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When The Husband Said ‘I Love You’

I remember the first time my husband told me he loved me.

We’d been at a Grand Final barbeque at a friend’s house and had enjoyed ourselves just a little bit too much. Drunkanese was our language of choice in the taxi on the way home, and Future Husband was starting to declare his feelings.

I changed the conversation and dragged him into the house as I always feel sober words are more effective. Once inside I went in to have a shower and heard him yelling “I looooove youuuuu”. Now he could have been talking to his chair or the cold chicken he was eating, but I knew it was aimed at me… and I, of course, felt the same way.

I heard a little giggle and realised that his flatmate was at home in bed and had heard the entire thing.

I did the only kind thing and put him to bed knowing that Pete (flatmate) would make him re-enact the whole event the next morning… and for many more to come.

Once we realised we had the whole love thing down pat..

 

We moved on pretty quickly to make ‘life’ plans.

FH looked at me one day and said “ummmm, you know that I love you and that we’re getting married,” Ummmm, yes FH I do know this, but could you get any more freaking romantic? “So” he continued, “do you think it would be alright if we started trying to get pregnant?” “Ummm, sure” I replied and it hit me that I was in fact 5 years older than him and we needed to start trying before my eggs left the building completely.

Two weeks later, I returned a positive reading on all of the 15 pregnancy tests I peed on.

The feeling of being pregnant for the first time in my life was insane. The FH walked through the door, looked at the mass of positive pee sticks and cried. That was perhaps the first time I realised that love was an evolving emotion and could continue to grow to dizzying heights.

The next level of love with the FH came when I was eight months pregnant.

I was in the shower and had washed under my arms, my belly, gazed forlornly at the tips of my toes and then went to soap up my nether regions.

I reached behind me to wash and felt the strangest thing near my bum. I started trying to reach around to see but only ended up looking like a confused dog spinning in circles trying to lick its own bum.

“FUTURE HUSBAND!!!” I yelled at the top of my lungs and he came sprinting in “WHAT THE HELL IS THIS ON MY BUM??” FH leaned down, opened my cheeks and said, “Oh Darl, it’s just a hemorrhoid. You must have strained too much while you were doing a poo – do you want me to push it back in for you?”

Nope…nope…nope…

Now I know you’re probably reading this freaking out, but to know that this man – FH and soon to be father – would even consider doing such a thing for me made me love him just that little bit more.

Don’t get me wrong, I want to smother that sucker with a pillow half the time. The guy makes bending over to unpack the dishwasher a dangerous avoidance sport.

He understands me enough to completely annoy the shit out of me when I’m wrong and laughs at me at the most inopportune times. Half the time I’m infatuated with him and the other half I’m doing the whole plotting to murder game in my head.

And to be honest, I wouldn’t have it any other way.

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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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I’d really like to poop by myself

There are times that I’d really just like to do a poop by myself.

I’ve been told this won’t change until my youngest is somewhere between 8 and 9. I’m actually at that point now that I suffer separation anxiety if a face doesn’t appear mid-strain. I know this reads a little bit like too much information (or TMI if you’re 21) but honestly, kids give you no space whatsoever.

I’m not really sure this is a popular opinion, but I believe that it’s ok to want space sometimes from your kids… after all it’s not like they didn’t take up every relevant cavity you had prior to being born.

Our kids were away at their Grandparents house for the first week of the school holidays and I loved it. Sure I missed the kids on occasion, but I thought it was really healthy for the husband and I to be by ourselves for a week. We had a romantic and debaucherous time at a hotel in Sydney for a few days and did things that adults should be able to do – without 6 eyes trying to have a gander.

After about five days of doing anything the hell I wanted, I had the strangest sensation; I actually started feeling guilty about not feeling guilty about missing the kids. I’m sure there’s a psychologist reading this going “mmmmmm, and ooooohhhhhh” but parental guilt and in particular mother’s guilt is a strange phenomenon.

I had this guilt wear me down over a few days. It could have just been my perpetual hangover, but I’m pretty sure it was just plain old fashioned ‘pack your bags, we’re going on a guilt trip’. Whenever people asked me

“are you missing the kids?”

I felt like I couldn’t really respond (margarita in hand) with a

“Naaah….not even a little bit”

without feeling like a tremendous a-hole. And that really made me feel bad. Maybe I’m just that crap mum that has no ‘missing your kids gene’ or just a crap mum.

Another few days went by and I was incredibly relieved to start feeling the little maternal pangs of missing my kids. These feelings apparently happen to me between days 7 and day 8.35. So, when people asked me that question – even with a margarita in hand – I could genuinely respond with an

“abso-freaking-lutely Darl”

and not feel bad for lying as it was now completely true.

The kids arrived home on day 10 and all was fab in the world.

I’ll love them to death for the next 11 months and three weeks, then I’ll not miss when they go away again…because I’m normal (ish!)

I’m already mixing new cocktails for that week in my mind now.

How long does it take you to miss your kids?

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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.

WTAF?

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.

 

http://l.facebook.com/l.php?u=http%3A%2F%2Fwww.independent.co.uk%2Flife-style%2Fhealth-and-families%2Fbig-headed-babies-are-likely-to-earn-university-degrees-scientists-suggest-a7315826.html&h=SAQHMH24j

 

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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.

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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

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Nailing this whole ‘Mum’ thing

Totally nailing this whole mum thing.

My 7 year old birthday girl asked me to make pancakes this morning as a nice way to start her day.

Note that she DIDN’T actually ask.

“Mum, can you please make me some pancakes that not only look and taste good, but are springy to touch and don’t look like baked Kettle Chips?”

She only said ‘pancakes’.

I think I answered the brief.

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I really want to be a ‘Rock Star Mum’

I really want to be a rock star parent/fit mummy but I just can’t get it together. There are times like today where I can get one right, but it’ll never be both.

I started off like a total freaking over achiever this morning. I swore inside my head only 31 times which is a personal record. I actually started picturing myself wearing make-up and Lorna Jayne clothing while hanging out with the braiding mums doing kid drop off. My car wouldn’t smell like month old apple cores and I’d no longer find little snotty boogers on my walls or couch. Yup, that was the crap inside my head this morning.

I honestly smashed it…I bound (read, got) out of bed without hitting the snooze button, the kids turned off the television as soon as I made an appearance, hugs and kisses all round, breakfast eaten by 7:15, clothes on by 7:30, Maclean unpacked the dishwasher without whinging, Molly had time to read a book out loud, Memphis did her word box, no one asked me to help them get dressed while I was doing a poop, teeth were brushed (only two arguments) by 7:50, I remembered where a school hat was hidden so I didn’t have to walk back inside searching, kids were at school before assembly started and they all had hats and undies on. KILLED IT.

Now it was my turn… I’m trying to make myself be one of those MILF type mums and get their body back into shape. It would probably help if I gave up bad food, coffee and alcohol but they’re the things that make me semi reasonable to be around. I went straight from school drop off to a Leisure Centre with a girlfriend for a spin class followed by a swim. Don’t be too impressed by this as it’s for an event on the 30th of October we’re in and I don’t want to embarrass myself by stroking out at the start of the race.

Got on the bike feeling awesome and then realised I was wearing an ill-fitting pair of undies. I have never had this experience before but apparently it’s not uncommon. They kept inching themselves in whenever the instructor yelled “and UP we go” so up I’d go and down would go my hand to try and help my bits out – now If you’re wearing Lorna freaking Jane lycra/stretchy/’lift your arse up’ pants you have no chance in hell of helping anything out.

Holy shizenhausen, It was bringing back memories of my first sexual experience – a whole lot of rubbing for very little satisfaction. My friend Chris was on the bike behind me and I think she was starting to get concerned that I may have had an std or something.
We finished the class and I then realised I’d FORGOTTEN BY DAMNED SWIMMERS. It’s too far to drive home for them and 2 other friends had also arrived for a swim. I pulled out my trusty credit card and bought a new pair of swimmers that were on sale (loved it) I don’t think I’m the only person that gets that little sphincter tightening feeling when you hand over your credit card. I know in my head there’s available money on it, but I get nervous I might have forgotten I’ve made a large transaction and my card will get declined. Which is dumb as it’s never happened, but that’s my money spending female guilt rising to the surface.

I changed into my swimmers, discovered they’d left the freaking security tag on them – much to the amusement of my a-hole friends and then went swimming.

One of these days my morning will run perfectly…