Our Whirlwind Adventures

For all people, great and small.

noreply@blogger.com (Unknown) — Thu, 27 Sep 2012 22:59:00 +0000

The recent news of Jill Meagher's horrifying murder was enough to shock Australia to the core.

Sadly, in 2012, it takes something like this for most women (and men) to twig & say 'I always walk home at night, it could've been me'. And yes, it could've been you.

Even more sadly, this hasn't just been happening in 2012.

I'm going to touch on an oh-so-sensitive topic here, but it needs to be done, because it doesn't matter if it's 1992, 2012, or 2022. There is evil in the world.

And things like this, no matter how shocking, have happened, and will continue to happen. All around us.

And it could happen to you, or someone you love.

Whether you're a friend who couldn't give someone a lift home, which resulted in them desperately taking a lift from someone who would leave them for dead, or a son whose father didn't come home after a night out with friends.

If you could take an extra two minutes before going out to tell someone where you're going to be, and how long you'll be, or always carry a phone with charge, or even take someone else with you if you absolutely must walk home, then DO IT.

Some people may not be significant to you, whether it be the way they live, the way they dress, or the things they do, but people are people and no matter how insignificant they are to you, there's always someone who is going to be left behind bearing the guilt or sadness that their senseless and cruel death has left in their lives.

This isn't just for women.

This can happen to anybody.

This can happen to your daughter, your wife, your sister, that nice girl at the shops, but this can happen to your son, your father, your brother, your uncle.

We should be able to go down to the supermarket and come back with a litre of milk in one piece, but some people don't. Some people don't come home at all, and the knock on the door you're expecting is them because they've got their hands full and can't find their keys, might be the police to tell you that you have missed the chance to say 'goodbye' because someone stole that chance from you.

I've seen this.
I've seen the impact.

I've seen people who say 'this wont happen to me!'

I've been one of those people.

But it can happen to you.

We tell our kids don't talk to strangers.
Don't accept lifts from strangers.
Don't go out at night.
Don't go out alone.
Take your phone.

Think of why we do that.
Then practice what you preach.

You are somebody.
You are important to somebody else.
No matter who you are,
We're you're from.
You are important.
And you need to be safe.

---------------------------

I just want to take a moment to express my sincere sadness & sympathy to the family and friends of Jill Meagher.
She didn't deserve this.
Neither did any of you.

If her death was for any reason, may it be that someone else's family and friends do not have to go through what you have and will continue to.

May she rest in peace and may you find peace in yourselves.

But I won't do that.

noreply@blogger.com (Unknown) — Mon, 24 Sep 2012 04:03:00 +0000

This space started out as a place to rant, express pride, and just talk shit for a laugh, but it's become so much more than that.

I've been receiving pitches from companies since the very start, but it wasn't until recently that it was discussed on Twitter that I realised I've been selling myself short.

Blogging sometimes feels like primary school. Where you'll do anything to make other people like you, even if you feel uncomfortable doing so.

I've had pitches where I have sold myself out a bit and felt all kinds of wrong writing them up. Luckily I decided against hitting publish. I've also, decided to only take on board ideas that I genuinely love, and are worth my while, and yours to read, without jeopardising my credibility.

I have deleted pitches where I'm addressed as 'Dear Blogger' or 'Hi There' and have even deleted a few where you can tell the pitcher has read my most recent post in an attempt to get to know me quickly before pitching an idea that I mentioned three posts before the one they read, that I don't like or wouldn't do.

I recently received a pitch for a sponsored post which I loved. I loved the way it was presented to me, and you could tell the pitcher had become familiar with myself, and my family, by actually reading my blog & promoted an idea that I fell in love with. I do not regret promoting it on my blog, nor do I regret doing so for money.

However, I was again pitched an idea by the same company, expecting a post done for free on something I have mentioned in the past that I refuse to promote. Not by the same company who ruined my love of certain things at all, but it was a similar idea.

So I was met with internal conflict. Do I do it, just this once, even though I don't believe in it, for free? Do I ask for money and sell myself out? Do I ignore the email? Or do I put on my big girl jocks and politely decline the offer, outlining the reasons why I won't do it, for fear of never being offered anything again?

I ended up declining the offer. I couldn't bring myself to be a sell-out. Because that's exactly what I'd be if I did it. The Primary School aged kid in me was worried I wouldn't be liked and no-one would play with me anymore, but I don't blog for PR companies' approval, I blog for myself and for my readers who know me, know my family through what I share.

I don't want people to think I'm a wife, mother and sell-out.

Because I'm not.

If some companies don't want to work with me, that's okay. There are plenty more who will, and if I post something I don't believe in all I'm doing is risking my credibility and my readership, which is worth more than whatever I'm offered, from the company I sell myself out for.

--------------------

To all you Bloggers out there, have you posted about something you don't believe in for the sake of money/material goods, or for fear you won't be asked again? What's the best/worst pitch you've had?

Letter To My Children

noreply@blogger.com (Unknown) — Sun, 16 Sep 2012 01:27:00 +0000

Hi Kids,

It's been a long time between letters, and I don't even remember where we were at the last time I wrote to you. What can I say? A lot has changed, let's just start with that.

Master S.
You inspired this post because today you learned how to say "Dinosaur" & "T-Rex".
You are pretty clever, always have been and it's the new things you are picking up so easily now, when you struggled before, that makes me realise, just how lucky I am to have you.
It was your Aunty Beanie's birthday last week, and in her birthday card you drew a picture of her. She had a head, some curly legs and arms, and a tuft of curly hair on her head. I couldn't have been prouder than that moment, when I was watching you, pen grasped correctly in your hand, and concentration in your eyes.
We've come so far since you were that 7 pound babe placed in my awkward arms on that Christmas Morning. You're 4 years old in 100 days, and the constant reminders from everyone makes me a little sad and frightened. The past almost 4 years have flown and I barely remember the feel of your itty bitty hand wrapped around my finger as a newborn. I feel like one day I am going to wake up & you'll be a man, and I won't remember these days as vividly as I do now.

Miss E.
You turned two this year. You are now Miss "AttiTWOed". You have such beautiful big blue eyes, gorgeous golden curls and some sharp shooting spunk! I'm hoping one day you'll read this, because I just want to thank you. Thank you for being clever, beautiful, funny and a little bit crazy. For spicing up our boring life with funny conversations & an infectious giggle. Thank you for, at 2 years old, saying all the things your brother can't and brightening up our days. Your wrap-your-arms-so-tight-around-my-neck-cuddles are one of the reasons I get out of bed. That and your demand for "Pops!" for breakfast. You are the one who has me tearing at my hair, one minute, then laughing incessantly, the next. You make me feel loved and lovely, when you look at me when I'm looking & feeling like death warmed up and say to me, with such sincerity, "you a Pretty Mummy!"

Little C.
My littlest. My last. My nighttime demander of attention. What can I say?
You're my last babe & as much as I try to enjoy every cuddle, every feed, every nappy change & every bath, you seem to be growing the fastest.
There was some concern, at first, about your lack of weight gain, but you weren't losing any, so I wasn't worried. It was fate's way of keeping you little for me, that tiny bit longer. Then you gained weight & didn't stop. Each day, you're growing, ever smiling, and laughing. Trying to roll & have been (with some fluke success) since you were two weeks old. Your soft little hands, while still so small, are bigger than the wrinkly little ones that I vividly remember holding everytime you fed.

There's still so much I need to tell you all.
So much you need to know.
But I'm going to try keep you as you are.
Immortalized.
In my memory & heart.
Always.

Lots of love & cuddles,
Mummy xoxoxox

R U OK?

noreply@blogger.com (Unknown) — Wed, 12 Sep 2012 23:14:00 +0000

This morning my Dad rang me and asked the question that everyone needs to be asking, not just today because it's R U OK? DAY, but everyday!

This morning he caught me on a day when I am actually feeling okay, but sometimes, I don't feel okay.

And you know what, it took me a long time to realise that it is okay to not feel okay, but if you don't feel okay all the time, then that isn't okay.

I've done the rounds asking my children if they are okay, and sadly, I was met with a 'No' by one, a 'Yes' by the other and some smiley spit bubbles by the youngest.

I asked Miss E just why she wasn't okay today and she told me that Catty scratched her head.

I then asked Catty if she was okay, and she didn't say much of anything except give me the look she always gives me when Miss E yanks on her tail.

So, if you are have a spare minute today ask someone if they are okay!
You just might give someone the opportunity to talk about just why they aren't okay, and make the world of difference!

R U OK?

One or the other.

noreply@blogger.com (Unknown) — Mon, 10 Sep 2012 03:02:00 +0000

I just feel like it's a never ending cycle.
Master S was referred to Speech Therapy in 2010. A hearing test was required. We had endless drama, hearing tests, referrals being lost, waiting lists, appointments demanding more referrals, more referrals being lost, phone calls, phone calls, phone calls, until finally, he got his grommets.

Things have improved ten fold since he's had them, but we've been advised he'll still need Speech Therapy to get him to where he needs to be.

So we're back to where we've started. Haven't heard anything from Speech Pathology since they told me he needed a hearing test and I gave them the results of the hearing test, so I decided, after yet ANOTHER updated referral had been faxed through, while I watched and got another three copies printed out, just in case it got lost between one fax machine to another, I'd give them a call.

So I did.
And I'm pissed off.

I was listening ever so patiently while I heard some dip shit, who had to have Master S' full name spelled to him three times, going through what sounded like a never ending filing cabinet before he finally found, not one, but TWO referrals, one from July 2010, and one from June, 2012, sitting there.

He then went on to ask if I'd received a phone call to move his application to the 'next level'. Next level being NOT IN A FUCKING FILING CABINET.

No, I hadn't. Hence my call.

So after unsuccessfully trying to brush me off the phone by warning me that it could take a while to go over his application with me, in order to get him to the next level, while I assured him several times that I have all the time in the world to go through the process.

Dip Shit: 'Has he had a hearing test?'
Me: 'Yes. In fact, he's had four, and he's had grommets inserted in the time we've been waiting!'
*It suddenly dawns on Dip Shit that I'm not just another mother who thinks their child should be pushed through regardless of the fact they've waited three weeks. Dip Shit is surprised at the fact he is a dip shit, and Master S isn't just another name in a filing cabinet. He is a child. With a mother. A mother who isn't going to accept his dip shit excuses for why her son has been waiting so long*

And it's done.
He's now level two.

Which means I'll receive a phone call when a spot becomes available.

Or so he thinks.

He'll be receiving another phone call in two weeks, just like I promised, because of the 44 children on the Speech Therapy waiting list, I can guarantee no-one has been on it as long as Master S has.

I can, also, guarantee no-one has a mother who will do nothing but pester them until she's blue in the face & something is done.

BabyWearing!

noreply@blogger.com (Unknown) — Wed, 05 Sep 2012 07:24:00 +0000

I was one of those Mama's who couldn't understand why, after ten months of carrying your child, you'd want to constantly carry them after they're born.

The minute Master S was born, no way in heck was he held 24/7. He was born during a heatwave that continued until he was about four months old. He was on the same page as me, aside from breastfeeding, hot, sweaty cuddles were not ideal for either of us.

Miss E was born in Winter, and as much as I didn't want it to happen, her cry sounded like she was being murdered if I put her down, so I had no choice but to lug her around. She was a brooch, and I found it was with her that selective hearing became my best friend. Tune her out if she didn't need anything and was crying for the sake of it, or go insane and never get anything done.

If I'm honest, I'd never even heard of baby wearing until I started blogging and came across Good Googs where author Zoey is a proud baby wearer. I knew carriers for infants existed, but I'd only heard the horror stories about how babies have been injured falling out of them, and decided it wasn't for me. Until now.

Little C is not a 'brooch baby' like Miss E was but because she is my last baby, I just want to bury myself in baby cuddles and never put her down.

Not to mention, I have been known to go shopping with three children, and it seems my local supermarket doesn't believe in enough trolleys with infant seats. The only pram I own is a whizz-bang double pram, and it's perfect to cart the girls around in, but Master S walking along with me... NIGHTMARE!

So, I decided to purchase a HugABub Ring Sling, after researching a gazillion wraps, slings and baby carriers. Then, and only then, I could put both Master S and Miss E in the pram, while still carting Little C around, and not lose either a child or my mind...

Or what's left of it...

And all I can say, after having it for an hour is, I am in love! Forever love. I can actually breastfeed while doing the dishes! No, I don't have a dishwasher (if you don't include me, that is) so it's all old school hand washing around here, and I can do THAT, and still relish in my baby goodness!

Winning!!

Father's Day.

noreply@blogger.com (Unknown) — Sun, 02 Sep 2012 02:59:00 +0000

After a crazy 48 hours of rushing around like a chook with no head, and eating nothing but a box of KFC chips and a bowl of spaghetti, not to mention drinking probably five litres of coffee, Father's Day is here.

Finally.

And my kids get cuddles and kisses and thank you's, despite the fact that they can't drive or earn money or go shopping. What the fuck is up with that shit, Hubby.!?

Oh, right, I got an 'I'm available for nookie later' wink. Why thank you, or
NOT!

So, tonight I'm finally going to eat an actual meal, with vegetables and meat. Cooked for me, by my Dad, because he isn't an idiot.

So, Happy Father's Day to all you Dad's, Step-Dad's, Foster Dad's and Solo Mama's!

May you have a wonderful day!

Apikali Modern Cloth Nappies - GIVEAWAY!

noreply@blogger.com (Unknown) — Fri, 31 Aug 2012 11:58:00 +0000

As we all know, there's never a shortage of poop talk around here, and this time, it's worth your while.

I'm a bit of a fluffy lover...

[who am I kidding, I freaking adore fluffy!]

And this is for all my fellow fluffy lovers!

[Pictured above is Tennille & her beautiful daughter Abigail, Apikali's namesake.
Abigail was diagnosed with a rare genetic mutation called CDKL5 encephalopathy, in 2009. This condition causes severe disability, chronic illness, and uncontrollable seizures.]

The beautiful Tennille at Apikali Modern Cloth Nappies is a W.A.H.M,
who, despite the curveballs life has thrown her,

has started her own business, to not only provide for her beautiful family of SIX,
but to make life so much easier for Mama's who want to use Cloth, yet don't want to be forking out too much money on something that may not be the right nappy for their babies.

I, Cloth Lover that I am, stumbled across her website, and almost fell into a dead faint when I saw she has Nappy For Hire.
The "Nappy Novice Packs" are perfect for those Mum's who want to try cloth and have no idea where to start.
Haven't we all been there!?
For a ridiculously low price a week, you actually get to hire a wide range of nappies, including everything from terry squares,to all-singing, all-dancing All-In-Twos!
With every hire of The Nappy Novice Pack, you receive 10% off any of her cloth nappy packs.

It's a win-win. You're saving money & making sure what you do spend is just right for you and your special little angel.
It sounds too good to be true...
...But it's really not!

And to top it all off, Tennille has kindly given, not one, BUT TWO lucky people the chance to win a Baby Bare All-in-Two Cloth Nappy in Crimson.

Gorgeous for a little lady, or daring for a rebel boy!

Ladies, please stop squealing in excitement.
No, seriously, please stop!

In order to win, this fantabulously fluffy giveaway, the following must be completed.

Mandatory Conditions of Entry:

Follow "Our Whirlwind Adventures" blog.

Once you've done that, you must pop on over to Apikali Modern Cloth Nappies and tell me in the comments below another colour that the Baby Bare comes in.

You must also Like Apikali Modern Cloth Nappies on Facebook!

Additional Entries:

These conditions are not mandatory, but you will gain ONE extra entry for EVERY ONE you do, so seriously, why wouldn't you!?

1. Follow Apikali Modern Cloth Nappies on Twitter. Leave an additional comment below with your User Name to say you have done so.

3. Follow me on Twitter. Leave an additional comment with your User Name below to say you have done so.

4. Like Our Whirlwind Adventures on Facebook. Leave an additional comment below to say you have done so.

5. Tweet this giveaway. Don't forget to tag me (using @_OurAdventures_), and leave a comment below stating you have done so.

6. Share on Facebook. Don't forget to tag Our Whirlwind Adventures, and leave a comment below stating you have done so.

T&C:

This giveaway is open to Australian Entrants only!
This giveaway will be drawn using Random.Org on Friday, September the 28th, 2012.
The winners will be announced here, and on Facebook & Twitter.
The two lucky winners will have 48 hours to respond by email, claiming their nappy, otherwise there will be a re-draw.

UPDATE: THIS GIVEAWAY IS NOW CLOSED.
THE WINNERS NAMES ARE BELOW & THEY HAVE 48 HOURS TO CONTACT ME (ouradventures@me.com) OR THE PRIZES WILL BE RE-DRAWN.

CONGRATULATIONS TO JESSIE HAY & ALLIE SMITH.

AND

A massive THANK YOU to all who entered the giveaway! :)

Disclaimer - I received no payment for the running of this giveaway. All opinions expressed are purely my own.

Some people just don't get it.

noreply@blogger.com (Unknown) — Wed, 29 Aug 2012 08:17:00 +0000

Imagination, in my opinion, is key to having a healthy, happy childhood. If there's anything I want to encourage my children, it's that you don't need material things to have fun. All you need is your mind, and that can be such a powerful thing on it's own.

Master S has such a wonderful imagination. He'll pretend to be a chicken and 'fart eggs'. He'll pretend to be a train and 'choo choo'. He'll pretend to be a plane and go flying.

Miss E will join in her brother's games and chase him pretending to be Luigi from the Mario Brother's, and will be a racecar making skidding noises.

It's amazing watching them play.
The possibilities are endless.

One of their favourite games is Princesses, and sometimes, Master S plays Princesses by himself.

He loves the colour pink.
He loves having his nails painted.
He loves dancing.
He loves cooking, singing and stomping around the house in my heels.

I loved the days he'd ask me to tie up his hair, the days he'd paint my nails and I'd paint his. He'd be my hairdresser and after teasing my hair into a knotty mess with some clips on the side, he'd tell me I look like a Princess.

But I've noticed that while he still loves doing these things, it's become a secret. He'll tell me I can only paint his toenails & he'll wear headbands only when he's at home & Daddy's not. He always likes the colour pink when I ask him his favourite colour & likes red when anyone else asks.

At the age of three, he's aware of gender stereotyping and it pisses me off that there even is such a thing.

I'll proudly tell anyone, out of his earshot, that my son makes a handsome Prince & a beautiful Princess, but while everyone agrees that imagination is a gift, I'm met with judgmental looks, and I have actually been asked 'What would you do if he's gay?'

I've been left gobsmacked.
Speechless.
It's like they are missing the point.
My daughter plays cars, why can't my son play tea-parties?
It's something I have thought seriously about.

And then I've wanted to punch someone in the face.

What would I do if my son is gay?
I'd do the same thing as if he was straight.

A big fuck load of nothing.

He's three.
He doesn't like girls.
You find me a three year old who wants to have a boyfriend or girlfriend and I'll show you a child with a problem.

My son is a baby with a beautiful imagination.
If he wants to dance, and style hair, and wear pink, I'm not going to stop him and stamp on who he is, or who he pretends to be.

And you know what? If my son comes to me as an adult and says 'I'd like you to meet my boyfriend!' one of the only things I'll be worried about is whether whomever he chooses to spend his life with, regardless of gender, treats him the way he deserves to be treated. The other thing I'll be worried about is whether he'll have to deal with stupid people everyday who judge him for things that are none of their business.

I'm not interested in looking towards the future.
I am just interested in the now.
And now? I have a son who can be anything he wants to be.
Whether it's an Aeroplane, or a Princess.

Some people just don't get it.
And there's some people, that do.

Yes, it's happening again...

noreply@blogger.com (Unknown) — Sat, 25 Aug 2012 07:54:00 +0000

I'm back in the game. The 'game' being 'posting about the poop'. I know, you're probably sitting at home, in the lap of luxury, eating a beautiful home cooked meal & groaning that I simply must post about faecal matter while you're trying to chow down, but won't somebody PLEASE, think of the children.

(SideNote: Children on this occasion means Me!)

Little C is a great baby. She doesn't cry much, sleeps through the chick-in-a-horror-movie-wearing-heels-while-trying-to-escape-the-fast-approaching-killer squeals that her older brother has adopted of late & really, is just overall delightful.

She's exquisite.
She has beautiful long fingers, that of which I imagine will be banging away on a musical instrument when she's older.
She has petite, dainty little dancer's legs and, you can probably already sense where I'm going with this, which, although are quite adorable, just cannot fill in the leg holes of a nappy properly.

Disposable, OSFM Cloth, Small Cloth, it doesn't matter. She's just too itty bitty on the bottom half of her body. I don't know where she gets it from. I wish it were me.

Anyway, my point being, just as Hubby dished up our delicious dinner, and I was relishing in the fact that he is my kitchen slave tonight, before realizing I'm on dishes duty & he uses every darn dish in the house, it happened.

First, it was a fart so loud, I thought it came from Hubby. Second, it was a sloppy sound of poop oozing, and my initial disgust that at 26 years old he's not toilet trained properly, closely followed by the realisation that it was Little C, and I had to clean her.

I can deal with poop. When it's contained. But when it defies all laws of, whatever laws pertain to poop, and covers her beautiful white suit... UP NEAR HER NECK, I cannot cope with that. Who could?

It resulted in a bath... for her.
A change of clothes... for both of us.
Lots of laughter at the sheer horror on my face while I'm moaning 'OH MY GOD, THE HORROR!' and,
Me being unable to face the mashed sweet potato on my plate that resembled (in appearance, not odour) the crap that I just had to clean off my infant, and as a result, myself.

----------------------------------

Will I ever get used to poop?
Did anyone else know tiny people make a giant mess?
And does anyone know how the heck I'm supposed to keep this shit (pun intended) contained.!?

What to Expect when you're expecting.

noreply@blogger.com (Unknown) — Wed, 22 Aug 2012 06:46:00 +0000

(NOTE: My title does NOT mean what you're thinking.. I AM NOT UP THE STIZZLE AGAIN!)

When I found out I was pregnant with Master S, I had no idea what I was doing. I knew drinking, smoking & drug use were "no-no's" whilst pregnant, but it wasn't until my first visit to the doctor came about that I realised there are also foods you must avoid, and vitamins you must take. My first few weeks were a whirlwind of vomiting, and being super paranoid about what I was eating.

I am pretty sure people got tired of answering my questions that sounded so ridiculous to them, but which I needed answered for piece of mind... Until I found something else to freak out about. It was then I decided that I'm either a nut-case, or there are other people out there with the same fears & questions as I.

I've said it before, and I'll say it again, technology is a saviour. I really feel for the Mum's who were struggling through parenthood alone, without somewhere reassuring to turn, like all the wonderful parent forums that are about these days. I am pretty positive in my first trimester, I joined every single forum/parenting site, there was. Karimums would have to be one of the main sites I lurked during all three pregnancies. Mainly because you have the option of remaining anonymous when posting a question if you don't want to feel like an idiot about not knowing what you should be eating, despite the fact you've had TWO children prior to your current pregnancy!

I spend quite a bit of time on there still, offering my two cents to Mum's who, much like myself, need advice sometimes, and it is on there, where they have posted a brand new Infographic.

[Source: Karimums. Real mums. Real expertise. Real support.]

I don't know about you, but I think, visually, it beats the hell out of all the hand-outs I was (ever expanding) waist deep in when I was pregnant for the first time, and when you're suffering from baby brain after babies two and three come along, it's nice to have a refresher accessible online, (because for some reason my doctor's just left me feeling like Bambi when expecting Miss E & Little C)

... Or, if you're anything like me, printed out and hanging in your kitchen, despite not being pregnant any more... Hey, who knows? Someone I know might get pregnant and ask me something... Although, I may have damaged my credibility as "Mama who knows her shit" after this post.

--------------------------------------------------------------------

How about you? Were you a laid back, or paranoid, Mama-to-Be (like myself)?

Were you aware of the dietary "do's" & "don't's", or like me, were you planning on Eating for Two?

Disclaimer - This post is Sponsored by Karimums.. All thoughts & opinions expressed in this post, however, are purely my own.

61 Hours.

noreply@blogger.com (Unknown) — Fri, 17 Aug 2012 02:40:00 +0000

It started out a bit bumpy, this quitting journey. The first day, everything was doing my head in, then halfway through the day, I realized I had my last smoke the day before so I'd already done 24 hours without dwelling on it. I needed to just ignore the massive portion of my brain that caused me to light up.

So I occupied that part of my brain with other things. Cleaning, chewy, Guitar Hero, and if I'm honest, sucking back on the chocolate milk because nothing says 'I won't smoke' like being trapped in the can, battling your body's intolerance to excessive milk consumption.

Yesterday, my third day, I just didn't want one. I was busy, and spent the vast majority of my day in the car, which means I won't be smoking anyway.

Today, I woke up. Happy my patch stayed on overnight and I didn't have dreams about lighting up & wondering all day whether it actually happened or not. I bathed the Kidlets. I had a shower. I went about my normal activities.

Then it happened.
Catty was let into the backyard.
Little C was crying for who knows what reason.
Master S ended up with no pants on singing a song that sounds like 'Bad Day' in a chipmunk voice.
Miss E ended up with no pants on, and was bouncing on the kitchen bin which she'd turned upside down.
And for the life of me, I could not open my patch packet. I swear they make it almost impossible to quit with their packaging!

All at the same time.

And. I. Just. Couldn't. Do. It.

I snapped at Hubby the minute he walked in the door for his smoke stash. He told me their location and I proceeded to dash outside in a rage.
At the cat.
At the kids.
At him.
At the fucking stupid pharmacy and their impossible-to-open patches.

But it wasn't until I lit it and smelt the aroma of cancer rolled into a smoke, a Pall Mall one at that, (seriously, Pall Mall, Hubby!? WTF.!?), that I stopped and realized I was raging at myself.

I battled with my will power for about two minutes. I could feel my willpower muscle flexing as it got bigger and stronger, ala the stupid Quit Ad's on television.

I butted the cigarette out and knocked on the front door to be let back inside because it was fucking raining and cold.

Hubby answered it armed with the opened patch...

Let's see how I go for the next few hours, as to whether I make a full four days...

Thankful Thursday

noreply@blogger.com (Unknown) — Thu, 16 Aug 2012 02:33:00 +0000

Sometimes, particularly when you're trying to quit smoking, it's difficult to be thankful for anything. Actually, if I'm honest, at this stage of quitting, I can understand why some people want to hurt other humans.

Luckily though, my common sense does not rely on Nicotine, so rather than kill, I just rage inside my own brain. At the stupidity of most people I interact with on a day-to-day basis.

But, this isn't 'People I want to hurt Thursday', so here is what I am thankful for this week:

- Guardian Pharmacy patches. They have a smell about them that remind me that despite the fact they stink, at least I smell better than I did when I was smoking.

- Extra Sugar-Free chewy. If the speed of chewing gum were an Olympic event, I'd have more gold than whomever won the most medals in London.

- The Olympics being over. It's easier to not go outside for a smoke when there's good shit on television when the kids are in bed.

- Guitar Hero... For the ad breaks.

And finally,

- The virus I have managed to keep hold of for almost two weeks. Without it, I would be able to breathe, and therefore, would be smoking up a storm by now.

Linking up with Kate Says Stuff for Thankful Thursday.
What are YOU thankful for?

Quitting.

noreply@blogger.com (Unknown) — Wed, 15 Aug 2012 15:00:00 +0000

I decided yesterday that I'd give up the cigarettes today. So far I've gone about 31 hours without a cigarette. I don't know. I don't really remember my last cigarette yesterday. All I remember is I didn't finish it, and never went outside for one again. It was before PlaySchool was on. That's about all I know.

Quitting smoking has really opened my eyes to a few things. So here is my:

'List of things I've learned since having no Fags!'

- People who aren't me, cannot drive. I followed a car today who pulled into (and then out of) three different car spots, in front of me, with no warning. I gave him some rage (pretty sure there was a fist shake and the word 'bitch' yelled out. Both by me...) and saw the Satan Stick burning away in his mouth. BUTT OUT AND LEARN TO DRIVE, MO' FO.!!

- My cravings are not as strong as they were last time I quit. Sure, I cried over the fact my husband asked me what kind of potatoes I wanted him to get for dinner, when honestly, I just wanted him to be out of my space and buying a fucking bag of potatoes, but otherwise, the urges aren't strong. I am pretty sure there's an almost full pack of cigarettes in my home and I have no desire to sniff them out and smoke them all, as I assumed I would have by now.

- Although I think it's great that I'm giving up smoking and the benefits to my health are boundless, I don't want to talk about it. I don't want people to tell me how well I'm doing. I just want to wake up, go about my daily duties and ignore the fact that my coffee will no longer be accompanied by three smokes in the morning, as it has been for the past 6 years, and instead I'll just be having a coffee...

- Guardian Pharmacy Brand Nicotine Patches shit all over Nicabate! (Hey Guardian, send me out a year's supply of patches and I'll be your bitch for life... Because you know, I'll live longer than I would have before...)

- I am now pro at Guitar Hero.
I went from being mediocre on 'Easy' to being basically professional on 'Medium' in under 12 hours.

- Master S has established several times today that his Daddy is mean, every time he breathes my air. This made me happy. The kids are on my wavelength.

All in all, I'm doing well. I'm not being remotely jerk-like, everyone else is.

We've come this far...

noreply@blogger.com (Unknown) — Tue, 14 Aug 2012 05:12:00 +0000

Anyone who frequents these parts or Twitter will know Master S had tubes inserted the Thursday before last, and yesterday, he had his first post-grommets hearing test.

The first time he had a hearing test, he had no idea where he was going and the concept (after a long drive) was quite exciting, I seriously felt at that time we had wasted our time traveling 45 minutes just to have them tested when he could hear fine.

As has been established.
I knew jack shit.

Of late, anytime Master S had a hearing test, he knew what was coming and wanted no part of it. It was so hard to convince him that this was going to help him, when along with the constant reassurances from me, we'd had no sign of getting help from anywhere.

Tests,
Doctors,
Nurses.

All showed me that we had a severe problem - yet no-one could help him. Ask me how much longer I could've kept up the charade for Master S and I have no idea how to answer it. The only thing that kept me persisting, pursuing and not giving up was the fact he needed help, and I'm his mother, his advocate, so I had to raise the fists and go in to battle for him.

No-one else would.

Until that day almost two weeks ago, when finally I could stop fighting. I could put my claws back in and know that I wouldn't have to fight anymore. It was happening. No more fucking us around. No more waiting. No more pulling up the big girl panties and dropping an occasional F Bomb to some poor medical professional because no-one was taking me seriously when I used my manners.

We pulled up to the Audiologist's office early. Master S was fast asleep in his car seat. I knew there'd been improvement, I knew it as soon as I asked him what his name was after the surgery and for the first time since he'd learned how to talk he correctly pronounced his own name, but I still had butterflies.

Had he improved enough by their standards? Was he going to co-operate today?

I needn't have worried at all.
Not even a little bit.

He was happy to go in. It was as if he knew this time would be okay. It was as if he knew all those times before that something was wrong, whereas now it's okay.

He can hear.
Both grommets are functioning successfully.
With speech therapy, his language and articulation will improve to that of his peers.

I cried when I left.
Same as I have after every hearing test.
But these tears were happy tears.
For a change.

FFS Friday.

noreply@blogger.com (Unknown) — Fri, 10 Aug 2012 00:18:00 +0000

I have the first cold I've had in over 2 years... FFS.

In theory getting a cold means resting up and enjoying a break. In reality, it means the day after I got sick Hubby got 'Man Flu' and his whingeing makes me sicker than the cold... FFS.

I'm losing my voice and accidentally coughing up what could possible be part of my lungs. Apparently this is the best time for my Kids to misbehave because me 'yelling at them' they've got 'time out' is comical... FFS.

So tempted to touch Hubby's shiny new computer screen with greasy fingers, just so I can go to 'time out'... FFS.

I was told I'd get my car back from the mechanic this week. He was 'working on it' Wednesday. It'd be ready Thursday. Rang him Thursday, he's sick and wasn't working on the car at all. Now I wait even longer... FFS.

And he's going to charge me more than the ridiculous amount I've already given him... FFS.

I'm probably going to die of exhaustion, annoyance, and the 'World's Shittest Virus' today... FFS

Thankful Thursday

noreply@blogger.com (Unknown) — Thu, 09 Aug 2012 01:06:00 +0000

I have a lot to be thankful for, and sometimes during the hustle and bustle of day to day existence, I often lose my way, or take what I am thankful for, for granted.
There was always something, I took advantage of, without truly recognizing how much of a gift it is to have. A privilege. It's a right to possess this thing, but until you bore a child who was robbed of this ability, it makes you realise just what is most important.

Master S was a beautiful baby. He had this calm, content nature about him, and I am yet to meet a person that isn't left with a smile being around him for a short time. He was reaching his milestones when he should've and I was so (am still so) proud of my little man. When Miss E came along, she adored her brother so much she was running at 8 months old, just to keep up with him.

I was one (okay... I still am, but whatever) of those gooey, gushy Mama's who would just brag about everything, much to everyone's dismay. Master S can do this, Master S can do that. Even at his health centre appointments I'd gush like a goose, and it was his 18 month check-up that made me jam on the brakes and look at my child's development with fresh eyes.

A question jumped out of his book at me, "Does your child have a vocabulary of at least 50 words?"
If I am honest, I counted through every word I'd ever heard him utter and there was definitely close to 50, but the fact my beautiful boy could tell you what sound a cat makes, without being able to say the actual word "cat", made me realise, we had a problem.

The health centre nurse sent through a referral for speech therapy, assuring me he'd improve in no time. My unwavering pride and positivity didn't let this simple issue stand in my way. As soon as I got home, I was onto the Speech Therapist. You know, because my child is the only one who needs their services, they should be able to fit him in quickly, and all that jazz. I was advised the waiting list was moving quickly, but before they determined there was an issue with his speech, they needed a hearing test done.

What a waste of time. He'd passed his Newborn Screening, but I did what was required for the Speech Therapy. I was advised to sit in a corner as I watched noises coming from every corner of the room, and not once did my baby boy turn his head, until the noises were practically screaming. Even as I watched him sit so still, not even flinching, I assumed he was just ignoring the noises.

When the test was over, even as the words "low hearing in both ears", "fluid on the ear" and "potential of inserting grommets" were explained to me, nothing sunk in. I was angry.

At the Audiologist.
At myself for not listening when people pointed out to me 'it's like he can't hear me...' or 'he's not very talkative, is he?'

Life at home was different after then. We'd raise our voices to communicate with him. I'd push him to repeat words, over and over again, and while he improved, at his two year check-up, he wasn't constructing sentences, and his vocabulary hadn't increased much.

Our life was a stream of waiting lists, referrals, phone calls, and more than once my son was referred to as being "deaf". He's not deaf, I'd cringe, it's just fluid. He's not fucking deaf.

I was constantly on the defensive. I nearly clawed a woman's eyes out when she said 'Is there something wrong with you?' when she asked him a question he couldn't answer.

I was a Mama Lion protecting her Cub from the unintentional hurtful remarks from strangers (and even people I knew). I didn't know how much longer I could survive without hurting someone. I prayed every night, and cried every time I made a phone call to find out someone had fucked up something and we'd be waiting even longer for something to happen.

My pleas and pushes for an end to the lack of action fell, if you will, on deaf ears.

I enrolled him in 3 year old Kinder, at the advice of my health centre nurse, where his speech improved slightly. He still couldn't articulate sentences, and his pronunciation was still way off, but I felt this was something that could repair itself, and by that stage Miss E (who is just a chatterbox) was teaching him new words, too. When I was asked by the Audiologist if I'd like a follow-up hearing test done to find out whether he was improving, I almost declined the test, but decided I'd take him and see how much he'd improved.

He hadn't. At all. He'd declined.
I felt like it was all for nothing.

He was still way behind his peers in speech and articulation (but my boy is as intelligent as a 4 and a half year old, just so you know!) and it was time to refer him to an ENT surgeon. He had an appointment the next month. I asked the Audiologist what to expect from the appointment. She said he could either discuss options for surgery, or he may make him wait another three months, to see whether it would improve on it's own.

I was a ball of nerves come the meeting with the Surgeon.

His future rested on this man.

My first impression was that he was nice. I quite liked him, and after being in his rooms for ten minutes, I knew why I immediately liked him. Master S, ever the energy ball, fell over as soon as he ran into the room.

Mr ENT: "Does he fall over often?"
Me: "Yeah, he's a clumsy kid..." (YOUR POINT?)
Mr ENT: "Are you busy today?"
Me: "Not particularly..."
Mr ENT: "Has he eaten this morning?"
Me: "Um... Er... I kind of slept in, but I swear I am taking him to get breakfast when I leave!"
Mr ENT on the phone: "Yes, I have a 3 and a half year old deaf child here who requires tubes inserted in both ears.. it'll take 15 minutes, I hate seeing the afternoon wasted... nope, he's fasted..."

It hit me like a tonne of bricks.
He was going to operate on my baby boy.
Someone had cancelled... THAT DAY!

I cannot honestly remember much about that day, except after the operation, where he held his hands over his ears and whispered "Sssshhhh Mum, please be quiet! Too noisy!"

That was a week ago.
Everything has changed.
Life is a lot quieter now, and not because he can't hear. But because we don't have to shout.

His first hearing test, post-grommets is on Monday, and for once, I am not nervous.
The only tears I'm sure I'll shed will be happy one's.

I'm Thankful for the Gift of Hearing.
Sometimes sleeping in & forgetting breakfast...
And wonderful surgeons.

Linking up with Kate Says Stuff for Thankful Thursday.
What are YOU thankful for?

I forgot why I hate the Olympics. Then I remembered.

noreply@blogger.com (Unknown) — Mon, 06 Aug 2012 16:19:00 +0000

After boycotting the Olympics (thanks to digital television and the fact I actually don't watch anything on Channel 9) I decided I'd go for a flick tonight and watch the Gymnastics.

I watched it for all of five minutes before I remembered why I hate the Olympics. It had nothing to do with the Gymnastics as such, but more so the commentary provided by one woman who was so judgmental and sounded like the kind of person who'd easily eat a 21 piece bucket of KFC by herself.

After one Gymnast was swirly whirling around the poles, spreading her legs well over her head, and then landed on her feet without vomiting (THAT DESERVES A MEDAL RIGHT THERE!) Commentator Cunt said something along the lines of 'With all those errors, she's lost the medals to the other competitors...'

Er what.!?

Now, I'm not an idiot, I know the Olympics is the best from each country competing against one another to find the best in the world, but does someone who clearly has no skill or talent of her own (hence her job!) really have to be such a bitch?

She actually implied that another Gymnast should be disappointed in herself for getting the Bronze.
The Bronze Medal? In the Olympics?

I won a Student of the Week award in Grade One for sharing my lunch with some child whose mother forgot to pack their's (and I thought I was winning the Mother of the Year contest. I guess I'll have to be disappointed with a Silver!) and THAT was my fucking claim to fame. Still to this day I'm proud of that white piece of cut up fraying ribbon which had my name written on it in blue pen, and this Commentator has the nerve to imply someone should be disappointed with a Bronze Medal.!?

I'd be proud if I even got into the Olympics and lost, because making it there would be hard enough. To actually place as the Third Best in the world...

...Yeah, I can totally see how THAT isn't any good.

While raging at the television after they aired a total of 15 minutes of Gymnastics, and 20 minutes of pompous judging commentaries, they then moved onto Equestrian...

Pretty sure the Bitch Commentator would rock at that sport. Sitting on her crack while someone else (i.e the HORSE) does all the work and she walks away with a medal.

Just sayin'.

ButterfLIES

noreply@blogger.com (Unknown) — Tue, 31 Jul 2012 01:52:00 +0000

I've noticed as my children are getting older, they are cluing into just what might get them into a spot of trouble. As a result, they've started telling some white lies, which I call 'butterflies'. This could either be to shift the blame onto someone else, or, because their story just isn't any good without some slight truth modification.

I became aware of the 'butterfly effect' in our house shortly after Catty came along. I've narrowed it down to the fact that there's someone in the house who can get the blame for doing things and whom cannot voice their objections to the alteration of truth.

For example, Miss E added her own flair to one of Master S' kinder paintings in biro. When I explained to her it wasn't a nice thing to do and I'd give her some paper to draw her own picture, she dropped the bottom lip, tears welled up in her eyes, and she told me that Catty bit her finger. Catty tends to 'bite' her a lot, but this one day I could absolutely vouch that it was total bull because Catty was asleep in the back end of the house and had been for the majority of the day.

I humoured her, kissed her invisible 'ouch' better, and left it at that. But it became more frequent. She'd finish her cereal, ask for more & when I explained that two bowls was plenty and she should have some fruit instead, she blamed Catty for eating her breakfast. She can be quite convincing some days that I am beginning to question my own sight & have been contemplating whether Catty is part ninja and has a vendetta against Miss E.

She isn't.
Miss E was telling a fib.

It was proven to me on one occasion that, without a doubt, my daughter is a 'truth bender', when both Catty & Little C were across the room from her & Miss E accused both Catty & Little C, simultaneously, of biting her. I asked if Little C ran over to her when I wasn't looking and bit her, and she confirmed that this is EXACTLY what happened. It's beyond ridiculous, but I can't help but laugh sometimes.

Master S is the Master of 'Butterflies'. He can spin the most fanciful tales that can entertain, while bordering on horrifying. My first experience (that I knew of at the time) with a whopper of a tale from him came about two weeks ago when he casually informed his Aunty that I hit his Daddy.

Luckily, she (and Hubby) found this amusing. I, did not! I sat Master S down and explained that butterflies like that can get people in trouble and he shouldn't say anything if it weren't true. He looked at me as if I were an idiot, and, not for the first time I wondered if he were telling the truth. Which is crazy, because I didn't do it!

I brought up the fact he told this story at home, with his teacher, Mrs. M, just in case she thought I was some husband abusing nutcase if he told her. I'm pleased to report tall tales of that nature have not been up for discussion at Kinder...

YET...

I say 'yet' because I have discovered I've fallen into the trap of believing one of his longest 'ongoing' butterflies... Wifhout even thinking twice about whether it were true!
About two months ago, he told me he'd made a friend. Her name was Miss A. Everyday he'd mention how she's his friend and he likes her. I was so happy that he'd managed to not repulse, at least, one girl at Kinder by chasing them or trying to lick them like a cat. He and Miss A play trains and push each other on the swings.

I once saw him being pushed on the swing by a little blonde girl, thus 'confirming' that Miss A (and her friendship) existed.

I brought up at our Kinder committee meeting with Mrs. M that he'd taken a real shine to Miss A and was met with a look of surprise. I wanted to die. I asked whether there was a child named 'Miss A' at all in his group, which there is, luckily.

So, I didn't understand the look of surprise. If this child exists, what's the problem? Well, apparently, Miss A wants to play with Master S & tries to get his attention, but he totally brushes her off and tells her to 'go away!'

Unless Mrs. M and I aren't 'down with the kid lingo' of today, this to me, does not sound like the actions of someone who is totally enthralled with their friendship.

He got in the car yesterday after Kinder and gave me a very thorough run-down of his day, in which he and Miss A (allegedly) played Diesel Ten (a train from Thomas & Friends) all day!

I decided to approach it with him, and asked whether he really played with Miss A or if he was actually mean to her... He responded (loudly, I might add) with 'Miss A my friend. I not fibbing. We play Diesel Ten, OKAY MUM!?'

Okay... And what was your teacher's name today? I noticed Mrs. M wasn't there...?

'Teacher name is Cookie!'

------------------------------------

White lies (or lies of another colour), what's the best/worst your children have told?

Sticking it Out.

noreply@blogger.com (Unknown) — Mon, 30 Jul 2012 17:07:00 +0000

I've pondered some more about whether I'll keep blogging, but the good by far outweighs the bad.
In two years I've only had one troll, and even then, it was just some bitter tossbag that complained about how much I complained about being pregnant. I surely hope that troll was the midwife I actually threatened to punch in the face after Little C was born. Otherwise, I hope my troll is sticking it out with me here because I'm a mother of three, and you can bet your sweet bippy that although I love my little family, to the moon and back, I'll be bitching about something or other in the near future and I'd like my troll to jump in and get their cranky pants on, just so I can laugh at the fact they continue to read this, despite hating my whingeing.

Miss E turned two on Tuesday. I made a pretty great cake, considering the fact I'm like a younger non-felon version of Martha Stewart, if she were completely smashed, in the kitchen.

For those of you 'in the know', it was my 4 year wedding anniversary on Friday. We spent the day ignoring the fact it was our anniversary (okay, technically I forgot) followed by a roast dinner I didn't have to cook, and clean dishes I didn't have to wash. Winning!

Hubby baked a chocolate brownie thing on Saturday. It made Miss E cry because it had random globs of caramel in it (rather than cut a little hole in the packet, he cut a massive hole in the packet, so it was massive amounts in random spots, rather than be evenly poured through the mixture, the way Sara Lee intended) and she thought there was poo in her brownie. Hard to explain to a two year old that not everything brown & gooey is shit and sometimes you should just give it a taste.

Master S is in his third term of Kindergarten. We got his mid-year report with complimentary scary photos of him playing dress-up as a doctor with a borderline murderous look on his face. Pretty sure if given the chance, he'd remove an appendix with a spoon. He's also excelling in cutting & pasting, but I already knew that, because the back of Miss E's hair was the 'victim' of his cutting abilities. He did suck it up the vacuum, though, so it's hard to be angry when he cleans up after himself.

Little C is 7 weeks old now. She can hold her head up and absolutely loathes tummy time. I figured out that she hated it when she started rolling at 2 weeks old to her back, just to avoid it. I'm proud as all heck, but wish she'd stop it and stay little for a bit longer.

I probably haven't mentioned her here before, you know because I have 'the touch of death' where pets are concerned, but we have a cat now. She was a kitten when we got her, but since she's survived nearly three months of my TLC, she's growing into an actual cat.

Her name is 'Catty'. I tried to negotiate with the Kidlets on this one, to at least make it look like we love her enough to give her a good name. I lost, and Catty is Catty.

She's a bit of a dickhead and makes for an entertaining time if it's dark and you have a lazer light for her to chase.

I, actually, spent the better part of the morning making a collage of Catty photo's. I then chased her around, much to Miss E's amusement, yelling at her because she wouldn't wear a hat and pose for a photo. Don't know what her bloody problem is. Miss E ended up calling her a 'mole'.

(Just want to post a quick shout out to Channel 10 for airing an ad for Puberty Blues with the word 'mole' in it. Now everything is a 'mole' in our house. The cat, the door, Master S, Hubby, me... You kind of made a balls up with that one, didn't you? Shame, shame, shame!)

Anyway, back to Catty & the hat. Maybe she thinks blue isn't her colour? Or she's just a bloody cat and I need to get a life. Your guess is as good as mine.

Online Privacy.

noreply@blogger.com (Unknown) — Sat, 28 Jul 2012 09:41:00 +0000

I've been blogging for some time now. I think it's been almost two years, and at first, it was for all to see.
Then I thought about my privacy settings as I got more followers, and decided I would keep my children & husband's names anonymous, because hey, this is my blog. They never signed up for the publicity, I did.

I never gave more thought to how much I still shared online because I knew my followers based on their profiles - and in most cases - their blogs, Twitter accounts & Facebook pages. I follow their lives, their children's lives, without a doubt about whether they are sharing too much or too little. I observe their photos, their stories, with that of which you'd observe a friend's or family's.

I know what they want me to know. I see what they want me to see, and that is fine and dandy. I thought it was fine and dandy for me.

I have a private Facebook page, because I don't want my photos, videos or statuses viewed by strangers, yet now that I've pondered this, I'm defeating the purpose by blogging.

I searched my own name on Google and was both amazed and horrified by just what I was sharing with the world. Photo's of my children, at all ages, some of which I wouldn't even dream of showing people I know, out there in Cyberspace to be seen & stolen by whomever pleases.

It amazed me because I assumed I knew all about online privacy & protection, yet horrified me because I clearly know jack shit.

I blindly trust my followers, those I know, in our little bubble of online love, but as I've mentioned in a prior post, I don't know who else reads this blog. I know there are family members of mine in my online community. Family members I don't wish to see or know anything about my children. Family members I am sure have found my blog, as easily as I have found their's.

I don't know if the people who found me using inappropriate Google searches, are actual creeps who lurk and ogle the life I share online or whether it is just people like me searching hilarious things and stumbling across this space by accident.

I have always believed, with the exception of some dark points in my life, that I am an excellent Mum. Protecting my children from the dangers of the world... But have I been dumping them in danger all along by being here? Posting what I do? Am I putting their safety at risk by sharing too much?

I don't have the heart to stop blogging. To tear down the blog that I believe saved me. That connected me with these wonderful women (and men) who blog about their lives, their highs, their lows and made me realize, I am okay. I'm not crazy, or bad, or alone.

For now, I cannot share anymore images than I have. As proud as I am of my beautiful family, I cannot share anymore photos on my blog.

For now, I don't know where I'm going or whether I want to keep going. I can only hope I am making the right choice. Only time will tell.

50 Shades of Lame.

noreply@blogger.com (Unknown) — Mon, 16 Jul 2012 11:19:00 +0000

After reading the post Glowless @ "Where's my Glow?" shared today about something that's frequented my NewsFeed on Facebook for weeks,
I figured I'd add my two cents. I almost died when I realized I was NOT the only woman on earth who just didn't get it.

-------------------------------

If you haven't heard of '50 Shades of Grey' then it's safe to assume you don't have the Internet, a television or extremely horny girlfriends who just. cannot. get. enough. of. this. book.

It seems it's taken over the world. Everyone is talking about it.
It's been described by many as 'Mummy Porn', so naturally, five weeks after vaginally delivering an 8 pound babe, I was not even interested in this stupid trend.

I had no idea what it was about when I first downloaded it, and I don't even know why I first downloaded it.

It may have been the fact it wasn't going to go away, so I figured 'if you can't beat 'em, join 'em'.

My only understanding of 50 Shades was that it's an erotic novel that can get your juices flowing.

I figured if I could make my way through a Mills & Boon without blushing at the fact my Nana had read it before me, then this book would not be anything new.
It was my personal challenge. I would be the first (and I thought only) woman in the world who could read this stupid book and not be oozin' in my jocks or contributing to the next trend:

The baby boom that is set to follow the launch of this book (aptly named 'Generation Grey' by Mr. Emma's Brain on Twitter the other day before I sold my soul to the devil and started reading the book!)

It wasn't until I struggled to move past page 6 (I am a competent reader, when I'm reading the works of a competent author who can spell 'lounge' the correct way!) that I realized there is a story line in there somewhere. A shit one, but a storyline, no less.

Without giving too much away, it's a love story about a little virgin, Anastacia, who bites her lip, a lot. Thinks 'oh my', a lot. Has no concept of what 'subconscious' means, and has sex with a total stranger (Mr. Grey) after meeting him a total of 3 times, thus not making her a virgin anymore and more of a sex fiend, if you will.
Said stranger is a Millionaire, is into 'kinky fuckery' (to quote the stupidest shit I've read in my life) and she's, allegedly, not a gold digger.

But the plot thickens...

Oh wait, no it doesn't!

Because all they do is fight.
Have sex.
Fight.
Have sex.
Fight.
Have sex.

And the fighting has NOTHING to do with the BDSM the novel is allegedly about. Since reading this, I know as much about BDSM as I did before reading it. In fact, I still don't even know what BDSM means!?

When there's no sex or fighting there's a lot of thinking on Anastacia's part, which is lucky because if she vocalized her thoughts, Mr. Grey would be dumping her sorry arse!

If I pulled a strand of hair out of my head for every time I read any of the following 'thoughts of Anastacia's' (also known as 'Ana-Eurisms'):

- 'So hot', 'Oh my' or 'Holy fuck'

- How Mr. Grey is 'gloriously naked'.

Or (my personal non-favourite)

- Her references to her 'sex'*.

I would be bald. Twice.

So, to all those women and men out there who just can't get enough of '50 Shades of Grey'... I can and I have.

-----------------------------

50 Shades of Grey.
Do you love it, or hate it?

*If you're going to be the author of allegedly the most erotic books out, you need to learn your anatomy. It's a fucking 'VAGINA', not a 'sex', you dipshit.

Don't take my water!

noreply@blogger.com (Unknown) — Wed, 04 Jul 2012 04:40:00 +0000

A few weeks ago I received a super aggressive letter in the mail. Okay, it wasn't super aggressive, but I could imagine the person typing it getting all 'threatening'.

It said some crap about needing to pay our water bill or they'd cut off our water.
Naturally, I read it, laughed and didn't think anymore about it. Why? Because we always pay our bills, even when we don't have bills and it was just not possible that our water would be disconnected due to non-payment.
Plus, I don't even think it's legal for people to disconnect someone's water. Well, it probably is legal, but surely they'd know that to not allow us water is cruel. Hubby smells bad enough EVEN WITH A SHOWER sometimes.

We received another letter in the mail. With a big fat 'FINAL NOTICE' warning on it from the water company. Now, what the heck? I say to Hubby. This is the second warning notice, are you POSITIVE you've paid the bill?
Yes, I'm sure, he assures me.
You're really sure? You haven't stupidly put the money on the wrong bill or something?
No, he assures me again. It's been put on the WATER bill. He shows me a receipt confirming this fact.

Heh.
They received our money.
Fuck them.
Fuck their threatening letters.

Today, I'm outside planting some flowers with the Kidlets.
An older gent approaches us, and introduces himself as Peter.
The water man.
The water disconnection man.
The man who comes to turn off taps.
We panic.
Do not fret.
Peter assures us he is not there to turn off our water. In fact, he's come to inform us our water won't be cut off.

But the threatening letters, Peter! The threatening letters were threatening!

There was an error.
Hubby did pay our water bill.
Only, he'd used an old bill to pay it at the post office. An old bill whose barcode was our old address.

Yep. Hubby paid someone else's water bill. And had the water company not caught on to the account name being the same as our new address, where the water bill was 'not' being paid, we could've had a really serious issue!

The new tenants of the old place we lived would have loved the free ride.
Going to suck for them when they start getting the threatening letters, because our payment was transferred to the right place!

3 (weeks) with 3 (kidlets)

noreply@blogger.com (Unknown) — Fri, 29 Jun 2012 14:11:00 +0000

We've reached a milestone (of sorts) in The Happy House.
Little C turned three weeks old yesterday. It's hard to believe that she's a month old next weekend. It seems like only yesterday she was born. Yet, it seems like she's been here forever.
We've settled into a routine of sorts. So much so, that Hubby doesn't even have to elbow me in the head to tell me the baby's awake and requires a feed. He had to do that (a lot) after Master S and Miss E were born.
What can I say? I'm a natural born sleeper. Earthquake, his snoring, I could sleep through anything!
Little C isn't much of a crier, and yet, I wake, often just before she's going to, in preparation for her feed.

Granted, I do wish she'd wake an hour earlier for a feed than she does, because I just cannot stand watching Dr. Quinn Medicine Woman every bloody morning, but, we have a system, and it works. Little C wakes at 4am, while I, mute Dr. Quinn and insert my own crude commentary. With complementary voices. Hubby often asks, half asleep, who I'm talking to, and Dr. Quinn may, or may not, have a man-voice in my interpretations.

I just hate the whole concept of the show. Obviously, being a doctor, she's a 'medicine' person. If they feel it necessary to 'warn' viewers that Dr. Quinn is about a lady doctor (because people may choose not to watch the show, purely for this fact alone & not because it's a shit show) then a serious name revamp is in order. I prefer to call it 'Quinn, Medicine Woman' or 'Dr. Quinn, no reference to gender what so ever!'

Is 'Neighbours' called 'Neighbours. People Who Live In The Same Street!'? No, hence why the name of 'Dr. Quinn Medicine Woman' is stupid. But this is way off topic.

Topic being, I have made it to three weeks with three kids, under three years old, without losing my shit. In fact, I've kept my shit well and truly in tact (this has nothing to do with my bowel movements, for all playing at home!) and am pretty much pro Mama Bear.

You'd think I've done this whole 'newborn' thing before. I'm so pro, I could write a book on recreational activities one can partake in whilst changing a nappy. Well, not quite, but I'm doing pretty good.

I'm feeling very good.
Little C is doing very good.
Master S & Miss E are super big siblings, so all is VERY, VERY, good.

Great, even.
How are you?

She's here!

noreply@blogger.com (Unknown) — Sun, 17 Jun 2012 02:41:00 +0000

After the world's longest 41 weeks and 1 day, our little BeeBee decided she couldn't wait any longer to join us!

On the 7th of June, we welcomed our second beautiful princess into the world.

Welcome to the world, Little C.

We all love you so much!

Our Whirlwind Adventures

For all people, great and small.

But I won't do that.

Letter To My Children

R U OK?

One or the other.

BabyWearing!

Father's Day.

Apikali Modern Cloth Nappies - GIVEAWAY!

UPDATE: THIS GIVEAWAY IS NOW CLOSED.THE WINNERS NAMES ARE BELOW & THEY HAVE 48 HOURS TO CONTACT ME (ouradventures@me.com) OR THE PRIZES WILL BE RE-DRAWN.

CONGRATULATIONS TO JESSIE HAY & ALLIE SMITH.

Some people just don't get it.

Yes, it's happening again...

What to Expect when you're expecting.

61 Hours.

Thankful Thursday

Quitting.

We've come this far...

FFS Friday.

Thankful Thursday

I forgot why I hate the Olympics. Then I remembered.

ButterfLIES

Sticking it Out.

Online Privacy.

50 Shades of Lame.

Don't take my water!

3 (weeks) with 3 (kidlets)

She's here!

UPDATE: THIS GIVEAWAY IS NOW CLOSED.
THE WINNERS NAMES ARE BELOW & THEY HAVE 48 HOURS TO CONTACT ME (ouradventures@me.com) OR THE PRIZES WILL BE RE-DRAWN.