Interrogation of: Shelley V.

Shelley V. was once a Party Girl. She and I worked together and flatted together. I borrowed her clothes (still have some actually), ate her gourmet cooking and was a willing Plus One to loads of gigs, fundraisers, movie previews and theatre shows. Back then, she was a radio breakfast host so she got lots of free tickets to stuff. (I encourage you to find your own pet radio announcer. They may be going out of fashion, but they’re still getting the freebies.)
 

I, in retrospect, realise that I did absolutely nothing for her except encourage her to dump this useless lump she was seeing (he was one of those noxiously plentiful types who treats you like crap and then sends you flowers). But it was apparently a life changing moment for her - one which took our friendship from a ‘hey, how you doing’ acquaintanceship to a ‘please hold my hair back while I vomit’ bosom buddy-ness.

And now, this ex-Party Girl is interrogating Shelley about her transition to motherhood - just to prove I'm not the only one who finds the whole thing just a little bit odd.



Just back from Playgroup

What did you do B.C? (Before Children)
Whatever I bloody well liked - including:
: Remorseless drinking that didn't involve spending the next day counting every second 'til bedtime (that's the children’s bedtime - not mine).
: Uninterrupted and completed conversations with girlfriends.
: Actually talking to my partner about – I don’t know - world affairs, Man Booker Prize winners or even the possibility of us ever leaving the house together without children - as opposed to just giving him instructions on feeding, cleaning and rounding up the kids.
: Shopping in places that don't sell clothing covered in mutant ninja turtles, Ben 10, Batman or Spiderman.

What do you do now?

Inwardly sigh when I hear nappy tabs being ripped off at 5:57am as the three year old dumps his nappy on the floor and thumps (he does not ever pitter-patter) down the hall. Give up trying to go back to sleep when the four year old gets into the bed and a massive fight erupts over who gets to go in the middle. Decide getting out of bed is preferable to being smacked in the eye with Winnie the Pooh or Peter Rabbit. Drag myself to kitchen, make Nutella on toast. Eat it myself (even though I hate Nutella) after massive tantrum because it was cut in squares not triangles. Make porridge. Try and distract three year old from throwing tantrum because I forgot to let him stir the porridge. Stop him from eating brown sugar out of bowl in handfuls. Wipe sugar off bench. Make half-hearted attempt at positive reinforcement - "I really like the way you are holding your porridge bowl so carefully!" Turn on Disney Junior, scream after standing on impossibly painful piece of Lego. Limp back to kitchen and begin to assemble lunches...bored yet? 

 

What has been the grossest thing your child has ever made you do?

I just witnessed the three year old take the most ginormous bogey out of his nose and eat it. I said to him, "No, nooo don't eat it. Put it in the rubbish!" and he replied, "I like it." Arggghhh Yuck!

 

What is the most pointless piece of baby equipment you ever bought?
Baby oil. What idiot thought babies needed oiling? I still have a full bottle of it and my son starts school on Monday.

 

What was the last party you went to?

A 5th birthday at the rec centre where you could take your bike or scooter and there were cheerios, jet planes and a really cool Spiderman cake.

 

Any words of advice for ex-Party Girls?

There's nothing wrong with wine with dinner, although preferably while preparing dinner to numb the pain of having made a healthy, nutritious meal that no one, except you, will eat - unless you have a Labrador.

 

Do you ever lie awake at night wondering what happened to your life?

No, am too exhausted...but often wonder what happened to my life while mopping up squashed spaghetti from the floor or scrubbing tomato sauce off the white vinyl chairs or wiping up the pee from the seat and tiles around the loo or after spending 45 minutes looking for a piece of Lego the four year old needs to finish building the Lego space shuttle.

 

But was it worth it?
You want an honest answer to this one or the one I should give just in case my kids ever read it? Sometimes I think they're quite lovely and I'm glad they're in the world, but it would be nice if someone else was responsible for the long and tedious bedtime routine while I drank cocktails at a swim-up bar.

Happy Birthday, Shelley

 

Grandmothers know best

If my grandma hadn't died, she would be 101 right now. The Age of Decrepitude. There really is no point living to such a vast age and I wonder why more and more people are doing it. I suspect preservatives. Or perhaps it's just sheer laziness.

My grandmother is on the right

Anyway, my grandma was pretty choice. She knew lots and lots of things. Mostly about household and craft stuff. Living through wars (don't ask me which - big ones), meant she had a penchant for saving, recycling, making do and going without, which, now I come to think about it, is rather similar to my life as a stay-at-home Mum. With no vast sums of money happily kicking up their heels in a trust fund, giggling under my mattress or colouring my bank account balance even a slight shade of black, I am learning to do it on the cheap, just like her.

My grandma had a saying, 'If there's an egg in the house, there's a meal in the house'. I learned later she got that off an ad on the telly - but when I first heard it I was struck with wonder. An egg! A meal! Brilliant! So here's one of my favourite eggy recipes. It's cheap and choice. And if you've got a vege garden it's even cheaper and choicer.

PS I got this off Alison Holst. She is not my grandmother.

You need: onion, garlic, bit of oil, 3 eggs, cup of milk, 3/4 tsp salt, 3/4 cup self raising flour, 2 potatoes, cup broccoli, 1/2 cup cheese.

Oil up a tin. Cook potatoes and broccoli. Chop spuds into cubes. Finely chop broccoli. Set aside. Cook onion and garlic in oil in a pot and let cool. Mix in eggs, milk and salt with a fork. Chuck in flour and mix with fork til just combined. Add veges and cheese. Pour into tin. Whack into a hot oven and cook for half an hour on 220 degrees C.

The Great Cup Debate

There is nothing guaranteed to send me into a frenzy faster than The Great Cup Debate and it happens, without fail, every meal time. It goes something like this.

Mummy: Would you like a drink?
Son: Alwight.
Mummy: There you go, enjoy.
Son: Don't want dat cup - want a blue cup!

(Mummy's heart-rate begins to quicken. Just a little.)

Are you sure?

Mummy: Fine. Here's the blue cup.
Son: Not dat blue cup! Da fishy cup!
Mummy: You said the blue cup.
Son: Said a FISHY cup!
Mummy: I don't even know where the fish cup is.
Son (getting louder and more tearful): Fishy cup! Fishy cup! Fishy cup!
Mummy: Alright, alright! I'll just go and find it for you, shall I?

(Mummy exits. Aggravated mutterings heard from next room. Enter Mummy.)

Mummy: Why does this cup have half a worm in it?

(Silence)

Mummy (crossly peeling off worm and scrubbing cup): You know, I haven't actually eaten anything yet. I'll probably collapse and die of starvation right here, not that anyone cares -
Son: FISHY CUP!!
Mummy: FINE! Here.

(Silence)

Son: Don't want a fishy cup! Want a flower cup!
Mummy: What? What flower cup? We don't have a flower cup.
Son: Flower cup! Flower cup!
Mummy: What - that? That's not a cup, that's a vase.
Son: FLOWER CUP! FLOWER CUP!
Mummy: What's wrong with the fish cup? Look, it's got lovely fishes on it -

(Smash)

Mummy: Well you've gone and broken it now.
Son (crying): Want a fishy cup!
Mummy (taking huge slug of wine and wiping sweating brow): There is no fishy cup. It's gone. You broke it.
Son (sobbing): Fishy cup, fishy cup!
Mummy: THERE IS NO FISHY CUP. You'll have to have the blue cup.
Son: Don't want a blue cup!
Mummy (in complete frenzy now): You should be thankful to have a cup at all! Some little children don't even have cups! They don't have a blue cup or a fishy cup or an anything cup! They have to use their hands!

(Silence. Smash.)

Son: Don't want a cup anymore! Want a hands!


The Great Cup Debate. Coming to a dinner table near you, all too bloody soon.

Toddler OCD

Once your child hits about 2 years, the OCD-ness kicks in. This is a particularly frustrating phase because it is completely pointless and wastes so much time that could be best spent on other things - like fantasising about a proper manicure with lotions and cuticle trimmers, instead of the harsh reality of finding dried baby poo under a fingernail and giving it a quick rinse under the cold tap.

My own son's particular OCD-ness is focused on the manner in which he exits the shower.



Choosing the right wire to cut has nothing on this

He must open the shower door. He must have a white towel. He must close the shower door before being dried. He must be holding his special blanky while towel is carefully draped around his shoulders. The towel must not slip off as he dashes down the hall to his bedroom to get dressed.

And God help us all if any of these steps are changed, omitted or put in the wrong order. Any slight deviation from routine results in a tantrum of Herculean proportions where he will scream, cry, shout, hit, lie on floor, kick and throw things - all at the same time.

In this enlightened age, a sound thrashing with a birch switch is frowned upon (sigh). Therefore, Mummy's options are limited to:

Reasoning

Completely stupid option. You cannot reason with a two year old. They have no sense of logic. They would rather eat worms than dinner, for f's sake.

Firm Handling

Every miniscule tug on the elbow will induce eardrum-shattering cries of 'No, no, no Mummy, HURTS!!' thus exciting a flurry of calls from concerned neighbours to CYFS . Not always worth it.

Ignoring

Impossible when a screaming, dripping wet, blue, shivering child is following you from room to room throwing shoes at you.

Crying

Your child does not care that you are crouched in a corner, rocking back and forth with snot streaming from both nostrils. If anything, they will be aggrieved that your tantrum is better than theirs.

Bribes and Threats

Does not work as child cannot hear you over the sound of their own sweet, sweet, angelic voice. Also eyes are squeezed shut so cannot see lollipops being frantically brandished. Waste of money too, frankly.

Time Out

Good luck doing Time Out with a child who refuses to get dressed. When time is up and you go in to get them, you will find an evil smile on child's face and a steaming coil of poo on the carpet.


The only thing that really works is sticking him back in the shower and starting the whole sodding process from scratch. (And being, oh so careful, this time round!)
But eventually when he's clean and rosy cheeked, content and calm, curled up next to me on the couch in his blue pyjamas, I think back to the words another Mum once said to me, words that give me some small comfort.

"Don't worry," she said. "Four is a lovely age."

Only two years to go.

Bring Back the Brain

'Baby brain' is an awful, awful side-effect of pregnancy. I suspect some, (men) think that baby brain is an excuse to forget to clean the house, cook dinner or have sex. Actually, now I think about it, that is quite a brilliant excuse. (Memo to self... er... what was that again?)

It's all because of those meddling hormones. They gallop wildly about with the gayest of abandon having not had such free rein since puberty, before coming together in a large amorphous cloud and smothering everything in your head.

The Fog of Baby Brain

The fog descends. Vagueness becomes a natural state of being. One drifts aimlessly from one room to another like Casper the Forgetful Ghost. Tasks are half-heartedly begun, only to be abandoned. Conversations always seem to end with, "um.... never mind."

The worst thing is that you don't even notice you're doing it. You don't register the eye rolls and the irritated tut-tuts of your colleagues. Those snappy comments from your long-suffering family are just because they're being mean, (thus a reasonable excuse to sob and eat everything in the house). You simply don't realise how often someone else has had to jump in and finish whatever task you were supposed to do but didn't because you were clicking on onesies on Trade Me.

Baby brain is a burden everyone around you has to suffer.

'Never mind,' you think comfortably, patting your fat belly with the self-satisfied smugness of the fecund woman. 'My brain shall return after the baby is born. La la la.'

Newsflash. It bloody doesn't.

I go to playgroups and music classes with my children (aged one and two) and return home absolutely exhausted - merely from having to make conversation with other mums. And it is the act of talking, because the most physically strenuous thing I've done is march around the room, banging on a drum singing, 'The Wheels on the Bus.' And I don't bang that hard.

I'm terrified about going back to work and having to talk like a grown up again. I used to say things like, 'My client wants to incorporate both call-to-action and brand awareness in one campaign." Now, I say things like, "Have you done a poo-poo?"

Am also really scared I'm going to refer to myself in the third person as I (scarily) do at home, eg "Mummy is going to the loo now" and "Mummy is going to count to three and if you do not (insert reasonable request here) then you are going straight to bed!"

Try that in an office environment: "Excuse me Peter, Mummy is going to the photocopier now. Have you done a poo-poo?"

So if you're out and about and happen to trip over a random, squishy, grey thing, please be aware that it's probably my brain. I would like it back now.

Going tits-up (or down, as the case may be)

Today, my little girl (aged not quite two), pulled down the front of my shirt and peered inside.

“Eggs,” she announced critically before toddling away, a jammy crust plastered to her fat, nappy clad bottom.

“Eggs!” I said, aghast. “Melons, you mean.”

I lifted my top and did an experimental booby shake. Two saggy bags flopped dismally from side to side. My little girl was right and not ashamed to say it. (Sometimes I do admire the brutal honesty of children. This however, was not one of those times.)

It appears that my daughter and son have taken my once bouncy bazoongas and transformed them into the sort of balloons you find behind the couch three weeks after the party ended.

And I couldn't blame my ta-tas for just giving up. They’d done more than their fair share in our lifetime. They’d prevented strapless dresses from whooshing to the ground, informed passers-by of chilly changes in weather, been used as a podium for crumbs and spilled drinks, become a favoured plaything of many (ahem, perhaps not that many), and kept two little babies alive and well.

Their job was done and they were now content, kicking back and enjoying the aftermath of post-partying and post-breastfeeding - that boobylicious heaven where the chance of mastitis is an acceptable slim to zero. A paradise of apathy where tight bustiers and itchy lace have given way to stretchy elastic and loose tee shirts, where those gold glitter dustings, chicken fillets and rouged cleave are nothing but a vague, shameful memory.

But eggs? Surely they didn’t deserve that. Luckily, I like my eggs poached. 

I only have one friend who’s had a boob job. She’s neither American, famous nor short on self-esteem. She just likes having big boobs. I don’t think I could put my own breasts through the trauma of being cut, stuffed and stitched. It seems ungrateful. In fact, the only thing that appeals to me about breast augmentation is the induced coma. Sleep, glorious anaesthetised sleep.

Anyway, it's a matter of complete indifference to me. And I shall be sure to inform madam when she's a little older, that little girls always end up like their mothers - sure as eggs is eggs.

"Sleep? I'll sleep when I'm dead!"

(Many a drunken phrase is spoken in jest...)

It's one thing to be sleep deprived because you were at some banging party with free food and drinks, hanging out with the coolest people ever (who are going to be your new BFF's for life and eternity if... er... you can just remember their names), pashing the man of your dreams and waking up the next day with no money, no phone and no idea where you are. It's quite another to be sleep deprived because the newest member of your household has no idea how to shut the f up at bedtime. For one thing, it's not half so much fun. Not even a speckle of fun.

All Mums worry about how much their children sleep. Click on any Parenting Forum and you get pages of posts from cranky, glass-half-awake women anxiously comparing notes on how long, how much and if it happened at all during the day. (That's sleep not sex, people - focus). Plus, they're all hating on the smug cow who posted that her new baby slept the whole night through in his own bed, (btw, she's so full of crap). The angst of it all! It's enough to keep you up at night.

There is no point joining in on these anxiety filled rants. All that precious energy could be used to keep your own eyelids propped open.

It's time to take the focus off how much sleep baby needs, to how much sleep Mum needs.

Give Mum a good night's sleep and see how the makeup miraculously appears on her face the next morning. See how she abandons her trackies for nice jeans and booby top. Listen to her dulcet tones instead of the usual fishwife shrieks. Watch her move with purpose instead of wandering vaguely between the fridge and the washing machine with a piece of cardboard in hand muttering, 'Now - what was it I was going to do again...?' And marvel at how much nicer she is to everyone - including baby -  just because she managed to get a few solid zzzzz's.

Remember, babies will only sleep when they're good and goddamn ready. There's stuff all you can do about it. If you feel like you should be doing something (and Mums tend to want to be doing something - especially the newbies), here's a practical exercise. Sit down, close your eyes and imagine how it will be when they're teenagers, addicted to drugs or unemployed and never get out of bloody bed. How you will fondly recall those precious infanthood days with blurry, rose-tinted sleep-masks! (For rose-tinted sleep masks, click here)

Eyes still closed? Good. That's probably the first break you've had all day.

But in the meantime, when you're doing your umpteenth lap around the bedroom floor in the dead of night with a shrieking, writhing gargoyle who has quite clearly been sculling back pints of Red Bull when you weren't looking, remember the words a wise old midwife once said to me:

"Never look back on the sleep you didn't have - look forward to the sleep you're going to have."

Amen, and good night.
 


Sssshhhh...

'E moe, mama' is a New Zealand study on sleep and how it affects new Mums. Check it out here

4 Reasons Why Children Are Not Like Pigs

Everybody - and I mean everybody - has thought of their children as pigs at some stage (George Orwell thought it more than most).

"Oh, you messy pig," I think, as I wipe off the table after dinner with a chisel and paint scraper.
"Oh, you little piglet!" I exclaim, as my two year old son shovels a whole sandwich in his mouth before gagging it all back up, (cue chisel and paint scraper). 
"Oh, you mean pig!" I moan in despair, as I cradle my sobbing one year old daughter who's been hit in the face with a plastic train by her determinedly unashamed brother (as a teen, will he be shaving cats and tagging gravestones? Just one of the nagging fears that will wake a mum at 3am).

It is easy to think of our children as pigs. And yet we shouldn't. Here are four reasons why.

1: Pigs Are Smart

Pigs are incredibly intelligent. They are at number four on the list of intelligent animals - outranked only by elephants, dolphins and chimps. Children do not feature on this list at all. This is why they have to go to school to learn how to do basic stuff, like sharing and sitting cross-legged.
Children do dumb things, like inserting chopsticks into the dehumidifier grill and rendering it unusable, or pooing on your fave tee and rendering it unusable, or jabbing hairpins into light sockets and rendering hairpins, light sockets and themselves, unusable.
Pigs do not.

2: Pigs Are Clean

Give a pig a choice and it will prefer to be clean. The only reason why so many are dirty are because they live in muddy homes. Most children do not live in muddy homes. And yet, given children the same choice, they will choose filth over cleanliness any day. This can be proven by giving your child a wash. Your attempts at basic hygiene will be met with:



Don't clean me! I haven't covered my entire face yet!

a) squirming, wriggling, kicking and hitting
b) bloodcurdling screams of "I hate you, I hate you,"
c) running and hiding, or
d) all of the above.

Pigs do not do this.

3: Pigs Taste Good

Pigs can be turned into many delicious food items. Sausages are cheap and choice. Nothing beats bacon and eggs after a night on the lash. And succulent roast pork with sticky, crunchy crackling is a delight that was surely invented by the gods.
Children do not taste nice. Anyone who has had an intrusive finger jabbed into their mouth on an otherwise inoffensive Sunday lie-in knows that children taste like bogeys, jam, drool and carpet fluff.

4: Pigs Eat Anything 

They will. If doesn't matter if it's rotten or one of their own, pigs will eat it. Children will not. Besides junk food, children will only eat fruit, yoghurt and pasta. Anything else will be thrown, ridiculed, ignored or smeared. Someone should invent fruityyoghurt pasta. They will make a fortune.


So, you can see why it is misleading and incorrect to think of our children as pigs. Some pigs might even consider it hurtful. Therefore, let us not refer to our children as 'messy pigs', 'mean pigs' or 'greedy pigs' ever again. Children are not pigs.
Men, on the other hand...

Goodbye Party, Hello Dollies

I started this blog thing a while back now, but never got around to posting anything because I got too tied up with the kids. Two of them - boy and girl barely a year and half apart. And it's only now, almost three years later, that I've finally come to terms with the fact that I am a Mum. A stay at home Mum, no less. One of those.
(If you're not, then yes, it's as you suspect. I do nothing all day except drink coffee with other stay-at-home Mums and laugh at my good fortune. Cue hollow laugh. A ha ha ha). 

My grimy yet fabulously atmospheric city apartment has been replaced with a standard three bedroom in the 'burbs. The noise that wakes me up in the morning isn't the street sweepers or that guy who busks with bagpipes or my flatmate coming home with another random in tow. No - now my 5am wake up call is the two-year-old singing Bob the Builder at umpteen decibels while the one-year-old jabs at my sleeping face with her razor sharp talons (and if I knew how those nails grew so fast I'd bottle it and make a fortune), muttering sagely, "Eyeth. Nothe. Cheekth. Mouf..."

I am 40. Four freaking oh. I never thought I'd ever get to 40. But then I never thought I'd be buried in the country with two children, leg hair so long it could be braided and a new found talent for making dinner out of a fistful of flour and a handful of greens scraped out of the vege garden. (Because I have a vege garden now. Because I am old. Ask me about companion planting. Go on. I dare you.)

Once upon a time, staying up all night didn't mean walking the floor with a colicky newborn as the walls slowly (a la Star Wars episode 4 in the rubbish bin), closed in. Having dinner didn't mean eating whilst standing up at the sink as small people screamed and threw food at you. Going out didn't mean 'to get nappies''.

You know when you suddenly think 'how the f did I end up here?' By the time you've thought that, it's too late. You are there. 

And this is me. A party girl no longer. Just a shell-shocked mother with a faded facial voucher from Gin-Seng that is way, way overdue.