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Let them breath fire…just not now!

I honestly don’t know where they get it from…

There will come a day that I’ll be incredibly grateful for raising daughters with strong minds, strong wills and even stronger attitudes to boot.

They’ll be able to stand up for themselves, get their point across in a strong and concise manner, keep themselves out of trouble and value who they are.

They’ll also teach our son to understand that women are a force to be reckoned with…a force that deserves respect.

I will be grateful for this.

One day…

But today is definitely not the day.

I need a drink.

God help me.


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Kids and drawings

My sphincter tightens with nerves every time my kids ask

“What do you think it is Mum?”

Here’s what happened last night

Miss 6: hey Mum, look at my drawing.

Me: wow, that’s fantastic!

Miss 6: can you tell what it is?

Me: ummm….yeah. Is it a Phoenix rising from the ashes?

Miss 6: huh? A what? No it’s not

Me: oh… is it a giant?

Miss 6: NO!

Me: is it a dog drinking water?

Miss 6 frustrated and looking at me like I’m a moron: NO!!!!!!

Me: is it a…ummmmm….oh yeah….it’s a ummmm

Miss 6 getting pissed at me now: Muuuuuummmmmm! It’s a talking shoe on a see-saw riding on the ocean

Me: oh yeah, I can see that!

My inside voice: WTAF? A talking shoe on a faaaarking see-saw??? How on earth could I ever guess that?

My guilty mum inside voice five minutes later: omg, my daughter is such an artist. I can’t wait to see her art hanging in the Louvre.

#whatatalent 😂

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Are you a school stunt mum?

Are you a school ‘stunt’ mum?

Evel Knievel Jr eat your heart out.

I thought I was a pretty ok/average/kinda goodish stunt school mum.

I mean aside from the whole:

– late school drop offs
– late school pick ups
– my poor braiding skills
– failure to return school notes
– taking holidays during school time
– P&C avoidance tactics
– Absence from school fetes

At least that’s what I thought until today.

I just found out that one of my school mum friends bought 8 school staff members (teachers and the front office ladies) Easter egg tea towels.

For reals. No jokes. It’s not even the start of a joke.

WHAT THE ACTUAL HELL IS THAT ABOUT? (Pardon me if you’re a Catholic School teacher from my kids’ school).

I understand the whole “It’s Christmas, you’ve had my kids annoy the crap out of you for a year and this is me apologising” gift, but EASTER as well?


I didn’t even realise that was a thing. Am I the only loser mum who doesn’t buy gifts for teachers at Easter?

I’m fairly sure I’m not alone, but I kinda feel like my girlfriend now belongs in the Gifted and Talented Stunt Mum category – a category I will surely never fit into. Damn it. I need to work on becoming one of these Stunt Mums.

Maybe I need to search for someone who looks like me, cares more than me so she can become my Stunt Mum double.

Any takers? I’m serious.

All I can say is that I’m lucky our school doesn’t do Easter hat parades, cause no doubt I’d be pretty crap at that too.

NB: Please note that Stunt Mums is not intended as rhyming slang… get your head out of your undies 😘😘

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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.”


“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

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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I remember sleep-ins

I remember sleep-ins.

For my 20’s and half of my 30’s sleep-ins were not just restricted to the weekend. Even during the working week I could slap that snooze button faster than it could yell “Get up you lazy Cow” for a perfectly respectable 7:30am lay in. I could drink myself into potential boob-flashing condition on the weekends and know that it wouldn’t matter as sleep-ins were my God given right.

Fast-forward eleven years, three kids under 9 and a husband, and sleep-ins are something I remember fondly. I’m even at that point where I romanticise them in the way you do a teenage boyfriend – well at least the one that wasn’t a sloppy wet icky kisser or an annoying Pratt.

At 4am this morning, we woke up to M2 staring so intently at our faces it almost felt like she could have had an axe behind her back.
She whispered, “I’ve had a nightmare”, in her most rehearsed “I see dead people” voice. Well my love, you nearly made mum and dad do little piddles of fright when you woke us up. I for one, was in the middle of a sexy dream that involved Adam Levine and I’m pretty freaking sure he wasn’t coming back… so I flipped M2 the bird in my mind and gave her a reassuring cuddle.

I even had some resentment towards M2 as she couldn’t remember what the nightmare was about. I’m sure I wouldn’t have resented a Freddy Kruger/Dracula/creepy clown or even a giant Krispy Kreme attacking her mother-type scenario, but to not remember? WTAF? I needed something to go with so that I could ensure whatever was causing the nightmare is hunted down and at least maimed while M2 is at school.

Our collection of M’s all go to bed at 7:30 every night. I know to some people this seems early and I’ve been told that if I keep them up later they’ll sleep in. It just doesn’t work. I could keep the M’s up till freaking midnight and the little energizer stalkers would still be there between 5:45 – 6:15 am. EVERY. SINGLE. FU$&ING. DAY.

Truth be told, I secretly despise people that tell me their kids sleep in till 7:30 every morning. Or the ones that say “yeah, my perfect Miss Dandelion Seven-Year old really loves her sleep and I have to wake her up every morning for school”. (Jealousy is a curse, after all). I smile politely while imagining myself lean forward to give her a little bitch slap just for showing off.

We cuddle for a few minutes and then the Husband takes her back down to her bed where she passes out immediately. Husband and I lay there and I feign sleep in case he needs a little something extra to help him go back to slumber land.

Just another day in parenting.

How tired are you as a parent of youngsters? If yours sleep in, give yourself a jealous little bitch slap from me.

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The Swearing Kid

What do you think…?

The Husband and I don’t really swear in front of our kids.

Inside my head though, I’m a potty mouthed monster. Split syllable swearing is an absolute favourite and mumbling “little truckers” tends to get me through those tear your hair out moments of frustration.

It’s amazing what will make me become internally expressive;

Lost shoe = check
Complain about the food = check
Hair brush moaning = check
Lost clothing = check
Fighting = check
Whinging = BIG check

The list is endless.

Resistance to my internal ranting is tough, but teaching my kids the appropriate use of the word “F&CK” is definitely not an avenue I want to travel down.

Imagine my surprise a few weeks ago after athletics. We just had 90 minutes of run till you drop and were all seat belted in the car.

M2 pipes up with

“Hey Mum, you know that naughty word that’s in that song Cake by the Ocean?”

“Yes” I reply nervously

“M3 just told two little boys to ‘get back into that word line”

I nearly swerved off the road in my confusion.

How could my tender hearted 5 year old say such a thing?

“And that’s not all” she continued “She said it to my friend as well – that word off”

I’m not a fan of dibber dobbing at the best of times, but this was an exception to the rule.

The swerve turned into a fully blown car stop so that I could turn around with resting bitch face to talk to M3.

“M3” I ask, “did you say that to those kids?”

“Nope…I don’t even know the word because M2 is lying”

Now M3 can ordinarily BS with the best of them, but this time she gave herself away by trying to shrink into her seat like she was wearing a Harry Potter inspired invisibility cloak.

We sat on the side of the road and had the whole “we don’t use words like that’ conversation while that word was repeating itself non-stop in my head.

I was horrified and strangely impressed that she had twice used said ‘bad word’ in the right context, but my feelings of mortification far outweighed any misplaced pride.

When we arrived home there was a tremendous amount of tears when I put M3 on the phone to explain to her father about her poor choice of words.

Her reason for doing so? A child in her class had been teaching her and one of her friends the different uses of the word.


I phoned M3’s little friends mum and gave her the heads up in case her daughter used it as well. Without giving the game away completely, this mum said that she found it funny when her daughter used ‘the word’ and it was no big deal.

Ummmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm……………………….okay then.

So, I have nothing left to say about this.

I’ve never thought a kid swearing was funny. I’m sure there will be a time when they’re adults (or even teenagers) when the potty mouth tiger will raise its ugly head. Up until that time though, I’ll be swearing like an absolute champion in my head and flipping my kids the bird behind their back at every opportunity.

Does that make me a hypocrite? Sure. But I’m old enough to know the appropriate times and the repercussions of saying “F&CK” out loud – like any time I’m alone in my car and someone cuts me off.

Yup. Appropriate times like that.

What do you think?

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When the kids are away…

Our kids are away at the moment with their Nan and Pop for the first half of the school holidays.

While we of course miss them terribly, I thought it would be interesting to write down the top ten things you can do when your kids are away:

1. Anything you want

2. Anything you want

3. Anything you want

4. Anything you want

5. Anything you want

6. Anything you want

7. Anything you want

8. Anything you want

9. Anything you want

10. Anything you want

Aside from that, you can pretty much do anything you want.

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The Big Brain Baby


I just read about the UK Biobank research that suggests there’s a link between the head size of babies at birth and intelligence in later life.

If that’s in fact the case, my first born child will be the next freaking Albert ‘Big Brain’ Einstein.

I still remember the romance of being pregnant with our first child. I couldn’t wait for my stomach to swell, my boobs to grow and the flood of hormones that would keep me in a combo of happiness and tears. Every visit to the obstetrician was both nerve racking and exciting, and your partner/husband/girlfriend/boyfriend is as attentive as a fly on freshly delivered cow dung.

All that changed for me when my obstetrician looked at a scan and just made the

“Oooooh” noise.

“What do you mean Oooooooh?” I asked nervously

“Ummmm, your baby just has a really large head so we’ll need to take that into account”

WTAF do you mean, “take that into account?”

To this very day, my brain and vajayjay are still horrified by that simple statement.

I looked at the husband and knew that he was trying to stifle a giggle. My face gave him the ‘don’t even breathe’ look and his desperate need to keep living and see his first child made him change his face into a look of sympathy. Smart man he is.

Come delivery day and the temptation to walk into the hospital backwards with my back exposed introducing myself as Mrs F Epidural was almost overwhelming.

I was placed in a birthing suite next to a woman who was clearly being stabbed to death by a serial killer and told to just be calm. Ummmm… OK, put me next to a terrified moaning woman and tell me to be calm. Clearly, YOUR head was tiny at birth.

The moaning noises made me shudder and clench my legs shut, something I was starting to wish I’d done nine months prior.

It came time to push and all I could think of was doing a poo and the enormity of my future child’s head. I had sticky-out ears as a kid so I also had to remember to give an extra squeeze around the head as this baby came out to ensure its childhood was “Hey Big Ears” taunt-free. As it turned out, I needn’t have worried as the circumference of Mac’s head ensured that happened without any additional help from me.

I won’t go into any feral gory detail, but I will say that I only wanted to take my husband out five times. I wanted to stab him every time he told me to breathe and give him a great big rectal tear every time he told me how much he loved me. “LOVE? You Motherf (which wasn’t really an insult as I was nearly a mother and he did in fact well…you know…) How the f$ck can you love me when YOU DID THIS TO ME???”

He was down at the business end, being all freaking inspirational with one of my legs on his shoulder. I asked him if he thought being down ‘there’ would ruin it for him but he assured me that as a fire-fighter he ‘had seen some pretty bad motor vehicle accidents so he’d be fine”.

I was stunned. “WTF did you just say to me? Are you seriously comparing my f%cking vagina to a motor vehicle accident?”

Eight and a half years later and I’m still throwing that sentence at him after a few wines.

Adam retreated pretty quickly back down to the business end and I concentrated on delivering our future Mensa member. After our beautiful big-headed baby boy came out I was so overwhelmed by emotions that it took a while to notice the obstetrician was still between my legs. I asked him how many stitches I was getting and he responded with the “just one” bullshit statement.

I knew he was lying as he’d been down there with his crochet needle long enough to make a baby blanket and a matching set of booties.

That February the 12th is still one of my most incredible life experiences. Over time the rest of M1’s body has caught up with the size of his head, which is an incredible relief.

Reading that research today has made me incredibly happy that at least one of my children will be successful enough to keep me in a style I’m yet to become accustomed to.

So there you have it. The story of our big headed future CEO baby.


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Smiling Unicorn

I either have rainbow sparkly unicorn love dust feelings for my children or feelings that result in calculating how to hide evidence from crime scene investigators.

This morning I went from smiling unicorn mum to the lost shoe schizoid mum in 1.2 seconds.

Picture this…we’d all been up since 6am as apparently sleep is reserved for only the wicked. Up for two freaking hours and books had been read, uniforms ironed, breakfast eaten, teeth brushed, everyone’s hair is done, it’s 7:54am and we’re killing it.

We had taken our time and I was positive today was the day we’d leave early (read: on time)

Me: OK guys, it’s nearly time to go. Has everyone got their shoes and socks on?
M1 & M2: Yes
M3: Ummmmmm….I can’t find my shoe
Me: Which one?
M3: Ummmm the one with the knot in it
Me: Where did you have it last?
M3: Downstairs with this one (holding up right shoe)
Me: Well go downstairs and get the other one quickly!

M1 and M2 help pack the lunch bags, fill water bottles, books and folders back in their school bags, carry all three bags downstairs and then M3 yells out

M3: I found my shoe mum! Can you come and help me?

So off I go to help, keys in hand and rabid eyes on the clock. Just one freaking day I want to walk outside and get in the car before 8:08am.

Me: Ok Miss, put your shoes on and let’s go.
M3: This shoe feels too tight and my foot won’t go in

I breathe long and slow breaths like I’m between contractions

Me: Well let’s have a look then

Ok, I’m pretty sure M3 is a bright child, but for some reason she has found an old shoe and was trying to stuff her gargantuan left foot into it. As she’s not a frigging Concubine it possibly wasn’t the best or smartest idea she’s had.

Me: Ok Sweetheart, where’s the proper shoe that actually fits your foot?
M3: It’s hiding and I don’t know where it could be

Wooooh wooooh woooooh (yes, that’s how I spell long fucking deep breaths)

Me: M3, you really need to find it this second or mummy is going to lose her mind
M3: where would it go?
Me: where would what go?
M3: your mind
Me: it’s just a saying Darling, my mind isn’t really going to…oh just find your shoe.

M3 starts looking and apparently this time her eyes are open as she finds it in two seconds.

Me: Oh look honey, this one actually goes on your foot properly as well!

My sarcasm is lost on her but is incredibly satisfying for me

Me: Hurry up!
M3: Don’t hurry me mum!

Woooooh wooooh woooooh deep breaths and lots of mumbled ‘f#cks’ while I try and slow my speech down to a normal pace.

Me: Just. Put. It. On. In. the. Car

Tears start welling and a one shoed child walks to the car with her bag over the shoulder. All three M’s are old enough to put their bags in the boot so I jump in the car, ask the seat belt question and off we go.

That’s when I see the bag on the ground next to the car.

Wooh Wooooh Woooooh slow breaths. Potty mouth in head, potty mouth in head.

Me: M3, why is your bag not in the car?
M3: Muuuuum, I can’t do everything – you asked me to put my shoe on in the car so I am! You should have been helping me.

Tearful sad face on M3 and that’s when I feel like I’m losing the mum battle. If only I was one of those helpful mums, all the M’s would be on time and happy instead of late and pissing me off.

We drive to school singing Toni Basil’s “Oh Mickey you’re so fine, you’re so fine you blow my mind hey Mickey….” and the rainbow sparkly love dust feelings are back. Kisses all round and I smile at the other mums who arrive just as late as me.

Life is good.