Perfectly Imperfect

Awww....

I'm not too sure my husband would think of saying anything like that to me. His brain is made up of work, tennis, football, work, work, expenses, work, career (there's a difference) and family. He knows I'm here today. He knows I'll be here tomorrow. He told me he loved me by marrying me. He's not that romantic. No. But he's pretty bloody awesome despite the lack of romance and I love him.

Tim is far far far from perfect. Faaaarrrrrrrr from perfect. He snores. Fuck me does he snore. He snores so bad that we can't share a room, and some nights I really don't want to share the same house. He makes smells as regularly as clockwork. He leaves for work by 6am and comes home anywhere between 7pm and 8pm. He sometimes comes home a grumpy sonofabitch, growls at the kids, eats, gets into his Homer Simpson-esque groove on the couch, surfs the channels, settling on the same ol' same ol' of tennis or AFL replays, and falls asleep. Rarely do we have a conversation in the evenings. There is one recurring chitchat - my excessive use of Facebook & blogging. So there you have it. The longest bloody excuse of why you haven't been reading many blogs of mine lately. I've been trying to spend some time with him, next to him, on the couch while he snores.

Like I said, he works too bloody long, but it really could be worse. He is one of the few solicitors who actually goes home before the morning sun rises to start another asshat of a day. He always goes in to check on the kids - all five of them, including the smelly one - before he curls up on the couch for a broken sleep of 6 hours. If he's lucky.

Some days, I resent him. Some days I hate him. Some days I wonder why the hell I'm still here. I'm jealous that he gets to go away from this shitsville of ours for 7 hours a day and sometimes more. I see how far far far from perfect he is. And it irritates me and grinds on me and makes me feel all stabby. And then I realise this...

I am far far far far from perfect. Faaaarrrrrr from perfect.

And in Tim's imperfection, I see just how perfect he is. Awww. 

So, as it is Father's Day here in Australia, I want to share my appreciation of the father of my five ferals.

Tim, you get up at stupid o'clock to get on a train that takes you to work with other overtired, hard working city people an hour away. You sit in an office dealing with idiots-with-money and idiots-with-power and thank Jebus for the couple of friends there that make the day tolerable. You eat lunch at your desk. If you're lucky, you might go for a walk around the block. You get on a crowded train packed with overtired, irritable hard working city people, and travel the hour back home while standing beneath the underdeodorised armpits of death.

You walk in the door to an explosion of filth, toys, tears, screams and profanity, and a dinner that is cold. I tell you how fucked up my day was with those shits of kids of ours. You see bills, school fundraising requests, excursions to be paid, more bills, appointments, things that need fixing, things that need replacing and things that we bought with the dollars you earn. Syphoned of energy and money, you play with Baby Scarlett for a few minutes, ask the big kids about their day, read a story or sing a song to the Wondertwins, feed the cats and dog, and fall asleep on the couch. On Saturdays, you play tennis all afternoon, come home and sleep in front of the tennis, AFL replays or music videos of the 80s. There you will snore and snore loudly. And because you don't want to keep me, or Scarlett, awake you don't sleep in our room. It's been two years on the couch. Happy anniversary for that, by the way.

Without you doing this day in and day out, we would not have this house. We would not have the cars. We would not have food on the table or the clothes that we wear. We would not have the little luxuries that keep all of us entertained. We would not have me staying at home raising our five kids. Five kids. Five. At home. Dammit.

You have seen me at my worst. You've seen me cry in pain and cry in anguish. Seen me deteriorate mentally. Seen me taken to hospital too many times. Seen me double in size. And yet here you are.

Today, on Father's Day, you spent time with your kids, and you wanted to. You gave me a break. I'm not complaining...    

               

You are so far from perfect, Tim. We're a match made in heaven.





By the way...
I'm in the Circle of Moms 'Top 25 Australian Moms' blogger contest. If you like what I write in my blog, and you'd like to help an Aussie chick out, click on this linky Top 25 Australian Moms and click on vote! Simples! 
You'll find lots of other awesome blogs there, too.

Jackpot!

I've just won the lottery!

Ha! I wish!

Would it change me? 
Nah...
But I probably wouldn't have time for you anymore.

After locking up my modest suburban house and changing my phone number, I would slink out of this little town called Melbourne and hide from all of you wanting a slice of my pie. 

MY pie.

Some of you need money way more than I do, and for some of you a little bit of my fortune would change your life forever. But I wouldn't want to play favourites. So it's probably for the best that I don't start sharing.

And what have the charities done for me except call me while I'm scoffing my hot meal in my warm and comfortable home?

So, with my loose change I would make small modifications to my current lifestyle.

I'd go from this:

...that somedays feels like this:

...and downsize it to this:

The Bugatti Veyron. The second most expensive car money
can buy. I don't want to show off. And the best thing?
Only seats two.

I'd move from this:

...to this:

I'd trade this:

...and get me one of these:

I'd go from this:

...to this:

I've hidden her identity as I don't want
people to know it's Mila Kunis.

Take my kids from government schools:

...and stick dump throw hide enrol them in a 

brilliant Boarding School far, far away, like this one:

Institut auf dem Rosenberg, Switzerland

Instead of holidaying like this:

...I'd go here:

Canada

...or here:

Tahiti

And instead of having these:

winetimes.com

...I'd have a couple of these:

mtviewestate.com.au

Nah...just kidding. There's some family I'd throw a couple of bucks to, and some friends. I'm sure I'd make lots of new friends very quickly after winning the lottery, and find some friends I haven't heard of in many many years in the process - some I bet I didn't even know I had.

What's the first thing you'd do if you won a stupid amount of pretend money and lived in La-La-Land with me? 

Linking up with Deb at Home Life Simplified's Listmania.

Suburban Housewife

Sitting here on the computer, slowly getting slushy from the cheap Moscato I bought earlier when the kids were doing my head in, I'm thinking I've got all this stay-at-home-housewify thingy worked out. I figure Step One in this revelation is to drink more. How good do kids look when you've had a glass or three? Their cheeks are so mooshy, their smells are less offensive and their bickering suddenly dissolves into a light, crisp and fruity palate state of mind.

Lately (and I mean in the last 24 hours) I've come to the conclusion that there must be five types of housewife - The Liar, The Illusionist, The Magician, The Naturalist and The Beyond Care.

The Liar

These women have the perfect house, husband, kids and menus. Their houses are immaculate - not a speck of dust, dirt or urine to be found. Or so they say. Many of these model mums can be found hiding behind a keyboard updating their Facebook statuses or blogs with how wonderful their lives are. And we fall for it. And we rate our own lives on it. Their husbands cook them delicious breakfasts in bed without needing a reason, they know how to use a washing machine and a potato peeler and don't fart in their presence. Their children are clean, respectful, complete their homework the day they receive it and also don't fart in their presence. Their menus are planned a month in advance, are all natural and well presented. I have no doubt that many of these perfect mums are lying liars who are lying through their lie holes and are as reliable as a sleazy adult phone chat chick at $4.95 per minute. You believe she's a sexy blonde with big chumbawumbas because she said so. Why would she lie?

I would be The Liar in a heartbeat, if I knew none of you knew me.

The Illusionist

The Illusionist often talks about how she busted her arse at home this morning, putting things away and in their place. Yes, she has avoided telling a lie. She has been putting a packet of Tim Tams away while watching Ellen, and has put the hired cleaner in her place for not scrubbing the toilet hard enough. There are two types of Illusionist. One is embarrassed to have a cleaner and the other will proudly say it's worth every cent. You will often be asked to a Illusionist's house just after the cleaner has left. I couldn't have a cleaner. I would be manic (see the next category) and clean my shit-hole to an inch of its life so the cleaner wouldn't think I was the filthy slob with feral children that I really am. In reality though, I would really, really love a cleaner. But I feel the money I save in not having one can be spent more wisely on medication and wine. And wine makes the house sparkle.

I could happily be The Illusionist.

The Magician

The phone rings, the heart pumps, the I'm-in-the-area/coffee morning/playgroup visit will be at The Magician's house in an hour. Pacing the kitchen floor chanting fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck will not help The Magician in the long run. She needs to think quickly and creatively. What rooms will they not need to see? What crap can be stuffed in the dryer? I won't need the oven, will I? Does the toilet reveal the stains and strains of last night's Mexican meal?Strategically placed toys, ornaments and books can instantly conceal the layer of dust and crumbs from view, leaving you time to sweep the floor and push it deeper under the couch just out of sight. The Magician is sweating and racing around like a teen on speed at a music festival. A quick spritz of lavender air freshener to hide the decomposing rubbish in the bin and the recently changed nappy containing a horrendous number three from your teething baby, and you're ready to go. Then they're fucking late.

Sounds like I know what I'm talking about? Yep. I am The Magician.

The Naturalist

I met a Naturalist once. This type of housewife is organic, calm and centred. Her children could throw poo on the ceiling and she would call it self-expression. Her house is chaotic, borderline hygienic and almost odour free, as her children roam naked from the waist down and use her garden as their toilet. Her calming and welcoming approach to everything makes you not even realise you are sitting in an over-cluttered, mud-smudged, compost bin of a home. And that's strangely comforting. It is a home. You'll need to step over the toys and plates of unfinished food, and move the pile of washing to one side of the couch to sit down, but because The Naturalist isn't terribly bothered by the sight of life happening before her eyes, you're not bothered either. And you feel content knowing that your home is not much different, with or without the semi naked kids using your azaleas as a urinal. Most of us are innate Naturalists. But we impose such pressure on ourselves by reading about The Liars and knowing some Illusionists, that we become the Magicians. We need to embrace our inner Naturalist and go with the flow of raising children and running a house. 

I would like to feel the serenity of The Naturalist.

The Beyond Care

These housewives couldn't give a shit about the three month old opened milk carton on the lounge room floor, the pile of cat poo behind the TV or that you need to cover your mouth and nose when you walk in the door. If this is the impression you get from the entrance, you'd better be able to hold your bladder. The stack of old newspapers and bags of used nappies as you walk up to the front door should've been warning enough. Gee, is that the time? I just remembered something I forgot. Let's do this again real soon. At my house this time.

I sometimes feel I am heading down this path, and then my self-respect kicks in and I'm happy being The Magician.

Of course, there are just well organised people who can keep on top of the daily maintenance of a house. Their homes are tidy and sanitary. Some are sterile. But it all fits together for them. No need to be The Liar. They don't need to be The Illusionist or even The Magician. But they can simply get their shiz together in small steps everyday. Yes, I am jealous. 

What housewife are you?

Home

I am only just coming to terms with living in this dog's breakfast of a house, that I have started calling it a home. My home.

My home has been my home from the age of 1 when my parents had it built with the help of the Department of Veteran's Affairs. That's as good a handshake you'd get for serving in Vietnam back in the early 70s. My parents built it with gold glass sliding doors, wood panelling, mission brown paint work and khaki carpet, and Tim and I have only changed it in the last five years and it's still a work in progress.

It is the house I grew up in, the house we lived in as a family and then as a broken family, and the house my mum spent her last few days in.

I've come full circle and I'm raising my family in it now. But moving here with my family couldn't make it my home. It wasn't mine and it didn't feel like mine. It had gone back to being a house.

And now, after years of changing it from the house I grew up in to the home I will make for my family, I have favourite places and spaces I love. 

My computer. Oh, I lurve my computer.
Sorry Timbo, but the computer sees more of me than you do.
I also love my wine bottles I have in various places around the house.
I really do look like a drunkard.

My bed. Especially without Scarlett, but I secretly don't mind her being there.
It's the place that Mumma watches her stories and is not to be disturbed.
It is also iPad zone. And the bedroom is multifunctional -
it's a bedroom/spare room/laundry in one! Jealous?

The Wondertwins cell. It's certainly the prettiest room in the house. This is an old photo of their room as I couldn't get in there through the disaster zone to take a photo. Not that you'd be able to see their beds or floor anyway...
I like this room because it is at the far end of the house. Need I say more?

How good is it that the shine from the window hides the thick layer of dust?
And the sticky mess on the floor to the right of Scarlett's little chubby legs - can barely see it!
I love my TV and my TV loves me.
It not only has my programmes on the Foxtel storage, but it gives me respite from the Wondertwins. And, as you may have read in past posts, I really really need it. 

My kitchen. The heart of my house. Despite having desks in their bedrooms, this is where the homework gets done at the last minute, masterpieces of art are created, meals are rejected, friends gather, and mummy drinks her tequila. 

Did I say 'masterpieces'? I meant 'mess'.

My new garden in the making down the side of the house.
Grace looks like a boy taking a wizz and Lily is the shy one.

This is my new favourite place. I love having a BBQ
and sipping on a wine or four under twinkling stars.

And here ends our tour of my abode. I managed to avoid showing you the bloody battles and filth that normally makes up my home. Yay for me! 

Have a peek at other blogger's homes and favourite things at Home Life Simplified's Listmania link up. And then back to me, me, me at Cut My Milk Facebook page. I have now posted some photos of what my house looks like on a regular day, room to room. Trust me - this is therapeutic for both of us!


And please leave me a comment - good or bad - I'd love to hear from you!

My bucket list - in reverse

My Listmania exercise for this week is to write a 'Reverse Bucket List' - a list of all the awesome things I have already done - to celebrate my life. That's a very interesting task for a person with depression. In the wrong frame of mind, I will tell you that nothing interesting or awesome or successful has happened in my life, and that I am just going through the motions until the end of this perpetual nightmare. I know perfectly well that my life has been filled to the brim with wow factors, amazing experiences and personal triumphs. And when we link our blogs on Deb's Home Life Simplified website, we will all see that it is not simply moments of perfection, but more of personal bests and dreams that have come true. One person's 'normality' may be another's person's 'celebration'. 

If I EVER had my own classroom again, this would be on my door.

We spend so much of our time and energy on trying to be the best, to win, to perfect, to achieve, to travel to exotic places, to be rich, to be popular and in doing this we lose sight of all the brilliant things we do have and have done.

I still want to be rich, though.

So, here's a list of stuff I've done in my 41 years that I think were awesome moments in time and that you should think I'm awesome for achieving.

• I was one of the school captains of my primary school.

• I won the Drama Award in Year 12. I think that might be the non-academic version otherwise known as 'Student Who Consistently Brought Fruit For Recess Award'.

• I won a trip to Disneyland when I was in Year 12 (a competition on the TV show 'The Wonderful World of Disney') and despite having to take my family including my Grandma, I had an awesome time. A highlight was when my Grandma, little sister and I went to Mexico and my Grandma - bless her - wouldn't buy bottles of tequila with worms in them for me as I was a minor in the eyes of the States. She got nervous buying the alcohol and thought she was aiding and abetting a 'minor' and abandoned ship. Yes... bless her.

• I became a primary school teacher, teacher of the deaf, and started my masters degree. 

• I performed in some local theatre company's performances. I wish I could do that again. Something I thought I was really good at. Sigh.

• Won a Logie and was nominated for Best Supporting Actress in... (oh, wait, sorry that hasn't happened. Yet.)

• Moved with Tim (my boyfriend) to Shepparton in country Victoria and taught at a Deaf Facility and as a Visiting Teacher for Hearing Impaired Students across the north-east of the state.

• I married my best friend who also happens to be a spunky superhero who looks after his massive brood and works stupidly long, unrewarding hours to do so while I get my hair done, sit around drinking coffee with my friends, the house gets cleaned by a housekeeper and the children are picked up from their private schools by their nanny. Ummm, no.

• I watched my Mum die. I know that doesn't sound like an uplifting and wonderful bucket list item, but I feel that I am truly blessed to have been there in her last moments. 

• I had five amazing, beautiful, loving, funny, annoyingly feral children - who I adore more than anything I have ever known, and who I would like to strangle more than anyone I've ever known. 

• Driven across the Nullabor and back from Melbourne to Perth with two smelly obnoxious 9 and 10 year olds, two cantankerous 15 month old twins and a husband. An award would be nice.

• Driven from Melbourne to the Gold Coast and back with two smelly obnoxious 11 and 12 year olds, two cantankerous 3 year old twins, a 5 month old baby who will not be driven at night and a husband. Seriously, give me an award.

• I started a blog and a Facebook page so I could stand naked (metaphorically) in front of the world and share my life and fears.

I haven't travelled across the world, taught in a remote African village, or been part of a touring circus troupe, and it is very easy to envy everyone else's lives, but I think I'm quite happy with what I have achieved. The moments above have been melded together with hilarious friends, memorable - yet fuzzy -nights out on the vino, tears of laughter and of heart-aching sorrow, and I wouldn't have had it any other way. 

Except to have been rich. 

That would've been really really sweet.

Grateful

There are moments in my life - mainly when I've had a few Margaritas - when I can sit back and reflect on what I have and how grateful I am to have them. These tequila drenched thoughts usually follow the silence of bedtime, when the Wondertwins have slowly come down of their sugar highs, Scarlett has finally fallen into a deep milky coma and the older two have become one with their iPods in their beds. I sit in my newly completed garden and think how well everything can fall into place after a nasty day of nappies, dishes, homework and tantrums - not just from me. 

And as I sit there in middle class suburbia slowly marinating, I think about how bloody lucky I really am. I am incredibly grateful to have a husband who can bring home the prime cut bacon. I am grateful that he puts in the hard yards and long hours to make me able to stay at home and be there for our kids. Everyday. All day. Seven days a week. Changing nappies. Separating three year old girls from fights. Homework. Talking back. Cooking. Bless him. Actually, most of these days I'm just grateful they eventually fucking end.

Aussie Aussie Aussie Oi Oi Oi

I am grateful that I live where I live. Australia is an incredibly beautiful and diverse country. It is a safe country. We take for granted, as we sit on our comfy sofas in airconditioned/heated homes watching the news, just how beautiful and diverse and safe a place Australia is until we look at the tragedies of war, poverty, genocide, extreme laws, and natural disasters devastating other countries.

Beautiful Melbourne

I am grateful that I live in our safe and boring Melbourne suburb. We have not had to personally come face to face with raging bush fires, floods or cyclones as other states have. I have a roof over my head, a warm bed, food on the table and five not ugly beautiful ferals children who are not in jail, and hopefully, if I do my job right, won't be in the future. I will be grateful for that.

I am grateful that my husband comes home to me every night. He may not want to some days, but he still does and I'm thankful for that. He has gone through a lot during our marriage and with me being looney tunes. He had the chance to run, but he didn't. He might not be grateful for that some days, but I am.

I am grateful that I have friends. Friends who look out for me, friends who love me, friends who I don't see often but are there when the shit hits the fan, and friends who are as mental as I am. Damn, them bitches be crazy. You know who you are.

Then there are the little things that I am grateful for. Pizza is one. That and Coke. Oh, and passionfruit, Lindt chocolate, my kids use their manners when they are out, daiquiris, Nick Jr, fresh air, cheap pharmaceuticals, my degrees, health, mental health workers, my sister who helps me, mobile phones, rain, clean water, books on my shelf and shoes on my feet. I could go on but the wind-up music has begun.

And, with the risk of sounding incredibly corny - you, for reading my blog. Awwww.


I know I've missed other things I am grateful for. What are you grateful for?



Come see me on Cut My Milk's Facie page. You'll be grateful that you did.

Done & Dusted

Woo hoo! Only 362 days, 9 hours and 18 minutes until Christmas!

And it will be here in no time at all. Did anyone else feel as though Christmas came around quickly this time around? It sure as hell did for me. It doesn't feel like it has been 7 months since having Baby Scarlett, either. But here she is, old enough now to gum to death a wedge of turkey, sitting with us at our Christmas feast. She only gagged 4 times. 

Seriously - look at this
crap. We need a toy cull
or a bigger house. With
a cleaner. And a nanny.
And a wine cellar.

Tim and I successfully completed a massive clean up of all the crap from downstairs. It wasn't going well in the beginning. But by 1:30am I had given up my find-the-proper-home-for-this-toy/bag/playdough/sock efforts and ended up filling the room upstairs with everything and giving the toilet a quick wipe. I hate the downstairs toilet and refuse to use it. It is the kids' toilet and the guest's toilet and I often forget how funky it can get until the dreaded pop-in happens and I'm left wondering if the last poo was a flusher or a floater, and if my soon to be teenager has aimed accurately during the night. Usually not.

By 2:15am, the presents were finally wrapped, sacks were filled, reindeer were fed and Santa was well and truly soused.

By 2:50am, Baby Scarlett was politely requesting a bottle of milk, something she hasn't done since she was about a month old, but must have known I was going to be up again in an hour or two when the over-excited Wondertwins would wake with squeals of Christmassy delight. Bless her little cotton socks.

Scarlett cuddling her Great-Grandpa.
93 year age gap!

Christmas Day here has recently been a... well...umm... a challenging day here. Both Tim and I have very small families. Tim's Mum, Dad and sister come, as well as my gorgeous grandpa 'Great', my Dad and his girlfriend of 22 years (Mum died 10 years ago - you can do the math), and sometimes my brother, his wife and my sister. So not too big. However, some don't talk to others, some won't come because of others, some are deaf now and can't hear others. I try to stay in the kitchen as often and as long as possible.

This year, I decided not to drink too much wine. Fortunately, I was given a bottle of Peach Schnapps, so I could slowly get marinated in that instead. I broke 3 wine glasses in under 12 hours in separate incidents - a good effort even for me.

We ate outside to enjoy the not-too-hot-not-too-cold day. Unfortunately, it was too hot for some and too cold for another. But we stayed out there, dammit. Our first Australian Christmas outside.

But the day went quickly and no blood was spilled - metaphorically and literally. In the spirit of good-will and family togetherness we ate, drank and were merry.

And after all that, no one could even tell that we had madly cleaned for them. It was hidden under the mountains of wrapping paper, boxes and plastic.

I can't wait until next Christmas, so I can do it all again.

Merry Christmas and Happy New Year to you and yours...

Lis

Big Ted sleeping off the Margarita mix

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