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.

 

 

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Ch 34: Whoa, check out those snowballs

My dear husband, the little master and I recently had dinner at a friends house. Another couple with a family, lovely pair, beautiful kids and a great home. We are, however, still getting to know each other.

So waltzing in without knocking, helping myself to their finest drop then kicking back on their couch, whilst wrestling their ten year old son to the ground is kind of not where we are at yet.

It was a mad scramble to time our arrival to a tee so that we could set the little master up in his portacot and wind down for his usual bed time. He was perfect, went down so easily without a fuss so his parentals could get stuck into a scrumptious roast dinner.

Yet only a few minutes prior, rather than settling into the conversation around the kitchen bench about the usual – work, kids, school, I found myself trying to come up with complimentary comments about the hostess' bust size.

What?

I know, I know..how does this happen literally only a few moments after arriving you ask?

It was a bit of a blur. I do recall the hostess receiving a photo text message – an image of her friends new errr...'girlfriends' she recently paid $10,000 for.

Then the hazy words such as lopsided, breastfeeding, three kids, double D, wow and Thailand were also thrown around.

Picture AP: nodding, ah ha, oh, yes, hmmm, wow, ah ha, right.

Oh look, the little master is riding your dog, excuse me a moment.

Gives dear husband desperate look of OMG WTF?!

Retrieves little master and scurries off to the spare room to put him to bed.

Baby in bed, dinner time. Great. Footy half an hour away from starting. Wine poured. Brilliant. Awkward lopsided boob conversation over. Even better.

With a mouthful of roast potatoes, we manage to keep the conversation to pretty stock standard topics – footy finals, childcare updates, local suburb issues, mutual friends. You know, the usual, boring comfortable stuff. Not a lopsided boob comment in sight.

After retiring to the couch to watch the footy final, the wine and beers continued to flow. And so did the marshmallow snowballs. Yum!

With half an ear tuned into the footy commentary I continued to chat smalltalk with the hostess whilst the boys muttered throwaway remarks regarding free kicks, goal reviews and umpires.

Then it happened.

She said the unthinkable.

The one thing every teenage boy, actually make that ten year old boy, would curl up and hibernate under their doona forever for.

Hostess (gin and tonic in hand): We've caught him playing with himself before. He's only ten.

AP: chokes on marshmallow snowball.

Hostess (takes another swig of the hard stuff): It's not my role to chat to him. It's up to HIM to do it (points to husband who has no idea of new found responsibility, barking obscenities at the TV)

AP: barfs up snowball onto the carpet, dear husband patting her back.

Hostess: They're starting so much earlier these days, if he wants to do that then fine, but he needs to know what it means.

AP (swigs wine): nodding, ah ha, oh, yes, hmmm, wow, ah ha, right.

It kept going. The topic then changed to her teenage daughter and how many bases she had covered with her boyfriend of six months.Wow.

For someone I hardly knew it was too much. Far too much information. On the back of the awkward boob conversation upon arrival, plus the ten year old son discovering his man bits, I just didn't feel comfortable enough to contribute or suggest how they should tackle such issues. It just didn't feel like it was any of my business.

So I sat back and listened, nodded, ahhed, ummed and devoured copious amounts of snowballs and red wine.

I figured, maybe it was just something she needed to talk about and get off her ummm..chest?

Pun unintentional. But it's there. 

The footy finished, we cleaned up, woke the little master, thanked our hosts for a great time and dear husband drove us home. 

Upon our return, dear husband pleaded with me: 'when the little master is a teenager can we not discuss his err...habits with our friends? Pur-leeease AP?!'

Agreed. In fact, two big snowballs to that.

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Thirteen

Awake. Both arms out of the swaddle. Muttering to himself.

Bloggers block. What to write about..

It's been a quiet week resulting in a quiet brain. Focusing on day sleeps transitioning the little master out of his swaddle. Fun times. Not.

Last week it was his right arm out. Regular sleep and resettling on his own achieved with great success.

Yesterday, full of confidence, both arms came out. 'He'll be in his sleeping bag in no time,' I ranted to my dear husband.

Morning sleep was perfect. Happy as, barely a whimper, asleep within ten minutes.

Lunchtime sleep. Bloody nightmare.

I won't mention how long he whinged for. Let's just say for the first time in weeks and weeks I found myself pacing up and down the hallway pulling hair out by the fist full wondering if it was too early for a drink, chanting 'short term pain, long term gain!'

After err.. 'some time', we waved the white flag and abandoned ship. Put the little master back with the one arm out for some well needed rest - for both of us.

He woke after one sleep cycle, happy as Larry (who the heck is Larry by the way?!), fed, changed then off for a late..quite late lunch down by the water.

Some much needed fresh air, laughs and giggles at the duckies plus a hearty chicken burger with greasy fries did the trick.

It was, of course, a decoy to avoid another sleep at home. So the afternoon nap was had in the pram whilst I contemplated how cold the ocean was that day.

Kidding...as I said it was all magically fixed with a chicken burger. Burpety burp.

On the upside, it is day two with both arms out and the little master is asleep. Morning was perfect and lunchtime (current) not far behind.

Better well stay that way because not only do I have bald patches on my head, there's not a chicken burger in sight!

Asleep. With both arms out. Joy.

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Ten

Reflections on the previous night

6.30pm

Asleep

11.30pm

Awake, whinge, whinge, whinge. No intervention from me.

11.40pm

Asleep

11.45pm

Beep beep! Text message from drunk dear husband: 'will get a cab home'

1.35am

Beep beep! Text message from drunk annoying husband: 'can't get a cab! Still waiting'

1.46am

Beep beep! Text message from drunk he is in so much trouble for waking me again husband: 'in a cab, on my way!'

2.10am

Drunk husband stumbles in, blabbering incoherently about some horse winning at Ascot..

5.00am

Awake, change, feed, asleep

Ah yes, not a typo. First feed at 5am.

5am I tellsya!

7.30am

Awake, change, smiles

It could have been the greatest night sleep in five months.

Thanks drunk dear husband. Thanks.*

*On the upside at least he was responsible enough to leave the car and grab a cab home. Thanks drunk responsible husband! I'll catch up on sleep another time..

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Two

Asleep.

It's night time, which means a good long sleep for him and a glass of wine for me. Joy. Always conscious of the beautiful dark and warm red vino leaving my system before his overnight feed usually results in a small glass guzzled with a hearty meal of carbohydrates. However if I overindulge with two glasses I will wake up gingerly accompanied by a headache. How embarrassing, such a lightweight now. Contrary to my past.

Ah yes, my past. Fun. Carefree. Social. Wasted? Don't think so. Perhaps self indulgent to an extent. If I wanted to do something, little would stop me. Fortunately I have an amazing husband who has only ever been supportive of my personal interests and ambitions. Some costing us a few dollars along the way (think last minute interstate trips for footy finals, Crawf's 300^th game in Tassie, cutting back work hours to go back to study..oh the list goes on and on).

But we had the means to do it. I worked hard, very hard and played hard too. I rewarded myself with experiences, not clothes or materialistic goods. With memories that will stay with me forever.

Memories. Friday nights at the local. Beer with hot chips. Salt and vinegar chips as an entree. Chicken parmas. More beer. The occasional cheeky dart. Footy on the telly. John behind the bar. Helping the elderly man from his bar stool to the taxi week in week out. Red wine. Mates. Laughter. Dusty hangovers.

 

Present. Friday nights in bed at 9pm. Bum cream. Nursing pads. Sophie the Giraffe teething toy. Baby time sessions at the library. Sleep cycles. Nursery rhymes. Burping. Coffee dates with new mums. Pram in the car. Pram out of the car. Smiles. Cries. Sleep deprivation. Pram friendly cafes. Feet tickles. Poo explosions. Apologising for cancelling..again. Bad hair. Jealous dog.

This is it, for now. Perhaps I wasn't ready to let go of my former self. I miss my friends, my workmates, my footy crew, my reliability and belonging where I was comfortable. Although they haven't disintegrated , things have changed. Getting out and about can be hard. At times it's a huge effort that not many appreciate or could understand. It can be isolating and confronting when you realise who your true friends are.

On the upside I have a beautiful and healthy little fella who is reliant on me for the best start in life. What an overwhelming responsibility. New friends have emerged. Friends in similar situations, sharing the same experiences, the ups and the downs. The fun times and the bad times. We're in it together. Smile as we wipe the milk vomit off our pyjamas at 4am. Be thankful.

Welcome to the club. There's only one way in and no way out.

Asleep. Still.

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