Your Afternoon Cry: Caitlin Moran's Posthumous Tips for Her Daughter


No, thankfully Caitlin Moran isn’t dead. She’s alive and — for the most part — doing quite well. There’s just one thing: Her daughter is about to turn 13 and the stress of it is making Moran possibly smoke herself into an early grave. And it was with that in mind that she penned this funny, touching essay for The Times, in which she doles out some thoughtful advice for her kids in the event that she prematurely kicks the bucket.

In “My Posthumous Advice for My Daughter,” Moran, in typical good humor, writes:

Dear Lizzie. Hello, it’s Mummy. I’m dead. Sorry about that. I hope the funeral was good – did Daddy play Don’t Stop Me Now by Queen when my coffin went into the cremator? I hope everyone sang along and did air guitar, as I stipulated. And wore the stick-on Freddie Mercury moustaches, as I ordered in the ‘My Funeral Plan’ document that’s been pinned on the fridge since 2008, when I had that extremely self-pitying cold.

What follows is a list of life tips and while some of it is for laughs, the vast majority of it consists of invaluable advice that we could all probably use, even if we’re not Moran’s (almost) 13 year old daughter.

She reiterates the importance of kindness:

The main thing is just to try to be nice…You will be bright and constant in a world of dark and flux, and this will save you the anxiety of other, ultimately less satisfying things like ‘being cool’, ‘being more successful than everyone else’ and ‘being very thin’.

Surrounding yourself with people who love and care about you:

Choose your friends because you feel most like yourself around them, because the jokes are easy and you feel like you’re in your best outfit when you’re with them, even though you’re just in a T-shirt. Never love someone whom you think you need to mend – or who makes you feel like you should be mended.

And loving yourself:

Stay at peace with your body. While it’s healthy, never think of it as a problem or a failure. Pat your legs occasionally and thank them for being able to run. Put your hands on your belly and enjoy how soft and warm you are – marvel over the world turning over within, the brilliant meat clockwork, as I did when you were inside me and I dreamt of you every night.

The entire essay is well worth the read, but be warned: happy tears are a risk here.

My Posthumous Advice for My Daughter [The Times]

Image via Getty.

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