My stick family stickers

I saw the dumbest, most loserly thing on the back of a car today. It was a stick family sticker of a woman - a perky little number with curly hair, her little stick arms loaded with little stick shopping bags. Next to her was a little stick cat. The owner of this cute little advertisement of singledom drove a compact new model car in modern black. I learned a lot about this person. My acute skills as a local stalker weren't even needed for this moron. She had laid it all out in front of me.

Here's her profile:

Female 

(or an interesting young man)

Single 

(or keeping her options open)

Has cat 

(no man-eating dog at premises)

Is young 

(the P Plates on the back of the car)

It was her car 

(the pretty 'Hello Kitty' seat covers says she didn't borrow the car from Daddy)

I know that doesn't definitively rule out a man living at home with his parents. True. But what this person put out there publicly, to me, smells of stupid. This girl must have missed the school chat about stranger dangers.

I don't know if the phenomenon of stick figure families have taken over your world, but it has here.

My car. Peek-a-boo Scarlett.

Mine aren't there to show off my family. Mine are there to serve as a warning to other drivers not to piss me off. 

Back off dickhead. I have 5 kids and a husband with a tennis racquet. You think I'm crazy and my driving's fucked? You may be half right on the crazy part, but this psycho bitch is gonna fuck you up if you mess with me. Think I care if I've moved in front of you? I've been stuck in this God-damn car for 40 minutes with two kids with shit in their nappies, one kicking the back of my seat, one who smells much more than teen spirit, two complaining of starvation, a baby who hasn't stopped crying since we left home and two kids having a slapfest while listening to the Wiggles at deafening levels. You want to take me on? Huh? And you see that 'We crossed the Nullabor' sticker? Well that's my fucking badge of crazy. That's right, I took four of these bastards over 7500kms across the country and back. Yeah. Now say you're sorry for honking your horn. And tell me I'm pretty. 

I like my stickers. 

No one in their right mind will be following me home.

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

Ripe for the picking

Oh.My.God. I don't feel so good. I'm as round and as red as a strawberry and if you poke me I will explode.

Little sis and I took advantage of the last few days of warmth before autumn really arrives, and hauled the Wondertwins and Baby Scarlett off to a strawberry farm for something other than the usual nose picking in the town of Main Ridge about 40 minutes from where I live. 

Some of our bounty

We have never been strawberry picking, so I wasn't sure what to expect, and stepping into the unknown with Lily and Grace can be terrifying to say the least. It crossed my mind that they might pull out entire strawberry plants, eat more than they pack into their plastic containers (try telling a 3 year old she can't eat her favourite fruit in the whole world as she picks it), be bitten by a snake or a rabbit more feral than they are, vomit all the strawberries they have gorged on during the picking frenzy all over the cafe floor, or just have one of their loud, spontaneous, unpredictable meltdowns over who the fuck knows what this time.

The drive to Main Ridge should have been simple enough. I looked at the map at home. Map? Who needs a map? Apparently we did. I was guided there by the little British man who lives in the GPS on my phone. 

"Turn right at the third exit at the roundabout. Continue for three kilometres." 

It is easy to lose yourself in his melted chocolate voice. All was going well until he announced in his suave British accent, "GPS signal lost." Very polite and strangely calming, however at this point we had no idea whether we were close to the strawberry farm or heading towards Sydney. Either way, because of his relaxing voice we merrily continue down the lonely country road in a false sense of contentment.

If it were an Aussie GPS, we'd know exactly where we stood.

"Hang a lefty at the next roundabout comin' up. Keep cruisin' for about three k's."

"Ya missed the turnoff. Now you're fucked."

"Go back ya dickhead. You're heading up Shit Creek."

"Did I say 40 minutes? I meant 60...maybe 70 minutes, tops."

"For fuck's sake. The GPS has shit itself again. Lost the bastard."

"Here y'are. Stop ya whingin'. Got ya here didn't I? Fuck."

Yes. We got there eventually. Thank you efficient satellite signal.    

Picking strawberries is a brilliant activity for three year olds. It would take them about 15 to 20 minutes to fill their tubs with deliciously ripe strawberries, the perfect amount of time to cater to their short attention spans. No time for ripping up plants, snake bites, feral bunnies or big strawberry vomit. Not yet.

 

Back to the cafe for some indulgence. So glad I'm watching what I eat. But my sister assures me that eating healthy strawberries dipped in chocolate equals negative calories. So I had a vanilla bean panna cotta with fresh strawberries and raspberries with chocolate dipping sauce and cream. And, she said, the same rule applies for calories as cheating on your partner - it's ok if you're in another postcode. She is my sister and she is smart, so I have to take her word for that.

Mini Knickerbocker Sundaes & Strawberry
and Marshmellow Kebabs with chocolate sauce.
Amazeballs!!

Scarlett looks as though she was dipped
in spaghetti & choc coated strawberries.
Strawberries dipped in chocolate sauce is baby crack. 

Love to read your comments!

Or come to where the ferals play on Facebook

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.

Boot Tootin'

Gracie approached me quietly, a gentle smirk on her face, and said, "Mummy, I got a song for you."

She turned, bent over and looked back over her left shoulder.

Prrrrffffffttah.

I can still taste it.

I have never known anyone who farts quite as much as Grace does. She can proudly lift her leg and release a boot toot on command. They are loud, brown and resonant. Not quite paint-peelers, but she is only 3. Sometimes she follows through, sometimes she leaves us with an empty promise. Either way, she has us crying with tears of laughter, laughter which is often met with an encore of the same calibre, and often with her partner-in-crime Lily trying her hardest at the body bagpipe. Lily's efforts alone have us in stitches. Her face contorts along with her body making her look like she is in extreme pain, all for a tiny, barely audible, pip.

Enter Ella. 

"You think that's good? How about this..."

Suddenly, it's not that funny anymore. I know it's not fair. We cacked ourselves at the Wondertwins producing fecal clouds, there's something not quite right when our dainty 11 year old daughter drops a smoofer. 

Baby Scarlett farts (and applauds herself with her new-found clapping) and we cheer and swoon, "Aaawwww, she's so cute! Fart again." But I can tell you there's nothing to swoon about when Tim or Campbell drop their guts in my presence.

When does farting become less funny? Was there a cut-off age that I missed? 

I remember a time when farting in the face of your brother sleeping was hilarious, but learning your son has farted in your daughter's face while she sleeps with her mouth open is a disgusting and punishable offence. 

Pre-Scarlett, we drove across Australia in a large black Dutch oven with four children. Sometime the air was thick, depending on what truck stop food they were fed. Every errant smell was blamed on Dad. This year, on our trip to Queensland, the blame fell on Baby Scarlett. 

Can't blame me. I don't fart. I'm a fucking lady. 


If you like me, vote for me at the Circle of Moms Top 25 Funny Moms 2013
and join me in the brown cloud of Facebook

Road Trip

We had arrived in Queensland after a three day, nineteen hour drive from Melbourne. With five kids. For three days. Three long long days. I'm reminded of an episode of Outnumbered, "Five hours in an airport with children - that's five weeks in real time." I'm sure it applies to road trips, too. Possibly even longer. Definitely longer.

Before we could actually say that we were on the road to the most awesome of awesomest playground destinations that is the Gold Coast, we had to make our way through the suburban jungle of south east Melbourne. Normal people can make this journey in around an hour, but somehow we managed to get to the Hume Highway in a record two hours from the time we strapped the ferals in their restraints.

I thought it was suspiciously quiet in the back seat.
No, it wasn't my idea.

We had loaded the car with the essentials for a holiday with kids. Toys, nappies, bum wipes, nappy sacks, bottles, formula, steriliser, kettle - yes, kettle - toys, iPad, iPods, chargers for iPad and iPods, toys, dummies, spare dummies, lucky dummies, emergency dummies, Zoloft, Panadol, toys and snacks. Then we added the suitcases. Ella, our 11 year old fashionista, was not too impressed to have her two suitcases and overnight bag downsized to one suitcase. Campbell was not too impressed we had to encourage him to pack his suitcase with more than one t-shirt and one pair of undies by including - for the love of God - deodorant, his orthodontic care pack for his million dollar future smile, bathers, a few more pairs of undies and socks (preferably clean) and at least one other t-shirt (also preferably clean).

Fifteen minutes into the trip:

Grace: Where are we going?
Ella: I'm hungry.
Tim: We're going on a holiday, Gracie.
Ella: Can we get a snack?
Lily: What's a holiday?
Me: Eat one of the snacks we packed.
Campbell: Those snacks are crap.
Me: Don't say crap.
Ella: Campbell's kicking me.
Campbell: I am not.
Lily: When are we going on a holiday?
Ella: All this talking is not getting me a snack.
Me: We're not stopping for a snack yet.
Ella: That's so not fair.
Campbell: Bad luck Ella, you retard. You should have had breakfast.
Ella: Muuuuuummmmmm! Campbell called me a retard!
Me: Don't call Ella a retard.
Campbell: Can we stop for a snack now?
Lily: I want a snack!
Grace: I want a snack!
Tim: We're not getting a snack. Honey, can we stop for a coffee?
Ella: Good. We can finally get a snack.
Grace & Lily: Yay! Get a snack!
Ella: Who farted?

18 hours to go.

We did stop for a snack.
It still didn't shut them up.

Find me on Facebook
Vote for me on Circle of Moms Top 25 Funny Moms 2013

Night one

It's been a while since the whole family has spent this amount of time together in such close proximity, and I think I know why. As I lie here in our motel room, baby snuggled into my chest, Lily across the foot of my bed, and the rhythmic serenade of my husband's snoring (please read that with a hell of a lot of sarcasm - it sounds like a pig mating with a cow on a train in a tunnel) I am able to see, hear and smell just what I have been missing all this time.

I note that my son talks in his sleep. Grace can search and find her dummy while very much asleep. Someone's junior parmigiana keeps creeping like a silent brown cloud over to my side of the large bedroom. Someone else isn't so silent. Ella suddenly will sit upright, rub her nose, and crash back down to her pillow. Tim, banished to the small couch in the kitchenetteloungeroomentrance area, breathes heavily, holds his breath...7...8...9...and bursts with a grunty snore. 

Night One.

The 10 hour drive to Goulburn, New South Wales, from Melbourne was better than I thought - but I have had a glass of wine.

I had aimed to leave Melbourne this morning as early as possible to get to Goulburn by 5:30pm. We got here at 8 and I don't think that was too bad considering we were traveling with five wild and constantly hungry animals who smelled and argued a lot. And if you think chewing gum is fun to get out of hair, try extracting a marshmallow from a 3 year old who in her tantrum is shaking and matting the goo deeper and deeper into her locks. And I need to get it out to make room for the next tasty morsel she'll lose in there tomorrow.

It's the little things you take for granted when you travel long distances. Like having a car stereo that doesn't have a Wiggles, Hi5 and about 70 cents of loose change shoved in it together. The USB with the Glee soundtracks can only last 

so long, yet I think we may actually have listened to about 10 hours of it already. Lucky us - it's about another 13 hours plus kid factor which equals around 17 hours that we can get our Gleek on. 

Yay.

Find me on Facebook
Vote for me on Circle of Moms Top 25 Funny Moms 2013