I have a newfound hatred for midges — I’ve found myself angry this week. A sudden rage, more than an irritation, that took me entirely by surprise. And it was all down to a tiny midge bite on my son's eyebrow.
How dare they bite my son, I remember thinking. I spent nine months growing organs and limbs and eyelashes only to have a wee beastie mark its territory - on his beautiful face, no less. I am one of those annoying people who isn’t bothered by midges too much. They can be annoying, yes - their incessant in-your-face buzzing is enough to ruin a beach picnic or even just a walk to the shop. But they don’t seem to care for my blood, so I tend to get off lightly. Meanwhile, if I look to my right, my husband is sporting several new bites - they like him. And apparently, they like Cailean, too.
It feels unfair in a way that only small, irrational things can. As though our wee island has rules, and we had somehow managed to avoid this particular one until now. Of course the midges would find him eventually. Of course they would go straight for his face.
He was entirely unbothered — it was me that carried the indignation, the protective flare of anger that motherhood seems to have gifted me. Thanks for that.
Read more Elle
- Living on a Scottish island has taught me you have to rely on people - not systems
- Out here on Rum, a granny’s visit is special
- I’ll never again take for granted the act of having a cup of tea and a slice of cake
And then of course, there’s the other type of anger reserved for a special kind of irritation — the highs and lows of home improvements. This week, my attention has shifted to quite possibly the most important room of the house; Cailean’s nursery. It feels odd, seven months in, finally preparing something that I truly thought would be ready in time for his November arrival. Instead, it spent the better half of the first year of his life as an exaggerated storage cupboard/guest room, piled high with boxes of clothes and cat food and nappies — and underneath it all, a double bed, a desk and a cabinet. The true definition of a spare room.
There’s a reason why I’m tackling it now — Cailean has moved out of our bedroom and into his own space. It turned out we were a major contributing factor to his terrible sleep, and our nights have been a little easier ever since we made the move.
And so suddenly, the nursery mattered more. In the last seven days, it has undergone a complete transformation. Creating it has been equal parts joy and frustration. There is a particular kind of rage reserved for wallpaper that refuses to line up properly and bubbles that won’t smooth. And yet, layered underneath that frustration was a soft realisation — I was making his room. His first real space in the world. It hit me when I drew back his blue striped curtains and looked to the wild hills of Rum outside. There was a slight break in the clouds, and the sun was streaming across Coire Dubh, the waterfall glistening in the afternoon glow. A window that shared a view so wild and rugged, and perfectly ours.
Inside, though, everything has been chosen, or made, or pieced together as best we can.
That’s not always easy here. There are no second-hand shops to wander through. You can’t just pop out and find the perfect lamp or a better-fitting shelf. Everything takes planning, ordering, waiting. It means, more often than not, buying new when you’d much rather give something old a second life.
Read more Elle
- When you visit my Scottish island, there is one thing you'll notice is missing
- What six months of motherhood and habits on a remote Scottish island have taught me
- From maternity leave to working mum: a week of island life that changed everything
I’ve felt that acutely while putting the room together, that tension between wanting it to be thoughtful and sustainable, and the reality of island life. And it means that my deliveries coming off the ferry have been embarrassingly plentiful.
But there are small, meaningful touches that have made it to his room.
We have the multicoloured blanket hand knitted by his granny draped over our armchair. We have a print from the artwork we commissioned for our wedding — ten seabirds, one for each table — hanging on his wall. It feels like a quiet thread tying different parts of our life together, something that existed before him now sitting in his space.
And then there’s my favourite frame that I pieced together this week.
When he was born, people sent cards, so many cards, each with his name written in a different hand. I couldn’t throw them away. Instead, I’ve cut out his name from each one and pieced them together into a single frame.
It’s uneven and imperfect and entirely irreplaceable. A small collage of all the people who welcomed him into the world. And to the readers of this column who took the time to write to me following his arrival — you’re now a really special part of his first bedroom. Standing in the room now, it doesn’t feel finished in the way social media might define it. There are still things to fix, things to move, things that don’t quite match. But it feels like his, and that is perfect to me.
My next task? A midge net on his window, of course.
Share