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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.


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.


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.


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, Me

Keep your sanity – leave them all at home!

July 25, 2017

Want to keep your sanity as a Mum? I highly recommend some time away from your husband and kids.

I’ve just had 8 days in Bali and it was blissfully incredible for my addled mum brain.

I’ve had a few parents say to me:

“oh I could never leave my wife/husband/kids for a week as I’d miss them too much”

while others have have been

“OMFG, you lucky Bitch. I’m coming next time”

Can you guess which group are my friends and which group are the ones I want to give a little forehead slap to while yelling “BULLSHIT” at the top of my lungs?

Seriously, how on earth couldn’t you love having some time to yourself?

Let me tell you the reasons why it was amazeballs and therapeutic for both my sanity and well-being:

😍 it was freaking sensational remembering that I was an adult and a strong-assed woman who wasn’t ‘just’ a mother.
😍I had a room to myself, a spa bath on the balcony and a full sized bath inside.
😍Not a GOD DAMNED washing machine or kitchen in my vision
😍I could say “FUCK” whenever I wanted
😍My BFF and I spoke about everything and anything UNINTERFUCKINGRUPTED!
😍Nobody asked me where their clothes, sock or shoes were.
😍I wasn’t woken up by the husband poking me in the back.
😍I could watch whatever crap tv show I felt like
😍I read books (glorious books!) without stopping during every sentence to answer questions.
😍There wasn’t a single piece of snot on anything I had with me.
😍My teeny tiny hangover was something I could enjoy all by myself.
😍Laying by the pool was relaxing – not one child doing fucking handstands yelling “Mum WATCH ME I’M AMAZING”
😍No ironing.
😍No fighting
😍No unflushed poop in the toilet!
😍I was Fiona or Miss Fiona and not a single person yelled out “MUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUM”

It was farking awesome and I loved it.

I was so pumped I was randomly singing songs like “I am woman” by Helen Reddy “Run the World (Girls) by Beyoncé and “Roar” by Katy Perry. My voice sounded like shit but I was all over the whole female empowerment song thing.

By day 4 I was singing alcohol enhanced songs like the holiday favourite “Kokomo” by the Beach Boys, “Girls Just Wanna Have Fun” by the fabulous Cyndi Lauper, some really strange boy band songs that I haven’t sung since the 90’s and humming along to Tequila by the Champs.

It’s not that I didn’t miss the kids or indeed the husband, I missed them terribly

By my last day I was just really looking forward to getting home to my family. I felt relaxed, stress free and completely ready to be loved up. I arrived home while the kids were at school to find some “Missed you/love you Mummy” drawings and I thought my little selfish holiday loving heart would burst.

The husband had done an amazing job with the fambam and I was as chuffed with him as he was with himself. He’s still waiting for his 212 blow jobs that I apparently now owe him, but he’s happy enough just knowing they’re in the bank.

It was a bit of a love fest last night and again this morning with the kidlets. M2 told me I was a better mum than dad was – which I felt happy about until I realised she was simply referring to my ability to make dinner and school lunches 🖕😘

It’s been 30 odd hours now since I arrived home and I’m back into the swing of things. The only small change? I remembered how freaking lucky I am – I have a husband that I actually genuinely love and three kids who are pretty bloody awesome. On the flip side, it also helped them remember how frigging awesome I am at being a Mum 😜

So…if you want to join the Relaxed Mum Family Appreciation Society; might I suggest going away with one of your BFF’s, have some cocktails, feel the sun on your face and enjoy the sand between your toes?

It worked for me and I’m pretty bloody sure it’ll work for you.

So go on… go and sprinkle some freaking holiday magic fairy dust onto your life


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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.


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’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.


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.


“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.


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.


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.


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 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,’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

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.


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.


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


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.


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’ ✂️✂️✂️✂️✂️✂️✂️✂️


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.


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.”


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?


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

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.”


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


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


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


“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

November 8, 2016

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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