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Don’t be a dickwad parent for 2018

I’ll tell you what I want, what I really really want from you for 2018.

For everyone to stop being judgemental DICKWADS about other Mums.

As parents we all want to be perfect. I get it, I honestly I do. Hell, I strive like a bastard for that unreachable target, but my hapless parenting skills seem to keep getting in the way.

So if you’re a mum and you’ve got your shit together like Carol Brady, congrats…and please pass on my regards to Mike, Marcia, Greg, Peter, Jan, Bobby and that annoying little shit, Cindy 🖕

But maybe just take a minute to remember that it’s not all peaches and cream for everyone all the time. There’s always someone going through a parenting shitstorm.

So if you see a mum having a hard time, don’t be a judgey dick.

Whether it be the tired mum at the shops with screaming kids and baby poo smeared on her face, a girlfriend who needs a shoulder to cry on because her husband is being the meat in a turd sandwich, the mum who has a tanty throwing a-hole child at the park or even just the mum you caught flipping her kid the bird behind their back…trust me, the last thing she needs is a condescending wanker judging her.

And I speak from experience as I’ve been each and every one of those Mums.

So for the love of all that is good and Adam Levine like in the world, don’t be a twatburger.

Be kind.

Parenting is hard enough without a judgmental Jane looking on. So without holding hands and singing Kumbaya, be kind and look after each other.

You never know, maybe one day you’ll need an understanding nod from a friend or indeed a perfect stranger.

Parenting is really fucking hard…so take a long hard sip from the understanding cup and don’t pass judgement. Instead maybe just pass her a smile, a hug or even a glass of bubbles to help her get through the day.

Make this a great year for everyone. It’s not too much to ask is it?

Happy 2018 all and share the love xx

#dontbeadick
#2018yearofthenonjudgementalarsehole
#kindnessmatters
#weareallinthistogetheryouselfishtwat
#andyesimaspicegirlsfanbutdontfuckingjudgeme
#onedayadamlevineoneday
😍😍

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Parent sex and getting caught

Having your children catch you having sex is – or indeed should be – every parent’s worst nightmare.

My supersonic hearing apparently didn’t work too well the other morning. It was 5:30 am (!!!!). Our bedroom door was closed and we thought we’d enjoy a little adult mud wrestling – without the mud, slutty clothes or actual wrestling.

My mummy superhero hearing knew to listen out for the creaking of floorboards, the little ‘tap tap tap’ on the door, followed by “mummy, daddy – good morning” announcement that we’ve taught them to be overly conspicuous with.

Out of habit I randomly throw my eyes towards our door, turn my head to the side (which can be incredibly awkward depending on positioning) and listen.

Normally it’s a nope, no kids. Door still closed. All good.

EXCEPT FOR THIS FREAKING MORNING.

I turned my head to look at the door and it’s WIDE OPEN. This is the ONE morning our kids decide to be stealth ninjas. I threw the husband off (and out) and then hear our girls (6 and 7 years) whispering

THEY’RE STANDING ON THE OTHER SIDE OF THE OPEN DOOR!

They’ve obviously opened the door, saw nude Dad bits on Mum and then quietly retreated to stand on the other side of the open door to work out what to do.

OMFG.

We looked at each other with horrified expressions while yanking the doona up to preserve what little modesty remained. Talk about closing the gate after the horse has bolted.

WHAT. THE. HELL.

“We want hugs and kisses”.

Yeah well, we did too 30 seconds ago but you just royally screwed the pooch on that one kids.

So, hugs and kisses and the kids leave the room.

We both just looked at each other with a combo deal of horror and amusement – OK, 99% horror. We both optimistically (and stupidly) hoped there was a chance they didn’t see anything.

The Husband went out to see all three kids and was immediately met with M2 (7 year old)

“Dad, why weren’t you wearing any clothes?”

“I was just about to get out of bed,” he said.

“And what were you doing to Mummy?”

“Ummm, Mummy was cheeky and I was wrestling with her.”

“But why weren’t you wearing any clothes while you were wrestling her?”

“Um, Daddy, has to go to get ready for work now….”

I lay there mortified but also grateful that he was on the receiving end of these questions. I just lay there praying to the Big Man upstairs that our kids wouldn’t go to their Catholic school with stories of their parents’ nude wrestling.

When I walked out, the first question I received was… “Mum, why were you and Daddy wrestling in the nude this morning?”. As M2 asked this, M1 ( 9 year old boy) smirked and did some weird hip gyration that will unsettle me for the rest of my life.

I responded the only mother way I could think of.

“OK kids, lets get breakfast, help me with the lunches, get dressed, find your shoes etc…”.

I must have rambled for two minutes with a list of chores and the avoidance tactic worked.

Next time we’ll barricade the stupid frickin’ door.

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Do I have to shag every time we have a snog?

I love kissing the Husband.

I’m not talking about a peck: I’m talking about the good old fashioned pash/tongue kiss/snog/French kiss/make out/necking/sucking face.

That romantic, long and slow glorious wet snogging that makes you feel like you’re the only couple in the world.

Love it.

Kissing to me is still a real Mills and Boon romance moment. To the Husband though, it’s really just a preview to a Debbie does Dallas Porn Star moment in the bedroom.

Kissing to men in relationships is purely a precursor to sex.

Full stop.

Exclamation mark.

I recently conducted another one of my extensive surveys (read, 5 women over drinks, three women over the phone, 2 mums at my kids sport and 2 husbands) about kissing and I now know this to be a complete fact.
Women in relationships no longer get to have the long slow Blue Light Disco pash without ‘someone’ trying to swing a leg.

Fact.

If you kiss your partner passionately, don’t think you can just close your eyes and go to sleep without some serious annoying back poking happening.

Fact.

Remember the good old days of the Blue Light Disco when you were sooooo excited to pash spunky Nick or Johnny in the back corner?

Even back then Nick or Johnny weren’t being romantic, they were using this as a way to show you their intentions. Don’t you remember feeling Nick’s intentions through his 501 Jeans on your thigh? 😳

I know romance is alive and well but to my husband (and apparently everyone else’s) a long slow pash equals the start of foreplay – or in some cases the actual foreplay.

Again…fact.

So here’s the deal, if I don’t want to have sex, I give the Husband 3 quick goodnight kisses.

Just quick ones.

They are on the lips, but I do tend to make them quick. No tongue or any real open mouth, a two metre space between the lower parts of the body – all in a bid to signify it’s not “game day” If I make the mistake of opening my mouth, have an accidental boob rub or thigh grab while kissing, it’s on like Donkey Kong.

Am I completely insane and live in a non-intimate relationship? Of course not! We have three kids, a healthy relationship, moments of romance smattered throughout our week and pashing sessions immediately followed by (thankfully non child producing) lovemaking.

As far as the husband is concerned, I should be happy that he wants to jump me every time we kiss. Flattering? Sure, but he’s a guy…it’s in their very nature 🙄

I tell you what though..it would be nice to have a big old pash and not have to put out afterwards.

What do you think?

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Gwyneth and the Vag Spa

We go to Bali on Sunday and I can’t freaking wait.

It’s not only that the kids have been counting down EACH AND EVERY DAY for the last 100 days…

I’m looking forward to someone else doing my housework, drinking copious amounts of cocktails, kids club, Waterbom park, massages and thanks to my hairdresser, the discovery of a V Spa.

Yup…there is such a thing. If you don’t believe me, google the bastard.

Oh yes, the lovely Casey at D’luxe Hair told me about it while running her fingers through my (straight) hair. Nothing awkward, but the conversation took a steep decline into all things V’Spa. She was even nice enough to send me some information on the topic for my upcoming adventure

Since then I have discussed V Spa’s with about 10 women and each and every one of them would get it done. Apparently Gwyneth Paltrow calls it ‘steaming her vagina’ and swears by it. Mind you, this is coming from the woman who said she was ‘consciously uncoupling’ from her Husband, the great Chris Martin from Coldplay.

Seriously…consciously uncoupling? WTAF does that even mean?
Couldn’t she have just said “we’ve split up, and now I’m off to get my vagina steam cleaned?”

So…in about 6 days, I’m going to find one of these places and GET. IT. DONE.

Apparently the ‘Vaginal fogging’ at a V Spa can have many benefits…and I’m sure one of them will be a husband standing at the door wagging his tail like a curious puppy dog.

If you had the opportunity, would you get it done?

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The Jane Fonda exercise strategy

I’ve been exercising quite a lot lately in a bid to stop my children asking if I’m pregnant.

I mean look,..it’s pretty cute when you’re pregnant and your kids rub your belly. Loved it, wanted it and might have even thought it was great WHEN I WAS ACTUALLY FREAKING PREGNANT!

But get your 5 year old rubbing your pud now asking about babies? That shit makes me want to go all Jane Fonda leotard crazy and start doing burpees all over the place

So….i’m swimming, going to the gym, cycling and eating cardboard for breakfast lunch and dinner. And when I say cardboard, I mean really healthy bok choy, fish proteiny salady thingy things that I should have been eating FOREVER

I’ve been having so many green vegies that the Incredible Hulk is asking for a colour change, my bum makes these new trumpeting sounds on odd occasions and my scales are no longer flipping me the bird whenever I approach.

All this and I’m two weeks in.

I start with a personal trainer tomorrow and he seems really nice. I’ll have to control my horrendous case of ‘tourettes during exercise’ and try and only manage a few “F$%^ YOU!” grunts. I know life will get better in a few months when my body isn’t so shocked but in the interim, please only address me now as “Grunting Tourettes Woman”

Mr Fitness Trainer better not tell me to give up alcohol.

Nope, not gonna happen.

If he tells me to, I’ll start crying and then I’ll be the red faced, slightly overweight emotional wreck of a client he’ll forever be nervous around.

To be honest, if I don’t get a couple of wines or vodkas into me each week I’m just not a nice person. So I actually see alcohol as a community service in my life.

My Trainer with the massive arms is also going to take my measurements tomorrow. Ohhhhhhhhhh shizen!!! That’ll make me uncomfortable and nervous…so I’m pooping myself as I have a tendancy to say stupid things when I’m feeling that way.

I imagine I’ll giggle and say something ridiculous like

“oooooh, is that a really large tape measure or are you just happy to see me?”

Not funny and incredibly awkward. In fact it will only me make me inwardly groan and then i’ll be scared i’ll do a nervous bok choy /green vegetable pop off.

It’s like when I had a rectal exam in Hawaii I asked the Doctor if he could at least buy me a drink first. See…slightly funny, but again really just awkward when others don’t share your nervous humour about bums and gloves.

So….i’ll just go along tomorrow morning with an open mind and hopefully a closed mouth. I’ll try really hard to not offend the man trying to help me work my medium sized arse off.

And then i’ll go home and maybe have a voddie

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Christmas and the bloody Target shopping Trolley

Can I just say, Mary and her son have a whole frigging bunch to answer for.

Shopping trolleys would potentially be the first thing I’d have a stern chat to Mary about. Honestly, I bet during her pregnancy she didn’t think, “Ooooh, I wonder how many women will be driven bat-shit crazy looking for Target shopping trolleys five days prior to my son’s birthday?”.

Nope. Not even a thought was it?

Mary, I hate to say it, but Jesus Paul Mary and Joseph, you should have seen the kerfuffle over freaking shopping trolley’s today.

I went a little schizoid at Target when they offered me one of those baskets that have wheels on it. Yeah… no trolleys so a glorified miniature wheelbarrow will do.

WTF?

Do you think the $49 freaking 40kg dart board and all the other useless crap I’ll buy – on my way to said dart board – will fit into that two-wheeled ankle death trap?

I don’t think so.

I want one of those shiny red lightweight Target (slightly smaller than Kmart) super-easy to manage trolleys.

And I’m sorry, but the whole “if you just wait for 15 minutes or so, our 80 year old trolley boys are getting the trolley’s right now” just doesn’t cut it with me.

A possessed Christmas-shopping mother does not wait at the front of Target, randomly picking up nicely wrapped chocolate boxes waiting for the trolley dude.

Mmmm… what to do? I eye the trolley-pushing shoppers and instantly feel red mist clouding my eyes. There’s a mother with a 10 year-old kid in their trolley.

TEN YEARS OLD!

Jesus F’ing Christ – sorry Mary, I’m sure F’ing wasn’t really his middle name…

Seriously… RED FARKING MIST.

Here’s a free tip….if you’re child is out of nappies, off the boob and talking in sentences, get them the hell out of that Target trolley.

I see a lady with a watermelon in a TROLLEY.

A WATERMELON. IN. A. TROLLEY.

Red mist and a feeling of wanting to go all Yum Cha on her engulfs me.

Get the watermelon the hell out and put some Target crap in there. Don’t be walking around with a pretend baby that’s a fucking watermelon, woman! Go all Jennifer Grey/Dirty Dancing and carry that puppy around with you like a normal person.

Next on my list. Old People.

I’m really sorry, but a trolley is not a walking frame. I know it’s much easier than a zimmer, but seriously, it’s five days before Christmas, my kids are on a play date and I have literally three hours to do all my Santa stuff. Give a woman a break and use the f’ing zimmer as God intended and give your damn trolley to me.

I now decide to take a leap of faith and go out to the car park in search of a trolley.

Red mist again attacks my vision when I see the trolley bloke out there in a cloud of ciggy smoke.

I then start to hyperventilate when I see the 412 Target trolleys sitting neatly like bored Port Kembla hookers on a Monday night waiting for their next John.

I wonder if they still even call them John’s, or should I stop watching old Law and Order SVU episodes?

For some irrational reason I race a 90 year old to the first one, stick my handbag in the front and go back in to start my pressie shopping.

That trolley came to the car to unload with me three times, the toilet twice (I’ve had three kids press on my bladder) and I even caressed her a few times for being so loyal.

Ho Ho Ho indeed.

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The snip party

My husband is at a ‘snip party’ ✂️✂️✂️✂️✂️✂️✂️✂️

Yup.

I’m not really sure if it’s actually a thing or if he is just trying to be a trendsetter.

You see, he and his friend both went to get a vasectomy today and then decided to go and have a couple of beers together to celebrate.

Seriously.

They even wore matching shirts, had the same sweaty palms and the giggling nervous schoolgirl laughter.

As a female I have very strong feelings about the emotion involved in getting a vasectomy. I understand the whole nervous “I’m getting gelded” thing, and even the hilarious thigh-slapping comments like “ooohhhhh, someone aside from you will be touching my balls.”

Seriously.

But really… the “we need to have as much sex as possible for two months to ensure there’s no swimmers still getting through…and that’s the doctors instructions” is just a tad too much. That was clearly a freaking male doctor trying to help him out. Let me just say that until I hear it personally from a female physician, I’m calling Mrs B.U.L.L.S.H.I.T.

While I’m at it, is there any other woman out there who had a “my baby tore my foofa so let’s go out and have a few wines to celebrate” party after the birth of their child?

Anyone?

I’m not even sure why there’s a ‘Wet the Baby’s Head’ celebration. Is it because they just pushed a baby out of their boy bits?

I’m confused.

I was as jealous as hell that ‘The Husband’ went out and had a night on the turps while I was in hospital getting my nipples torn apart by a non-sleeping, continuously crying, meconium-pooping new born baby.

Now as you know, my husband is a freaking champion and I don’t begrudge him a good time. But really, shouldn’t I have organised a version of ‘Wet the Baby’s Head’ with the girls to celebrate my husband getting gelded? Perhaps I could have called it a ‘No More Withdrawal Method’ party.

I’m no raging femmo, but wouldn’t that have been fair?

Fair or not, I might just pop a bottle of bubbles now to celebrate

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Mumming like it’s 1983

I kinda feel like I mummed the hell out of parenting like it was 1983 this morning.

We left for school on time, an unusual feat in itself. I was deciding which fantabulous 80’s song to play for the kids when M1 said he’d left something on the kitchen bench. I declined to go back and get it and M1 lost his 8 year-old mind.

He said, “turn around”. I said no. He repeated, “turn around!”

I declined and he again said, “MUUUUUUUUUM!!! Turn around”.

And as everything revolves around music I sang back,

“Every now and then I get a little bit lonely and you’re never coming round…” (you can see where this is headed).

He stopped in his tracks, bewildered at my singing so figures he’ll say it again.

“Turn around”.

To which I replied, “every now and then I get a little bit tired of listening to the sound of my tears.”

“MUUUUUM TURN AROUND!!”

“Every now and then I get a little bit nervous that the best of all the years have gone by.”

“TUUUUURN AROUND!!!”

“Every now and then I get a little bit terrified and then I see the look in your eyes.”

“MMAAAAAAARRRRRRRMMMMMMM!! TUUUUUUUUUUURN AROOOOOUND!!.”

“Bright Eyes…every now and then I fall apart.”

“Turnaroundpleeeeeeaaaasssse.”

“Bright eyes….every now and then I fall apart…. and I need you now tonight….”

Ok, so the slow torture of my 8 year-old had to stop and I pulled over giggling, found Bonnie Tyler’s Total Eclipse of the Heart on YouTube and played it to the kids. I let M1 know that he had just unknowingly smashed out the opening of an ‘old’ song with his mum on the way to school and everyone had a cracking (albeit bewildered) giggle.

Quite honeslty I don’t think i’ve ever had that much fun singing a song. M1 had gone from being a cranky pants 8 year old into a happy back up singer from the 80’s in one fell swoop

It’s the little things that make me happy in this life.

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Donald Trump and the Gastro Bug

Speaking of Donald Trump… I don’t think it’s a coincidence my youngest woke up with gastro this morning.

We’ve all been there. It’s 3am and you hear the little tip toes coming down the hall, your door opens and you hear a pitiful voice

“I’ve been sick…”

Your instinct to cuddle and croon kicks in just as the acrid smell of fresh vomit fills the air. The Husband went to M3’s bedroom to pull the bed apart while I look after the tiny miserable figure that is shivering in the door way.

Vomit is my least favourite thing – aside from the after effects of Tequila – in the world. Anyone who has ever known me for longer than a day will know that I dry heave at pretty much everything. I once walked into my M1’w room to a mass of poo and vomit – I simply closed the door, rang my fireman husband and demanded he come home with the fire truck and hose that sucker down. Bastard wouldn’t do it and just laughed like a maniac knowing that I would vomit over the top of my poor child while I cleaned him up. Even to a sick two-year old, Mummy doing the dry heaves (and sometimes the wet ones) is hysterical in a lethargic poo yourself type way.

Back to M3, I cleaned up the dribble, changed her clothes, grabbed a ‘vom bucket’ and put her into bed with me. Husband had declared the spare room his domain for the remainder of the night (you clean a vomit bed in our house, you get first dibs and future favours) Within 15 minutes M3 was vomiting again. Thankfully she’s smart enough to grab the bucket and I pulled her hair back. (Pulling her hair back reminded me of a twenty something bonding moment in a nightclub, but that’s a different story). We ended up getting out of bed and sitting together on the lounge, vomiting and watching Good Morning America. Unfortunately, we missed a full episode of Skippy which was a bitter disappointment to one of us.

It’s now lunchtime and M3’s appetite has come back with a vengeance. I’m almost tempted to starve her in anticipation of a vomit-free night, but apparently some would suggest that’s bad parenting. Please God, have some sympathy and make it stop…

That’s for both Trump and the squirts.

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Rick Astley is the answer

Rick Astley is the answer.

Driving to school this morning it was my duty as the only adult to answer “who’s there?” to the repeated ‘knock knock’ questions.

Giggles come very easily at these jokes but after 8.7 minutes they can wear just a bit thin.

Here’s an example to give you an idea of how (un) funny they can be:

5: Knock knock
Me: Who’s there?
5: Me
Me: Me who?
5: It’s me Mum!

Haaahaaaaaaaaaaa….

Ummmmmm no small child, that is not at all funny and not even in the general vicinity of being a knock knock joke. But like any sane parent I belly laughed and knew that I was in normal parent knock knock hell.

When I’ve had enough or just want to combat knock knock jokes/Pokemon trading cards chatter I just say “Mummy’s turn” and blast them with an awesome educational song from the 80’s.

Rick Astley’s ‘Never Gonna Give You Up’ full bore with dance moves.

Man, I rocked that 3 minute drive.

I pulled up in the kiss and drop zone, pumped that all the bad knock knock jokes had left my mind, gave smooches and got ready to start the day.

Living life one 80’s song and one knock knock joke at a time