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!

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.

Listmania 2

Well, as I look out the window today, it's hard to believe this is summer. After a night of wild weather, lots of rain and the temperature dropping to winter degrees, we've had to pull out the long sleeves and jackets.

My Listmania list today is all about the pros and cons of my summer in Melbourne. 

I found it hard to think of the pros of a Melbourne summer, or a summer in general. I don't like the heat and the heat doesn't like me. I become a whingy, sweaty pain in the bum. If I learn that the next day will be a scorcher I am already hot. It's hereditary - my grandma was a psychosomatic heat freak, too.

But I have found some shiny brightness to list as the good stuff anyway...

Pros:

Daylight savings. I love watching an orange sunset after a warm day at about half past eight at night, wine in one hand, baby in the other.

Enjoying Christmas outdoors. 2012 saw me host our first outdoor Christmas dinner on a beautiful day in our garden. Fairy lights overhead, swiping flies off the turkey and a lurking dog. An almost-Aussie Christmas, despite the traditionally hot food.

Kids on school holidays. Summer in Melbourne means loooong school holidays. I will be listing this one as a 'con' as well, but as a 'pro' it means no routine, sleeping in, staying in pj's longer and not rushing.

Dragonflies. I love dragonflies. Around our yard in summer I love to watch them dart about, stopping to hover in front of you as though they are examining you, and then darting away. Magic little alien pods.

Smell of the beach. After a scorcher of a day, and as the cooler night air starts to roll in, so does the smell of the beach of Port Philip Bay. It reminds me of my childhood.

The beach. My kids want to go to the beach. We live near the beach. I hate the beach. The beach is a scary place for me to watch five kids from 9 months to 13 years by myself. However, I have listed it as a pro, because I could lie on the beach all day and listen to the waves roll in, the seagulls overhead and other people's children playing happily in the sand. My kids would just scream.


Tennis. The Australian Open in Melbourne. Love a day out there without the kids. Sadly I missed out this year - because of the kids.

Storms. There is nothing sexier than a thunderstorm after a hot day.








Cons:

Daylight savings. The sun gets up too early and sets too late + My kids get up too early and go to bed too late = I get up too early and go to bed even later.

Too hot and sweaty. I'm a big chick. I don't dig the heat. Especially 42 degree heat. I have trouble beyond 25 degrees. Summer in Melbourne can mean a couple of stupid hot days in a row, followed by Antarctic weather. Airconditioning can only work so well.

Spiders. The Huntsman, Red Backs, Orbs and White Tails. We always know when summer has arrived here when we catch a glimpse of an arachnid outstretched between the trees. Or on the fence. Or on the wall watching you go to the toilet.

Kids on school holidays. From just before Christmas to the end of January is a bloody long time to entertain kids. Kids get bored too quickly and many places to visit are either too expensive for all of us to go to or not age-appropriate for someone at one end of the birth-order spectrum. In my day we made our own fun by dressing up our cats or pushing billycarts without brakes down steep driveways. In my day...

Writing these lists has been quite therapeutic. I've been feeling a bit down lately and this has been a great way to reflect on the little things that have made me smile over time but were long forgotten. Don't forget to have a look at other Listmaniac's lists, by clicking on the link up the top. Let me know if you start one, too. I'd love to have a peek.

43 Freaking Days

Oh my God! It's wonderful! Sniffle, sniffle. Wipe away tears. Bloody wonderful!

It's the last day of the Victorian School holidays for my kids! I can't believe it's finally here. And boy, how those 43 days just flew by...

Nooooo.

I've been reading through friends' Facebook posts of beautiful and sometimes teary stories of their youngsters returning, or beginning, school. Lovely photos of tidy uniforms, rows of bags and homemade lunchbox treats. That's not me.

Tonight, as I count down the hours until Big Grade Six Girl returns to class, I have jobs to do. Jobs that I'll admit I've been a little delayed in doing. With Ella just settling in bed after several curtain calls to remind me to wake her at 6 (WTF?) and to iron her school dress (again, WTF? - in her six years of primary school I have never ironed her uniform, and I do not intend to start now. You will not teach this old dog new tricks) I have decided the most important thing I could be doing with my time now is to blog. You are welcome.

I should have learned from last year's 11pm run to Kmart. My nearest store is open until midnight and is specifically designed for mums like me. We walk through the store with purpose, make-up-less and daggy, heading directly for those last minute first-day-of-school purchases. This would be a great place to meet likeminded mums who are just as crap as I am at getting their shiz together. However, we all walk fast, heads bowed, eyes bleary, moccasins shuffling on the vinyl floor determined not to make eye contact as we race for the checkout before they lock us in there overnight. 

I'm proud to say I will not be doing the Kmart run tonight.

Instead, I will be finding matching, or close-enough-to-be-matching, socks, lengthening a school dress (which will probably not even be worn tomorrow as she'll change her mind, again) and labelling brand new lunch boxes and drink bottles. My bad - I forgot to clean out the lunch boxes from last year and they were stashed in a box of 'hide for Christmas' stuff until now. I didn't have the courage to open them. I just threw them away. Shudders.  

I had Ella empty her own school bag this afternoon. In front of me. So I can see first hand how she 'emptied' it at the end of the last school year without me present. Needless to say, the ghosts of bananas and ham and cheese sandwiches of terms past that had been fermenting in the summer heat, are still haunting my nose. Apparently it was my fault. I could have saved myself a lot of trouble and just emptied it for her in December. I'm terrified of what might lurk in Campbell's bag. I know it's not school work.

You'd think that with my excitement to have them return to school I would have had them all packed and ready the first day of January. So would I. I just can't figure myself out somedays. But here we are, 10 hours before school starts, and I can't fucking wait. It's not that I don't love having them around. I just don't love having them around all the time. But after 43 freaking days, Mummy needs her sanity back and maybe her ears will stop ringing from the competitive shouting from dawn to dusk. 

Forget the Tea and Tissues morning at school - who's up for a Wine and a Whine at ten past nine tomorrow morning?

56 days until the end of Term.

Facebook - a place where stalkers meet.

Dusty

I have to remind myself - I'm not 20 anymore. What was I thinking?

It's now 11pm Melbourne time and I'm just starting to feel more my age (plus some) after a party last night without the kids. This was my first night out with Tim and without children where I could let my hair down, soak it in tequila and champagne, and enjoy myself at a friend's 40th. And even though I have gone through the day feeling rather grim and quite likely unable to drive until this evening, I am - in a strange way - not ashamed to have had this self-inflicted seediness today. I found the fun Lisa that I thought had disappeared. For a few hours I was not 'Mum'. I was freaking awesome.

I vaguely remember being this 'Lisa' - confident and social and laughing. These friends are relatively new friends, friends I don't share a past with, but people who I share a common ground - our kids are friends with each other. These newish friends keep my shit together. In my small daily world of feral children, nappies, school drop-offs and pick-ups, these friends are my links to the real world, adult conversation, coffee and the occasional wine. I love these people.

I tried so hard not to check my phone every 5 minutes to see if my babysitting sister had called to say she couldn't take anymore of bickering older children, tantrum chucking toddlers and an overtired screaming baby, but I did, and she hadn't. I knew this could be the first and last time my sister would mind all five of my delights. I was prepared for that. But the call didn't come, and the Champagne was beckoning. 

I'm certainly not 20 anymore.

Very dusty.


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The Shiny Awesomeness of 2013

I've never been good at keeping New Year's Resolutions. I stopped making them many many years back when I failed to keep them beyond the 3rd of January of every year.

This year, I feel somewhat different and more motivated to get my big arse into gear and do something. I'm going to keep it simple. I will not try to commit to the Paleo Diet or the French 'Air' Diet (pretending to eat food that is served to you - I think I would eat it and pretend it wasn't there in the first place), however the Cookie Diet does sound intriguing. I wonder if Tim Tams count as cookies?

Nope. No 'diets' as such for me. With Timbo on board helping, as well as my little sis Deb, I will not eat the children's left overs. I will eat smaller portions of the things that I would normally eat. I'm not going for a quick supermodel physique - I just want to begin with a little self control. Like I said - I'm going to keep it simple. I can achieve these little baby-steps easier than hating myself later when my willpower to maintain a stricter eating plan fails me by mid January.

I will drink a glass of water before every meal. I believe this clears the path for more wine or Margaritas. I could be wrong. But I don't think so.

I will swear less. Notice I said 'less'. Let's not go fucking overboard.

I will look more closely at the daily beauty that often surrounds me, and try not to get submerged in negativity and self-loathing. 

Sometimes it's hard to get to December 31 and think of anything but the bad times and hardships you may have gone through during the year. Sometimes it is hard to see the shiny brilliance and awesomeness that can happen even just for a minute or two in any given day. Sometimes the clouds are too heavy, and sometimes the hole is too bloody deep.

So, to remind myself of the great things that happen throughout 2013, I will start a Joy Jar. You begin on the 1st of January with an empty jar, and throughout the year you write the good things that happened to you on little  pieces of paper. On the 31st December, you can look back at all the fantastic things that have happened during the past year. A friend posted this great idea on her Stalkbook page, and I love it... 

A Joy Jar of positivity!

These are my very tiny steps to my New Year's success. 

And if I break them, fuck it, I'll have another wine and start again.



2013 - the year to join my cult on Facebook!
Vote for me on Circle of Moms Top 25 Funny Moms 2013

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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Give me five

There is nothing I would change about my life. I love having five kids...

...says the woman washing down the Zoloft with what's left of the bottle of white wine. 

And to be fair to this half shittered mad chick, she does speaketh the truth. At least she's a happy lush. And at least she can see the beauty in the life around her. After all, the beauty around her is biologically half hers.

I think I must be that type of drunk who swaggers over to the friends of friends I've met only 30 minutes earlier and gushingly declare my love. I looooove you sooooo much. You're sooooo fucking amaaaaaazing. We should go on a cruise or something. Maaaate, I looove you. 

My kids, all five of them, are awesome. I'm awesome for having five kids. White wine is awesome. I love the magic of white wine. It turns horrendous little buttholes into perfect little angels. It even works on husbands. All hail the vino.

I wasn't meant to have five kids. I wasn't meant to have any or so I was told. Fertility drugs and weight loss after years and years and years of trying produced Campbell and Ella, seemingly happening when we grew tired of the constant thinking about babies and temperatures and laproscopies and hysteroscopies and herbal concoctions to promote ovulation. We decided to get a cat instead. This, people, is my answer to infertility - buy a cat. It guarantees pregnancy almost instantly. 

Llewyn, fertility expert. 

After Ella, I became very ill resulting in doctors telling me I would need a hysterectomy to prevent further illness. IVF was not an option, I was told. It simply could not and would not work. The safest option was to remove my baby-making oven.

Eight years after not choosing the hysterectomy, Tim and I looked into IVF. Five eggs taken, one egg survived the first two days, and out hatched two baby girls eight months later.

Our family of four was complete.

Enter Scarlett.

Scarlett wanted to be here. She's not our 'mistake'. She's our 'surprise'. I'm convinced she was the little jelly bean on the screen without a heartbeat a few months before. I'd never fully understood the emotional blackhole that is miscarriage until my Jelly Bean's heart had stopped at 7 weeks. That blackhole gets deeper when you still need to carry it for another two weeks, aching boobs and nausea, body betraying you until it is gone.

But give me five kids. There are many many days when I'd love to throw them through a wall or leave them on the side of the road because they've shit me beyond belief in the car - but what mum hasn't had those days? 

It's easy for me to say. I'm three sheets to the wind.

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