an enormous boy’s puffa jacket that honestly, must feel like wearing a cloud. There’s something about the making of some girls garment that evoke feelings of stiffness and constraint in her, and at her age (and any other age, I suppose) there’s nothing more important than being able to move freely.

So far, so good.

And now she started paying attention to films. Possibly failing only to peer pressure on the influential stakes, films worried me a lot more than any frou frou garments or gender-segregating toys. Storytelling, as we know, is a powerful vehicle of ideas, values and principles, and it goes without saying that some vacuous Disney princesses were not exactly the best embodiment of what I considered to be important: independence, self-confidence, inventiveness, and fearlessness.

Take Ariel, for example. In the Little Mermaid, she starts out wanting to explore the world outside the ocean, but before she even has a chance to do it, she falls in love with a handsome prince and is willing to chuck it all in, including her voice, her friends and family and her ideas of adventure to simply stay by his side.

Then there’s Snow White, who escapes enslavement by her stepmother to work as a cleaner for the Seven Dwarves, and then is rescued by a prince. And who else is rescued by men? Oh yes. Belle, Cinderella, Aurora, Jasmine, Rapunzel, Pocahontas, etc etc etc.

And then l I saw Brave. Merida, the film’s heroine, is a teenager princess who loves nothing more than her freedom to ride her horse and shoot arrows with masterful ability. She refuses to accept imposed marriage as her fate, and will go to extreme lengths to fight her decisive mother who just wants her to be a “proper princess”.

The news that Disney gave Merida a sexy makeover, complete with eyeliner and a shoulder-baring dress, made my heart sink a little. She’s wild and authentic and self-assured throughout the film, at one point ripping a tight dress that’s impeding her to show her archery skills. She wouldn’t fall for the sexy shtick – she barely accepts hiding her wild hair under a medieval bonnet. She, most importantly, does the rescuing rather than being rescued, sword in hand and all.

As with fighting the dumbing-down of women’s magazines, the battle against gender stereotyping and segregation in children’s culture is a hard and most likely a long one. Thank goodness for the existence of organizations such as A Might Girl, a website that promotes books, films, toys, music and clothes that involve girl empowerment. Their petition to keep Merida Brave instead of turning her into a Babe so far has garnered nearly 200,000 signatures – a sign that maybe parents and consumers are ready to move on from silly princesses.

To my surprise, O’s favourite films right now are Hotel Transylvania, about a teenage vampire who wants to explore the world but is kept confined in a hotel by her worried father, and Finding Nemo, also about a worried father going on a huge adventure across the oceans to find his kidnapped son.  No strong female leads yet, but then again, I don’t think she even knows the difference between boys and girls. Wouldn’t it be nice to keep it that way?

In the meantime, here’s a few ideas for girl-powered films that could serve as an antidote to simpering Cinderellaness to little girls. Let’s hope there will be more alternatives soon. For more ideas, check out the wonderful collection put together by A Mighty Girl.

Kiki’s Delivery Service

These days we can’t barely imagine letting children play on the street unsupervised without having Daily Mail headlines screaming inside our heads, now imagine letting your 13-year-old leave home in the middle of the night for an unsupervised, unplanned gap YEAR? That’s what Kiki, a young witch, does. In order to become a training witch, and encouraged by her own parents, she simply takes off on her own in a flying broom, taking along a moody talking cat and her endless optimism. It’s basically letting your kid go on an exchange program, except there is no program; you have no idea where it is, how she’s going to feed herself or who she’ll be talking to. The fact that she comes up with a business idea to support herself, works hard, and even rescues a boy and saves the day, makes this story truly ingenious. Talk about a fearless role model for young girls.


I discovered Matilda way too late in life, in my late twenties, and was somehow sad that I didn’t get to know her in my childhood, when I started developing my obsession with reading. Imagine how inspirational to find a girl who could read entire libraries at the age of four and then develop super-powers to fight OPPRESSION (in the form of ignorant parents and teachers). She’s my hero to this day.

Monsters Vs Aliens

This film was a very pleasant surprise. A young bride, before living in the shadow of her jerk of a boyfriend, becomes a giant monster after being hit by a meteorite. As soon as she understands her capacity for greater things – and that includes saving the planet from a Saturday Night Fever-clothed Alien Octopus –  she realises she doesn’t need any man to take care of her. Definitely a role model.

My Neighbour Totoro

Spirited Away

MOTHERHOOD – zine for cool mamas #1


Hellow again.

Back in december 2012 we had this thing called Xmas Break, an ungodly pair of weeks during which I was stuck in the UK winter with a bored toddler and several unfulfilled new-year resolution lists. I was going a bit out of my mind, and to keep myself entertained (you thought I was going to say “SANE”, didn’t you?) I made a ZINE about motherhood. Initially, it was going to be a bunch of pieces about myself and O, like our regular blog posts on paper, but then I thought “what’s the point?” So I decided to have a bit more fun.

In this very badly designed little booklet, you’ll find pages full of rants, stupid collages, random lists, unwanted advice, stolen pictures, ideas and references, and lots, LOTS OF WORDS IN CAPSLOCK. I HAVE A THING FOR CAPSLOCK). That includes the fictional diary of a MCHCSBBSAHM (Middle Class Hip Cool Stylish But Bored Stay At Home Mum), a love letter to TV, an editorial with celeb mums posing in National Geographic landscapes, mums’ reviews, a playlist, and a guide explaining how to become a REAL COOL MUM™ (plus a quiz to find out if you really are a RCM™). SOUNDS APPEALING? I didn’t think so either. But if you still think it’s worth investing £2 in it (plus shipping), then drop me a line at

Check out some of the pages below from a little vid I posted on Vine.




1 and a Half.


Nearly 19 months has gone by. You know what I’m gonna say, right? Yeap. TIME FLIES. I don’t think I’ve changed much during this time – and I mean PHYSICALLY, because psychologically I’m unrecognisable – but Little Miss O has gone through a world of transformations. Gone are the days when I could calmly make decisions on her behalf without further explanations or the eminent threat of confrontation. As with every toddler in the world, she has a will, and a STRONG one if I can be more specific. She wants it all, and she wants it NOW. Saying like that, it almost feels like I should be proud of producing a little being full of THIRST FOR LIFE, but no, it ain’t that romantic, i’m afraid. If only her requests and aspirations were in synch with mine… then we would have a ball, hanging out everyday reading books, drinking tea, and having anxiety attacks over episodes of Breaking Bad. Not so much. What she wants IMMEDIATELY, most of the time, includes:

– cheese (Babybels. Obsessed with them)

– crackers

– to go out in the cold without her coat on

– to run straight into the middle of a busy road

– the iPad and whatever iPhones are in sight

– her dummies. If she could squeeze two or three in her mouth at the same time, she would.

Peepo! – The picture book, at bedtime. Must be read at least twice in a row.

Re-reading that list now, it doesn’t look like she’s THAT demanding. It’s because that list is about what she WANTS. The list gets a lot more elaborate if we start adding what she DOESN’T want. Which, if I can summarise, is EVERYTHING I WANT for her. That includes:

– Most healthy food groups, specially of the green variety

– Three full meals a day, instead of the two scarce concoctions she normally eats, which are topped up by incessant snaking throughout the day

– To sit quietly in the buggy during public transport journeys

– Hell, to actually just STAY in the buggy for more than 15 minutes at a time without going hysterical

– To use a bib at meal times (I’m a bit tired of removing tomato sauce stains from millions of tiny clothes)

– To get rid of those annoying dummies

Alright, I admit that the list above is also not particularly troublesome either (it’s not like the kid has, i don’t know, BEHAVIOURAL ISSUES), but then what mother doesn’t want their kids to do exactly what they want? It’ll never happen, of course – so maybe I should start listing the good things too. That includes reading in bed (my own books after her picture books. I call that “multi-tasking”), singing nursery rhymes at the top of her voice, going for long walks, learning about animals and the ABCs (mostly through apps, but we try to balance with books and toys), dressing up, dancing in the living room to Bob Marley and Frank Ocean, watching cartoons early mornings, sharing breakfasts, “fake-cooking”, and generally rolling around on the floor and the sofa and the bed tickling and biting each other.

Of course the house is a constant mess, and I never have time or space to do my own things while she’s around (did I say how much I LOVE our nursery? Definitely don’t love what they charge us, but hey, time and trust are PRECIOUS, aren’t they), we can’t hang out in cafés and restaurants yet (not when there are, like, OTHER PEOPLE around anyway), and I definitely can’t conclude a single rational thought whenever I’m in mummy mode, but boy, it’s all worth it. She’s the love of my life – even when she refuses to throw away that bloody dummy. <3










Talk the Talk (16 Months)


She’s had another haircut. We’re sticking to the Playmobil look.

She talks now. Sort of. She whines more often than actually babbles, but I do recognise some words amongst the verbal diarrhoea (argh, don’t you hate that word? Reminds me of all the nappies I’ve had to deal with in the past year and a half). Her favourite, obviously, is “no”, which she pronounces the Brazilian way, with a nasal sound (“não”) and I find it unbearably cute. I know soon I’ll find it incredibly irritating, specially as this is her immediate reply to whatever question I ask these days, even if the question itself is “Would you like to have chocolate cake for dinner then go to bed at midnight?” She also says “bye”, “mamá” (not for “mum”, but as a general word to ask for anything, as in “can I have that?”) “vovô” (grandpa), “daddy”…that’s about it. Everything else resembles a South American unknown dialect, a bit like “dode baboom tutetotito nana pipapepe”. It must be quite liberating to speak like this. When I was small and didn’t speak English, I would invent words to sing along to my favourite songs. Once me and my brother actually wrote down in a piece of paper all the words to Bob Marley’s Redemption Song in our own gibberish language, so we could sing along. We knew they didn’t mean anything, but it was so much fun. Hell, I actually do this to this day – sing the lyrics wrong on purpose, driving O’s dad mad. I think one day O will literally teach me how to speak proper English – she’ll just take the piss out of my accent and snigger whenever I use prepositions wrong yet again. Looking forward to it.


What a predictable child.


This picture was taken when I completely lost my sense of dignity and decided that baking a cake together would be FUN. It certainly was for her.