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Bali is a wonderful place to go for a family…

Bali is a wonderful place to go for a family holiday. The sun, surf, culture, massages, heat, pools, cocktails, kids club, no housework or cooking and the incredibly lovely Balinese. That is what I looked forward to, pure relaxation for us and loads of entertainment for the kids.

I put my back out at the same time Jetstar cancelled our flight just before we were due to leave. Of course Jetstar didn’t have anything to do with the injury but I have to blame someone and the husband wouldn’t cop to it. And when I say “put my back out” I mean out…not just a little bit out, I’m talking out as in gone for the day and not coming back till 3am drunk out.

For the first 7 days or so I was bent over with the God forsaken bulging disc. I went to a Chemist and asked the Pharmacist for something to relieve the pain as Nurofen just wasn’t cutting it. On the advice that the drug given “was what we give to people with broken legs so it’ll be ok” I decided to go with it.

So…I took 2 tablets the next morning and went to the breakfast buffet with the husband and kids. Half way through my toast I remember staring off into the distance between bites and slowly realising I was completely off my chops. I know I smiled a lot and had some pretty ridiculous thoughts while carrying on a conversation with the lady at the next table. I spent the entire day in bed watching a movie and rewinding it every twenty minutes or so as I kept forgetting what I’d seen. I guess there’s a reason for prescriptions in Australia.

On day 4 I got covered in hives and day 6 saw a lovely heat rash crawl its way across my torso. I looked like the Hunchback of Notre Dame with the pox. Day 7 and my back started to come good. YAY!!!! On Day 7 night I was lucky enough to enjoy Bali Belly for the first time.

Yup…that painful crampy poo thing attacked me with a vengeance. It enabled me to break into a cold sweat in 28 degree temperatures while chewing on Imodium and Buscopan. It made my children giggle hearing my belly sounds and when mummy sang on the loo. Sentences were interrupted with sphincter tightening facial expressions and I knew where every toilet was within a 2-mile radius.

Believe it or not, the last day of Bali I came good. Which is a bit of a mother chucker, but one has to look on the bright side; there were staff on hand to do the cleaning and cooking, drinks were cold, kids had fun, husband is tanned and relaxed and the Bali Belly probably helped with only a nominal holiday weight gain.

Happy days all round I say.

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Top 10 reasons Why I Go Schizoid as a Parent….

Top 10 reasons Why I Go Schizoid as a Parent.

1. Kids Fighting.
It. Really. Pisses. Me. Off. My kids will fight over anything. My favourite lately is which person’s pop offs are the smelliest. Seriously? You all smell bad. Move on.

2. The poop in the toilet with no toilet paper.
I don’t know why or how as none of my kids are ever fly blown, but how does that happen? Apparently the guilty party is the mystical Poop Fairy who broke in, pooped, didn’t wipe their bum and mysteriously disappeared again. Poop Fairy is an a-hole.

3. Making dinner and putting it on the table to be met with a chorus of “I don’t like that”
Love it. Head spins with excitement every time that happens.

4. Supermarkets and their freaking eye level crap food for kids.
Anything decent is either too low or too high while everything that will make my kids act like ADD kids on smack is right at their eye line. I love saying no 453 times while I’m trying to buy the basics. Well played Cadburys… well played.

5. Boogers.
Anywhere and on anything. Now I know that if God didn’t want kids to pick their noses he wouldn’t have made their fingers fit so perfectly, but kill me now. Snot creeps me out.

6. Public Toilets at Rest Stops.
I get especially excited when we go on long trips and someone has to go to the toilet right when we’re near a rest stop. My kids are at an age where I have to go in, but dry retching while your kids are having a wee in a pit toilet is not how I like to start a holiday.

7. Waking Up at 3 in the morning to find a kid an inch away from your face staring at you.
This doesn’t really make me go schizoid it literally just makes me want to do a little wee in my pants. I’ve seen the movie The Omen when I was young and it still freaks me the crap out.

8. Backchat.
If you want to see me flip my lid, just keep the back chat happening. Smoke will literally come out of my ears and a little balloon will appear above my head with F-Bombs written a thousand times over.

9. Judgemental A-holes
You know who you are. You’re the one that looks at my kids when they dress themselves in a pink tutu, a fire-man’s hat, gum boots, bad hair and a Broncos jersey or when you catch me flipping my kids the bird behind their back. Whatev’s you perfect wannabe, I’ve seen your kids be little bastards and I don’t judge you for it. I only judge you for being an a-hole.

10. Hearing “muuuuuuuuuuuuummmmmmmmm” 10 minutes after lights out when I’ve just poured a wine. ‘nuff said really.

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I don’t think mirrors in the gym are appropriate -…

I don’t think mirrors in the gym are appropriate – I find them to be rude and offensive little bastards.

I was at the gym for a whole freaking hour today. I genuinely imagine myself to be that amazing woman that walks out with a swagger on her tight buns and a smile on her face.

But no…today I sadly caught sight of myself in the little bastard mirror and realised that I am that woman; you know the one, half her hair in a ponytail as the rest is ‘sweat stuck’ to her face, lots of dollops of sweat in unseemly places, wearing the lycra pants from Lorna Jane that actually look completely demoralised from holding her stomach in for the last hour, the mismatched top, beetroot red exhausted face and waiting for some smart arse to call an ambulance.

I’m the one in yoga class that always looks uncomfortable while bent over in some crazy head up my bum pose – the idea of a rabid pop off frightens me. I’m the one that’s got all three kids in the crèche who pretends she can’t hear them fighting. The one that secretly hates the hot pink neon lycra wearing fitness bitches that look at me with a mixture of sympathy and disdain. The one that uses the towel at the gym, not only to wipe her face but to hide the pathetic distance I’ve run on the treadmill and the one that still has no clue if Bodypump is a class or a sexual proposition.

Yup I’m that one and I daresay I’m not alone. So if you see me in my mismatched lycra, carrying 10 extra kilos, my hair ‘sweat stuck’ tn my face and smiling like an endorphin enriched crazy woman…Don’t be an a-hole and call an ambulance. Be happy that I actually made it to the gym and please please please, block my view of the mirror.

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A friend tagged me in a video singing Karaoke to…

A friend tagged me in a video singing Karaoke to Kenny Rogers at a birthday party last weekend. I know now (in the cold hard light of sober day) that I was completely and utterly out of tune, but last Saturday night I was a freaking rock/country Goddess.

A male friend of mine quickly alerted me and told to untag myself as I sounded like an alley cat on heat at three in the morning. So I did. I took my name off the tag because I didn’t want anyone to think I was a crap drunk ass singer

So…Just in case you don’t know, I’m a crap drunk ass singer who really should never get near a microphone. BUT, it was my mate Jimmy’s birthday party and we’ve sung that song for as long as I can remember. So, if you’re a friend of mine (or not!) you’ll know that I was having an absolute ball, and you should be jealous that you weren’t there singing as well.

I’m kinda embarrassed that I untagged myself – I’m freaking 35 (and a bit) and far too old to really care what people think. So go ahead Mr and Mrs Judgie McJudgie, tell me I’m a crap singer…I don’t care and neither should you

By the way, I’m the one on the far right owning the crap out of The Gambler…

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Porn Star

I’m pretty sure my husband thought he was marrying a porn star.

I was 35 when we first met and pretty chuffed I’d met a 30 year-old fireman who was into me (and yes, I know there’s a pun there). He was – and still is – a bloke’s bloke who rowed surf boats, built stuff and was a sexy beast in general. I was working in radio, living in Sydney and had only just declared that singledom was going to be my lot in life…so happy days all round.

I’m not going to divulge how long it took us to become bone crushingly intimate, but I still was learning that his surname started with a C and not a K. Lordy me, it was ridiculously passionate, random and lasted for hours on end. The kitchen bench used to shy away from us in fear, rest stops on long drives were not in fact rest stops and a marathon on a Sunday night was not Game of Thrones, episodes 1 – 8. If he had changed his name to Dallas and called me Debbie, I wouldn’t have blamed him…I haven’t actually seen that film, but I’m pretty sure we wouldn’t have had to audition for the leads.

Fast forward ten years, three kids and 10 kilos (maybe 15, but shut up) and things are ever so slightly different. And when I say different, I mean DIFFERENT. The porn star Debbie has left the building – to the point that if we made an imaginary sequel I wonder if ‘the husband’ would want to call it ‘Dallas does Dallas because Debbie is too Knackered and the Kids Won’t Pee Off”

Don’t get me wrong, we still have very regular moments (sorry husband, I meant hours) of mind blowing, crazy good times in the bedroom, but the kitchen bench now stands proudly unscathed. We’ve tried a few times but our kids have a habit of knowing exactly when I’m offering a lovely dish and spatulas and undies go flying. Rest stops on trips are now sadly just a wee stop for the kids and marathons on a Sunday night is really Games of Thrones episodes 1 – 8.

The difference between men and women is very simple: If a husband tries to rouse his wife from sleep and there’s no fire, she’ll want to stab him in the eyeball. If a woman nudges her man with the promise of some lovin’ he’d be awake and smiling like a chubby kid on Easter morning.

I really don’t know the point of writing this… except to say that it’s ok if you’re not a major porn star after you have kids…as long as your inner Goddess makes a regular (ish) appearance, all will be fab in the world.

I’m pretty sure my husband thought he was marrying a porn star. I was 35 when we first met and pretty chuffed I’d met a 30 year-old fireman who was into me (and yes, I know there’s a pun there). He was – and still is – a bloke’s bloke who rowed surf boats, built stuff and was a sexy beast in general. I was working in radio, living in Sydney and had only just declared that singledom was going to be my lot in life…so happy days all round. I’m not going to divulge how long it took us to become bone crushingly intimate, but I still was learning that his surname started with a C and not a K. Lordy me, it was ridiculously passionate, random and lasted for hours on end. The kitchen bench used to shy away from us in fear, rest stops on long drives were not in fact rest stops and a marathon on a Sunday night was not Game of Thrones, episodes 1 – 8. If he had changed his name to Dallas and called me Debbie, I wouldn’t have blamed him…I haven’t actually seen that film, but I’m pretty sure we wouldn’t have had to audition for the leads. Fast forward ten years, three kids and 10 kilos (maybe 15, but shut up) and things are ever so slightly different. And when I say different, I mean DIFFERENT. The porn star Debbie has left the building – to the point that if we made an imaginary sequel I wonder if ‘the husband’ would want to call it ‘Dallas does Dallas because Debbie is too Knackered and the Kids Won’t Pee Off” Don’t get me wrong, we still have very regular moments (sorry husband, I meant hours) of mind blowing, crazy good times in the bedroom, but the kitchen bench now stands proudly unscathed. We’ve tried a few times but our kids have a habit of knowing exactly when I’m offering a lovely dish and spatulas and undies go flying. Rest stops on trips are now sadly just a wee stop for the kids and marathons on a Sunday night is really Games of Thrones episodes 1 - 8. The difference between men and women is very simple: If a husband tries to rouse his wife from sleep and there’s no fire, she’ll want to stab him in the eyeball. If a woman nudges her man with the promise of some lovin’ he’d be awake and smiling like a chubby kid on Easter morning. I really don’t know the point of writing this… except to say that it’s ok if you’re not a major porn star after you have kids…as long as your inner Goddess makes a regular (ish) appearance, all will be fab in the world.
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We go to Bali in just over two weeks

We go to Bali in just over two weeks and I can’t freakin’ wait. I know people love the idea of the culture and shared family experiences blah blah blah… but to me, it’s knowing that a merciless hangover can be negated with air-conditioning and a Kids Club.

Yup, I said it. For twelve nights I don’t have to think after every 5th drink “ooooh, this could hurt tomorrow, maybe I should stop” no sirrreeeeeeee Bob, I’m on it and naff the consequences.

I know I may sound like a chronic alcoholic, but think about it… without kids, a hangover was just something you felt when you bothered to lift your head off the pillow. You could drive (or convince your flatmate) to Macca’s for a bacon and egg McMuffin and three hash browns before collapsing back on the couch to watch a Friends marathon. After Friends – episode 10 – and a nap, you could have a shower, blow dry your hair, think you look pretty good and start drinking again. Yup…life was good.

Now with kids, a hangover is a fire breathing whore from hell. Your stomach does things it shouldn’t and your bum makes noises that would make your grandad proud. You wake up with dribble and a five-year old staring at your mostly make-up free face. Your head kills, your tongue is wearing a fur coat, you may or may not have abused your husband at 2am for trying to swing a leg and all three kids want to do something outside in the bright sun before 7am. Screw you AFL/Gymnastics and why the hell are you even letting your kids participate in weekend activities anyway?

Every time (and I mean every-freaking-time) I drink to excess I swear to the Lord above and the Devil below that I won’t do it again. But then I remember that hangovers are like giving birth, you swear to God while you’re pushing that you’ll never do it again and then 18 months later you’re right back there with your legs up swearing like a drunk sailor at the man that impregnated you
Bring on Bali and its crap cocktails, pool bars, air-conditioning and Kids Club.

15 more sleeps and counting

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School Days

I absolutely adore my three children, Maclean 8, Molly 6 and Memphis 5, but today I lost my shit.

They are smart, gorgeous and generally great kids but I believe they have a competition each morning to see who can mess with me the most. Maclean has always had breakfast by the time I walk into the kitchen…the spilt milk and crumbs (equating to a full weet-bix) on the floor tend to give it away. Molly takes a deep breath and sighs before saying “I don’t know” to the ‘what would you like for breakfast’ question. Her shoulders literally slump when she answers as she wants me to know it’s an incredibly hard decision and her life will end should I rush her.

Memphis sits in front of the pantry pulling out various breakfast cereals. This morning she waited until after I’d put three weet-bix in the bowl before deciding she wanted toast. Molly was still standing with shoulders slumped, sighing “I don’t know.” I count to three and give her the option of toast or toast. “Cereal” is her decision until I move the existing bowl of weet-bix in front of her. “ummmm, no, it’s alright I’ll have toast”

Breathe…

It’s only 7am and we have another hour and eight minutes until it’s “get in the car now” time. Cursing under my breath I realise that I forgot to iron their damn uniforms. By the way, I believe I’m pretty amazing at swearing like a drunk sailor inside my head when the kids are around. Sometimes I even amaze myself with the crap I can say for my own amusement. If I even uttered one full sentence of potty head words out loud, DOCS would come calling.

Everyone has finished breakfast so I yell out from the study/ironing/junk room (in a calm voice) “Guys, go brush your teeth and grab some undies on the way back upstairs” “Maclean, make sure you put the toothpaste on Mem’s toothbrush for her this morning please” The amount of resistance with this one chore literally has the same effect of ants crawling over my eyeballs. I go downstairs to the constant sounds of “MUM! Maclean just spat toothpaste near me in the sink” “MUM! Memphis isn’t brushing her teeth” “MUM! Molly is doing a poo while she’s supposed to be brushing her teeth” Seriously, how hard is it for three kids to brush their teeth?

I’ll skip the next 33 minutes as it consists of nagging, in head expletives, loss of socks, fights over socks, forgotten undies downstairs, hair brushing, crying over hair brushing, packing lunches, fighting over lunch boxes, water bottles getting knocked over and more in head expletives.
We finally manage to get into the car (on time, WAHOO!) and Maclean can’t find his hat, Memphis has forgotten her tie, and Molly is trying to get the neighbours dog into the car so she too can witness the joy of the Coble household.

“No… just f%(@#NG no”

I race back inside and ransack the house for Maclean’s hat and Memphis’s school tie (it’s more like a little bow thingy) which should always sit on the end of the ironing board so we can’t lose it. I look for 7.2 minutes throwing the whole on time to school thing to the crapper. Expletive, expletive, expletive in my head and a few illegible mumbles out loud. I put the dog in the front seat (with a belt on – I’ve watched RBT and know it’s illegal for Lexi to not be securely fastened so she’s not a staffy missile), Maclean THEN remembers he left his hat at school and I’m sorry Memphis, but you’re not wearing a tie today. Molly didn’t wear one last Thursday so it’s only fair you look like the scruffy Coble kid this week to even things up a bit

I drive the kids to school and do the ‘kiss and drop” with Maclean asking “Mum, where’s my hat?” I sincerely am grateful that kid is handsome. I kiss the kids goodbye and hear the school song which signifies assembly has well and truly started. I watch some of the more organised parents leave the school. You know the ones, the smug parent with their kids with the perfect braids, and the mothers look like they’re on their way to a catalogue shoot. I bet these mums have spent the morning making their kids a whole lunch box of five different paleo/ preservative/gluten/dairy/nut free foods. After the lunchbox was filled they would have taken photos of their kids for facebook to show the world perfection. By the way, the more perfect the family photo posts, the less normal I think you are.

I turn to see a mother of four pull up behind me, I smile and all of a sudden feel some love. Across the road are another two mums I sometimes chat to. One of them has to go home because her child forgot his school bag and apparently he needs essentials like food and water at school. I love that my morning is normal and that other parents think their kids are a-holes as well.

I phone Adam (hot husband) who’s been on nightshift to let the expletives out. He does the husband, “Oh, that’s no good” and then chuckles. I too have a chuckle and go home to get some work done. It’s only another six hours till I see my little cherubs again and I genuinely can’t wait.

I hope I’m organised tomorrow.