Good Golly Miss Holly!

When half of you wants to move on, but the other half can't bear the thought of no longer word vomiting on the internet.

noreply@blogger.com (Good Golly Miss Holly!) — Thu, 25 Apr 2013 00:50:00 +0000

With the exception of sharing Bec's heartbreaking story last week, I've opened Blogger up and the screen has stayed blank. That little cursor blinking at me, MOCKING ME. Maybe not. Whatever. One thing for certain is that the excitement of this blog, this whole blogging caper, has faded.

I could regal you with stories of how funny Amelia and Oscar are or how much Abi's growing, or with quips about uni and work and balance and food ... but I'm just not feelin' it. I don't want to share the intimate details of home life here, and I don't have the motivation to share the tidbits I'm comfortable with.

I read this post by Veronica, and found myself nodding my head in agreement. Back in the day, the automatic thing to do when inspiration ran dry was to read other blogs. Be inspired by their words. My Google Reader is full, but none of it grabs me. The musings on daily life that I used to devour every day just seem to so .... for lack of a better word, petty. And I am pretty tired of brands trying to sell me shit through my peers.

I no longer read blogs, save for a post here or there. I don't think this is necessarily because the Australian blogging community is full of bored mothers, blowing rainbows and Thermomix prepared goodies out their asses either. I am more inclined to think this is because I've done the full circle as both a blogger and a blog reader.

Maybe it's time to call it a day? I battle with that one. Half of me wants to move on, but half of me can't bear the thought of no longer word vomiting on the internet.

So I don't know what will happen here, but I do want to thank you guys for riding this amazing wave with me. It takes a village to raise a child and all that, and you lot have held my hand for the past 3.5 years. Am so grateful and am going to bow out now before shit gets all mushy and gushy and vom-worthy.

And if I could only share one more thing with you guys, I'd share this:

Yeah, my kid's an enormous creep and we made a meme.

We had to say goodbye before we said hello: Arlo and Evie's Story, Part II.

noreply@blogger.com (Good Golly Miss Holly!) — Tue, 16 Apr 2013 10:45:00 +0000

... I lay there, perfectly still. Numb. The screen turned, and I saw my babies. They weren't moving, so very still.

The Ob broke the silence in the room by muttering about "having trouble finding heartbeats" before racing off to find another doctor. The room went back to deafening silence. The midwife still sat next to me, hand on my leg with this look of concern on her face. Another doctor entered the room and after a few moments of fiddling around with the wand, he turned to me and simply says "I am so sorry Rebecca, there are no heartbeats." They left the room and the midwife was left to usher me off into a private waiting room so I could begin making phone calls I never imagined I'd have to make.

Aaron was at work, over an hour away by public transport. I had to call him and tell him over the phone that our daughters, his precious little dragons, had died. As soon as he answered, I burst out crying. I was inconsolable All I could stumble out was that the girls had died and I needed him to meet me at home. He simply said "I'm leaving now". He had to sit on a train for 45 mins, holding everything in! I had decided that I wanted to go home ASAP so I phoned my cousin to come and pick me up. Afterwards, I phoned my Mum to break the news. After our conversation ended, she thought she'd hung up the phone, and I heard her wail. I will never forget that sound.

I was sent home to talk with Aaron about whether I wanted to be induced immediately, or if we wanted to wait a few days to a week. As I walked outside, I was greeted by the sight of Aaron getting out of a car and as soon as our eyes met, he burst into tears and held onto me tight. It sounds silly, but I didn't expect so much emotion to come out of him.

Once we got home, we went through the motions of calling Aaron's family over in NZ. Word slowly spread to friends, and our phones began ringing with tears and sympathy from our loved ones. Aaron and I locked ourselves in our room and talked - We agreed that we would go ahead with the induction ASAP.

The night before the girls were born.

We had these plans of holding the girls were in our arms before naming them, to see if the names I had in mind suited them. Instead, we found ourselves sitting in our bedroom, in tears, agreeing on their names. It just did not feel real.

After a sleepless night, we arrived at the hospital at 9:30am with my Mum. They performed an amnio and discovered I was already 1cm dilated. Aaron's mum and her partner arrived from NZ, and together, we all settled into the birthing suite. We decided to go and have lunch before the induction began. It was so strange, eating together and watching the world around us just go on. I even had an old lady congratulate me on my pregnancy. If she only knew.

By 2pm, the induction was underway. Getting the cannula put in, and getting my waters broken was the most painful experience of my life. The contractions came on fast and thick, about 2 mins apart.The pain took over for about 20 mins before they administered an epidural for me - I was meant to get it right away so I didn't have to feel any pain. More family members arrived, including my dad and his wife who flew in from QLD as well as some of my closest friends. I was so grateful to see them. To their credit, they managed to make laugh on the darkest day of my life. Around 11pm, we asked everyone to go so I could manage a bit of sleep and as they all left, they all promised they'd be back the next day.

After another sleepless night, the time had come. In a situation where a baby has passed before labour, they let your body do most of the work, so I only had to push about 6 times in a row. At 8:53am on November 3rd, 2012, we welcomed Arlo. Aaron couldn't look, or cut the cord so my sister took over. When my midwife held Arlo up, I gasped. I was so nervous. I had a preconceived idea that she was going to look black and blue. She was actually quite pale, and she looked huge! She wasn't though, weighing in at 2170g, and 44cm long. Instantly, I felt an enormous wave of love wash over me. And I felt so sorry for her, she did look a little sick and different to a live newborn. I was scared to touch her much for fear of hurting her further. Aaron and I just cried and kissed each other, telling each other "I love you". She looked like her dad, with the same fingers and toes ... and my sideburns. Sorry kid! We called our friends and family to come in and meet her. Everyone got a cuddle.

An amazing photographer from Heartfelt
capture these precious moments for us.

At 10:15am, it was time to push again. We asked everyone to leave the room (other than Mum, my sister, my cousin, Aaron's mum Pam, and her partner, Jo). After 2 big pushes, it was 10:17am and Evie was born. She was expected to be a lot smaller than Arlo but she ended up being 5 grams heavier - 2175g, and the same length, 44cm! Her appearance was a bit more of a shock to me. Her poor little head was very swollen, and she was a bit purple from congestion. Her head looked out of proportion to her little body, they both did in fact. And they both had blisters on the body with their skin was peeling away in some places as well as bleeding little noses and mouths. Evie looked like me, she had her daddy's fingers but definitely my feet. Oh- and the sideburns! Haha.

The room came alive as family and friends poured back in, cuddling us and the girls. There were so many tears. I am forever grateful the most important people in our lives got to meet our babies, with the exception of my oldest brother and his wife who were on their honeymoon at the time. That's been incredibly hard for the both of us.

Looking back, I wish I had held the girls closer to me too. The cannula in my hand made it hard to hold them, so I mainly just had them on a pillow in my lap and gently stroked their faces.

Aaron and our Evie.

With each minute that passed, we knew we were one step closer to having to say goodbye to our babies. We wanted to leave when we felt at peace and by 11pm that night, we felt it was time. It was so, so very hard to leave.

Being at home was a bit hectic. Aaron and I didn't want to do anything, especially arrange a funeral. But we had to, and 4 days later, we found ourselves at the funeral home, viewing our babies. As we walked into the room, I remember feeling so scared and expecting them to look worse. They didn't though, they look beautiful. They simply looked like they were sleeping. Oddly, seeing them there gave us better insight into what they would have actually looked like. I felt more of a connection to them, seeing that they looked like us and that they were sister. It was so sweet seeing them together too, looking so peaceful. I am thankful for those moments.

The funeral was the following day on November 8th. We played the songs that we played to them often, my favourite being "Come Away With Me" by Norah Jones. Aaron and I said a short speech, as well as our mothers. But we mostly just sat there, listening to their songs and grieving for what will never be. The girls shared a casket and at the end of the service, we opened it up so people could see them and say their final goodbyes if they wished. It was Aaron's decision for us to watch the girls being cremated - He said that even though they had died, it was still a hardship they were going through, and as their parents, we needed to be there for them. It was the hardest thing to watch, but I am glad that we were there with them until the very end.

The weeks after were hard. We cried at night together. Every morning I'd wake up and it would hit me all over again - I was no longer pregnant, and our girls were not here. This wasn't just a bad dream, this was my new reality. All I wanted to do was kiss their cold faces again.

We arranged for the babies to have a full autopsy and we also donated their organs for research. Within a few weeks, the results came back with confirmation that the girls had passed away from Group B Streptococcus. Normally a swab test is done at the 36 week mark. I lost the girls at 35 weeks 2 days, so I missed out on being tested by a mere 5 days!

GBS is a bacteria that's found in the vagina, anus or intestines. If you have GBS, you experience mild if not any symptoms, and it generally will not cause you any grief. For an unborn or newborn baby though? The risks are catastrophic. Currently, there is no standard screening procedures here in Australia for pregnant women. Some hospitals will test all prenatal women, but they are not required to. Information provided also is minimal at very best. I was completely unaware that I carried GBS, and I had no idea that it even existed! It's crazy! Why are we not informed about this? Why are our doctors so blase about it? It hurts me so much to think that something I had and was unaware of killed my babies.

Fast forward to now, 5 months on and it's definitely easier. You just learn how to live with the pain. These days, my aim is to spread awareness of GBS. Just because you have passed the 'safe' 12 week mark, unfortunately does not mean you are guaranteed to have a happy ending. I am living proof of that. Mother to mother, I am asking you to please listen to your body. Demand information, ask questions too - It's your right. I want Arlo and Evie's death to bring about changes. Especially talking about stillbirth, which Holly is going to make me come back and talk about another day (Holly may have added that last little bit in there!)

We will always have two big holes in our hearts.

We are forever changed.

We will always love Arlo and Evie.

This video on YouTube gets me every time. When I first watched it I cried and cried! Everything said in this clip is our life, our story. So please, watch it and remember Arlo, Evie and all the babies we had to say goodbye to before we said hello.

We had to say goodbye before we said hello: Arlo and Evie's Story, Part I.

noreply@blogger.com (Good Golly Miss Holly!) — Mon, 15 Apr 2013 08:13:00 +0000

Some of you may remember posts from late last year where I spoke about my friend, Bec delivering two beautiful little sleeping girls. Bec has taken me up on my offer of using GGMH as a platform for her to share her story of pregnancy, stillbirth, and childless motherhood. I've split her story up into two posts and the second has Bec share with us photos of her sweet babies. That's just a FYI if stories of loss trigger your own experiences. In any case, have your tissues on hand x

So.....I'm not really sure where to start, so I'll start (briefly) at the beginning. I'm sure I'll forget a lot of things so Holly is free to fill in the gaps.

Aaron and I met on Booty Call .. I mean Myspace in May of 2006. I was 17 going on 18 and in Year 12, and he was 23 going on 17 (24), living a pretty cruisey life over in New Zealand. Total babe he was/still is, I was seriously giddy. We started chatting, which quickly escalated to every day chats that lasted hours and then phone calls where I would waste my $30 of credit in one night. We also spoke on webcam, even my mum got online and said hello a few times.

16 months later, in August 2007, we finally met face to face. I went for a 2 week holiday with a friend and we stayed with Aaron and a mate in Wellington. The best two weeks of my life! I flew home and within 4 months, I'd packed up my things and moved to NZ. I had $900 in my pocket, no clue on what lied ahead, but I had heart full of love.

Aaron and I spent two loved up years in NZ before homesickness got the better of me, and we made the move back to Sydney. Together. Who said internet romances would never work? We stayed with my Mum for a little while to save, and by November 2011, we had moved into a small Inner West apartment. After a couple of months, I scored myself my dream job as a makeup artist. Things were looking up for us, and we couldn't wait to see what the future held for us!

... Then I started to feel tired and nauseous. Stress, I told myself. But after two dodgy periods and witnessing my sister give birth to my beautiful niece two months before, I decided it definitely couldn't hurt to take a pregnancy test.

It was April 25, 2012. 9:50pm: Our roommates were out, Aaron was playing xbox, and I was armed with a Clearblue Digial. I remember waiting nervously for the results (my heart is beating fast even thinking about it now!). Then it pops up: Pregnant 3+. 3+ WHAT? Look on the back of the box and it tells me I'm 5 weeks pregnant or more! WHAT THE FUCK?! I took the test and shoved it in Aaron's face, he looked at it in all of his nonchalance and said "Cool" before going back to the Xbox. Cool? I need moral support, dammit! So I phoned my sister and bawled my eyes out to her - All I could think about was the fact this was all I'd ever wanted ... but not right now. At that point, Aaron heard me crying and came out to investigate - Turned out he thought I was just showing him what the stick looked that, and he hadn't realised the stick was telling us we had a bun in the oven!

The following day, we went to see my GP and he estimated I was about 9 weeks already. Whoops! I quickly booked in for an ultrasound and had my sister come along to hold my hand. On the day, I was a bundle of nerves and full of pee. The ultrasound was well underway when I noticed my sister was looking at the screen with a puzzled expression on her face. The sonographer took that as her cue and informed us "So everything is looking great. Two strong heartbeats. You've got twins"

HOLD. THE. PHONE.

My first reaction? "Um, were they conceived at the same time? This isn't possible" (after finding out they were fraternal, not identical) I then asked to go to the toilet. In the toilet, I proceeded to swear. A LOT. Then I phoned Aaron:

Me: So everything was great. The babies are nice and healthy, two strong heartbeats.
Aaron: Oh cool. Wait. TWINS!? *laughter* I told you!

Yeaahhhhhh, Aaron joked around a lot, even before I got pregnant, that since twins run in his family, we would have ourselves a set. But what he didn't count on is the fact that I released two eggs, so I'm the crafty bitch, not him! SUCK ON THAT! ;) When we later told our closest friends and family the most common reaction was "FUCK OFF! YOU'RE LYING". Haha, loved it!

At our 18 week scan, we found out we were expecting two baby girls, and even though I developed gestational diabetes, I loved every moment of being pregnant - The feeling of being pregnant, watching my belly grow, listening to the babies' hearts beat through a doppler, and I adored my pregnant body. I've battled body issues my entire life so it was amazing to marvel off a belly full of baby, and not flab. Ok, maybe I didn't love the fat, swollen feet but a small price to pay!

Aaron was already a doting dad too - He had a little ritual of kissing my belly every morning before he left for work. He'd do a low growl voice and try and wake the babies up. He'd tell them to hurry up and grow and to be good for mummy. I couldn't wait to see him with our girls.

On Oct 31st, 2012. Aaron shaved off his beard to participate in Movember. We'd decided to pain mo's on my bump - A funny way to get the girls and I involved too. Oh man, it tickled! That night, I noticed the girls weren't moving around as much as they normally did, but because this was the first time, I didn't really worry about it. At that point, I was 35 weeks and I just put it down to the girls' movements slowing down because they were literally running out of room in there.

The next morning, I had an early appointment at the hospital for a GD checkup. On the bus ride to the hospital, I noticed my belly was really hard and that I still hadn't felt my girls moving. That 45 minute bus ride was the longest of my life as I sat there, waiting for the girls to move. When I got in to see my Ob at 9am, told him about what had, or rather what hadn't, been happening. He immediately sent me in for a CTG to have the girl's heart rates monitored. After a miserable two hour wait, I got in to see one of the midwives and she began hooking the monitors up to my belly. After a few minutes of fiddling and fussing, she confessed she was having a hard time finding my babies' heartbeats, which seemed to be pretty common with twins. She decided we would sneak into the ultrasound room so she could cheat and find the girls heartbeats onscreen.

But she still couldn't find them.

With assurances of her not using the ultrasound equipment often, the midwife took off to find a doctor who knew how to use the machines properly. It wasn't until that moment that I even entertained the possibility that something was wrong - It knocked me over like a tonne of bricks, and I began poking my stomach, desperate to get the girls moving. "Ok, wake up now!" I ordered them. A few moment later, the midwife returned with a doctor who quickly got to running the wand over my huge belly. Meanwhile, the midwife came over to the other side of me and sat down. She put her hand on my leg in a comforting gesture, and it was at that exact moment that I knew they wouldn't find a heart beat ...

If you have an opinion on asylum seekers, make it an informed one or sit down and STFU.

noreply@blogger.com (Good Golly Miss Holly!) — Thu, 04 Apr 2013 01:26:00 +0000

This morning, a friend of mine shared this on Facebook:

I made the mistake on clicking on the photo to the original source and reading through some of the comments.

Responses to this post included:

"Hate to say it is illegal to enter another country without a passport, and this is propeganda generated by the people who want their cause to seem like its the right thing"

"What a load of shit. These people cost the tax payers millions, and ruin our country."

"1) there is a "queue"....what are the Refugee Camps for...
2) If you can afford to pay the $1000's that the people smugglers charge then you choose...."

"Asylum from what? Its a joke, money talks and indonesia is laughing there heads off..wake up australia..."

"FACT: If you are granted refugee status you are GIVEN a new car, government housing, $52K a year, Private Schooling for you children, and all household bills paid for by Centrelink. Also any crimes committed by your race in a certain area ARE NOT allowed to be covered by the local media. Get you FACTS right before spreading this shit!
FACT! Australians with Disabilities are treated WORSE than refugees and people in third world countries.
FACT! Australian Government spends more on refugee processing and overseas "Aide" than on hospitals and healthcare IN AUSTRALIA!"

"Your FACTS are not FACTS at all!!! NONE of the above 'facts' are true!! If you ever worked in those detention centers you would notice most of them are dripping in gold jewelry and boast about how they have enough money to buy an Australian house outright! Furthermore even while they have no expenses in detention the government pays them more than what pensioners receive each week!!!!"

Holy fucking shit, how can people be so clueless?

Could any of these wild claims be backed up by any reliable sources (ie: not on Facebook)? Doubt it.

Have any of these folks done a bit of research into living conditions in these refugee camps (the violence, the rape, the lack of basic essentials of living)? I'm going to hazard a guess and say yeah riiiight. You can take a virtual tour of refugee camps here on the Doctors Without Borders website. This is only a tiny insight into what life is like in these camps. Pretty sure I blame no one for wanting to live there.

Have any of these 'concerned citizens' looked into rates before making claims like asylums seekers are paid more than Australian aged pensioners? Doubt it. And just in case you felt that statement was indeed correct, here is the 411:

- An individual who is granted temporary asylum status is entitled to assistance from the Red Cross Asylum Seeker Assistance Fund for the amount of $442.33. I believe this amount does not increase if you are partnered/have dependents.

- This amount is equivalent to 89% of Centrelink's Special Benefit of $497 per fortnight for a single adult with no dependents. The Special Benefit is basically the same rate as Newstart, and available to Australians who are going through hardship and temporarily unable to support themselves.

- A long and drawn out process follows to determine if the seeker will be granted full residency. If they are granted full residency then they are able to access the same amount in benefits that every other Australian is entitled to. So for example, a single 28 year old Australian who receives the Newstart allowance at a rate of $442.33 per fortnight.

- For comparison purposes, a single Australian receiving an aged pension receives $733.70 per fortnight.

So tell me again how asylum seekers receive more money than our aged pensioners?

MYTH = BUSTED. BOOM!

Social media offers a dangerous undercurrent for the easily influenced and too lazy to critically think, by providing blatantly incorrect propaganda that can be shared to millions by the simple click of a button. According to Hoax Slayer, the whole 'receiving more than our aged' thing originated as a chain letter has also done the rounds in the US, Canada and the UK. Now, I wonder about the Australian who sat there and edited the Americanisms (social security to Centrelink, etc) out of that email - What happened to that person to make them so consciously hateful, so full of loathing that they'd spin so many lies to get more people on board with their bigotry?

For me personally, I'm more concerned about the generation upon generation of entitled fucks we're raising that have no idea about the privileges they enjoy as Australians than I am about people wanting to travel half the world on a rickety old boat to share a slice of a nation that, for the most part, cares for its people.

So to all the bogans carrying on across the various social media platforms about ... well, anything, in the spirit of not making yourself look like an ignorant fuck`, get yourself informed or sit down and STFU.

noreply@blogger.com (Good Golly Miss Holly!) — Thu, 21 Mar 2013 01:56:00 +0000

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Short skirts and alcohol does not a rapist make.

noreply@blogger.com (Good Golly Miss Holly!) — Mon, 18 Mar 2013 07:08:00 +0000

image from here.

I am ashamed to admit that once upon a time I thought rape culture was just something for the diehard feminists to get worked up about. It was more naivety than ignorance on my part. I mean, who would seriously be ok or turn a blind eye to the normalisation of something so awful?

The older I get and dare I say, the more aware I am about human nature, I realise that just how fucked up humans can be. How backwards society can be. Victim blaming, slut shaming, excuses - What the actual FUCK?

A few months ago, the whole world was shaken by the young woman from India who was violently gang raped on a bus and beaten within an inch of her life. We asked ourselves. We comforted ourselves with "Well that would never happen here in Australia while asking ourselves "How could someone so heinous happen in 2013?"

But it's not how could something like this happen that we should be asking ourselves. It should be what are we going to do to stop it. No human being with any shred of common sense would condone the rape of another human, right?

Right now in America, people are clucking their tongues for the two high school footballers who have been found guilty of raping a 16 year old girl, who had drank herself into a stupor at a party. Their promising futures are being mourned.

Yes, how terrible for them. /Sarcasm.

The thing is, I'm sure if you asked 90% of the tongue cluckers if they condoned sexual assault, they would vehemently say no. Because no human being with any shred of common sense would condone the rape of another human, right?

So why the "Oh those poor young boys" sentiment?

Is it because we picture a rapist as a creepy middle aged man who lurks in darkened alleys, waiting for a helpless young woman to stalk? Why does society balk at the notion of a celebrity, a female, a hero, a 'promising young man' being a rapist? A rapist is just that - a rapist. Social status, age, ethnicity, gender, sexual orientation, career, anything really does not deflect from that fact. Nobody accidently finds themselves a rapist, and if you find yourself sympathising with one, you really need to stop and take stock of your beliefs.

Or are they clucking perhaps because they believe she was asking for it by getting so shit faced and hey, she has no recollection of the actual assault so she'll be right. Victim shaming is ... well, I can not even articulate how wrong it is to blame a rape victim for his/her own rape. You just. do. not.

A while back on Pinterest, I saw this and it really struck a cord with me:

The excuses and the rationalisations and the whole "She was asking for it" mentality - It is so ingrained in our culture. Rape is the black and white issue of someone forcing them self onto another. And that is the actual crime here people, not the length of a skirt or the shattered career of a teenage sexual predator.

If you want to do your bit to end rape culture, do not buy into the shaming and blaming. Just don't.

Oh look, another post where I talk about the size of my ass.

noreply@blogger.com (Good Golly Miss Holly!) — Wed, 13 Mar 2013 01:19:00 +0000

Holy shit Batman, I could talk about this shit until the cows come home but really, I'm beginning to bore even myself.

My ass. The ass. Food. Binge. Chocolate. Amelia asking me when am I going to stop looking like I have a baby in my tummy. You've heard it all before, I've heard it all before.

A fortnight of riding the oh so draining cycle of binge eating, skipping meals to compensate and then beating myself up senseless over it, I'm kinda done.

I don't want to regal the internets with amazing pledges and promises because I just can't. Who wants to publically break out with vows and pledges, and then fall down and fail? And as much as I'd like to console myself with the fact that at least I continue getting back up and not giving up, the fact that this latest binge brought a 1.5kg of fat with it tells me that cottonwooling the issue is doing me no favours.

At 169cm, I weigh in at 84kg. For those of you playing at home, that is a gain of 16kg in the 8 months that have followed Abi's birth last July. 16. I can't even think of something witty to cover up how alarming that is.

But do you know what's even worse about weight gain and the ensuing self loathing? Not fucking doing anything about it, and continuing to wallow and bang on to all and sundry about how you need to do something ... and you know, not actually doing anything.

According to Mish Bridges' BMR calculator, my body burns around the 1643 mark each day based on my height, weight and age.

Based on my weight, height and age, My Fitness Pal tells me that I can consume 1500kj each day and lose around a kilo per week.

1500/day -
1643/day
_______
= -153 calorie deficit/day

Given the fact that I'm still feeding Abi 6-7 times a day, I'm hesitant to shave that number down.

So, this is my new norm. Bring it.

Do you know what the real kicker for me is though? I took a few photos to document my body as it looks today.

Besides the initial shock that I am boasting some back cleavage there, it's not as bad as I envision it in my head. So why do I feel much heavier and unattractive? Hmm. That seems to be a complete (and trickier) kettle of fish altogether.

P.S: You know I love comments and all that shiz, but please don't with the "But you look good" comments. I don't mean to sound like an asshole, and I know you say it with the absolute of best intentions but I'm not sharing this sorta stuff for validation or compliments. More I'm musing outloud ... and maybe trying to convince myself to stick it out and keep digging xx

Inspiration is low so here are a few photos of Justin Bieber. If you find them attractive, we can't be friends anymore ok?

noreply@blogger.com (Good Golly Miss Holly!) — Fri, 08 Mar 2013 22:59:00 +0000

I don't know about you, but all the stupid in the world is making my head hurt at the moment.

Politics, protests, shitty celebrities, chocolate that makes you fat, having to hand express into a plastic beer cup in a damp, dingy staff room last night. It's all doing my head in, and meh mojo has gone AWOL. Cue the playing of the world's smallest violin here.

In any case, to lighten the mood here is a few photos of Justin Bieber without his shirt to make you laugh ... then despair for the stupidity of the next generation. Note, if you find these in any way arousing then we can no longer be friends ok? OK!

Good lord, with all that money you'd think the little douchecanoe could afford himself a shirt!

And just in case your retinas are burning from that piss weak excuse for raw sexuality, here is a shot of how running around half nekkid is supposed to look:

You're welcome x

One of those posts where I unleash my daddy issues onto the internet.

noreply@blogger.com (Good Golly Miss Holly!) — Wed, 06 Mar 2013 06:45:00 +0000

At 15 odd years of pretending that I don't have a father, there's been a shift. There's been a few occasions where I've found myself wondering what he was like as a person. You know, when he was sober. If he were alive, where would he be now?

I still remember some things about him like broad shoulders, a comforting hug, his voice. A sleepover here, a visit to my Nan and Pop's there. The rest of the memories are pretty fucked up. It's kind of hard to remember things from back when you were 5 or 6, and the bad ones always remain sharper than the good.

But still, I am by nature, half of him. Blessed to be 100% of my Mum, by nurture.

Today, my cousin made a comment on a photo of Abi that she could see a resembalnce to my Dad. And my heart skipped a beat. In a nice way. A little part of him, living on the grandbabies he never met, from the daughter that he hardly knew. A happier kind of ending, right?

The problem is though, I have to hold him the bad guy in my mind. I have to. Because if I don't, I leave myself open. Too fucking raw for my liking.

If I could have one more conversation with him, I wonder how it would play out.

So. Many. Questions.

Didn't you love us, or even yourself enough to want to change?

Why didn't you treat Mum the way she deserved?

Did you think about us at all before you died?

Did you see me that day in Liverpool? I saw you. It was the last time I saw you too, maybe a year before you died. My heart began to pound, and I felt sick. Did you see me put my head down, and quickly walk in the other direction? I'll always feel guilty for that, though damned if I would have been able to say anything to you. Or even pretend I could handle being in your presence without being blinded by anxiety.

If there's an afterlife, are you looking down to see me flinch as I stumble out the words "My dad" in casual conversation, two words that feel foreign coming from my lips.

And then the sadness swells to anger.

A girl needs her Dad, where the fuck were you?

I have children of my own now. I understand the enormity of the love a parent feels. That beer, that syringe, that anger, HOW COULD YOU HAVE NOT WANTED TO CHANGE?

My mind, it goes in circles while I try to understand. But I can't. It's so conflicting to despise someone so much yet feel some sort of affection toward them. I've felt that way about you for as long as I can remember. It confuses me. Kids aren't meant to feel like that about a parent.

Hey Dad, one more thing - Fuck you for bowing out and leaving me with a lifetime of questions I'll never get the answers to. Didn't you realise there aren't always second chances? Was it worth it?

There is no fanfare or streamers or titty flashing celebrations when you return to uni.

noreply@blogger.com (Good Golly Miss Holly!) — Tue, 05 Mar 2013 03:47:00 +0000

Today marks one week since my return to hitting the books, and hit them hard I have. Like as hard as I hit a block of chocolate after a week of eating clean (which I still can't master, but continue eating the chocolate anyway). Except the former is wayyy more stressful and not as endorphine inducing as the latter.

There's no fanfare or streamers or titty flashing celebrations (maybe flashed out after Mardi Gras?) when you go, or return to uni. None. The lecturers do not care about your struggles, your lack of sleep, or the fact that you are having social media withdraws after sitting through a two hour lecture. Instead, they sharply remind you that it is not their responsibility to baby you and you need put your head out of A and get to it. As awful as that may sound, it's refreshing - and beneficial for someone like me, who would routinely use excuses such as "The dog ate my homework" if I thought it would be get out of watching a snoretastic powerpoint presentation on the biological motherfucking processes of the plasma membrabe. Did I say snore? Zzzzzzzzzzzz.

It's not all twenty letter words and periodic tables though. It can kinda be fun too. For example, I got to have a conversation with Mrs Springer today.

Mrs Springer sounds an awful lot like my middle aged male lecturer but hey, whatevs. I resisted the urge to ask her if she was related to Jerry, and after making her confirm her name and DOB, informed her that I would be back later to check her daily obs. I gave her a reassuring pat on the hand afterwards and the bitch didn't acknowledge my presence. People these days ...

My lecturer promises me that by third year, I will be ridiculously comfortable with conversing with mannequins. I informed him that I have a kindy kid and a preschooler, and conversing with both is exactly like conversing with a mannequin. You know, because you all have their ears painted on and don't acknowledge a damn thing you say. Am I right, or am I right?

Apart from having to heavily rely on Ryan and my Mum on juggling school drop off/pick ups and the ensuing mundane that follows, I am really enjoying being back. I'm going the part time load I was doing prior to Abi's surprise (and therefore immaculate) conception, and even though it's going to take me 72904783 years until I'm finito, I'm ok with knowing I am one step closer to catching dem babies.

... And that's a big thing for me because Abi is 8 months old now, and I need some newborn goodness in my arms, STAT!

Children should be seen and not heard. At least when in Dee Why.

noreply@blogger.com (Good Golly Miss Holly!) — Wed, 20 Feb 2013 06:26:00 +0000

Oh Dee Why Grand, can I just start with a big eye roll, and a shake of my head. In belief. At you.

Children should be seen, and not heard? Bitch, please.

For those of you playing along at home who don't know, Dee Why Grand is a shopping centre in an upper class Sydney suburb who now proudly boasts this sign;

Seriously?

Can I just say that I can not stand screamy, run amok children, really I can't ... BUT SERIOUSLY?

I am the Mum walking to school in the morning who is continually calling out her daughter's name because she is running off ahead of us. Maybe seven out of ten times she listens. There are three times that she does not. When we go out to dinner, both my big kids behave then we hit a point where they get over it, and began to fuss. That's usually our queue to leave, but if i'm only half way through my meal? Yeah, they can wait five.

And while we're on the subject, I feel like I need to include that my kids don't run and fuss and have 'moments' because they're bastards, nor because I'm some half-assed push over ... but because there are children. You know, noise and dirt and laughter and boundless energy?

And whatever happened to our village? Remember, the one to help raise a child. The village has gone in the way of folk becoming so blind sighted by their own needs that they seem to forget that kids are well, kids. As opposed to little robots who follow all direction, all day. Must be robots because I sure as hell have not come across a child to do the same!

That said, I am all for consideration of others. When I'm at the shops, I clear my rubbish off the table, apologise if I bump into someone, put my trolley back in the bay, so on and so forth, but this is just ridiculous.

But while we're talking about consideration of other shoppers, I'd be interested to know will the same expectations extend to:

- School kids, hanging out and trying to notch up street cred by dropping f-bombs and c-bombs?

- Smokers, who hang out by the doors of the shopping centre, blowing smoke in the direction of
anyone walking in or out?

- Shoppers who use the public toilets, and leave skidmarks or drops of wee on the seat?

- Bogans, who walk around with their ass cracks hanging out?

- People who park in seniors or parents with prams parking, who are neither aged or using a pram?

- Lazy-ass folks who can not be assed walking the 10 steps to the trolley bay, instead opting to
leave their trolleys in between spots?

No?

But why not?

Why are petulant, self centered cries of "I just want to drink my tea in peace!" more important?

I agree that some parents really could stand to reign their kids in a little but to target every parent of every child who steps foot in your food court? How are you encouraging a culture of tolerance by doing this?

Put your head out of your asses, stat!

School life is like thug life, but cuter. And more embarrassing because your Mum drops you off at the door.

noreply@blogger.com (Good Golly Miss Holly!) — Tue, 19 Feb 2013 06:41:00 +0000

I'll save you the whole dramatic hand to forehead, Hallmark inspired spiel about "Oh how quick they grow", so on and so forth.

I promise.

But guys, my biggest baby, my Amelia has started kindergarten.

Even though I swear it was only weeks ago that I brought a screamy little bundle of Wondersuit home, we are here and now officially a school mum and student duo!

It is a day that has been HIGHLY anticipated in this household. Amelia, for entertainment and big girl reasons. Me, for sanity reasons lest I survive another day of her picking a fight with Oscar for something as simple as, oh I don't know BREATHING!,

To me, sending your babe to 'big school' is the first time that you as a parent are sending them out into the 'big world'. She was ready, without a shadow of a doubt but still, in the lead up I was feeling those twinges of nerves about leaving her. I know she's been in preschool but SHUT UP, this is different! There's something so grown up about primary school, ok?

... I don't know why I even entertained the idea of being nervous.

That child took to school like a fish to water. No tears, no "Mummy stay with me", nothing. When I asked her for a kiss goodbye, she gave me the stink eye (read: OH MOM, QUIT EMBARRASSING ME!) and offered up a cheek to me. Thug life right there!

In the afternoon, I may have heard a "Can you come get me later?" among the buzz of home time and scuffle of little feet. And on the way out the door, Oscar showed her how much he missed her by picking a fight with over. Naturally. It's fast become an afternoon ritual to have at least one fight before we get outside the school gates. Awesomeeee.

The second day, she handed her backpack for me to carry home for her. I promptly swung it over my shoulder and off we set home. Mum later told me that she pointed out to Amelia that I was wearing her bag and displaying an outstanding display of "I am too cool for school" 'tude, rolled her eyes and sighed "Oh. My. God. It's like she goes to school here!" My chances of being the cool mum? Yeah, slim to none.

We are now into week three, and the thrill has not yet worn off. I am still greeted at 3pm with a look of well ... not disappointment, but I guess a tinge of sadness that another school day is over. Bless her cotton socks! I'd take bets on how long until that wears off but I kind of like the idea that she'll continue loving school and learning until she finishes up in 12 or so years time. Am I dreaming?

.... Wait, don't answer that!

My name is Holly, and I have a problem with food.

noreply@blogger.com (Good Golly Miss Holly!) — Mon, 18 Feb 2013 01:43:00 +0000

My name is Holly, and I have a problem with food.

Often I crack jokes about eating my feelings. Poke fun at it, and what not. You know the whole chubby girl superstar, what you gon' do with all that junk all that junk inside that trunk, love me some food shebang.

But I am a compulsive eater, and it is a problem. A problem that is really hard to keep under wraps as it becomes harder and harder to keep the chub under wraps!

That facade that I'm ok with it all is so much easier than it is to say that I'm not. Maybe because admitting I'm not means that I have to do something about it, and that very thought overwhelms the living hell out of me.

During my teenage years, I remember feeling chubby. A job at McDonalds enabled me to eat terribly, and a volatile relationship allowed me to sought comfort in food. From about 15, my weight steadily climbed and I stepped onto the rollercoaster without even realising.

Around my 18th birthday, I began to ditch the food for alcohol among other things. I stopped eating dinner, and would do my 40 hour working week running on coffee, cigarettes, chewing gum, and Salt N Vinegar chips from the downstairs vending machine. Not surprisingly, I steadily lost weight, going from 75kg to 49kg. I looked like a chuppa chup.

Just prior to falling pregnant with Amelia, I was back up to a healthier 54kg, and you know, actually eating. By the time I gave birth to her 39 weeks later, I was 65kg. It all kind of fell apart from there on in. During Amelia's first year, I had gained nearly 20kg. Seriously. Underneath a thick fog of PND, I binged on take away, chocolate and coke while maintaining my unholy love for all things carby like pasta and rice. Crying baby? No worries, here's some chocolate. 3am and a baby that won't sleep? Cool, I'll just inhale this whole mud cake. Stressed about money? Awesome, there's a whole packet of Tim Tams in the cupboard.

During my pregnancy with Oscar, I lost about 10kg. I had no morning sickness, so I've just kind of concluded that bakin' a babeh is a wonderful way for my body to burn off the calories I inhale. After all 9lb 6oz of him was born, I promised myself that I would not regain that weight. I mean, I knew the signs. If you know the signs and what to look out for then surely you wouldn't go there again, right? Ha. Reflux baby? Terrible twos? Oh honey, I didn't have time to make dinner. Can you get Maccas on the way home? Hello 83kg, my old friend.

Documented on this blog, I lost 11kg in 2010. I think that got me down to about 73kg. I worked hard, and I ate well. I was enormously proud of my efforts but thinking back, there was always this voice inside my head saying "But you weighed this after you gave birth to Oscar. It's not enough." It was never enough. With that kind of defeating attitude, it'd come to you as no surprise that I soon found myself seeking solace in food once more - and regained every kilo I lost.

While I was pregnant with Abi last year, I lost weight once more and after she was born, I had hit the 69kg mark for the first time in years. "Don't undo the work, Holly. Do not fuck this up. Don't be that same fat, helpless person you try to run from. Don't do it" seemed to be the hardass mantra I'd adopted. It didn't work. I fell back into the same habits as before and now at seven months post partum, I am back up to 81kg.

I eat to feel happy. I eat to combat stress. I eat out of boredom. That buzz you feel afterwards though, it's fleeting. And while the comedown isn't like a comedown from an opiate or something, the flurry of negative thoughts and feelings that ensue are ... well, they're just 23903 shades of fucked up. I can not describe to you the feeling of watching the number on the scale rise each month, while thinking I will stop this shit. For 11 years now, I have either been putting on or losing weight. The self loathing is exhausting. The guilt is exhausting. The whole fucking cycle is exhausting.

And the accompanying pity party? Ick.

I know it's not right to seek that comfort from food. I know it's not healthy to binge eat. I know self esteem should not be reliant on a number. It's just that do not know any other way, and I am yet to find a place where to start.

So, I continue to eat.

Dear media, we don't need a perfect pregnant poster girl and if we did, it wouldn't be a Kardashian.

noreply@blogger.com (Good Golly Miss Holly!) — Wed, 13 Feb 2013 23:49:00 +0000

My waiting in line at the Woolie's checkout trashy magazine time (that is so a correct term right there) a few weeks back educated me on the going ons of Kim Kardashian's uterus. I may have been the last person in the world to not be up to date with any of the Kardash shenanigans?

So she's having a baby, and by the way the media is carrying on, you would think she was like THE FIRST WOMAN EVAH to get herself knocked up. I mean, wasn't Beyonce's baby the second coming anyway? Whatever.

Now, I love me a preggy belly, and despite the fact that I don't care much for Kimmy, I will still ogle that belleh and listen with interest if she ever talks about her bithing experience, motherhood, etc. Hey, pregnancy and motherhood are kinda my thing hence the career plan in midwifery.

But really, I draw the line at the constant headlines.

A quick google of 'Kim Kardashian pregnant' delivers a spate of online articles, including fears for diet because she's pictured here buying two frozen yoghurts. You know, never the mind the fact that Kanye's standing next to her in the next picture, they must be both for her. Diabetes and weight gain and obesity OH MY. Snort.

and the conclusion that she must be oh my god TERRIFIED of even looking remotely pregnant because she's been spotted at the gym a few times. Never mind the importance of regular exercise for anyone, famous or not.

What the actual fuck?

I know she's famous, I know she's 'public property', I know we live in a super creepy voyeuristic society, I know there's nothing more important in the world than celebrities (gag), but what the actual fuck?

What kind of half wit audiences are these magazines catering to?

WHO CARES?

Us mere mortals do not need a perfect poster girl for pregnancy, so let the damn girl enjoy her pregnancy, and her expanding goodies. And her double serving of frozen yoghurt. Ok? Ok!

The thing about blogging is, like the perkiness of my baps, it doesn't last forever.

noreply@blogger.com (Good Golly Miss Holly!) — Mon, 11 Feb 2013 10:57:00 +0000

The thing about blogging is, like the perkiness of my baps, it doesn't last forever. A blog will run its course, and the writer will move on with life. Forgive me for being dramatic, but I'm pretty much on the crux here - Stay or go.

As a person, I'm either really into something or I'm really not. Pretty sure that is evident with the fact that I go a few months where I blog religiously about all and sundry then suddenly, posts are far, few and between as inspiration runs dry. Like right now. Ahem.

Some days, I feel like it'd be nice to bid adieu. Over three years, I've had a fab run and an amazing audience. I don't want to push it. Witnessing a blogger continue to blog once the desire and the spark has gone isn't pretty. Insert saying about dead horses and flogging here. Do not put me down for that, ploise.

Other days, I feel incredibly sad at the mere thought of no longer being a blogger. I'll skip the part where I wax lyrical about this being my home away from home and oh my god community and brain dumpage and cyber hugs, but in all seriousness, blogging has been this 'safe' hobby for me for these past three years. Where would I be without a blog? Where shall I go? What shall I do? If you get all Rhett Butler on me right now, I'll kick you in the shins!

These past 12 months, we have seen the Australian blogging community EXPLODE with new blogs, fresh faces, and unbound enthusiasm. I feel a bit green eyed. And much like an old mate, looking on and wistfully remembering back the days where I thought "Oh I MUST blog that" about ... well, pretty much everything. How did that bursting-at-the-seam, holy shitballs excitement get away from me? Will it ever return?

The fact that I can't bring myself to let go of this space though tells me that perhaps my days of oversharing on the internet is not done and dusted. Right now though, it's probably going to continue being quiet-ish here. I'm sure the black dog is playing a lead role in this, but I'm just not seeing much joy in blogging the shit out of the mundane. You'll see me pop up again though. Like a bad smell, I will be lingering.

image from here

Nice, huh?

x

Oh my Abi, I missed a month and now you're 7 months!

noreply@blogger.com (Good Golly Miss Holly!) — Tue, 05 Feb 2013 10:14:00 +0000

Oh my Abi, new years day marked six months since you were born.

6 months? Did you see that coming? I did, and I denied it was even happening.

Mummy sat down to write this just under a month ago, and got sidetracked. By life, really. Our house, well you know better than most, that it never stops in our house. Am I right, or am I right baby girl?

Today, it is the eve of your 7th month birthday - and I am again in denial.

You are still happily breastfeeding. You smashed that 6 month mark, not having a drop of formula (the first babe of ours to do so) - Something I'm so very proud of. Oh Mom, you say, have we got the boob talk out of the way? For now, my child, for now.

You are crawling. Dragging yourself, army style, with painstaking determination across the floor every day. Like a turtle, slow and steady. When you can't bring yourself to move anymore, you lay on the spot, kicking your legs wildly behind you and your arms out in front. You're actually doing it right now as I type this, and it looks a lot like you're trying to surf! Heaven help your brother and sister now if they leave any toy of theirs on the floor, you slide straight up to it and claim it as your own. Amelia and Oscar can't quite believe it still, and I have the feeling that you aren't going to be one to take the "Hey, Abi. No! That's my toy" one liners without biting back. Uh oh.

I am convinced more than ever that you are aware of your dad missing out on your milestones while he is at work too - You waited until he got home before you first dragged yourself across our bed. You rolled over for the first time when he was in the room (and I wasn't), and you saved those first few light-up-the-room smiles just for him. You might be all about the ~~milkbar~~ Mama, but you are a Daddy's girl at heart. With Daddy taking time out to look after your big sis and bro when you were a newbie, it warms my heart to see you two forging a special little bond. By the time you read back over these entries, your Dad's 'fro will be long gone but I doubt he will ever forget your little nightly habit of curling his curls with your fingers. Seriously, you have always had him wrapped around your finger!

You have inherited your mother's love of food. The first time you spotted that pumpkin spoon en route to your mouth, you instantly opened your mouth! An absolute natural - You love your pumpkin, sweet potato, apple and pear. We've slowly started letting you feed yourself bits and pieces, taking a shine to watermelon and toast. Just the other night, you threw an epic tantrum because you wanted some of my green curry and well, there was just no freaking way! Did I mention how much you love food? Yeah, you let it be known your displeasure at ANYONE eating in front of you. If you're not watching the food to mouth, licking yours lips and mimicking them eat, you're moving in for the kill and trying to snatch the food from their hands! So much for the stealing candy from a baby theory, huh? Ain't no one ever gonna steal food from you, me thinks.

Sleep, well, you're not really fussed on it when the sun is up, but we have our own groove happening. A 20 minutes here, 40 minutes there. Meh. I figure you'll probably combine all that together when you're bigger and until then, I'll happily settle for what I can get!

You had your very first little play date the other week too. With Mason, who is about 7 weeks older than you. Even though you were hardly aware of one another unless there were rusks involved, there were a few moments where you two locked gazes and grinned at each other. Intentional or not, my heart melted!

Yeah, did I mention that you are seven freaking months? Already. Feels like yesterday. Oy.

And so, we have begun the downhill ride to your first birthday and I am insistent as ever on enjoying every moment of your babyhood. Except, you know, when you clamp down on my nipple and turn your head. That shit is whack, and most definitely PAINFUL!

Yo.

noreply@blogger.com (Good Golly Miss Holly!) — Thu, 31 Jan 2013 04:53:00 +0000

Yo bro,

I'm still here. I haven't forgotten about you! Everything's fine, I'm fine. Just lost that blogging vibe again is all, and am keeping busy with the babes and work and Ryan home on holidays. Oh, and I'm on a Facebook holiday too. Lets call it a social media detox, yeah? Except, you know, I still play a bit on Instagram and Pinterest. Mmm hmm. I'm sure I'll be back again soon.

Until then ...

Peace x

Oh so it's ok for you to wear denim undies and flash your gunt in public, but I need to be discreet when I breastfeed my baby? Righto then.

noreply@blogger.com (Good Golly Miss Holly!) — Fri, 18 Jan 2013 05:41:00 +0000

Hey Bribie Island Pools and Kochie and all you other uptight wallies out there,

Well done for managing to piss off thousands of women across Australia this week for your outdated and blantantly fucking ignorant attitude towards breastfeeding.

I'm not quite sure exactly why in 2013, anyone anywhere is taking offence to seeing a mother breastfeeding her baby? Or why people feel the need to throw words like "private" and "discreet" around when discussing anyone's eating habits? Especially since Australian mothers have the legal right to breastfeed without discrimination (ie: wherever, whenever) under the Sex Discrimination Act, 2002. Whatever.

Like practically every mother in the world, my number one priority is my children. When they are hungry, I feed them. It's my job. Not hard to fathom, right?

That aside, I was raised to be a courteous person, and I am conscious of those around me. You may not care to see a flash of my breast, or see my baby nursing. I accept, and respect that by taking measures to ensure my boob isn't hanging out, or that I'm not spraying breast milk around. In return, I expect you to be courteous of the fact that my baby is hungry, and that she has a right to be fed on her terms, and not yours.

But since we're on the topic of being discreet and modest and all that, I just need to reinforce that while girls walk around EVERYWHERE in outfits like these:

While folks go to the beach and do this:

While people continue to bend over and flash these ones:

and while society continues to worship the likes of people like these:

I'm going to keep doing this wherever and whenever my baby needs:

Because at least when I flash a bit of flesh, it's not intentional and it's done for a damn good reason.

Signed,

A breastfeeding mother.

I can't even think of a title for this miserable whinge.

noreply@blogger.com (Good Golly Miss Holly!) — Wed, 16 Jan 2013 12:48:00 +0000

I have read over this post at least five times now, each time hating myself more than the last. I sound so ... whingy. Maybe the internet isn't the place for this sort of toxic projectile word vomit, but I'm going to put it out there anyway - Let it be a testament to the effects of negative thinking, and destructive thoughts. Let me come back to it when I'm feeling better, and just take some comfort in the fact that I am no longer in this shitty, dark frame of mind.

If you're looking for something eloquent or even remotely meaningful, this is not the post for you. I apologise in advance.

* * * * * * * * * *

I've spent most of the night rehearsing blog posts in my head. In the shower. Laying in the bed, trying to coax Abi to sleep. While doing the dishes. The urge to write and just projectile all my thoughts out has been prodding at me all night, and yet now that I've sat down, I am drawing a blank. So brace yourself for a word dump instead, a nonsensical word dump of whiny proportions.

It's 11:23pm, and I am tired. Physically, mentally, and emotionally tired. Go to sleep, Holly? Not for a while yet, my body clock is way out of whack. It's cool mind, it's not like I enjoy going to bed before midnight or anything.

I am tired of being tired, lethargic, unmotivated.

I am tired of comfort eating. Hand to fucking mouth, constantly. How do normal people deal with stress and anxiety? Everything I've read about comfort eating insists on infusing mindfulness into your days, but I guess I need to come down from 200km/hr to be able to get the point where I actually stop and think before doing. Not sure how I can be going 200km/hr when I feel so lethargic, but meh.

I am tired of feeling like shit, and looking like shit. My hair is falling out, and my bras are too small. I am still wearing my maternity shorts, and I am hovering around my heaviest, weight wise. Again.

I am tired of not getting any help in this house. I had the pleasure tonight of bathing children, bringing in the washing, washing up, making a bed with fresh linen, and feeding pets while tending to an irritable baby. If tending means either listening to her scream, or trying to go about business with her writhing in my arms. No doubt feeding off my uptight, toxic energy. There is this ridiculous, whingy little voice in my head that's complaining "When is someone going to sweep in and take over so I can just relax?" Yes yes, not constructive. But it's there.

I am tired of not being able to think straight. Concentration is at an all time low, and just the slightest increase in sound is hurting my head. Ryan is watching a movie right now, and the bass is making me feel all sorts of stabby. I can not even explain.

I am tired of my resistance to exercise. I know I will feel better afterwards, way better than what I would if I inhaled a block of chocolate so why, why, WHY am I resisting and offering up piss poor excuses to not do it?

I am tired of not yet being able to shake this sadness. It's all over me, heavy as all fuck. I just want it gone. I'd like to stand somewhere and scream at the top of my lungs but I'm not sure why or what for.

Do you know what, world? Today, I have not been ok. Tonight, the same. I'm not even up for parting terms with some semi-inspirational line here about tomorrow being a fresh start.

Good night x

The conundrum of the mummy blogger.

noreply@blogger.com (Good Golly Miss Holly!) — Mon, 14 Jan 2013 00:46:00 +0000

Good Golly Miss Holly has been my internet digs since October 2009.

Amongst a myriad of cheek and rants and opinions, the most important events in our lives have been recorded here. Something to refer back to when the memories fade with age, for my kids to look over their early years, a reminder of just how loved they've always been.

I know a lot of people believe that 'mummy blogging' is exploitation, and child abuse. I think that is on the hysterical, back of the hand to the forehead, ''WON'T SOMEBODY PLEASE THINK OF THE CHILDREN!" end of the scale. Our society is fast going the way of living out our lives via social media. Naturally, this is going to shape modern motherhood. I am not saying this is good, I am not saying this is bad. What I am saying is that while perhaps some bloggers air a bit too much detail across the web, I think these critics are extraordinarily quick to forget that most parents take the responsibility of protecting their children seriously. Making the assumption that because I speak about my babies publically, I am whoring them out for clicks or do not care about their safety is like me making the assumption that you are a self-righteous asshole because you have a difference of opinion. Ignorant and pretty unfair, right?

But I acknowledge that fact that my babies aren't always going to my babies, and everyday are growing into their own person. Not that they aren't already their own person, but you know what I mean. Amelia is five, and heading to kindergarten in a few weeks. The challenges she's going to soon face will be so much more than "Oh my god Mum, Oscar keeps taking the remote off me!" Do I have a right to mull these challenges over here? I make an effort to not write anything ehre that I wouldn't say in real life but still, would she be mortified later on if I did?

I have always been pretty peachy being labelled a 'mummy blogger'. For as much as I struggle with it some days, motherhood is me. I don't find pleasure in talking about cooking or fashion or beauty, I find pleasure in talking about my babies. The conundrum of this mummy blogger is that while I am at home with three small children, so much of my voice is about them. How could it not be? Most of what I do each day is about them. This blog of mine has given me a space to breathe, a voice, but where do I draw the line? At what point does it go from sharing my voice to oversharing theirs?

An conundrum indeed. One that I am fairly certain there is no one, simple answer to.

Just keep swimming.

noreply@blogger.com (Good Golly Miss Holly!) — Wed, 09 Jan 2013 00:35:00 +0000

I can't quite pin point when things started to spiral down.

My doctor used to tell me that there's usually an event or a happening that opens the floodgates, but this hasn't really been the case for me these past few years. It just builds and builds, then suddenly you realise that it's all but taken over - and you're left wondering how the fuck you've found yourself here again.

I suppose it's not really important now that I'm in the thick of it.

I truly thought I'd escaped the darkness with Abi. Her birth was everything I'd hoped for, and my Instagram feed has been nothing but a testament to the absolute and utter bliss she brings. I felt like I had eased into navigating life with three well - My big two are bright and energetic little buggers who, save for the usual sibling rivalry and preschool know-it-all-ism, are pretty decently behaved. I mean, wouldn't my children show signs if I were suffering mentally? I kind of held onto that hope, a veil shrouding the goddamn truth. You don't have to face it if you don't know it's there.

These past few days, I have noticed how much yelling I've been doing. How incredibly sensitive I am to loud noise, too sensitive for a mother of preschoolers and a baby. How hard I'm finding it to fall asleep each night, and of course, how much weight I've have gained in the six months since Abi's birth (hello comfort eating).

I've been yearning to run and hide somewhere where it's dark and quiet, but the rational voice inside berates me for even thinking the thought. Not a realistic want or need.

It's all kind of clicked into place - Things aren't ok, I'm not ok.

So here I go again, just keep swimming x

Would you be embarrassed if your grandmother was running around on the internet, calling people hoes?

noreply@blogger.com (Good Golly Miss Holly!) — Sat, 05 Jan 2013 22:25:00 +0000

Yesterday I was lamenting about what on Earth to blog on. Inspiration was pretty dry, and short of writing about housework (of which I seem to constantly be doing lately. Ugh), the only action around here was going to be a few awkward tumbleweeds blowing through.

Then when all hope was lost, this little tidbit appeared in my Facebook. A gift from above. A shiny beacon of hope from the blogging gods. And just like that, the ole bloggy fires began to burn!

Kris Jenner, I am going to take that seat and thump you with it. You know, to hopefully knock a bit of sense into your entitled bitchass!

I don't care if your daughter is pregnant.

Believe it or not, there are many of us in the world that do not care.

But what I can't believe is your efforts on social media!

First off, your English is TERRIBLE. The fact that Kanye West is your son in law doesn't give you street cred, so y'all best be puttin' a stop to the talking like some gangbanger.

Secondly, calling 16 year old girls hoes? To defend your grown daughter? The one whose sex tape brought her fame. The one who was married a whole 72 days. Yeah, if the haters haven't made Kim retire from the limelight yet then I highly doubt they're going to be able to now.

And lets be honest here, wouldn't you be embarrassed if your grandmother was running around on the internet, calling people hoes and talking about baby daddies? I would. I think a lot of people would. Take note, woman!

You stay classy now Kris - Maybe keep away from the social media, and try not to pimp your latest grandbaby's birth and all that out to the highest bidder.

... while the rest of us mere mortals sit and wait ever so impatiently for this obsession with famous for being famous to grow old. Ugh.

P.S: At least 48 000 people liked that status. What the actual fuck? Are they all 12 year olds, or are we just living in a world full of dodos? Oh LORD.

Edited to add: Kim just did a bit of sleuthing and it turns out that this status is from a fan page, and not from Mama Famechaser herself. Eeeep! Kind of more concerning that a complete stranger is *that* invested in the shenanigans of Kim K's uterus. Oh lordy. This kinda just reaffirms my belief that this good for nothin', celeb-lovin' culture needs to go jump.

Still Kris, take me up on that not pimping out your grandbaby advice though, ok?

Not a business, not a brand. Just a blog.

noreply@blogger.com (Good Golly Miss Holly!) — Wed, 02 Jan 2013 21:36:00 +0000

I sat down the other night to see if I could think of any goals/plans for Good Golly Miss Holly come 2013. Nup, not interested. Instead I scrawled this onto a piece of paper:

Not a business, not a brand. Just a blog.

I may have then drew a penis. Jonah Takalua stylez.

image from here

But no more dick talk today ...

For a long time now, I've found myself seduced by the idea of monetisation. Sponsored posts and advertising and free stuff. You have to admit, it is a nice idea but one that isn't that successful for most of us unless you play with the one-size-fits-all blog advertising agencies, or are ok with spruiking the same product as ten or so of your peeps.

I've done a few sponsored posts before, a couple of reviews, and unless there is some fantastic giveaway attached, I kind of feel like I've sold my soul when I hit the publish button. You know, like when Homer sells his soul for a donut, and the Devil Flanders get all excited? I feel like I've sold my soul for some cleaning products and a few dollars.

Watching the whole GOMI hater debacle play out, I've realised I'm not ok with whoring myself out just for the sake of it. I don't feel like I can back it up against the haters if I'm not 100% on the product, and yet the lure of money has won me over each time. I'm not going to say that the shop is shut forever on the monetisation front, but I will promise you that you won't be reading much of it and on the rare occasion that you do, it'll be fully disclosed (as always) and worth the read.

So, in 2013, Good Golly Miss Holly will not be a business, it will not be a brand. It'll be a blog, penned by someone who is not a writer or a PR machine, but a blogger.

Why am I telling you this? Because whether I have ten reader, or a thousand, you guys matter. I may blog for me, as my hobby, but having you guys visit is a pretty big deal for me. I want you to know where we stand, aiiiight?

What says you, Madam Reader? Any thoughts on the matter?
x

Screw flight and fancy, 2013 is teh year of simple!

noreply@blogger.com (Good Golly Miss Holly!) — Tue, 01 Jan 2013 22:44:00 +0000

There's something so whimsical and hopeful about January 1st, and each year I find myself writing the same shit about clean slates and resolutions and new beginnings ... Only for it all to fall by the wayside within a month or so, and I'm left feeling muchos wanker with egg on my face. Not good for old mate self esteem.

2013 is going to be a big year around here - Ryan's 30, Meely's starting kindy, Oscar starting back at preschool, Abi turning one, and of course, there's the notion of me juggling uni, working and home life, lurking around in the background. I can forsee a year of noise and chaos.

So instead of resolutions of flight and fancy, I'm making 2013 the year of simple.

Happy and healthy isn't just for Harold: I have now gained the 10kg I lost when I was pregnant with Abi. I weigh 80kg, and I am fucking miserable. It's not so much the number on the scale as it is what that represents - Six months of shitty (usually comfort) eating, and a lack of exercise, peppered with the every so often half-assed resolution to make a change. What the fuck?

Gettin' paper: Our household income isn't that crash hot, but we do it better than some families. 2013 needs to be the year that we fully appreciate this fact, and make some wise decisions with our money. To think, a few years ago our income was a good $20k more, and we thought we were broke then :| I cringe at our ignorance and perhaps a re-evaulation of what we do have instead of what we don't have is in order?

Family ties: Motherhood all fabulous, all the time? SHUT THE FRONT DOOR! That said, there is certainly no harm in focusing on enjoying our kids more. I don't necessarily mean looking for the positive when A & O are launching into their third brawl by 8am, because that shiz is just whack. No, I mean a focus on making memories. Movie nights, sleepovers, the beach, fishing, going for drives to the country - Stuff that I remember from my own childhood, that still makes me smile 15-20 years later!

LMFAO: Pretty self explainatory, right? There's never a shortage of laughter in this house, but making sure it stays that way is pretty important. What's the world without laughter anyway?

The unorganised housewife strikes back: I am the kind of person who adores the idea of being organised, yet fails miserably at implementing it. In fact, the only thing that I manage in the organisation department is meal planning but with uni and Meely being at school, I need to get mah shit together - and fast.

2013? You can do this ...

image from here.

Insert clever title here to disguise the fact that this is an obligatory end of year wrap up post for 2012.

noreply@blogger.com (Good Golly Miss Holly!) — Wed, 26 Dec 2012 23:26:00 +0000

Pretty keen to finish this year off on a high. Not high like ... Snoop Dogg. Or is it Snoop Lion? Snoop Pussy? I DON'T KNOW! In any case, I mean high like this:

And I'ma try to stop rambling right ..... now.

2012 has been an amazing cluster of happiness, heartbreak, laughter, tears ... and fart jokes, because poo and farts are just so funny when you're three and five. Eeeep.

At the risk of sounding like a smug son of a bitch, I am going to take stock and focus on the positives the year has brought.

- Another year done and dusted, with my love. Can I just tell you that we are COMPLETE opposites, and yet despite that, we make it work. Sure, I want to kill him at least three times a week and I'm pretty sure he's going to sleep on the lounge tonight if I keep farting, but we're together and we're happy.

- Watching Amelia and Oscar continue to grow and blossom into these fabulous little humans. They drive me STARK RAVING MAD, RUN DOWN THE MOFO STREET CRAZY, but they also never fail to remind what life is all about - Laughter, pushing the limits, learning new stuff, eating only when you're hungry (ahem), and not being afraid to get dirty.

- Welcoming my sweet Abigail, with an amazing birth and a little being that just radiates this intoxicating calmness (Remind me of this when she is on the toddler warpath!)

- Deciding to head back to uni in the new year after taking 2012 off. Bachelor of Nursing, I'ma comin'! If anyone ever tells you that you need to leave your dreams behind in the birthing suites, DON'T LISTEN TO 'EM!

- Girlfriends. You don't have to boast 100 of them for you to be blessed. You just need ones that understand your Mean Girls quotes, won't bat an eyelid when you spray breastmilk on the floor, and share in your enthusiasm for LOL Cats. Even if you do have to hide your carrots and cucumbers from the vegan devil, who make use them as sex toys. Uh, what?

- Being able to share in welcoming Arlo and Evie back in November. It was so bitter sweet, but I will always be thankful that we were able to give them cuddles and tell them how much we loved them. These girls changed our worlds without even so much as taking a breath, and they will never be forgotten.

- Watching my big baby bubble over with excitement to start 'big school' next year. I'd always pictured myself as a mother who'd get all teary at the thought of lunch boxes and sports uniforms and school runs but now? How can I get teary over Meely's excitement?

- With special thanks to Pinterest, for keeping me company during those long, cold 3am feeds when Abi was a newbie. LOL Cats, Grumpy Cat and my god, half of the memes out there. There are some effing hilarious people out there!

- Same goes for SongPop. Can my Mum PLEASE stop kicking my ass at it now? Not cool.

- A reignited love for blogging. Some days, I try to entertain the idea of life without a blog. It doesn't compute. Computer says no. What would I do with all the thoughts that swirl about in mah head without a blog to word vom them onto? Where would I be without the awesome blogging community?

- Working through my pregnancy with Abi. The first time I've done that (because I am a ~~princess~~ motherfucking sook), and I tell you, it made maternity leave and swapping beer wenching for SAHM'ing that much more special. I think it was the first time that I truly appreciated the thought of a few days a week at home, not having to race here, there and everywhere.

On that note, I am on hiatus for a week or so to play with the squids, declutter my house and throw out all the shit foods that have crept back into my cupboards. Oh, and go to work on NYE. What the actual fuck?

Hope the final days of 2012 are good to y'all!

See you on the flipside. The flipside being 2013, just in case you didn't know. Eeeeep x