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?
Bahhh!

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.

Custard.

CUSSSS-TEEERRRD.

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.

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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.

 

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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.

What?

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.
Burp.

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!

 

 

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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.

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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 37: I wrote to the zoo to send me some....sanity.

Like many of us, when I was working full time, Sunday evening would arrive and with it, a serious case of the Sunday night blues. That sinking feeling of dragging your boring black leather heels through the concrete slabs that comprise the city. The Monday to Friday grind of time wasting meetings, office politics, managing up, managing down and moving briefs from one tray to another.

Now don't get me wrong, I do actually love my work. The sense of achievement, the relationship with my team mates, my portfolio of clients and the programs I manage.

It is the unavoidable incidentals such as the fast paced rat race, the hour long (on a good day) commute into the city and the small minority of challenging personalities that dampens the idea of rolling up on a Monday morning. And besides, weekends really are much more fun. I would so rather be on a long morning run than sitting idle on a freeway car park.

I am now ten months into a 13 month maternity leave arrangement from my workplace. The little master is nearing nine months old. He is growing and developing in leaps and bounds. On three solid meals a day plus milk feeds, he is sleeping all night, self feeding at lunch time, will take a bottle if I (heaven forbid) have a few hours away from him and is generally a very happy baby.

However, there's a slight issue. Upon starting my maternity leave, I relished in kissing the Sunday night blues away.

But they're back. Over the last few weeks they have started to rear their head again. In fact, today they crept in earlier once dear husband left for a Sunday afternoon golf game.

Like a toddler with my face pressed up against the window, I'm sure the neighbours could hear me wailing 'you're leaving me with him?! It's Sunday! But when will you be baaaackk?'*

It's not that I don't love the little master. I do, more than anything on this planet (sorry Buddy dog, you are a close second. Sorry dear husband, I guess that makes you a close third..?).

But it's official. I'm tired of looking after him 99 per cent of the time. I'm mentally fatigued, done with the nursery rhymes, the whining from new teeth pushing through those sore little gums, the repetitive mind numbing games and the busy yet mundane nature of feeding, settling, terribly bad singing, terribly bad dancing, bottom burps, banana vomits, banana and yoghurt vomits, face wiping and bum cleaning. Plus, if I have to read Dear Zoo one more time I think I'll end up in one.

Unlike my workplace, there are no pay rises for mothers at home, in line with CPI or workplace agreements. There are no formal performance reviews or opportunities for someone to sit down with you and tell you you're a superstar and that you're doing a marvellous job.**

Instead, many mothers at home, on a daily basis, grapple with the notion of being critiqued for our parenting styles, the size and shape of our baby, what they're eating, what they're not eating, are they crawling, are they walking, are they tap dancing yet..?

Although I have committed to seeing through my maternity leave arrangement, late last week I secured the little master a place in the most amazing child care facility for January 2013.

Whilst walking through the playground, the little master kicked his legs with excitement and I, holding back tears of relief, mentally wiped out the images of other centres we had toured through over recent weeks.

This was the Rolls Royce of centres. Amazeballs is an understatement. Plus it is less than a ten minute hop, step and wiggly jump from my work. And they have chickens. Real chickens...I know, I know.

I can't wait to send him there, to further develop those skills he has learnt at home and to flourish in a social, learning and nurturing environment. Did I mention the chickens?

As for me, bring on Monday mornings, my white crisp shirts, suit jackets, performance reviews, all day meetings, briefings, agendas, bits of paper.

Although it won't be easy and I can guarantee an array of tears from my behalf after dropping him off at childcare on day one, but I believe combining work and parenthood will make me a better mother and a better employee. I will value every moment I will share with the little master of a morning, night and on a weekend. I will work to live, not live to work and will very much look forward to reading Dear Zoo every single night. Over and over and over again.

* Dear husband did offer to cancel his golf game this afternoon out of respect for my sanity. However I refused his offer to stay at home, he too needs the time away to refresh himself..pity it takes five solid hours on a golf course to do so!

** Dear husband also does praise me every day and tells me I'm doing a great job. But as my husband, he has to do that...but I love him regardless. Thanks DH.

Oh, and I really do love Dear Zoo. That is all.

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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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Ch 32: We have a biter and it's not good.

Asleep. It's night time, another day over. Joy.

Well folks, it's official. We have a biter.

I previously wrote about my failure to recognise the little master's first round of teething and as such received a welcome gift from his new white sparkly mates upon arrival. A bite whilst feeding.

It happened once. I went cross at him. He smiled. Thought it was hilarious. I frowned. Life went on.

One week passed and it happened again. In the parents room of a major shopping centre of all places. Lucky me. I went cross again and ended the feed.

Third time round at home, he ended up on the floor with a cross Mum and scared Buddy dog hovering nearby. He then rolled onto his tummy for a play and barfed up his feed. Great! What a waste and more washing for me. Ahh laundry, something different to occupy my day. (insert roll of the eye balls here).

Fourth time round, he got a slight pinch on the arm, a cross Mum, an early end to the feed and straight onto the floor, again with a frightened Buddy dog hiding under his day bed. Yet, the little master gazed into my eyes with a half smile, half not quite ready to get upset, not really sure what is going on kind of look. Got it? Good.

Each feed is now met with sweaty palms, an increased heart rate and not to mention deprivation of oxygen to the brain, as the only method of bracing myself for the imminent pain is to hold my breath. Sounds fun, doesn't it?

I am 7.5 months into feeding the little master and have every intention of continuing until 12 months. I have busted my chops to feed and to feed well over this time. I'm not willing to let this beat me. I can't. I won't.

In fact, over recent weeks I had thought I would continue for a few months beyond one year. Believe it or not, I actually enjoy it..gasp! If you had of told me that during his two, four and six week growth spurts I would have thrown my nipple shield at you. Wha? Too much again? Sorry.

Ok fine, I would have thrown a breast pad at you..bang! Better? Hur? Worse? Oh. My bad.

Anyway nipple shields and breast pads aside, my gut feeling is that I'm in a bit of trouble. I will continue to cut short the feeds, put on my best angry face whilst blubbering a few stern words to the little master, who by now, is sitting on the floor wondering whether or not he should laugh or cry. Or do a bit of both.

Wish me luck.

In the meantime, if you have any suggestions on how to combat this, please drop me a line.

Buddy dog will be forever grateful!

Awake already..resettling on his own. Guess who is teething again? I know, I know..the timing. Hillare. Not.

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Ch 24: What's with the sour face?

 

Awake, kicking in his bouncer.

We have just arrived home from a lunch date to a new local cafe with our dear friend and bub.

And when I say just arrived home I meant it. Wha? You're typing already?

Yes indeed, I need to get this down whilst the steam was still filtering from my ears.

Girls, women, ladies, mothers. I ask – when did we lose the sisterhood?

When did we stop looking out for each other?

Ok, pipe down AP. Breathe..breathe. Fine.

As I said, the little master and I wondered off to check out a new cafe in town with his super cute mate, Mr F and his mother. Excited by the prospect of chowing down a hearty lunch with great views of the city, not to mention fabulous company, we had an extra spring in our step as we arrived.

Situated in a new housing development, it was relatively quiet for a Thursday lunchtime. Even better, me thinks. Quick service and we can have the place to ourselves.

Almost.

The 'baby on board' stickers upon several cars parked out the front suggested we weren't the only mums getting out of the house today. Not a problem from my end, happy to coo over other gorgeous bubbas.

Yet my entry to the cafe was not met by the same warm welcome.

AP (standing in the cafe entrance, dear friend holding the door open for me): 'Excuse me, sorry can you please..umm excuussse me? Hello? I just need to pop past..excuse me?'

We've all been there right? Not that hard to move slightly to the side to allow someone to get past.

But did you experience this?

Sour faced looking mother eventually manages to glance in my direction, gives me a look that suggested I was a filthy whorebag and how dare I even attempt getting past with my pram.

 

How dare I.

 

And yes, I said whorebag.

Her response: 'You just need to move the chair..' (picture said sour faced mother condescendingly instructing me to move the chair which was actually right next to her and was also pressed up against a toddler. With reluctance, but still with a half smile on my face, I moved the chair. Sorry kid).

Stuck. Still.

AP (embarrassed, slightly frustrated but with smile still on face): 'I'm sorry, I still can't get through..?'

By this stage there were now three mothers pretending I didn't exist or need any assistance, rolling their eyes still refusing to budge or move another chair or, heaven forbid, touch their designer nappy bag.

Enter mother number four who has just ordered from the counter, on her way back: 'Here, let me help you as she guided the front of my pram through their marked territory'.

Unfortunately her tone also reeked of reluctance, abruptness and basically down right cat like behaviour to be completely honest.

With the smile still etched on my face and with dear friend behind me (there was no room for her to get past and assist...just in case you were wondering), we took the three whole steps past the group, who were now tucking into a bottle of Sauvignon Blanc, and gracefully thanked mother number four for her assistance which was 'much appreciated'.

Unbeknown to me, but on the record from my dear friend, the cat like snarls continued to burn in the back of my head as we made our way to a table.

How sad.

Was it something I said? Something I did? All I did was turn up to a cafe with a pram, just like they did.

Although we were both shocked and quite pissed off by what we just encountered, we carried on and had a great lunch.

The service was lovely, the food was fresh and tasty and the coffee really hit the spot. Winner.

But what I shame I still managed to leave with such a sour taste in my mouth.

Asleep  now in his bed. Heavy rain outside, how timely as a thundery storm is about to pass.

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Ch 22: Then he bit me

Well we have had milestones galore coming out our nappies over the last three weeks.

Some good, some not so good.

Remember our first cold? That was nasty.

But now we're goober free and sleeping much longer at night – bliss!

Then there were the reflections on the past six months. Not to mention the increasing array of pureed vegetable and fruity goodness now in the little masters diet.

Mr Potato is still prancing around with Miss Pumpkin AND Ms Carrot..(man whore..) and the little master is growing every day.

But behind the scenes something else was going on. Something pretty significant. Something I was secretly dreading.

When we were knocked down by our first cold, we introduced our new friend the Vicks Vaporizer to the household. As pleased as I am with the warm vicks like smells drifting through the house (insert reliving childhood here), I did have a rant (or ten) to my dear husband about how disappointed I was that it didn't seem to be making any difference to his night time wakings.

I was convinced it would cure the stuffy nose and help the little master sleep longer and re-settle easier of a night time, however comfort feed after comfort feed for ten nights, I succumbed to the fact that this winter bug had won hands down.

But I was wrong. Silly Mum. Here we go again..

It wasn't just the cold causing the pain.

A few days ago I caught glimpse of the little masters new mates. Two white sparkly teeth.

Yes, not one but two of the little fellas pushing through his bottom gums.

Well hi there! Welcome!

Finally, it all made sense. The grizzles, the crankiness, the night time wakings. The poor little thing had tooth pain.

With my proud and excited Mum hat on, I sat the little master up in his bouncer and like a zoo keeper prying open the jaws of a crocodile, I had to have a feel of the teeth just to make sure I wasn't dreaming.

Oh yes, there they are! Picture this - squealing AP dancing around the pissed off little master who was wondering what the heck is wrong with his mother and why did she have her hands down his gob?!

To repay me for the unwelcome dental inspection, the little master decided to give me a small gift the following day.

My first bite.

No, don't goo and gahh. He didn't bite me on the hand ok.. Ever heard of the term nipple cripple? Well times that pain by ten. Actually no, make that 20. Oh and perform the cripple with a set of sharp pliers. Get my drift? Oh yeah..I can hear you cringe from here.

Ouch!

Awake and ready for a feed...eeek!

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Eighteen

Awake. Kicking in his bouncer.

What a sad day. It's still early on this beautiful Sunday morning but it is with a heavy heart I bid farewell to a dear friend.

So long chocolate egg.

We've had some great times. From chasing my siblings around the farm looking for you hiding in every nook and cranny on Easter Sunday, to enjoying you with a glass of red of an evening after dinner.

You have served me well, kept me sane at times and have provided me with a much needed reward after a long day.

But it's time to part.

Was it something I said? Something I did?

Who knows. All I really know is that it is over. For now.

Today started so well. The little master slept through to 5.30am. After his feed he went back to sleep until 7.15am.

Then it turned ugly.

The projectile vomit had covered the little master's sleeping bag, pyjamas, sheets and the cot railings. Not to mention in his ears. I know, how awful.

Why chocolate egg? Why did you have to target his little ears? So mean.

But how could a chocolate egg do such a thing you ask?

Let's take a step back. Now that the little master is feeding on solids, last night I opened an Easter gift containing a Disney Cars cutlery set with a chocolate egg.

With the bowl, spoon and cup now washed and in the cupboard ready to use, I eggerly, sorry eagerly, ripped open the egg and happily munched on the chocolaty goodness after dinner.

With my recent conversion to soy milk after learning that cows milk upsets the little masters tummy, I failed to realise that perhaps the milk solids in the egg may wreak havoc the following day.

Oops. My bad.

On a positive note, the little master is fine. Who would have thought he could vomit with such a big grin on his chubby face. And to get a bath first thing in the morning, well hasn't all his Easters arrived at once!

Anyway, back to my broken friendship. Hopefully one day, I can make peace with the chocolate egg and we can meet again.

But for now, it's over man. You mess with my little boy, you mess with me. Move on egg. 

*Sniff*

Awake, ready for his morning nap.

Let's hope he wakes vomit free.

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Seventeen

Asleep. It's lunchtime.

I'm baaack. What a week, one I'd rather forget.

Think – sore head, snotty nose, chesty cough, cloudy head, itchy eyes.

The dreaded winter cold hit our household and it hit in a big way.

First it was dear husband then one week later myself and the little master out for the count.

Buddy dog managed to escape it, lucky him. Speaking of such, we finally got around to dragging his little paws off to the vet for his annual health check up and vaccinations. The end result – a picture of canine health! Yay for us, we're not bad parents after all! Even though he was shaking on the vet's table, fearing a bad report card.

Anyway, back to our winter bug. It left us tired and drained. But one week on we finally had a decent nights sleep. No more comfort feeding at 10pm, 12am and 3am. Not to mention all day grizzles, saline nose drops, an endless array of tissues and a little bit of children's panadol.

Although there are still remnants of the bug hanging around, the coast is relatively clear. Even more exciting is no more cabin fever. We left the house today and I'm off to play netball tonight. Joy. Bliss.

Plus, we made a new friend. Welcome to the household Mr Vicks Vaporizer.

You smell sooo good.

On other news, the little master has officially passed the six month mark and we are celebrating with daily serves of rice cereal.

Now don't you taste sooo good. Sure...

However one such rather nasty consequence of the introduction of solids...Mr P is now not only an even more regular annoying little ferret but one rank smelling 'friend'.

Yes, I used the word rank. Don't judge me. I think it should be used more often.

'That poo smelt rank'.

'The harsh comments being made about Olympic swimmer Leisel Jones is just rank'.

'The attitude of the salesperson who knocked on my door trying to get me to change energy providers, again, was really rank.'

You see?

Or maybe the result of long term sleep deprivation is starting to rear its rank little head...

Asleep. Still. Second cycle. Joy.

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Fifteen

Awake. Muttering to himself, looking at his hands.

So earlier this week I may have offended someone.

It looks at though our favourite friend, the poo, who we shall now refer to as Mr P, caught wind (pun absolutely intended) of my harsh review of his antics.

Clearly upset with his tainted reputation, today it was game on.

It started fairly. He made an appearance at the little masters aunt's house during a morning play session with his cousin. It was a little unwelcome, especially up the back and onto the singlet. That's kind of annoying, even more so when the spare singlet in the nappy bag was used the day prior. With little time up my sleeve this morning, I didn't replace it.

AP:0, Mr P: 1

Oops, oh well, it's no big deal. All changed and clean, we carried on just without a singlet under his top. Completely under control.

Until that is, once we were at home and with the little master sitting on my lap, I thought 'I should really get a singlet on him'.

Literally 10 seconds later, I felt the warm patch appear on my lap.

Ohh he's done a wee. Sigh, rolls the eyes, that's ok little master.

Until I realised I was wrong. Very wrong.

Mr P had reared his ugly head again, up the back for round two and all over my favourite blue jeans. Then just to make his point, a couple of blobs on the carpet.

AP:0, Mr P: 2

In all honesty (and I may regret being too honest here) my main concern wasn't necessarily with the little master – he was fine, much lighter and happier. But me – my jeans! Not my jeans, I love these jeans, please don't bring them into it. It's not fair. This is not fair game!

Asleep.

Within moments the little master was lying safely on the floor, bare bottom wrapped in a sheet, kicking happily.

Thank goodness he was blissfully unaware of his mother running around the house with no pants on, frantically emptying the pockets, throwing them in the machine, then like a germ obsessed mad woman, on her hands and knees (still pantless) scrubbing the floor with baby wipes.

Baby wipes? Yes, I know. Apparently pressure produces diamonds. Well not in this case, it was my only option at the time ok!

Once the little master was changed (again), resettled by his still pantless mother, I gathered my thoughts, slipped my trakkie dacks on (about time) and remembered the carpet spot cleaner in the laundry.

Gold! Actually no, it's orange. The magnificent Orange Power.

Back on my hands and knees scrubbing frantically, I then managed to pin point other stains I just couldn't leave behind. Buddy dog stains, shoe stains, baby vomit stains. Then my obsessive side really kicked in and in no time it was as if we had brand new carpet. Thanks Orange Power, you're the best!

But I wasn't satisfied. Mr P's presence remained; I could still smell him when I re-entered the room. I'll give it another charge of this stuff, it's worked a treat everywhere else.

By this stage the windows were open, Buddy had retreated to another room in disgust and I was left scratching my head wondering why I could still smell it.

Then I glanced at him.


Kicking away in his bouncer, chomping on his Sophie le Giraffe, happy as.

Surely not. Couldn't be. Really?

I was two sets down and really thought it was the best of three. Mr P had won, it was game over. I didn't want to play anymore.

Looks like it was the best of five sets.

He had arrived again but in a much more civilised manner. He knew I was tired, had had enough. But needed to win one last point.

AP: 0, Mr P: 3

Game, set, match, championship. Whatever.

It was my turn to pick up my bat and ball and go home.

At least this time I had my pants on.

Asleep.

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