I followed a considerable amount of the ‘advice’ that was the loudest at the time … until my head broke and I ventured into ‘suicidal’, but that’s a different story.

For those early years, I was very Anti Gun without actually knowing why, just following along in whatever the latest fad was. What I quickly learnt was that it is near impossible to prevent children – mostly boy-type children (yes, I’m generalising, fuck off – I said “mostly”) – from turning all manner of thing into a gun of some sort.

Sticks, LEGO, textas, fingers etc etc etc. Name something and they’ll use it as a gun. If not a gun then a Light Sabre (saber? I can never remember the spelling of that one) or other implement of pain, torture, death or extreme annoying of others.

What I’ve come to realise is I, personally, don’t like the pretend gun play because I really, really hate having shit waved in my face and pointed at me at almost point blank range. I hate that my three-year-old talks about slaying and killing his brothers (although it is sometimes very cute, and other times I feel very much the same) and I hate the screaming and upset it often results in because, inevitably, someone gets hurt or someone “dies” and then they can’t play the game any more and gets upset, or because I end up with a bruise across my nose because someone can’t control his Light Sabre urges and accidentally thwacks me across the face on Christmas Day.

(I was also a witness to a shooting murder some years back, so whilst I appreciate it is ‘fun’ play for the kids, there’s a trigger there for me, ok?)

So, whatever … I have my reasons for not liking them and some of you will have other reasons and some of you will think “pfft, get over it” and some of you will be horrified that I have even ‘let’ my kids contemplate ‘gun’ play … whatever your take that’s all very ok.

The guns are becoming more and more frequent in our house and I do not like it. After letting go of my “Oh god you have a finger gun, I’m the worst mother in the world!!!” crisis and threatening to cut the kids fingers off if they used them as guns again, I was a little less anal and verging on blase when I said “no guns!” … but it’s really annoying me, so I’ve been a bit more firm. You know, like biting the fingers of the latest ‘gun’ shoved in my face and then being all innocent and saying “Well, it’s your fault! If you didn’t put them in my face, I wouldn’t have bitten them. So, ner.”

(To give you an idea of how bad it was when Monkey Boy was 3, he would run around the house, ‘shooting’ me and saying “pew, pew, pew” and I would verge on hysteria that ‘my little boy is playing guns, oh my lord, what have I done???!!!” and react in an equally hysterical manner and tell him off. He approached me one day, with a mandarin and I said “would you like me to peel it for you?” He looked at me, horrified, and said “you said ‘pew’!” It was bad. I’m way more relaxed now … o.O)

I’ve also been way more strict on them; in proportion to my pissed offedness and annoyance at their almost constant presence.

Sadly, I also have somewhat intelligent children. I have no idea where they get it from.

So, there we are, walking home from school, Monkey Boy with his arm outstretched, first two fingers pointed at Godzilla’s face and yelling some kind of “kill you” or some ramble and Godzilla retaliating with equal ‘in your facedness with gun-fingers’ and I said “NO GUNS! I’m frigging sick of it. Stop It. What is the rule?”

They glance at each other, clearly deciding who is going to be the one to set me straight.

“They’re not guns, Mum. Sheesh. They’re hair driers! Don’t you know anything? And stop jumping to conclusions.”

He was only telling me yesterday how he was going to pack my bag and send me out of the house so I can have a few days to myself, and to recuperate, and if I come home in that time, he will call the police and tell them I am an intruder and don’t live there.

He’s awesome like that.

Really, I just desperately needed a good sleep. The ‘not well’ icky cough and snotty head, and the weeks of stress have built up and, honestly, a day of sleeping and doing not much is just what I need.

This morning, Godzilla wandered into our room just after 7.00a.m. and climbed into bed beside Grumpy Pants, who immediately whispere “Let’s get up and let your mother have a sleep in.”

I have the best family.

Then, as I was drifting off into oblivion, seconds later, the door opens and Monkey Boy presents me with a MUG of cold coffee, and Chippie and Godzilla come and dump stuff on me. I can’t sit up because a) I’m in that baffled state of ‘nearly got to sleep but was disturbed’ and b) because I had a box sitting on my head, and a bag sitting on my belly.

Chippie is banging on the box, resting precariously on my face, and saying “Wrap it down, Mummy, wrap it down!”

(Clearly, he has heard us discussing ‘wrapping presents up’ so the obvious reversal of that is to ‘wrap presents down’.)

He gives up, proceeds to pull stuff out of the bag and say “Look, pants!” It’s actually a bag from Two Old Bags, who make bags out of jeans (and my pyjama pants on one occasion when they made a bag just for ME!, given to me be an adorale friend for my birthday last year ). Chippie commences the banging on box and “WRAP IT DOWN, MUMMY!” once the bag is emptied, and Monkey Boy and Godzilla fight over who gives me their school-made card first, then demand to know which one is “better”.

“But I love them both, equally!” I say, whilst thinking and wish you would both shut up and stop yelling, equally, because I’m about to shove you both off the bed. Equally!

Eventually, I’m able to position myself upright, and attempt to ‘wrap down’ my present, as Chippie looks at me seriously and says “It wrap in purple” then “I wrap it down for you” and he does.

An ipod dock and clock radio so I may listen to good songs and sing loudly and dance whilst I make dinner – hooray!

(And drown out the noise of children braining each other at the other end of the house, and the pre-schooler tugging on my pants and yelling at me for marshmallows – just saying.)

The Mother’s Day festivities at an end – and Mother’s Day in and of itself, it seems – I’m still exhausted and would really just like some peace and quiet, and some more sleep.

The chilly, rainy Melbourne weather is encouraging of this sort of activity. Ideally, I’d like to pull the sofa bed out, and snuggle up with some Lindor Gourmet Truffles and my new Chicago DVD (they were all out of Sound of Music) but children and husbands and the rest of it thwarted this brilliant plan.

Instead, I pulled the sofa bed out, grabbed a blanket and a few pillows, put Chippie into some kind of straight-jacket-like Mum-Hug and watched Toy Story 2.

I was treated to a few more moments of Almost Asleep, and jerked out of it several times by Chippie demanding I push Buzz Lightyears wings back in (he’s unable to do it himself, and appears to thoroughly enjoy pressing the button to pop them out again, and pressing my buttons by demanding I push them back in again seconds later, on repeat, until we are yelling at each other).

Buzz is shoved down the pack of the couch so I can no longer be pissed off by him and hopefully get some sleep, when, just as I’m at the Almost stage again, Monkey Boy, he of the Must Speak For Sake Of Making Noise Disorder, joins us and gives a running commentary of the movie I am trying not to watch as I  want to go do sleep!

Grumpy Pants asks if I want to go out, in the cold and rain, for coffee with his mother. So fatigued am I, I can’t even give him the finger. I feel bad, as it is her day, too, but I’m sooooo exhausted I just can’t do it.

The last few times, with the kids present, haven’t been terribly fun for anyone, either, and I’m torn between suggesting he take the kids, and spending just some time with her, alone and enjoy it for everyone.

Toy Story starts its second run through, I still don’t get sleep, and nor does Chippie, who so desperately needs it, given he’s as snotty and coughy as me and just a little flat.

So we are just content with lazing around and watching Toy Story for the third time …

Then I got to cook dinner. With the aid of Lady Gaga – which made it much more pleasant.

How was your day?

He was wearing a new hat. An Essendon Bombers cap to be precise. Because, despite our family being terribly un-Melbourneish and not ‘barracking’ for any team, he likes the Bombers.

I still don’t know where this hat came from.

Grumpy Pants asked.

“Where did you get that hat?”

“I won it,” Godzilla replies.

And that was the end of that. Except, I have to know everything, so I commenced the questioning process.

“Cool hat. Where did you get it?” I enquire.

“I won it,” he repeats.

“What for?” I ask.

“I dunno.”

Which is pretty much as I expected.

“So, did you maybe do something at school today that resulted in you winning a hat?”

“I dunno. A fell off the monkey bars today.”

“Right. So … anything else, anything that you might have won something for?”

“I dunno.”

“Ok. Um … so, how was school today?”

“I dunno,” is his now anticipated response. He often replies like this, and I often wonder if he was actually there, give he often ‘doesn’t know’ what he did at school that day.

I’m told this is common. It is still no less annoying.

“We did reading,” he tells me. They do this every day.

“And we did cross country today,” he continues.

Ah ha! We may be onto something.

“So, did you win the hat for cross country, maybe?”

“I dunno,” he replies.

ARGH! I think to myself.

“C came first. I just came third.”

“You came third in cross country?”

“Yep.”

“Did you win the hat for coming third?”

“I dunno.”

“Also, do you think coming third in the cross country is pretty awesome? I think that’s pretty awesome. Like, really well done,” I tell him.

“I dunno. I think I came third because I didn’t stop to get a drink. I don’t know why I got the hat. Are we going home now?”

My head hurts.

I’m doing my best to hold it together, but fail miserably as Chippie, whom only 13 minutes earlier had insisted – insisted – he put clothes on instead of his bathers, as he usually does Thursday mornings before swimming, decided he could not possibly leave the house in clothes, and insisted, via screaming at me, that he wanted his bathers on.

However, he could not appreciate the need to remove his shoes in order to remove his pants in order to don his bather bottoms and insisites, via more yelling, that his shoes remain on.

As the experts suggest, I got down to his level. And I screamed at him, just like he was doing to me. Clearly, by being all calm and rational I just wasn’t speaking in a manner with which he could relate. I threw in the odd “fucking little shit” and “stop fucking around and make a decision” and he calmly replaced the shoe I had so horribly removed and went out to the car.

I pondered why I even bother with “calm and rational” at any time, and don’t just got for Screaming Swearing Fishwife first up, as it seems to get things happening.

Then I cried at swimming lessons.

In order to do something useful, I rang a local high school to find out some information, and was advised the information and forms I needed were to be completed and returned to the school tomorrow.

Ah, well, I thought, this will kill some time – phew! And we drove up, collected the forms, and I killed even more time by heading to Kmart to purchase some long pants for Chippie that would actually reach his ankles and, therefore, technically be considered long.

I was feeling much better, having achieved something I probably needed to do weeks ago, but with Melbourne weather being so fickle and inconsistent, it was hard to decide whether a few weeks ago was actually a good time for it. Still, it is now done and I can check that off my list.

My Feeling Much Better was shortlived, as the older two arrived home and proceeded to chip away at my resolve by niggling and picking on each other, until my Already Barely Existent Tolerance shattered and I told them if they didn’t frigigng stop I would either walk out the door and never come back, or, if they even contemplated touching each other again, I would bang their heads together so fucking hard they’d be rendered unconscious and if tha’ts what it took to get a moment of peace then I would fucking do it.

Then I asked them nicely to get ready for swimming.

And took several deep breaths.

They were now remotely tolerable and swimming lessons could ensue. Chippie went in for a play during lesson time and all was well. I had the added bonus of a friend there to talk to. So that was nice.

As the lessons finished and all the boys got dressed as quickly and efficiently as possible (Godzilla with the entire back of his shirt soaking wet, Monkey Boy without shoes etc) we were standing out the front, two families, five boys in total, as we mums discussed some catch up dates.

Chippie was running around with his similarly aged compartriot discussing bums and penises.

“Pull your pants down,” Godzilla tells Chippie.

“Leave your pants on!” I intervene. “And stop telling your brother to do shit like that. Seriously!?”

“That’s a necessary life skill,” says Monkey Boy.

“Isn’t it?” he asks, when we look at him, incredulous. “Knowing how to pull your pants down is necessary to get you through life.”

And, although by this point I really didn’t want to, I took them home … with a smile.

Today heralded a massive achievement where he actually climbed the ladder. It is a ladder (obviously) against a wall that generally has something tied a couple of rungs above the children’s height that they have to climb up to to pat, play with or make a noise come out of. It is also surrounded by much safety-type stuff and one of those squishy gymnastics floors that cause you to bounce when you fall off stuff. This may not sound like much, but he has been anxious and refusing to climb the ladder.

His is, however, not adverse to climbing onto our stonetop benches in the kitchen, without fear. Often, he will perform a screaming tantrum up there as well. Usually in relation to being told “no” in relation to such thing as marshmallows. We determined the gymnastics setting was just far too wussy for him and not nearly enough of a challenge. Also, there are no marshmallows.

So that he did it – and without encouragement, rather, he insisted he do it himself – was pretty amazing.

Then he said “I do fart and fart and fart” as his bum lined up about  my face height.

Who said my kids aren’t talented, huh?

Arrive home where we eat and I am provided with zero opportunity to do anything that I need to do.

Big kids arrive home, Grumpy Pants arrives home and I remind them all – because I’m so excited and keen to go along (possible sarcasm) – that there is a local high school open day/night thing with tours of the school. Yay.

We decide to forgo the 45 minute principal’s address (which, just saying, is kind of offputting. A ten minute principal’s address, surely, is adequate? A 27 second one would be apprecaited) and just arrive ‘late’ for a tour.

The tour is conducted by a VCE student rep, sports captain, student in immaculate uniform. I want a real high school kid, so at least I know where the illicit smoking behind the toilets occurs and I can warn my overtly anti-smoking son away from those areas. I want to know that maths sucks, Japanese blows and art is only good for learning to grafitti and sculpt mashed potatoes. I want the real story about high school, because I feel what I’m being sold is nothing like the high school I went to, and I’m pretty sure they haven’t changed that much.

As we waited, the kids ran off and did some jumping off things and clibming over things they probably shouldn’t be jumping off or climbing over.

Chippie yelled out, just as the school principal came over and said “hello and welcome” and some other teacher wandered past, “Let’s play the Penis Game!”

“Yes,” I say, as the Super Student, Principal and Teacher look at me. “He did say ‘penis game’. I don’t actually know what the ‘penis game’ is, but you did hear right. Is the tour starting soon?”

And, thankfully, it does. There are bowls of lollies distributed around tables in each of the classrooms we are allowed to enter, and my children appear to embark upon an unspoken competition whereby they are each to devour as many lollies as is humanly possible – or as it is appearing, humanly impossible.

Grumpy Pants enters a discussion with a year 12 student in what we used to refer to as the “home economics” (or if you were cool, the ‘home ec’) room, and was left behind as he wouldn’t shut up.

Finally, we come to an end. The children have gone completely nuts thanks to excessive sugar intake, we are handed an envelope full of brochures and information and we’re sent home.

And I still have no idea what I’m doing …

Well, if that’s the case, I’m this close to ousting Satan from his throne. Just saying.

Cos I also love a good night out, I was compelled, although I’d entertained the thought of not doing it this year, to organise yet another Mums’ Night Out!

So I did – it happened a month ago – and it was brilliant, and because I am physically and psychologically incapable of doing anything like “hey, join me for a comedy show” and leaving it at that, I organised some fantastic businesses to join me in spoiling mums and donating some awesome products for some goody bags that I gave away on the night.

(You can check out those awesome businesses here)

Here’s what else … I’m being forced, against my will, to research high schools for my oldest, and kindergartens for my youngest. I’d prefer to leave it till the last minute, but that, apparently, is forbidden. I’m muddling through some therapies for my middlest child. I’m doing some major renovations on my website, running a business, writing a book (it’s nearly done!) and various other resources, my husband is being screwed around by his workplace and screwing us around even more with some semblance of “routine” and “stablity” in our lives … oh, and whilst we’re here, our house is on the market, and we’ve just signed up with a new real estate agent, and despite us having ‘decluttered’ already, they would like us to ‘declutter’.

The gorgeous sponsors have all sent me too much stuff … and I really, really need to get it out of my office. Not just for the opens for inspection, but so I can actually get into my office.

So, I’m ‘selling’ the remaining goody bags from Mums’ Night Out! that I have left over.

By ‘selling’ I mean you pay only the cost of postage and handling … the bags and their goodies are valued at over $100 and you can have one for $19.97 (or you can have more than one at $19.97 each).

I’ve offloaded some, and have about seven left (as of right now) … can you help us out and help me get my office back?

Every day the boxes and bags sit here is another day I yell at my kids – so it’s YOUR FAULT I’m a grumpy arse bitch, ok?

Seriously, though, you’d be doing me a massive favour – massive!

You can purchase your Mums’ Night Out! 2012 Goody Bag (and see what’s n them) just here!

And thank you!

“No!

“NO!”

“No, dinner is nearly ready!”

“Look, look at what I’m doing … does this look like dinner is nearly ready to you? Well it is. So NO!”

“Oh, for fuck’s sake!”

“No you cannot have any fucking chocolate!”

*sigh*

Dinner would be ready so much sooner if I wasn’t having my pants pulled down every 23 seconds and being told to open a bar of chocolate that I have told him 897 gajillion times he cannot have.

Also, how come he can happily climb up onto the bench and into the up high cupboard, with a high risk of hurting when falling, but refuses to climb the ladder at gymnastics, where the risk of falling is minimal, and risk of pain due to falling is even less, due to padded floor and other safety measures …? Hmmm?

I am particularly impressed, at this stage, and after a glass of wine, at my restraint, in that he hasn’t had the fucking chocolate shoved down his fucking throat.

Oh, wait! That would be a waste of chocolate. Also, I have told him he is not having it, so he’s not getting it, willingly or otherwise (a la shoved down throat by stressed mother).

I am then even more impressed that I haven’t ripped chocolate from his grasp and eaten it in front of him, which would make the point that he is pissing me off, and so that I could legitimately say “there’s not chocolate left, so ner!”

After completing the 20-minutes-to-prepare-cook-and-serve dinner in 57 minutes due to Constant Interruption, I am able to deter attention away from the chocolate with his evening meal, which he happily eats.

I am in awe at a three-year-old’s ability to switch moods at the drop of some partially cooked pasta onto the floor. Even extreme moods, where he may be hysterical, sobbing and seemingly unable to calm can turn in an instant to great delight as he pounces on the dropped penne.

Am guessing he was hungry, and wish my stress levels could be subdued as easily with a good meal. Still, it’s one thing I love about this age; just how easily you can distract them.

All is now calm, the meal is completed and the three little cherubs, whom only seven minutes earlier (pre dinner) were verging on Satanism are happily watching the box. I wander up to the bedroom to clear the bed of folded clothes and be as far away from children as my house will let me.

Thump!

Hrm, that did not sound good. What was even more distressing was the scream that ensued and I raced, hands firmly holding my braless and pyjamaed breasts in place so as not to cause myself serious damange, to the loungeroom, where Chippie is lying flat on his back, screaming, behind the couch.

Monkey Boy is on the floor beside him, being all distressed and upset and trying to calm him.

Godzilla is aimlessly watching TV and eating  the dried apricots he has been told to leave as there aren’t many left and they’re for school and don’t eat any more until I manage to find time to grocery shop.

I’m mildly relieved that the scream, whislt heart wrenching, isn’t the next level up where you know something is seriously damaged. He was clearly hurt,  but not broken.

“What happened?” I ask him.

He cried.

“What happened?” I ask of Monkey Boy.

“He was standing on the back of the couch watching TV and fell off.”

Yup, that’ll happen.

As I sat, cuddling him and trying to calm him and successfully getting him to admit that standing on the back of the couch was a stupid idea, I wondered … do we say “don’t stand on the back of the couch” because falling off is almost a given, or do we make it happen because we predicted it would? A kind of “law of attraction” thing?

Either way … standing on the back of the couch is a really dumb idea.

He banged his elbow on the way down.

I did ask “Are you going to do it again?”

He assurred me he would. I’m hoping that’s because he is three and didn’t understand the question, and not because he’s three and thinks doing dumb things repeatedly is a good idea.

It kicked off after the incident of The Terrible Laryingitis I had a few weeks back.

The cough and my pelvic floor have been fighting it out for a few weeks now.

My husband wanted me to go to the doctor, not because he is concerned, but so I will shut up.

It’s making my head hurt and my body hurt.

Yesterday, I walked the kids to school. A Fellow Mum told me off. Possibly because it was raining and very cold. She may or may not have called me a ‘fucking idiot’ and loaded Chippie into her car drove me to her house and made me a coffee, which she let me drink and ranted at me about going to the doctor.

My argument has been “They’ll only tell me to drink fluids, and rest”

I do plenty of drinking fluids  already, and rest, which I don’t want to do cos I’m not sick and my brain is wired and I want to do stuff and write stuff … while I’m resting, of course! Rest, for me, in the accepted form is mostly boring ans stress inducing. It has its uses and I apply it when needed. My version of rest isn’t what most people conjur up when they hear the word.

I’m also not ‘sick’ in the physical sense of the word. Not tired, not feeling run down, not feeling blah …

I sat on the phone for 20 minutes this morning, hitting redial and listening to the engaged signal, trying to book an appointment. Repeat.

“I’ve got two balls!” I heard Chippie exclaim rather loudly.

Good, I though to myself. As it should be.

Two balls bounced past my office door.

Hmm.

I sent the older two off to school, on their bikes, with only each other as company, and embarked upon the journey that is swimming lessons with the three-year-old.

I start the car, which informs me that we have enough petrol to go precisely zero kilometres. The pertrol station has cars streaming out the driveway and I am cold. And now approaching Running Late For Swimming Lessons.

So I drive on. The downside of this is I’m also treated to the circus that is Getting Three-Year-Old Out Of The Post Lesson Swim Before He Is Ready. This is not fun. It never is.

I manage it, stop for petrol and explain, yet again the answer to the 45th version of “Where are we going?”

“To the doctors, I told you that already.”

“Are your head hurting?”

“Yes, my head are … is hurting.”

“Are your chest hurting?”

“Yes. Yes it is. And so is my head more now.”

“Are you going to get a new head?”

If only …

“They go’n take you head off and put anudder one dere. Are your batteries flat?”

We made it, unscathed, waited well past my appointment time, saw the doctor (not my usual) who told me “Drink plenty of fluids and rest.”

So there you have it …

(My chest is clear, it’s not pneumonia and I’ve had some swabs taken for Whooping Cough, but that is ‘precautionary’ and not because they actually think I have it. So we’ll see ….)

I’m also enduring some horrible chest thing, coupled with a nasty sounding cough (my hubby offered to drop me off at Seaworld) that has caused my entire body to hurt and has been going for almost a month now.

I’m also incredibly stressed, for that and various other reasons.

Not the least of which is being told to “sit down and relax and have a cup of tea”.

Being told this makes. Me. Want. To. Kill. You! A lot!

What has added to this particular annoyance is that I have read myraid parenting books in my time (I was going to be a Perfect Mother, but a Bad Mother turned out to be far less stressful), all of which offered this completely fucking useless useful piece of advice; sit down and have a cup of tea.

Unfortunately, as part of my job and supporter of women, I cringe every fucking morning read other “parenting advice” that is being sent to tens of thousands of homes around Australia. They also offer this advice for when you are stressed.

Now, don’t get me wrong. There is nothing wrong with this advice. It has its place and it is extremely useful advice. When given to the right person.

I am not that person.

You see, only a few years ago, I discovered I was an ‘entrpreneur’ – like it really hit me. Only a few months back I also discovered I am a writer, at my very core. These things are just who I am. I’m also relatively bright and have a tertiary level education … I acheived a high distinction average, so I didn’t just ‘get’ a degree by scraping through. I freaking rocked it.

I’m not saying this to brag.

I’m saying this because when you say to me “sit down and have a cup of tea” you are implying I am a complete fuckwit who is incapable reaching such a conclusion.

I appreciate the sentiment, and I appreciate it comes from a good place and there is no intention at all to offend or upset. Hey, sometimes it is even needed. But not often.

Mostly, however, when you say it, you are completely ignoring who I am.

You see, telling a writer or entrepreneur to “sit and relax” completely overlooks the fact they can’t. When you consider the reasons for my stress, the main cause being I am currently, due to a number of circumstance, unable to do those things I not only love but are just a part of who I am, then it is the most completely useless suggestion anyone could give.

I need to write. I need to create and invent and work. It’s not “putting pressure on myself” or “trying to please everyone”.

It is innate and it is visceral.

It is like when you’re really hungry, really, really hungry and can’t eat. Such is my desire to do these things.

What sitting down and having a cup of tea does is provide yet another opportunity for my mind to think, create stories, come up with ideas … my brain does not stop, with a cup of tea and a bit of a sit down.

Not even close.

(And if someone tells me to “write my ideas down on a bit of paper to get them out of my head” I will fucking stab you, too – how frigging stupid do you think I am that I don’t already do this?!)

Again, I do genuinely realise the intent and love behind the recommendations.

What is frustrating me is the world around us seems to be so intent on dumbing mums down; where can I find out what to do with my brain that desires with a passion that cannot be attended to?

(And in fairness, I totally realise that part of my stress right now is my stubborn desire to do one thing whilst the rest of everything around me is doing its best to prevent me doing it, rather than just accepting what “is” right now. Damnit!)

In pages and pages of books and “parent support websites” it seems the only way I can achieve something is to “make my bed first thing in the morning, so if you have a rough day at least you’ll feel like you’ve acheived something”.

I can only be someone of I bake and create the most insane lunches for my kids school lunchboxes, and Vegemite sandwiches may only be presented if they are cut into dodecahedrons or The Lorax.

My days are to be spent crafting with my kids (which is great if you like it, and helps immensely if they do, too … not in this house).

And when it gets to much, all I may do (once I’ve achieved that all important “making the bed”) is “sit down and have a cup of tea”.

I’m not that Mum.

(I’m not, under any circumstances criticising, complaining about or condemning that Mum! If she is happy, then that makes me smile big!)

Many of us are not that Mum.

But there are days I feel I don’t even exist as who I am, because the me that is stressed and ovewhelmed and unwell is ignored, and the factors that distress me become a blur, shoved into the background and it seems there is a fear to recommend I do something that will make me smile, or even faciliate me doing whatever I need to do.

Why is it the only thing we can think is “sit down and have a cup of tea”? Is there really nothing else out there?

Or are we scared that maybe, just maybe, some mums can and do think outside their family and need to do something else beyond their kids? And what would happen if we embraced this concept?

And – oh my lordy – supported all kinds of mums?

Just asking.

Thank you to all who know me and have provided what I needed the last few days.

(Yes, I have been to the doctor. She told me to rest. I laughed. This set off a coughing fit. I asked for a night in hospital, where I planned to get some work done in peace. She said ‘no’. Bitch. At least she didn’t tell me to make the bed or have a cup of tea.)

Scary.

After yesterday’s fabulous cakey type creations I was also expected to come up with some cupcakes for school. Easy done.

I contemplated my list, decided I had to pick one and only one thing on it for today, so I chose cupcakes.

I sat the frozen butter in a jug,which I placed into warm water to soften. And did something else on my list. By the time that Essential Item was completed, I had four hours in which to mix, bake and decorate 48 cupcakes.

That does sound like a huge task. Unless you are me.

Not because I am an awesome baker, but because I am … well, and awesome baker, but not as you would expect.

I located my basic butter cake recipe thing. I usually make chocolate cupcakes. Today was no different.

Except it was, becuase we had no cocoa, so you know, without cocoa they can’t be chocolate really, can they.

So I added green colouring. Because I could.

Some social media had plenty of suggestions coming my way; ‘use real chocolate’ said one, but there was none due to stress levels. Also, I added green colouring.

Because I could.

‘Make vanilla cupcakes’ was another.

I already did, because I followed the recipe at that point.

Then I added green food colouring.

Because I could.

‘Why did you use green food colouring?’ asked a confused punter.

Well, because I could. No other reason.

I’m not about impressing the parents or my fellow mums. No. This is 48 cupcakes for a bunch of 7-9 year old kids, whom participated in a Health & Wellness discussion with me last term. Most of that discussion contained the word poo.

Of course I was going to make green cupcakes.

Duh.

Because I could.

The mix was done, the first 24 in the oven, then out 15 minutes later, and the next 24 in. Or, 22 technically, because I’d been a little overzealous with the blobbing of mix into each cupcake thingy (oh, we were also out of patty pans, so, meh, we managed) and I ran out of mix.

46 unevenly sized cupcakes.

And plenty of time to spare.

Even with decorating.

Usually, I’d do a sprinkling of icing sugar. That’s decoration, right?

Except we faced a dilemma. We had far too much in the way of white chocolate buds. And I don’t like white chocolate. I had to dispense of them.

Melted them up and ‘drizzled’ it over the cupcakes. ‘Drizzled’ sounds creative and like I had a clue. It was more kind of ‘blobby’ and ‘lumpy’ and a little bit of ‘drizzly’.

Voila!

Impressed?

(I don’t actually care if you are or aren’t – the kids loved them. Also, I made sure I left school immediately just in case someone died.)

I had them – and two articles, and another item on my list – completed in three hours. Yup, I even had time for a shower before I needed to go to school.

Pfft.

Call that a challenge?!

(“Why did you make them green”, asked Grumpy Pants when he returned home … *sigh* … Because I could …)