This day, two years ago
By · CommentsAh, the first day of Spring.
And I am awoken, not by a screaming toddler at 2.13am and 4.27am, but by an accidental bed wet by middle child at 6.00am.
I am, once again, reminded of my concerns re swapping at birth, as he skips around the house singing. He’s been doing that a lot lately. It’s really annoying.
At 6am two years ago, I was sitting in the maternity ward at the Freemasons, being asked a bazillion times if I’m alergic to anything and being preped for surgery to remove the rapidly expanding growth from my abdomen that turned out to be an 8 pound 3 screaming baby boy.
Seems I’m not allowed to get any sleep today. Godzilla persists in skipping around the house, singing, Monkey Boy wanders in for a cuddle and starts hassling me about Chippie’s birthday presents and wanting to wake him up so he can open them. After the insanely massive amounts of screaming he partook in yesterday, I’m quite happy for him to stay in bed as long as possible. Although, given he’d slept past both 2.13 and 4.27am, I was becoming increasingly concerned.
Made my way out of bed, stumbled to the kitchen, managed to aim coffee from pot into MUG (impressive!) and field questions that I really don’t want to be asked at the best of times, let alone when I’ve had my sleep broken and haven’t had coffee yet, along lines of:
“Mum? How do people get bum cracks?”
I then found Godzilla in Chippie’s room, singing and dancing, lights blazing. Apparently he “wanted to get up and open his presents”. Instead, I find Chippie still in prone position, squinting up and looking like he wished everyone would just piss off and leave him alone.
Godzilla then informs me he is “presenting” assembly this morning, and is unable to clarify what this means.
“What do you mean you’re “presenting”?” I ask.
“Awww. We’re singing the piranah song.”
What fucking piranah song????????
“Right,” I murmur, in an attempt to clarify. “So, when you say you’re “presenting” does that mean you are standing up the front with the microwave, or you’re just singing this song?”
“Mu-um! I’ts a microphone, not a microwave!”
Yes, and I’m really bloody tired and would be slightly more coherent if people let me sleep and spoke to me in sentences I could understand.
“We had to colour the piranahs in red and purple fins.”
Goodo then. Might take the morning off and wander up to assembly and it had better be bloody good or I’ll be even more pissed off.
Was super impressed at Godzilla who did, in fact, “present” assembly, entirely on his own, with no help from anyone. Effectively, he MC’d it!
Well there you go.
AND I was there to not only witness it, but I also took the camera, capturing those moments where, as one does when they are seven and MCing, he was holding his doodle to help himself stay on track and deliver the next announcement with poise and coherence.
He was also presented with an award for acheiving his learning goals; counting by 2′s, where he announced he could accurately and successfully count by two’s up to “6 million”. His teacher varified it.
Why, oh why can he not find his shoes every morning?
Chippie at childcare where they are baking him a cake and singing happy birthday to him. I may wonder up for that moment, also.
I must, however, whip up some kind of cakey thing of my own. Can’t have a birthday in my house without having cake and everyone going “Awww, do we have to sing happy birthday now?! The Simpsons are on. Can we do it in the next ad?”
Shhh. It’s Top Secret
By · CommentsSometimes, stuff in life happens to you that you just physically can’t keep to yourself. Regardless of the Top Secret, eclusive, unofficiality of it all.
Or, perhaps, because of the secrety, unofficialdom of it.
Anyhoo. months ago was to be the publication of my first book. Unfortunately, Shit Happened, as it is prone to do, and the publication of the book was delayed and I spent lots of time Foetal Positioning and feeling very sad, followed by lots of coffee and wine and doing shit about it and …
… and, well, I’m not suppsed to say.
But I will! Cos I’m SO EXCITED! My book is finally off to the printers, and the publishers are fast tracking a limited number so that I have a more valid excuse for getting pissed on bubbles, or whatever, at the next Mental Health Moments Dinner that I’m organising for my friends over at Bad Mother’s Club. And anyone else who wants to come along.
Thus, the Mental Health Moments Dinner on Friday September 17th has now become the official unoffical, super-exclusive, extra special launch of Diary of a Mad Cow: A Guide to Bad Mothering!
Books will be available for purchase on the night, and all will be signed by me 
Unless, of course, you’d rather have them left unsigned, or signed by someone else attending the dinner on the night. Up to you.
Dinner, of course will be fun anyway, this just makes it all the more exciting! Well, for me, anyway. And I’d love as many Diary readers to be there to drink bubbles with me, so if you wanna come, and you wann get your hands on a copy or 6 of the pre-launch, extremely limited edition, personalised and signed copy of Diary of a Mad Cow: A Guide to Bad Mothering then you need to book your tickets to dinner.
To make it easy for you, there’s two options for dinner:
- The I love a great night out and don’t wanna think about it, just gimme the lot option for $69 which includes 3-courses, all your drinks* (including wine, bubbles, beer, softdrinks), tea/coffee and great company, or;
- The I can’t decide now if I’ll have dessert or how much I’ll drink option for $39, which includes 2-courses and you decide on the night how much you’ll eat and/or drink and sort the rest out yourself.
Easy peasy …
About bloody time!
By · CommentsNawwww.
Weeks and weeks of saying “I love you” to him (well, all of them. Monkey Boy wanders off and says “mmmm”, Godzilla gives you a kiss) and he turns his head and walks off.
Or smacks you in the face with a train.
There we were, after craziness of day, him crying when he returned home from childcare and discovered he was in my care again, racing around doing the gymnastics / basketball thingy, home, burning dinner, bathing and … stop time … big kids in bed and Chippie and I on the couch watching Good News Week with a glass of wine.
Me, not him. I don’t share my wine with anyone.
“Luff oo” he says, and gives me a kiss.
Nawwwwwww.
The proceeds to headbutt me in the boobs and knee me in the vagina.
Oh, yeah, that’s what reality is like
By · CommentsHave just arrived home after three full and very long days at a seminar/conferency thingy, full of the awesomest of busines people.
And where my brain is required to think of sensibly outrageous things that don’t require mashing WeetBix or scraping it from the walls afterwards. I’m required to speak coherently to other business owners, and am allowed to say “fuck” without anyone under three repeating it.
The best bit was being able to speak to other adults and mingle with some top notch business owners, whom others in business may or may not be impressed about, and those not in business will have no idea who I’m talking about.
Actually, the best bit was being allowed – nah, encouraged -to be myself, who I am and not worry about conforming to political correctness and doing everythign “right”. Ahem, as I so clearly do all the time. Thus the “Business Dinner” on Saturday night, sans responsibilties of smallish people, allowed me to partake in some dancing when the band came on.
I do love a good dance. Stress relief and sometimes the only excercise I can get all week.
The theme was “Rock Star” which I managed to whip up the night before, thanks to my gorgeous friend Emma (the Mummyseuss) who created a vagina-flashing tutu for me and some stuff I located at the back of my wardrobe. Had some terrible moments where I had flashbacks to the 80′s and my teenage-hood, but overcame them with a glass of sauv-blanc and some dancing on a table ….
And just the one table. I promise.
Today, however, seemed to drag on, with my aging, mother-of-three body slowly slipping into fatigue. And hurting.
*sigh*
I arrive home, after sending a text message to the beloved awaiting me: Save me some dinner. And hot bubble bath. Love you xoxox
Alas, I arrive home to cold dinner, stashed in microwave so children couldn’t see, therefore, eat it, and no bath of any description, hot, cold or otherwise.
A cause for concern
By · CommentsA busy day, kid drop off, shopping with toddler and husband, which always elongates the process, then home 15 minutes before the photographer for some magazine turning up for a photo.
Impress self, managing to shower, dry hair, do makeup and get dressed in that amount of time.
Discover lasagne from dinner three nights ago on jeans during photo session.
And with a particularly hectic and stressful week behind me, a month of toddler tantrums and 9 year old boy smartarsedness, my three-day long conference this weekend, complete with dinner on Saturday night had completely slipped my mind.
Worse, I recall vague discussions re “rock star outfits” people were organising for the dinner, when it hit me that “Oh, shit! We’re supposed to dress up!”
I like to be really blase about fancy dress soirees, but to be quite honest, I do love them just a bit. I gives me permission to be crazy and even if I fuck the outfit up, I can pretend it’s supposed to be like that. Panicy discussions with friends and one offers to whip up a tutu for me. No idea how I’m going to get the rest, but it’s a start.
We managed to miss each other during the day, and I arrive home from the torment of swimming lessons to find a gorgeous tutu on my doorstep. In order to let her know I got it, it’s great and it fits, I figured trying it on would be the go. I whipped off my jeans, whipped on the new skirt and wandered out to show the family. Because I am an idiot.
Monkey Boy said “humph”, Chippie said “Oh, NO, too’ too’ BASH” and showed me one of his 486 billion trains, and hubby made comment on my “nice legs” which, to be fair, could very easily have passed for opaque white, textured stockings.
Self-esteem ruined, I made my way into Godzilla, who always, without fail, says something to make me feel good. He’s the kid that say’s “You look very beautiful, Mummy. I love you.”
And tonight?
In a somewhat bored monotone he informs me “You look crazy. And I can see your vagina.”
Which was cause for great concern. I was wearing undies!
Purple ones!
I ran from the room, crying and changed into my pyjamas.
Ate dinner, organised paraphernalia for tomorrow, coordinated showers and baths and the usual evening mayhem. Including increased levels of craziness of children, Godzilla mumbling “fucking hell” under his breath for no apparent reason, and the leg falling off the coffee table. Twice. “All by itself, I never touched it!”
To be fair, the leg falls off a lot. Hubby and I have wedged it back in. We just need to get around to actually gluing it.
Time for bed, and I do need a good sleep given what the next three days hold for me.
However, am having trouble sleeping. Am now worried about my vagina; particularly if its that shade of purple at the best of times.
An uneasy decision
By · CommentsMonkey Boy, upon not going to bed last night, but rather climbing into ours for “a cuddle”, seemed to be straining to breath. Just a little, nothing to be overly concerned about. Just easily puffed out.
Off to bed he goes.
He gets up this morning, lies on couch and coughs a lot, complaining of sore throat and chest.
I maintain efforts not to gag at mucousy sounding cough and try to get images of aftereffects of mucousy cough out of head.
I inwardly sigh about prospect of him having another day off school. And hope he will be listless and lie on couch all day and not annoy me about playing the DS becuase I have told them all that “when you are sick you can’t play the DS” and then embarking on the equivalent of a 6-week murder trail regarding playing of DS. Or watching a DVD.
Am relieved of this thought when he gets up on his hands and knees and farts in his brother’s face, thereby confirming just how sick he is.
But am left with that dilemma: he may or may not pass it on to others, but he may also be very annoying if he is at home, although he could be much worse tomorrow if he does go to school, but I don’t want him here and missing out on stuff there if he is sick, and I don’t want to be the mum all the other school mums frown upon this week due to spreading of diseases … argh! Worse, what if he goes, then I have to go pick him up during the day?Two trips to school pick up – not on my watch! Why is it all so hard?
If it weren’t for the fact I could see him waning before my eyes, witness the bags under his eyes getting bigger and darker as we spoke and that there was only enough bread left to send one of them to school with lunch today, I would have sent him.
Like giving a pill to a cat … only much, much worse
By · CommentsAfter having Monkey Boy home yesterday due to him really not being all that well, only with no symptoms other than extreme tiredness and, later, when I was on a very important business call, extreme obnoxiousness and ability to annoy he arrived home from schook coughing and spulttering and being very, very snotty.
Hmm. Possibly carried over from last night, where he had a terrible sleep due to excess snottage.
His levels of annoyability were at normal, however, and we still walked to guitar, after a deluge of hail and strong winds and freezing coldness. That completed, we walked home again and he decided his throat was sore and his cough was worse (not he decided that, I could hear it) and he had a bit of a headache.
Due to his panadol requirements of yesterday, and my levels of Can’t Be Arsedness, we were out of children’s panadol and I was required to decipher the recommended deliverable amounts of panadiene caplets to a nine and a half year old.
Given his over-sensitive gag reflex, I knew this would be a challenge. This is the kid who vomited up Travel Calm before we even got in the car and spat the soluble panadol all over … well, it’s hard, really, to determine exactly what he spat it all over, so let’s just go with “everything in the kitchen, inlcuding me”.
Much like what happened when I broke the caplet in half and put it on his tongue and forced water down his throat. It, and the caplet, immediately came out via every facial orifice imaginable.
So I organised for him to wipe up his mess by throwing a tea towel at him and rolling my eyes, squishing the remaining half-caplet into a powder and repeating the process. Including the tea-towel-throwing-eye-rolling bit.
Squish another up, siwzzled it into a glass of water, poured a smaller glass of milk as demanded, presented him with both and dreamed about giving worming tablets to cats, which is SO MUCH EASIER!
Now, how do I dry my slippers?
Nooooo! It’s too soon!
By · CommentsThe usual Tuesday morning fare … hubby leaving for work before the rest of the house up, and me getting tantrums from the second Chippie awakes until I go completely insane and lock myself in the freezer comparment with some Vodka.
Tuesday is also the day a friend pops over and we get some work done.
She enquired about my weekend whilst Chippie was sitting on my lap, screaming in my face, reaching our for things then throwing them at my head when I passed them to him. I do believe at one stage I informed him he was pissing me off and I wished he would stop.
At which point, I tuned out – it was that or throw him out into the back yard – recounting bits of information I’d obtained, ideas I’d come up with and people I’d met.
“What’s Rich Evans like?” she enquired.
“Fucking awesome!” I responded.
“Fuckin’” says Chippie.
Hmmm. On the upside. At least he stopped crying ….
And that, Mummy, is a fact …
By · CommentsDesperate for a bit of time away from the computer this afternoon, I decide to join in with the swimming lesson debacle that is Thursday nights.
Chippie now not going to daycare on Thursdays leaves us with numerous options, my favourite being Grumpy Pants takes him to swimming lessons with the older two and leaves me home to work. In peace.
But I go. I prepare myself adequately, taking my To Do Diary, my note book and my Pooh Bear pencil case with my selection of pretty coloured pens, and sit beside the pool and do a bit of offline work. Saves me thinking up various ways I can opt out of the world for that half hour. Make it fifty minutes, so they can deal with the post-swimming shower and get dressed without me. I hate that bit most.
Inexplicably – yet inevitably – the drive home discussion turns to our house burining down. Again.
Godzilla, out of the blue, as is his wont, suggests that when we get home we get a ladder and push the buttons on the smoke detectors. Because we were talking about Monkey Boy and his recently acquired aversion to eating carrots at school.
Monkey Boy then asks if we can pleeeeeaaaaaase get some of those sprinkler things that go on your roof for in case your house catches fire.
I affect sarcastic tone most appropriate for the discussion at hand and reply “Yeah, you and a sprinkler system. That’d be great for everyone!”
“What do you mean?” he replies. All innocent like.
I turned and looked at him in a look that pretty much repeated what I’d just said out loud.
“What?” he asks again. “I can do way naughtier things than that.”
And that, my dears, was a fact!
(And then he handed me, at 6.57pm, the note and additional paraphernalia relating to me being required to bake a cake for a school cake stall fundraiser, to be delivered before school tomorrow morning.)
And that, my child, would be fact …
By · CommentsQuietly relaxing (pahahahahahahahah) by which I mean I placed my arse on the couch for .376 of a second when Monkey Boy approached, by which I mean “yelled from the other end of the house” and asked the unthinkable.
“MU-UUM! Where are your post-it notes?”
To which I replied with the standard. No, not “where you left them” or “where they live” like I do with most things. Rather, an interrogation as to why he wanted post-its and to remind him they are MINE and to touch them may result in death-by-stabbing.
Last time someone got hold of my post-its, this is what happened:
.. and the term “Monkey Dick” was coined. No, I still can’t work out why or how it came about, but there you have it …
Thus, post-its are banned from use by anyone in this house, bar me.
He found them anyway, advising me he needed to leave me a note. Why he couldn’t just tell me, I have no idea, and he went through three pens that didn’t work, replacing them in pen-holder thing, and eventually located a working pen under the table. Which is where all our working pens reside. Not in the pen-holder-thingy, but under various furniture.
He vanishes, returns, informs me there is a note on my pillow that I “have to read” and I ask him if it says “I love you, Mummy”.
Because, really, what else would he have to leave me a note about.
“Ah!” he says, before racing off, locating a pen in the vegetable crisper, scribbling something on yet another monkey dick, vanishing, returning, saying “there are two notes on your bed you have to read” and repeating the process.
I go to bed. There are three notes on it. Two stuck to the bed head and one on my pillow. I lie, it is on a Lego catalogue which is on my pillow.
Note 1 says “I love you, Mummy”
Note 2 says “Make sure you read BOTH these notes”
Note 3 says “Buy me this stuff!” and he has neatly ticked all the Lego items he wishes to own from the latest catalogue.
I move them all, and go to bed.
Upon waking this moring, doing morningy related stuff and returning to my bedroom, I see a fourth note. This one stuck on Grumpy’s side of the bed head.
“I love you, Daddy,” it reads.
“Hey,” I ask Monkey Boy. “How come dad gets just that and I get that and “buy me stuff”?”
“Well, because you’re more likely to even notice it.”
Hrm. He does have a point. I wish he didn’t … but he does.
