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Ch 44: Don’t mention the C word

As we find ourselves thrown amongst the trials and tribulations of toddlerdom, dear husband and I have recently found ourselves dealing with the most random and unexplained challenges neither of us could have ever predicted nor possibly avoided.

At any hour of the day or night we find ourselves scratching our heads with unexplained and perplexed looks on our fatigued faces muttering nothing more than...
Wha? Hang on, say what? Did he just..?
No, he didn’t. Yes he did.
Ohh, what now. Not again. Really?
Let me fill you in.

Firstly, picking dry snot from your nose and subtly wiping it on your mother’s neck is not cool Toddler B. Not cool at all. You could at least eat it like most other two year old boys. Or like your father.
Secondly, waking at 3.00am, wailing then heaving uncontrollably whilst running away from comforting cuddles and hiding in various corners of the house does not make for happy parents in the morning. Then acting as if nothing had happened whilst you inhale your vegemite toast a few hours later does not fool us. Neither does your breaming cheesy grin and big wide eyes. Dammit. Yawn.

Thirdly, we are so thrilled you love sharing with your favourite pet in the world, Buddy Dog. But offering him some of your raison toast, dangling the fluffy sugary bread and sultanary goodness over his drooling mouth, letting him lick the baked delight yet then pulling it away and devouring it yourself is also not cool. And very unhygienic and makes for one unhappy and rather peeved off Buddy Dog.
That aside there are also lots of fun moments. I’m sure I will write about them all one day. Really, I will. Once I wipe the snot off from all my clothes.

One slight issue we could never predict and still are yet to accommodate for is an obsession like no other. Sure, there’s been The Wiggles, bottles of milk, sultanas was up there for a while and of course his favourite comforter, Flat Teddy.
Yet this one has hit us for six. In a big, comforting, sugary, yellowish and sometimes banana custardy kind of way.

Yes. I said it. The C word.


Damn you custard!! We used to be friends!
Your once off treat for ‘something different’ and ‘fun’ has turned out to be a dairy infused nightmare!

Picture this.
2.00am: heaving child, distressed, upset possibly from a bad dream. Who knows? We sure as hell still don’t have a clue! Cuddles not working, won’t settle down. Wriggles out from cuddle. AP and dear husband exchange glances. Tired, over it kind of glances. Our eyes follow Toddler B.

Toddler wraps himself around the fridge door. Heaving. Still. Wipes tears from face. Wails ‘Ca ca’. No. Gawd No. No Custard. No more. Toddler B Screams as if world has suddenly fallen apart. ‘CAAA CAAA’. Noooo. I said No. It’s all gone, remember that litre of the stuff you inhaled this afternoon? It’s all gone!
Ok, a litre might be a slight exaggeration…but you know. I’ve got a tale to write here ok?

Toddler B throws himself on floor. Continues world ending behaviour, desperate for the yellow stuff.
2.53am: AP: ‘just give him the fricken custard!! I don’t care anymore, I need to sleeeep! Dear husband succumbs, settles Toddler B with a satchel of Heinz Baby Yellow Sugar Stuff with Banana. Child sucks on packet happy as a pig in…umm custard? Finishes and falls asleep within minutes.

Dear husband collapsed on couch, Buddy Dog relishing in having the bed all to himself, AP slumped in kitchen cursing the day she decided to bring a bit a variety, a bit of something different, a bit of custard home for the little angel which inevitably turned him into a monster. A monster with a super cute green dressing gown! Nawwww. And his pyjama pants are too big for him. Nawwww again!
Right, snap out of it. Where were we.
Ah yes. In terms of our custard dependency recovery process, we are still in the early stages of weaning him off the hard stuff.

We are not allowed to even say the C word in our house.
We use cryptic language and even spelling it out has its risks.

If Toddler B is rewarded with such a very special treat on a weekend, a small packet of C-U-S-T-A-R-D may be unexpectantly found by some sort of custard fairy, Humphrey B Bear fairy or the Easter Bunny..Fairy..? Regardless, it is very very special.
When doing the weekly grocery shop, as we make our way through the diary section I deliberately distract my junior addict by waving cartons of milk, packets of cheese and start doing a wiggles inspired trolley dance and sing-along down aisle eight. Much to the delight of my fellow customers.

What is she on?! They must be thinking.
I tell them - custard. It’s custard I tells ya.

Don’t go near the stuff, it only ends in tears..yet great for strong bones and teeth.
Enjoy. In moderation.


Ch 43: You like apples?

I have a confession to make.

Our State is in the midst of our third heat wave in as many weeks. 35 -40 degree Celsius temperatures (102 degrees Fahrenheit ) are slowly frying our thoughts and have made the simplest of tasks almost impossible. For instance, try ummm, errrrr hang on, what was I talking about again? Hur? Who are you and what are you doing here?!
You see now?
With today being a Friday, my day at home with Toddler B, and 36 degrees forecast, we raced off bright and early to get the weekly stupidmarket run out of our hair.

With the kidlet in the car ready to go, I decided to turn on the water sprinkler in the front but terribly parched garden (or what used to be a garden) for a quick drink whilst we were at the shops.
Easy. We will have that lawn looking like the MCG turf in no time.
Whilst at the stupidmarket, the following occurred:
Copious amounts of pink lady apples were selected then coughed on, snotted on, dropped, licked, pinched, dropped again (this time on my toes), and generally flung around the trolley as if they were miniature basketballs. Feeling too guilty to put any of them back, tainted with Toddler B’s childcare germs, they all came home with us.
A Thomas the Tank Engine birthday card was selected for Toddler B’s cousin. Apparently the paper version of Thomas fly's. Everywhere. Then drops suddenly onto the ground. Again. And again. And some more. What an annoying sh*t of a game. Pity such exertion made Thomas famished very quickly and he then found himself immersed amongst the pink ladies.
Then came tears. Tears soon dissolved once the current flavour of the month, SPC Fruit Crush-Ups, danced before his eyes. Shrieks of delight echoed from aisle eight. Proudly holding his very grown up non-baby branded package of fruity delight, the toddler tears soon emerged once the realisation that the mango goodness was staying put until we got home. Or in the car at least.
Tears were followed by wails which were followed by squeals which were followed by snot bubbles.
A random customer, walked by and endearingly called out to Toddler B ‘hello grumpy!’.
I’ll give you grumpy.
The pet food was missed (sorry Buddy Dog..you like apples don’t you?).
The checkout was near.
We arrived and I started to frantically unload the trolley, Supermarket Sweep style. As soon as the SPC package beeps through the scanner we could all be relieved of this toddler madness.
Then it dawned on us. We had just introduced ourselves to the world’s slowest checkout chick.
She was delightful. I think her name was Kerry. Chatty. A bit too chatty. Hurry the ef up!
Luckily, a customer distracted Toddler B, tickling his toes, playing hide and seek with the apples (I know, they just keep coming baaack!) and commenting on how big and beautiful his eyes were and how well behaved he was.
After cleaning up my own vomit we progressed to payment with the little screamer beaming with delight, sucking down the mango flavoured water sugar thingy, kicking his heels and now cuddling up to an elderly nanna. Oh he’s gooorgeous.
I’ll give you gorgeous.
Trolley unloaded, Toddler B was still in the child seat refusing to place in the bin his empty plastic pouch which once contacted some sort of fruit like puree material.
With the basement carpark starting to heat, I quickly distracted him, threw the pouch in the bin and hopped across the carpark pretending to be a horse and jockey only to be sprung by a bunch of teenagers, sharing a smoke and clearly wagging school. Excellent.
We left home at 9am. Got home at 10am albeit a little frazzled. The heat had really started to kick in.
Let’s move forward to 1.10pm.
Oh my apple I’ve left the sprinkler on. It’s been over four hours and I am the worst over user of water in this dry, barren State. I am hideous. We have just moved into the street, what will the neighbours think?!
With barely a moment to think, I threw Toddler B into his bathing togs, hat, thongs, zinc cream on nose, hat and floaties on the dog (yes the dog, I panicked ok?). With beach ball blown up in record time, despite almost passing out due to lack of oxygen, we were ready to hit the beach, oops I mean the front yard with a crappy little sprinkler.
What a performance. All in aid of keeping the little mite and his furry mate cool on this hot day.
Of course. *gulp*.
We scurried off inside with the hose now turned off. Toddler B looked confused and tired so it was off to bed.
As for me, I spent the afternoon baking apple pie for all of my new neighbours.


Ch 42: Sorry seems to be the hardest word..

4 January 2014.

AP: Knock knock (Wipes sweat from forehead).

My once devoted readers: Opens door, rolls eyes.

AP:  Wait! Hi. How are you?

Readers: Why hello there, it’s been a while. (Looks AP up and down).

AP: Blushes. You look good.

Readers: Thanks. So do you. (Turns nose up in the air, pretends not to be interested).

AP: Starts to quietly sob. Ummm, I just, ummm…


AP: Drops to knees, tears streaming down face. I’m SORRY, I’m SO SORRY!

Readers: I thought we had something?!

AP: We do, we do! It just happened..

Readers: What?? What could have possibly 'just happened' in 2013?!

AP: Life. Life kind of got in the way. Work, kidlet, house stuff. I know it’s not an excuse. I thought about you every day, I promise. Then it just got too hard. And I didn’t know where to begin again. Have I lost everything?

Readers: Is there someone else? Third party perhaps?

AP: No! My gawd. 


AP: Well no not really. I mean Instagram and I kind of have a thing going, it’s really fun and you can join too, if that’s not too weird? But I miss you.

Readers: Instagram? Right. Pictures, with little words. Hashtags. Doesn't really replace your Confessions of a Tired Mother words does it?

AP: I’m going to keep writing too, I promise. And I want you with me? Will you come back? Please? (miss youuuuu….).

Readers: Scratches forehead. Taps foot. Sighs. Oh alright then. Come on in, I’ll pop the kettle on while you get started.

AP: Squeals. Goober cheesey grin on face. Skips into Microsoft Word and starts typing away.

Well there it is folks. My attempt at an apology for being so absent last year.

As you can see, 2013 sort of disappeared before my eyes and my writing went with it.

Yet I’m back and so excited as I missed writing terribly.

To give you a quick run down, in January 2013 I went back to work (paid work that is) four days per week, we sold our house (that took five long long months), moved closer to the city, husband started a new job, we took copious amounts of sick and carers leave, the little master has embraced school (childcare but we call it school) wholeheartedly and has grown out of his baby fat rolls (awwww). 

The dog is still furry, we have just bought a new house and are due to move (again!) in mid January. We’ve had lots of wonderful times but plenty of not as wonderful moments. I lost myself every now and then but would soon find the rainbow again.

So the last time we met, the little master was nearing one and looked like this:

Now, almost two, he looks a little somethin’ like this:

Master B is a handsome little man, full of energy and personality.

You can view our journey, here on Instagram!

So please join me in 2014, here on our COATM blog, on twitter and insta.

Oh and one more thing….I’m still fricken tired! But more on that later.

Till next time..soon though. Not in 2015, I promise.


Ch 41: All I want for Christmas is..Boxing Day!

We are one week away from Christmas Eve. It's here, the final week before the fat man and his reindeer embark on one very tiresome journey around the globe delivering Christmas cheer.

Now I'll be honest with you because at Christmas time you tell the truth. So I'll admit that I have a love hate relationship with Christmas.

One moment, I'm Mrs Claus busy baking sugary goodies in the kitchen, Bing Crosby on the wireless, flashing Christmas tree earrings dangling from my earlobes, occasionally guzzling a glass of bubbles.

The next, I'm Ebenezer Scrooge. Well Scrooge McDuck to be exact..you know like Donald Duck's old man, or Uncle I think? Counting pennies, groveling about the latest electricity bill and generally being an unhappy duck with too many people to please, too much to do in so little time and wishing for December 25 to be over...all with a black lump of coal in hand.

How sad. But then I mix up another batch of sangria and within no time I'm belting out Here Comes Santa Clause with Bing and kicking that coal to the curb. Happy as.

So upon reflection of my two festive seasonal personality extremes, here are my best and worst of Christmas festivities.

Obsession with the pre-Christmas catch up.
I've got to see you before Christmas! I must! Yes, it HAS to be before Christmas.

We've all heard and probably said it before, right?

This obsession with seeing every person you have Facebook friended, unfriended, friended again, occupied a work cubical with, played sport against or perhaps shared a house with.

You HAVE to see them between 1 December and 24 December. You must. Because apparently the world ends in January.

But even more importantly, unopened Christmas presents self-destruct at 12.00am on 26 December.

Exterior decorations
If you weren't already aware of the upcoming festive season by the fact that Christmas cards hit the stupidmarkets in October, you have been hiding under Santa's sack. So just in case you missed it, we've taken the liberty of mixing electrical wires, flashing bulbs and plastic Santa lookalikes with bricks and tiles to showcase to the neighbourhood that Christmas is indeed here.

The trick to house Christmas decoration is to humbly outdo your neighbours and to gain as many oohs and ahhs from passing children dressed in their pyjamas doing the neighbourhood round after dark. If your house is really special, you might get a photo in the local paper. Joy.

So if that means stuffing a giant sized inflatable Santa half way down your chimney rocking to the gangnam style tune, choreographed with flashing lights and break dancing reindeers, then do it. It's for the children. And the local paper.

Christmas trees and what we put on them
With the little master crawling around with also with limited space, this year our Christmas tree has been relegated to our spare room at the front of the house. Our tree is an average, plastic 5”0 tall triangle filled with colourful tinsel and Christmas balls. Our Christmas angel on the other hand, is really the centrepiece of our tree. As it should be. Especially when the Christmas angel is a miniature Humphrey B Bear dressed in a while t-shirt with plastic wings and tinsel as a halo.


Oh and there's a Christmas ball hanging from his furry ear. You know, just because he can.

This has been my tradition (abandoned by my four siblings years earlier..shame on all of you) since I was a teenager when our antique Christmas angel's head fell off one year. The only alternative when you have limited access to shops (we lived on a farm out of town) was my beloved bear. I'd say it was quite creative. Don't you? And doesn't he look dashing..

Christmas Eve Mass
Although mass is meant to be a time for peace, harmony and reflection, the moments leading up to the commencement of the 6.00pm Christmas Eve carols is one of panic, angst and competitiveness.

You see, Christmas mass is like getting the good car park early so you can get to Myers with enough time to be at the front of the line in time for the Boxing Day sales.

If you don't get there at least half an hour early, you won't get a park in the church grounds, then you won't get a good seat unless you have a preference for sitting up on the altar with the seatless, hyperactive kids (the only time the Priest ever lets kids sit there is on Christmas). Now a good seat at Christmas mass is towards the back of the church, but not too far back because that can look quite rude if you're there too early, and preferably on the end of the pew.

It's all about the ability to breathe and the quick getaway. So if you don't get there early enough to get the good car park and the subsequent good seat then you risk being in the position of being caught in the swarms of elderly pedestrian traffic upon conclusion. In the name of the Father and of the Son and of the see ya later...!

Fruit cake and plum pudding
My dear husband doesn't like Christmas fruit cake or any kind of cake or pudding containing fruit like goodness.
It pulls at my heart strings so much that I can't even talk, or should I say write, about it.

Overconsumption of meat
On a normal day, my lunch tends to consist of a salad sandwich. Pretty simple really. Occasionally I will add ham or chicken and usually finish with some fruit.

Yet on Christmas day we are expected to shovel the following forms of meat into our gobs in record breaking time:

Turkey. Ham. More Ham. Little more turkey please. Chicken. Beef. Lamb. Lamb? Why not. It's Christmas. Chicken. Small slice of Ham. Burps. More turkey to finish off. Oh the pork. We forgot the pork. Can't forget the pork, I made apple sauce. More pork please. On the fork..yes that's enough. Apple sauce.

And then the conversation over the meat comprised dinner table revolves around how Dad has been coping with his latest episode of gout.....need I say more.

Christmas movies
I'm not ashamed to admit that the annual viewing of National Lampoon's Christmas Vacation is one of the highlights. It's the kind of movie you could watch all year round. In fact, I have, over the years, watched the Griswolds, cousin Eddy and Aunt Bethany when home from school sick, on a Saturday night bored and alone and of course on Christmas Eve, after returning home from mass of course.

Unfortunately my dear husband, at times doesn't quite share the same sense of humour. He does, however, laugh at me giggling continuously at the TV, glass of wine in hand over the following Clark W. Griswold legendary moments:

The most enduring traditions of the season are best enjoyed in the warm embrace of kith and kin. Thith tree is a thymbol of the thspirit of the Griswold family Chrithmath. 

Merry Christmas. Merry Christmas, Merry Christmas, Merry Christmas, kiss my ass. Kiss his ass. Kiss your ass. Happy Hanukkah.

I'm gonna burn some dust here. Eat my rubber!

Where do you think you're going? Nobody's leaving. Nobody's walking out on this fun, old-fashioned family Christmas. No, no. We're all in this together. This is a full-blown, four-alarm holiday emergency here. We're gonna press on, and we're gonna have the hap, hap, happiest Christmas since Bing Crosby tap danced with Danny fu*king Kaye. And when Santa squeezes his fat white ass down that chimney tonight, he's gonna find the jolliest bunch of assholes this side of the nuthouse.

To Clark W. Griswold – thank you. So much.

Sad stuff
From Griswold giggles to reality. Life. Sad stuff.

I find Christmas difficult. I think about those who are alone at Christmas. Those who are unwell. Very unwell. Parents who can't afford to give their children presents or Christmas lunch. Those who have lost loved ones. I think of my best friend who I lost suddenly ten years ago. I think about his family and what he would be doing today if he was still with us. I think about my mother. Where is she, is she alone? I hope not. I think about sick kids in hospital and those who are homeless. I think about the pressures Christmas brings and for many this happy festive season is the hardest time of year.

As it is the season of giving, please give to those who are less fortunate. I have and hope you will too.

Childish smiles
This is the little master's first Christmas. Although at 11 months old he really has no idea what is going on, I look forward to seeing his and his cousin's smiles and hearing their squeals of joy on Christmas morning. I look forward to seeing his eyes gaze into Christmas lights, his persistent action of throwing the Santa hat placed on his little head onto the ground, his giggles at our buddy dog dressed up in a Santa suit and the endless array of cuddles from friends and family.

So there it is folks. These are the things I laugh, cry, cringe and burp about in December.

And to reiterate the words of Clark W. Griswold:

We're gonna have the hap hap happiest Christmas since Bing Crosby tap danced with Danny fu*king Kaye.

Merry Christmas!


Ch 40: The day I made a hoon driver blush

Another day, another morning run with the pram.

It was a happy day, feeling great. Sun shining, no clouds and the locals with their canine kids we passed on the trail behind my house, were full of smiles and general pleasantries.

Maybe it wasn't such a bad place to live after all. Perhaps I've been harsh..just a tad. My response to the 'do you like where you live?' question is generally met with a built up frustrated rant of how my suburb is soulless, has zero community spirit, has not enough accessible infrastructure and is full of bogans and hoons. There are constant tyre skid marks on our street and I am woken in the middle of the night most weekends, by the sounds of motorbikes burning rubber along the trail I run along every day.

Plus you can't get a decent coffee anywhere. Anywhere.

Anyway..back to it.

Upon arriving home I realised the little master was still asleep. Not keen to risk waking him, I backed out of our door way and continued walking the pram up our street (much to Buddy dog's disgust and pleas from behind our fence of 'take meeee with youuuu, wooooof!').

Then I saw him.

I had just crossed a road and in his hotted up blue Astra (Astra? Yes..I laughed too) he flew around the roundabout past me, fumes streaming from the exhaust then cornered the street that I had just walked over.

I turned back to shake my head and out of the corner of my eye I caught a glimpse of the car spinning down the street.

Oh my Astra, he has lost control.

I started running back towards the street. Little master still dozing away. I had already started mentally playing out images of me shaking my finger at him and his smashed up car shouting 'that's what happens when you hoooon!!' tusk tusk!

But the car was nowhere to be seen. Maybe he hadn't lost it. But he was flying and I swear I saw that car spinning.

I slowed down my pace and power walked down the street which was actually a court. I found his car at the end of the court parked. But he was gone. Damn it. I didn't know why I was so drawn to finding him. But there I was, rocking my pram, hovering between his car and his front yard. Feeling defeated, I went to walk away.

Then he appeared.

Then I shat my pants and questioned what the hell I was doing.

I don't know this person, he could be anyone. Yet with council workers spraying weeds only a few meters away I felt like I had a security buffer.

He was young, probably mid 20's, fit looking and had a friendly face.

He took one look at me and realised why I was there. He knew very well who I was.

Then the following occurred.

Hoon who drives a hotted up Astra: Smiles, 'G'day, how ya doing?'
AP: Damnit, I'm a sucker for a friendly smile and he seems not bogan like at all. 'Hi there, I'm alright thanks. Was that you before? In that blue car? Did you come around that corner?'
Friendly hoon who drives a hotted up Astra: 'Yeah, just before, yeah down this street?'
AP: 'Yes, in that car did you fly around that corner and the roundabout? I had just walked over that road..'
Coy looking hoon who drives a hotted up Astra: 'But I saw ya..'
AP: 'Yeah I know you saw me and that's great but you were going so fast.'
Repetitive hoon who drives a hotted up Astra: 'But I saw ya..'
AP: 'Please, please just slow down. I ran back because I thought you had lost control. One day you could hurt someone..or you could hurt yourself.'

Then..wait for it...wait, it's a douzy. I said this:

'And...and, well..you seem like a lovely young man and it's just not worth it.'

Hazzah! Lovely young man? What? Apparently overnight I turned 80. Happy Birthday to me!

The lovely young man who drove too quick in a hotted up blue Astra, had his head down. He looked up and then I realised he had blushed. He replied with 'yeah, ok..thanks, sorry.'

He jumped in the white van with his mate and they left. I wondered home with the little master still asleep.

I did it. I told off a hoon and made him blush.

However I don't think I'll be making a habit of approaching guys hooning in high powered cars..or Astra's for that matter.

Ha. Astra. What was he thinking? It's a girls car ya goose!

I will probably continue to shake my head and mutter obscenities under my breath upon hearing those screeching tyres, but fingers crossed there will be one less skid mark on our street this weekend.


Ch 39: Dischevelment – it's the new black

Today in Melbourne is Oaks Day. Or rather more commonly known as Ladies Day at Flemington Racecourse.

Glitz, glamour, heels, colour. 90,000 plus race goers admiring the finest fillies, on and off the course, under Melbourne's glorious spring sunshine.

From picnic rugs on the lawn to the ritzy marquees in the Birdcage, Melbourne women know how to turn heads with style, elegance and every so often a drunken stumble. Not that I've ever done that at the races, I swear...*cough*.

Yet over here, only a mere 15kms from Flemington, in the land of nine month old child and seven year old dog, tales of elegance and beauty are currently few and far between.

Especially today. Ladies Day.

Without providing a minute by minute account of what went down here today (dear husband has already copped that as soon as he arrived home), here are a few words to describe my equivalent of Ladies Day.

  • Morning sleep in the pram out the window, woken by screaming toddler at stupidmarket checkout.
  • Gives smile to mother. Met with a filthy look. Thanks, I was trying to be nice.
  • Home. Little master decides to give favourite plastic toy turtle a kiss hello.
  • End result – a bruised gash under right eye. His first tumble.
  • AP attempts to distract inconsolable little master with an early session of The Wiggles. Wins.
  • Lunchtime sleep brought forward by one and a half hours thanks to screaming toddler in stupidmarket.
  • Lunch meal missed.
  • AP bakes cake for dear husband's work colleagues. I know..I know, I've turned into one of those wives. Shame on me.
  • Lunch meal eventually taken at 1pm after short nap.
  • Little master attempts to eat table on high chair.
  • Little master's nose comes off second best.
  • Tears.
  • AP rubs face, eye starts to twitch.
  • Red nose to accompany black eye.
  • Avocado and cream cheese in AP's hair.
  • Buddy dog munching on left over sandwich fallen on his head.
  • Grizzles continue into mid afternoon.
  • Eye continues to twitch.
  • Hair not looking any better.
  • Walk in pram to settle little master down with the aim of sleep.
  • Little master grizzles entire hour. Does not sleep.
  • AP turns earphones up and up..thongs cutting into feet. Sweat running down chest.
  • Home. Stinky. Discheveled. Both of us.
  • Wiggles on. Who cares. Milk feed. Ugg boots on, comforting sore feet.
  • Covers cake with chocolate frosting. Looks great. Hazzah. Slaps self on back.
  • Starts to get little master's dinner ready. Grizzles and rubbing of eyes coming from lounge room.
  • AP rubs face. Again.
  • Dinner almost finished.
  • Buddy dog walks slowly into kitchen.
  • AP looks. Holds breath. Says out loud 'just let it happen, it's ok'.
  • Buddy dog vomits substantially. It's green. It's lumpy. It's going to be ok. Cake unharmed.
  • Carries Buddy dog outside. He looks sad.
  • Hands and knees, cleans green vomit from tiles.
  • Washes hands for several minutes. Washes hands again. Finishes dinner.
  • Plonks grisly child into high chair. Feeds dinner.
  • Little master attempts to eat table again.
  • AP diverts attention away by playing aeroplane with spoonful of food.
  • Aeroplane crash lands into eyeball.
  • Fail. Tears.
  • Rubs face again.
  • Buddy peering through window.
  • Bath time.
  • Runs bath. Unwraps nappy from nudie rudie little master.
  • Greeted by the biggest, ugliest, meanest poo received in nine months. Introduction of cauliflower blamed and cursed.
  • Bath over. Dressed. Milk feed. Cuddle with Dad, goodnight to Buddy dog, goodnight to turtle, goodnight to the Hawks, bed. Sucking thumb.
  • Out like a light within four minutes.
  • AP notices poo on her forearm. Brilliant.
So there you have it folks. Hello Ladies Day!

Although I finished the day with bad hair, sore feet, tired eyes and a glass of wine in my hand I have a feeling there were plenty more Melbourne lasses doing the exact same thing.

The main difference though (aside from the poo on the arm..I hope) I get to do it all again tomorrow! And quite possibly with some leftover chocolate cake nearby.


Ch 38: When did I become such a...Mum?

The transition to impending motherhood wasn't exactly subtle – think bulging pregnancy belly, car seat fitted with dangly toys hanging from the window, pram parked in the hallway and a wardrobe full of oversized stretchy tops, pants, leggings and under dacks, more commonly referred to as overpriced maternity wear.

Yet since the little master arrived, the visible transition to real motherhood has occurred through actions and words rather than the obvious signs such as a screaming child hanging off my hip and vomit stains on every single piece of clothing.

Recently, dear husband and I went to the best house party we have ever experienced. Think huge marquee, staffed by waiters and waitresses, endless supply of champagne, amazing food, disco ball, fairly lights and fabulous music from the 70's and 80's. Fun fun fun!

The little master was tucked away in bed with a babysitter and was the last thing on my mind as I downed glass of bubbly after glass of bubbly.

A few hours in and after an impromptu dance of the tango with the hostess, dear husband pulled me aside and gave me that 'we should better hit the road' look.

AP: Noooooo! But I'm having SOOO much funnnn. And there's a disco ball!
DH: I know you are but we said we would have left by now...we need to let the babysitter get home.
AP: Oh boo hisss. Gulps remaining bubbly, shovels as many falafels into gob as humanly possible. Stumbles around dear friends saying goodbyes, loved them, missed them, loved them again, loved them even more. You're the best. No you're the best. Blows a kiss goodbye to the disco ball. Burps.

I knew we had to go and we had made the right decision, especially considering I had committed to a fun run the next morning. Yep, you read it right. Fun run hours after my first house party in goodness knows how long. Silly me.

The following day dear husband mentioned how he loved seeing the old AP back in action at the party. The old happy AP, having a few drinks, eating too much, chatting, laughing, telling bad jokes, making an ass of herself on the dance floor and making new friends where ever she goes.

I loved it too. I felt energised, happy and carefree (clearly very carefree considering how many falafels I devoured..not to mention the cheese..).

After wailing to dear husband about how I'm such a boring Mum now that does Mum like things, I pondered on how AP with a baby has now transformed into AP as a Mum.
  1. When greeting friends, replacing the welcoming peck on the cheek with an unexpected raspberry blowing session on friends belly. Followed by giggles from AP and then one very long and awkward moment.
  2. When clothes shopping, pushing tops aside that would show any sign of back fat, flobba dobba arms, stretch marks on hips or even the slightest chance of what was formerly known as a midriff, all whilst muttering obscenities about how the post baby body is all worth it.
  3. Finishing every verbal request from dear husband with 'Pur, Pur, Pleeeeassse?' Then barking on about how good manners is a sign of consideration and care for others / need to set good example now that we have a child / blah blah blah. Thank you.
  4. Celebrating Melbourne Cup Day at a BBQ with friends. Offered wine or beer. No thank you, soft drink for me please. Cries. But did you notice my manners? Impeccable.
  5. Replacing perfume and make up in the handbag with hand sanitizer gel and baby wipes. In fact, replacing handbag entirely with an oversized, bloody ugly nappy bag full of every single piece of baby like crap you can think of. Then times that by ten and lug that around for fun.
  6. From using Lucas' Papaw Ointment balm on my lips as a fabulous moisturiser to using Lucas' Papaw Ointment on everything that looks sore including nipples, lips and red bot bots. Including dear husband's....(sorry!).
  7. Regularly using the words 'bot bots'. Apparently the word 'bottom' is just not cute enough.
  8. Having a spare hour or two free inbetween feeds whilst dear husband looks after the little screamer and as such relishes the opportunity to spend every single moment.....in the stupidmarket. Runs wild down stupidmarket aisles, screaming 'I'm freee, I'm freee!'.
  9. Squealing with disgust at the scheduling of a netball final at the hideous hour of 9.00pm. Because 9.00pm is when I start the housework, you know?
Now I'll be honest, I haven't really greeted my friends with a raspberry. However the temptation has certainly been there and given another champagne or two at this party, it would have been raspberries for everybody! And quite possibly on their bot bot...


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