I'm never going to be the type of parent who lives blissfully amongst chaos. I've stumbled across many an inspirational poster stating something along the lines of, 'please excuse the mess, we're busy making memories', and it makes me want to buy whoever came up with that quote the biggest shelving unit I can get my hands on along with a lifetime's supply of storage baskets. My memories are not made in mess, they're made in being reasonably on top of things so that I have enough home and head space to do and plan fun things. That's just the way I am.
Ask me my favourite book, and I might smugly shrug and utter the name of some rather obscure French title I suffered through at university.
Très impressionnnant, non?
Raise your eyebrows at me, and I'd probably wrinkle my nose and say,
'Okay, Philip Pullman's His Dark Materials trilogy'.
These are books I genuinely do love despite having memories of sobbing on a flight from Manchester to Zürich and having to stop myself from wailing out loud,
'No Lyra, don't leave Pan. Please don't leave, Pan. Don't leeeeeeeeave him, Lyra!'