Hot Cross Bun – How do you have yours?

The lovely folk at Baker’s Delight wanted to know how I eat my hot cross bums.

Sorry, hot cross bums.

ARGH! Hot cross BUNS!

I have clearly spent far too long around the children these school holidays and “bum” being one of the Words Of The Day, along with another few that I will not repeat in a review post, but all of which pertain to various body parts that are usually contained and located within underpants.

I apologise …

Anyhoo, a selection of gourmet spreads, including stawberry jam, lemon curd, caramel sauce and an orange blossom honey were sent our way to trial and test with our plethora of Baker’s Delight hot cross BUNS!

A light grilling and the buns were ready for consumption and the offspring stormed into the room in an attempt to devour as many as they could.

Godzilla – he of the over-consumer of fruit – determined that he didn’t want the ones with fruit in them, and preferred only the chocolate ones.

Monkey Boy, not a lover of sweet things, went for the traditional, and Chippie went for everything.

Grumpy Pants took the job very seriously, with comments like “even spread of fruit” and “right level of spice”.

I just tried them – not the chocolate ones, I can’t do chocolate hot cross buns or chocolate croissants or anything like that, I just can’t – with each of the spreads. Not, obviously, all the spreads on the one bun-half, but a bun-half, lightly toasted to a golden brown, with one topping, and another one with a different spread and so on and so forth until I had sampled them all.

At the end of it all – for me, anyhoo – nothing goes past a hot hot cross bun with butter, ever so slightly melted into it.



How about you? How do you eat yours?

Also, you do know it’s THIS Friday, right, that is Hot Cross Bun day? You got enough?


And so the School Holidays of the Birthday continues, with another two this week.

Having lost my mind – okay, and a child – a few days ago, it had simply not occurred to me to purchase all the presents in one hit. Which would have been the sensible thing to do.

Although, again, it gave us something, some sort of Get Out Of The House Activity, as three kids and I set off again for local, oversized shopping centre.

I also had to obtain a heap of postage satchels for a Sale! going on over on Real Mums, so we walk the length of the shopping centre, obtain the postage and work our way back, popping into shops and purchasing even more birthday presents.

It is along the way that I discover that Chippie has removed the postage items from my hands and has inadvertently dropped some of it somewhere. Something in the vicinity of $90 worth of postage – LOST!

I nearly cry as I do that thing where you stand and look in all directions, then walk one way, then back the other, the stop and say “Fuck it. Just. Fuck it!” and nearly cry again.

I thrust and item I had for purchase in my hands at Monkey Boy and say “Put that back!” and step out of the shop.

Pissed off, frustrated at the direction my day seems to be headed (we’d already has a smashed plate, blood, screaming and Grumpy Pants drank all the coffee – and we’d only just gone 10.00 a.m.) I storm back in the direction I’d last seen Chippie with the stuff, and see a Security Guard walking in our direction … and in his hands was my package of postage.

I almost cried again as I stopped him, simultaneously grabbing the receipt from my bag and rambling incoherently at him.

I tell him I could give him a big kiss.

He puts his hand up – clearly he’s been trained in defence – and says “No, no, it’s okay!”

I hug him anyway.

My teenager is mortified. My tweenager is oblivious. My littlest is a train.

I barely prevent the tears of relief as we walk back into the shop we’d left in some sort of crazed frenzy and purchase the item.

One down, one to go and we duck in, again, to Big W.

As we walk through the entrance, Chippie’s hand immediately slips into mine and hangs on tight.

I can feel the anxiety wafting from his little body.

We obtain that which we need and the older two walk on ahead to visit the toys ago.

Chippie’s grip tightens and looking straight ahead he asks “Where are my stinky brothers?”

“It’s okay,” I reassure him. “They’re just up there. See?”

He picks up his pace, dragging me along, approaching his brothers with considerable purpose.

“You don’t walk off like that, okay!” he tells them.

I am glad he learned from his experience.

Just like his older brother a week ago, it was an even that was likely to happen eventually, and it had to happen so he’d learn something from it.

Unlike (I think) his older brother, I think he did actually learn from this.

I am pleased.

(Although, sad he is so anxious and it doesn’t lessen how freaked out I was at the time. Both times.)


These school holidays, it seems, are not just the Easter Holidays (although, they aren’t really, anyway, they’ve just tacked Easter onto the end to torment parents a little more) but the School Holidays For Birthdays.

It seems Godzilla has been invited to approximately 48 birthday parties within the space of 10 days. Okay, looking at the pile of invitations, it’s really only three. But it feels like 48.

So Godzilla, Chippie and I trudge down to the oversized shopping centre a few blocks away. This is also a very good excuse to Get Out Of The House And Do Something, and with the promise of milkshakes or my not losing my shit, it is one of the easiest outings to manage. No need to pack snacks or a change of clothes or anything, and being only a few blocks from home, if they’re hungry, I just grab myself a takeaway coffee and walk home where they can fend for themselves.

Anyhoo, having secured a few ideas for gifts, we wander to shops most likely to stock such ideas and secure a gift.

Chippie, from the time we got up, has been a train. He chuffs along, using his arms as coupling rods, making tooting noises (out his mouth, and sometimes his bum) and sticking to branch lines – coloured tiles in the floor – without much regard for other patrons in the centre. Although he is getting much better and often derails himself.

He chuffs ahead a number of times and is subsequently called back and told to stay with me so he doesn’t get lost.

A quick duck into Big W on the way out and he’s chuffing along behind me, waving in and out of racks hung with clothes and I call for him to stay close.

Stopping to grab a few pairs of trackies for him for school, I turn to find he is nowhere in the vicinity. His standard would be to have stashed himself well into the middle of a couple of long, hanging items of clothing and ignore me.

But he hasn’t done that.

And I wander around for a bit, calling him and muttering “for fuck’s sake!” under my breath.

Why don’t they believe me when I tell them stuff?

Godzilla suggests he may be at the toy section. This is likely, although I suspect he just said it not out of concern for the missing Chippie, but because he didn’t want to miss out on going to the toy section. We go there anyway. We find the Trash Pack and LEGO, but no Chippie.

Big W is HUGE. We can continue our way around, but I suspect that may result in the whole both Chippie and I doing that circle thing  on opposite sides of the store. Instead, I send Godzilla around (with little hope) to keep an eye out, and I wander to the front where I can see in three directions and keep calling and looking.

A few moments later, a very,very distressed Chippie is led towards the service desk, hand in hand with a lovely, calm, older lady (not old, but not middle-age either – that inbetweeny bit).

She gave me a bit of a look that I couldn’t quite decipher as I bent to cuddle him and say “This is why Mummy tells you not to run off.”

She gives me another look, which is more in understanding and I thank her, but not profusely enough. She has turned and returned to her shopping now The Lost Child is safely returned.

I wish I could thank her more. I don’t think she appreciated how awesome she was to be able to get him to hold her hand and walk with her. She must have been a bit special. He still doesn’t speak to people he knows, much less make physical contact with them.

We head home, and Godzilla gets ready for his party. There really is nothing like leaving the present purchase until the last minute.

Also, the party is starting at 4.00p.m. and concluding at 9.00p.m. and I am usually in my pyjamas by then and trapped under a blanket and bowl of chips by nine.

I take him, and organise with another dad at dropoff to bring his child home when the party concludes. I’m driving past anyway, so it’s no biggy.

And I drag myself out of the house at ten minutes to nine, clothed as I have not been game to don my pyjamas all day, despite spending a few good hours at home where jarmies would have been most appropriate, and can hear the children from the party going OFF from half a block away.

I am grateful I am not those parents hosting that party.

I even remember to remember to collect additional child.

Some twenty minutes later, I have one child and am waiting for the other, who eventually shows, and the first one vanishes.

I can see this taking a while and wonder if we’ll get home before midnight.

Eventually, they both return and we can leave.

Child is delivered home safely, as is this very tired Mumma.

I have now lost both children and it’s just gone half-past-nine and I’m standing on the front doorstep, chatting to another parent who only had one child to take home and he has lost her, too and I get a text.

It’s from the father of the child I’m to be taking home. He is wondering if I have forgotten.

When I think about it, I can appreciate his concern. I would be, too. It’s almost three quarters of an hour since the party concluded.

Jeggings are NOT pants!

Just in case you worried for a second, this is not a fashion post.

I’m not sure if you’ve noticed, but I tend not to do fashion posts. Mostly because my mind is filled with other things that I deem to be more important and my body shape doesn’t lend itself to being terribly fashionable. Also, I don’t really care all that much about fashion, per se and tend to work with what is comfortable and practical. For me anyway.

However, I couple of weeks back, in a pique of silliness, I facetiously and very publicly stated that I was considering purchasing a pair of jeggings for myself.

I need new jeans as I love jeans and I haven’t purchased a pair for some years. Most of the pairs I own have succumbed to the Great Rubbing of the Thighs and the material has all but worn away.

Very much of the Leggings Are NOT Pants belief, especially when some people mistake control top pantyhose as ‘leggings’, I had no intention at all of purchasing a set of jeggings for myself. Jeggings, for me, fall – or fell – into the same category as leggings, even if they are either made of denim, or look like they are.

Also, when I went to replace my mid-rise, boot leg jeans a few weeks back, all I had access to was racks and racks of skinny leg jeans. I took quite against them, as they don’t like me much, either.

I had a tantrum, stormed out and vehemently stated how much I hated skinny leg jeans.

Obviously, the fact that the stores were all out of the boot leg variety probably indicates that many others share the same sentiment.

Anyhoo, I digress … I stated (facetiously) that I was contemplating purchasing a pair of jeggings.

The reaction was forceful; mostly a lot of “NO!”s and reference to them not actually being pants, et cetera.

Of course, this inspired me to prove them wrong … although, to be honest, I held no hope for actually proving them wrong, and figured I would only confirm their beliefs as to why I – and others – should not wear jeggings.

Also, I was heavily influenced by a friend, also determined to have a laugh and prove the other lot wrong.

So she took me to a shop, made me try some on, took a photo of my bum and shared it on her Facebook wall, with the caption “Who says she couldn’t wear jeggings?”

The resounding response was, basically, “We never said she couldn’t, we’re just saying she shouldn’t!”

I bought them anyway, and took them home. Mostly because, for someone like me who works from home, they were a good compromise between pyjamas and actually getting dressed; I could pull them on, they were comfortable and I wouldn’t have to get changed to go and do school pickup and grocery shopping and other sorts of Leaving The House kind of things.

(Although, really, I’d love to get my hands on a pair of Pyjama Jeans! That would be my ideal!)


I don’t look anything like this in them, but mostly because I haven’t been photoshopped.

But I did try them out to see if they would work in my life and the way I live it.


And it seems I can do handstands in them. Which was interesting, as I’ve never really had the desire to do handstands for the last few decades. I sucked at them when I was ten, so, you know, I just didn’t pursue the activity.

I did wear them to a Family Day and they the job when it came to being an idiot and climbing rocks and stuff … stuff like doing cartwheels on the beach.


To be honest, I do all this stuff in regular jeans. Also pyjamas, exercise leggings and trackies.

No benefit there.

However, they are helpful when you desperately need a wee and you’re trying to get your pants down whilst simultaneously fending off a small child, intent on demanding food/drink/attention/something.

The only other benefit I’ve decided jeggings offer is that they don’t have that sticky outy bit, caused by a slight pot-belly and the zip and button bit of jeans. So the belly bit stays flat (flatter, anyway) under tops.

The other argument in this case, because I have very much changed my opinion of jeggings and have decided that they can, indeed, be pants is possibly the quality or type of jegging.

These ones look very much like jeans, except they don’t have functioning front pockets, which is a bit of a bother at times.

They’re denim and are easily mistaken for skinny leg jeans (which I have also changed my opinion on and may just got out and see what I can purchase – my mind-change, however, may also be a result of recent, unexpected weight loss and a few weeks back, I don’t think skinny jeans would have been my friend).

I do suspect the Leggings That Look Like Denim But Actually Aren’t may fall into the category of ‘leggings’ and not actually ‘jeggings’ and perhaps should not replace pants. Especially when they have the propensity to stretch and become somewhat see through.

I never know whether to tap someone on the shoulder and alert them to the fact that their arse is on show for all to see, or if this would just mortify them.

What is the etiquette in that situation?

Also, jeggings – pants or not pants? What do you think?

Broken Records and After Shocks

A rather uneventful evening, however, upon waking, Grumpy Pants and I mutually decide “better to be safe than sorry”.

In no real emergency dash, we muddle through breakfast and showers, determine which children are going where, mostly in relation to the younger two, as the biggest one is coming with me to the Children’s Hospital and, more specifically, the Emergency Department.

Determining who was going with whom goes something like “You’ll have to take them with you.”

“No, I’m not taking them.”

“They can’t come with me.”

“They can’t come with me!”

“They’ll have to.”

“I’m not sitting around the freaking emergency department with all of them. Take them to work with you.”

“We don’t want to go to work with Dad!”

“I’m tired, I want to watch a movie. Someone make me breakfast!”

“You’re taking them! ARGH!” (both of us, in unison.)

I check in with Monkey Boy to determine levels of pain and organise a paracetamol tablet for him. He is, already, despite no diagnosis of anything other than “really sore when I move it” being all dramatic about it.

“Here,” I say, handing him a paracetamol.

“Oh, seriously?” I enquire when he mumbles about lack of water in which to take his paracetamol.

And then I give him A Look when he utters “You didn’t break my tablet in half” and pouts at me.

I ask if he’d like me to get him a tiara and mumble something about him not being a fucking quadriplegic when he appears incapable of returning his cup to the sink.

Grumpy drops us at the ED, which I’m hoping is not too busy and am relieved to find no one waiting before us as we enter.

Still, we have to do a bit of waiting. I let Monkey Boy explain what happened to Nurse 1 before we’re shown to a cubical, repeat the story to Nurse 2 and Nurse 3, he gets annoyed, we’re shown to xray, return to the cubical, he gets bored and his OCD kicks in and he arranges the boxes non-latex gloves into their correct sizing order.


It was bothering him too much.

Also, we were waiting quite some time., so he had to do something to kill it.

Eventually, Nurse 2 returns, with a student nurse.

“Hi,” he says to me. “I’m Ashley, a student here.”

“Hi,” I say. “This is my thirteen year old boy who has been behaving like a thirteen year old boy.”

Ashley (not his real name) is learning how to form a back slab, as it is determined that Monkey Boy has what is called a “Salter Harris fracture” at the end of his left radius (the big bone in the forearm) and it will require some sort of support.

So Nurse 2 runs through the procedure and explain how it all needs to be cut and wet and held in place and why certain positions to place the form in are required …

She does a fabulous job, not only of explaining the whole bracing scenario, but explaining to

me what was what, including the xray images of the damaged area.

Two hours later, we’re allowed out.

And Monkey Boy seems pretty impressed about it all … I think he thinks he’ll get some sympathy now, but mine wore out sometime around the tablet complaint of this morning.



All the while, I remained calm and practical about it all.

It wasn’t until a few hours after arriving home that I realised I was excessively tired, flat and couldn’t form a coherent thought.

Trying to avoid thinking about it, I eventually gave in; and have to admit, I was totally fucking freaked out.

The kid fell some 3-4 metres off a rock face (even though he should have listened to his mother) and all he managed was barely a break in his wrist.

A friend of mine fell less than that a year or so ago. Admittedly, it was though a roof, but he shattered his elbow, it needed replacing entirely and his life from then on was pretty well fucked.

(Sadly, he ended it – his life – a few months ago … something I can’t help but think was contributed to by this freak accident).

So, yeah, I was a little scared, a little – LOT – relieved and could not stop the “what if” thoughts that were running through my mind, even though I knew, logically, that he was perfectly okay and, really, only suffered a minor injury that should heal with no complications.

I realised I hadn’t been able to hug him all day … because I’d been so scared without realising it. I gave him one when it hit me.

Worse still, I hadn’t even seen it happen! How the hell does that happen; I was right there and just turn to check the wellbeing of another of my siblings and he chooses that moment to take a tumble.

Humph. He could have waited a second or two. I may even have had the camera ready!

Even worse still, I have made it beyond thirteen years as a mother – and admittedly on five-and-a-half years as a mother of three – without a broken bone under my name.

He’s gone and bloody ruined that record for me!

And I may stop feeling the shock someday soon …

A Family Day Break – Kilcunda

Another opportunity for a Family Day and wanting to avoid trains for a moment, we head back to Kilcunda, which we’ve visited before.

It was lovely then, and we figured we’d have another great day whilst we were there. It was fun.

Off we go, even remembering to take a change of clothes (well, really, I mentioned it to all three children several times, provided a bag in which to place their change of clothes and left them to it) and grabbed a couple of beach towels, Just In Case.

Along the way we spotted, again, the Underpants On The Hill … a formation of trees that look, depending on who in the car you speak to, like underpants.



Monkey Boy pointed it out originally and Grumpy Pants being Grumpy Pants advised it looked “more like a map of Tassie”, a statement he made that was also overflowing with innuendo.

This, inevitable, spiralled downwards, into a discussion about waxed bikini lines, camel toes (I have NO idea, but that came from Chippie) and an argument broke out as to whether it was a map of Tasmania (complete with innocent look), a pair of underpants or, according to Chippie a “VAGINA!”

I suspect he actually wasn’t so much contributing his thoughts to the discussion as being ignored whilst conversation was going on around him and wanting to have some attention.

I guess we’ll never know.

A bite at the pub, a walk to the nearby beach and disappointment descends as we discover the base of the train bridge is blocked off. I could literally feel the annoyance wafting off Monkey Boy, his love of climbing thwarted by a length of bright orange industrial netting.

He had no hesitation in expressing it, either.

Still, he and I did a little bit of climbing, Not feeling terribly confident in the surface we were climbing, I head down, with an “I wouldn’t go that way” over my shoulder to Monkey Boy.

Meanwhile, Grumpy Pants and Chippie had gone in search of a toilet, as a desire to poo crash landed on Chippie with no warning, and Godzilla ran off in the other direction to play in a body of water.

Monkey Boy, heading off and up in the direction I suggested he don’t informs me he is stuck. I advise him to come back and turn my head to make sure Godzilla hasn’t drowned or done something stupid.

I hear a soft rumbling, and turn to find Monkey Boy on the ground, some 3 to 4 metres lower than what he had been a second ago. His left hand whips around to grasp his ribs on his right side and all I can think is FUCK!

Calmly … the thing I sometimes do when someone has fallen, and which I realise is in stark contrast to my usual Seeing Someone Fall reaction of uncontrollable laughter … I walk over to him, remain cool, calm and collected and ask where it hurts.

I don’t even breathe when he tells me his wrist, and I realise it’s not his ribs. I take a look, I feel for ‘deformity’ and compare his left and right wrists to see if they feel similar or vastly different. A test the water temperature of a nearby puddle of sea water, determine it is cold enough and have him submerge his arm in the water.

Grumpy has not yet returned with Chippie and I realise that I haven’t located Godzilla, nor am I entirely sure of his whereabouts and state of living.

I spot Grumpy and Chippie, making their way over the train bridge, slowly, and find I have my entire family scattered across the vastness of a beach. I am still calm, and holding any untoward feelings in check.

Sure, he fell quite a distance, but he’s breathing, he’s not bleeding, nothing appears broken, he is conscious and capable of movement and speech and nothing, aside from a small spot on his wrist, is hurting.

HOW nothing else is hurting I have no idea.

I wait till Grumpy is closer and in a nonchalant fashion, I mention the fall, the pain and what we should probably do.

Chippie and Godzilla meanwhile, oblivious to this minor drama that has befallen us, race off … into the large, cold waves of the ocean.


Monkey Boy, now thoroughly pissed off with the way the day is going, and blaming it all on the fact that the train bridge base is closed, just wants to go home.

I want a coffee (also vallium, but I stuff htat thought down even further -I am cool, calm, collected and in control, nothing serious has happened and all is well. Ish), so we head back to the pub, or Monkey Boy and I do, as despite his assuring me he’s “yeah, okay, my wrist just hurts a bit” his eyes tell me another story.

He’s always done this; shirking bandaids because the need for a bandaid indicated to his then three-year-old mind that things were pretty bad. He will tell me it hurts “really bad” but doesn’t behave in a way one would expect one to behave when one was in pain to the degree one is telling one.

His eyes and withdrawal, however, tell a different story.

“I couldn’t get down, Mum,” he tells me again.

“Looks to me like you got down pretty okay and pretty quick,” I tell him.

Some people just have no sense of humour at times.

To the pub, a glass of ice ordered and an ice pack made from pub ice and paper hand towels is organised.

Iced coffees and milkshakes are ordered, as, apparently, they are good for sore wrists and we head home.

Godzilla on his iPod, headphones on, Chippie asleep and Monkey Boy totally internalised, it is a quiet trip.

We make it home without incident, checking in on Monkey Boy to decide if we need a detour to the Emergency Department on the way.

He doesn’t want to, he just wants to be home. So we go there, give him a paracetamol or two and apply a bandage to his forearm. We decide to wait and see how the night goes before we decide if he needs further first aid or medical attention.

I speak to Grumpy when we get a moment alone; I can’t decide what my gut and intuition are telling me because I’m so busy trying to put it all into perspective that it’s clouding my judgement.

We stick with wait and see … and he has mostly returned to his normal self, telling me he hope he has broken his arm, because then he might get some sympathy.

Not from me, mind, which he blatantly confirms but “from normal people Mum. Not you, normal people.”

I’m glad his sense of humour has returned … I think.

From the Album: Family Day Kilcunda (Again)


Tears Before Bedtime

This week has been … well … a complex mix of feelings and emotions.

Having recently made some difficult decisions and removing some difficulties (people and circumstances) from my life; things I really had considered fun and fulfilling and which I very much enjoyed, and that I hadn’t realised, until now, how draining they had been on my mind, body and soul and leaving me in a state of constant fatigue … I am feeling far less tired, more inspired (which brings its own set of issues) and much, much lighter.

I. Feel. Good.

It has been a long time since I felt quite like this.

It’s a nice feeling.

So the contrast between my feeling Good, and Monkey Boys intermittent teenagery arseheadedness, Chippie’s Starting School Exhaustion and Godzilla’s current obsession with Minecraft (and, more recently, Loom Bands, which he has none of, but is determined to get his hands on, possibly via the relentless asking of such items until I break …) is huge.


I like feeling Good, and I don’t much like tantrums, arseheadedness and relentless questioning and it is this which, on Tuesday night, before Monkey Boy and I head off to parkour, that caused me to confiscate his iPod and cause him to have a silent, passive agressive, early-teen tantrum.

He  was doubly pissed off, because we had to take Grumpy’s car to parkour, and it has iPod connectivity. The obvious consequence of that, under normal circumstances, is that I am subject to an array of music that I don’t particularly like (or dislike) the first time I hear it, but that I rapidly grow weary of it. Especially as I hear the same some three times (on commercial radio) in the 17 minutes it takes me to deliver children to school and eventually remember to Turn That Shit Off.

However, in Tuesday night’s circumstances, he went all pouty and conclusion-jumpy, so as we’re backing out the driveway I called for my iPod and listened to Aerosmith all the way to parkour.

He attempted to make me feel guilty and all sorts of shit, until I reminded him that it was his actions, not mine, that had lead to the removal of his iPod from his hands, and as he had refused to take responsibility and attempted to get it back by advising that “taking my iPod off me is just going to make me behave worse” that I had reached a level of pissed offedness (and upset) and I could only be calmed by listening to Aerosmith.

It had nothing at all to do with the fact that I knew Aerosmith would piss him off and that I would be attempting to make my point with more strength.

None at all. Purely Stress Relief.

No. Really.

He hadn’t got out of his mood by the end of the class and told me I was only going to force him to listen to my crap music on the way home. Given I’d utilised parkour time to do a shitload of work, to be honest, the thought hadn’t crossed my mind … but given he’d mentioned it …

I tried to sort it before we both went to bed … it was mostly futile …

Wednesday night was not much better. Basketball has finished for the season, so we had nowhere to be. This appeared to allow for much play amongst siblings until bedtime. A time that seems to draw excess Stupidness from all offspring and ultimately ends in tears.

Usually from the littlest one, but not always.

And tonight?

Tonight was not much different. It was, of course, swimming and acrobatics night, a two and a bit hour stint where I drop one child off in one direction and head off in the complete opposite to sit through an hour of swimming lessons and head back to collect first child.

Dinner needs to be consumed at either 4.30p.m. and if we don’t make it by then, we have to wait until 8.00p.m.

This morning, I had successfully prevented Monkey Boy from taking one of the containers of leftover dinner from one of the last three nights (I’m not quite sure how we had so many leftover containers, but at the point of realisation of how this was going to make my afternoon/evening that much easier, I didn’t care) and figured there was enough for one for each of us.

Dinner sorted! Hurrah!

Arrive home from school pickup to find that Grumpy Pants had had one of these dinners for his lunch.

As I had taken a Day Off and taken a friend to visit two other friends some two hours drive away and had a lovely time and a lovely lunch with them, I was even more refreshed and rejuvenated and feeling good – and full – that I wasn’t too fussed about missing out, and did my round trip duties as required.

Arrive home and throw various children at various facilities for cleansing themselves and gave them half an hour before bedtime.

Ah, bedtime.

Or, really, the moments before … there are tears. There are always fucking tears.

Not, however, due to the dilemma Chippie faced as he took his regulation 38 minutes on the toilet, only to emerge and inform me “I tried to do a poo and raw sewage came out my bum!”

Nah, he was cool with that.

It was the (after being asked 35 times) tooth brushing duty that caused tears, Chippie emerging this time, crying, rubbing his eyes and saying “Monkey Boy made me punch myself in the eye with my own hand.”


Of course he did.

I don’t want to, but I call for Monkey Boy to explain , as it is also highly likely that Chippie punched him first. Whether provoked or now, who knows at this point. I just wonder what it is about the act of tooth brushing that requires wayward and flailing fists as it is always, without fail “an accident that I punched him in the testicles”. Or something equally confounding.


I try very hard not to interrogate, and to listen to what Monkey Boy has to say.

As it transpires, and to which I am forced to confirm after some further questioning … “Let me get this straight. You didn’t make him punch himself in the eye, you made him headbutt his own fist? Is that correct?”


Tears before bedtime.

Always tears before bedtime.

Psyched! (or Twerked)

T’is the morning of the Under 12′s boys basketball grand final and we’re all up and almost ready to go with plenty of time to spare.

So much time, in fact, that we have looooooaaaaaads of opportunity for the “Can I watch YouTube/play Minecraft?”/”No! Not before basketball!” vicious loop.

Also, it gave Chippie plenty of time to not get dressed, either.

All fun and games. I kind of almost wish we’d slept in so this amount of Not Doing What’s Asked was reduced considerably, but I also know that the issues with oversleeping are just as taxing one’s mind and throat.

Finishing off an item on my list (i.e. get appropriately dressed and maybe run a brush through my hair) I wander out of my bedroom. Those moments I was otherwise occupied has brought some kind of sibling cameraderie to the fore and Godzilla was doing some kind of frenetic dance move, whilst his brothers rolled around laughing, and saying “I’m twerking!”

“That’s not twerking,” I tell them, exasperated.

“No, this twerking,” says Chippie, sticking his bum out towards me and wiggling it about.

“That’s not twerking either,” I say. “Can we get in the car now?”

Godzilla and Chippie are not satisfied and continue to thrust bums about, in significantly different movements, and say “No, THIS is twerking, not that!”

Clearly not going to get any movement until I did something drastic, I stood in the middle of the kitchen, firmly planting my feet, putting a serious look on my face and gearing up for a Loud Angry Proclamation that would get their arses moving and out the door.

THIS is twerking!” I say, and proceed to give them a demonstration of twerking.

I could tell I got it spot on by the horrified look of Monkey Boy, my thirteen-year-old.

“Was that it?” I ask, cos, really I wasn’t entirely sure.

It’s not like, you know, I googled “how to twerk” or anything like that, nor that I carefully watched the videos.

Okay, well I did google it, but only cos everyone was going on about Miley Cyrus and her twerking and I didn’t know what it was.

Okay, fine, maybe I did stumble across a video or two or something of “how to twerk” and maybe I just did watch a bit of it. You know, for educational purposes and so I was all up to date and stuff with what kids are doing these days.

I’m still cool, you know!

“Yes,” he mumbles. “Please don’t ever do that again.”

They moved their bums and we got into the car.

Then out again, because various items like water bottles, trains to play with, my sanity had all been forgotten and we had to go back and retrieve them. In stages.

We even made it to basketball fifteen minutes early.

The stadium was packed, what with it being grand final day.

We secured some seats, and settled in to watch the game.

It was close … very close … and exciting, because last time we played against this team, who were top of the ladder (we came in at fourth on the ladder), they thrashed us by something in excess of 20 or 30 points.

‘Cocky’ would  be one way to describe some of the younger spectators, who sniggered and kept going on about how “we’re gonna thrash this team”.

With not many points between the teams at half time, we were up by a few, and only 3 points in it with two minutes to go, the opposition up by three, their coach opted to have his team delay, delay, delay, hold the ball up, no shots, and just drag the clock out.

Always fabulous excitement for an Under 12 boys B-grade game.


Karma came in to beat him over the head, and we intercepted the balll, and scored a three-pointer. My throat, by this stage, was already sore, but it didn’t stop me being all excited and yelling some more.

Thus, at full time, the score was 19 all, and their cocky ‘we’re gonna thrash them’ had been knocked to the floor.

The game, of course, went into overtime, as it does during finals, and despite our best efforts, the game was one by the opposition by a mere five points.

But they didn’t thrash us, and I’m super-freaking-impressed with how well they played.

I do wonder, though, if I’d done a bit of half-time twerking for entertainment whether out team would have been psyched enough to win, or that the other team would have been psyched out?

Or, maybe, it’d just be really disturbing and everyone would have just freaked out … I guess we’ll never know.

Still, am super impressed at the boys – no twerking required.

Nor performed for that matter.

Dolce Gusto Coffee Art

A tumultuous month, rife with fatigue and stresses … and an invite to free coffee and to have my portrait done in coffee.

Umm … yes, of course I will be there.

So I shed my second skin pyjamas, showered and got dressed to head into Melbourne Central where Nescafe Dolce Gusto had a pop-up shop and were offering free tastings.

Not that I needed any free tastings, as I have the mini-me version of their machine, which I have been playing with regularly.

What I was keen to see was me, on the froth of a coffee.

Michael Breach – also known as Baristart - from New York was there with his extremely talented mind and fingers, to demonstrate how to create some ‘simple coffee art designs’ using one of these very simple machines.

Referred to as ‘barista artist of the stars’ he did show me how to do a portrait using a Dolce Gusto made cappuccino and his skills. He would have shown me, had I been actually watching how to do it and not standing, open mouthed, in awe and jiggling in anticipation of waiting to be able to drink my coffee.

I would have obtained a ‘free tasting’ one whilst I waited, but the ‘in awe’ thing got in my way and I just took a couple of photos … whilst being in awe.



Yeah, somewhat impressive …



Then I did ask him to show me an actual ‘simple’ one, which he did and at which point I realised my talents do not extend to such things as mixing coffee and drawing. I’m not even sure I could manage stick figure art in a coffee, although my stick figure art is rather good as far as stick figures go.

Still, Verity, the official Real Mum and featured in the logo was immortalised in coffee.



Immortalised until *ahem* someone drank the coffee she was immortalised on …

Glad I got out.

Also, I got two coffees, made for me, and made pretty for me.




To check out other stuff, you can follow Michael on Instagram at @baristart (be careful your mind is not blown) or check out the hashtag #dolcegustoart on various social media

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