It all started when we got told to "do it" for Australia. Former Treasurer Peter Costello urged Australians to have "one (baby) for your husband and one for your wife and one for the country". Firstly, who has a husband and a wife? A bisexual polygamist, I suppose (but then they wouldn't live in Australia because polygamist or not, if you are gay you can not get married, which is a whole other blog post). Secondly, who listens to Peter Costello? Well, it seems a lot of people listened to him and consequently, there was a baby boom. Even we listened, because we like to do everything he asks. Go forth and multiply we did.
Now, we are being told to stop procreating. Well, not exactly stop all together, but stop at two kids. In other words, stop shagging and having too many bambinos. No more babies for you. Stop at two, put the brakes on the baby making. The reason; more than two kids will put considerable strain on the environment.
Well, we have three children. We are over the quota. We are now officially contributing to the environment's demise. What do they want us to do, get rid of one? Which one would we choose? I mean they are all annoying at different times, but I'm pretty sure I'd like to keep them - all of them. But it raises the question; will the third born always have the weight of the world on their cute little shoulders?
So, it seems the naysayers out there must have run out of things to make pregnant women and parents feel guilty about so they've come up with this new gem. Having been pregnant three times I've been made to feel guilty about what I ate, what I drank, what music I played to my unborn foetus and for finding out the sex of my children. Then, once the babies came I was made to feel guilty for having c-sections, not exclusively breastfeeding, control crying and for craving alone time. Now, our kids are growing, the guilt continues. This time it's over what we feed them, how much exercise they have, how much tv they watch and daring to let them watch music videos.
And now I, like other families with three or more children, are being blamed for the demise of the planet.
Too many mouths to feed on the planet will cause it to implode. However, I refuse to feel guilty. I won't even blame it all on Peter Costello or our stupidity for listening to him in the first place. We are happy with our three children and you finger pointers can all get stuffed.
Thursday, October 28, 2010
Wednesday, October 27, 2010
Not anal, just organised...
Let me start out by saying I'm a Virgo. I'm not sure why that's important, but most people who encounter my "anal-ness" like to point it out. It's as if my birth date somehow makes me have the compulsion to be a neat freak. Personally, I don't believe that because I was born on September 4, I have no control over my overriding need to make sure all my knives and forks are neatly facing in the same direction or that my wooden bowl sits exactly in the middle of the table. It's just easier to blame my star sign. People seem to be more accepting of my "neurosis" if they can jokingly point the finger at me being a Virgo.
Don't think that my inability to relax if my surroundings aren't neat, extends to cleanliness. I am not keen on using the vacuum cleaner and I never get an ironing board out. I just like things to be in their place and I like life to flow exactly as planned. If I am not tidying, I am pre-planning.
Every night I place the kids' pjs on their respective beds with corresponding nappies. I get their clothes out for the next day (careful to check the weather first) and lay them in the hallway with their shoes neatly placed beside them. Then, I work out what I am going to wear and what the baby will wear. I pack the nappy bag. I fill the kettle and the coffee machine so they both have fresh water for the morning. All the time I am thinking; what are we doing tomorrow, when will we need to start getting ready, how long will it take to get there, are there any other places nearby we could go to while we are out and about? It keeps going, I could pre-plan, organise, anally compartmentalise my life, whatever you want to call it, all day long. Actually, I even wake in the night to plan events that are taking place in a year from now - what flight should I take to the wedding, what will I wear, how will I get from the airport, where will I stay, should I get my hair done? My internal voice does not shut up, ever!
While I was on one of my planing, tidying frenzies the other night, my husband told me to just "chillax". "No," I said. Well, actually I said: "Fuck off, you chillax". Anyway that's not the point. I gently explained to him that I could only relax when everything was tidy and organised for the next day. It went something like this. "Well, if there wasn't shit all over the place then I could fucking sit down and chillax," I said. "If everything is organised in our world, then we won't waste time stuffing around."
"Well, if you just stopped fucking planning all the time, you'd have time to do other things," he replied. Fair point, I thought to myself, but I didn't want to admit he was right. Instead, I took the attack route, as you do in any good marriage.
"Are you for real?" I said. "This is coming from the man who went to Bunnings to spend his Bunnings' voucher and when he came home had nothing, because he left his voucher in the car! We need each other. I need you to stop me from being so anally retentive and you need me to help find all the things you've lost."
And with that, he went off to find his keys and I turned the kettle to the left so it faced neatly to the front.
Don't think that my inability to relax if my surroundings aren't neat, extends to cleanliness. I am not keen on using the vacuum cleaner and I never get an ironing board out. I just like things to be in their place and I like life to flow exactly as planned. If I am not tidying, I am pre-planning.
Every night I place the kids' pjs on their respective beds with corresponding nappies. I get their clothes out for the next day (careful to check the weather first) and lay them in the hallway with their shoes neatly placed beside them. Then, I work out what I am going to wear and what the baby will wear. I pack the nappy bag. I fill the kettle and the coffee machine so they both have fresh water for the morning. All the time I am thinking; what are we doing tomorrow, when will we need to start getting ready, how long will it take to get there, are there any other places nearby we could go to while we are out and about? It keeps going, I could pre-plan, organise, anally compartmentalise my life, whatever you want to call it, all day long. Actually, I even wake in the night to plan events that are taking place in a year from now - what flight should I take to the wedding, what will I wear, how will I get from the airport, where will I stay, should I get my hair done? My internal voice does not shut up, ever!
While I was on one of my planing, tidying frenzies the other night, my husband told me to just "chillax". "No," I said. Well, actually I said: "Fuck off, you chillax". Anyway that's not the point. I gently explained to him that I could only relax when everything was tidy and organised for the next day. It went something like this. "Well, if there wasn't shit all over the place then I could fucking sit down and chillax," I said. "If everything is organised in our world, then we won't waste time stuffing around."
"Well, if you just stopped fucking planning all the time, you'd have time to do other things," he replied. Fair point, I thought to myself, but I didn't want to admit he was right. Instead, I took the attack route, as you do in any good marriage.
"Are you for real?" I said. "This is coming from the man who went to Bunnings to spend his Bunnings' voucher and when he came home had nothing, because he left his voucher in the car! We need each other. I need you to stop me from being so anally retentive and you need me to help find all the things you've lost."
And with that, he went off to find his keys and I turned the kettle to the left so it faced neatly to the front.
Saturday, October 23, 2010
Shagging horses...
It's Christmas time again and that means trawling through toy stores to find gifts for friends' kids and our kids. We don't have to search far though, as one of our children will be too small to even know she's got a gift and the other two have been pretty clear on what they want; Duplo and a Barbie pony stable.
This Xmas will be the first time Barbie enters our house. I've fought it for nearly four years, but with three girls it seems inevitable. I think our eldest will be most fixated on the horse anyway. And our two year old, well anything could happen there. I imagine Barbie will be thrown off the bed, while said child squeals "weeeeeeeee" and I could imagine Barbie will get slammed against the ground, while the two year old shouts "bang, bang" and perhaps, Barbie will have its limbs torn off. Our two year old isn't violent, just a tad crazy. Loco!
We've taken photos of said Barbies and emailed them to Grandma. Being the feminist that she is (and I say that in a good way) she'll 'love' to buy them for the kids. Nothing like buying a doll with DD cup boobs for your grandchildren. Hey, at least I'm not asking for Bratz dolls. THAT WILL NEVER HAPPEN. Those slutty Bratz dolls make Barbie look like a 'nice girl' and that's pretty hard.
Anyway, this story isn't about what our kids want for Xmas it's about the 'toy' I found. It was on sale which is always good when you're looking for gifts. It looked sturdy enough. It had potential to not only be fun, but also be used as a teaching aid. Kids could use the 'toy' for 'role play' and learn 'valuable' life lessons, vital for when entering the workforce. It would help develop a 'healthy work ethic'. And it would also help teach your children about 'food'. This 'toy' is now on my Xmas list.
At $59.94 this 'toy' is a steal. I can't believe they haven't run out the door. I mean, every little kid wants a McDonald's Drive Through Centre for Xmas. Don't they? And it even comes with 'food' so your kids can learn how to 'cook'. Not sure if the obnoxious kid comes with it, but wouldn't that make it even better?!
Are they fucking serious? Who would buy this so-called 'toy'? Could you imagine the reaction you'd get if you gave it to someone else's kids? If it came with a bong, a bag of marijuana and some real burgers I'd know a few adults who'd love it. But there's no way this gift is ever leaving or entering my house. I'd like my kids to aim a little higher - at least Red Rooster.
So, while marvelling at this 'toy' and feeling a little weird taking photos of it with my iPhone, my husband pointed out yet another marvellous sight at the local toy store. And I tell you, I didn't feel strange at all running down the aisle to grab a picture.
As I laughed, I knew there was only one thought going through my husband's mind: "Even the toy horses are getting more action than me". So true honey. This time you're right.
This Xmas will be the first time Barbie enters our house. I've fought it for nearly four years, but with three girls it seems inevitable. I think our eldest will be most fixated on the horse anyway. And our two year old, well anything could happen there. I imagine Barbie will be thrown off the bed, while said child squeals "weeeeeeeee" and I could imagine Barbie will get slammed against the ground, while the two year old shouts "bang, bang" and perhaps, Barbie will have its limbs torn off. Our two year old isn't violent, just a tad crazy. Loco!
We've taken photos of said Barbies and emailed them to Grandma. Being the feminist that she is (and I say that in a good way) she'll 'love' to buy them for the kids. Nothing like buying a doll with DD cup boobs for your grandchildren. Hey, at least I'm not asking for Bratz dolls. THAT WILL NEVER HAPPEN. Those slutty Bratz dolls make Barbie look like a 'nice girl' and that's pretty hard.
Anyway, this story isn't about what our kids want for Xmas it's about the 'toy' I found. It was on sale which is always good when you're looking for gifts. It looked sturdy enough. It had potential to not only be fun, but also be used as a teaching aid. Kids could use the 'toy' for 'role play' and learn 'valuable' life lessons, vital for when entering the workforce. It would help develop a 'healthy work ethic'. And it would also help teach your children about 'food'. This 'toy' is now on my Xmas list.
At $59.94 this 'toy' is a steal. I can't believe they haven't run out the door. I mean, every little kid wants a McDonald's Drive Through Centre for Xmas. Don't they? And it even comes with 'food' so your kids can learn how to 'cook'. Not sure if the obnoxious kid comes with it, but wouldn't that make it even better?!
Are they fucking serious? Who would buy this so-called 'toy'? Could you imagine the reaction you'd get if you gave it to someone else's kids? If it came with a bong, a bag of marijuana and some real burgers I'd know a few adults who'd love it. But there's no way this gift is ever leaving or entering my house. I'd like my kids to aim a little higher - at least Red Rooster.
So, while marvelling at this 'toy' and feeling a little weird taking photos of it with my iPhone, my husband pointed out yet another marvellous sight at the local toy store. And I tell you, I didn't feel strange at all running down the aisle to grab a picture.
As I laughed, I knew there was only one thought going through my husband's mind: "Even the toy horses are getting more action than me". So true honey. This time you're right.
Wednesday, October 20, 2010
I'm a Fatty Boombah...
I have joined a new club and I am so excited. The club is the Fatty Boombah Club. Yep, you read it right, the Fatty Boombah Club. Boombah for short. Boombah's the slimmed down version. It's a club for people who are unhappy with their bodies. The group of women and men have committed to feeling better about their size. Some have expressed a desire to put on weight, some want to shed a couple of kilos, others have a larger figure in mind, but many are attempting to each lose eight kilos in the next 10 weeks. That's my aim.
The reason I'm excited is because it's time I get back into shape and be a better me. My body has never been the same since I've had my three gorgeous children - 3 months old, 2 years old and nearly four years old. I'm cool with that because I believe my stretch marks, saggy boobs and still preggers looking belly are all badges of growing three little people. I'm proud of them and refuse to be embarrassed by them. However, I am embarrassed by the weight I am carrying, the amount of bad food choices I make and the void of exercise in my life. And I feel tired and sluggish. It's time to change all that.
I want my girls to grow up with a realistic and healthy view about themselves and their body. I try not to say "I have to get skinny" or "I can't eat because I'm fat". Instead, I want them to grow up in a house where their parents exercise and make healthy eating choices. In a house, where we occasionally go to Maccas and bake chocolate cakes, but we also go for walks, ride our bikes and eat good food.
I know I can commit. You see I have been very committed to sitting on the couch and drinking wine and eating chips. And I am very loyal. My loyalty towards chocolate donuts and pepperoni pizza hasn't waived. I'm good with sticking to a routine. I have limited sleep each night, up breastfeeding. I drink coffees as fast as I can make them and then at 5pm I swap to wine. My snaking is consistent, particularly at night. Chocolate and salty snacks always feature. And I'm dedicated, particularly to reality tv programs.
I've decided to change and instead to commit to healthier eating, be loyal to making myself a better person, stick to an exercise routine and be dedicated to showing my girls what it means to feel better about yourself, both inside and out. It's time.
* The Fatty Boombah Club is a group of people blogging about their weight loss challenge who will help motivate each other and share exercise and dieting tips. If you need a boost you too can read our stories. Go to: http://thefattyboombahclub.blogspot.com
The reason I'm excited is because it's time I get back into shape and be a better me. My body has never been the same since I've had my three gorgeous children - 3 months old, 2 years old and nearly four years old. I'm cool with that because I believe my stretch marks, saggy boobs and still preggers looking belly are all badges of growing three little people. I'm proud of them and refuse to be embarrassed by them. However, I am embarrassed by the weight I am carrying, the amount of bad food choices I make and the void of exercise in my life. And I feel tired and sluggish. It's time to change all that.
I want my girls to grow up with a realistic and healthy view about themselves and their body. I try not to say "I have to get skinny" or "I can't eat because I'm fat". Instead, I want them to grow up in a house where their parents exercise and make healthy eating choices. In a house, where we occasionally go to Maccas and bake chocolate cakes, but we also go for walks, ride our bikes and eat good food.
I know I can commit. You see I have been very committed to sitting on the couch and drinking wine and eating chips. And I am very loyal. My loyalty towards chocolate donuts and pepperoni pizza hasn't waived. I'm good with sticking to a routine. I have limited sleep each night, up breastfeeding. I drink coffees as fast as I can make them and then at 5pm I swap to wine. My snaking is consistent, particularly at night. Chocolate and salty snacks always feature. And I'm dedicated, particularly to reality tv programs.
I've decided to change and instead to commit to healthier eating, be loyal to making myself a better person, stick to an exercise routine and be dedicated to showing my girls what it means to feel better about yourself, both inside and out. It's time.
* The Fatty Boombah Club is a group of people blogging about their weight loss challenge who will help motivate each other and share exercise and dieting tips. If you need a boost you too can read our stories. Go to: http://thefattyboombahclub.blogspot.com
Monday, October 18, 2010
Blog rockin' blogstar...
Just recently I read a fantastic blog entry - 15 Steps to Becoming a Blogging Rockstar - on a great blog, A Note From Lapland. It was factual, informative and just the advice I have been looking for. I have taken each word to be true - it is now my Bible of Blogging and I have decided to apply its steps to my blog. You see, I'm new to this and I want to be a blogstar. I want people to follow me. I am in such need of an ego boost, aka 'followers', I check my blog every half an hour to see if I have any new ones. A month ago, I didn't know that 'followers' even existed. I was happy, self assured and content. Now, I'm riddled with insecurities and have developed a mild form of 'follow me OCD'. So, before you read any further, I plead with you, if you haven't done so already, scroll down and click the 'follow' button to the left of this blog.
Ok, so you're back. I thank you. Now, let's get on with this - How to Become a Blogstar.
1) Get a blog, make it look pretty, the cutesier the better. Ok, so I already have a blog, but from tomorrow it will change. I'm thinking pink, I'm thinking bears, I'm thinking of linking to a scrap booking site. And it will definitely have pictures of my children's hand prints. And the name will change too. It will become - bigwords from little people, with cute faces like tiny puppies. Tales of a mummy who likes to see the sparkly-arkly side of life.
2) Don't worry about spelling, grammar and interest content. Yep, got that covered. My grammatical powers are craptastic. As a lapsed reporter, I've always relied on a top-table of sub editors to check my work thoroughly, without them I struggle. That's is obvious, just read my prior blog entries.
3) But whatever you do, don't swear. I try. I really do. But swearing comes naturally to me. It is one of my skills and I don't have many of them. For this post I will try and refrain from saying fuck. Ok.
4) Also don't write about sex toys, sex, sad celebrity stalking etc. Apparently, PR companies don't like unsanitary, booze-fuelled, potty-mouthed, sexed-up bloggers, particularly mothers. Mums do not do stuff like like and they definitely don't blow, suck, snort, drink or "do" anything. They mother. That's it, be motherly, do what mothers do. Ok, check. From now on, all my blogs will be about 'motherly' things.
5) Definitely don't put a picture of a dildo in the middle of your page. I think A Note From Lapland took a bit of "celebrity" licence here. It was her chance to stick that big, pink, penis-shaped rubber toy right there up on her website. I would definitely not scoop that low. But, as I need people to follow me, even XXX followers would do the trick (mind the pun). And I've never inserted a picture into my blog before (another pun) so here goes it...
6) Come up with a lie about why you blog. Well that's simple. I don't even need to lie. I was born in the jungle with only a pack of lions to raise me. It was a lovely childhood. I roamed free, I ate antelope, I rolled around in the dusty soil. One day a lovely couple found me and took me into their home, teaching me how to read, write and speak. Then I met my husband and become a mother. And now that's what I do. I mother, nothing else, just mother. I am inspirational. Not only that, I am aspirational. And soon I will be a blogstar. Even someone who was raised by a pack of lions can transform their life.
7) Stats. Learn what they are and how to read them. Live by, breathe them and check hourly. Oh man, do I know my stats. I think it's good to get to know your stats. Because if you don't love your own stats how will anyone else love them. Self stat love is the often the best kind.
8) Link like a pimping bitch ho, especially to famous bloggers. Ok here goes it. I am going to learn how to link right here, right now. I will even link to another blogger who tried linking for the first time recently and she hit a bullseye, with John Cusack adding a comment on her blog. She's been blogging on and on about it, so I'll link to her. I like to refer to her as the John Cusack stalker. And here's another few links here, here and here. And my favourite ever.
9) Do loads of memes. Here is where I come unstuck. WTF is a meme. No time to google. You don't get medals (or followers) for googling. Now click on the follow button - you know where it is.
10) Write about how perfect your children are. Why write about that? Everyone KNOWS my children are PERFECT. They have perfect hair, perfect smiles, perfect little hands, perfect manners, perfect sleep patterns, perfect chevapchichi-shaped poops, perfect eating habits, perfect, perfect, perfect. And it all comes down to me. Since I became a mother, I have been perfect at it. I am the perfect mother. Do no wrong. Absolute perfection.
11) Nothing is off limits. Stay tuned. I have some pretty meaty blog posts coming up. There's one about my vagina, my friend's vagina, her Aunt's vagina and her Aunt's brother-in-law who was once married to a vagina. But they had a nasty divorce, things got a bit hairy and well, it was time to move on to cleaner pastures. He is now a rug salesman, but that's another story.
12) The best ratio for review posts to real posts is 5:1. Send me free stuff and I will review it. Anything. I have no limitations, no moral high ground here. I will review ANYTHING, as long as it means I get more followers. I'd even review the Two and a Half Men box set. And that is scooping pretty low.
13) Slag off other bloggers. This one I haven't really got the backbone for, so leave a comment and then I'll slag you off. It's easier that way, then I can really target my insults. And then, I'll comment on your blog, with a link back to me. And then I'll tweet about it, with a link back to this blog entry. And then every four hours for two days I'll post it on Twitter and Facebook so people will be compelled to read my blog and then they might even follow me and put a comment up and then I'll slag them off. What goes around, comes around. Treat 'em mean, keep 'em keen.
14) If anybody says anything bad about you, threaten to sue them. Ok, I'll do that. I'll use all the money I make from my blogtastic blog to pay for the legal costs because I am going to make a lot of moolah out of blogging. I am going to be RICH. Because everyone who blogs get rich, don't they?
15) If you are finding the above aren't working for you then you need to break out the big guns. Complain about how few people read your blog, how miserable your life is and that you are going to give up blogging forever. Well it's true. If by the end of this week I haven't reached at least 10,000 'followers' I will give up. I mean, I am only blogging for 'followers'. For NO other reason. Not for myself, not because I've missed writing, not because when I escape into the world of words it makes me happy. I only do it so people like me more, they show their appreciation by 'following' me. More 'followers' = more popularity. I want to be cool. I've never been the cool kid. I will give up blogging forever if I think no-one reads me. It will be ALL YOUR FAULT *shakes fists in the air, falls to knees and wails "why doesn't anyone love me"*
And now I am going to add another to the list....
16) Copy and paste large sections of other much more popular blog entries and address each point, in the hope that some of their followers will then read your blog and then decide to also follow you.
Have you got any more tips for me on how to become a blogstar? I need all the help I can get.
PS: A big thank you to A Note From Lapland for your hysterically funny and helpful blog post.
Ok, so you're back. I thank you. Now, let's get on with this - How to Become a Blogstar.
1) Get a blog, make it look pretty, the cutesier the better. Ok, so I already have a blog, but from tomorrow it will change. I'm thinking pink, I'm thinking bears, I'm thinking of linking to a scrap booking site. And it will definitely have pictures of my children's hand prints. And the name will change too. It will become - bigwords from little people, with cute faces like tiny puppies. Tales of a mummy who likes to see the sparkly-arkly side of life.
2) Don't worry about spelling, grammar and interest content. Yep, got that covered. My grammatical powers are craptastic. As a lapsed reporter, I've always relied on a top-table of sub editors to check my work thoroughly, without them I struggle. That's is obvious, just read my prior blog entries.
3) But whatever you do, don't swear. I try. I really do. But swearing comes naturally to me. It is one of my skills and I don't have many of them. For this post I will try and refrain from saying fuck. Ok.
4) Also don't write about sex toys, sex, sad celebrity stalking etc. Apparently, PR companies don't like unsanitary, booze-fuelled, potty-mouthed, sexed-up bloggers, particularly mothers. Mums do not do stuff like like and they definitely don't blow, suck, snort, drink or "do" anything. They mother. That's it, be motherly, do what mothers do. Ok, check. From now on, all my blogs will be about 'motherly' things.
5) Definitely don't put a picture of a dildo in the middle of your page. I think A Note From Lapland took a bit of "celebrity" licence here. It was her chance to stick that big, pink, penis-shaped rubber toy right there up on her website. I would definitely not scoop that low. But, as I need people to follow me, even XXX followers would do the trick (mind the pun). And I've never inserted a picture into my blog before (another pun) so here goes it...
6) Come up with a lie about why you blog. Well that's simple. I don't even need to lie. I was born in the jungle with only a pack of lions to raise me. It was a lovely childhood. I roamed free, I ate antelope, I rolled around in the dusty soil. One day a lovely couple found me and took me into their home, teaching me how to read, write and speak. Then I met my husband and become a mother. And now that's what I do. I mother, nothing else, just mother. I am inspirational. Not only that, I am aspirational. And soon I will be a blogstar. Even someone who was raised by a pack of lions can transform their life.
7) Stats. Learn what they are and how to read them. Live by, breathe them and check hourly. Oh man, do I know my stats. I think it's good to get to know your stats. Because if you don't love your own stats how will anyone else love them. Self stat love is the often the best kind.
8) Link like a pimping bitch ho, especially to famous bloggers. Ok here goes it. I am going to learn how to link right here, right now. I will even link to another blogger who tried linking for the first time recently and she hit a bullseye, with John Cusack adding a comment on her blog. She's been blogging on and on about it, so I'll link to her. I like to refer to her as the John Cusack stalker. And here's another few links here, here and here. And my favourite ever.
9) Do loads of memes. Here is where I come unstuck. WTF is a meme. No time to google. You don't get medals (or followers) for googling. Now click on the follow button - you know where it is.
10) Write about how perfect your children are. Why write about that? Everyone KNOWS my children are PERFECT. They have perfect hair, perfect smiles, perfect little hands, perfect manners, perfect sleep patterns, perfect chevapchichi-shaped poops, perfect eating habits, perfect, perfect, perfect. And it all comes down to me. Since I became a mother, I have been perfect at it. I am the perfect mother. Do no wrong. Absolute perfection.
11) Nothing is off limits. Stay tuned. I have some pretty meaty blog posts coming up. There's one about my vagina, my friend's vagina, her Aunt's vagina and her Aunt's brother-in-law who was once married to a vagina. But they had a nasty divorce, things got a bit hairy and well, it was time to move on to cleaner pastures. He is now a rug salesman, but that's another story.
12) The best ratio for review posts to real posts is 5:1. Send me free stuff and I will review it. Anything. I have no limitations, no moral high ground here. I will review ANYTHING, as long as it means I get more followers. I'd even review the Two and a Half Men box set. And that is scooping pretty low.
13) Slag off other bloggers. This one I haven't really got the backbone for, so leave a comment and then I'll slag you off. It's easier that way, then I can really target my insults. And then, I'll comment on your blog, with a link back to me. And then I'll tweet about it, with a link back to this blog entry. And then every four hours for two days I'll post it on Twitter and Facebook so people will be compelled to read my blog and then they might even follow me and put a comment up and then I'll slag them off. What goes around, comes around. Treat 'em mean, keep 'em keen.
14) If anybody says anything bad about you, threaten to sue them. Ok, I'll do that. I'll use all the money I make from my blogtastic blog to pay for the legal costs because I am going to make a lot of moolah out of blogging. I am going to be RICH. Because everyone who blogs get rich, don't they?
15) If you are finding the above aren't working for you then you need to break out the big guns. Complain about how few people read your blog, how miserable your life is and that you are going to give up blogging forever. Well it's true. If by the end of this week I haven't reached at least 10,000 'followers' I will give up. I mean, I am only blogging for 'followers'. For NO other reason. Not for myself, not because I've missed writing, not because when I escape into the world of words it makes me happy. I only do it so people like me more, they show their appreciation by 'following' me. More 'followers' = more popularity. I want to be cool. I've never been the cool kid. I will give up blogging forever if I think no-one reads me. It will be ALL YOUR FAULT *shakes fists in the air, falls to knees and wails "why doesn't anyone love me"*
And now I am going to add another to the list....
16) Copy and paste large sections of other much more popular blog entries and address each point, in the hope that some of their followers will then read your blog and then decide to also follow you.
Have you got any more tips for me on how to become a blogstar? I need all the help I can get.
PS: A big thank you to A Note From Lapland for your hysterically funny and helpful blog post.
Friday, October 15, 2010
The little, yellow jug...
I have a little, yellow jug. A gravy jug to be precise. My Mum gave it to me. There's nothing special about it. It's a lovely shade of pastel yellow. It's curvy and simple. It holds just the right amount of gravy for dinner.
I am very careful with the little, yellow jug, but I don't hide it away. I just make sure I hand wash it - no dishwasher for the jug. I dry it straight away and pop it back on the top shelf so the kids can't play with it. Sometimes, I worry about the jug breaking and check it to make sure it's safely sitting in its place.
I have had it for a few years now. It was in a pile of stuff my Mum was looking to get rid of and I snapped it up. Not that I had to snap fast, I don't have brothers and sisters to fight with for things. In fact, I think Mum would be surprised I love the jug as much as I do. Mum would say: "Oh, this old thing" or "I was going to throw it away". And if I cared where she got it from, and asked her, she'd probably say: "Oh, some antique shop" or most likely she'd respond: "Oh, I don't know. I have no idea".
But, I don't care if it's crap or where it originally came from because it's special to me. It's very special to me because I got it from my Mum and I've decided it's a family heirloom. It's my special family heirloom I got from my Mum.
You see I don't know my Dad's side of the family. I don't know my Dad. And on my Mum's side there aren't many people left. Her Mum, my Grandma, died when she was little and her Dad, my Grandad, died a few years before I was born. I know bits and pieces about them, but I'd like to believe that if they were alive they'd love me as much as I'd love them. Even without memories, I have as good as decided what I know to be true. I owe them that much.
So, the only person I have to pass on family heirlooms to me is my Mum and that's more than a lot of people can lay claim to. I'm very lucky. She doesn't have any heirlooms from her parents, except the most important ones; memories. And when most people were building wealth, she was investing in me. And that's why I hold dear my little, yellow jug.
Of course, my Mum would immediately think it a bad thing that she can't pass on diamond rings, Wedgwood china, silverware or the like. But I am not fussed by those objects, I'd rather my husband and I work for those things. As I would rather my children work for those things. Anyway, I'd rather my little, yellow jug.
I am very careful with the little, yellow jug, but I don't hide it away. I just make sure I hand wash it - no dishwasher for the jug. I dry it straight away and pop it back on the top shelf so the kids can't play with it. Sometimes, I worry about the jug breaking and check it to make sure it's safely sitting in its place.
I have had it for a few years now. It was in a pile of stuff my Mum was looking to get rid of and I snapped it up. Not that I had to snap fast, I don't have brothers and sisters to fight with for things. In fact, I think Mum would be surprised I love the jug as much as I do. Mum would say: "Oh, this old thing" or "I was going to throw it away". And if I cared where she got it from, and asked her, she'd probably say: "Oh, some antique shop" or most likely she'd respond: "Oh, I don't know. I have no idea".
But, I don't care if it's crap or where it originally came from because it's special to me. It's very special to me because I got it from my Mum and I've decided it's a family heirloom. It's my special family heirloom I got from my Mum.
You see I don't know my Dad's side of the family. I don't know my Dad. And on my Mum's side there aren't many people left. Her Mum, my Grandma, died when she was little and her Dad, my Grandad, died a few years before I was born. I know bits and pieces about them, but I'd like to believe that if they were alive they'd love me as much as I'd love them. Even without memories, I have as good as decided what I know to be true. I owe them that much.
So, the only person I have to pass on family heirlooms to me is my Mum and that's more than a lot of people can lay claim to. I'm very lucky. She doesn't have any heirlooms from her parents, except the most important ones; memories. And when most people were building wealth, she was investing in me. And that's why I hold dear my little, yellow jug.
Of course, my Mum would immediately think it a bad thing that she can't pass on diamond rings, Wedgwood china, silverware or the like. But I am not fussed by those objects, I'd rather my husband and I work for those things. As I would rather my children work for those things. Anyway, I'd rather my little, yellow jug.
Monday, October 11, 2010
An honest woman of me ...
My husband hasn't always been my husband. He used to be a single bloke, doing what single blokes do. He rock climbed. He travelled. He picked up chicks. He drank beer. He took photos of stuff. He worked hard. He played hard. And then one night his life changed forever. He met me.
I wasn't always Twiggy's wife. I used to be a single chick, doing what single chicks do. I played netball. I travelled. I picked up blokes. I definitely didn't rock climb. I definitely drank beer. I worked hard. I played hard. And then one night my life changed forever. I met him.
We were at the pub next door to the newspaper office where we both worked. He was a photographer and I was a reporter. We were both drunk. He'd just got back from a country trip with a friend of mine, reporting on all things country. I had just walked from my desk, out the back door of the building, down the back lane and in through the back door of the pub.
I was on my fourth pint. I said to my friend: "Who's that? She said: "Twiggy." I said: "I'm going to pash him." She said: "Ok." I said: "Let's have another pint." She said: "Fuck yeah." So we drank even more.
He was on his fourth pint. He said: "Fuck, I'm pissed. Who's that she's hot?"
We drank more, moved on to other pubs, jumped over a fence (that's another story), drank more beer and well, a lady doesn't tell, but I got my pash. He got me.
Then one day, years later, he took me for a drive. "Let's go for a bush walk at Daylesford," he said. "Sure," I said. I put on my ugly trackies. And away we went. It was election day, there was a buzz in the air. We voted. We drove and then we walked... and walked... and walked. "Let's sit here for a rest," said Brett. "Thank fuck," I said. "I'm tired, I've had enough." He went quiet. He fumbled around in his bag. He looked nervous. He pulled out a big plastic ring. He asked me to marry him. I looked shocked. I'd been waiting for this moment ever since I saw him in the pub. I said: "Yes". We drank Moet on the rock overlooking the valley. It was amazing.
Later, he told me he'd been there prior to that day and had walked the track alone, scouting for the perfect place to ask me. He'd planned every detail - there were flowers, day spas, long lunches, luxurious accommodation, fine dining and he'd even rung my boss and arranged days off. He'd packed my bag and snuck it into the car. He'd remembered my hair straightener. He's a good man.
Recently, it was the anniversary of the day we got engaged. In the madness that is our married life, raising three kids in our house on top of the hill, I'd forgotten how excited I'd been that day. It was a brilliant moment, in what has been a life together full of brilliant moments.
I wasn't always Twiggy's wife. I used to be a single chick, doing what single chicks do. I played netball. I travelled. I picked up blokes. I definitely didn't rock climb. I definitely drank beer. I worked hard. I played hard. And then one night my life changed forever. I met him.
We were at the pub next door to the newspaper office where we both worked. He was a photographer and I was a reporter. We were both drunk. He'd just got back from a country trip with a friend of mine, reporting on all things country. I had just walked from my desk, out the back door of the building, down the back lane and in through the back door of the pub.
I was on my fourth pint. I said to my friend: "Who's that? She said: "Twiggy." I said: "I'm going to pash him." She said: "Ok." I said: "Let's have another pint." She said: "Fuck yeah." So we drank even more.
He was on his fourth pint. He said: "Fuck, I'm pissed. Who's that she's hot?"
We drank more, moved on to other pubs, jumped over a fence (that's another story), drank more beer and well, a lady doesn't tell, but I got my pash. He got me.
Then one day, years later, he took me for a drive. "Let's go for a bush walk at Daylesford," he said. "Sure," I said. I put on my ugly trackies. And away we went. It was election day, there was a buzz in the air. We voted. We drove and then we walked... and walked... and walked. "Let's sit here for a rest," said Brett. "Thank fuck," I said. "I'm tired, I've had enough." He went quiet. He fumbled around in his bag. He looked nervous. He pulled out a big plastic ring. He asked me to marry him. I looked shocked. I'd been waiting for this moment ever since I saw him in the pub. I said: "Yes". We drank Moet on the rock overlooking the valley. It was amazing.
Later, he told me he'd been there prior to that day and had walked the track alone, scouting for the perfect place to ask me. He'd planned every detail - there were flowers, day spas, long lunches, luxurious accommodation, fine dining and he'd even rung my boss and arranged days off. He'd packed my bag and snuck it into the car. He'd remembered my hair straightener. He's a good man.
Recently, it was the anniversary of the day we got engaged. In the madness that is our married life, raising three kids in our house on top of the hill, I'd forgotten how excited I'd been that day. It was a brilliant moment, in what has been a life together full of brilliant moments.
Saturday, October 9, 2010
For my friend....
I remember the day clearly. My best friend called me. He was running late again. He was always running late for school and this time I wasn't going to wait for him. I told him so. Fine, he said. Fine, I said. We were in primary school, we lived around the corner from each other and most days we walked to school together.
It was fun walking together. We'd either be fighting or laughing, mostly fighting. There were no adults, just us dawdling. Along the way other kids would emerge from their houses, some walking, some on their bikes. We'd giggle, we'd chase each other. It was a different time then, helicopter parents didn't exist.
In autumn, we'd kick the piles of leaves on the footpaths. Often it would end in a leaf fight and we'd be covered in pollen and dust, bits of leaves hanging from our hair. In Spring, we'd look for nests and if you found one with egg shells stuck in the twigs it was considered a truly cool find. It would be taken to school and shown to your teachers and classmates. In summer, we'd pick plums and peaches, the ripe fruit hanging over neighbourhood fences. The juice from the fruit would run down our chin and down our arms. In winter, we'd cradle under our umbrellas and if we were lucky we'd get a lift to school.
I remember the day clearly. On this day I walked to school alone, my Aussie cricket player swap cards safely tucked in my school bag. It was very hot. I trundled along, grumpy my mate had left me waiting at home only to call me at the last minute to tell me he was running late again. Stuff him, I'd thought. I'd tell him so when he got to school.
It was the days of kids running free. Often my friends and I would ride our bikes around the neighbourhood, we'd meet out the front of our houses and head off on adventures; sometimes the local pool, sometimes the local ice skating rink. On weekends and school holidays we'd take off in the morning and not return until dinner. Often we'd take turns having dinner at each other's houses. We had such fun.
My mate and I had heaps of fun. We'd play hide and seek and collect caterpillars for races. We were just starting to notice our gender differences. We were getting to an age when I wanted to play dollhouses and doctors and nurses. He wanted to do maths sums and build stuff with leggo. He had glasses and cherubic looks. I had long blonde hair. We were cute.
We were just starting to get creeped out by 'boys germs' and 'girls germs'. We looked out for each other and bickered, but mostly we loved each other and giggled a lot. Fart noises were hilarious, his were extra stinky, and we both liked listening to music; The Police was a favourite, back when Sting was hot. We were best friends.
I remember the day clearly. It was very hot. The teacher came to me in class. My Mum was at the school I needed to go the school's office. Cool, I thought to myself. We were going to the pool. That's what Mum did sometimes when it was hot. Sometimes she'd come to school and we'd leave early and go to the pool. It was our secret. I was excited.
But today was different. The mood was different. I remember feeling like everyone was staring at me, but when I looked at them they'd avert their eyes.
No, we wont be going to the pool today darling, my Mum told me. Today she held me tightly, tighter than normal. Her eyes were red, she was trying her best to be brave for me. Everyone was quiet.
It is from this moment I do not remember as clearly. Maybe because I don't want to remember. It was the day my mum told me my best friend had died. He had been run over by a truck on his way to school. I didn't really understand. I'd only talked to him that morning. No-one I'd ever known had died before. The finality of it was not something I'd ever had to learn before. I felt like it was my fault. What if I'd waited for him? Maybe he wouldn't have been crossing the road when he did. What if we'd been crossing together? Maybe I could've stopped him. Maybe not.
Decades later and I still think about him, a lot. Every milestone in my life I think of him. I wonder what his life would have been like. What he would look like. Would we still be friends? Sometimes I tell him stuff. Sometimes I cry. Mostly I smile and remember us giggling together. Now I think about what sort of parent I will be once my kids seek their own independence. I am not sure yet. I want them to have freedom like we did. I remember how great it felt to be free. I remember my friend.
I miss him.
It was fun walking together. We'd either be fighting or laughing, mostly fighting. There were no adults, just us dawdling. Along the way other kids would emerge from their houses, some walking, some on their bikes. We'd giggle, we'd chase each other. It was a different time then, helicopter parents didn't exist.
In autumn, we'd kick the piles of leaves on the footpaths. Often it would end in a leaf fight and we'd be covered in pollen and dust, bits of leaves hanging from our hair. In Spring, we'd look for nests and if you found one with egg shells stuck in the twigs it was considered a truly cool find. It would be taken to school and shown to your teachers and classmates. In summer, we'd pick plums and peaches, the ripe fruit hanging over neighbourhood fences. The juice from the fruit would run down our chin and down our arms. In winter, we'd cradle under our umbrellas and if we were lucky we'd get a lift to school.
I remember the day clearly. On this day I walked to school alone, my Aussie cricket player swap cards safely tucked in my school bag. It was very hot. I trundled along, grumpy my mate had left me waiting at home only to call me at the last minute to tell me he was running late again. Stuff him, I'd thought. I'd tell him so when he got to school.
It was the days of kids running free. Often my friends and I would ride our bikes around the neighbourhood, we'd meet out the front of our houses and head off on adventures; sometimes the local pool, sometimes the local ice skating rink. On weekends and school holidays we'd take off in the morning and not return until dinner. Often we'd take turns having dinner at each other's houses. We had such fun.
My mate and I had heaps of fun. We'd play hide and seek and collect caterpillars for races. We were just starting to notice our gender differences. We were getting to an age when I wanted to play dollhouses and doctors and nurses. He wanted to do maths sums and build stuff with leggo. He had glasses and cherubic looks. I had long blonde hair. We were cute.
We were just starting to get creeped out by 'boys germs' and 'girls germs'. We looked out for each other and bickered, but mostly we loved each other and giggled a lot. Fart noises were hilarious, his were extra stinky, and we both liked listening to music; The Police was a favourite, back when Sting was hot. We were best friends.
I remember the day clearly. It was very hot. The teacher came to me in class. My Mum was at the school I needed to go the school's office. Cool, I thought to myself. We were going to the pool. That's what Mum did sometimes when it was hot. Sometimes she'd come to school and we'd leave early and go to the pool. It was our secret. I was excited.
But today was different. The mood was different. I remember feeling like everyone was staring at me, but when I looked at them they'd avert their eyes.
No, we wont be going to the pool today darling, my Mum told me. Today she held me tightly, tighter than normal. Her eyes were red, she was trying her best to be brave for me. Everyone was quiet.
It is from this moment I do not remember as clearly. Maybe because I don't want to remember. It was the day my mum told me my best friend had died. He had been run over by a truck on his way to school. I didn't really understand. I'd only talked to him that morning. No-one I'd ever known had died before. The finality of it was not something I'd ever had to learn before. I felt like it was my fault. What if I'd waited for him? Maybe he wouldn't have been crossing the road when he did. What if we'd been crossing together? Maybe I could've stopped him. Maybe not.
Decades later and I still think about him, a lot. Every milestone in my life I think of him. I wonder what his life would have been like. What he would look like. Would we still be friends? Sometimes I tell him stuff. Sometimes I cry. Mostly I smile and remember us giggling together. Now I think about what sort of parent I will be once my kids seek their own independence. I am not sure yet. I want them to have freedom like we did. I remember how great it felt to be free. I remember my friend.
I miss him.
Thursday, October 7, 2010
Octopussy....
I first noticed something was different when I dragged my sorry arse out of bed at 3am to feed Baby 3. It was dark. It was cold. It was 3am I tell you. I was on autopilot. I don't even think I'd fully opened my eyes. The baby was cradled under my arm while she fed, with my other hand I gently stroked the side of her face. And with my other hand I grabbed a piece of chocolate and ate it. Wait up, rewind. My other hand? Shit, shit, shit I have three arms.
"This can't be happening," I said to the baby (not that she understood a word of what I was saying and, to be honest, she was busy). "I have three arms, three fucking arms."
I made a decision then to ignore the extra limb, it was 3am. So, I burped the baby, wrapped her snuggly and popped her back in her cot (which I must say was a lot easier with three arms). And then went back to bed. Everything will be ok in the morning, I told myself.
What felt like minutes later I awoke to the grating sound of Baby 3 crying. Baby 2 was pulling up my eyelids and Baby 1 was peering into my face.
"Wake up Mum, it's breakfast time so get out of bed," she graciously informed me. My husband was snoring, oblivious to the morning ambush.
"Ok, Ok," I mumbled, slowly climbing out of bed. I stretched; one arm, two arms, three arms, four arms. What the fuck is happening to me.
No time to worry about it, it was morning and hungry kids wait for no-one. Suppose I should just go with it. It was actually the best breakfast in ages. I breastfed Baby 3, poured Weet-Bix for Baby 2, picked the sultanas out of Baby 1's cereal and made a coffee for me. All at the same time. This four arm business wasn't too bad after all. In fact, it was quite handy.
By mid-morning I'd cleaned, dressed the kids, done the washing and made a cake (well, Betty Crocker made a cake, even with four arms I'm still a shit cook). The only issue I was having was that two of my four arms were cold. Surprisingly, I don't own a four-armed jumper. So, eventually I was forced to improvise and had placed my arms strategically into a pair of jeggings (leggings which are styled to look like tight denim jeans). Finally, I'd found a use for them.
But as soon as I'd gotten used to my two additional arms, I'd sprouted two more. Six arms. I am now officially a spider! Oh no wait, they have eight legs don't they (can you believe I had to Google that?)?
There were some obvious advantages to having six arms. With two laptops and two iPhones I went crazy. I blogged, Facebooked, tweeted and internet shopped (ok, so I made up a few words and no, when I refer to 'Facebooked' it's not the Urban Dictionary definition of: The act of meeting up with another person for the sole purpose of having them sit on your face). I was a modern day computer geek - with six arms.
I was also officially a sex goddess! And I could read a book and drink gin at the same. If I smoked I could've even done that.
My day was getting better by the second. It's amazing what you can get done with six, no seven, no wait.... eight arms. Ok, now I'm some sort of spider or octopus. I'm an octopussy. This is now officially bullshit and weird, but it'll make a great story to tell the grandkids one day.
At my busiest moment I'd wished for extra arms. Now I had them. It had been great, but by night I was pretty over them. It was damn uncomfortable. And my husband, well, it's pretty clear what he wanted all of the time. It seemed that the more arms I had, the more everyone wanted from me. I grabbed myself eight glasses of wine and pondered my dilemma. On the one hand it was way easier with eight arms, on the other seven hands it was a bit of drag. Two hands would suffice.
Perhaps I'd sleep on it (them) and then everything will be clearer in the morning. So, I did. Sleep, that is. I told my husband I had a headache! Even with eight arms, enough is enough.
I awoke with a start, the baby was hungry, again. It was 3am. It was dark. It was cold. It was 3am I tell you. I was on autopilot. I don't even think I'd fully opened my eyes. The baby was cradled under my arm while she fed, with my other hand I gently stroked the side of her face. And with my other hand, oh... no other hands. Yay! Two arms again. Excellent, now I'll swap sides for the baby to feed on my other... two boobs! Wait a minute, three boobs. This can not be happening...
"This can't be happening," I said to the baby (not that she understood a word of what I was saying and, to be honest, she was busy). "I have three arms, three fucking arms."
I made a decision then to ignore the extra limb, it was 3am. So, I burped the baby, wrapped her snuggly and popped her back in her cot (which I must say was a lot easier with three arms). And then went back to bed. Everything will be ok in the morning, I told myself.
What felt like minutes later I awoke to the grating sound of Baby 3 crying. Baby 2 was pulling up my eyelids and Baby 1 was peering into my face.
"Wake up Mum, it's breakfast time so get out of bed," she graciously informed me. My husband was snoring, oblivious to the morning ambush.
"Ok, Ok," I mumbled, slowly climbing out of bed. I stretched; one arm, two arms, three arms, four arms. What the fuck is happening to me.
No time to worry about it, it was morning and hungry kids wait for no-one. Suppose I should just go with it. It was actually the best breakfast in ages. I breastfed Baby 3, poured Weet-Bix for Baby 2, picked the sultanas out of Baby 1's cereal and made a coffee for me. All at the same time. This four arm business wasn't too bad after all. In fact, it was quite handy.
By mid-morning I'd cleaned, dressed the kids, done the washing and made a cake (well, Betty Crocker made a cake, even with four arms I'm still a shit cook). The only issue I was having was that two of my four arms were cold. Surprisingly, I don't own a four-armed jumper. So, eventually I was forced to improvise and had placed my arms strategically into a pair of jeggings (leggings which are styled to look like tight denim jeans). Finally, I'd found a use for them.
But as soon as I'd gotten used to my two additional arms, I'd sprouted two more. Six arms. I am now officially a spider! Oh no wait, they have eight legs don't they (can you believe I had to Google that?)?
There were some obvious advantages to having six arms. With two laptops and two iPhones I went crazy. I blogged, Facebooked, tweeted and internet shopped (ok, so I made up a few words and no, when I refer to 'Facebooked' it's not the Urban Dictionary definition of: The act of meeting up with another person for the sole purpose of having them sit on your face). I was a modern day computer geek - with six arms.
I was also officially a sex goddess! And I could read a book and drink gin at the same. If I smoked I could've even done that.
My day was getting better by the second. It's amazing what you can get done with six, no seven, no wait.... eight arms. Ok, now I'm some sort of spider or octopus. I'm an octopussy. This is now officially bullshit and weird, but it'll make a great story to tell the grandkids one day.
At my busiest moment I'd wished for extra arms. Now I had them. It had been great, but by night I was pretty over them. It was damn uncomfortable. And my husband, well, it's pretty clear what he wanted all of the time. It seemed that the more arms I had, the more everyone wanted from me. I grabbed myself eight glasses of wine and pondered my dilemma. On the one hand it was way easier with eight arms, on the other seven hands it was a bit of drag. Two hands would suffice.
Perhaps I'd sleep on it (them) and then everything will be clearer in the morning. So, I did. Sleep, that is. I told my husband I had a headache! Even with eight arms, enough is enough.
I awoke with a start, the baby was hungry, again. It was 3am. It was dark. It was cold. It was 3am I tell you. I was on autopilot. I don't even think I'd fully opened my eyes. The baby was cradled under my arm while she fed, with my other hand I gently stroked the side of her face. And with my other hand, oh... no other hands. Yay! Two arms again. Excellent, now I'll swap sides for the baby to feed on my other... two boobs! Wait a minute, three boobs. This can not be happening...
Monday, October 4, 2010
Chevapchichis and Justin Biebers....
At first I'd stand there awkwardly, shuffling my feet, looking around the room and pretending to be engrossed in what she was doing, but now I am completely in the moment. I've even peeked while she was in the 'act', but let me tell you, once was enough. I wont be doing that again. Now I can't get the image out of my head.
Being privy to my eldest child's toilet escapades makes me laugh and cringe. Mainly it's her stare of utter concentration which cracks me up (no pun intended). And the accompanying strained words: "It's coming... it's coming out... it's a massive one!"
For a time there, nearly four had a set back (chocolate rewards for sitting on the toilet weren't doing the trick) and a strange new ritual commenced. We called it doing a 'Justin Bieber'. For those of you who don't know, Justin Bieber is an obnoxious tween singer with a shitload (ahem) of cash from singing such gems as: "Baby, baby, baby ooooohhh, my baby, baby, baby ooooooohhh."
First, said child would walk into the loo flailing her arms around shooing away 'Justin Bieber' from the toilet seat. "Get out of here, Justin Bieber," she'd giggle. "I need to do a poop." Once finished, she'd peer into the bowl. "Hey look, I did a huge 'Justin Bieber'," she'd squeal. Fine at home, but hard to explain when you're out in public and your kid starts saying loudly: "Mum, I've got to do a 'Justin Bieber'."
But alas, even her strange obsession with the mini mogul singing 'sensation' waned and again we began looking for new ways to make pooping fun. Actually, it was quite easy and this time not so hard to explain, Bieber's been replaced with stickers and all is good. Still, the descriptions of her 'deposits' continue.
"Hey, it looks like a chevapchichi," she said the other day. "Now, can I get a sticker?"
Being privy to my eldest child's toilet escapades makes me laugh and cringe. Mainly it's her stare of utter concentration which cracks me up (no pun intended). And the accompanying strained words: "It's coming... it's coming out... it's a massive one!"
For a time there, nearly four had a set back (chocolate rewards for sitting on the toilet weren't doing the trick) and a strange new ritual commenced. We called it doing a 'Justin Bieber'. For those of you who don't know, Justin Bieber is an obnoxious tween singer with a shitload (ahem) of cash from singing such gems as: "Baby, baby, baby ooooohhh, my baby, baby, baby ooooooohhh."
First, said child would walk into the loo flailing her arms around shooing away 'Justin Bieber' from the toilet seat. "Get out of here, Justin Bieber," she'd giggle. "I need to do a poop." Once finished, she'd peer into the bowl. "Hey look, I did a huge 'Justin Bieber'," she'd squeal. Fine at home, but hard to explain when you're out in public and your kid starts saying loudly: "Mum, I've got to do a 'Justin Bieber'."
But alas, even her strange obsession with the mini mogul singing 'sensation' waned and again we began looking for new ways to make pooping fun. Actually, it was quite easy and this time not so hard to explain, Bieber's been replaced with stickers and all is good. Still, the descriptions of her 'deposits' continue.
"Hey, it looks like a chevapchichi," she said the other day. "Now, can I get a sticker?"
Sunday, October 3, 2010
Total recall...
My gorgeous friend said to me the other night how my nearly four year old child would soon start having experiences she would remember as an adult.
"How amazing," I replied smiling, but on the inside I was horrified.
Up until now I'd felt safe in the knowledge that my children had memory recall similar to goldfish. And when my friend had made her dreaded remark it was in the midst of a particularly trying moment of time for me. My husband was away for work and it was the first long stint I'd had to deal with all the children alone since two kids had become three.
For the most part, juggling the constant demands of a nearly four year old, a two year old and a three-month old on my own was as busy as expected, but it was the inability to get a moment to myself which was getting me more and more agitated. Even at night someone, other than my husband, was in my bed.
"Just give me five minutes to myself," I'd calmly stated at first. By the end of day two I found myself shouting. "Will you just leave me alone I'm going insane."
And at some point I found myself telling one of the children to "shut up will you", and another "it's not all about you, get over yourself". Even the baby got in on the action when I shouted "no, no, no, no baby, stop crying, give me a break".
Luckily for everyone, it was bedtime and after a couple of books they were safely in their beds - away from me. It was finally quiet. I rang my husband, ashamed at my outbursts, to admit defeat. "I am the adult," I babbled. "I should have patience and control. They must hate me."
After unloading, I crept down the hallway listening quietly to my two eldest children chattering away. I felt a desire to be close to them and slunk into their room ashamed.
"Please don't remember," I thought to myself, as I stroked the hair out of their eyes and kissed their cheeks.
"Mummy's sorry for getting grumpy," I whispered. "I love you very much."
"I love you too," said the nearly four year old. "I love Mummy," said the two year old. I tickled them, we giggled. We made funny faces and cuddled. They'd seen me at my most vulnerable, maybe it wasn't too bad a reality for them.
When my husband returned from his trip and was giving me some much needed space I heard his voice get strained. "Will you just stop," he shouted at the kids. I smiled to myself and realised I wasn't alone in my frustration - that we are all people with limitations. And our children will hopefully remember us, not for the occasional grumpy outburst, but instead, for how hard we tried and how much we love them.
"How amazing," I replied smiling, but on the inside I was horrified.
Up until now I'd felt safe in the knowledge that my children had memory recall similar to goldfish. And when my friend had made her dreaded remark it was in the midst of a particularly trying moment of time for me. My husband was away for work and it was the first long stint I'd had to deal with all the children alone since two kids had become three.
For the most part, juggling the constant demands of a nearly four year old, a two year old and a three-month old on my own was as busy as expected, but it was the inability to get a moment to myself which was getting me more and more agitated. Even at night someone, other than my husband, was in my bed.
"Just give me five minutes to myself," I'd calmly stated at first. By the end of day two I found myself shouting. "Will you just leave me alone I'm going insane."
And at some point I found myself telling one of the children to "shut up will you", and another "it's not all about you, get over yourself". Even the baby got in on the action when I shouted "no, no, no, no baby, stop crying, give me a break".
Luckily for everyone, it was bedtime and after a couple of books they were safely in their beds - away from me. It was finally quiet. I rang my husband, ashamed at my outbursts, to admit defeat. "I am the adult," I babbled. "I should have patience and control. They must hate me."
After unloading, I crept down the hallway listening quietly to my two eldest children chattering away. I felt a desire to be close to them and slunk into their room ashamed.
"Please don't remember," I thought to myself, as I stroked the hair out of their eyes and kissed their cheeks.
"Mummy's sorry for getting grumpy," I whispered. "I love you very much."
"I love you too," said the nearly four year old. "I love Mummy," said the two year old. I tickled them, we giggled. We made funny faces and cuddled. They'd seen me at my most vulnerable, maybe it wasn't too bad a reality for them.
When my husband returned from his trip and was giving me some much needed space I heard his voice get strained. "Will you just stop," he shouted at the kids. I smiled to myself and realised I wasn't alone in my frustration - that we are all people with limitations. And our children will hopefully remember us, not for the occasional grumpy outburst, but instead, for how hard we tried and how much we love them.
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