Where's My Glow?

An Ode to Map Guy on our 5th Wedding Anniversary

noreply@blogger.com (Trae Flett) — Thu, 23 May 2013 21:00:00 +0000

You’re my tantrum tag teamer extraordinaire,
The ever patient stroker of my hair,
A tight jar opener and heavy thing lifter,
My wonderful Mother’s Day bacon rose gifter.

A cockroach hunter and scary spider killer,
My super awesome bedroom thriller!
With fabulous hands, you’re a top masseuse,
Plus you’re scrummier than a pfeffernusse.

My friend, my lover, my BFF,
Handy with the vac and a bloody good chef.
The dad that puts Mike Brady to shame,
And the man that sets my heart aflame.

The only one to whom I can tell all my stuff,
And the one who got me up the duff!
To find anyone better I’d be hard pressed,
Because these last five years have been the best!

How did you find out you were pregnant?

noreply@blogger.com (Trae Flett) — Mon, 20 May 2013 20:30:00 +0000

Hello, Bobbin!

I knew I was pregnant with Bobbin straight away. I'm talking a matter of days.

My sense of smell increased dramatically, I was tender and just felt... different somehow.

Bobbin was planned so, quite romantically, I knew dates and times of everything happening in my body so it was possible these changes were the very first signs. I even emailed a girlfriend and let her know that I suspected but that it was too early to check.

I waited what seemed like forever and took one of those fancy pants early pregnancy tests only for it to come up as negative. OF COURSE, I thought. I'm so looking forward to being pregnant again, I've actually just managed to convince myself I am. The changes are ALL IN YOUR HEAD, you bizarre, overly-clucky woman! Go cuddle a squishy baby and get it out of your system for another month.

I was disappointed so I tried my hardest to put it to the back of my mind, distracting myself with internet memes and what not.

A few weeks later I was laying in bed, almost about to fall asleep and realized the date. I whipped out my phone to confirm it - because my brain is such a sieve I require and app to tell me when my period is due. It was two days late!

Now we all know I'm not the best sleeper in the world, but do you know how hard it is to fall asleep when you're grinning like a fool because you're damn sure you're pregnant, your husband is asleep beside you and you can't pee on a stick until morning?! It is nigh on impossible, I'm telling you!

And that is how I found out Bobbin was in the 'hood.

I'm a sucker for any form of pregnancy story. Probably because I still think it is a little bizarre that two cells can join and bam, nine months later there is a baby. This week I have managed to hear some amazing stories and I neeeeeed MOAR!!

So tell me, how did you know you were pregnant? Did you suspect early or were you a candidate for "I didn't know I was pregnant!"?

I had SEX!

noreply@blogger.com (Trae Flett) — Wed, 15 May 2013 21:00:00 +0000

Quite the revelation to begin with, no?

The thing is, whenever I've told anyone I'm pregnant I feel like all I'm actually doing is declaring that I had sex. This made it particularly awkward when I told my parents. And MapGuy's parents. Last time I put it off for weeks. This time I copped out and got Tricky to tell them. I know, I'm weak. Getting a two year old to do my dirty work.

See the thing is, not only do I feel like I'm telling people I've had sex, but I think, just for a split second, they get a horrible visual of it.

How utterly ridiculous right? Why on earth would I think that? Well, um, because when someone tells me they're pregnant... I kinda automatically think that way of them. There, I admitted it. Am quite obviously a giant sex obsessed pervert.

Here is how my interprets relatively common pregnancy related phrases:

"I'm pregnant" = "I had sex... see?"

"I'm due in August" = "I had sex in early November"

"Yes, I have one son already, he's almost three" = "I had sex almost three years and nine months ago"

"Yes I know the sex of the baby" = "OMG I just said sex"

At DPCON I sat with the lovely Cassie from The Flying Drunken Monkey. It was the preggos putting on a united front and encouraging each other just in case soft cheeses were presented (she popped out the adorable Chloe about a week ago). At one point we were talking to Beth from BabyMac and I blurted out my conundrum. Which was met by both of them shouting "I'VE HAD SEX! SHE'S HAD SEX!". Which was, of course, completely ignored in a room full of bloggers who quite often randomly shout strange things.

I've never been backwards about being forwards with sexuality. I don't find it dirty or shameful. Get a couple glasses of wine in to me and I'll happily talk for hours about it. Yet the moment pregnancy is on the cards - the whole reason sex exists - I get uncomfortable with the idea of people knowing. Because if a preggo belly isn't a billboard for sex I don't know what is.

In the time honoured tradition of blogging about things that make me squirm, here I am shouting it from the rooftops. I HAD SEX. And all of a sudden I feel the need to go to confession.

Did you feel weird telling your parents you were up the duff?

My Mother's Day present involved destroying baking ware...

noreply@blogger.com (Trae Flett) — Sun, 12 May 2013 01:27:00 +0000

If you're on the 'Book and follow Where's My Glow? on there you may have seen this little snippet from yesterday:

I knew that Tricks had made me a handprint magnet and a bookmark at Day Care - because they were presented to me on Thursday along with some iced biscuits with a joyful "Happy Mother's Day. Can I eat them?". I died from all the cute. My first hand crafted Mother's Day presents were divine! But I had no clue what on earth could involve the destroying of a muffin tin.

Last night Map Guy tried to sneak his way to the shed, muffin tin in hand. It is impossible to sneak to the shed when I know there are presents involved. My hearing becomes cat-like. I could have heard that shed key being picked up half a kilometre away.

I listened. There was banging around. Then... there was a drill. What the actual fuck?

I had visions of some bizarre art piece that would represent the trials and tribulations of motherhood. Or even a take on consumerism. Anything but what I actually received this morning when I was woken up for the best god damn breakfast in bed I've ever had:

A bowl of BACON ROSES, PEOPLE!!!! It does not get much better than that!

Here's how he made them:

Buy a cheap muffin tin. Drill a small hole in the bottom of each section then wash thoroughly - metal filings don't go down so well
Preheat oven to 190 degrees
Roll up middle rasher bacon from the thin end to the fat end
Place in the muffin tin and then in a baking dish - this allows the fat to leak out otherwise you'll just have a bacon rose sitting in a puddle of fat. Ick
Cook for 40 minutes (allowing a gooooood sleep in!)
Place on stems from fake flowers, or if you can't get to the $2 shop in time arrange them in a bowl
Serve and receive the biggest brownie points of your life!

Thank you, Map Guy. Om nom nom nom nom. I declare it the Best Mother's Day Present Ever!

What did you get?

To sleep, perchance to... fuck it, just sleep will be fine

noreply@blogger.com (Trae Flett) — Mon, 06 May 2013 21:00:00 +0000

CC: Stevie.Gill

I've never been a good sleeper. Insomnia has been a rather constant and unwelcome bedfellow of mine. It has plagued me since my teenage years and until relatively recently I was getting about five hours of interrupted sleep a night. Interrupted because a certain toddler likes calling out then crawling in to our bed for cuddles then kicking me in the back until 6am when "Mum you wanna play cars?" is whispered in to my ear.

I do love his early morning enthusiasm, but I would love it a whole lot more after 8am.

For the past two weeks I've only been getting, on average, two to three hours sleep a night. No sleep makes Glow go something something, get out old typewriters, sit in giant unoccupied hotels talking to ghosts and write crappy blog posts.

The problem is that my brain will just not switch off. It takes hours for me to wind down and any minor disturbance like a dog barking, Tricky crying out mid-dream, a thump or kick from Bobbin, or my teeny tiny pregnant woman bladder making itself known and the whole process starts again from the beginning meaning some nights I don't actually end up falling asleep at all before it is time to get up and start the day. Those days are chock full of iParenting and Vegemite sandwiches.

It has gotten so bad that last week I fell asleep at the wheel momentarily on the way home from Pilates and a few nights later, as I lay in bed attempting to meditate, I started hallucinating. The whole room was filled with flashing white, red and orange lights as if hundreds of cars were passing by... on our dead end street that gets zero traffic. Well, either I was hallucinating or I was having my very own Close Encounters experience. Insert iconic five note melody and Richard Dreyfuss reference here. Actually, come to think of it, my mash potato did look kinda like a mountain last night...

I can't concentrate, my mood is slipping fast, the anxiety has come galloping in and I'm quick(er) to snap. All in all, I'm bloody fabulous to be around right now. Add the bags under the eyes and constant wide mouth yawning and I'm totally hot, too.

I've got appointments with my midwives and GP coming up this week and next but until then I'm running out of ideas that don't involve being smacked in the head with a bat (apparently concussion and sleep aren't the same thing. Who knew?!). I'm starting to worry because what the hell am I meant to do once I give birth? I have visions of falling asleep breastfeeding and crushing Bobbin with my massive boobs - the though of which, surprise surprise, KEEPS ME AWAKE AT NIGHT!

So tell me, are you a fellow insomniac? Got a miracle cure for me? Or should I expect the little green men to be making more regular appearances in my boudoir from now on?

Bypass the slippers this Mother’s Day. Please.

noreply@blogger.com (Trae Flett) — Sun, 05 May 2013 21:00:00 +0000

This is a S1 post

For full details please see my disclosure policy

I love these el-cheapo slippers you bought at 4:55pm yesterday. Said no mother ever on Mother's Day morning.

There are definitely a few yawn worthy Mother’s Day gifts promoted in the catalogues that are starting to breed in my letterbox. Think crappy beige slippers, a box of choccies that expired in 2010, a dressing gown with cats embroided on it and those foot spas that you have to wash with acid lest some weird fungus moves in and starts growing on your feet (please note handmade stuff is never on the yawn list. Ever. I die of the cute even when my first thought is “um, what is it?” rather than “oh I love it!”).

Until relatively recently, top of my list would have been flowers. As someone who used to spend from September to October sneezing and sucking back on antihistamines like they were Tic Tacs, anything that reminded me of spring would make me cringe. Flowers, baby bunnies, lambs frolicking in a meadow, AFL grand finals etc.

Map Guy knew this when we met and has never, ever bought me flowers.

But then I went all fancy pants and got “desensitized to spring”. A series of weekly injections for six months and, well, everything changed. Now that my face no longer swells for three months every year I have learned to appreciate the blooms, the bunnies and the little lambies. I’m still working on the AFL, but these things take time and desensitization isn't a miracle cure after all.

I am still very new to flowers and from someone who used to avoid them at all costs I now catch myself liking all the pretty bunches on Instagram (were they always so pretty?) and looking up what different flowers are called because my knowledge base is limited to roses and gerberas thanks mainly to TV commercials.

But I am coming around to the point where recently I put a small posy of flowers on the table when we had visitors and in the past month have gone to TWO gardening shows so I could learn more. ME! Choosing to spend a day surrounded by gorgeous flowers! Can you believe it?

This week I’ve learned that Lilies are symbols of fertility (hint hint: for the mama to be) and that pink roses are a not only a classic for Mother’s Day but are one of the better flowers for people with the sneezles because the tight petals keep most of the pollen trapped well and good.

My only issue now with flowers is that Map Guy was so good at the art of not getting me any that I will now have to do some serious hinting to let him know it is now more than OK *coughtuplipspleasecough*.

If you’d like to spoil your mum, grandmother, step-mum, mother-in-law or even a girlfriend who has lost a child or isn’t able to have one (it can be a really tough day for them) with $100 to spend at Roses Only, use the entry form below to tell me the best quality a mum should have. And fear not, despite the name they do have other types of flowers plus champers, chocolates, beauty products, fruit boxes and all that stuff that smells good, so if your mama is spring-phobic like I used to be, there is still something there for her. Remember that Roses Only do deliver Australia wide on Mother's Day so even if you're miles apart your pressie will get to her on the day.

Head over to Roses Only for some great non yawn worthy Mother’s Day gift ideas. But don’t forget to give her a sleep in and a handmade card, too – that’s free and very much appreciated.

The Neverending Story should only be watched whilst wearing brown trousers

noreply@blogger.com (Trae Flett) — Thu, 02 May 2013 21:00:00 +0000

Have you ever gone back and watched a movie from your childhood only to realize that it was full of awful things a child probably shouldn’t see? Think The Dark Crystal and the Labyrinth. Scary as all fuck and yet I watched them all when I was under nine years old. When I watch them now, I sit there shaking my head like the granny I am shouting at the screen “HOW ARE THESE MOVIES FOR KIDS?!?!”.

The Neverending Story was on TV the other night and seeing as I felt up for a night of childhood reminiscing, I excitedly switched over only to relive both my childhood and as it turned out, my childhood trauma.

If you’ve never seen it, I’m about to give away some major plot points. I’d apologize but it is a thirty year old film after all...

That earworm song full of synthesizer goodness fools me every time. I’ve barely settled in to my seat before the song fades and the death and despair begin. I bawled my eyes out as a kid and nearly did it as an adult as that bloody horse, Aratax, sunk in to the black sludge in the swamp because he wasn’t protected from the sadness by the AURYN (I’m pretty sure AURYN is 1980s speak for PROZAC). I don’t care that it comes back from the dead in the end, that is completely beside the point because a slow and painful death in a swamp = TRAUMA. No wonder I refused to read Black Beauty.

I’m just recovering from my urge to call the RSPCA (and the Academy for the horrid acting) when Atreyu comes to the first gate thingy he has to pass. Otherwise known as the big bosomed sphinxes that will zap anyone who does not feel their own worth with their laser eyes. Lovely moral there; if you don’t believe in yourself you will be burned to death by a laser-eyed sphinx with huge norks. Now not only do we see a Knight being barbecued (his horse isn’t hit but does disappear – perhaps there was a one dead horse only policy?), but when Atreyu walks up to the armour, the helmet blows open and we see Sir Crispalot’s charred face. What primary schooler needs to see that shit?!

It does get slightly better after that with only glowing, spooky sphinxes, wolf like beasts to be killed in hand to hand combat, oh and the destruction of the entire mythical world of Fantasia (that we’re told is humanity's hopes and dreams being destroyed by human apathy, cynicism, and the denial of childish dreams – gee, heavy much?). But by then the damage is done, my friend.

The whole thing ends on a high, quite literally, with the only kid-friendly part of the whole movie: Falkor the Luck Dragon flying through the air. I still want a Luck Dragon as a pet. I imagine they're specially trained to help people get over their movie traumas.

The movie franchise did, however, teach me four very important things:

80s kids movies are fucking scary
Luck Dragons are freakin’ awesome
Reading big books is bad for your health
Sequels should never, ever be watched

Stay tuned to find out how Labyrinth made me shit my pants. Or not.

Do you remember The Neverending Story? Were you traumatized too? Or do dead horses and burned faces missing noses not bother you?

Know your personal space. Hint: My belly is not in it

noreply@blogger.com (Trae Flett) — Tue, 30 Apr 2013 21:30:00 +0000

I'm done. I am well and truly over it. If one more person who I don't know or barely know grabs my pregnant belly I will not be held responsible for my actions.

Throughout the entire pregnancy with Tricks I could count on one hand the number of times strangers or half-acquaintances fondled my bump. But with Bobbin? Something has changed and it seems I am Buddha and every second bloody person thinks it is OK to grab the guts of a chick they've never met just because there happens to be a baby in there.

Now when I say grab the guts, I actually mean just that. In the mornings I'm still relatively small and sitting down it still just looks like a flab roll. There is no rock hard basketball yet, it is a squishy lard covering that they're fondling.

I get it, I really do. They're excited. That's lovely. But can you be excited in your own personal space and not mine please? I'd rather be touched by your pleasantries than your hands.

Classy much?

Last week a man I've met a handful of times grabbed my lardy belly with both hands and jiggled it from side to side. My first reaction, to say "Wooohooooo, look at that blubber fly!" ala Homer Simpson, was quickly replaced by my urge to slap him upside the head. With a chair.

Instead I just did one of those pathetic half smiles and backed away looking uncomfortable because I didn't want to be rude. Because me saying "I feel uncomfortable when you invade my personal space" is of course way more rude than fondling someone's stomach. Ahem.

I don't have a problem with my friends touching my belly. You know, people who actually know my name and where I live; people who have in the past hugged me, touched my arm or some such. I don't pull away from physical touch (like I used to) and going to Blogging conferences turned me in to a damn hugger, but if I don't know you the rules are completely different. After all, you can't spell stranger without STRANGE!

If you don't know my name or have never had any reason to have physical contact with me before then here's a tip: LEAVE MY BELLY ALONE.

Next time, I'm just going to do it back to them. If it is a man, I'm going to grab his testicles and jiggle them side to side. And no, it won't be an enjoyable jiggle, I can assure you.

Are you for or against the random belly touch?

Could you dig the Ultimate Date Night in Berlei Dig-Free hosiery?

noreply@blogger.com (Trae Flett) — Mon, 29 Apr 2013 21:00:00 +0000

This is a S2 post

For full details please see my disclosure policy

So here’s the cold, hard truth. I haven’t spent too much quality time with Map Guy lately. Between tag-team conferences on the other side of the country, our work commitments, a house that stubbornly refuses to clean itself and the general upheaval of life with an adventurous toddler, we’ve both been busier than usual. Oh and let’s not forget those 14 weeks of insane morning sickness, exhaustion and Hulk RAGE where, for his own safety, Map Guy soothingly stroked my hair and then kept a wide berth at all other times.

When I was given the opportunity to put all of that behind us; put us back at the top of our own priority lists and just spend uninterrupted quality time together, well I just couldn’t say no.

Berlei offered to shout us a date night. I can’t tell you how long it has been since we’ve been on a date. Sure we’ve been to weddings and parties without Tricky for a few hours, but we’ve not really been alone. Unless you count the drive home from all those weddings when the tipsy one is half falling asleep in the passenger seat and the sober driver is flicking radio stations trying to find something that isn’t either lift music or death metal – totally romantic.

I was sent some Berlei Dig-Free hosiery to wear on our night out, to see what I thought of them. They have no front seam and have a wide, smoothing band around the tummy designed to make you look and feel fabulous. Not as hard core as Spanx, but definitely of the hold-you-in variety.

So Dig-Free but smoothing, huh? I’ll be the judge of that. And because I *ahem* take my reviewing very seriously, I felt the Gluttony Seven Deadly Sins Package at the Vines Resort which includes a four course dinner would do the trick. See that? Dedication. You’re welcome.

Map Guy and I handballed Tricky to his Perth grandparents and headed out to wine country (yes, the irony is not lost on me) and after the mandatory jumping on the hotel bed and checking out of the bathroom with massive spa, got ourselves dolled up for dinner!

Lemme tell you, nothing puts sucky-inny tights to the test like stuffing your face with four courses. Particularly when preggers.

We feasted on a fresh bread course, entrées of Korean style chili and sesame prawns and stuffed baby squid, mains of fillet steak and pork belly, and desserts of chocolate tart and trifle. I could only manage two bites of my dessert because I was ready to burst (but just had to try it!) and was surprised to find that the Dig-Free was indeed Dig-Free. Yep, I was a sceptic. There, I’ve said it. Even with my baby belly pushing out under that waistband I felt comfy.

I honestly felt like they were Berlei there. OK, yeah, that went too far. I apologise, not funny at all. But I didn’t have the giant red lines I normally get from hosiery and didn’t have the whole “get-these-tights-off-me-as-soon-as-we-get-to-the-room” feeling. Well, I did, but *ahem* not for that reason…

What?! We’d been almost 4000km apart for a week!

We ended our getaway how all good resort visits should finish: in the spa with body wash poured in to see just how high the bubbles would get! FYI, pretty bloody towering!

It was such a lovely experience and I’m really grateful we got the opportunity to reconnect. With Bobbin on the way, who knows when the next we’ll get the chance to sneak away for a night off will be?

For your chance to win the Ultimate Date Night to reconnect with your partner (or bestie!) – dinner for two, a one night’s stay in a hotel & limo transfers with some sexy Berlei Dig-Free products - tell me in a comment below (or here through Facebook if you're anti-Disqus) how you make yourself feel desirable and not (just) a mum/office worker/lawyer/sales assistant/insert other here?

Full terms and conditions are available here.

The B&B Bee

noreply@blogger.com (Trae Flett) — Wed, 24 Apr 2013 01:00:00 +0000

When Aunty Penny and I went on our mini-break to Northam to go Hot Air Ballooning we stayed in a cute little B&B right on the Avon river. It had everything you would expect from a B&B - a comfy bed, a clean bathroom, tea and coffee facilities (aka a kettle and a couple cups), and a TV that got My Kitchen Rules. Turns out it also had a free added extra in the form of a stow-away bee that came in on my jeans.

Walking around the town we'd seen bees bloody everywhere. Every tree we walked past was buzzing and we kept doing the I've-just-been-dive-bombed-by-a-bee ninja dance. The thing is no one else sees the bee so it just looked like we were both spontaneously break dancing. Badly. It was very attractive.

I have been stung by bees more times than I care to remember (a result of embracing my inner-feral and refusing to keep my shoes on as a child) and every time I would swell up like a balloon and be rushed off to get some antihistamines. Nothing life threatening, just a temporary case of what looked rather like elephantitis.

The last time I was stung was the day of the end of school concert when I was in year one. I was two weeks away from the huge milestone of turning six (requires TWO HANDS to display = major milestone) and as I sat cross legged in the sun rehearsing "The Daisies In The Meadow" a bee landed just above my ankle, no doubt attracted by a group of children with oversize daisies on their heads.

For the first time in my whole life I did not panic. My mum had flicked away bees with her fingernail so many times and I was sure I could do the same. I would be a hero. I would go home and tell her proudly that I had done what she had always tried to get me to do. There would be NO STING on concert day. I calmly went to flick the bee away, just like I had seen her do... only I hadn't paid too much attention and flicked so hard down the bee IMPLANTED IN MY FUCKING LEG!

There was much crying and flailing as my teacher dug out not only the sting but a few legs and a wing. The swelling started straight away and my parents were called to pick me up. I spent the rest of the day with my leg raised, sucking down antihistamines and begging to be allowed to perform on stage at the concert. I hadn't put all that effort in to my ice-cream bucket hat with petals attached for nothing, ya know?

Image Credit via CC: Treesha Duncan

A pair of tights were sought and the show went on. The ultimate performer with a flower hat and one leg twice the size of the other all the way from my toes to my hip. For the record, me and my fat leg completely rocked out and I still remember the words to that song. No doubt the trauma of the day has imprinted it in my brain for eternity.

So anyway, back to Northam! Aunty Penny and I were getting ready for bed at the Nanna time of 8:00pm when the bee dropped from my jeans on to my foot between my toes and, deciding that his lack of grip on denim was in fact my fault, stung me immediately.

I graduated from bee avoidance ninja dance to holy-fuck-I-don't-remember-it-hurting-so-damn-much cha cha followed by the desperate flamenco of someone thinking they're about to have an allergic reaction.

It had been 25 long years since my last sting and in those years I was always told to assume the allergy remained and rather than subject myself to a sting to test the theory I just went with it. So after scraping the sting from between my toes with my fingernails I put my foot up and so began the "Great Toe Stare of 2013". For someone who hates feet, this was almost as painful as the sting itself.

As we watched to see if my whole leg would swell I started Googling things like "outgrow sting allergy" "bee sting allergy pregnant" and "why me?". Meanwhile Map Guy informed me that if I did have a reaction I'd have to go to hospital since extended trading hours is a concept still quite foreign to that tiny town. Great.

The area started to puff up a little and a red line started to streak down my foot. Oh fuck, here it comes, I thought. But then the most lovely thing happened... nothing. The anti-climax to beat all anti-climaxes! I am officially no longer allergic to bees!

Despite this fabulous news I am still going to be ninja dancing my way around them though because DAMN it bloody hurt.

How long since you've been stung by a bee? Are you a ninja dancer?

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The Squirminator

noreply@blogger.com (Trae Flett) — Mon, 22 Apr 2013 21:00:00 +0000

This is a S1 post

For full details please see my disclosure policy

Over the past year and a bit I’ve watched my girlfriends in my mothers group bring in their squirmy babies and wondered why on earth anyone would go back there and have another when they're just getting out of the completely dependent stage. Of course, the answer is simple. They’re an adorable, heartwarming and rather rewarding way to spend your time (*coughmoneycough*). Whilst I am quite obviously going for round two right now there are still days when I wonder if it will all come flooding back when Bobbin arrives, or if I'll have to re-learn everything again.

I've never been one to miss the stages as they go by. Whilst I join in on the "he doesn't look like a baby any more" post hair cut cooing, I am yet to actually lament "Oh my baby is growing up!", probably because my practical brain says "Duh, of COURSE he is, that's his JOB!". There are some stages I was rather fond to see the back of (hourly breastfeeding, anyone?) and one in particular tested my patience - the squirm stage. I say stage as if it ends. HAH!

I was not a fan of The Squirminator at all. What is a Squirminator? Think "I'll be (on my) back... then my front... then my side... then hanging from the nearest cupboard" and you'll get the picture.

The way I see it, there are four main options when it comes to drooling, wriggling, whingey Squirminators at change time:

1. Have a supply of gaffa tape* handy at your change table. Make sure to put it over baby’s clothes because getting that sticky residue off skin is a pain. Alternatively use Velcro* - it will be more expensive up front but you’ll get to reuse it.

2. Hire a children's entertainer to stand by the change table to distract the tiny Squirminator. That farm yard mobile they saw four times yesterday just isn't going to cut it today, you need variety. Think fairies, jugglers, pirates and more. But not clowns. That is how phobias are made.

3. Get some Huggies Nappy-Pants so you don’t have to worry about the laying down wriggle – the standing up Squirminator is so much easier to handle and without a change table you don't have to worry about your cherub launching themselves off it while you reach for a wipe.

We used modern cloth nappies for day use and Huggies nappies for night time but as Tricks was toilet training we moved him to Nappy-Pants for a transition period to get him used to the idea of pulling pants up and down. It worked for us because five days in to jocks and he was fully toilet trained and hasn’t looked back. We used them quite late, but they are available from 7kg upwards.

4. Grab a video camera. Look, they’re gonna squirm and it is annoying but chances are they're going to do something adorable and hilarious one of these times so why not film it and submit it to Huggies and win? If you have to put up with it, you may as well be rewarded!

The prizes are amazing - the first 500 people to upload their video receive a pack of Nappy-Pants and each week for nine weeks one entrant will receive a $100 Westfield gift card. But the major prize, the one I will give my left hand for (not the right, it’s my texting hand) is the grand prize, the big kahuna, the wood panelled, steel roofed, PlayCubb Koala Blue Cubby house, delivered and installed in your very own backyard, valued at just under $5000! Related: Tricks and I are available for play dates in said cubby.

And who gets to help decide who wins that awesome cubby? Yours truly! Yep, I'm one of the judges. Because it is about time I judged you and your spawn, right? RIGHT! I'm really looking forward to seeing your gorgeous kiddos do all sorts of hilarious bum shuffling wriggles and from the ones uploaded so far I know it's going to be a bloody tough decision!

For actual information on how to handle your wriggle bum that doesn’t involve gaffa tape or Velcro, you can check out the Huggies website and their tips via the Huggies Facebook page, but for now whip your cameras and get filming and show me ALL TEH CUTE!

*Please don’t do this. I know someone on the internet already did to prove it could be done, so let’s all just take their word for it!

How to be a goddess in the kitchen

noreply@blogger.com (Trae Flett) — Wed, 17 Apr 2013 21:30:00 +0000

This is a C1 post

For full details please see my disclosure policy

So you want to know how to be a goddess in the kitchen? Well from everything I can see in my very limited Googling, a lot of goddesses have multiple arms, so by rights if you got an extra set to say, stir dinner with, then whammo, you’re a goddess.

I’ve been playing with the Jamie Oliver HomeCooker for a while now and my first thought was that it gave me an extra set of hands and ipso facto, am now obviously a goddess.

My second thought was “Myself (am a goddess, so can now say this)! That is one gigantic contraption!”. Yes, the HomeCooker has taken the size matters mantra to heart and does look rather imposing on the bench. If you have the all the steaming baskets and the cutting tower too, it, well, definitely towers.

But most of the time I was just using the main pot and the chopping tower and found the pot a really good size for a big family meal – which in this house translates to meal & then leftovers for lunch.

The cutting tower slices and grates with a range of different blades, but if it was up to me, I’d make the feed for the chopping tower much wider as I even had trouble with some carrots being too thick to fit through it. I thought I was going to snap the rotating disk as I inserted the blades but it turns out it was just me being afraid of breaking my new toy and once I got the hang of it, it took a second to do.

As dinner simmered away I’d come back to check on the meal (OK I admit I also came back to just watch it stir a few times) and other than scraping down the sides once or twice because I’m incapable of leaving anything alone, dinner would be ready without any of the food catching on the bottom and burning. Meaning I had a half hour or so to do a quick tidy up and set the table, play with the Trickster or just SIT DOWN.

In all seriousness, my pain levels have been flaring terribly this pregnancy and standing up to cook dinner at the end of the day is bloody killing me. If something can keep a constant temperature and stir itself while I just have a few minutes of rest then it gets the thumbs up from me. Or perhaps that should be feet up since it is normally how I look when cooking dinner these days.

PROS:

Great for when you have little ones around your feet wanting cuddles
Handy if you’re knackered and need to sit down
Huge 3L bowl
Goes up to 250 degrees C
Can cook multiple things at a time with the steaming baskets
Comes with a Jamie Oliver cookbook full of HomeCooker specific recipes that are amazeballs
Retractable cord – Philips do this a lot, it helps so much with storage
Timer with automatic shut off

CONS:

Cutting tower is quite narrow
Takes up a lot of bench/cupboard space

Even though I wasn't a fan of the cutting tower, overall I think the HomeCooker is great for when you need to be doing something other than standing over the stove stirring and I can see it coming in to its element when Bobbin is born!

Want to be a goddess in the kitchen too? You can win a Jamie Oliver HomeCooker from Philips by telling me in 25 words or less what you would do with a spare half hour while your HomeCooker stirred dinner for you via the ENTRY FORM HERE. If you don't have a Facebook account and still wish to enter please email me with the subject line "HomeCooker Competition" and include your name, delivery address and answer to the question.

This competition is now closed

Full terms and conditions here.

I wanna play with your boobs

noreply@blogger.com (Trae Flett) — Mon, 15 Apr 2013 06:34:00 +0000

This is the line I hear at least ten times a day.

Some will be surprised that the words are not uttered by my husband or even a passing pervert, but an almost three year old boy.

Tricky weaned about two or three months ago. We were down to one very short feed most days but when Bobbin popped on the scene what supply was there dropped right off and every time he fed it would hurt. It felt exactly like feeding newborn Tricks back when I had no real clue what I was doing and lovely case of golden nipples. We returned to cracked nipple central where my toes curled every time he'd ask for milk. Something had to give.

Despite being of the "never offer, never refuse" school of thought for weaning and a supporter of full-term breastfeeding, I started offering milk in a cup more and more. Under my breath I was shouting have-your-milk-in-a-damn-cup-and-leave-my-boobs-alone. It took a week and it was all over red rover. Or red nipples. Whatever.

For thirty-two(ish?) months, my breasts were used as a source of nourishment and comfort. In the later stages they became less about nutrition and, much like the flotation devices they are, more for when the day needed to be saved. Think ass-crack-of-dawn wake ups, the occasional cranky bed time or near-meltdown for a grand total of about five times a week. So basically any time when we all needed some sleep lest we go insane. Hooray for boobies.

Breasts as a source of nourishment... kind of.

These days though? They have transformed (back) in to fun bags.

If my chest is in sight, I hear it. "I wanna play with your boobs". Usually after he has plunged his hand down my top and grabbed a fist full of flesh.

He likes to cuddle them, squeeze them and of course jiggle them. He is obsessed with breasts. And I really hope you said that with the voice of Elaine Benes from Seinfeld.

I don't quite know what to do because we have tried everything we can think of. I had been pegging all my hopes on ignoring it, saying they were not for him any more because he's a big boy, telling him they were for Bobbin now etc.

It would even appear that physically stopping him and redirecting his attention elsewhere has done nothing other than introduce him to the fact that other women also have breasts. Luckily the groping has so far been constrained to family members, but I dread the day when he just lunges at a stranger and attempts to motorboat them.

Nothing has worked so far. Nothing!

So help me, dear reader, what do I do? Do I leave it and hope it is just his way of saying so-long to his old pals, or do I put my foot down? If you have any toddler weaning advice for me, my oft grabbed breasts would very much appreciate it.

Balloonatics!

noreply@blogger.com (Trae Flett) — Wed, 10 Apr 2013 05:02:00 +0000

This is a S3 post
For full details please see my disclosure policy

On a scale of one to completely freakin’ awesome, my latest RedBalloon adventure was right at the top!

Given I am a RedBalloon Mum, I felt it highly appropriate that my next adventure should in fact involve balloons, red or otherwise. So now I’m a Hot Air Balloon Mum.

Aunty Penny and I decided that rather than get up at 3:45am and drive on pitch black country highways, we’d travel to Northam, just over 100km from Perth the day before. We declared it our Bridget Jones minibreak but, sadly, Daniel Cleaver was nowhere to be found. We checked in to a cute little B&B then went off to explore the town before heading to bed with alarms set for the ungodly hour of 4:45am.

The next morning I was the epitome of bright eyed and bushy tailed. I am NOT a morning person and that never happens, but it would seem my body made an exception knowing just how awesome the prize of a Hot Air Balloon Ride would be. We headed out to the airfield, checked in at 5:15am and listened to our briefing.

Pre-dawn filling of the envelope

A bus (playing flight related songs like Come Fly With Me, 99 Red Balloons and Those Magnificent Men in their Flying Machines!) took us to the launch site and the 18 other passengers, Aunty Penny and myself all helped set up “Rainbow Dancer II” … yep, 20 passengers and one pilot in total on one Balloon. If the average weight of the person was 75kg that is over 1.5 tonnes of weight… then you have the basket, and the burners, and the gas tanks, and the GPS equipment AND the little fluffy koala pilot mascot. All held up by hot air. Mind boggling! Yay for physics!

Hot Air Ballooning is the oldest form of passenger flight. In the days of the first Balloon flights in the late 1700s, they believed it was smoke that was doing all the work so they would build a fire in the basket and burn whatever they could (but hopefully not the silk and paper Balloon!) that would create the thickest, blackest smoke they could – think rotting meat, wet straw and brandy. It would have stunk! Happily, they use propane now. Again, yay for science!

Just before the sun rose, we gently lifted off the ground and began floating peacefully up in to the air. I could barely feel the movement and because you’re going at the same speed as the wind, there is no breeze on your face – it was all just perfectly still and surprisingly warm.

Our shadow shortly after takeoff

The weather was perfect. Ballooning in bad weather can be extremely dangerous and flights can be cancelled with little notice if the weather changes or the pilots don’t think it is safe. The flights on the two previous days had been cancelled so we were very lucky to have such great conditions. I would have been disappointed if ours had been called off, but I’d much rather be disappointed than dead - there are no airbags or seatbelts in a Balloon!

We watched the sunrise from 3700ft above sea level and reached a top speed of just over 60km/h. We even had on-board catering in the form of a lolly jar passed around and I was amazed to see as I was taking pictures on my phone that I had signal… so of course I Tweeted and checked in on Facebook because, well, I'm a bit of a show off!

Sunrise from 3700ft

I wasn’t prepared for how much control the pilot had – he was able to take us close enough to trees so that we could reach out and grab a leaf, then climb us high over the hills, drop us down over the Avon River and then soar us over the town, all so gently and smoothly, like a giant rainbow bubble floating through the air.

Our reflection in the Avon River

After an hour of cruising from one side of town to the other it was time to land. As we got lower and lower it looked like the pilot was going to try to land on the trailer the basket is transported on. I leaned over and whispered it to Aunty Penny and we both watched, completely gobsmacked as the pilot guided us perfectly on to the trailer for the softest landing. It was amazing not only because it required great talent, but it also meant we didn’t have to help lift the basket up on to the trailer after! And we all know I'm allergic to hard work.

It was all hands on deck, or paddock, rather, to pack up the balloon (think stuffing a gigantic sleeping bag in to a really small carry bag) before we headed off to a gorgeous champagne breakfast with pastries, cereal, fruit, bacon, eggs, beans, mushrooms and hashbrowns in a local restaurant. I couldn’t partake of the champagne but in keeping with the French theme, made up for it with extra croissants.

Balloon selfies were mandatory

I could not fault the experience at all, it was breathtaking and the view was simply stunning. The only disappointing thing about it was that there was supposed to be a wedding on board and it had been changed to another day – I would have loved to have been a guest!

If you want to think outside the square for Mothers’ Day gifts this year and surprise your mum with a RedBalloon voucher instead of a box of choccies and some slippers, head to the website and see the amazing experiences they have. Use the code REDMUM05 to receive $30 off when you spend $129 or more.

Aunty Penny and I have ticked Hot Air Ballooning off our bucket lists. What's on your bucket list?

Disclosure: Thanks to the team at Digital Parents Collective for inviting me to be a part of the RedBalloon Experience Program. I will be sharing my awesome experiences with you over the next few months. To read all of my experiences so far, click here. As always, all opinions are my own however the experiences are complimentary.

The 2013 Glowgie Awards - nominees

noreply@blogger.com (Trae Flett) — Mon, 08 Apr 2013 11:40:00 +0000

You lot are amazing! The time I've spent huddled over a spreadsheet and hunting around the interwebs for URLs has been completely worth it because the feelgood feedback on Twitter when people were getting involved was exactly what I was hoping would happen. All around Australia I could hear people saying "You love me! You really love me!".

I was calling The Glowgies a love in. Some called it a circle jerk. Either way, I'm cool with it. People felt happy to nominate and be nominated and if being nice is considered a wank fest these days, well then, call me a wanker. In fact, the Wanker Glowgie goes to me.

I've been nominated for a few competitions and though it feels really cool to win them (well "it" actually, saying "them" implies there was more than one), the fact that someone nominated you in the first place is always such a thrill. And I absolutely loved that people nominated themselves for Glowgies too, because hell, if you can't blow your own trumpet in the blogging world, then what are you doing here?

I sadly had to skip my own red carpet ceremony for the Glowgies and instead spent the time laying in bed in a B&B over 100km from home with my foot up after being stung by a bee. But it's OK, I still wore my pre-prepared outfit of flanno jarmies with bunnies on them.

But without further ado, let's get to the good stuff. Here are the nominees... because there are no winners except for me and my Wanker Glowgie, obviously.

The Noni Hazelhurst Glowgie - for the blog/blogger that makes gardening and crafty stuff look easy and fun, who never ever kills their plants off or burns their fingerprints off

Free Range In Suburbia

Maxabella Loves

The Martha Stewart Glowgie - for the blog/blogger who rocks housekeeping/organization or home cooking (thus making us mere mortals realize how far we have to go)

Keeping Up With The Holsbys

The Organised Housewife

Veggie Mama

The Brangelina Glowgie - for the blog/blogger who makes having multiples/lots of children look dead easy and makes you think about maybe having more kids

Sydney, Kids, Food& Travel

The Bumpiest Path

With Some Grace

The Bono Glowgie - for the blog/blogger who is making a difference in the world (thus making me look like a black hearted mercenary)

A Parenting Life

Beautiful You

Edenland

Free Range In Suburbia

Good Googs

Heart Mama

Mum Talks Autism

Musings of The Misguided

My Happy Endings

Random Ramblings of a Stay At Home Mum

The Dawn French Glowgie - for the blog/blogger who is keeping Tena Lady in business because they make all their readers piss themselves laughing

Cup Of Tea And A Blog
Emma’s Brain Blogs

Falling Face First

Five Frogs On A Blog

For The Love Of Writing

Good Golly Miss Holly

Have A Laugh On Me

Hopeful Rae Of Sunshine

Indie Berries

Keeping Up With The Holsbys

Mumabulous

Musings of The Misguided

Oculus Mundi

Parental Parody

Real Jive Turkey

Rebel Without A Pause

Reservoir Dad

Salz Dummy Spit