It is common knowledge I am not a morning person. In fact, I believe any time pre-8.37am is “middle of the night”.

It then takes me until 10am-ish to be remotely functional, and only vaguely less grumpy than post my first MUG of the morning. I even own “Grumpy” pyjamas. Just in case someone forgets what I’m like in the mornings.

Grumpy Pants, my dearly beloved, is no less Grumpy. Monkey Boy, my eldest, was and is a great sleeper, sleeping till 8.30am from the age of 6 days old. Chippie wakes early, but is not less grumpy than the rest of us.

Godzilla …. Godzilla on the other hand, sometimes we can’t help but wonder if he was swapped at birth. He has always been an early riser. At mere months old, he could wake pre-6am and be happy! HAPPY! Apart from me being in complete denial that time even exsits, I am unable to fathom how anyone can be happy at that hour. Or, you know, able to perform certain tasks. Like .. leaning on the kitchen bench for example.

This is an example of Godzilla in the mornings. Unfortunately, he is somewhat subdued in this video; quieter than usual. This goes on whilst the rest of us are in bed wanting to die due to earliness of hour (7.30am). I”m putting his listlessness down to the fact that he’d been on the go for a good hour and a half before this was set up unbeknownst to him. By “good hour and a half” I mean “torturous”.

I get to experience this every morning. Kill me, kill me now.

(If you listen carefully, I believe there is a point where he starts singing about bums. And vaginas. All very much standard … *sigh*)

*sigh*

A crappy sleep, woke up feeling extemely tired, quite possibly because it was 5.23am and way before my Get Out of Bed Time. And it involved much smacking in face by toddler who refused to accept that normal people are still alseep at this hour and I consider myself extremely normal in this case.

Godzilla awoke, early and far too cheery as usual, Monkey Boy was, as per normal, unable to cope with levels of cheeriness and morning in general and much arguing ensued over who was breathing whose air, or, quite possible, who was breathing in more air than the other and who was entitled to more given their age/size/ability to be arsehead.

(OK I added that last bit about arseheads)

Had minor tantrum about the daily requirement that I intervene at some level, whether it be reminding about putting shoes on and collecting book bags or preventing someone from having their brains splattered over the floor due to a disgruntled sibling. Thankfully, we have floorboards. Still, why am I always the one that has to be responsible? It’s not fair.

Godzilla promptly forgot about the argument and re-commenced dancing around the house, singing a song about farts to the tune of Old MacDonald had a farm. Whilst I appreciate this level of talent, I really wish he would just Shut UP!

My telepathic senses clearly not working he increases his volume and manged to sing entire verses using only the word “fart”.

I wish I could get more impressed but sadly, I have to venture out and make school lunches.

Oh, wait … oh happiness of day … I made copious amounts of Vegemite on bread yesterday, stored safely in the fridge and, now, extremely easily transportable to their school bags.

Hurrah!

Grumpy up and out the door early, and I’m left to organise weekday morning chaos AND tidy the kitchen.

Clean? Meh.

Also, to locate a suitable hiding spot for the 14 loads of washing that has been washed, hung, un-hung and awaiting folding and putting away. I also have drop kids at school (“NO! We are not driving! Why must you ask me this EVERY morning?!”) and be back home, showered, dressed and made up by 10am.

Easy! Arrive home at 9.03 and am sitting around waiting from around 9.23am, and avoiding having the biscuit Chippie is eating smeared all over my nice clean top.

Crew from A Current Affair just in time to witness Chippie performing one of his more head-banging-on-ground-and-cupboard-doors style tantrums and me ignorning it. My Tuesday Business Colleague arrives moments later with lattes.

As the story we are filming relates to school lunchboxes, I am set the task of preparing the usual lunches I prepare each morning. The difference is, this morning I am showered and dressed, and as the kids are actually at school, I am not yelling “go and get your bloody shoes on, I’m not asking again!” every 23 seconds. Nor am I muttering “for fuck’s sake” under my breath.

Ok, maybe I did that last bit a couple of times.

I have the utmost privelege of preparing approximately 14 lunches during the morning, and found myself muttering about how many lunches I’ve bloody made until it dawned on me that I would be relieved of this particular duty for the next couple of days due to stockpiling of Vegemite sandwiches and carrot sticks. Hurrah!

During the morning, the crew also discovered Godzilla’s ability to be most useful and helpful, as well as “practice his writing by getting him to write the shopping list”, as recommended by his teachers, and which I encourage, partly due to recommendations and partly because I can’t be arsed. The sound guy pointed to my shopping list/white board and had a chuckle. I advised him this is really what I put in the school lunches *sigh*

A phone call from the segment producer arrives and I am requested to remain in my clothes, with my hair and makeup in tact so we can do a couple of shots with the older kids in it after I pick them up from school. Hrmmm. Given I regularly resemble someone whom has slept in their clothes for the last three nights when first getting dressed, I was curious to see whether I’d manage this task.

Also is the added challenge of remaining biscuit, snot and wee free for the next several hours. Drive to school to collect children, thus reducing my risk of looking like hobo upon my return, arrive home and referree several unnecessary arguments pertaining to which socks are whose (they’re all the bloody same and came in a pack of 20 identical socks for $3.50!) and whose bedroom it actually is, depsite there very clearly being two beds in it and two names on the door.

Attempted to remain upbeat so as not to have more tears than there already was (from me) or children refusing to cooperate (any less than usual).

A slightly different crew from this morning arrive, and with much chaos we film a few more segments. Am forced to repeat a particular part when the cameraman determines my actions (waving a knife at Monkey Boy and saying “stop eating the bloody carrots!”) as “politcally incorrect”. Am confused, as thought they were filming Lunch Making In My Kitchen, so was only doing what I do every morning.

The crew leave, I discover mooshed foodstuff on my shoulder and hope it was the one I had turned away from the camera for most of the filming. Head off to basketball registration when they inform me they have no idea what team Godizlla will be on, so “don’t get his uniform just yet” and I realise I’ve probably given them the wrong impression as my hair is done, and I’m wearing makeup and a nice top and I hope they don’t take me for someone who will be heavily involved in the club or even remotely “with it” most of the time.

In fact, I hope they don’t expect me to turn up this devoid of food and/or bodily fluids (not mine) on my clothing for the most part.

Race home to whip up a quick dinner, stuff it down, race off to guitar lessons where we have a new teacher and wish that I was wearing clothes that were more devoid of foodstuffs whilst mentally constructing my written letter of complaint regarding the level of cuteness of guitar teachers.

They should just not be allowed to be so CUTE!

Highlight of the day (aside from sitting in room for half an hour with cute guitar teacher and trying not to listen to Super Mario Bros theme on guitar): Multi-media megastar, Nick Coe, presenter on A Current Affair said “She is nothing if not a pragmatist!” About me.

Ah, Father’s Day, where we all get to tiptoe around Grumpy Pants because it is his day and he’s allowed to be.

Godzilla kept telling everyone who’d listen that “Daddy can do what he likes today”. Except when Daddy suggested Family Day Trip and the usual happened. So I was forced to use the “It’d Daddy’s day so he can choose what we do” which I really hate doing.

Godzilla takes it far too literally.

So off we head, to Echuca for the day, because that’s where Grumpy wants to go.

“But it’s boring, and I don’t like it.” And blah blah blah, till I actually did explode and yell “It is Daddy’s day and he will choose where we go and you will be nice to him and you will ENJOY wherever it is we go whether you like it or not!”

And they shut up. Then we did lots of “hurry up and get in the car” and while they were doing that, Monkey Boy’s doona was in the wash and had 6 minutes to go, so I thought we’d wait till that was done and I’d hang it out before we left. The washing machine got stuck and said “6 minutes” for quite some time, so we waited and waited, while the kids sat in the car, and we washed some dishes and had a lovely, stress free moment, and some chatting along lines of “Should we lock the back door and do a runner out the front?”

And we’re off. Complete with some very bad games of “Eye Spy”, being asked if “Mr Eye Spy invented the game”, some random arguing about shit, some “Will you two please SHUT UP!”, and some ”I’m busting to do a wee!” three minutes past somewhere we could have stopped, and fifteen minutes before somewhere else we can stop. The stop also happens to come complete with a miniature railway, that is also open. We park next to public toilets, half of us pile out while the other half wait with Chippie. I race in for a wee as soon as I’m allowed, return to car to find Grumpy has removed Chippie, he hops back in the car to park it in a more appropriate spot whilst I’m left to walk with kids over to the ticket box for the mini-railway.

Godzilla is way ahead, Monkey Boy can’t decide if he wants to beat him or stay with Chippie and Chippie has some kind of anxiety attack when, I think, he thinks Grumpy is leaving without him. Although, as he does circles before throwing himself to the ground and doesn’t run after the car as I think he’s going to do, I’m confused.

I hoist him up by his hand, walk several steps and he throws himself on the ground again. I, now experienced, deftly flick him up and grab whatever other body part I can and carry him the remainder of the way by one arm and one leg, causing a group of elderly women sitting a few feet away to snort their weak, thermosed tea, white with two sugars, and home-made lamingtons through their noses.

At least they made me smile.

Train ride done, we’re back into the car heading the rest of the way, listening to “Can we go on the miniature railway in Echuca?!” thanks to the man at this one who mentioned it out loud. Grrrrr.

Lunch near a playground where Chippie is miffed at something, possibly the squishy wet ground he subsequently throws himself on, causing him to be miffed at squishy wet ground and throw himself even further on it. As impossible as that sounds, he managed it successfully.

I mutter a quiet “thank fuck” for having packed a spare change of clothes for him as I open my Coke and have it spray all over me and I’m now pissed off I have no change of clothes for myself.

Into the play area where Chippie discovers a game he quite enjoys’ climbing up the stairs then sliding down the slide all on his own. Monkey Boy and Godzilla try their hand at the toddler slide as well, but fun it up a bit by sliding down head first, on their backs into the puddle at the bottom. Much fun is had and it draws the attention of a 3 year old girl who decides she will join in the fun as well, slidiing down as Godzilla is trying to get up with out getting his hair wet, face first into his knee.

Oh, dear.

One of those moments there is a hurt child, and your child is involved, but did nothing wrong, yet you can’t help but wonder how this will be perceived by Mother of Hurt Child. Particularly as she didn’t bear witness to the event. I can see it hurt. Lets face it, it was a nose-to-knee combat. She starts to cry. My nurturing caring side overwhelms my desire to scream “He didn’t do anything wrong!” and I pick her up, cuddle her and carry her to her mum, whilst my mind is going nuts wonder how she’ll take this: she’ll be ok and accept accidents are accidents, she’ll sue me and my seven year old, or, possibly, judge me and start yelling and screaming.

As I pass her over the fence to her mum, I notice blood. Eeek. From her nose.

Great, this just gets worse and worse.

I wonder what I would like to be told should the situation be reversed and commence structuring and explanation in my head before screaming “IT WAS AN ACCIDENT! IT WAS HER FAULT!”

Ahem. Thankfully, she was ok with my explanation of events, checked she had everything she needed to tidy the mess (she’s a mum, she had spare wipes!) and I went off to witness Chippie having a tantrum and capturing it on camera as the older two decided upside-down slides on the twisty slide would be more fun.

Coffee and a trip on the paddle steamer that scared the bejeezus out of Chippie, causing him to cry and Godzilla to yell “STOP SCARING BABIES!” every time they sounded the whistle to avoid collisions with oncoming paddle steamers. He then had a turn at doing the whistle while Monkey Boy steered for a bit.

We all, except Grumpy, had a nice little nap in the car as we head home, then everyone woke up and was very loud and energetic and annoying. And they got louder, and louder and more and more annoying. Until Chippie, who has barely spoken all day, but has cried instead, says his first words since about 9.32am … “Shul UP!”

As to be expected, this was cause for much hilarity setting off a chain of nose-snorty-laughs and lots more “SHUL UP!

Grumpy and I made great attempts to refrain from being affected by laughter, which is not easy to do when something is not only very funny, but has the kids laughing hysterically and causing Chippie to laugh loudly and yell “SHUL UP MUMMY!”

Nawwww. He said “mummy”. Not something I hear a lot.

Still, not funny, despite Grumpy now finding it incredibly hilarious and joining in the laughing.

Humph!

Arrive at school pickup, with Grumpy in tow, and am smacked in the face by the realisation that not only was I not organised enough – nor had brain space enough – to do something about the Father’s Day breaksfast, but also neglected to send offspring to school with some coin for purchase of Father’s Day present from school.

He pulls $10 from his pocket and we wander into the hall to see what is on display. Nothing we want, need or desire. Certainly nothing he covets. Or even enters his brain space, I’m willing to bet.

Kids grab something we don’t want or need, but it’s something, and I feel a slight lift of Guilt from shoulders and can now tick off the “did something to support the school fundraising efforts this year” box on my somewhat overwhelmingly FULL To Do List.

Head home via childcare to pick Chippie up, who, first up is un-locatable as he felt hiding in the bushes would be an awesome way to freak everyone out. Then, due to our being there, demostrates to the carers just what one of his tantrums is like, causing them to leap to attention and over-demonstrate concern for the children, whilst Grumpy and I sit back and said “Ignore him, nothing happened, he didn’t get hurt, he’s fine. He’s just being an arse.”

Then we left.

He carried on, on and off, on the way home. At one point, we determined he wanted out of his stroller, and he actually really did want this, so we let him out. This lasted until I held his hand crossing a major road, resulting in a Going Limp Episode in front of an oncoming tram and we completed the crossing with him hanging by one arm from my clenched fist. Safely on the other side, we made our way up the street and around the corner to home via a series of Flapping Arms Whilst Screaming coupled with Throwing Self To Ground and Smacking Head Into Concrete.

Upon realising Mummy and Daddy are not putting up with shit, he added the Running After Mummy and Daddy, Flapping Arms And Screaming Until I Bypass Them action, followed immediately by a repeat of the Throw Self To Ground and Smack Face On Concrete in one go.

Repeat every three metres.

Arrive home, check face (his) for blood (none) and grazing (minimal, if any), carry him to kitchen to see if I can determine cause of continued tantrums. Am going with “I’m hungry” and summon up as much energy and happiness as I can muster to pretend I am ok.

Apparently, or so I can only determine from his actions, food is not what he desires at all, and I gently place him on the floor so as to ensure I don’t stuff him in the dishwasher and slam the door closed to drown out some of the noise. Fill self a large cup with cold water. Chippie’s actions, a la reaching up, opening and closing hands and screaming at me indicate he, too, would like a drink of water, please.

I squat down, hand him the cup and suddenly … in fact, immediately after he smacks the cup away … my boobs are covered in freezing water. Ample bossom that it is, it was a rather large area to be experiencing sucn an intense cold.

As I look at his face, I see the cup, still half full of cold water and still, seemingly, attached to my hand, negotiate it’s way towards his face and empty it’s contents on it.

His eyes widen and he stops screaming in shock.

Oh thank FUCK! I think. He’s finally fucking stopped fucking screaming!

And I join him in holding my breath … him in disbelief, me in hoping like fuck it will have stopped the screaming.

Sadly, it didn’t and I cross Cold water in the face will stop this particular toddler from having a tantrum off the Ways To Stop This Kid’s Tantrums List.

Along with out-throw his tantrum, video his tantrum and play it back and the walk away and ignore it and every other good advice and suggestions re dealing with tantrums that all and sundry have offered me.

As he sits at my feet screaming some more, I can’t help but wish he’d do that thing he did a few months back, and just hold his breath for a bit longer till he passes out. Scary as that was, at least I got a minute’s peace.

Vodka, anyone?

Ah, 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?”

Sometimes, 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:

1. 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;
2. 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 …

Dinner Options

I’m not sure $39.00 Gimme the LOT $69.00

There will also be prizes and giveaways and other stuff for you on the night. Other than the great food, great wine, awesome company and loads of fun, and the abilty to get your hands on something awesome, that is.

These are the Early Bird prices that will be increasing to $74 and $44 respectively at midnight on Sunday the 5th of September. Which means you have until the end of this week to book. Just sayin’

Oh, and part proceeds of sales of the book on the night will go to PANDA (post and ante natal depression association) and headspace

Please feel free to Pass It On!

*excludes spirits, cocktails, non-standard drinks … sorry!

The 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 ….

Nawwww.

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.

Have 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.