Don’t ask what happened to the other end.

G

PS. My breast pump is DYING. Seriously, it’s like being milked with all the throbbing power of an electric toothbrush. Bloody thing was second hand, and as far as I can tell by the manufacture date, half of the boobs in my fair land have used it and sold it on ebay for just under what they paid and yet I am once again the unlucky bastard on whom something breaks and I end up sucking up the hit for everybody. In related items, anybody interested in a lightly sucking n1pple stimulator that may or may not extract milk, complete with full set of accessories, tubing, bottles, bags, valves and fancy carry bag?

Didn’t think so.

By the way, in case you weren’t keeping count now that I am not working any more and, you know, EARNING MONEY, I am up to one massive tax demand, one broken car, car service x 2, dead coffee machine, ditto dead computer, twelve months of electricity all at once due to amusing billing error and I still need all four wisdom teeth out at some point when my face explodes again.

Bollocks.

I think I’m going frontally bald and THIS creature is responsible:

Lovable little shit, she is. She COOS while grabbing a fistfull in both hands and having a good old fashioned yank.

Also, the bit where she rips my specs clean off my face and throws them on the tiles with such glee, that bit never gets old.

G

PS. My hair is only about three inches long. Cutting it shorter, while possible, probably isn’t an option I wish to consider.

PSS. Am meant to be reading up on the principles of electrosurgery and how precisely the clever electric buzzy thing that makes that delightful smell of char-grilled flesh in theatre actually WORKS but, Internet, it involves PHYSICS and ergo it is more boring than pretending to be interested in photos of somebody else’s holiday. Blargh.

Because, honestly, my latest little person is currently in her crib making  ‘gnah! gnah! gnah!’ noises of severe disapproval at the fact, while I choose to distract myself by typing to you all in vague misery about how she just won’t bleeding stay asleep at night unless my tits are involved.

I mean, she’s really quite a sweet child as long as she’s got something warm and squishy to suck on, really she is. I just had to get it out there that while she does now nap twice a day (no more than two naps, sob!) in her crib and without nursing to sleep to do so, something to do with the setting of the golden orb completely screws with any desire to just go the hell to sleep alone and without props more complicated than a teddy bear and quick cuddle.

She’s now up to a vaguely resigned, ‘nyahhh, nyyyahhh, unhh, unhh, nyah!’ for those of you playing along at home. With the occasional ‘ahahahahahaha…..(pause)…waaaaaHHHHHHHHH’.

Anyway, if you can excuse me, I have three children to successfully wrestle off to the land of nod and I have to get ready for work in the morning, and between you and me, finding something that doesn’t make me look like a shar-pei featured in my abdominal ancestry is rather hard these days.

I leave you with the following (wAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!!!!) observations:

A: Bhaji Nightshift will also go to unannounced about second base with your nose if you get too close (please, don’t get too close, she just did it me ME and I am shuddering at how very, very revolting an unexpected little tongue up one’s nostril can be).

B: My medical students all seem to think that caesarean sections are performed via an incision right over where the gallbladder lives. In MY day etc etc.

G

PS. She’s just shut up. Should I check she’s still breathing or run for the wine?

Is it just me, or is this normal? I mean, I can usually talk the legs off of a table so I don’t know what ate my blogging mojo. I live to whinge.

I was going to indignantly tell you all about how I got a rolled eyed ‘that’s our FAVOURITE order when we’re busy’ to the starting of a breakfast order with two babychinos at my local coffee shop, but I’ve already vented that one on Bacefook, complete with indignant check-in post complaining about that exact comment while I was waiting for my coffee. And the babychinos. I figure I’ve got it passively-aggressively out of my system enough by ensuring that anybody else who checks in to the same venue now gets to read my experience. Put that in your grinder and suck it coffee place, and also, when one charges more than the cost of a litre of milk for a tiny cup of froth with a couple of marshmallows on the top I think I’m entitled to take a blasted table with my spawn.

Moral of the story? Beware the social media.  It can bite bad service in the ass.

See? That was dull, wasn’t it?

I guess it’s just that I’m not really going anywhere or doing anything much on accounts of Miss oh-so-aptly-named-speaking-of-biting-in-the-ass Nightshift and her nocturnal insistence on at least three feeds and a n1pple in her mouth at all times justincase. Do you KNOW how sore your hip gets when you spend every night wedged sideways? I do, the answer is a predictable ‘very farking sore’. Unfortunately my ladies are not yet pendulous enough to allow Miss Nightshift her succor without at least a sixty degree tilt so my hip, oh my GAD my hip it aches.

I never thought I’d be asking for saggier bo0bs, but there you have it.

Also, the bugger BIT ME this morning. She BIT me riiiiiight on my poor are0la and then just clamped on down kind of like a dog that thinks a tug-of-war is about to happen and plans to bleeding well win.

She also seems to have taken a fancy to gripping random bits of bo0b and twisting them. Hint, that farking hurts, too.

Basically, I think my child is beating up my t1ts and is five months old too young to call the cops?

Sigh.

G.

PS. Tell me, is this post appearing in your feed readers, clever internet? I’ve notice my posts are a bit tardy and random in MINE (as in the snapshot of my t1ts keeps appearing over the top of more recent posts for reasons best known to itself) and I have no idea if it’s me, you or all of us but it would explain traffic and comment patterns no end.

I was trying to find a way to organise the mess that is my brain and form some coherent, typeable and mildly pithy observations about the dreaded M day. I failed.

Here’s the thing, anyway.

M day is just one of those holidays that only seems to set people up to fail or feel shit in some way or another. It might be the gloating Bacefook post of a friend who got breakfast in bed, a spa trip, alcohol and chocolate about how nice her life is full well knowing that most of the rest of us didn’t.

It might be the abducted-grandmother lunch bonanza when probably most of us didn’t get that, either.

It might be the fact that it’s shoved down everybody’s damn throats and quite frankly sucks the chrome off a towbar for the infertile set.

It might be, as in my case, being offhandedly offered a box of chocolates won a week ago in a raffle as the prize of surviving reproduction thus far.

Really, just about everybody can only stuff it up or lose in some way or other and that, I do not like.

Honestly, I’m glad it’s over so I can get on with enjoying my three children I am fortunate to have without feeling let down by all the things I failed to score.

G

This morning one of my nearly four year olds had a screaming tanty because I would not give her an easter egg for breakfast.

Apparently I’m all mean and stuff.

When the strop didn’t work, I got the diagnostic ‘I don’t LIKE you Mama, you’re a BAD, MEEEEAN Mama, I want Daddy!’.

Was it wrong to laugh?

Discuss.

G

PS. She ate her cereal.

I’m bored. I have ze cabin fever and trust me when I say that adding two three year olds to the mix is not really helping in the everybody-is-pissing-everybody-else-right-off department.

So, utterly randomly, may I tell you how a friend (a male one) I haven’t spoken to in years but recently rediscovered on Bacefook kissed me off (okay, try putting a ‘p’ on the front of the ‘issed’ on that one, if I am being honest about how it actually FELT) by remarking ‘how many rug rats do you have’ to which I replied honestly ‘one and two accomplished whingers’ AND to which I got in reply the terrible odour of deflating testosterone and interest the half-baked ’Well done! I’m sure U R a gr8 mummy. C U later’. Really, it almost made me despair for the human creature on several levels, because:

A: What the fuck? We weren’t about to head out for coffee and a movie any time soon. It’s pretty clear I’m all married and stuff.

B: What the fuck? Married chicks are okay, but only attractive if they have one or two kids at the most for random bacefook flirtation purposes, and if they have more then it’s best to drop the whole convo like a hot potato?

C: What the fuck? Is my sole defining characteristic how many small people have been dragged screaming out my sunroof?

D: Generally, what the fuck? Can’t you spell you lazy bugger? Also, since when did it become about your wenis?  Mabye I’m all retarded when it comes to the opposite sex but I recall a rather unambiguous friend dynamic.

Anyway, for what it’s worth, I replied that I hoped I was a not-entirely-hateable great *person* and haveaniceday.

G

PS: This post brought to you by the day Saturday, the weather Pissing Rain and the miracle of Sleeping In Her Crib. The sleep genie is coming on Monday to see if she can’t break and remould Bhaji to the point she actually spontaneously goes to damn sleep in her bed and without a boob in her mouth, but I’ll take the current situation as seriously welcome progress, regardless.

PSS: I forget the point I was planning to add. Because these days The Nightshift Baby first wakes up at midnight and due to the wonders of motor development duly grabs at bits of me and twists them painfully ALL BLOODY NIGHT. Sob. Also, I hate n1pple-cripple. Good thing she’s cute. But would it kill her to sleep already?

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We’ve been having some seriously nasty sleep problems Chez MII that I may have not fully described the horror of on accounts of not sleeping for more than about two hours for, um, the best part of a month now that I think of it.

The Sleep Lady has been.

The Sleep Lady has tut tutted about the co-sleeping, the baby wearing with boob in mouth at all times, the ongoing requirement for swaddling, the boobing to sleep and the utter and total inability to transition from one sleep phase to another without the waking up sequence being invoked followed closely by the breast and the very very VERY oh-so-bloody-tired Mama unit. I think I made her bloody day for ticking off so many points on the shit parenting list in one visit.

The Sleep Lady shall be back next week to check on my homework and do a ‘settling’ with me and without my tits being involved.

Bhaji is under orders to make a new breast friend and, believe me, I have been shoving the chosen blasted Eeyore lovvie in her face until she just about goes all pre-emptively purple at the sight of the poor thing. I’ve never been over fond of Eeyore, but Eeyore it is. He’s all I have and I ain’t exactly up to a little light boob replacement shopping on accounts of The Fucking Tired.

Hold me, for today was the first day of the new order and Bhaji Nightshift still got boobed to oblivion for both of her meagre twenty minute frazzled naps and in the end tonight I also gave up on ‘natural sleep’ and swaddled her to within an inch of her proverbial, too. There’s only so much screaming a girl can take.

Maybe I could play her this instead?

http://youtu.be/3xtcB457jqQ

It’s a thought.

G

It’s my own bleeping sister, too.

In other words, while I likes me a good online sell of crap I no longer plan to keep as much as the next woman, I also make damn sure that I never sell anything that somebody gave to me on a website that tells them all about it.

To do such a thing is kind of crass, if not downright rude, mais non? Or should I also give up on anybody ever RSVPing, turning up to a lunchdate at the stated hour, or calling to explain a delay and the like? I’ve long ago accepted that men no longer wear ties but surely there has to be limits. For the sake of humanity.

So, anyway, if you can forgive me the jibe about men and convenient portable nooses, my sister is selling several items I carefully and with great effort purchased for her twin girls on Bacefook. Bacefook told me all about it. For fifteen bucks. They were worth considerably more than fifteen bucks and quite frankly I feel a little bit like I’ve been slapped in the face by somebody with alien hand syndrome or something because surely she can’t have a farking idea just how offensive that little surprise was.

Geohde who is currently biting down on the urge to return all the shit she has purchased for said children’s upcoming birthday if this is what happens when I avoid gift vouchers*.

*Sister gets Offended At Gift Vouchers.**

**Feck knows why because instead she’s turning money into water and pissing off her family in one fell tactless swoop.

Grr.

PS and addendum. I neutrally remarked ‘I recognise these’ on the post and she fucking ‘liked’ the comment. Am I really nutso for being offended that she’s selling my gift in a way publically recognisable to me for far less than it was worth or should I be calling in a favour for a well-deserved fish-slapping, table of sibling?

Here’s a small clue. I did not smiley face, and I almost always smiley face shit on Bacefook if it can be intertpreted in more than one clear manner. Don’t you?