The Stay-At-Home Dad and why you're so damn hot.

Yes. I said it. I think this newish breed of dad is so damn sexy. But don't stress, ladies - my plus-sized booty and I are not looking to take your man. To me, and from afar, he epitomises sexiness and oozes attractiveness. You lucky, lucky bitches.

Mr Cut My Milk

I don't want you to think I'm putting down my husband. Absolutely not. He's a suit-wearing-7am-to-6pm- go-to-work-daddy. An exhausted-when-he-gets-home-daddy. He's sexy in his own right. He is the breadwinner, the hard-worker, my co-pilot, my best friend. Watching him comfort his daughter after she's fallen and grazed her knee, and kissing her owie away, melts my hard icy cold heart. 

But, the sexy stay at home dad (SSAHD) is hawt.

Why do we mums love you so? 

Because you get it. 

I mean - YOU really get IT.

You know what it’s like to wipe a wall clean only to have it covered in whatthefuck stickiness and snot the next minute. You know how it feels to have swept, mopped, vacuumed, ironed, folded, and tidied only to have it all turn to shit in an hour. You know what it's like to clean the toilet to discover (& normally just before a guest shows) wee dribbles from seat to floor, boogers on the flush button and poo on the ceiling. 

You know how long it can take to have a stubbornly independent 3 year old try to dress herself in a tutu, gumboots and a Collingwood Football Club beanie when you needed to be out the door 10 minutes ago. You know the frustration of having a 2 year old who will only eat yellow food smothered in tomato sauce and sandwiches cut in triangles with the crust cut off and served on his Paw Patrol plate. You know of the illogical and impossible 4 year old who wants her chocolate flavoured but pink coloured milk cut into small pieces and served in a glass slipper. Cut my milk, dammit. 

You know that superheroes get boo-boos that need kissing. You wipe the sad tears, the frustrated tears, embarrassed tears, and angry tears from grotty cheeks. You know that a messy house can also be a lived-in well-loved home. You get that parenthood is hard. That it can drive you batshit crazy on the best of days, that some days are too hard to get up off the couch, and the TV is the best babysitter and only the TV understands you. You get the conflicting emotions of wanting to strangle your child into next week and wanting to hold them so tightly that your heart could burst with love and pride, all in the space of 10 minutes.

You understand the exhaustion and the boredom, the quick meals and the battle-pickings.

You are the pioneers of your kind. 

You are part of a new generation of parents who challenge the traditional gender stereotypes of our parents' time. It would not have been an option for my dad to be a SAHD in the 70s and 80s. Women (typically) stayed home, raised children and kept the house. Men went to work, earned money and fixed the house. My dad worked, travelled for work (or so we thought - see my post about my dad in Preoccupied), mowed the lawn, fixed shit around the house, drank copious amounts of beer in longneck bottles, and watched a shitload of footy. I actually can't remember many daddy-daughter moments of fathering awesomeness. But that didn't really matter. His job was to bring home the bacon and mum's job was to cook it.

And, just like the mum who chose for whatever reason to return to full time work, SSAHDs cop their fair share of unsolicited and unwelcome opinions. Whatever you choose to do, someone will always want to tell you what they think (or gossip about it to friends over a skinny decaf latte in the playground – parenthood, it’s just like high school only crunchy) 

#Mr Mom Tumbler

It will be assumed that:

• you lost your job
• you can’t get a job
• your wife has a better job
• your wife is your boss
• you just want to play all day
• you watch sport replays all day
• you lie on the couch all day
• your wife doesn’t want to stay at home with the kids
• you have no idea what you’re doing

and to add further insult to injury, have a look at Josh Bogle's list of 10 Insults I Hear As A Stay-At-Home-Dad for Esquire.com for more.

You’ll be under scrutiny and be given advice whether you like it or not. Obviously, being a man, you can take the jokes and the 'light-hearted' criticisms relating to your kid’s public meltdown because you wouldn’t get THAT banana, or that you made a sandwich of white bread and processed meat, or you let your child climb the tree, and that it’s cute that you’re trying to multi-task reading a shopping list while babysitting. Naaww, look at that adorable man trying!

For whatever reason you became a SSAHD, Good.On.You. You don't need to answer to anyone (except your wife if you didn't bring in the washing before it rained, dammit). There is nothing sexier than a man who can change a shitty nappy, bear hug their kid when the bell goes at school, think to take the washing off the line when it’s about to rain (did I already mention that??), and nod in sympathetic agreement and genuine concern when a fellow stay-at-homer, laments about the perpetual parenting nightmare you can't wake from, and that nothing can sway you from thinking you’re Bill Murray reliving Groundhog Day until you get it right. Reliving Groundhog Day. Groundhog Day. No wonder you are crush-able. Loves kids, tick. Cleans, tick. Cooks, tick. Listens to and validates your feelings, tickitty fucking tick.

I can imagine how hard, and yet how rewarding it could be to be the primary carer of your children while fighting the fading gender stereotype of what a dad should be doing. What a dad should be doing is simply that – be a dad the best way you can. Stay at home and embrace it. Go to work and embrace that. Be there for your kids as much as you can. Show an interest. Be a role model. Spend less money and more time on your kids. Be emotionally there. Rock the shit out of this parenting gig. Your kids will look back on these moments with love in their hearts. Don't ever feel you are failing as a provider. You are providing so much more than you'll ever realise.

Personally, I think you SSAHDs have a tougher gig than us SAHMs. I don't mean that I think you can't do the SSAHD job. I mean that, in some cases, some of you might feel isolated. Isolated from other men, from other mums, your own circle of friends, the adult conversation, from the working world. I think you may feel 'de-masculinated' to some degree while learning to be comfortable with the role reversal of your wife as the breadwinner, maybe in the eyes of old-school dads such as your own dad and grandparents. I don't know. I may be waaaay off. 

But what I do know is this:

• You are doing an awesome job.
• You are a provider.
• You are no less of a man. In fact, in my eyes, you are more of a man.
• You are teaching your children incredibly good values as a parent.
• You are highly skilled. You have taken on the roles of chef, nurse, psychologist, ring master, umpire, chauffeur, hairdresser, educator, lion tamer, beautician. Put that on your resume.
• Don’t neglect yourself. Don’t forget the man behind the dad. Do your thang, whatever that thang might be. You deserve it. You’ve earned it. Find it.
• Do not tolerate being thought of as the ‘babysitter’.
• You don't have to get it right all of the time.
• You don't have to enjoy it all of the time.
• You are so damn attractive.

Stay-At-Home-Mums are not perfect. Some of us pretend to be. Some may genuinely believe they are. We get dragged down by similar insecurities, the sanctomums and toxicity of the school yard. So sit down at the kiddie table, pour yourself another cup of invisible tea, nibble a chocolate cake of mud, let her do your hair, and dance to the music from Frozen for the 196^th time. In doing that, you're already doing it better than me. I salute you.

xvsy.com.au

Confessions of a mediocre mummy

I'm at a point in my mediocre parenting that I'm starting to question things I know that I know, and second guessing every move I make, when it comes to raising my kids. You'd think that when it comes to the fifth kid I'd be pretty much on top of things - milestones, language development, potty training, yadda, yadda, yadda. The books tell you, in one long-winded breath, that there's no 'one-size-fits-all' rule to raising a child, yet you must follow these steps and these steps only or risk being branded an incompetent and neglectful parent.

The Feral Five. Campbell, Ella, Grace, Lily & Scarlett. All at 19 months.

When Campbell was born, in all his 9lb 14oz 57cm glory, I freaked when he sneezed, changed his clothes at the slightest dribble, worried if he slept all night, stressed if he didn't sleep at night. Has he had enough tummy-time? Does he need more tummy-time? Was that a squint? Why is he crying? Why isn't he crying? I panicked if his dummy dropped to the floor and I didn't have a sterile replacement. Everything had it's arse boiled out of it in the name of hygiene. I breastfed because I was told to, used cloth nappies because I was told to, did everything I was told to do (however, nobody told me not to have a Thai Green Curry or seeded fruits when breastfeeding, but that's a whole different, and messier, story. Ok, I'll tell it, but quickly, K? So, I'd gone out with friends for the first time since having Campbell, and demolished a plate of Thai entrees and a mean Green Curry. I didn't drink, coz I knew booze plus boobie juice does not result in good mummying, according to the books. I only needed to feed Campbell twice to get the results - one cranky baby who cried all morning, looked at me with a 'Why, Mummy, why?' look, frowned, and with relative ease exploded up and out of his onesie. I kid you not, that khaki coloured baby shit oozed out at his toes and his collar. It was in his hair. And the smell? Dear God.) Anywho, back to the blog…

Ella was different. I was fearful of nappy rash, so I changed her often. I didn't breast feed, but felt the guilt. Breast is best. Breast is best. It was promoted on large posters in feeding rooms at the shopping centres. It was even written on the formula tin. When she sneezed, I didn't just think she was getting a cold, she was getting a cold because I didn't breast feed. Even today, a part of me believes her allergies, asthma and eczema are because I didn't put her on the boob. But she's alive, and I'm alive. And that good, right?

Then, the Wondertwins. Yeah, we sterilised things for a bit. For a few months, we even sterilised the dummies, but once we saw them grab the other's dummy we gave up on that one. Did the cat lick that one? Just run it under the tap. Nappy down to the knees? Maybe time to change them. A comfort bottle of milk at bedtime? Will they go to sleep? Yes? Then a comfort bottle of milk it will be. 

Along came Scarlett.
I tried breast feeding. I got through 9 motherfucking days! 9! I think it was the sleep deprivation that ended it. That and the pain. And the big boob thing, trying not to suffocate her in the process. The first bottle of formula introduced us all to the first full night's sleep. I don't wanna brag, but I will. Since she was about 2 weeks old, she has been a perfect sleeper for 98% of the time. But the mere mention of that will now make her wake screaming every night from now on. My trick is to give her the evil bottle of warmed milk, followed by a dummy or two (one for the mouth, one for the hand), lie next to her and let her fall asleep in my bed. It's peaceful and relaxing and calming for both of us and I like it. The books say a big HELL NO to that practice, and I'm not having much luck with the putting-her-in-her-cot-while-she's-awake biz. Not that I've tried all that often. And I know I'm just making an enormous rod for my already fucked up back, but it works for me. I move her to her cot and we both sleep like husbands until the alarm bleeps at 7:45am. I'm not complaining about that.

But…
The books say Scarlett should be self-settling by now. Dummies should not be cleaned by the cat's tongue. Scraps of food and crumbs should not be eaten from the swept up dust pile in the corner of the room. The dog does not make a good babysitter. Older siblings should not put a leash on her and pretend she's their puppy. She should be saying a few words by now. She's 19 months. She can say 'Mumma' when prompted. And 'Dadda'. And we can hear the vowels & syllables in her attempts to say her sisters' and brother's names when prompted. But she will not initiate speech, except for shouting "Maaaahhhhh!" throughout the house as she looks for me. She can meow like a cat, quack like a duck, pant like a dog, can understand practically everything I say, has a good vocabulary of signs and an even better grasp of the grunt.

Oh, that fucking grunt.

Ugh ugh ugh ugh ugh. UGH UGH UGH MAAAAAHHHHH!! Ugh ugh ugh (signs 'more') ugh ugh (points to banana) UGH UGH UGH! I model the spoken word, she signs it. Don't get me wrong - I love that she knows words in sign language! But I want her to stop that fecking ugh ugh ugh grunt before I go out of my ugh ugh ugh bloody (signs 'mind').

I'm slightly nervous and already pissed off based on the conversation I've already had in my head of what the maternal nurse will say about her language development. I do that sometimes - get angry with things that haven't yet happened and very well may not happen. At the Wondertwins' 18 month old check up, we discussed their language, or rather their lack of the 'English' language. Gracie expressed herself with a few Auslan signs and Lily could count to five in Spanish and say various other words learned from Dora The Explorer. The discussion then turned to the amount of television a toddler should watch, and that Gracie needs a 'real' language - oh no you di'int...

And finally...
Confession time. The Wondertwins, at age 4, can't break the dummy habit. They are entering dangerous Suri Cruise territory. I have tried everything that the books say to do, that Elmo says to do, and even things the books says not to do, such as bribery and anger. They will - yes they WILL dammit - be leaving these wretched things for good ol' Saint Nick in a few week's time. So suck on that girls.

By the sixth kid I should be a pro. Right?

Sixth kid? Not on your nelly.

To all the mums

I was reading a parenting magazine recently and an article in there made me feel like a rotten mum. It was about how television might not actually be that bad for your kids. It suggested that by the time 4pm rolls around and your four year old's micro-nap is over, a program or two is certainly ok, providing it is an educationally based program with the learning objectives clearly described. I've always thought my children's education through TV has been quite thorough and well rounded. From about 7:30am, the girls have their lessons in Spanish (Dora, The Explorer), mathematics (Team Umizoomi), social skills and listening (Max and Ruby), time management (Tickety Toc), social studies (Bubble Guppies), animal welfare and environmental studies (Go Diego, Go), music (Hi5) and patience and tolerance (having to watch Teletubbies because Baby Scarlett likes it). Then it's bed time. Meals are somewhere in between. But I can tell you they're not organic. Or should even be called 'meals'. They get exercise going to the cupboard for snacks and through fighting each other.

Actually, it wasn't just one article. Everywhere I turn, I feel as though I have, or am in the process of, letting my kids down in the parenting stakes. Too much sugar, not enough water, too much television, not enough exploration of nature. Not fully toilet trained at 3 and a half? What the? Still has a dummy? Are you kidding me? Bad. Bad Mummy.

I know I'm not the only mum, or dad for that matter, who often feels quite inadequate as a parent. Unrealistic expectations are placed on all of us at some point during our parenting journey. Those who are doing it alone, those who put their kids in full-time childcare, those who put their kids in too many extracurricular activities. Hell - even those without kids are being judged about why they don't/won't/can't go down the parenting path. No one can win and there will always be someone who will question what you do as a parent. However, we can only do what we can do. It's time we stopped judging and rating each other on our ability to raise our kids. Are you with me??

I would have loved this piece back when I became a first time mum. And a second time mum. Even a third and fourth time mum. I'm glad I have come across this gem now though, with my fifth child, to reassure me that I am, in fact, a good mum after all.

I wish I knew who wrote this. I would love to give him or her the recognition they deserve. 

I am a good mum.

Happy Awesome Chick's Day

Happy Mother's Day to all of you mother's, step-mothers, mother figures, grandmothers, mothers without mothers, not-quite-yet-mothers, working mothers, stay-at-home mothers and mothers of pets-that-act-like-children. 

Actually, fuck Mother's Day. Let's call today 'Awesome Chick's Day'. 

There is such a big emphasis placed on how wonderful and rewarding it is to be a mum (I didn't say that) and a day has marked in recognition of all the marvellous, caring and hardworking mothers out there around the world. I can tell you I am not one of them. Yes, I take the title of 'mother', but I don't see myself as an outstanding example of one. I complain, I nag, I argue, I bitch, I yell, I cry. I'm impatient, easily annoyed, and take pills each night to 'balance my emotions' while I rear five kids. I think I may be allergic to my kids. I come out in a light rash and nervous sweats just thinking about a whole day alone with them. I wish I were somewhere else most of the time and I often wonder what my life would be like if I could turn back time.

Then I look at them and I think I have five kids. They are alive. They are fed. They are (relatively) clean. They have picked up a few manners along the way, as well as a few choice words. Sometimes they show respect. Sometimes they show each other love. All in all, they are good kids. Which, I guess, does make me an ok mum. I'm no June Cleaver or Carol Brady. My house doesn't sparkle with the pride of a stay-at-home-mum and the scent of natural lemon. I see myself as a blend of Lucille Bluth from 'Arrested Development', Debra Barone from 'Everybody Loves Raymond' and Roseanne from...well...'Roseanne'.

In honour of some hilariously funny, hilariously annoying and model mothers that have graced our television screens and movie theatres, I give you some of my favourite mothers and their pearls of motherly wisdom:

Lucille Bluth in Arrested Development (Jessica Walter)
Lucille:   Get me a vodka rocks.
Michael: Mom, it's breakfast.
Lucille:   And a piece of toast.

Lucille:  I just went off my post-partum depression medication.
Michael:  You're still taking that? You had Buster thirty two years ago.
Lucille:  And that's how long I've been depressed about it.

Edina Moon in Absolutely Fabulous (Jennifer Saunders)
Edina:  Oh, darling, Mummy loves you. On the day you were born I knew I wanted you...
Patsy:  However, the day after...

Peggy Bundy in Married With Children (Katy Sagal)
Peggy:  Kelly, it's time we had a little talk. There is a thing men will want you to do when you get married; it's called work.
Kelly:  I'm scared; hold me Mom.
Peggy:  Once you do it though, you'll never have to do it again and there will come a time when your husband comes home smellin' like beer and wantin' some lovin'; you'll follow that fat butt up the stairs because you'll know that no matter how disgusting the next five minutes may be, it's still better than work.
Kelly: Thanks, Mom; you're so wise.
Peggy:  Well, you can't sit on the couch twenty hours a day and not learn something.

Lois Griffin in Family Guy (Alex Borstein)
Meg:  Wow, Chris, did you lose weight? You're wicked skinny, I'm jealous.
Chris:  Thanks Meg. I'm jealous of your moustache.
Meg:  Mom?
Lois:  Oh, it's fine, Meg. It makes you look dignified.
Meg:  But, Mom!
Lois:  Now I love all of my children equally.

Roseanne Connor in Roseanne (Roseanne Barr)
Darlene:  Yo Mom, the lunch lady at school's been sick a few weeks, I think she's gonna die soon, you interested?
Roseanne:  Let's see. Serving crappy food to ungrateful teenagers, how would I know I was at work?

Barbara (David's mom):  Listen to me. I don't want you butting in, telling me, how to raise my kids! Take a look at the two little whores you raised!
Roseanne:  Oh...uh, I'm in this now... You know, if your kid wasn't here, I would take the opportunity to remind you that people who live in glass whore-houses shouldn't throw stones. It's people like you that give white-trash a bad name.

Marion Cunningham in Happy Days (Marion Ross)
Marion:  Your father once even sent me a five-pound box of candy on Valentine's Day anonymously. He was a devil.
Howard:  I never sent you a five-pound box of candy.
Marion:  You didn't?
Howard:  No, I didn't.
Marion:  Then I must have married the wrong man.

Kitty Foreman in That 70s Show (Debra Jo Rupp)
You know I love my family, but sometimes I just want to get in the car and run them all over.

All families are embarrassing; and if they're not embarrassing, they're dead.

Claire Dunfry in Modern Family (Julie Bowen)
Claire:  If Haley never wakes up on a beach in Florida half naked... I've done my job.
Phil:  Our job.
Claire:  Right. I've done our job.

Luke is already the best at something: Being my son. It sounded a lot less lame in my head.

Alex, honey, when you're out shopping, you might want to pick yourself up a training bra. I know you don't need one now but your little boobies are going to come in soon. Mommy loves you, kitten!

Morticia Addams in The Addams Family (Carolyn Jones)
One house. Three children. So many windows.

You've had your shots? Measles, mumps, rabies?

Endora in Bewitched (Agnes Moorehead)
I detest sounding like one of those mothers who thinks they know it all. But unfortunately, I do.

Samantha:  That's what I like about your visits, Mother. You always bring a ray of sunshine into my drab existence.
Endora:  Well, that's what mothers are for, dear.

Lucille Ball in I Love Lucy (Lucille Ball)
Lucy:  Budget my time? You mean like I budget my money?
Ricky:  Heavin forbid!

Francine Smith in American Dad (Wendy Schaal)
May be blonde with great cans, but I'm pretty smart when I've had my eight hours.

Estelle Costanza in Seinfeld (Estelle Harris)
George doesn't work. He's a bum.

I go out for a quart of milk and I come home and find my son treating his body like an amusement park!

It's rude not to serve cake!

Marie Barone and Debra Barone in Everybody Loves Raymond (Doris Roberts & Patricia Heaton)
Marie:  Debra, I don't know why your rolls are all left. I liked them. The burnt part gave them some flavour. Don't worry about those pots and pans, honey. I know how to do those.
Debra:  Well, cleaning is cleaning.
Marie:  You'd think so.

Robert:  Hey, Ma. I told Nemo you were hurt so he threw in these breadsticks for free.
Marie:  These look old.
Frank:  You are what you eat.
Marie:  Robbie, give your father his order of miserable bastard.

Sophia Petrillo in The Golden Girls (Estelle Getty)
Fasten your seatbelt, slut puppy. This ain't gonna be no catwalk!

Sophia:  My God. That's the cutest baby I've ever seen.
Dorothy:  Ma! It's a pig!
Sophia:  Hey, you were no looker when I brought you home from the hospital either. I brought you anyway!

Mama Fratelli in The Goonies (Anne Ramsey)
Kids suck.

Irene Walsh in The Goonies (Mary Ellen Trainor)
Irene:  Brandon, I want you to keep your brother inside. I don't want him to catch a cold.
Brandon:  He should be put in a plastic bubble.
Irene:  I'm serious Brandon! That's not funny. If he takes one step outside and you'll be in the deepest, absolutely the deepest, shi, shi, shi...
Brandon:  Shit Ma!
Irene:  I don't like that language, but that's exactly what you're going to be in.

Caroline Butler in Mr Mom (Teri Garr)
Jack:  My brain is like oatmeal. I yelled at Kenny today for colouring outside the lines! Megan and I are starting to watch the same TV shows. And I'm liking them! I'm losing it.
Caroline:  Honey, I know what you're talking about. I've been there myself, alright?
Jack:  Well, if you're so unhappy, why don't you say something about it?
Caroline:  Because I wasn't unhappy! Look, maybe I was a little confused, maybe I was a little frustrated, but I knew what I was doing was important, because it means something to raise human beings. What saw me through was pride. I've pride in this house, I've pride with my kids, and I've pride being Mrs Jack Butler! Where are you going?
Jack:  I'm goin' downstairs to sleep on the fat couch if I can get through the door.
Caroline:  Yeah, well be sure to take pride in some of the FAT, Porky!

Kate McCallister in Home Alone (Catherine O'Hara)
Kate:  How can we forget this? We forgot him?
Peter:  We didn't forget him. We just miscounted.
Kate:  What kind of mother am I?
Uncle Frank:  If it makes you feel any better - I forgot my reading glasses.

Ellen Griswold in Vacation and Christmas Vacation (Beverley D'Angelo)
Sit down and shut up! Move outta that seat and I'll split your lip!

I'm sorry. This is our family's first kidnapping.

I don't know what to say, except it's Christmas and we're all in misery.

And finally (I don't want to get in trouble for missing this gem again!)...
Jeanine Stifler in American Pie (Jennifer Coolidge)
Stifler's Mom:  I got some scotch.
Finch:  Single malt?
Stifler's Mom:  Aged eighteen years. The way I like it.

I love screen mums. And I know I have missed other brilliant and inspiring mothers in this somewhat extensive list of my faves. A special shout out must go to Shirley Partridge (The Partridge Family), Elyse Keaton (Family Ties), Norma Arnold (The Wonder Years), Mrs Gump (Forrest Gump), Lindsay Bluth Funke (Arrested Development), Marge Simpson and Agnes Skinner (The Simpsons), Elliot's mum, Mary (E.T) and Pamela Voorhees (Friday 13th). Have I missed any?

Linking with Deb's Listmania at homelifesimplified.com.au


Credits to: 
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Playing happy family

I have a 13 year old:

an 11 year old:

2 of these: 

and one of these:

I have lots of photos of each, but none of all. So when the opportunity came my way to get all of them in a photo together and incredibly cheaply, I grabbed it with both hands and strangled the life out of it. The catch? The photo op was in Euroa, 200 kilometres away. The problem? Getting a photo with all of my adoraferals in it. At the same time. Together. After driving for 3 hours to get to the photographer. Together. Did I mention for 3 hours, in travelling time, each way, together? As much as I was looking forward to finally getting a picture of all my shitlings looking like they actually like each other, I was browning my knickers thinking what I would be like emotionally and psychologically after the event. I had promised my husband I would bring all of them home from our day trip, and preferably in one piece. He didn't specify what one piece he wanted returned. A little bit of my mind was left in the next suburb, only minutes after we set off from home.

With ten minutes to go before we were to leave home, Campbell was still in bed. Ella was still complaining she had nothing to wear, even on her fifth change of clothes. Scarlett had delivered her morning mud bath in her nappy. Grace had chocolate eyebrows and Lily had changed from pretty to prostitute.

I had asked for something simple - everyone could wear a plain t-shirt with denim jeans or jeggings, and add to it their favourite colour ribbon or headband or shoes (providing it was what I picked). Everyone would match. Or close enough.

Campbell eventually surfaced wearing a dirty black and brown Metallica t-shirt that smelled as bad as it looked. Ella picked a maroon tee with a great oily stain in the middle of her stomach and a tear down the side. Grace wore a pink striped top with a bright swirly floral patterned skirt. Lily put on a thick pink sweatshirt with denim shorts over white floral tights and pink and blue polka dot socks and purple high heels from the dress up box. Hobos and hookers.

Me: For the love of God, put on the bloody clothes I gave you.

Campbell: Fuck this. I don't even want to go.

Me: Watch your language. Clean is all I ask. Not hard.

Campbell: I'm not going.

Lily: But I look pretty. 

Me: True. But waaaay too pretty for these photos. Let's save that outfit for the shops.

I fucking hate Dora.

Grace: I want Dora dress.

Me: Not today.

Grace: I WANT DORA DRESS.

Ella: I can't do this. I have absolutely nothing to wear. And I'm not being in a photo with Campbell unless you pay me.

Me: I'm not paying you.

Ella: Then I'm not standing with Campbell.

Campbell: Fuck you. That's it. I'm not going.

Me: How much do you want?


Dress code gone, but clean clothes agreed, we set off. Three suburbs away, two children crying, one complaining of starvation, one asleep, one who can't hear a thing anyone says, and me close to tears of nervous exhaustion, Campbell turns to me and says, "I don't know how you do it."

Professional photographers are the ultimate illusionists. From the couple of photos I've seen so far, no one would believe the sibling hatred, the impatient sighs of having to stand too close to another, the smells, the tantrums of a three year old who refuses to look at the camera as her face is too tired to smile, the constant nose picking of the other three year old, and the distractions of ducks, dogs and sticks. Hundreds of photos were taken in the hope that a handful will give me the images I want.

A nice, normal, loving family.

Jessica at Angelic Angels Photography, you're worth your weight in gold.

The Adoraferals by
Angelic Angels Photography

Wanna join my book club? I have wine.

Deb at Home Life Simplified told me I have to share with the world my list of favourite books for Listmania this week. And I have to do what Deb says. She's the boss of all things listy.

When I was a kid, all those many, many, many years ago, I loved reading. Apparently, I was so into books I began to read before kindergarten. It's true. I was so driven to know what the real words were that when a story was read to me a few times, and I had committed it to memory. I knew that each little squiggle group was a word separated by a gap. These words related to the picture. Yes, I was a smart-ass.

I had so many favourite books as a kid. I would read all the time. Flat Stanley used to freak me out, but I'd read it and reread it all the time. Monty Mouse was a 'photo' picture story book I would always borrow from the school library. I was in denial for a very long time that little Monty Mouse was not a 'live' mouse at the time of his photo shoot.

As I got older, Enid Blyton books became a favourite. They were so girly. I would read them while lying on my bed in my Collingwood football jumper with roller skates on. The Naughtiest Girl in the School was a big favourite. She wasn't even naughty. She was olden days British private school girl naughty. I was a nerd and a goody twoshoes at school and lived my delicate rebellion through the character in this book. Shall we be rather naughty? Headmistress may spank us. Oh, let's!

I would read anything Roald Dahl. Kiss Kiss was my favourite as it had stories of grossness. I was that kind of kid. A closet rebellious girly girl who could kick a footy as far as the boys and had a taste for the macabre, horrific and gross. 

I would read anything Judy Blume and from the Sweet Valley High series. As I got older, all things Steven King. The Wave was a scary, realistic story of a class experiment in mob mentality/hysteria. It was also one of the elusive few designated books for school that I enjoyed reading. Others were Playing Beattie Bow and The Harp in the South, both by Ruth Park.

My tastes in literature morphed over the years from horror and girly romance to sadder stories, autobiographies of people experiencing hardships and to self-help books. I've thrown in Brighton Beach Memoirs as well, as I think it is one of the funniest plays I've read. 

Two books I highly recommend for anyone with a baby, having a baby or even thinking about having a baby: Safe Baby Pregnancy Tips and Safe Baby Handling Tips, by David and Kelly Sopp. Sound, practical advice.

I'm also a big Twilight fan. Yes. That's right. I love Twilight. I am also Team Edward all the way. And yes, I'm in my 40s. I also liked the Fifty Shades of Grey books. So what.

In between nappies, big kid dramas, pet dramas and Wondertwin dramas, I'm slowly reading Feral Bells by an awesome blogger, journalist and mum, Peta-Jo. It's Aussie, it's relatable, it's bloody funny.

And I can't wait for Parenting: Illustrated with Crappy Pictures to arrive in the mail ANY DAY! 

Yep, very highbrow reading. I don't have the time or patience to devour a Bronte or a Dickens or even a J.K. Rowlings. But the dog-ear bends and scuffed spines of the books I have listed show just how much I love these books. Happy reading!

Chin hairs & prune juice

I'm 41. I told a friend I was 42. I couldn't believe I got that wrong. How did I get that wrong? I had to work it out - ok Tim is 2 years younger, so that makes him...how old is Tim? No. Hang on. I had Campbell when I was 28...so it's 2013 now, so that makes...wait...Ella was born just before I turned 30 and now she's 11...30 plus 11 equals 41. Yep. 41. We got there...

It made me remember when I was a fresh-faced youngster. Yes kids, I was a child once, too. I didn't escape the womb as a cranky old tired 41 year old, nor was a created out of spite by some pissed off mad scientist from the waste products of all things evil and bitchy. Nooo. But I can see why you may have thought that.

When you're a kid, you know your age. My twins spontaneously announce it in supermarkets to checkout chicks or to strange men with man boobs.

I'm 3. 

I've noticed a difference in the way four of my ferals announce their age. Lily and Grace hold up three fingers and say proudly, "I'm 3." Ella will tell people that she is 11 and three quarters. Campbell adds on a year: "I'm 14." They'll go through the rite of passage of calling themselves 18 so as to be served alcohol and to be let into nightclubs. Then they'll say they're younger to get cheaper entry fees to amusement parks and movies. But once you reach 40, well, you can write off even being admitted into a swingers club. Just too damn old for that kind of funky lovin'. Obviously, they don't cater for walking frames and incontinence.

I'm not really phased about being in my 40s. I don't feel 41, whatever that's supposed to feel like. Physically, I'm feeling a little slower, but is it my age or the excess of excessive weight I'm lugging? Mentally, I'm a sharp as a tack - sharper even - I'm finding it easier to learn new things. My brain is ready for biology and physics, whereas 25 years ago I couldn't tell my arse from my head with anything scientific.

Let's hope that by pulling these feckers
out I haven't encouraged more to grow.
And, yes - they ARE from my head.

After having pulled out two enormously thick pube-like grey hairs from the top of my head and examining myself miserably in the bathroom mirror-that-tells-lies, I thought about my mum and how she never gave me all the facts of growing up. Oh, she told me briefly about (whispers) periods and growing boobs (the rest I learned from Dolly magazine in the 80's) but she never got around to telling me about the other important stuff - like what happens after our babies grow into teens and we start to get all like, totes embarrassing and old all of a sudden.

We all know that growing older is inevitable, but this is my list of things I wished my mum had told me about it. I have entitled it:

Things I Wished My Mum Told Me 

About Growing Older

We all know about the possibility of our eyesight and hearing getting weaker, our bodies slowing down and the sudden desire to eat prunes and sing along to the golden oldies of the 1980s & 90s, but I wish Mum had've mentioned some of these seriously awesome perks of ageing (un)gracefully:

• Your body will start to hurt in places that never hurt before. And what doesn't hurt will probably stop working.

• Your mind will become delusional and will think your body can handle the alcohol and exercise you were used to when you were in your 20s.

• Your eyebrows will begin to fall out and reappear on your chin. Thicker.

• Your feet will become rough and your toenails harder to cut.

• Course grey hairs will not just grow on your head. They will appear on your chin, your arms, your cheek, and with a surprising amount of speed. You will look in the mirror and suddenly they're there in all their grey pube-iness.

• You might grow skin tags anywhere the skin tags decide to grow. Don't think of ripping those bastards off. You will bleed out. Accept them. 

• You will wake up feeling hungover without actually being hungover.

• You will sneeze, cough, laugh and wee at the same time.

• Your perky little boobs may be perky now, but wait until you're older and have had kids.

• You'll sweat more than you ever imagined humanly possible. Even in winter.

• You'll Google everything, from 'my knee clicks when I bend' to 'should my wee be that colour' and other ailments that lead you to believe you are dying.

• You will think that the perfect evening is an early night in bed. Alone. With a book.

• The music you liked will be called boring and old by your kids.

• You will be called boring and old by your kids.

• You won't understand today's music but if you sing any of today's music you will be told to stop.

• You will begin to say "When I was your age..." "In my day..." and "If I spoke that way to my mother..."

• You will gain great pleasure in listening to and telling stories of recent surgeries and illnesses.

• You will understand why a hot windy Australian day is the perfect day for sweating it out washing shitloads of clothes to hang out to dry.

• You will have riveting conversations with friends about mortgages, the lack of respect from the younger generation, the price of petrol, stretch marks, bargain shopping and recipes. 

I would have laughed and laughed if my mum took me on this ageing joyride, rolled my eyes and called her old and boring, and would have thought, nah, not me. I'm so cool and awesome that I will always be this cool and awesome. And how dare you tell me C&C Music Factory and Smashing Pumpkins wouldn't be cool either. 

Not by the grey hairs on my chinny chin chin.

Brouhaha

It has been a year to the day since I was put in my place by another parent about my parenting skills. We both stood in the school playground, arms crossed and had it out. It was all very high-school-like, I'm embarrassed to say, but there I was trying to quietly defend myself while being berated in public. I don't like confrontation. But this time I stood strong, albeit quiet, and stood up for my son who was the centre of my apparent lack of parental guidance.

Don't get me wrong - Campbell can be a total little show-offy shit of a kid. But he's my little shit of a kid and I'd take a bullet for him - most days.

This looks nifty. 

I try to give Campbell a little freedom. At 11, I let him ride his bike around the streets, walk home from school and enter the house by himself. He learned how to catch a train and go to local skateparks. I know what you're thinking - whoa, slow down! Ride his bike? Catch a train? You should be flogged, woman!

He got up to mischief sometimes, but damn it - if he didn't at 11 I'd think there was something wrong with him. His body acts before his brain does and sometimes it makes him do stupid things. But I will not let my boy be known as a hooligan or criminal mastermind. Not yet.

Needless to say, this incident that happened a long 12 months ago, has played on my mind since. I don't dwell on it. I just let it fester away in the back of my head. It made me question my ability to parent my child. It made me think I couldn't parent my child. At the time of the brouhaha, I was pregnant with Scarlett and this left me questioning my ability to share my maternal love five ways. I took this woman's verbal beating, all the while thinking when would be the most appropriate time to punch her in the vagina. 

This was 2011. Take it back 30 years and it would be the norm to let your kids out first thing in the morning only to return home when their tummies rumbled or it was starting to get dark. And I'm sorry, I don't buy into this crap of it was safer then. There were still cars and there were still bad people doing bad shit. There were still drugs and bullies and violence and pedophiles and murderers in the late 70's and early 80's. Not many houses were completely surrounded by fences enclosing their cherubs within the safe confines of the yard back then and sometimes you got hurt. You didn't wear seat belts and your mum ate soft cheese when she was pregnant. Geez, I'm shitty and opinionated tonight.

I've just come from watching Campbell sleep, and I'm thinking about the loving, sensitive, funny, gorgeous boy I am raising and I know I have done good.

Unconditional.

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