I don't know how it happened but it happened - I have become a wanker. A certified, 100% suburban wanker.
Back in my days of working in a high-rise without a (real) care in the world, I would have shuddered at the thought of what I have become. But now I am here, I don't really mind.
I can think of three ways in which I display my new-found wankerdom:
1. My Car. Here is the truth. If you live in the suburbs you DON'T need a four-wheel-drive. They guzzle petrol (thereby contributing to stuffing up the environment), they are more dangerous to pedestrians and other cars than smaller cars and somehow, drivers of these things seem more arrogant on the road.
I live in East Victoria Park. It has bitumen roads and curbs. Perhaps a speed bump here or there. But nice, flat, inner-city driving conditions for the most.
But somewhere, in the hormone-driven frenzy of my first pregnancy, I decided that I needed a big, fat, kick-arse car to protect my soon-to-be-born child. So out the window went my ideals and desire for a fuel-efficient, zippy little car.
And into the driveway came a new (well, second-hand) four-wheel drive. To give myself a little credit, it is more a station wagon on steriods and not that big, but it is still a four-wheel drive and I still only use it to drive to the Park Centre and perhaps to Carousel, Garden City or on occasion, the Perth CBD or Ikea.
I am a wanker.
2. Baby Cappucinos. Before I had kids I thought people who bought their children Baby Caps at cafes were the most wanky, pretentious wannabes in town. But guess what? I now go out to cafes and get the boy a baby cap.
It enables me to sit still for five minutes and enjoy my cap while he thinks he is important and spoons his gold-plated froth and cocoa powder into his mouth. Yes, that is right, I pay $3.00 for a tiny bit of crappy milk froth - for the same amount I could probably get two litres of fresh milk from Coles.
But it is not the milk I am paying for, it is the peace and quiet. And for that I have no apologies. But I do admit, it is bloody wanky. I am a wanker.
3. Investments. In my early twenties, a few of my friends started borrowing silly amounts to purchase investment properties.
I found this terribly suburban and wanky, and found my lifestyle of going on expensive trips to the US and Europe, buying nice clothes and generally partying my money away much more appealing. After all, I had a better job and would make it up in the end.....right?
Ah no. Unless you live under a rock (or not in Australia) you would have heard how Perth property prices have skyrocketed in the last few years.
Absolute crazy times - have made my friends rather rich. As for my great, high-paying job - I, um, gave it up to have a baby! So now it pays bugger all.
Not that it is a competition - I don't care how much I have compared to my friends but I like to think I will have enough to support the kids as they get older (and ourselves in retirement).
So the husband and I finally remortgaged to get ourselves a share portfolio. It is absolute small-fry compared to the buckets of dough our friends have made but now we too our investors and talk wank like dividends and growth at dinner parties. I cringe to think how suburban I sound. Yes I am a wanker.
So there you have it, I am a certified wanker. I can see it creeping into other areas of my life too - I only eat organic, free-range eggs now and I am considering a private education for my kids, although my public education did me just fine.
I don't know what is scarier - becoming such a tosser, or my not really giving a toss!
Sunday, January 28, 2007
Thursday, January 25, 2007
mother's have no fear (really)
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.
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.
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.
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