One of the many gifts of three children has been the chance to re-live the newborn phase, each time bringing more wisdom and levity to the experience. The first time turned me inside out. I sometimes imagine how wonderful it would be to re-live that first time with what I know now. It’s a naive little fantasy, but one layered with nostalgia and regret. I’d hold Iole for as many hours as the day holds, and know that everything else –– the cracked nipples and plum-sized blood clots, the endless screaming and uncertainty –– would pass. She’s a teenager now, and as the first in line, I’m still more raw and unsure with her than I am with her siblings. “Every time you do something for the first time, I am doing it for the first time, too,” I often say to her in a plea for her patience and understanding. We can’t go back, but we can reflect on the journey, and move forward as wiser and more compassionate people. Iole is one of my greatest teachers. Happy Birthday, beautiful girl. You light the path.

“Remember who you are. Not just a wave, but the entire ocean. Not just a cloud, but the entire sky.”

I have a handful of friends that I’ve known for as long as I can remember. My memories of them span the gamut, from sandpit fights to vomiting out of car windows. They’re my road map back to where I started. When they send me pictures of their children I feel that I know the kids so well. The hair, the nose, the stance –– it’s all so familiar. That was the face I threw sand at. That was the ponytail I held back while you vomited out the window. Given that I am far from where I started, and not just geographically, that road map is really precious to me. I think about them all the time; Sunday lunches, our love for Christian Slater, and how we supported each other through deaths and divorces and Bet Lynch leaving Coronation Street. I wonder what their kitchens look like, and what music they play on the school run. The wonderful thing is, and I know this for certain, that we’d pick up right where we left off if face to face. Lower ponytails. Wrinklier faces.

One of the many things I miss about working in a communal studio is the sharing of ideas. Inspiration for a vase is just as likely to come from a studio mate’s work as it is a conversation about Sicilian lemons, Berber rugs or toys we played with as children. Working alone has many benefits. I am more decisive because I don’t have anyone to deliberate with. I follow my gut. Working alone allows for more focus. I am more productive. But what is missing is that beautiful thing that happens when two, three, four creative minds work together to unleash ideas that would otherwise never see the light of day. To see your influence manifest in another person’s work and vice versa is truly satisfying. This communal Frogtown studio, home to artists such as Hilary Pecis, Lily Stockman and Megan Reed sounds like a dream. “Deep conversations happen, where we’re pinging off of each other,” says Reed, who makes gorgeous and wacky sculptures from styrofoam and Sculptamold. “That’s the joy of being in a space like this. I feel that electric energy.” In an ideal world, I’d have a combination of the two. A quiet little studio in my garden, and a bustling studio to go to. A girl can have more than one dream.