IT was only a few years ago that I discovered my mother was afraid of thunder. Really afraid. In fact, during a thunder storn, mum likes to hide in her bed or in a room with no windows.
But as kids, she never showed any fear - she would tell us not to be silly, that it was only noise and would go about her business. Oh she would let us sleep in her bed on thundery nights, but we thought that was for OUR benefit - but really it was for HERS!
She didn't want to be afraid in front of us, she said, because she didn't want us to pick up her irrational fears. It worked. I am not afraid of thunder or lightning.
But I do hate spiders.
Well, let me rephrase - I hate big, hairy spiders - like huntsmen (funnily enough, mum doesn't mind spiders at all).
So anyway, yesterday, I brought in a pile of washing from the line, dumped it on the sofa (as one does) and went out to hang up another pile.
When I came back in the house, the boy was sitting on the sofa but instead of watching telly, he was watching the clothes.
"Spider" he said to me, ever so casually.
"Where?" I asked, thankful for once that the child has learnt to speak.
"Under the clothes"
Hmmm - well I carefully unpicked an item of clothing one at a time and after the third item, found a teeny, weeny spider under a sock. Ah relief. A TINY spider. I picked it up and squished it between my fingers and pretended to take it outside.
All done.
Until later, when we were going out. I told him to get some clean shorts and undies from the pile (of course I hadn't sorted it yet - this would only happen if I was the efficient housewife sort and of course I am not). Anyway, he walks over to the pile.
"spider"
Oh it has gone now, dont worry, I told him as I walked over to the pile. And there it was...
the world's biggest huntsman, hiding out in a pair of undies.
"Oh look, a big spider - now don't touch it" I said ever so casually to him - after all, I dont want him to think he can TOUCH spiders.
I cringe when I think of what I did next - I PICKED THE UNDIES UP! Ew ew ew ew ew! I hid the fact that I was dying of fear and walked out the back door - but then decided my back yard was too close for a spider to live.
"Lets take him out the front"
So out the front we went, me carrying a F*CKING GREAT BIG SPIDER! At the front, I decided that this was still far too close to my house for a spider to live.
"Lets take him across the road"
At this stage, Mr Spider had decided to make a run for it and jumped onto the driveway. Now, I didn't want the boy to think it was safe to just squish spiders so I told him to go check the mail.
And then Mr Spider met the underside of my shoe.
Because I don't do spiders.
I told the boy that Mr Spider had crossed the road and was all gone and we went along our way. He had forgotten the whole deal in about 10 seconds. I, on the other hand, had to go inside and have a strong coffee.
And do a girly ew ew ew ew dance, shaking my hands and cringing. Because, although I am usually pretty gutsy for a woman, sometimes the inner girly woman comes out for a play. Usually when spiders are involved.
But I passed the test - I hid my irrational fear, because that is what mother's do.
Showing posts with label a mother's life. Show all posts
Showing posts with label a mother's life. Show all posts
Thursday, January 25, 2007
Tuesday, January 23, 2007
future s*x / love sounds
I am the type of person who has a constant soundtrack in their head. I like music and I can pretty much pinpoint the year I did anything by the music I associate with the event.
For example, I know that I went to Queensland for a holiday in 1989 because I remember 'discovering' New Kids on the Block on that holiday. Memories of the rollercoaster at Dreamworld and 'Hanging Tough' are intertwined in my memory.
But having constant music on the go isn't always a good thing.
For example, for when I am trying to enjoy a shag.
Oh sure in the past, I have made lurve to wonderful and moody music, Portishead, Massive Attack, Moby etc - but it has been ruined by having kids.
You see, now I constantly have the Wiggles in my head.
And it is hard to get going, so to speak, when you have Toot Toot Chugga Chugga Big Red Car going on in your head the whole time.
Which is what has been happening to me of late.
Which has made being a foxy and shagadelic housewife kind of difficult. It is just impossible to get in the mood with Rockabye Your Bear in your head.
If Cosmo magazine has it right, a woman is meant to reach her sexual peak at thirty. I am scared this is the best it will get - the Wiggles are ruining my sex life.
Or perhaps I should just learn to fantasise about a man in a scivvy to get it going....I dont know. But things just arent the same!
For example, I know that I went to Queensland for a holiday in 1989 because I remember 'discovering' New Kids on the Block on that holiday. Memories of the rollercoaster at Dreamworld and 'Hanging Tough' are intertwined in my memory.
But having constant music on the go isn't always a good thing.
For example, for when I am trying to enjoy a shag.
Oh sure in the past, I have made lurve to wonderful and moody music, Portishead, Massive Attack, Moby etc - but it has been ruined by having kids.
You see, now I constantly have the Wiggles in my head.
And it is hard to get going, so to speak, when you have Toot Toot Chugga Chugga Big Red Car going on in your head the whole time.
Which is what has been happening to me of late.
Which has made being a foxy and shagadelic housewife kind of difficult. It is just impossible to get in the mood with Rockabye Your Bear in your head.
If Cosmo magazine has it right, a woman is meant to reach her sexual peak at thirty. I am scared this is the best it will get - the Wiggles are ruining my sex life.
Or perhaps I should just learn to fantasise about a man in a scivvy to get it going....I dont know. But things just arent the same!
the problem with pelvic floors
If there is anything to take your mind off the main event at a funeral, it is needing to go do wee. Really badly. Really REALLY badly.
Unfortunately this is what happened to me yesterday. Getting myself ready and the kids off to a sitter before heading to Fremantle Cemetary took extreme military precision. Sleeps, showers and getting dressed was all timed to perfection so that I could make it on time.
Unfortunately, while I was very organised at getting the little one in a new nappy and the boy to do a wee before we left home, I somehow forgot to go myself. But I didn't forget to scull down two coffees and an orange juice.
I noticed that I really needed to go as I headed as quickly up South Street as I could manage in my little car. I was not quite late, but I wouldn't be early. Don't think about it - don't think about water, dont think at all. Yes hard as I tried, it got worse and worse.
Then I sat there listening to loving and kind words - grief and tears - and thinking terrible thoughts.
"Oh yeah, yeah, get on with it"
"Yes okay, good man, loved by all, we get it."
Now I am not a heartless person and I shed a couple of tears myself. But really, the risk of wetting myself right there in the chapel did take my mind off the sadness of the occasion. In a way it was a blessing. Kind of.
Bloody kids - not only have they stretched my belly to buggery, it seems that the two heavy little buggers have loosened up my innards as well. It is times like these that I wish I had've listened to my obstetrician. I should have done those exercises, but they were just so boring.
Instead I went to a women's health physio (on advice from my doctor who said my pelvic floor was 'non-existent') hoping for a miracle cure. She gave me more damn exercises. Oh sure I was good for a week or so, but I never have time to shower let alone sit there squeezing my fanny in an attempt to strengthen my 'P.F.'
Unfortunately, the weather has been lovely and I had a mild case of hayfever. As we were having a polite cuppa after the funeral I felt it coming.....a sneeze.
I clenched, I tried - I really did. But I didnt quite hold on tight enough. No I didn't do it there and then all over the floor, but I did have to change my daks when I got home.
Yuk, 30 years old and incontinent. And pregnant looking. What on earth is happening to me?
So I am off now to do some squeezes on my fit-ball. Because I can live with a fat gut. I can live with bad hair and spotty skin. I can live with hairy legs and bad clothes. But I cannot live with the risk of doing a wee wee every time I cough or sneeze.
Unfortunately this is what happened to me yesterday. Getting myself ready and the kids off to a sitter before heading to Fremantle Cemetary took extreme military precision. Sleeps, showers and getting dressed was all timed to perfection so that I could make it on time.
Unfortunately, while I was very organised at getting the little one in a new nappy and the boy to do a wee before we left home, I somehow forgot to go myself. But I didn't forget to scull down two coffees and an orange juice.
I noticed that I really needed to go as I headed as quickly up South Street as I could manage in my little car. I was not quite late, but I wouldn't be early. Don't think about it - don't think about water, dont think at all. Yes hard as I tried, it got worse and worse.
Then I sat there listening to loving and kind words - grief and tears - and thinking terrible thoughts.
"Oh yeah, yeah, get on with it"
"Yes okay, good man, loved by all, we get it."
Now I am not a heartless person and I shed a couple of tears myself. But really, the risk of wetting myself right there in the chapel did take my mind off the sadness of the occasion. In a way it was a blessing. Kind of.
Bloody kids - not only have they stretched my belly to buggery, it seems that the two heavy little buggers have loosened up my innards as well. It is times like these that I wish I had've listened to my obstetrician. I should have done those exercises, but they were just so boring.
Instead I went to a women's health physio (on advice from my doctor who said my pelvic floor was 'non-existent') hoping for a miracle cure. She gave me more damn exercises. Oh sure I was good for a week or so, but I never have time to shower let alone sit there squeezing my fanny in an attempt to strengthen my 'P.F.'
Unfortunately, the weather has been lovely and I had a mild case of hayfever. As we were having a polite cuppa after the funeral I felt it coming.....a sneeze.
I clenched, I tried - I really did. But I didnt quite hold on tight enough. No I didn't do it there and then all over the floor, but I did have to change my daks when I got home.
Yuk, 30 years old and incontinent. And pregnant looking. What on earth is happening to me?
So I am off now to do some squeezes on my fit-ball. Because I can live with a fat gut. I can live with bad hair and spotty skin. I can live with hairy legs and bad clothes. But I cannot live with the risk of doing a wee wee every time I cough or sneeze.
Monday, January 22, 2007
Why fight fat fate?
I AM going shopping.
For a big fat pair of Bridget-Jones undies. In fact, I may buy seven - one for each day of the week - when I find a pair big and tight enough to make my post-baby tummy appear less fat.
You see, after my experience last week of nearly breaking my ankle in a silly and ill-fated attempt to fit into some old 'skinny-jeans', I decided to go buy some new clothes.
Clothes that are bigger than - gulp - size 10!
Yes I actually bought some 12s, 14s and even a top with a dreaded 'L' on the tag.
Once apon a time, if I didn't fit into a 10, I simply wouldn't buy it. Too bad if I really wanted that particular item of clothing - I was simply too stubborn to accept my body was getting bigger. I found some labels made their sizes generous and would love shopping at Cue and David Lawrence because I could usually fit a 10 perfectly, sometimes even an 8.
But I have sadly accepted that, thanks to my two wonderful children and my propensity for eating crap and not exercising, my body would not not mysteriously morph back into a size 10.
So on the weekend I went shopping at my old haunt, Garden City. I went with a purpose and braved the crowds, buying lots of roomy and suitable-for-being-a-housewife clothing from lovely shops like Witchery (Oh how I do love Witchery) and Esprit.
I was feeling ever so good for myself - I came home and tried on every item I bought. Then yesterday I stepped out in 100% new clothes. Oh I looked good - yes I still had it. I felt on top of the world.
And then I got congratulated on being pregnant.
Newsflash - I am not pregnant. I don't plan to be. Two is a nice number. It is all I can handle!
My self esteem came crashing down with a hefty thump. Oh I laughed it off and said I would rather be fat than pregnant, but underneath I was reeling. Shit - did I look that bad?
I know that there are worse things than looking fat. I could be seriously ill. My kids could be seriously ill...or on drugs....or nasty pieces of work. I could have a crummy marriage. I could be blind, or deaf or bed-ridden. Shit, I could have no kids!! Really, in the grand scheme it doesn't matter.
Which is why I have decided not too fight it. Life is too short for starving and busting a gut (pardon the pun) to lose weight. I have just decided to hide the lump and find some tight miracle undies instead.
And to sell all my skinny clothes on eBay.
Now, where are those Tim Tams?
For a big fat pair of Bridget-Jones undies. In fact, I may buy seven - one for each day of the week - when I find a pair big and tight enough to make my post-baby tummy appear less fat.
You see, after my experience last week of nearly breaking my ankle in a silly and ill-fated attempt to fit into some old 'skinny-jeans', I decided to go buy some new clothes.
Clothes that are bigger than - gulp - size 10!
Yes I actually bought some 12s, 14s and even a top with a dreaded 'L' on the tag.
Once apon a time, if I didn't fit into a 10, I simply wouldn't buy it. Too bad if I really wanted that particular item of clothing - I was simply too stubborn to accept my body was getting bigger. I found some labels made their sizes generous and would love shopping at Cue and David Lawrence because I could usually fit a 10 perfectly, sometimes even an 8.
But I have sadly accepted that, thanks to my two wonderful children and my propensity for eating crap and not exercising, my body would not not mysteriously morph back into a size 10.
So on the weekend I went shopping at my old haunt, Garden City. I went with a purpose and braved the crowds, buying lots of roomy and suitable-for-being-a-housewife clothing from lovely shops like Witchery (Oh how I do love Witchery) and Esprit.
I was feeling ever so good for myself - I came home and tried on every item I bought. Then yesterday I stepped out in 100% new clothes. Oh I looked good - yes I still had it. I felt on top of the world.
And then I got congratulated on being pregnant.
Newsflash - I am not pregnant. I don't plan to be. Two is a nice number. It is all I can handle!
My self esteem came crashing down with a hefty thump. Oh I laughed it off and said I would rather be fat than pregnant, but underneath I was reeling. Shit - did I look that bad?
I know that there are worse things than looking fat. I could be seriously ill. My kids could be seriously ill...or on drugs....or nasty pieces of work. I could have a crummy marriage. I could be blind, or deaf or bed-ridden. Shit, I could have no kids!! Really, in the grand scheme it doesn't matter.
Which is why I have decided not too fight it. Life is too short for starving and busting a gut (pardon the pun) to lose weight. I have just decided to hide the lump and find some tight miracle undies instead.
And to sell all my skinny clothes on eBay.
Now, where are those Tim Tams?
Not such a hot housewife
WE had a few old friends (male) over on the weekend which is always a hoot, because my husband and I have known these guys for years and they are a lot of fun.
As always, talk turned to the gutter as we went over who was getting what with whom. It was at this point that I learned something about men. They think housewives are all hot hornbags. Well these ones do anyway.
I should explain, two are tradies - a sparkie and a chippie, the other sells domestic air-conditioning units. They spend a lot of time at other people's houses.
They were comparing notes about the jobs they had done where the women of the house were...hot. It seems, according to these guys, that there are a lot of women in Perth who are kinda bored and spend time at home looking hot and flirting with tradesmen and salesmen.
Although none had actually done anything naughty with a hot housewife, there was enough flirting and nudity spotting to keep the boys happy.
Which led me to evaluate myself. Was I not young and okay looking? How come I had never flirted with any tradies or salesmen. Most that come to my house see me in either my pyjamas or tracksuits, dirty hair and some food stains on my shoulder.
I decided it was time to become a hot housewife. Starting now.
SO yesterday I actually showered before 5pm and BLOW-DRIED my hair. Scared the little one half to death as I dont think she had ever seen a hairdryer before.
I chose my clothes carefully. My very tight skinny jeans which I bought in a fit of madness after I had fallen pregnant with the first guy. Big D designer, big price and I had never actually worn them.
My highest, hot, stilettos. Yeah and a white shirt - to hell with the risk of actually staining it. I was wearing white baby.
All was going to plan - until I decided to get those jeans done up.
Note here that I had already put on my shoes - thought it would be easier to bend over and do this before I did up my fly because my tummy is a little......um.....round.
So here I was trying my best to get up my fly, my muffin top getting bigger and muffin-ish-er by the second. I did this teetering around on my high heels. On floor boards, with food scraps on the floor.
Because I am a clown, I also made a silly dance to keep the kids happy. I shouldnt have because I slipped at that moment on a piece of nectarine skin.
OOOOH ouch did it hurt as I twisted my ankle under me and my entire body collapsed.
To add insult to the injury, I then had to lie on the floor and attempt to take my jeans OFF, with two little kids climbing on me and pulling my hair.
After I regained composure and got my body out of those stupid clothes I returned to my uniform of tracksuit pants and a crappy shirt. With my tail humbly between my legs.
The good news is that although I did twist my ankle and it swelled up nice and sore, none of my clothes or shoes are damaged.
But really, I think the whole hot housewife thing is just a myth.
Desperate Housewives has a lot to answer for. Noone really dresses that well just to stay at home - well maybe in the western suburbs they do, but not in East Victoria Park!
As always, talk turned to the gutter as we went over who was getting what with whom. It was at this point that I learned something about men. They think housewives are all hot hornbags. Well these ones do anyway.
I should explain, two are tradies - a sparkie and a chippie, the other sells domestic air-conditioning units. They spend a lot of time at other people's houses.
They were comparing notes about the jobs they had done where the women of the house were...hot. It seems, according to these guys, that there are a lot of women in Perth who are kinda bored and spend time at home looking hot and flirting with tradesmen and salesmen.
Although none had actually done anything naughty with a hot housewife, there was enough flirting and nudity spotting to keep the boys happy.
Which led me to evaluate myself. Was I not young and okay looking? How come I had never flirted with any tradies or salesmen. Most that come to my house see me in either my pyjamas or tracksuits, dirty hair and some food stains on my shoulder.
I decided it was time to become a hot housewife. Starting now.
SO yesterday I actually showered before 5pm and BLOW-DRIED my hair. Scared the little one half to death as I dont think she had ever seen a hairdryer before.
I chose my clothes carefully. My very tight skinny jeans which I bought in a fit of madness after I had fallen pregnant with the first guy. Big D designer, big price and I had never actually worn them.
My highest, hot, stilettos. Yeah and a white shirt - to hell with the risk of actually staining it. I was wearing white baby.
All was going to plan - until I decided to get those jeans done up.
Note here that I had already put on my shoes - thought it would be easier to bend over and do this before I did up my fly because my tummy is a little......um.....round.
So here I was trying my best to get up my fly, my muffin top getting bigger and muffin-ish-er by the second. I did this teetering around on my high heels. On floor boards, with food scraps on the floor.
Because I am a clown, I also made a silly dance to keep the kids happy. I shouldnt have because I slipped at that moment on a piece of nectarine skin.
OOOOH ouch did it hurt as I twisted my ankle under me and my entire body collapsed.
To add insult to the injury, I then had to lie on the floor and attempt to take my jeans OFF, with two little kids climbing on me and pulling my hair.
After I regained composure and got my body out of those stupid clothes I returned to my uniform of tracksuit pants and a crappy shirt. With my tail humbly between my legs.
The good news is that although I did twist my ankle and it swelled up nice and sore, none of my clothes or shoes are damaged.
But really, I think the whole hot housewife thing is just a myth.
Desperate Housewives has a lot to answer for. Noone really dresses that well just to stay at home - well maybe in the western suburbs they do, but not in East Victoria Park!
Kids' parties and peer pressure
MY GIRL is turning one in a week - what a beautiful and special time for my little family to celebrate a wonderful year gone, and many more to come.....right? WRONG!
I am facing mounting pressure from friends and other mummies to throw a party. I keep getting asked what I have planned to mark the occasion. Truth be known - nothing.
Well, I do plan to make her a cute cake perhaps shaped like a flower and to invite her grandies and uncles and aunties over for a meal or even afternoon tea.
But no party planned - the girl is ONE for heavens sake!
When I say this to my friends, I get looks of horror - WHAT? No party? But it is her FIRST BIRTHDAY????
Okay, I better apologise now for any offence this post may give. But it is my opinion and my blog!
You see, I just don't get the big deal people make about their kids' birthdays when the children are far too young to ever remember the party - or even enjoy it for that matter.
A mother from my mother's group recently had a party for her little girl - complete with a face painter and a petting zoo. A PETTING FRICKING ZOO!
Coordinated decorations and paper plates and cups (fairies everywhere). She hired little tables and little chairs for one year olds to sit at nicely and eat and had enough food to feed all of the country's homeless in one hit. Shit - this wasn't home-made food either - she had the party CATERED! The cake was from CORICA. For a baby. Seriously!
IT was a fest of sugar and colouring and NOISE. There were kids EVERYWHERE. After all, she said, she just HAD to invite her uni and school friends' kids, the kids from mother's group, her neighbours' kids, her nephews and nieces.
But, she said, her little girl only turns one once. Well this is true. But is it really worth the stress and expense?
She isn't the only one. I have been to parties with bouncy castles, parties at Kidz Paradise, kids with those twistie balloon thingos - you name it, I have probably seen it at a party where a good majority of the kids can't even walk yet.
I just really think the whole thing is a load of wank for parents to show off in front of other parents and I don't want to be part of it. But clearly, from the reaction of family and friends, I am the freak here.
I may not throw her huge parties but I am always here for her and her brother and have been each and every day of their short lives.
This is the way I show love - I am prepared to give up nice stuff and a pretty nice job to be with my kids. Not by showering them with flash parties.
So my friends think I am a tight-arse. I just think I have my priorities right.
Oh and that little girl with the party? Turns out she was rabid by the end of it - tired, over-stimulated and full of sweets. Apparently she screamed and wouldn't settle until quite late that night. Yeah - happy birthday for her.
I am facing mounting pressure from friends and other mummies to throw a party. I keep getting asked what I have planned to mark the occasion. Truth be known - nothing.
Well, I do plan to make her a cute cake perhaps shaped like a flower and to invite her grandies and uncles and aunties over for a meal or even afternoon tea.
But no party planned - the girl is ONE for heavens sake!
When I say this to my friends, I get looks of horror - WHAT? No party? But it is her FIRST BIRTHDAY????
Okay, I better apologise now for any offence this post may give. But it is my opinion and my blog!
You see, I just don't get the big deal people make about their kids' birthdays when the children are far too young to ever remember the party - or even enjoy it for that matter.
A mother from my mother's group recently had a party for her little girl - complete with a face painter and a petting zoo. A PETTING FRICKING ZOO!
Coordinated decorations and paper plates and cups (fairies everywhere). She hired little tables and little chairs for one year olds to sit at nicely and eat and had enough food to feed all of the country's homeless in one hit. Shit - this wasn't home-made food either - she had the party CATERED! The cake was from CORICA. For a baby. Seriously!
IT was a fest of sugar and colouring and NOISE. There were kids EVERYWHERE. After all, she said, she just HAD to invite her uni and school friends' kids, the kids from mother's group, her neighbours' kids, her nephews and nieces.
But, she said, her little girl only turns one once. Well this is true. But is it really worth the stress and expense?
She isn't the only one. I have been to parties with bouncy castles, parties at Kidz Paradise, kids with those twistie balloon thingos - you name it, I have probably seen it at a party where a good majority of the kids can't even walk yet.
I just really think the whole thing is a load of wank for parents to show off in front of other parents and I don't want to be part of it. But clearly, from the reaction of family and friends, I am the freak here.
I may not throw her huge parties but I am always here for her and her brother and have been each and every day of their short lives.
This is the way I show love - I am prepared to give up nice stuff and a pretty nice job to be with my kids. Not by showering them with flash parties.
So my friends think I am a tight-arse. I just think I have my priorities right.
Oh and that little girl with the party? Turns out she was rabid by the end of it - tired, over-stimulated and full of sweets. Apparently she screamed and wouldn't settle until quite late that night. Yeah - happy birthday for her.
One day I'll get you Mr Whippy
GETTING my kids to sleep is a major undertaking. For the boy, there is a drink of milk, a poo (not my fault - is his routine and I can't seem to change it), two books, two or more threats to take his trains away, one last growl....oh and a nappy (not quite bed-trained yet).
The girl gets her bottle (which always needs to be sterilised as I am never organised to do this ahead), a clean nappy and a badly-sung song. Sweet Child of Mine by Guns-n-Roses is a favourite, as my girl does have eyes of the bluest skies....
Anyway - doing this takes a fair bit of time and effort. And coordination and luck if I want to get both done at the same time. Which today I did - hooray! Yes, they were both asleep so I got to have a shower and even shave both my legs and armpits (a red-letter day today), a coffee and even a brief lie down.
But then IT happened and by IT I mean the MR WHIPPY VAN! I don't know what these are called in the eastern states but you know the ones I mean - the pink and white ice-cream van that plays GREENSLEEVES or some other tune very loudly over crappy speakers so all the kids in the local area go mental for ice-cream.
I don't live THAT far from the local high-school and each day at 3.30, that bloody van drives past my house. Not just that, every day without fail, the driver always chooses my house to TURN THE MUSIC ON. SO I dont hear it coming - just the blast of BING BING BING BING as the music goes on as he hits the corner where I live.
It is the sheer shock of it perhaps (or perhaps the stream of expletives that comes out of my mouth each time I hear the bloody van go past) but each time, without fail, it wakes up my son.
Well as things go, my son doesn't have such late sleeps anymore, so the van hasn't been a problem. Plus it is school holidays - so the van has lost it's market for now. But today at 2pm - just as I was drifting into a nice little nap, I heard IT.
BING BLOODY BING BING of Greensleeves!! Right as it drives past my house, past the bedroom windows.
I waited, I held my breath - but there it came. First the WEEEEAAAAHHHHHH of the baby, and then "MUMMY I WANT ICE-CREAM" from the little guy.
Yeah thanks MR WHIPPY thanks. Thanks for nearly three years of this torture. I swear to God, even if it is forty bloody degrees outside, I will NEVER buy an ice-cream from you.
PS - I have been told to just ask the guy to not turn the music on as he passes my house, but by the time I hear the music and get out the front, he is halfway down the street. Although the sight of me chasing the whippy van down the street in my pyjamas would be bloody funny....
Bloody, stupid toys
I HAVE spent the last two days putting together toys that look so promising on the box, but are more confusing to construct than a desk from IKEA.
Hammers, screws, wood-blocks and screwdrivers are littering my front yard as I have tried in vain to put together a swing set, a bike and a ride-on-bubby-thingo.
Unfortunately, although some husbands are the put-together-and-make-it- work kind, mine is not, preferring to leave the engineering of plastic, metal and stickers to me. After all, as I like to tell him, I was the top student in Manual Arts in high-school (hmmm that has come back to bite me).
If the instructions were not bad enough, being totally illegible most times and in some strange combination of Chinese and English, the little bag with all the funny fittings usually contains at least three items that are not needed and a few bolts that are a totally different shape to those pictured.
So I am trying to do this with a nearly-three-year-old climbing my back and offering to 'help fix it' with his little toy tool set (bless!). I wonder why I choose to do this outdoors in the sun, especially when losing a bolt in the long grass sends us all into mass searches of the lawn to retireve the said bit so that my younger one doesn't swallow it and the entire swing set doesnt fall to pieces once in use.
As for the joy of giving - the joy is the person who gave the toy, got the credit and then went home leaving me to put the bloody, stupid thing together. Grrrr - all I get is 'hurry up mummy', 'hit it harder mummy' and 'mummy hurt her finger'.
At least next time I get something from IKEA, it will seem like a walk in a Swedish park.
some things are not meant for bed...
I love my bed linen. I mean, REALLY love it.
My bed linen is one of the luxuries in life I have refused to give up, even though I have stopped working (except for the occasional freelance job) and I no longer have any money It is lovely Sheriden 450 thread count, sateen finish. Cream. Lovely, lovely, lovely. I have two sets so I always have a fresh lot on my bed.
I love changing the sheets each week. I love getting into my crisp, clean bed. My bed is my haven.
I also love my doona cover. It is gorgeous. I saw it a Freedom and coveted and coveted for a year or so until I saw the same one at Spotlight and snapped it up for $100 (bargain baby! It was a lot more at Freedom). It is predominantly white with some subtle but lovely patterns on the front.
I shudder at the thought of breakfast in bed. No food comes near my bed. I usually have a shower before bed so I dont put dirty feet on my sheets.
You could say I am anally retentive about my bed.
But today my beautiful bed was violated in the worst possible way.
We are lucky enough to have an ensuite. It is a nice white ensuite and I quite like it. The toilet in there is also lower than the main toilet which means my boy can climb onto it himself and go do poos.
Usually when he does this, he calls me in to 'cheer the poos' - a gross little habit we have kept from when he was first toilet trained. I stand there and watch until it hits the water - splash - and I cheer because he is such a clever boy.
Occasionally he doesn't ask me to come and cheer him but he always wants me to see the end result. So I have to go in and make a song and dance about his big and wonderful poo. And wipe is bottom. Oh the pleasures.
But today I didn't have to do that either. No, today I was thinking I was clever sneaking off to my computer without him noticing. Leaving him to quietly play with his trains.
I was merrily typing away when I heard words that sent a chill down my spine.
"yukky poo on mummy's bed"
OH MY GOODNESS! I have never run as quickly as I just did into my room to see a pantless toddler standing on MY sheets with POO on MY BED.
It seems that instead of calling me to wipe his botty, he decided HE would be sneaky and get a quick bed-jumping session in before I noticed.
He knew he had done something really, really bad. He looked at me with these big brown eyes and gave me a little 'look-how-cute-I-am-dont-be-mad' smile which he uses to get out of all kinds of trouble.
I was too dumbstruck to get mad at the boy. I just wanted to cry. Poo on my precious, precious sheets. Oh how terribly, utterly GROSS. Yuk.
They are now in a very strong solution of Napisan. Heaven knows I would have thrown them out and bought a new set if they weren't so very, very expensive.
But he has ruined it for me. He really has. For no matter what, when I climb into my bed - no matter how good it feels, I will know that my sheets have had poo on them.
My bed linen is one of the luxuries in life I have refused to give up, even though I have stopped working (except for the occasional freelance job) and I no longer have any money It is lovely Sheriden 450 thread count, sateen finish. Cream. Lovely, lovely, lovely. I have two sets so I always have a fresh lot on my bed.
I love changing the sheets each week. I love getting into my crisp, clean bed. My bed is my haven.
I also love my doona cover. It is gorgeous. I saw it a Freedom and coveted and coveted for a year or so until I saw the same one at Spotlight and snapped it up for $100 (bargain baby! It was a lot more at Freedom). It is predominantly white with some subtle but lovely patterns on the front.
I shudder at the thought of breakfast in bed. No food comes near my bed. I usually have a shower before bed so I dont put dirty feet on my sheets.
You could say I am anally retentive about my bed.
But today my beautiful bed was violated in the worst possible way.
We are lucky enough to have an ensuite. It is a nice white ensuite and I quite like it. The toilet in there is also lower than the main toilet which means my boy can climb onto it himself and go do poos.
Usually when he does this, he calls me in to 'cheer the poos' - a gross little habit we have kept from when he was first toilet trained. I stand there and watch until it hits the water - splash - and I cheer because he is such a clever boy.
Occasionally he doesn't ask me to come and cheer him but he always wants me to see the end result. So I have to go in and make a song and dance about his big and wonderful poo. And wipe is bottom. Oh the pleasures.
But today I didn't have to do that either. No, today I was thinking I was clever sneaking off to my computer without him noticing. Leaving him to quietly play with his trains.
I was merrily typing away when I heard words that sent a chill down my spine.
"yukky poo on mummy's bed"
OH MY GOODNESS! I have never run as quickly as I just did into my room to see a pantless toddler standing on MY sheets with POO on MY BED.
It seems that instead of calling me to wipe his botty, he decided HE would be sneaky and get a quick bed-jumping session in before I noticed.
He knew he had done something really, really bad. He looked at me with these big brown eyes and gave me a little 'look-how-cute-I-am-dont-be-mad' smile which he uses to get out of all kinds of trouble.
I was too dumbstruck to get mad at the boy. I just wanted to cry. Poo on my precious, precious sheets. Oh how terribly, utterly GROSS. Yuk.
They are now in a very strong solution of Napisan. Heaven knows I would have thrown them out and bought a new set if they weren't so very, very expensive.
But he has ruined it for me. He really has. For no matter what, when I climb into my bed - no matter how good it feels, I will know that my sheets have had poo on them.
The bloody cheek of strangers
YESTERDAY I continued the Christmas-shopping saga with a quick trip down to Target at the Park Centre to pick up a few things.
I am not a fan of shopping with the kidlets but I have no real choice, so after the little one woke from her sleep, I packed them both into the car, shoved biscuits into both of their hands and told them to be good.
As per usual at this time of the year, it was hot, hot hot. Hot in the car, hot out of the car and the car-park was full.
I had already had a row with the boy (sometime I just DONT want to listen to the Wiggles - it is only a one-minute drive but sometimes I like to stamp my authority) so he was a little moody. The girl wasn't long off needing her lunch. I didn't have long to get my chores done.
I finally managed to get a spot and plonked the boy in a shopping trolley and the girl in the little seat bit up the top. Right - lets make this quick. Haha.
Quick stop at Coles was without too much hassle. I was getting a little exasperated at the crowds but the kids were okay. For now.
Target was PACKED. I quickly got what I needed off layby without a hitch but at that point the girl decided she had had enough and started her screamy squeal that she likes to do. AAEEEIIIIIII!!!! she goes at the top of her little 10-month old lungs. Of course, she can't get all the attention, so the boy decided to squeal too. And at nearly three years, his lungs can really pack a punch.
Now he had my attention, he decided to let another one go . So I gave him a mild telling off for good measure (it was really just for show - I knew that nothing I said would stop him screaming, but I wanted to make it look like I was a good, disciplinary type of mother). And tried to get out as fast as I could.
After scream three I was just about to crack up (either that or crack him one which would have been fairly unacceptable) when this WOMAN comes up to me. And she would have been my age - not some young twit or old granny - and she says to me:
"You can hear that all through the shopping centre you know."
Well is that f-ing right? Like I enjoy listening to the sound of my children screaming. Like I didn't know it was sending half the people in Target deaf. Like I needed her to tell me. Perhaps she thought I was deaf.
Of course afterwards I thought of a million witty and sarcastic responses to make to that cow, but all I could come up with at the time was:
"Try living with it."
Not great, but not that bad considering I was so stunned I could barely speak.
And no, she wasn't being nice, she had one of those distasteful looks on her face, like I should have stuck a plastic bag over my son's head or something.
Which leads me to the question - what IS IT with STRANGERS thinking they have some God-given right to make comment on your children? I had this discussion with some friends this morning and I got some more horror stories:
1. My friend's six-month old was tired and cranky at Carousel shopping centre. So she picked up her baby and carried it while her mum (lucky her mum was there) pushed the pram. And this old granny came up to her and said, "look at your baby getting spoiled."
2. Another friend was at the Park Centre (my favourite haunt) waiting in line at Coles. Her daughter was hassling her out so she gave her a chocolate to shut her up. An old lady (hmm I see a trend her) said to her "I wouldn't have given her a lolly if it were my child"
3. This is my personal favourite - a friend's son was having a tanty at Carousel and some man came up and told her that she just needed to give her son a "good hiding". Yeah, I am sure that guy spent a lot of quality time with his kids.... if he had any.
There were more, but I can't remember them right now - but there does seem to be a growing movement out there of people giving complete strangers parenting advice.
Here is some advice of mine. Just DON'T DO IT. Leave us alone. Please. Our kids give us enough grief as it is.
I am not a fan of shopping with the kidlets but I have no real choice, so after the little one woke from her sleep, I packed them both into the car, shoved biscuits into both of their hands and told them to be good.
As per usual at this time of the year, it was hot, hot hot. Hot in the car, hot out of the car and the car-park was full.
I had already had a row with the boy (sometime I just DONT want to listen to the Wiggles - it is only a one-minute drive but sometimes I like to stamp my authority) so he was a little moody. The girl wasn't long off needing her lunch. I didn't have long to get my chores done.
I finally managed to get a spot and plonked the boy in a shopping trolley and the girl in the little seat bit up the top. Right - lets make this quick. Haha.
Quick stop at Coles was without too much hassle. I was getting a little exasperated at the crowds but the kids were okay. For now.
Target was PACKED. I quickly got what I needed off layby without a hitch but at that point the girl decided she had had enough and started her screamy squeal that she likes to do. AAEEEIIIIIII!!!! she goes at the top of her little 10-month old lungs. Of course, she can't get all the attention, so the boy decided to squeal too. And at nearly three years, his lungs can really pack a punch.
Now he had my attention, he decided to let another one go . So I gave him a mild telling off for good measure (it was really just for show - I knew that nothing I said would stop him screaming, but I wanted to make it look like I was a good, disciplinary type of mother). And tried to get out as fast as I could.
After scream three I was just about to crack up (either that or crack him one which would have been fairly unacceptable) when this WOMAN comes up to me. And she would have been my age - not some young twit or old granny - and she says to me:
"You can hear that all through the shopping centre you know."
Well is that f-ing right? Like I enjoy listening to the sound of my children screaming. Like I didn't know it was sending half the people in Target deaf. Like I needed her to tell me. Perhaps she thought I was deaf.
Of course afterwards I thought of a million witty and sarcastic responses to make to that cow, but all I could come up with at the time was:
"Try living with it."
Not great, but not that bad considering I was so stunned I could barely speak.
And no, she wasn't being nice, she had one of those distasteful looks on her face, like I should have stuck a plastic bag over my son's head or something.
Which leads me to the question - what IS IT with STRANGERS thinking they have some God-given right to make comment on your children? I had this discussion with some friends this morning and I got some more horror stories:
1. My friend's six-month old was tired and cranky at Carousel shopping centre. So she picked up her baby and carried it while her mum (lucky her mum was there) pushed the pram. And this old granny came up to her and said, "look at your baby getting spoiled."
2. Another friend was at the Park Centre (my favourite haunt) waiting in line at Coles. Her daughter was hassling her out so she gave her a chocolate to shut her up. An old lady (hmm I see a trend her) said to her "I wouldn't have given her a lolly if it were my child"
3. This is my personal favourite - a friend's son was having a tanty at Carousel and some man came up and told her that she just needed to give her son a "good hiding". Yeah, I am sure that guy spent a lot of quality time with his kids.... if he had any.
There were more, but I can't remember them right now - but there does seem to be a growing movement out there of people giving complete strangers parenting advice.
Here is some advice of mine. Just DON'T DO IT. Leave us alone. Please. Our kids give us enough grief as it is.
Putting the FAT in FATigue
WHAT is it about being exhausted that makes a woman (well, this woman anyway) put copious amounts of sugar and fat laden shit down her throat?
It's not like I need the extra sugar for all the exercise I am doing. I am not getting to the gym the way I used to, nor am I going for all the walks I promised myself when daylight saving finally got introduced.
No, I spend most of the time either chasing the kids or on my bottom. Which is expanding. FAST. It has come to the stage now that I am handing down my 'skinny' clothes to my MUM. She is 55 years old and a size 10. I can no longer squeeze my bottom into my old jeans and I am 30.
So I moan and complain and then I put cake into my mouth and that stops the moaning for about a minute. It doesn't help that I like baking. I AM a housewife after all so I make cakes... a lot. And I eat them a lot too!
When we don't have cakes I eat biscuits. When we run out of these I eat MILO! Oh it is so wrong but so good too. I sit there at the counter with a big spoon and pile it into my mouth.
But the bigger I get, the less inclined I am to do any exercise. I am exhausted after all. So there starts the nasty cycle - I am tired therefore I eat crap. I am tired therefore I don't exercise. I am getting fat because I eat crap and don't exercise. I eat more and exercise less because I feel crap and fat.
Which is why I believe sheer and total exhaustion is called FATigue.
It's not like I need the extra sugar for all the exercise I am doing. I am not getting to the gym the way I used to, nor am I going for all the walks I promised myself when daylight saving finally got introduced.
No, I spend most of the time either chasing the kids or on my bottom. Which is expanding. FAST. It has come to the stage now that I am handing down my 'skinny' clothes to my MUM. She is 55 years old and a size 10. I can no longer squeeze my bottom into my old jeans and I am 30.
So I moan and complain and then I put cake into my mouth and that stops the moaning for about a minute. It doesn't help that I like baking. I AM a housewife after all so I make cakes... a lot. And I eat them a lot too!
When we don't have cakes I eat biscuits. When we run out of these I eat MILO! Oh it is so wrong but so good too. I sit there at the counter with a big spoon and pile it into my mouth.
But the bigger I get, the less inclined I am to do any exercise. I am exhausted after all. So there starts the nasty cycle - I am tired therefore I eat crap. I am tired therefore I don't exercise. I am getting fat because I eat crap and don't exercise. I eat more and exercise less because I feel crap and fat.
Which is why I believe sheer and total exhaustion is called FATigue.
Do cats do Karma?
I am not into cats.
Dogs are nice - they like it when you come home, they give you snuggles and do fun tricks like fetch sticks and play dead. Cats however think they are too good for their owners. They act all hard to get and uppity if you try to be silly and don't like play-fighting at all. They are like the Claremont-set of the animal kingdom.
Which is why I flatly refused to take my husband's cat when we first moved in together and I don't have a cat now.
Even so, I wish them no harm....that is except when they hunt birds.
I DO like birds. As well as the massive Jacaranda we have a massive flowering gum which all the native birds seem to like quite well. I leave them water and they all seem to get along really well.
But today I noticed they were making some noise so I stuck my head out the front to see a cat hissing. HISSING at MY birds. Now poor old Mandy got some flack when she mentioned Asians and all these people started making comments about newcomers not assimilating and all that jazz.
Well my BIRDS are NATIVE AUSTRALIAN BIRDS! Cats are introduced species and they DO NOT ASSIMILATE WELL AT ALL. Grr. So I did what any patriotic Australian would do. I took off my shoe and took aim. And I ONLY JUST MISSED.
That cat took off quite quickly and I told those birds that I would look after them and then I went inside.
Just as I did, I whacked my shoe-less foot with such ferocity that I think I may have broken my little toe. OW OWOWOWOWOWOWOWWWW
That's so like, Karma baby
Dogs are nice - they like it when you come home, they give you snuggles and do fun tricks like fetch sticks and play dead. Cats however think they are too good for their owners. They act all hard to get and uppity if you try to be silly and don't like play-fighting at all. They are like the Claremont-set of the animal kingdom.
Which is why I flatly refused to take my husband's cat when we first moved in together and I don't have a cat now.
Even so, I wish them no harm....that is except when they hunt birds.
I DO like birds. As well as the massive Jacaranda we have a massive flowering gum which all the native birds seem to like quite well. I leave them water and they all seem to get along really well.
But today I noticed they were making some noise so I stuck my head out the front to see a cat hissing. HISSING at MY birds. Now poor old Mandy got some flack when she mentioned Asians and all these people started making comments about newcomers not assimilating and all that jazz.
Well my BIRDS are NATIVE AUSTRALIAN BIRDS! Cats are introduced species and they DO NOT ASSIMILATE WELL AT ALL. Grr. So I did what any patriotic Australian would do. I took off my shoe and took aim. And I ONLY JUST MISSED.
That cat took off quite quickly and I told those birds that I would look after them and then I went inside.
Just as I did, I whacked my shoe-less foot with such ferocity that I think I may have broken my little toe. OW OWOWOWOWOWOWOWWWW
That's so like, Karma baby
Saturday, December 9, 2006
grotty underwear on parade
This morning we took the boy down to swimming lessons. We all head down nice and early to the new pools at Somerset St and it is very nice and shiny. Swimming lessons are fairly expensive in my opinion, which is why, possibly, there are a lot of well dressed mothers there.
I dont know where they come from really. Perhaps they are from Kensington or South Perth. Even Victoria Park. But not East Vic Park. East Vic Park is a bit too grotty for their blow-dried hair and beaded necklaces. And MAKE-UP! Now I do love make-up and I love nice clothes and I really, really love getting dressed up. But not on a Saturday morning and not at the local pool.
Anyhow, knowing that the Saturday-morning mums are a fairly well dressed sort, I actually make the effort to have a shower and wear clean clothes. Well, not my pyjamas anyway.
But, as always, mornings are a rush. Saturday mornings more so because we actually have to be fed and dressed and out the door before nine.
So, as usual, I jumped in the shower, jumped out, grabbed my jeans off the floor (where I left them last night), pulled on a clean shirt (a designer one at that) and ran out the door to the waiting car with my dear husband, the two-year old and the little miss.
We rushed the short drive to the pool and we rushed in. The little guy ran ahead, followed by dad carrying the bags and then me carrying the baby.
As we walked to the littlies pool (the far end of the centre) I felt something falling down the legs of my pants. And there it was. I was HORRIFIED to see that yesterday's undies (or knickers for the classier amongst us) had just fallen out of my jeans.
Before I thought to just keep walking I turned around and picked them up and then looked up to see if anyone had noticed. Oh and boyo they had - the event happened right in front of a bench full of Saturday-morning mums and dads and they saw the whole thing. Some looked disgusted, some looked amused, some looked away in embarrassment for me.
But they had all seen my grotty, worn, once-were-blue but now a bit stretched and faded, Friday undies.
Unfortunately I then had to sit through a whole half-hour swimming lesson, feeling totally and utterly undignified.
Did it matter that I was wearing Sass and Bide on top? NO because I have grotty, Target undies underneath and now everyone knows so.
I dont know where they come from really. Perhaps they are from Kensington or South Perth. Even Victoria Park. But not East Vic Park. East Vic Park is a bit too grotty for their blow-dried hair and beaded necklaces. And MAKE-UP! Now I do love make-up and I love nice clothes and I really, really love getting dressed up. But not on a Saturday morning and not at the local pool.
Anyhow, knowing that the Saturday-morning mums are a fairly well dressed sort, I actually make the effort to have a shower and wear clean clothes. Well, not my pyjamas anyway.
But, as always, mornings are a rush. Saturday mornings more so because we actually have to be fed and dressed and out the door before nine.
So, as usual, I jumped in the shower, jumped out, grabbed my jeans off the floor (where I left them last night), pulled on a clean shirt (a designer one at that) and ran out the door to the waiting car with my dear husband, the two-year old and the little miss.
We rushed the short drive to the pool and we rushed in. The little guy ran ahead, followed by dad carrying the bags and then me carrying the baby.
As we walked to the littlies pool (the far end of the centre) I felt something falling down the legs of my pants. And there it was. I was HORRIFIED to see that yesterday's undies (or knickers for the classier amongst us) had just fallen out of my jeans.
Before I thought to just keep walking I turned around and picked them up and then looked up to see if anyone had noticed. Oh and boyo they had - the event happened right in front of a bench full of Saturday-morning mums and dads and they saw the whole thing. Some looked disgusted, some looked amused, some looked away in embarrassment for me.
But they had all seen my grotty, worn, once-were-blue but now a bit stretched and faded, Friday undies.
Unfortunately I then had to sit through a whole half-hour swimming lesson, feeling totally and utterly undignified.
Did it matter that I was wearing Sass and Bide on top? NO because I have grotty, Target undies underneath and now everyone knows so.
Friday, December 8, 2006
no I am NOT sending him to daycare
IF there is something that really gives me the shits, its people who continually insist I put my kid(s) in daycare. It generally comes from mothers who have returned to work and have their kids in daycare. It is like they assume they need to extol the virtues of daycare so I will come to my senses. I wont. Sorry.
I have to hear how I really could use a break (no shit, like I didn't know that) and that it will help my son to learn social skills. The boy is TWO AND A HALF. He goes to playgroup, has tons of cousins and plays with the kids from across the street but apparently this is not adequate social contact for a little boy.
And yes I could use time away from him - but really, he will be at school before I know it and before long I will be pleading with him to stay home for dinner with his family instead of going out with his mates or the pub. I don't want to miss a thing. He drives me wild but he is also funny and cheeky and makes me laugh in spite of being exhausted. Why would I pay to send him away?
Yes daycare has good educational programs - but my boy can count to twenty, knows his alphabet and colours and can turn on my computer. How more educated does a two year old need to be? Yes daycare has good routines. So do I. Yes daycare has experts.....but who knows my son more than I do? That's right - no-one.
What also gets my goat is the assumption that I didn't care for my career / wasn't very good at it and this is the reason I gave it up to be a fulltime mum. This is so not true. As a fairly plain looking but clever teenager, I used my brains and future earning capacity to keep myself getting too down about my lack of looks / boyfriends / popularity.
I knew I would do well at university (I did, very well actually) and I would get a good job (yep, did that too) and I would enjoy working. And I LOVED it. I loved walking down St Georges Tce in my suit with my nice shoes and handbag. I loved getting coffee. I loved having my business cards and going to meetings and my office. I loved people knowing who I was in other organisations because I was pretty good at what I did. Sure I was under stress a LOT of the time but hey, it kept me thin.
But my career was not as important to me as being there for my kids. Simple. My choice. Dont judge it. Yes it means I am not sane half the time but it is my choice. I have put myself second for a very short period of time. It isn't that hard to do.
The thing that shits me the most however is this assumption that my family must be made of money.
I visited a school friend today. She has a beautiful (and I mean BEAUTIFUL) home. It is brand new, two-storey in one of these new estates, a LONG drive south of the city. It overlooks a park. It has stainless steel appliances and a spa in the ensuite.
Her children have more toys than TOYS-R-US. My boy loves visiting because he just goes mad with the trainset and cars.
She also has a mortgage to match. And so she works four days a week and her kids are - you guessed it - in daycare.
She said to me this morning. "You know you are lucky you dont have to work. I have to so we can eat! haha"
This really shat me. I grew up poor. I know what it is like to live on no money. I know my mum had to budget and make do. We lived in second-hand clothes and never had soft-drinks, we never ate Hungry Jacks, I never went to cool things like music lessons or Brownies.
This is when I think people 'need' to work. My friend doesn't need to work. She chooses to. She chooses to have a big house, nice clothes and nice toys for her kids. Therefore she chooses to work and spend most days away from her kids. Her choice.
I choose to shop now at Target instead of David Jones, to get my hair cut at Price Attack instead of House of Ernest and to live in a three-bedroom house that could use a bit of maintenance!
This is why I can afford to stay at home (that and re-mortgaging). And I admit, I am lucky my husband has a decent wage.
But dont throw your excesses at me and use them as an excuse for going back to work (and sorry, many of my friends do. They are the ones with the investments and nice cars). You dont NEED to work. Many people do, many people DON'T
But really, I dont like to judge other people. I make my choices, other people make theirs. It just shits me that I continually hear how daycare is so wonderful and little-Johnny is so lucky he goes and my little boy should too if I cared.
I care about him. That's why I hang out with him (and the little girl too). For better or for worse.
Ooer, not my usual post is it? Still cranky I fear.
Just curious, but is ANYONE reading this? I dont know if I can be bothered posting any more, it is keeping me from the ironing you know.....
I have to hear how I really could use a break (no shit, like I didn't know that) and that it will help my son to learn social skills. The boy is TWO AND A HALF. He goes to playgroup, has tons of cousins and plays with the kids from across the street but apparently this is not adequate social contact for a little boy.
And yes I could use time away from him - but really, he will be at school before I know it and before long I will be pleading with him to stay home for dinner with his family instead of going out with his mates or the pub. I don't want to miss a thing. He drives me wild but he is also funny and cheeky and makes me laugh in spite of being exhausted. Why would I pay to send him away?
Yes daycare has good educational programs - but my boy can count to twenty, knows his alphabet and colours and can turn on my computer. How more educated does a two year old need to be? Yes daycare has good routines. So do I. Yes daycare has experts.....but who knows my son more than I do? That's right - no-one.
What also gets my goat is the assumption that I didn't care for my career / wasn't very good at it and this is the reason I gave it up to be a fulltime mum. This is so not true. As a fairly plain looking but clever teenager, I used my brains and future earning capacity to keep myself getting too down about my lack of looks / boyfriends / popularity.
I knew I would do well at university (I did, very well actually) and I would get a good job (yep, did that too) and I would enjoy working. And I LOVED it. I loved walking down St Georges Tce in my suit with my nice shoes and handbag. I loved getting coffee. I loved having my business cards and going to meetings and my office. I loved people knowing who I was in other organisations because I was pretty good at what I did. Sure I was under stress a LOT of the time but hey, it kept me thin.
But my career was not as important to me as being there for my kids. Simple. My choice. Dont judge it. Yes it means I am not sane half the time but it is my choice. I have put myself second for a very short period of time. It isn't that hard to do.
The thing that shits me the most however is this assumption that my family must be made of money.
I visited a school friend today. She has a beautiful (and I mean BEAUTIFUL) home. It is brand new, two-storey in one of these new estates, a LONG drive south of the city. It overlooks a park. It has stainless steel appliances and a spa in the ensuite.
Her children have more toys than TOYS-R-US. My boy loves visiting because he just goes mad with the trainset and cars.
She also has a mortgage to match. And so she works four days a week and her kids are - you guessed it - in daycare.
She said to me this morning. "You know you are lucky you dont have to work. I have to so we can eat! haha"
This really shat me. I grew up poor. I know what it is like to live on no money. I know my mum had to budget and make do. We lived in second-hand clothes and never had soft-drinks, we never ate Hungry Jacks, I never went to cool things like music lessons or Brownies.
This is when I think people 'need' to work. My friend doesn't need to work. She chooses to. She chooses to have a big house, nice clothes and nice toys for her kids. Therefore she chooses to work and spend most days away from her kids. Her choice.
I choose to shop now at Target instead of David Jones, to get my hair cut at Price Attack instead of House of Ernest and to live in a three-bedroom house that could use a bit of maintenance!
This is why I can afford to stay at home (that and re-mortgaging). And I admit, I am lucky my husband has a decent wage.
But dont throw your excesses at me and use them as an excuse for going back to work (and sorry, many of my friends do. They are the ones with the investments and nice cars). You dont NEED to work. Many people do, many people DON'T
But really, I dont like to judge other people. I make my choices, other people make theirs. It just shits me that I continually hear how daycare is so wonderful and little-Johnny is so lucky he goes and my little boy should too if I cared.
I care about him. That's why I hang out with him (and the little girl too). For better or for worse.
Ooer, not my usual post is it? Still cranky I fear.
Just curious, but is ANYONE reading this? I dont know if I can be bothered posting any more, it is keeping me from the ironing you know.....
Wednesday, December 6, 2006
not quite a horn-bag
A LITTLE while ago, I registered to MySpace to see what all the fuss was about. I had a look around but gave it away because most of the people there:
a) were under the age of 20; and
b) had woefully bad grammar and this is something I just cannot handle in large proportions.
Even so, not long after I registered (under the bland and not-so-accurate name of 'Happy Housewife') I started getting lots of invitations to join groups - all of which had the same thing in common.
"Come join our sexy-web cam group";
"Sexy, naked web-cam group invites you to join";
"Come join the fun in our online sex-chat group".
Well I obviously have had sex twice as I have two children but since I haven't had a decent sleep since 2002, I dont know why anyone would think I have some kind of strange desire to get it on with complete strangers over the net.
I am aware that people do. I have an acquaintance who up and left her husband and teenage daughters to run away with an American man she met on MySpace. But really, what woman - with two under three - would really have the time or inclination?
And what does this group think they will get with me? A webcam in my house would not show anything too pretty.
Think mis-matched and dirty pyjamas at any time of the day, think long, bad hair that only sees a hairdresser twice a year, think sunken eyes, think acne from eating too much Milo!
Oh and yes, if you are lucky enough to see me partly naked on the way to the shower, just imagine what you will get then!
Hairy legs, possible hairy armpits - and my bikini line? There is no bikini line! That region is far more Amazonian rainforest than Brazillian, I guarantee. But that's not all, I can also offer a belly that has seen two babies but no crunches for years (except for the chocolate-bar variety), stretch-marks, hanging boobs all encased in grotty, old underwear from Target.
Are there really people out there who want to see this? I very much doubt it. I dont want to see it!
Or in some land far away, do people actually think housewives with two littlies are sitting at home, aching for a bit of jiggy-jig, because they are so full of life and energy? Honestly, Desperate Housewives has a LOT to answer for.
Needless to say, I didn't join any sexy webcam groups, nor do I get online for a bit of nookie with strangers.
a) were under the age of 20; and
b) had woefully bad grammar and this is something I just cannot handle in large proportions.
Even so, not long after I registered (under the bland and not-so-accurate name of 'Happy Housewife') I started getting lots of invitations to join groups - all of which had the same thing in common.
"Come join our sexy-web cam group";
"Sexy, naked web-cam group invites you to join";
"Come join the fun in our online sex-chat group".
Well I obviously have had sex twice as I have two children but since I haven't had a decent sleep since 2002, I dont know why anyone would think I have some kind of strange desire to get it on with complete strangers over the net.
I am aware that people do. I have an acquaintance who up and left her husband and teenage daughters to run away with an American man she met on MySpace. But really, what woman - with two under three - would really have the time or inclination?
And what does this group think they will get with me? A webcam in my house would not show anything too pretty.
Think mis-matched and dirty pyjamas at any time of the day, think long, bad hair that only sees a hairdresser twice a year, think sunken eyes, think acne from eating too much Milo!
Oh and yes, if you are lucky enough to see me partly naked on the way to the shower, just imagine what you will get then!
Hairy legs, possible hairy armpits - and my bikini line? There is no bikini line! That region is far more Amazonian rainforest than Brazillian, I guarantee. But that's not all, I can also offer a belly that has seen two babies but no crunches for years (except for the chocolate-bar variety), stretch-marks, hanging boobs all encased in grotty, old underwear from Target.
Are there really people out there who want to see this? I very much doubt it. I dont want to see it!
Or in some land far away, do people actually think housewives with two littlies are sitting at home, aching for a bit of jiggy-jig, because they are so full of life and energy? Honestly, Desperate Housewives has a LOT to answer for.
Needless to say, I didn't join any sexy webcam groups, nor do I get online for a bit of nookie with strangers.
Tuesday, December 5, 2006
another day, another tantrum....
I was having those "this is why I do it" mornings today.
Mum had the little guy over last night so this morning I was able to feed the little miss in peace and even have a shower and a coffee before my boy came home.
Since we didn't have to deal with any toddler issues last night, the house even got cleaned (well my husband did it, because I was off at the Kylie concert...) and so I didn't have to clean too much this morning.
We played outside in the garden because it is a beautiful day. A glorious, start-of-summer, Perth day. Not too hot, not windy, not humid. Just right.
My front yard is pretty nice, I think. I have a big jacaranda tree in flower and my day-lillies and agapanthus' are blooming too and I was just at peace. I could even feel that tightness in my face loosening up. Bliss.
Then it happened. The little boy from across the road came home and all hell broke loose.
My boy idolises the kid from over the road. Because the kid from over the road is FIVE and does BOY STUFF like digging in dirt piles and throwing rocks and climbing fences. And because he has a really, really cool Thomas the Tank train set.
We were just about to go in for lunch when it happened. My little guy saw the kid from over the road and so he wanted to go over too. I said no, because I knew I would never get him home and plus, he was really tired from the sleepover at Nan and Pop's.
The peaceful world in which I was living crumbled. I had a full-on, two-year-old tanty right there on my nice lawn. Real falling to the ground and screaming stuff. I picked him up and hoisted him inside and then grabbed the little one and brought her in too.
So he went mental and she got angry because she was quite happy outside in her swing. I now had two little red angry faces looking at me and crying and screaming. That feeling came back into my face - that tight, scrunchy feeling that makes me look a lot older than my 30 years at times.
So I decided that, stuff it, I was going to the loo and I would hide in there with whatever magazine I could find close by (there was a Practical Parenting hiding in the cabinet).
I didn't look, I should have looked - but I didn't. So to add to my happiness, plop, I sat down in a pile of toddler wee. Yukky, cold toddler-wee which was still on the seat from the last time he went (I thought toilet training him was a GOOD thing!).
So my nice clean bum now was covered in gross toddler-wee and my clean, first-day-wear trackies were wet.
The glow of the morning was definitely lost.
But now all is well - they are both ASLEEP AT THE SAME TIME! Coffee here I come!
Mum had the little guy over last night so this morning I was able to feed the little miss in peace and even have a shower and a coffee before my boy came home.
Since we didn't have to deal with any toddler issues last night, the house even got cleaned (well my husband did it, because I was off at the Kylie concert...) and so I didn't have to clean too much this morning.
We played outside in the garden because it is a beautiful day. A glorious, start-of-summer, Perth day. Not too hot, not windy, not humid. Just right.
My front yard is pretty nice, I think. I have a big jacaranda tree in flower and my day-lillies and agapanthus' are blooming too and I was just at peace. I could even feel that tightness in my face loosening up. Bliss.
Then it happened. The little boy from across the road came home and all hell broke loose.
My boy idolises the kid from over the road. Because the kid from over the road is FIVE and does BOY STUFF like digging in dirt piles and throwing rocks and climbing fences. And because he has a really, really cool Thomas the Tank train set.
We were just about to go in for lunch when it happened. My little guy saw the kid from over the road and so he wanted to go over too. I said no, because I knew I would never get him home and plus, he was really tired from the sleepover at Nan and Pop's.
The peaceful world in which I was living crumbled. I had a full-on, two-year-old tanty right there on my nice lawn. Real falling to the ground and screaming stuff. I picked him up and hoisted him inside and then grabbed the little one and brought her in too.
So he went mental and she got angry because she was quite happy outside in her swing. I now had two little red angry faces looking at me and crying and screaming. That feeling came back into my face - that tight, scrunchy feeling that makes me look a lot older than my 30 years at times.
So I decided that, stuff it, I was going to the loo and I would hide in there with whatever magazine I could find close by (there was a Practical Parenting hiding in the cabinet).
I didn't look, I should have looked - but I didn't. So to add to my happiness, plop, I sat down in a pile of toddler wee. Yukky, cold toddler-wee which was still on the seat from the last time he went (I thought toilet training him was a GOOD thing!).
So my nice clean bum now was covered in gross toddler-wee and my clean, first-day-wear trackies were wet.
The glow of the morning was definitely lost.
But now all is well - they are both ASLEEP AT THE SAME TIME! Coffee here I come!
Monday, December 4, 2006
toddlers don't care for politics
ALL hell has broken loose in our house because it was just announced that Kevin Rudd has been elected leader of the federal Labor Party.
The reason for the civil unrest in East Victoria Park is not because we are all great union-friendly Labor supporters, nor is it because we are friends with the Beazleys (although Kimmy lives in nearby South Perth and I see him about from time to time).
No, the reason this not-so-shock-announcement has caused shockwaves in my home is because the announcement, the breaking news, interrupted "CHARLIE AND LOLA".
Now little-miss-I-don't-sle ep-all-night had just finally cried herself off to her morning nap and Mr 2.5 was happy watching telly. I had just boiled the kettle to sit down for the first coffee of the day, with a new Madison magazine. Then the news broke.
"Where's CHARLIE????" he wailed and ran to the television . "Go WAY MAN!!" he yelled at the talking head on the screen, live from Parliament House.
He was most upset as he then proceeded to reset the tuning and change the screen to a sea of psychadelic colours in a vain attempt to change the channel back to 'Charlie".
He also managed to turn the volume up as high as possible which meant he had to yell even louder to get me off the chair and over to him.
Unfortunately, my consoling didn't stop the anger and when it returned to usual programming, Charlie was over and "Little Robots" was on. Which he quite likes...usually. But he was now quite worked up - "NO ROBOTS NO ROBOTS NO ROBOTS" he yelled as I hoisted him up and into his room to cool down.
But the damage was done. As our house is not one of those big ones with activity rooms and parent zones (ie was built in the 1930s, and is kinda little) all this going on happened just outside of the little madam's bedroom door.
So as I returned to my coffee I heard that oh so familiar "eeeiiiiiiiiiiaaaaaaaa aa" from her room. Crap, the little b*tch was awake and there goes my five minutes of sanity. She is wailing now and I am pacifying her with my foot as I type.
So to the Labor Party - good on you, congratulations, fantastic. To the ABC who thought a bunch of pre-schoolers would actually give a rats-arse, brickbats. I know the ABC is run by a bunch of left-wing tree-huggers who are probably excited about this news but really, it could have waited.
I am now sleep deprived and cranky and my coffee was cold. Grrrr!!!
For the record, I quite like Kevin Rudd. I think he will be a good leader and heaven knows, the fed Labor Party needs one.
The reason for the civil unrest in East Victoria Park is not because we are all great union-friendly Labor supporters, nor is it because we are friends with the Beazleys (although Kimmy lives in nearby South Perth and I see him about from time to time).
No, the reason this not-so-shock-announcement has caused shockwaves in my home is because the announcement, the breaking news, interrupted "CHARLIE AND LOLA".
Now little-miss-I-don't-sle ep-all-night had just finally cried herself off to her morning nap and Mr 2.5 was happy watching telly. I had just boiled the kettle to sit down for the first coffee of the day, with a new Madison magazine. Then the news broke.
"Where's CHARLIE????" he wailed and ran to the television . "Go WAY MAN!!" he yelled at the talking head on the screen, live from Parliament House.
He was most upset as he then proceeded to reset the tuning and change the screen to a sea of psychadelic colours in a vain attempt to change the channel back to 'Charlie".
He also managed to turn the volume up as high as possible which meant he had to yell even louder to get me off the chair and over to him.
Unfortunately, my consoling didn't stop the anger and when it returned to usual programming, Charlie was over and "Little Robots" was on. Which he quite likes...usually. But he was now quite worked up - "NO ROBOTS NO ROBOTS NO ROBOTS" he yelled as I hoisted him up and into his room to cool down.
But the damage was done. As our house is not one of those big ones with activity rooms and parent zones (ie was built in the 1930s, and is kinda little) all this going on happened just outside of the little madam's bedroom door.
So as I returned to my coffee I heard that oh so familiar "eeeiiiiiiiiiiaaaaaaaa aa" from her room. Crap, the little b*tch was awake and there goes my five minutes of sanity. She is wailing now and I am pacifying her with my foot as I type.
So to the Labor Party - good on you, congratulations, fantastic. To the ABC who thought a bunch of pre-schoolers would actually give a rats-arse, brickbats. I know the ABC is run by a bunch of left-wing tree-huggers who are probably excited about this news but really, it could have waited.
I am now sleep deprived and cranky and my coffee was cold. Grrrr!!!
For the record, I quite like Kevin Rudd. I think he will be a good leader and heaven knows, the fed Labor Party needs one.
Saturday, December 2, 2006
the simple things in life...
Are no longer simple with a toddler and baby in tow.
I took him to get his hair cut. Fairly simple exercise, but you would think we were pulling out his toenails one by one. I have never heard such high pitched screams of sheer terror in my life. It was horrific.
I had to sit him on my lap and hold him down, much like shearing a sheep. It was stressful, noisy and hairy.
And this is at a cute little children-only hairdressers, which has thomas trains (oh yes the magical toys), cute cars to sit in, kiddies dvds playing, the works.
My full credit and thanks to the two women at Banana Skins in Applecross. I thoroughly recommend them for any blog-surfers from South-of-the-river Perth.
I bet they are glad we only come in twice a year.
Sheesh - so am I! But tomorrow is worse.....tomorrow we hit....the DENTIST!
I took him to get his hair cut. Fairly simple exercise, but you would think we were pulling out his toenails one by one. I have never heard such high pitched screams of sheer terror in my life. It was horrific.
I had to sit him on my lap and hold him down, much like shearing a sheep. It was stressful, noisy and hairy.
And this is at a cute little children-only hairdressers, which has thomas trains (oh yes the magical toys), cute cars to sit in, kiddies dvds playing, the works.
My full credit and thanks to the two women at Banana Skins in Applecross. I thoroughly recommend them for any blog-surfers from South-of-the-river Perth.
I bet they are glad we only come in twice a year.
Sheesh - so am I! But tomorrow is worse.....tomorrow we hit....the DENTIST!
donuts, tantrums and the joy of Christmas
Ah the joy of Christmas - family, giving, being together, basking in the joy of the birth of baby Jesus. And then there is Christmas shopping. There is no joy there - none!
I come from one of those massive families where we buy presents for everyone and I mean EVERYONE.
I am buying not only for my siblings, my husband's siblings (he has four) and their partners, but our parents (both sets divorced and remarried so there are quite a few), grandparents, step-grandparents, cousins, aunties and uncles (step, biological, whatever).
It is a buying frenzy that is expensive, silly and time-consuming.
I went out on a massive excursion on Saturday without the kids which was great (expensive, but very productive) and came home and hid the loot behind my lounge. Like many old homes, there is no storage or spare rooms in my house.
Then I decided to do it again on Sunday. But this time, I thought I would be clever. I thought I would take the kids. Why oh why was I so naiive?
So I packed them nicely into the super-dooper-four-wheel-d rive-dont-mess-with-me-pr am and toddler seat, gave them little drinks and off we went. It went well for about five minutes. But then the little one started whingeing and crying. To help calm her, my boy decided he would turn around and poke at her head.
"Don't cry, Don't cry, Don't Cry" he yells as he pokes and prods her and just stirs her up more."
At this stage I decide to abort mission and head out. I was parked just near K-mart and decided perhaps I could get one more toy for a party I was going to this week.
Of course I was temporarily insane making the decision to look at toys right next to all the THOMAS TRAINS. Well, you should have seen the scene! Perhaps you did. Mine was the cute little boy going mental at K-Mart, Carousel because he wanted a THOMAS TRAIN and he wanted one NOW!
Oh there were tears and agro - I promised Santa was watching (and wasn't too impressed), that Christmas was in four weeks. I told him he had a toy library full of Thomas trains we could visit - all to no avail.
Finally, I crumbled and did what I vowed I would never do
.
"Hey, if you are good, I will buy you a donut."
Now this is my son who is very sensitive to additives and sweet food. My son who doesnt eat ANYTHING other than peas, corn, rice, chocolate and MacDonalds chippies. I swore I would never use food, especially crap food as a reward for going mental at the shops. But I was hot, tired, desperate and, well, kinda embarrassed at the scene he was making.
So I made a hasty retreat and straight to the Donut shop where I bought him the most colourful (pink I think) donut with the most un-natural looking topping I could find. I bought myself one too and gave the little squarker a bit which shut her up.
I should have quit while I was behind but just as I was heading out the exit I saw a pharmacy.
"Can I help you," the young assistant asks me as the crazy-frustrated mother (me) tries to manoeuvre a too-big pram around too-small gaps between rows of tampons and mouthwash.
"Oh yes, I was looking for the Brauer baby products." Now I cant believe I asked this but I did.
"I am after the Infant Calm for my son, he goes a bit hypo sometimes."
Now, this stuff is a God-send and sometimes I just give my little guy a dose to calm him down when he has worked himself into a frenzy, usually around 5.30pm.
It is good, I am not a bad mum, but you should have seen the look on the assistant's face as she looked at me, then at my son - with pink frosting and hundreds and thousands all over his face - and then back at me.
"You know, food like that will just make things worse," she said to me.
At that point, the Joy of Christmas was truly upon me. Oh yes, there is nothing as empowering and pleasant as advice from a 21-year-old pharmacy assistant to top off a truly enjoyable shopping experience.
What did I say in return? Nothing really clever. I just told her that when she had kids, she would understand.
And she will, one day, understand that it isn't just stupid, ignorant and irresponsible mothers that succumb to junk-food bribery. It is mothers who are absolutely and totally pushed beyond rational thinking. Like I was.
I come from one of those massive families where we buy presents for everyone and I mean EVERYONE.
I am buying not only for my siblings, my husband's siblings (he has four) and their partners, but our parents (both sets divorced and remarried so there are quite a few), grandparents, step-grandparents, cousins, aunties and uncles (step, biological, whatever).
It is a buying frenzy that is expensive, silly and time-consuming.
I went out on a massive excursion on Saturday without the kids which was great (expensive, but very productive) and came home and hid the loot behind my lounge. Like many old homes, there is no storage or spare rooms in my house.
Then I decided to do it again on Sunday. But this time, I thought I would be clever. I thought I would take the kids. Why oh why was I so naiive?
So I packed them nicely into the super-dooper-four-wheel-d rive-dont-mess-with-me-pr am and toddler seat, gave them little drinks and off we went. It went well for about five minutes. But then the little one started whingeing and crying. To help calm her, my boy decided he would turn around and poke at her head.
"Don't cry, Don't cry, Don't Cry" he yells as he pokes and prods her and just stirs her up more."
At this stage I decide to abort mission and head out. I was parked just near K-mart and decided perhaps I could get one more toy for a party I was going to this week.
Of course I was temporarily insane making the decision to look at toys right next to all the THOMAS TRAINS. Well, you should have seen the scene! Perhaps you did. Mine was the cute little boy going mental at K-Mart, Carousel because he wanted a THOMAS TRAIN and he wanted one NOW!
Oh there were tears and agro - I promised Santa was watching (and wasn't too impressed), that Christmas was in four weeks. I told him he had a toy library full of Thomas trains we could visit - all to no avail.
Finally, I crumbled and did what I vowed I would never do
.
"Hey, if you are good, I will buy you a donut."
Now this is my son who is very sensitive to additives and sweet food. My son who doesnt eat ANYTHING other than peas, corn, rice, chocolate and MacDonalds chippies. I swore I would never use food, especially crap food as a reward for going mental at the shops. But I was hot, tired, desperate and, well, kinda embarrassed at the scene he was making.
So I made a hasty retreat and straight to the Donut shop where I bought him the most colourful (pink I think) donut with the most un-natural looking topping I could find. I bought myself one too and gave the little squarker a bit which shut her up.
I should have quit while I was behind but just as I was heading out the exit I saw a pharmacy.
"Can I help you," the young assistant asks me as the crazy-frustrated mother (me) tries to manoeuvre a too-big pram around too-small gaps between rows of tampons and mouthwash.
"Oh yes, I was looking for the Brauer baby products." Now I cant believe I asked this but I did.
"I am after the Infant Calm for my son, he goes a bit hypo sometimes."
Now, this stuff is a God-send and sometimes I just give my little guy a dose to calm him down when he has worked himself into a frenzy, usually around 5.30pm.
It is good, I am not a bad mum, but you should have seen the look on the assistant's face as she looked at me, then at my son - with pink frosting and hundreds and thousands all over his face - and then back at me.
"You know, food like that will just make things worse," she said to me.
At that point, the Joy of Christmas was truly upon me. Oh yes, there is nothing as empowering and pleasant as advice from a 21-year-old pharmacy assistant to top off a truly enjoyable shopping experience.
What did I say in return? Nothing really clever. I just told her that when she had kids, she would understand.
And she will, one day, understand that it isn't just stupid, ignorant and irresponsible mothers that succumb to junk-food bribery. It is mothers who are absolutely and totally pushed beyond rational thinking. Like I was.
get off my boobs b*tch
I have decided that I am over breast-feeding. As much as it was a loving, bonding, special thing to do, it is now time to end it and regain my body for me. But the girl won't have any of it - oh no, she is not going to let go that easily.
It's not that she hasn't drunk from a bottle before. In fact, a month back I had her drinking from a bottle quite well. My husband put her to bed one night and my mum did the next - it was heaven! But then she got gastro and the only thing she would eat or drink is breast-milk. In my desperation, I got the boobs out to save her from dehydration. That was my mistake.
Now the sight of a bottle or cup heading her way sends her into fits of screaming fury.
"You tricked me once, b*tch, it wont happen again" seems to be the message in her loud baby shrieks. She worms, she squirms but the biggest weapon she has is that she just wont sleep without a drink from my breasts. And I give in each time, because I am desperate for rest. And she wins again.
I probably could have fed and educated a starving African child with the money I have spent on different bottles, teats, sippy cups and formulas in an attempt to find the combination that will get some formula into her belly. Last night I spiked her formula with Quik (who can refuse choc-milk?) but to no avail. Yep, dipped the teat in honey (all the things they tell you not to do) but she is smarter than that!
How can a nine-month-old constantly outwit and outplay a relatively intelligent 30-year-old.
I spent most of my life wanting bigger boobs, but now all I want is to go back to my little b-cups which fit into my nice tops. I want to wear tops that aren't strategically chosen for their ability to lift up discreetly and easily.
Yes, breastfeeding is wonderful, but like a nice drop of red, there comes a time to say - enough is enough. It is just a matter of getting the little madam to come around to my way of thinking.
It's not that she hasn't drunk from a bottle before. In fact, a month back I had her drinking from a bottle quite well. My husband put her to bed one night and my mum did the next - it was heaven! But then she got gastro and the only thing she would eat or drink is breast-milk. In my desperation, I got the boobs out to save her from dehydration. That was my mistake.
Now the sight of a bottle or cup heading her way sends her into fits of screaming fury.
"You tricked me once, b*tch, it wont happen again" seems to be the message in her loud baby shrieks. She worms, she squirms but the biggest weapon she has is that she just wont sleep without a drink from my breasts. And I give in each time, because I am desperate for rest. And she wins again.
I probably could have fed and educated a starving African child with the money I have spent on different bottles, teats, sippy cups and formulas in an attempt to find the combination that will get some formula into her belly. Last night I spiked her formula with Quik (who can refuse choc-milk?) but to no avail. Yep, dipped the teat in honey (all the things they tell you not to do) but she is smarter than that!
How can a nine-month-old constantly outwit and outplay a relatively intelligent 30-year-old.
I spent most of my life wanting bigger boobs, but now all I want is to go back to my little b-cups which fit into my nice tops. I want to wear tops that aren't strategically chosen for their ability to lift up discreetly and easily.
Yes, breastfeeding is wonderful, but like a nice drop of red, there comes a time to say - enough is enough. It is just a matter of getting the little madam to come around to my way of thinking.
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