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Warning: poop alert!

January 27, 2018

Warning: POOP story alert.

Only a handful of my friends and family know about this.

I eventually thought I’d share it, but for some reason I’ve always felt particularly horrified that it actually happened.

Anyhoo… today just feels like the right day to share one of my more mortifying “Australian” experiences of my life.

The Husband and I had decided early on that we were “the ones” and knew we’d get married yada yada yada…one night Adam did the whole “you know I love you, we’ll get married…but can we start trying to get pregnant now?”

A couple of romps and three weeks later I was pregnant. High fives and “yes Dear, you’re the Inseminator” jokes all round.

I made mention to Future Husband early on of not wanting to be a pregnant bride. It had nothing to do with appearances, I was more concerned with watching 148 of our our wedding guests drink Champagne while I sat there in a tainted white dress, fat and cranky jealously sucking on some overpriced effing mineral water.

Even though I maintained this stance throughout my pregnancy, I still didn’t have a ring on my finger at 7 months along. It was Summer so I was fat, hot and a tad emotional that we weren’t ‘officially’ engaged. I should have listened to Beyoncé #wheresmyringyoubastard

On the morning of my birthday (December 14 for future reference people) FH was all sweet and blah blah. He said, “ooooh, I’ve taken the day off and I’m going to take you on a picnic down by the lake”

Nice. As a heavily pregnant starving woman who had only just consumed 1900 calories for breakfast, a picnic sounded fab! So off we went. We drove the car the incredible distance of 900 metres and then I waddled a further 200 metres to a sandy private area by the lake.

Lovely jubbily.

FH spread out a picnic blanket and put out a few little pregnancy approved (read: everything on the planet) munchies for us. I waddled into the water and had a blood pressure cooling dip.

I must admit FH seemed a tad nervous – but in my bloated unmarried pregnant mind, I just assumed he was on edge about being near a hormonally fueled pregnant woman.

And then I felt a low rumblimg.

Oh for the love of God and Adam Levine’s naked body, please not now. Not here. But I suppose what goes in must come out. So I clenched my medium size butt cheeks and said to FH

“Oooh, I really need to go to the toilet”

“Just go and wee in the water babe” was his reasonable response.

“No Babe. I. Need.To. Do. A. Poo”

I started to panic as I wouldn’t make it to the Windang Surf Club toilets. A bikini clad running pregnant women with clenched butt cheeks would never make a 200 metre dash in time. I also knew that an unsupported 90 kilo squat on a sandy knoll was completely out of the question.

So the FH said “Just go into the water and do an Aqua”

“Sorry? A What? An Aqua?”

“An Aqua…you just go in the water, pull your cossies to the side and do a poo. All the Clubbies do it. Just check the current though, you don’t want that thing coming back at you”

Oh. My. God.

I had heard rumours about this -and even knew not to swim in the warm up area at a surf carnival. I just always thought that was about wee. Not a poo biscuit making a potential lunge at an unsuspecting swimmer.

Nope, definitely not for this ex-North Shore Girl non-clubbie classy Laaaady. I’m not a public pooper.

I don’t fucking think so.

But an urge is an urge. And a pregnant woman’s urges waits for no-one. So in I went. FH started giggling and yelling instructions from the shoreline.

Random thoughts of sharks being attracted to poo entered my mind. Could you imagine the headline:

“Pregnant woman’s bum torn out by hungry shark”

Nervously I pulled my bikini bums to the side, defecated like a mad woman and then quickly swam away from the offending shark food.

I came out of the water feeling relieved, mortified and a tad corrupted. FH even had the common sense to look suitably impressed.

I sat on the picnic blanket and we chatted for a while about love, life and all things non Aqua.

Nek minute..

FH had his hands inside the picnic bag fumbling with something. Out pops his hand with a diamond sparkler, his eyes get a little misty and he pops the question

“Will you marry me?”

Holy Aqua Batman! Of course I said yes and cried the tears of a sober, pregnant, recently ocean pooping emotional woman.

Pretty much the next sentence out of my mouth was

“If you ever tell another soul about my Aqua though, I’ll seriously kill you”

Ain’t love grand?

It’s been 11 years and 3 kids since I fed the sharks at Windang on the South Coast now. Why not share this simple Australian story of poop and love with my friends?

#husbandishorrifiednowimtellingpeoplemyself
#crapstorythough
#aintlovegrand
#notaclubbie
#surflifesavingaquapoo

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Featured, Rock Star Mums Drink Champagne

Don’t be a dickwad parent for 2018

January 1, 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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Featured, Me

Hot wax in bali

August 17, 2017

I’ve done some incredibly dopey-arsed things in my life.

One of the most ridiculous was in Bali four years ago on my first ever ‘leave the kids and hubby at home’ girls trip.

I had been looking for a present for the hubby for days to no avail. Sure, I’d found a “your wife is awesome” shirt, a Bintang singlet and a wooden penis bottle opener, but that doesn’t really say ‘thanks for telling me to go on holidays, love your work, you’re a great dad/lover/husband blah blah blah…’

Then it hit me!

I would get him the gift of a smooth, hair-free vagina. Now don’t get me wrong, it’s not like I was a hairy goonie goo goo or anything, but I’d never been completely hair free.

‘Oooooh,….Now there’s something he won’t be expecting’ I thought happily to myself. Sure, he’ll expect some loving upon my return, but not from a sexy mumma who had replaced her badger with a sphinx.

So off my friend and I trotted in sunny Sanur to find a place to make my vag look…ummm sphinxy. The first day-spa was booked out, the second two didn’t do waxing down there (I know, WTF right!) and the fourth one had curtains separating the massage tables and tentatively agreed to do it.

Looking back, I probably should have taken that as a sign that I definitely should leave my curls on my girl.

Narrator: but just like all of the stupid shit Fiona has done over the years, she ignored her instincts.

Off we went – me to get my foofa waxed and my friend Rosi to get a hot stone massage – right beside me – with a threadbare sheet dividing us.

I stripped my undies off, lay down on the overly worn table and waited for the beautician (I use that term very loosely) to start making me sphinxy.

Then she applied the wax….Oh. My. Fucking. God. it was so hot it was like someone had poured hot lava onto my bits.

“WHAT. THE. FAAAAAAAARK?”

I was in so much pain, I’m pretty sure my left labia majora wanted to retreat in on itself while flipping a little flap bird to her.

You see she was using wax that was far too hot and then she put down a strip of cloth so she could rip it off.

189 beads of sweat had formed into a lap pool on my top lip (on my face that is). Yup. That’s what she was using on my poor little damaged Dolores – and no, Dolores is not her real name – I’m just trying to maintain her anonymity.

I had to hold my breath the second time she ripped and just kept whimpering pathetically throughout. Each time she ripped the wax off I’d yell something resembling “MOTHER FUCKER” or at least that’s what Rosi told me she thought it sounded like during my pathetic screaming

Half way through I asked for a break so that I could have a beer. Now if you’d have ever told me I’d; a) Drink a Bintang or b) drink it while having my flaps torn apart, I would have given you my contemptuous death stare of disapproval

I kept ripping back the curtain saying “WHAT THE FAAARK” to my neighbour Rosi and having a chuckle. I figured if I was hurting, there was no way in hell I was going to let her relax in peace and enjoy her massage.

Halfway through my lady asked me if i’d had kids and I whimpered “yes…(sniff sniff whimper) three” To which she told me how amazing my little Dolores looked. So much so, she then called Rosi’s masseuse over to have a gander.

So here I was; drinking a beer, whimpering, cussing like a two bit hooker gypped out of $20 while Dolores was being stared at by two Balinese ladies. I pulled back the curtain to tell Rosi that her masseuse was now using her massage hands to help remove dangling bits of wax. EEEEEEWWWWWWWWWWWWWW!!!!

My lady eventually went back to work alone on my stunt bits. At one stage I actually had to help by pulling apart my flaps (ermagherd) and watch her apply hot wax. Now I do understand that there are people in the world that would be turned on by having hot wax flaps, but I my friends, am definitely not one of them.

OMFG .

Once done, we went back to the villa and I had a shower. When I finished I stood there naked and looked in the mirror.

Was I a sexy sphinx? Ummmmmm, no. Not unless the sexy sphinx had been in a fight with Garfield on a crystal meth rage. This sphinx had burns everywhere and she looked incredibly sad.

Dolores was not really in any shape to be given as a gift. I hoped that soothing cream and the flight home would help her recuperate, but sadly, I’m afraid sitting in a 3cm wide plane chair does not do any favours for a badly burned and damaged foofa.

Fuck.

I got home to the spunky eager beaver hubby and thought to myself ‘oh well, it’s the thought that counts.’ I pulled down my pants and said “surprise! Here’s your God damned present”

His response?

“Eeeewwwww…What the hell did you do?” before rolling around in laughter.

What an ungrateful bastard

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Featured

Parent sex and getting caught

May 9, 2017

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?

March 30, 2017

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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Featured, Rock Star Mums Drink Champagne

Gwyneth and the Vag Spa

March 1, 2017

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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Featured, Rock Star Mums Drink Champagne

The Jane Fonda exercise strategy

February 16, 2017

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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Featured, Lifestyle

Christmas and the bloody Target shopping Trolley

December 21, 2016

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

December 5, 2016

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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Featured, Them

Mumming like it’s 1983

November 25, 2016

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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