With My Pants Around My Knees

Let me tell you a story about not listening to your inner voice. A story about looking at the clock in the morning and convincing yourself that you can stay in bed a little longer, despite your sleepy inside voice shouting at you: YOU HAVE TO DO THE SCHOOL RUN IN HALF AN HOUR. GET OUT OF BED NOW.

I don't like being told what to do, particularly by a goody two-shoes, annoying, whining, anal inside voice. So, when I got out of bed at 10 past eight and reality hit that I had 15 minutes to get three little people dressed, myself dressed, lunch made and everyone breakfasted - I was pissed.

Actually, I was calm for about the first five minutes, I was like a machine. Pouring cereal, making sandwiches, barking instructions at my kids and stuffing readers into my eldest girl's school bag. Every time one of the kids' ignored my demands I'd yell: "Mummy's in her pyjamas and I'm not afraid to take you to school wearing them".

Time was speeding by. I was dressing three children at once, keeping one eye on the clock, thinking frantically how we were not going to make it. Then my husband called, he'd been away for work. As I ran to the phone I yelled: "Fucking Twiggy". As I garbled into the phone, that his timing was crap and no, I did not give a shit that Darwin was amazing and that I'd call him later, I could hear the two eldest girls mimicking me: "Fucking Twiggy, fucking Twiggy" and giggling. I had no time to tell them that they should at least call him Dad.

I was now officially in time saver mode and I needed to make up time somewhere.

I rushed to the loo and decided it would save me time to not pull my pj pants up. With my pants around my ankles I shuffled around the kitchen, put Miss L's hair in a pony tail, warmed a bottle of milk for Miss H and wiped the breakfast off Miss E's top, before sculling a cup of scolding tea, all with my arse hanging out.  No longer able to run to my room to get dressed, I stumbled down the hallway, stopping to wobble my bottom at my kids, this time threatening to do the school run pant-less if they didn't put their shoes on.

Finally, I put some mismatched clothes on, threw two of the kids into the double pram, pushed Miss L out the door, grabbed her school bag and the accompanying "Leo the Lion"- her class' mascot. Leo is a soft toy that spends a night at each kid's house so they can rub their own snot into his grimy fur and dribble on him while they sleep. He is a lesson in filth.

We sped out the door - me like a crazy woman, hair flying everywhere, screaming and flailing my arms around. We made it just as the school bell rang. And yes, I'd remembered to pull my pants up.

Do you always push the snooze button in the morning even though you know you will be rushing?

bigwords x

It Takes A Village - Wanderlust

It Takes A Village... to raise a child. So, I'm asking bloggers from my village to each write a message for me to pass on to my girls. If you'd like to write one, let me know.

This week's message to my girls is from a woman who I admire for her kindness and strength, Kristin Brumm, who writes over at the emotionally raw, inspiring and brave blog Wanderlust. 

An Open Letter to Little People (Bianca's, mine, yours if you'd like)

From where you sit now life may seem fairly simple and straightforward and in many respects it is. But as you lean towards adulthood you'll no doubt try to complicate it, because that's what we all do.

For instance, as you grow up you will have many friends who will all have different ideas of what is required to be adored by others. Because you are human, you will for a time play the game of trying to morph yourself into these different ideals. It is my hope that sooner, rather than later, you will learn that the quality which others most respect and find attractive is authenticity, the irony being that once you discover this you will no longer care much what others think.

Many things will seem wildly important to you at different times in your life. But here's something that really is. Find the one thing in life that makes your heart sing and do it and never stop doing it, even if it makes your parents weep into their pillows at night. They'll get over it.

A well-paying job is lovely. A home is lovely. But before you chase that kind of stability, get out and see the world. One cannot purchase the perspective of life as viewed from beneath a worn rucksack on a lost bit of track somewhere in the Peruvian Andes.

If you're unsure whether or not you should say it, and...

• you're really angry 
• in a business meeting 
• have had a few too many 
• are talking to an attractive man/woman who's not your significant other 
• are in a chat room 
• are being evaluated for a raise 
• are about to hit reply to all   ...you probably shouldn't.

If you're unsure whether or not you should say it, and...

• you're feeling hurt 
• are feeling centered 
• are in therapy 
• are hooked up to a lie detector test 
• the man/woman of your dreams is about to walk out the door 
• are only at the $5,000 level on Who Wants to Be a Millionaire   ...you probably should.

Things that are a bad idea:

•  Credit cards for college students 
•  Credit cards in general (unless you pay them off every month) 
•  Thinking, eh, you're okay to drive 
•  Unprotected sex with your boyfriend/girlfriend because my god you love him/her so much and besides, you know it's a safe time of the month 
•  Unprotected sex in general 
•  Drugs, legal or otherwise, prescription or street, your parents' or yours or anyone else's 
•  Owning a firearm (unless you live in the Yukon and need to take down a caribou for your dinner, what the hell are you thinking?) 
•  Tattoos that spell things out 
•  Martyrdom 
•  Whining 
•  Playing the victim 
•  You get the picture 

 Things that are a good idea:

• A degree in the liberal arts (yes, you will get a job) 
• Condoms (yes, harp harp) 
• Being the first to apologize -- contrary to popular belief, it takes a bigger person 
• Laughing at yourself 
• Turning off the TV and reading. Lots. 
• Speaking your truth 
• Over and over and over, even when it hurts 
• Accountability 
• Integrity 
• Love over gold 
• Take your calcium 

That should do for now.  Carry on.

Kristin x

Kristin Brumm is the creator of Wanderlust, an award-winning blog where she shares her thoughts on love, loss, parenting and the vicissitudes of life. She is a writer whose work has been published in online and print literary journals. She is a "mommy blogger" who connects primarily with other mothers on the web. She is an advocate for many social causes, especially those that impact our basic human rights to live free of fear and coercion.

Warning: Text Messages Can Be Evil

There were so many highlights to yesterday. I woke up to a new day. That is truly a blessing. There was no rain, that is a miracle. And I'd had a good night's sleep, that NEVER HAPPENS.

I then I found this fabulous piece of writing in my eldest child's diary.

She has been at school for one term - watching her learn to read and write is freaking amazing.

My middle child used the word constellations in a sentence to which my husband remarked: "Who said the Dora App wasn't a valuable learning tool."

And our youngest girl only took her clothes off five times which was remarkable.

But then the lowlight of the day happened.

I sent a text message to my Mum about babysitting. Nothing unusual about that. What it was meant to say was: "Lock in Mon(day)". What it actually said was:

LICK IN ME

To say I was MORTIFIED is an understatement.

What's your most embarrassing moment?

bigwords xx

I'll Never Ever

There's a few things I'll never ever do.

I'll never ever climb Mt Everest. Never. It's too high. Even if I trained for years it'd still be a waste of time because when I'd finally reach the top I'd have to keep my eyes shut. I'm so terrified of heights that I'd be scrambling to get down without even putting my teeny, tiny flag in the top of the mountain.

I'll never ever go to a Disney On Ice Show. Unless I am at Disneyland or it's taking place at the Central Park ice skating rink in New York. Same applies for a Nickelback concert.

I'll never ever stop talking too much in group situations and then feel embarrassed afterwards. No matter how hard I tell myself to shut up, the words keep spewing from my mouth. Blah blah blah. I go on and on and imagine eye rolls and secret exchanges. I tell myself to stop, but still I keep talking. It makes me not want to socialise. I'm much better hanging out by myself.

I'll never ever get why my husband doesn't want to cuddle after sex. It's SO NICE.

I'll never ever understand maths equations nor will I be able to add up figures in my head without using my fingers to count.

I'll never ever tire of beef and black sauce and, my other favourite, honey chicken. Never.

I'll never ever understand why people are so fearful of same sex marriage or migrants. How are other people who love scary?

I'll never ever get enough kisses from my kids.

I'll never ever feel that I'm good enough, in my own eyes.

I'll never ever stop trying though.

What about you? What will you never ever do?

bigwords xx

The One I Ask You To Click On My Link

Sponsored Competition Entry

I had a massive box arrive the other day and in it was a brand new LG Cinema 3D Smart TV. So, I did a little video about how FABULOUS it is. I uploaded it to YouTube and now I am going to ask you out there in blog land to click on my YouTube link.

The more views I get the greater chance I have of getting to keep the TV. The cool crew at LG have also said they'll throw in another TV for me to giveaway to a lucky bigwords' reader if I win.


But first I need to win.

SO GET VIEWING - as many times as you want!!


THANKS

bigwords xx

It Takes a Village - Cup Of Tea And a Blog

It Takes A Village... to raise a child. So, I'm asking bloggers from my village to each write a message for me to pass on to my girls. If you'd like to write one, let me know.

This week's message to my girls is from a new friend of mine who writes over at the gorgeous blog Cup Of Tea And A Blog - the kind-hearted Catherine Rodie Blagg.

Dear Little Words,

Today’s lesson is about sisterhood. Not 'The Sisterhood’. I’m not here to teach you about feminism - I could - but not today.

The ‘sisterhood’ I want to talk about is the one that the three of you share. The connection that ties you to one another, the bonds of shared experience, shared memories and…er… shared bathwater.

Whether you are like three peas in a pod or chalk, cheese and marble - you can be the best of friends. You can learn from each other, you can confide in one another and although your mum won’t thank me for saying so, you can conspire together. What you can’t do on your own, you can do as a team.

No one will make you laugh the way your sisters make you laugh. They will make you laugh so hard you’ll forget why you started laughing in the first place. You’ll laugh that crazy silent laugh that leaves you breathless. You’ll laugh so hard that you’ll be in serious danger of wetting your knickers*. As you grow up you’ll share so much laughter that when the three of you meet as grown women you’ll merely need to make eye contact and you will be floored with laughter.

Unless you happen to be meeting at a funeral, in which case I would advise you to try and avoid eye contact.

Now, before we get too carried away with all this jolly “sisters are best friends” malarkey I should also tell you that you will never fight with anyone the way you fight with your sisters. You’ll fight over toys, you’ll fight over dolls, you’ll fight over chocolate biscuits. As you grow, you’ll fight about jewellery and clothes and make up. And, well, inevitably there will come a time that you’ll fight about boys.

I’m going to resist temptation to digress into a tirade of advice regarding the hairier sex. Your Auntie Mrs Woog has already provided you with a thorough run down on boys and I’ve nothing to add.

Except to say that when they threaten to disturb the bonds of sisterhood… they’re really, really, not worth it. Boys will come and go, but what the three of you have… that’s forever. Unless of course that boy really, really is worth it, in which case you’ll figure it out. A sister can get over anything for a sister, even a broken heart… Clear?... No?... Don’t worry, you’ll know when you get there.

I wanted to end this letter with a touching quote that you would remember for years to come. I scoured the internet for hours and found reams of ‘sisterhood’ quotes. Most of them were of the slightly nauseating ‘sisters are petals of the same flower’ variety, but then, just as I was about to give in and go with lyrics from Sister Sledge, I found this little gem:

 

"A sister will always notice her sister's first gray hairs with glee" Allison M. Lee

 And that sums it up! Yeah, your sister will be the first to point out your grey hairs, but she’ll also use her fancy tweezers to pull them out for you!

 Look after each other,

 Much love,

 Catherine

* Here is an extra piece of advice… don’t forget to do your pelvic floor exercises! 

Catherine Rodie Blagg lives in Sydney with her husband and two small daughters. In her free time she blogs about family life and the challenges of modern mothering. She drinks an alarming amount of tea. www.cupofteandablog.com 

Twitter: @CoTaaB 

Facebook: www.facebook.com/cupofteaandablog

Welcome To My Crazy Head

It's 5am. I'm awake, largely thanks to Miss H, but in reality I was already nervously lost in my own ridiculousness. I say that smiling, but in all honesty my heart is thumping and my fingers shake. My husband is about to get on a plane for work and already, my crazy has begun.

Just writing this post is tempting fate; tempting the fate I've firmly set in my head. You see, after watching the gorgeous Kerri Sackville talk about her book The Little Book of Anxieties, I recognised something in myself. Something I've never spoken about because firstly, I didn't understand what I suffered from, but also because I've convinced myself that if I do speak out loud about it, whatever awful disaster I'm imagining in my head will actually come true. It will happen and I will be responsible.

I can't sit alone with my thoughts anymore. They plague me. They frighten and worry me. I've decided if I write them down it may help me face the crazy head on.

I am rambling. My fingers are paralysed.

My nervousness today has been compounded by the fact I dreamed I was standing on a beach, watching a plane circle. Moments later, the plane nose-dived into the swirling sea. I fell to my hands and knees crying. I awoke with a start, wanting to tell my husband I had had a terrifying nightmare, but I didn't want to worry him. I know it's just me projecting things that will not happen.

I just watched my husband walk out the door. I wanted to grab him and say: "Please don't go, please stay". I didn't, I just hugged him tight. I always make sure I hug him like it's the last time. I know this freaks him out, as it would me, if he was in my place.

I have already gone through my ritual; my ritual I have never told anyone about. I have already visualised him leaving, getting into his car, driving through the streets of Adelaide, getting on the plane, flying safely over the water to Pt Lincoln. I've imagined him getting in another car, driving safely around the town, stopping to take photographs, before driving back to the airport and getting on another plane. I've visualised that plane flying back safely over the water, landing in Adelaide and him driving safely through the suburban streets back home to us. In my head, I've already played out the moment he walks through the door and I hug him and he looks into the room at our sleeping children.

I've touched my heart tattoo on my wrist, to my beating heart, and said my mantra: "Touch wood, touch wool, touch all". I've reached out and gently held my hand against my husband's skin.

I made up my mantra years ago, after first starting with the much simpler: "Touch wood". But one day I couldn't find any wood to touch and I panicked further. I had a woollen jumper on and I figured it was a natural fibre so it would be perfect. I added the "all" just in case there was no wood or wool around. I over think things. Earlier this year, I got a little heart shaped tattoo on my wrist. Now I simply touch that if I am feeling anxious. I saw it as my first step to facing my fears. My first step to stripping away some of my rituals. Simplifying things.

My second step is to speak about it. By speak, I mean write about it. I feel braver writing. For me, I don't feel so exposed. I do not want to speak actual words out loud about it yet, it's pushing fate too far.

I tell myself these things will not happen, yet the moment I share my fear I know I will struggle. I will want to come right back here and pull this blog post down. Why would I tempt someone I love's life by writing about all this openly? Why am I choosing now to try and fight fire with fire.

I am choosing this moment, because it has got out of hand. I can't keep up with the worrying. I can't keep up with the rituals. I can't keep up with the secrecy, hiding how frightened I am that by sharing my fears I will tempt fate. I have worked so hard to convince myself over the years that I will cause bad things to happen by admitting I have a problem. I have wrapped myself with my own heaviest of chains.

Until my husband comes home tonight, I will worry. I will worry that I am tempting fate. I will attack myself for not staying quiet.

Yet, still no matter how irrational I know I'm being, I am terrified.

Tell me I'm not alone?

bigwords x

The Little Car That Could, But Didn't

Sponsored Post

It was a sad and sorry sight, our old car alone and broken, sitting on the street. Discarded.

Instead, our new car was sitting proudly in our driveway, all shiny and new.

Then I got an offer I couldn't refuse. The dudes at Kmart Tyre & Auto Service offered to give our car a free service. I jumped at the offer because my heart twanged a little each time we drove past our old car. Our little family, all fighting and screaming at each other within the confines of our new car, the picture of normality, almost mocking the old car. It's been good to us, it deserved a little love.

The team at the mechanics were professional and friendly. My husband was impressed by the detailed report given over the phone, so that he could choose to not get certain jobs done, instead of being slugged for them unnecessarily. Twig reckons he could do some of the jobs himself, thus saving us a bit of cash. I know this means they will never get done, which will save us on both money and his time.

I have also vowed to learn a little more about the cars we drive.

Most importantly, I am going to learn what the make of the car is. Calling it a "white car" just doesn't seem detailed enough.

Craig Sinclair, the Pulteney Street KTAS Store Manager, certainly thought it would be a good idea I tried to at least learn the car's model. Secretly, he hoped I wouldn't learn much more than that. It's good for business if I leave the finer details to him and his team.

And on another note, why does my husband leave it to the last minute to get ready? Every time.

bigwords x

Newspapers Are Being Put To Bed

On my first day at The Advertiser I remember my cadet trainer taking us down to the basement to look at the original printing presses. You could still smell the ink. You could still hear them clunking and see the men buzzing around in a flurry. I could feel the ghosts of newspapers past rushing to meet the daily deadline, putting the latest edition to bed.

Throughout my life I've never been able to shake that moment standing in the dark, damp room. I soaked the history up as I did everything to do with newspapers back then. I felt the weight of responsibility, I drank in the traditions, like the old school subs who held up the front bar of the local pub till closing time; pints of ale firmly held by their gnarly hands. Stories of old, spilling from their wrinkled mouths, filling the smoke-filled room.

Today, Fairfax announced the beginning of the end of newspapers in this country. Its sights are set firmly on the digital age. News Ltd, my former employer, will surely follow suit. Thousands of people are facing the sack. Thousands of people who, like me, have newspapers in their blood, will soon be searching for a new path to tread. I'm calling it now - blogging is about to explode.

As I type, I wonder what all the journos of old would be thinking today; the ones who pounded the pavement in search of ripper yarns. I wonder what all the printers who went home with ink-stained hands after long nights immersed in words and stories would say to each other. I bet the old school journos, who used to smoke at their desk and phone in stories from the pub, would have already marked the newspapers of today as a poor reflection of their glory days. I wonder what my old cadet trainer would be thinking. His eyes would twinkle when he'd talk of the old days. He taught us that when an abusive caller would ring, to say: "Excuse me, but do you know who you are talking to?" and if they said: "No" then tell them to "Fuck off" before hanging up. He was happiest when talking about how things were in his time.

Not long after my traineeship, the way papers were printed were revolutionised. Many printers lost their jobs, in their place were computers. I remember watching a small robot-like machine transporting newspaper rolls through the shiny plant. At the time I marvelled at the progress, now it just makes me feel sad.

Newspapers tell stories. Newspapers connect people to each other. Soon there won't be any people involved in the process. There'll be no need to actually connect with others, it will all be done from behind a screen. News will be fast, but there'll be no soul. All human elements will be gone.

It's a sad day for newspapers. It's a sad day for the people waiting to find out if they will have a job. It's a sad for the journos of old who are most likely rolling in their graves. It's a sad day for the newspaper which will soon be put to bed for the very last time. It's a sad day for me.

bigwords x

I'm A Virtual Prisoner In My Own Home

My husband has so much work on at the moment which is a GREAT THING. When you run a small business you have to ride the ups and downs. At the moment it's an up, but for me it turns into a bit of a downer as suddenly I'm thrust into 1950s housewife mode. And seeing that I am a crap cook, don't iron and dislike anything to do with floors, it's not my strong point.

This weekend I'm feeling it even more as with my husband away for work with one car and the other car forgetfully left at the mechanics - I am car-less with three small children. I feel like I am a virtual prisoner in my own home; locked in a house with three tormentors who are obsessed with me. Three tormentors who follow me around and demand things from me constantly.

I swear yesterday was the longest day in the history of all days.

It was such a long day that when my husband popped home in between work trips I high-fived him and legged it to the supermarket. Since when has doing the supermarket shopping on a Saturday afternoon been considered "taking a rest"?

So, instead of fielding my kids' never-ending demands, I was wondering around the supermarket in a state of happy vagueness. I even stood aside when the dude started running, so he could pass me in the toilet paper aisle. I bet he drives a Holden Commodore and always speeds up when people try to pass him. He was a knob. I felt like yelling out to him: "Dude, chill out man, it's not a race. Having to wait 5 seconds near the detergent isn't going to shrink your balls. You are still a man. Now pass me the loo deodoriser." But I didn't do any of those things, I just stood aside leaning on my trolley thinking how wonderful it was to be all by myself. There was no way I was rushing home.

I even picked the longest queue to stand in. I wasn't alone, there were women everywhere reading magazines with smiles on their faces.

As the extraordinarily slow checkout boy was putting my groceries into bags, I noticed the elderly couple behind me. They were in their 80s or maybe 100s. They were wearing the neatest, pressed, matching white leisure suits with soft, white leather shoes. He had a comb-over wig. I shit you not, a comb-over wig - is that what you do when you get to a certain age - get wigs that are age appropriate?

His wife had a purple rinse wig perched delicately on her small head. She was wearing pristine white gloves. I say pristine, but then she did it. She did something I was not expecting. She picked a booger out of her nose. I gagged a little, but got distracted by the fact I'd inadvertently stolen a bag of baked goods which I quickly scooped out of the trolley and handed to the checkout boy.

And then it happened, the Seinfield moment. The bag slipped onto the floor and as quick as a fox, the woman lent down and picked it up for me with the nose picking hand. The little snot sitting delicately on her gloved fingers.

I knew right then that it was time to put an to end my escape from house arrest and return to my own little people with their snotty fingers.

Do you escape to the shopping centre to get some time out or am I the only person without a full life?

bigwords x

It's Not Sneaky Joints and Pale Ales Anymore

There was a time before heading out to a concert or to see a band at a pub that there'd be a pre-concert ritual. First off, there'd be much thought on what I'd wear. That was a given. I'd agonise over my "look" for the night, much the same as I do now, but my clothes were three sizes smaller and much more on trend.

While laying out my clothes for the night ahead, my then boyfriend, now husband, and I may have snuck in a quick shag. Let's all pause for a moment to remember when sex wasn't only at night time when the kids had gone to bed. Let's all remember when sex may have been on the kitchen table as the pasta was cooking or in the shower at 2 in the afternoon. Let's all pause to remember spontaneity. OK, enough of that smut.

Once sexed up, then there'd be the obligatory shower, hair styling and make-up session. Clothes on and then off to try out a different outfit entirely and then you'd do that mad rush to find the tickets to the show you were going to. A quick double-check to see where it was and what time. There'd be a discussion about the merits of seeing the back-up act or if the time would be best served at the nearest pub downing beers.

Then you'd sit back, crack open a coldie and roll a joint. Generally, this would be smoked on route to the venue, shared between friends. Invariably, long-necks of Pale Ale would also be shared.

Last night I went to a concert. I went to see Lisa Mitchell perform at a little Baptist Church as part of her Spiritus Tour. It wasn't a religious experience, just a new touring concept of hers. The sound was so pure. Simply divine.

This time my pre-concert ritual was wildly different. This time, my clothes were the only ones which covered my belly and looked vaguely cool. There wasn't a choice. And by vaguely cool, I mean in a "I checked out some hipsters at the local cafe and threw together a few items". One of those items was a $4 scarf I purchased from Sussans and I am pretty sure Sussans is not where the cool kids shop. I am no longer cool by osmosis, I am "middle-aged woman try-hard cool" through internet research. I don't get out of the house enough.

Up until the minute the taxi was beeping its horn, I was still doing reading with my 5-year-old. I had survived the dinner rush, got everyone in pjs, showered while the kids created pillow towers in their bedroom, greeted my mother naked at the front door, hurriedly put my hair in a failed top knot, threw make-up on and raided my kids piggy bank for cash. As I was running out the door, my eldest girl slipped and hit her head and was crying, my middle child was tugging at my leg saying: "Mum, I've got something to tell you...ummmm.....ummmmmm...oh, I forgot" and my youngest child was following me around making kissing sounds and staring at me with her big blue eyes. One last sweep of the room giving cuddles and I ran out of the door into the cab. And by run, I mean my bum was wobbling and I was panting.

There was no pre-concert shag and I had no joint in my pocket, but I could have pashed my friend for having a cold beer waiting for me. Concerts, sitting down, stone-cold sober are just not the same though.

Our next concert is the Hilltop Hoods. Anyone got any tips on how to look gansta?

bigwords xx

It Takes A Village - Styling You

It Takes A Village... to raise a child. So, I'm asking bloggers from my village to each write a message for me to pass on to my girls. If you'd like to write one, let me know.

This week's message to my girls is from the business savvy, super stylish, ultra supportive, kind-hearted  Nikki Parkinson - the everything behind the wildly successful blog Styling You. Oh yeah, and she's one my good mates who I adore.

Dear LittleWords,

You know your mum is, like, THE coolest chick out, don’t you?

We first met on this thing called Twitter where you can only write 140 characters or less between each other (I know … old school!). I knew that she would be a lot of fun to meet in real life. And she was.

She knows her way around a wine glass and a dance floor and I truly to believe these are very good skills to possess as you travel through life. I think she wanted me to write to you to share my fashion and beauty know-how. I won’t kid you though. I really didn’t have any fashion or beauty smarts for a VERY LONG TIME.

Hopefully if you take a few of these pointers on board, you may just have your style act together when you’re still young enough to pull of any trend that comes your way. Here goes …

1.     Your mum actually does know what suits you. Secretly you know this but will not admit it … probably ever.

2.     Just because your friends are following a particular fashion trend doesn’t mean that you have to.  Walk your own fashion beat.

3.     While you might be seduced by the latest fashion and accessories, stop and think before you buy something new. Do you really love it? Will it work with things you already own?

4.     You know the jeans/swimsuit that you think you can’t really wear because you think you’re too fat to do so? YOU ARE NOT FAT. The end.

5.     When it comes to school formal time, you do not need to look like a puffy fairy princess. Those photos will be lingering around a very long time. Opt for something fresh and elegant and you will not be embarrassed when someone tags you in a photo in a school reunion Facebook group 10, 20 or even 30 years down the track.

6.     Even though you don’t need to wear makeup you probably will. Get some good advice on how to look like you’re not actually wearing any. This is actually a particular skill that requires a gazillion products but will deceive any school principal but probably not your mum.

7.     Even though you really, really want to, don’t squeeze those zits. They do leave scars, which far outweighs the short-term effect of being caught with a pimple or two. At the first sign (usually a feeling), apply a bit of teatree oil and leave over night. If more than a pimple or two, call in the big guns and let your mum talk it over with your GP. Do not be seduced by the ads on the TV – your skin is young, beautiful and sensitive. Keep it that way.

8.     Please wear sunscreen every day. Even those days where you go to the beach with your friends who have olive skin and never burn. If they are still your friends when you are all 40 you will laugh with fewer crows feet and your face will not resemble an old pair of leather boots.

Lots of love, 

Aunty Nikki

Nikki was never allowed a Barbie doll as a child. Her politically correct mum thought Lego and Tonka trucks were more fitting. Now the Queensland-based blogger advises women what to wear and put on their face for a living. The former journo and magazine editor manages an award-winning blog Styling You – offering real world fashion and beauty advice for busy women.  Don’t tell anyone but she’s secretly a closet dag who likes nothing more than relaxing at home with her family but open a champagne bottle and she can have her heels on and hair done in minutes.

Blog: www.stylingyou.com.au Twitter:@stylingyou Facebook: www.facebook.com/stylingyou

The Day I Regressed

Growler

The hardest part was finding a nappy large enough to fit over my arse. I'd managed to source a onesie, but  nappies were proving tricky to find. I just settled for a huge pad.

Then, I struggled working out what toy I'd carry around all day. The toy I'd scream over if left in the car. The one I'd make you scramble for on your hands and knees at bed time. The one I couldn't sleep without. I settled on a large bulldog. I named him Growler.

You see, my kids were shitting me and I thought, man, these little terrors live a charmed life, I want a taste of what they've got. So, I grabbed my Growler and made my way into my kids' room. It was 5.45am and I thought it best I woke them, like they do me everyday. I mean why should they get all the fun? I jumped straight onto Miss L's bed. I put my feet in her face. I wriggled around. I kissed her gently, careful to leave a trail of snot on her lips. Then, I wriggled into Miss E's bed and straddled her like a pony and bounced up and down, before pushing her to the edge of bed, so she was left without blankets. I had a bit trouble getting into Miss H's cot. There was a slight incident of me getting my leg stuck and falling head first into it, before hearing a suspicious creaking sound. I got out as fast as I could before it collapsed, but not before pulling her eyelids up to check if she was awake.

Next stop breakfast. I refused to eat it until I got the bunny bowl and matching spoon. There was a scene when I didn't get the biggest piece of toast and I wasn't allowed to pour my own milk in my cup. But in the end it didn't really bother me, because I had no intention of eating any of it anyway and instead I settled in front of the television to watch my favourite Dora episode for the 500th time.

I spent the rest of the day asking for something to eat every fifteen minutes and then stashing half eaten food all over the house. I particularly enjoyed it when I threw myself onto the ground in the shopping centre screaming, yet it was pretty awkward when the shop assistant called security to help get me out of the shopping trolley seat. But it was the moment my kids found me standing in the bathroom with no pants on, bending over touching my toes, singing: "Wipe my bum, wipe my bum", that really freaked them out.

By 5 o'clock, I'd eaten enough Arrowroot biscuits for a lifetime, Growler was giving me the shits and I was hanging out for a coffee and a stiff drink. Frankly, being a child, while void of responsibility and requiring no clothes washing, was mind numbingly boring after a couple of hours.

So, I put my bra on, poured a gin and let my husband play with my Growler.

Have you ever been tempted to regress?

bigwords x

I'm Calling It Now. I Am Not A Mummy Blogger

Today I woke up in my Mummy bed and stretched a big Mummy stretch. Then I popped on my Mummy slippers and my Mummy dressing gown. And I Mummy walked in to the kitchen to grab myself a Mummy coffee while Mummingly giving my children their breakfast. Then I Mummingly threw away all the breakfast they did not eat.

I thought to my Mummy self: "Mmmmm, I might sit down at my Mummy laptop and write myself a Mummy blog post about boobs and other such Mummy things". So I did.

And then, I thought to my Mummy self: "Why are bloggers, who are fathers, not called Daddy Bloggers? And why are businessmen, who are fathers, not written about in newspapers as CEO Mr Smith, father to three children..."

I wondered out loud in my Mummy head voice: "Why are women always labeled based on their marital or parental basis: Mrs, Miss, Ms, Mumpreneur and Mummy Blogger?"

And then I drank my Mummy coffee, took a Mummy shit and went out for a piece of Mummy cake.

I am not a Mummy Blogger. I am a blogger.      

What are your thoughts on the need for society to always put women in a box?

After I wrote this post the gorgeous Glowless wrote one about the same issue. We came to different conclusions. You should go read hers. The debate continues.

bigwords x

The Glass of Wine That Taunted Me

The glass of wine just sat there on the kitchen bench. It was taunting me. It was looking all delicious-like and winking at me. It was yelling: "DRINK ME I'M ALL DELICIOUS-LIKE".

Unfortunately, I couldn't hear it teasing me because my children were yelling even louder than the just poured, full bodied Barossa Shiraz. I'd poured it, under the impression that my motherly duties for the night had neared an end. My kids were in pajamas, the tv in their room was on, the lights dimmed and the warning to "not leave the bedroom" had been issued.

I'd poured that glass of wine and ducked out of the room to put on my tracksuit pants and remove my bra. I'd popped some day-old curry in the microwave. I'd put some bad reality television show about WAGs and their inability to speak a sentence without mentioning the phrase: "It's always important to go out wearing your best fake boobs", on the telly. I was on, what parents around the world call, the home stretch.

And then it happened. Miss H needed a nappy change. And then promptly, did another poo. She likes a clean nappy to shit in. So, then Miss H needed another nappy change. Miss E needed someone to wipe her bum. Oh, and she also needed "someone" to remove the Pet Shop toy she'd dropped in the toilet bowl. It was sitting proudly on a nugget. It was also taunting me. It was saying: "You will never get to drink that wine". Then Miss L decided, while I was running through the house with said stinky Pet Shop toy, that she was STARVING and needing something to eat. I offered her a poo sandwich. She was not interested and her head started spinning around like the exorcist. This of course, meant the others also needed something to eat. Then the phone rang, I couldn't hear what the annoying sales person was saying. All I could hear was: "Would you like to upgrade to our GLASS OF WINE package?".  No. I just want to sit on the couch by myself, drinking my glass of wine and eating my curry.

It was twenty minutes until I got to do that. Twenty minutes that I was taunted by that glass of wine. Actually I lie. It was 21 minutes, because as soon as I sat down and reached for my wine, all three children came running in like tiny vultures swarming around me. I think it was at that moment I displayed my best A1 Mum behaviour and yelled: "For fucks sake GO TO BED. FUUUUUCCKKK."

Surprisingly, they did. And finally I got to down that wine. And it was delicious. So was the second glass and the third. I like to have one for each child.

Does your wine or cup of tea, reheated over and over, ever taunt you or is it just me who thinks her refreshments talk to her?

bigwords x

It Takes A Village - Carly Findlay

It Takes A Village... to raise a child. So, I'm asking bloggers from my village to each write a message for me to pass on to my girls. If you'd like to write one, let me know.

This week's message to my girls is from the gorgeous, talented and vivacious Carly Findlay from the fab blog Tune Into Radio Carly.

Dear Little Words,

You are going to meet so many interesting people in your lives. People from foreign countries with different skin tones, languages and accents. People who have experienced difficult times. People in same sex relationships. People from many occupations (imagine the types of jobs that will be around when you're grown up!). People with disabilities and illnesses that may look and do things a little differently to you. Diversity is beautiful – and I encourage you to embrace it.

When you see someone in a wheelchair or whose face may look a bit different (like me), don't be frightened of them. Go up to them and say hello. It's ok to be curious, as long as you're not rude. Ask them about their life. Tell them about your life. You may just make a new friend! People from diverse backgrounds will enrich your life so much – they'll help you to learn and grow and see new perspectives.

Maybe when you're teenagers, the media will portray diversity in a different way to what its doing now. Hopefully we'll see a person with a disability on the front cover of a magazine. Hopefully the Nobel Prize Winner will be as popular as Miss Universe. Hopefully we'll aspire to be as smart or as kind as a celebrity, rather than aspiring to be as thin or as flawless as they look. Try not to worry that you don't look like the airbrushed women in magazines or the singers who are only popular because they're not wearing many clothes and dancing rudely around poles and men. Appreciate your uniqueness and know that you are beautiful and perfect without having to change the way you look. Don't listen to anyone who judges you on your appearance alone – being kind, open-minded and compassionate (and living a great life) is so much more important than looking good.

There will be times where you'll want to be like everyone else you know. You'll want to look like they do, wear the same fashions they are and listen to the music they listen to. Gosh I hope most of the music of today does not become classic like Nirvana (ask your Mum) or Savage Garden (ask me). But I want you to know it's ok to be an individual. Wear what makes YOU happy! You can wear bootleg jeans when everyone's wearing skinny leg jeans. It's ok to be different. You can be the biggest fan of the daggiest singer and feel good about it (but if you're like me, you probably won't ever marry that singer!). And it's ok for others to want to break away from the mould too. They don't have to follow the crowd. When I reached my mid 20s, I came to love being me – differences and all. And you will love being you too (or U2 – ask Eden;).

So what I'm saying is: appreciate being unique, take the time to get to know those that look a little different, and remember that everyone is beautiful – we all have something to offer this world.

Love Carly

Carly Findlay lives in Melbourne. She's an appearance activist, blogger and writer, community TV presenter and lover of cooking, live music, fashion and Darren Hayes. She's about to embark on her first overseas trip to the UK to speak at a university conference about appearance and to the USA to attend BlogHer. So. Freaking. Excited. Carly blogs at http://carlyfindlay.blogspot.com and tweets at @carlyfindlay

The Slide and Other Manoeuvres

(this is before marriage and children - OBVIOUSLY)

I must apologise to my husband for drinking too much wine and falling asleep on the couch while watching The Voice last night. He had retired early to warm the bed for us, if you get my drift.

I had that one extra glass of wine and was drunk exhausted, so got my blanket and snuggled up on the couch in the hope I'd fall alseep and not have to have sex  be extra comfy. I fell asleep.

When I woke up I was relieved terribly upset I'd missed my chance, but then realised there'd be many more chances. There'd be chances everyday if I so desired. If we didn't often have children, in our bed or following us around constantly, there'd most probably be chances a couple of times a day. 

Then I got nervous excited at the possibility Twiggy might still be awake or would wake up as soon as I got into bed. It was then I knew I'd have to do The Slide. 

The Slide is a well-practised manoeuvre of drunk tired men and women everywhere who although really enjoy sex and love their partners very much, just can not be bothered. It's a stealth like move, but first you must be prepared. You must get changed/or nuded-up for bed in another room, the lights might be off and you must have toileted before bed so as not to wake up your hopefully sleeping partner. 

Then when you think the time is right, you slowly slide yourself into bed, in the exact position you want to sleep. Then, the next move is required - The Ironing Board. This is when you lay there as still as possible, all the while listening for the sounds of your partner's breathing until you are sure they are sleeping. It is not until you are sure they are asleep that you can move into another more comfortable sleeping position.

This is when your partner may pull a move of their own, a move which you secretly live in fear of desire. They could be pretending to have been sleeping the whole time (also known as The Zombie). And just as they sense you are fully relaxed about to fall asleep, they pounce with The Hand Creep. Trust me, this is a real move, it happened to me last week. I jumped off the bed startled and then I knew I had been beaten at my own game and had to admit defeat. Don't get me wrong, sometimes defeatist sex is the best kind. 

Last night, there was no Hand Creep, but I wish I'd executed a better Ironing Board as it was really uncomfortable laying on that darn toy kangaroo one of the kids had left on my side of the bed. Or did my husband leave it there to get me back for falling asleep on the couch? 

So, husband I apologise and hopefully we'll get another chance tonight. 

Have you ever had to do The Slide?

bigwords x

Yes, I'm fat, now piss off.

I am fat. Anyone over a size 12 is fat, if you listen to the haters out there.

Fat is the new sub-culture to be oppressed. Of course, being attacked for being fat is not a new thing, it's just become the new frontier for small-minded, nasty people to spew their awful insecure, ignorant hatred at. Take the latest inexcusable vileness being directed at the stunningly beautiful Chrissie Swan and her gorgeous, happy, family. She's not the first person to fall prey to the small-minded, yet vocal, minority. And unfortunately she will not be the last. The attacks on her have angered many people, take this fab post by my friend Woogsworld.

You see if you're overweight, you are immediately a bad role model. You are a bad parent. You are a walking diabetic, heart attack. It is assumed you never exercise, nor do you eat healthy food or manage your stress levels. It is assumed you hate yourself and have no self esteem. If you're overweight, you don't live adventurous, fun, fulfilled lives full of love. You are nothing, but the flab on your belly. You are just fat. For many of us fatties, there's nothing further from the truth.

It's become accepted among people to comment openly about other people's weight because we've been told time and time again that fat people are a drain on the tax system. Us fat people take valuable resources from the skinny elite. And because we cost people money, we are fair game. People on forums, in offices, on buses, at the school gate, on television, in news segments, online, at coffee shops and shopping centres have the right to pass judgment on us because of the size of our arse. We deserve it.

We are so fat we shouldn't be allowed to fly in planes or ride on buses. We should have timed lunch breaks because, let's face it, we eat so much more, we take way longer than other "normal" people. It's time we were all sent to live on Fat Island.

I mean you have looked in the mirror lately haven't you? You have taken a good hard look at your fat self haven't you? Because it's fat people like us that shame our country. We are a blight on the nation's reputation. We walk around thinking we have equal rights as other people, but we don't deserve to because we are too fat to deserve anything. We should just sit at home eating ice cream from the tub and smell our own fatness. Fat people smell too, did you know that? I read it in the comments of a news story. I unsubscribed to the news service, it angered me so much.

Hello comment moderators, you have a responsibility to condone hatred, but you don't because it's good for traffic to incite ignorance. Hello, mainstream media you bang on about bullying and a responsibility to fair and honest reporting - where is your responsibility to your readers? When will you start deleting hateful coments. There is no place for them. When will news organisations step in and play a pivotal role in stamping out online bullying?

This nastiness, this awful hatred, this vile judgement has GOT TO STOP.

I am fat, but I've still got a heart and watching this hurtful campaign against people is breaking it into many little pieces. It's time we all took a stand against it.

bigwords x

The Biscuit Crumbs

As I watched my eldest child use her texta to smash her biscuits up into tiny pieces all over the kitchen table and onto the floor, I wondered how my life got to this point.

"Stop doing that," I told her firmly. "Stop doing that because I am the one who will have to crawl around on my hands and knees and clean it up and I don't want to have to do that."


"No," she replied cheekily and with a touch of Satan.

"What do you think I am?" I said softly. "Do you think I enjoy spending my days running around after the three of you and cleaning up your messes? Don't you think I'd rather be doing something else with my life, not just being your personal cleaner?"

"What?," she said, reaching for another piece of paper to draw on, pushing more crumbs onto the floor with her sleeve.


"Don't you think there's more to my life than just cleaning?," I wailed, thinking how did I get here?

"Can I have something to eat?" she asked, not looking up from her drawing.

"That's it, I've had enough," I replied. "You know what child. When you get bigger I am going to come over to your house with a hammer and a packet of biscuits and I am going to squash them up all over your kitchen table so crumbs go everywhere and then you can tell me what you think about it all then. OK. I mean it, I will do that."

"How are you going to do that?" she asked.

"With a hammer," I said. "With a big, big hammer."

"No," she replied. "How are you going to do that when you don't know where I live?"

"I'll ask your Dad where you're living," I said with a serious look on my face, yet silently laughing at her quick-witted response.

"He won't know where I live either," she smiled. "I won't tell either of you where I live."

"Ok then," I said, happy that she'd even thought about leaving the house. "When do you think you might move out?"

"When I'm twenty," she said, her five-year-old self bursting with pride on how she'd deflected my crazy.

"Good," I smirked. "Twenty it is. And remember, even if you don't tell us where you're moving to, we'll still find you. You will never escape us. Know that. Now clean up the crumbs."

"What do you think I am?" she protested. "Your slave or something."

And with that Miss E, the middle-child, held up her pretzel and yelled: "BOOBS".

What's life in your house like?

bigwords xx