The Evolution of Romance

Recently my husband and I celebrated out ten year wedding anniversary. We decided to celebrate the occasion with a romantic weekend away. A simple fire on the river bed, champagne and a little vow renewal to reflect on the last ten years of married life together. We were after something meaningful, something simple….Just the five of us…..yes that’s right we decided to take our three small children, because, well, romance…right?

Dressed in some simple “renewal” outfits, the fire was raging and my husband and I started to reflect on everything that had led us to this moment. We cheers’ed our plastic cups of champagne (because no one with kids under five risks proper glassware) and we looked at each other. Look at everything we have……
And then Finn threw sand in Harry’s eye and Jack dropped his lolly pop and Harry cut his toe and Jack bit Finn on the arm and WAAAAAHHHHHH parenthood encroached on the romance……we set down our champagne and set about refereeing the tribe. Again. It made me think back to how our anniversaries have changed, and particularly how my definition of romance has disintegrated evolved over the last decade of marriage.

Typically, romance is defined as a feeling of mystery and excitement associated with love. And this is certainly true in the early years of love. In the beginning, romance is all about sexy lingerie and hot dates at fancy restaurants’ and also quite significantly about the element of surprise. I know this first hand, because I used to spend weeks, sometimes months preparing for an occasion like a birthday, trying to find meaningful presents to show my cherished soul mate just how well I knew him and how very thoughtful I was….. and now the words “soul mate” kinda make me retch a little in my own mouth. Anyway during this phase at my most “romantic” I booked an amazing weekend away in a little cabin with its own private pool, massage service and endless champagne. We also went to an intimate starlight jazz concert, picnicked under the stars AND gave each other gifts….Am I Kim Kardashian? No. We were just in the honeymoon phase.

As the years tumble by the excess and showiness of the honeymoon phase fades and romance transforms into a more reserved, thoughtfulness. This is a lovely stage where you and your partner are so comfortable and know each other so well that you celebrate in a more relaxed and casual way. Maybe it’s a quiet weekend away together; or maybe it’s a printed photo book reminiscing all your great times together so far; or a dinner somewhere with ambience, but tucked away. The celebrations at this stage are more about the warmth and getting your partner gifts that have sentimental meaning. The effort is there but the need for flashy has faded.

And then somewhere in there, the joy of having children starts and the idea of romance shifts again. Maybe, post baby, there is a date night here and there; or if you can’t venture out, perhaps it’s just some precious time alone on the couch with a glass of wine – half watching Netflix and half watching over your sleeping angel in awe of what you’ve both created, but also silently begging them not to wake (read: pausing Netflix to vigorously rock your night owl baby back to sleep every forty minutes). The romance bubble has expanded outside of the two of you. The photo book from before seems almost inconsequential.

As the children grow in numbers and the time married discreetly increases, your alone time as a couple dramatically decreases. Romance metamorphoses again, and again, until it’s something else entirely….something I like to call, camaraderie.

At ten years in and three children deep, I am well and truly into camaraderie stage. I fully acknowledge that lingerie has absolutely no place in my life…..unless of course I want to be four children deep imminently that is ☺. But it’s ok, because in the camaraderie stage, what I‘ve realised about myself is that what I now find romantic has also dramatically changed. Romance to me, right now is having someone to roll my eyes with when my three year old bursts into tears for the twenty third time that morning because his shoe is eating his sock.

And do you know what’s way more romantic than any elaborate flower delivery that has ever come my way? Having someone who hoses vomit off my sons mattress protector in the middle of the night, while I shower down the puker and put him back to bed. Hot right?

And if you really want to know what truly makes me go all swoony and girly, prepare yourself because it’s a total game closer. Ready? It’s when I go to unpack the dishwasher for the third time that day and find it’s already been done!!!! In the camaraderie stage there simply isn’t anything more romantic or swoon worthy than that!!

I suppose what I’m saying is that to me romance isn’t eating out at fancy restaurants and elaborate surprise gifts anymore. Right now what I truly believe is more romantic than anything is quite simply just having a trench mate. Having someone who knows me so well he can tell whether to bring wine or coffee just by the intonation of my text message.

These days romance is as simple as cherishing two hours on the lounge in your pyjamas holding hands, exhausted from the day that was, and appreciating just having alone time together.  Romance is having someone to weather the chaos with. And evidently romance IS spending my ten year wedding anniversary eating burnt sausages off the open fire (because I forgot the oil) and playing musical beds at night (not even once in the same bed as my husband) …….even if it is a far cry from the lavish anniversaries gone by. It’s just romance evolved.

I guess what I’ve realised is that romance isn’t always about obtaining the perfect moment together. More often than not it’s about enduring and laughing off the imperfect ones (like trying to steal kisses and say vows on the river bed even when you are surrounded by chaos and crying and someone is persistently trying to wipe snot on your dress).

Romance is being able to smile through the chaos and know in your heart that this “camaraderie stage” will actually serve you with the memories that will last a lifetime. Sure, there will always be different hurdles, but long after the last flower delivery has been forgotten, me (and you and your partners) will always remember the puke on the mattress and the time you worked together in the middle of the night to clean it off. Because lets face it, it’s these moments in the trenches that really shape us. And so while these days I acknowledge that I am very poor in the racy lingerie stakes, I know I am very rich in love, camaraderie and chaos. In fact I reckon I am practically a millionaire in chaos.

What is romance to you these days?

Desert Flower Smiles

I rode hell for leather to get there in time, my heart beating a million miles an hour, sweat beading on my upper lip, the work day forgotten in my haste and because, as always, I couldn’t wait to see you…..

You’d been begging me to ride bikes home from school for weeks and so despite it taking an extra forty five minutes in my day, I did it. Because like you said, it would be fun. And it was.

We rode side by side through the path so overcrowded wild flowers that they encroached on our wheels, forcing us to almost bump into each other over and over again. In full bloom, the colourful flowers made us shout out with delight every time we spotted a new colour, each and every little bloom, so dainty against the rugged, coarse desert terrain.

Ahead I saw the mother kangaroo and her baby bouncing across our path and as I looked over at you, just to make sure you could see what I could see, the sun shone on your face in a way that will remain etched in my mind forever.  Glowing, I watched your face break into a smile and sigh contentedly, both of us squinting into the light long after our bounding friends settled cautiously away from us in the shade, staring back at us.

The moment was perfect; one that you freeze frame in your mind to revisit later. Two happy hearts just gliding along in the flowers. The kangaroo and her baby, me and mine. You felt it too, you turned to me and said “I love you Mumma,” and I said “I love you too”.  We rode the rest of the way home in silence, both smiling over at each other. Just you and me and the wind in our face.

Twenty minutes later we were home, intently discussing  ice block rations with your two brothers with negotiations heightening over who should have what flavour. You’d already forgotten about the kangaroos and the wild flowers, but the feeling of the moment stayed with me.

It made me realise that every single day in life there’s a moment. A tiny shard of simplicity; pureness and beauty that makes the whole day breathe calmness. Today this was my moment, a moment that seeped into my consciousness and made me think about how very lucky I am.

Because, after all, it’s the little things that stay with us the longest.

What was your moment?

Motherhood and Ninja Love

Sometimes motherhood can feel like a one woman show. Even if you have a great husband and mostly beautiful (aka somewhat feral) children, it can still feel like you are expected to be this bottomless well of love, patience, knowledge and professional cleaning skills. Most of the time ‘the well’ is replenished with golden mummy moments; butterfly and eskimo kisses, secret hideouts that only mummy can enter, and laughter that sounds like sunshine; but other times you can get stuck in a thankless cycle of washing and folding and mopping and throwing away completely untouched dinners despite them being made to order. In these times it feels like you’re digging deep into the reserves of the well for little in return, because, just for clarification, enforced thank yous’ extracted with counting 1,2, 3 loudly, turned up noses and tantrums do not replenish ‘the well’.  

With four boys in my house (three mini, one maxi), I often feel like the only one who notices how much I am constantly giving from ‘the well’, is me (even though I am quite prone to loudly sharing my thankless domestic goddess status as I embark on yet another load of laundry). Sometimes when the well is getting really empty, I feel like I am the only one in the house who loves everyone fiercely and wholly because EVERYTHING I do is for them. Motherhood is so consuming like that.

Anyway the other day me and the munchkins went to pick my husband up from the airport, he’d been away for a week and all three boys had been sick (a vicious cycle of vomit and sheet changing ensued). We arrived early and because they’d been missing their Dad so much I decided to go through the security clearance so we could be right at the gate when hubby came out.

Just as we were through the metal detectors, I was pulled aside. With a baby on my hip and two in tow, the police officer clearly thought I was either crazed or crazy (probably for having so many kids under five) and decided to search me for the random explosives test. I live in the desert, I was literally wearing two items of clothing and thongs and was carrying car keys and three children, I don’t know where she assumed i was carrying the explosives but it was obviously somewhere “discreet”. Anyway I rolled my eyes and partook in the search in which the officer tried to pat me down with a baton. Before the baton could touch me my four year old launched off the the seat where he had been placed by said officer and started ninja kicking and karate chopping at the baton, “Stay away from my mummy, Kapow!”

The lady misunderstood his ninja attack and said, “Oh, honey do you feel left out? I can search you too, just let me finish with your mummy”. Incorrect lady. Seriously, incorrect.

Harry started chopping towards her,“Get away from my Mummy- hee-ya! Kapow! You ARE NOT allowed to touch my Mummy – heee-ya – chop, chop!”. Of course my two year old joined in with the kicking and the chopping too because he idolises his big brother and copies everything he does; and then the baby started yelling “Mummy, Mummy!” at the top of his lungs.

Soon the lady let me go, obviously realising that while I was not a bomb threat, my kids were dangerously explosive, unknown quantities. As we walked away Harry grabbed my hand and turned to his little brother,“No one messes with our Mummy, hey Finn”. They both looked up at me and smiled creepy ninja smiles, and it hit me, while my boys might not always notice or appreciate all the mundane but necessary stuff I do for them, they do love me fiercely. Maybe almost as fiercely as I love them. Heee-ya!

MILF….Mum I’d Like to FU…What?

“MILF!!, GO MILFY!!!” I heard the guys screaming from the beaten up ‘P’ plated ute as I ran by with my third child in the pram. “HOT MIIIIIILFFFFF!!!!!” I heard their voices fade out as the car tore away.

I searched my face for an appropriately disapproving scowl, knowing that the parent; social worker; feminist, in me would imminently be outraged at having been verbally reduced to a piece of sexual meat for a twenty-something’s spank bank. But strangely the longer I waited, the more apparent it became that my cranky face and indignant rage could not/ would not be summoned. To my horror, as I continued to run, I even realised that there was an added spring in my step (the hormone ravaged boys were probably looking at me in the rear vision mirror so it was the least I could do to look spritely) and then without warning, I felt my face break into a smile, and then a laugh! Hahahaha, MILF! Me!

The moment struck a chord with me. Long after I had finished the run (and smugly reported the incident back to my husband to remind him just how lucky he is to be married to me); I continued to think about it. Five years ago I would have been annoyed at the incident; I would have mentally labelled the drivers chauvinist pigs, and immediately disregarded any meaning or merit to what they had said. But then I would have got on with my day and never thought about the incident again. I certainly wouldn’t have mentioned it to my husband!  So what had changed? Why had being called a MILF today put a spring in my step, when five years ago the same cocky cat calling would have either enraged or nonplussed me?

And then the penny dropped, the only thing that had changed was that I had become a mother. And as any mother knows nothing whips away all your personal standards faster than pushing out a baby. Don’t get me wrong motherhood is great. It is all the beauty, wonder and bursting with love moments that me and every other mother professes it to be, but my god does it bring your personal standards down to their knees!

Thinking about it, before I became a mother, long showers involving detailed leg shaving, using a loofah and hair washing were commonplace in my world. As was frequent and gratifying sex, being wined and dined, uninterrupted phone calls to my best friend/husband/telephone company; and as an absolute unwavering rule, I always poo’d alone! Now with three children if I get to eat a biscuit without sharing, do a sneaky wee without an audience or god forbid hang a load of washing out all by myself , I feel like  some sort of brazen criminal who has managed to skulk their way past the privacy police. Similarly if I leave the house without snot on my shoulder, spew on my boob or weetbix in my hair then I feel like I’m ready for a night at The Oscars. So with all this in mind, and of course my life changing “MILF run,” I have decided that in the interest of Mummy wellbeing, on this occasion I will just give my feminist self a hall pass. Go home early twenties old me; please! Just pretend you didn’t see! Because at thirty three years old, with three small boys all under school age, and absolutely no more than four hours sleep in a row for the last four years, I think I need all the ‘compliments’ I can get!

“MIIIIIILFFFFF!!!!!”

Probably time to go for another run I think!

Conversations With A Three Year Old

My eldest son is just days away from turning four and because he is the first born every moment of his life has been photographed, filmed and diarised, with the accuracy and enthusiasm that only a mother of one can achieve. Since my darling first born started talking though, life has gotten a whole lot busier with a few siblings added into the mix, so out of sheer practicality I have had to scale back the three page letters detailing all of his milestones, to instead just keeping a little run list of some of the more amusing things he has to say. As it turns out, three year olds are hilarious! Here are ten of the funniest, sweetest and most confusing things my almost four year old has said in the last year.

1. Me: What was your favourite part of the movie Harry?

Harry: The best part was obviously when the Mum dies….not ‘cause I want you to die Mum, but because I just really like how she gets buried. Wouldn’t it be so great to be buried? Because when you think about it Mum, how great are berries? Strawberries, blueberries, raspberries…

2. Mummy you’re so beautiful, everyone else looks like a chair compared to you.

3. Mummy, next time you even think about making this spinach thing again, I think you should just whisper to yourself to make pancakes instead.

4. Harry: Mum why do only big girls like you have boobs?

Me: Mostly girls have to wait until they’re older to grow boobs, because you don’t really need them when you’re little.

Harry: That’s such a shame.

5. Harry: Mum can I be famous?

Me: Sure, but usually to be famous you have to really love what you’re doing and you have to be pretty good at it.

Harry: Well, I really love taking my clothes off; can I be famous at that?

6. In the lead up to our family moving to Alice Springs, I realised my kids knew very little about Aboriginal people or culture. Anticipating the questions an inquisitive three year old might ask when he encountered his first visually different Aboriginal person, I explained to Harry a short and simple version of Indigenous Australian history. Fast forward to a few months later and I hear him saying to his 3 year old Indigenous friend as they sit on the swings, “Hey Kyle, my Mum told me about how ages and ages ago The Captain Hook came on a boat and stole all your people’s lamb……. I really love lamb…. so I’m super duper sad and sorry about that…” A few key errors, but at least his heart was in the right place.

7. Watching me pour a glass of sparkling water, Harry see’s the bubbles and immediately shouts, “Woohoo Mumma, champagne time!!”

8. Me to Harry: We don’t say nup! We say no thank you…..

Harry: Well Mummy, don’t you know that ‘nup’ is just no thank you’s nickname.

9. Me: What were you possibly thinking when you just sat on your brother?

Harry: I was thinking he looked like a seat.

10. Me: Harry do you remember when we went to Fiji and you didn’t have any brothers yet, it was just you, me and Daddy?

Harry: Yeah my brothers weren’t there because they were still in Daddy’s balls weren’t they Mumma?

What’s the funniest thing your child has said to you lately?

Pigeon Holed Dad’s: Why this Fathers Day I will no longer be calling my husband ‘The Fun Dad”!

As mothers we often see ourselves as being at the coalface of parenting. Every day we are right in there navigating our children’s lives, desperately trying to balance being a super fun parent, role model and craft extraordinaire with the seemingly relentless task of preventing the house from plummeting into utter chaos around us. What I’m saying isn’t anything ground-breaking or new, we all know that us modern day Mum’s want to be able to do it all…. and perfectly. That is we all aspire to be the quintessential ‘All-rounder Mum’. We don’t want to be the Mum who’s only good for filling rumbling tummies and kissing sore knees, we want to be the Mum who is kick arse with a soccer ball and hilarious at reading stories in funny character accents too.  Essentially we want to be the best Mum we can be. So why is it that despite our own quests to be these larger than life super Mum’s,  we are always so quick to dumb down our Daddy co-parents as being fairly one dimensional characters? Why do we always relegate Dad to the position of our amiable, but undoubtedly less competent co-workers?

Now don’t pretend you don’t know what I mean! Us Mums love to label our husbands as the ‘Something Dad’. At every park, playgroup and coffee date Mum’s sit regaling each other with funny, sweet or hopeless Daddy tales full of a whole plethora of Dad labels. There’s The Strict Dad; The Lazy Dad; The Workaholic Dad; The Soft Pushover Dad; The Absent Dad; The Man-child Dad and of course, The Fun Dad. Mostly us Mums use these Daddy labels to give other Mums a quick snapshot into our mothering workload. For instance, if a woman describes her husband as ‘The Workaholic’, it means she does a lot of solo parenting. If a woman describes her husband as The Softy, it means she is the one who always has to discipline their children (which makes her feel like the mean parent.)

My husband is ‘The Fun Dad’. All good Dad’s are right?! They do the biggest throws into the air; they play with reckless abandon, happily pulling out every toy without even a skerrick of a thought given to packing anything away; and they are the absolute best at making little people burst into laughter with (in)appropriately timed farts. ‘The Fun Dad’ is the Dad who swans through the door just at the tail end of ‘the witching hours’ and begins to wrestle and tickle the children into an excited frenzy, just as you were contemplating an early bedtime. ‘The Fun Dad’ label comes with the silent Mummy by-line that while this type of Dad is mostly a treasure, he is also a tad hopeless when it comes to remembering things like sleep routines, appropriate dress attire or sometimes even basic survival necessities (like remembering to take water or snacks on an impromptu bike riding expedition through the desert with two out of our three children…but that’s another story). In short, ‘The Fun Dad’ makes his children’s eyes shine at the mere possibility of what might be in store for them when Daddy gets home.

For the most part, Dad labels are used by us Mums in good jest, but in the lead up to what will be my own husband’s fourth Father’s day, I started to think about all the things outside of ‘The Fun’ that my husband contributes to our family. I realised that in labelling my husband as the one dimensional ‘Fun Dad’, I may have forgotten to fully appreciate all the other great things he brings to our family as a whole. Because while fart jokes are funny, surely with three children under our belt and a fourth not necessarily ruled out, my husband must be doing more as a father than just executing perfectly timed flatulence, right?

I decided to make a list of the top ten things that make my husband not just a fun Dad, but an ‘All-round Great Dad’. Ten qualities that in my own crazy, all consuming quest to be Super Mum, I’m pretty sure I have never acknowledged or thanked my husband for possessing. So here goes:

1. Thanks for being the type of Dad who knows when and how to apologise to children, no matter how little they are.
2. Thank you for walking through the front door every single day already in ‘Dad mode’, no matter what has happened in your day.
3. Thanks for sacrificing your own interests to spend time nurturing the interests of our children and family.
4. Thank you for knowing that sometimes Mum’s are just better at certain things with the kids, like resettling our newborn to sleep, but for never giving up trying all the same.
5. Thanks for never sitting on the sidelines and always sourcing a role for yourself even if you think it’s trivial (ie thanks for appointing yourself chief nappy changer in lieu of not having boobs to breastfeed!)
6. Thanks for always keeping your promises to the kids and doing what you say you’re going to do.
7. Thanks for doing the ‘evil’ drop off to kindy and letting me be ‘the saviour’ who does pick up.
8. Thanks for being the type of Dad who smothers our boys in just as many cuddles and kisses as their Mum does.
9. Thank you for being the type of role model all little boys should have. If our boys turn out to be half as likeable as you we will be able to pat ourselves on the back and say ‘job well done.’
10. And lastly, thank you for being the type of Dad who enables me to be the best mother I can be. Even though I never say it, I really do appreciate all the times you stay at home ten (ok twenty) minutes later than you really should, just so I can have a shower and wash the vomit out of my hair. I equally appreciate all the times you push me out the door for an endorphin boosting ‘sanity run’… because, while it pains me to say it…. you’re right, I really am far less grumpy after a long run!!

In compiling this list I have further resolved that as of this Father’s Day I will no longer refer to my husband as ‘The Fun Dad’. In fact I think all us Mum’s should stop with the one dimensional Daddy labels because while our husbands might be super fun; workaholics; lazy; or even super softies, if we stop for a moment and think about all the other things Dad’s bring to our families we will realise that they really are so much more than we Mum’s often give them credit for.  Happy Fathers Day to my husband John, a truly awesome Dad,  and of course to all the other truly awesome ‘All- rounder’ Dad’s out there.

In the spirit of Father’s Day, what is it that makes your husband or partner an ‘All-round Great Dad’?

Awkward Encounters of a ‘Yes’ Woman.

There was once a time when I would have described myself as quite an assertive person, but as I have gotten older I have found myself engaging in more and more awkward situations simply because I can’t bare to tell the other person what I’m really thinking, or utter the word ‘No’.

My friends have always laughed at how I am that girl. You know, the one who finds themselves trapped in the toilet line listening to strangers as they confess their deep, dark secrets to me; or the one who agrees to make a distant friend’s multi-layered christening cake two days before the event, even though I have two children, am pregnant and am not a professional cake maker.

I don’t mind my friends laughing because on the whole I think having a ‘yes’ personality is ok if it’s driven by a desire to please those you love, but for me the inability to say ‘no’ extends way past my dear friends and family and frequently encompasses the requests of random strangers, complete weirdo’s, and sometimes even just total jerks. In the last few weeks I have realised that my tendency to bend over backwards to avoid awkward conversations has gotten out of hand. I have moved beyond polite concern for others feelings, to the point that I find myself agreeing to do completely absurd things all in the name of making the other person feel normal and at ease. It’s ridiculous!

Take two weeks ago when my husband booked me in for a last minute massage to relieve some pregnancy back pain at a new massage place in town. I arrived to a tin shed like operation to find my masseuse dressed like a gypsy. On sighting my pregnant belly, she promptly shut her eyes, held my bump in her hands and started humming “Ohhhhmmm, Ohhhhmmm,’ Ohhhmmm.” After an what seemed like an age, she finally opened her eyes and smiled at me, “Sorry, I am just getting a very strong message from the baby; he is telling me he wants you to name him Brian”. Of course like any rational person I immediately thought, Seriously? My tiny, sweet newborn WANTS to be called Brian?  But did I say that? No. Partly, I kept quiet because I wanted her to fix my back, but overwhelmingly it was because I didn’t want to make a scene or offend the name she obviously thought was nice.

Once inside the massage ‘shed’, Sondra, asked me if it was ok if she practiced some alternate mind based therapies on me at the same time as conducting the massage. She wanted to do this because it would increase my chance of ‘total healing’. Of course I said yes. I also said yes when my gypsy healer told me that it was ‘pivotal’ to her treatment that I be completely naked, “Even undies?” I asked. “Totally stripped is best for healing,” she said.

For the next hour and fifteen minutes I lay naked as Sondra intermittently rubbed my body for a minute and then abruptly stopped to hum over a ‘trouble spot’, “Ohmmm, Ohmmm,” she chorused until finally she withdrew the pain from my body drawing it into herself, which then allowed her to process and identify the cause of the pain. “Your back pain stems from a trauma that happened to you when you were about two, it could be from this life or your last one. I need you to let that trauma go now, ok?”

I really wanted to tell her that the pain in my back had already been diagnosed by both a physio and a chiropractor as pregnancy related, but she was so in the moment that I didn’t have the heart and besides she very swiftly moved on to other trauma sites in my body. It seemed unnecessarily rude to interrupt her with specialist facts.

At one point near the end of my time, Sondra hovered over my shoulder and said, “The pain you experience here is because you don’t speak out when you are not happy with the way things are in life, you are literally carrying this burden in your shoulder muscles. I want you to commit right now to being more vocal about your feelings, ok?” She was basically daring me to say, Ok how about you stop psychoanalyzing me and all my past lives and get on with the massage, but instead I just smiled into the massage table at how utterly ridiculous I am and said, “Ok”.

The very next day I found myself being approached by a woman, who I had met a few times in passing before. Being new to my current town and state, I thought the woman, a fellow Mum, might be trying to strike up a friendship with me. Little did I know she was actually wanting much more than friendship, she actually wanted to be business partners with me! Yes, my new ‘friend’ was hoping to share an amazing business opportunity with me, the chance to buy into a lifetime of financial freedom and career satisfaction all for the small price of a Saturday night meeting and a three hundred dollar joining fee.

Funny right? Yeah, it would be if it wasn’t my fifth (yes 5th!) joint business venture approach AKA pyramid scheme “opportunity” in only a twelve month period! Tallying up the hours I have now spent sitting through motivational power-points learning how to get rich AND own my own Mercedes/BMW/Time-share apartment whilst barely lifting a finger I realise I have sacrificed at least an hour of time for every year of my life so far. Thirty plus hours being recruited to Pyramid schemes that I will never get back just because I can’t say, ‘No!”

So, with Sondra’s shoulder advice fresh in mind and the desire to never sit through another night learning how to empower myself via the trafficking of miracle anti-ageing creams, this week I am declaring; Enough is enough! I am hereby making a promise to myself: There will be no more dinners with my husband’s ex simply because she asks; I will not attend any more play dates with radical American pro gun lobbyists, when I am strongly opposed to firearms; and there will absolutely be no more removing of my underwear just so gypsy masseuses don’t feel they have pushed the boundaries too far!

Yep, the new me is going to be much firmer! No more saying yes just to make other people happy. In fact I am already practicing ideas for the new assertive me; I’m thinking some bold, stern statements to start out, something like, “Maybe,” and, “I’ll think about it.”

What about you? Do you find yourself in weird situations simply because you can’t say no to people? What’s the oddest situation you have found yourself in?

Three Healthy Baby Boys…Poor Me!

Over looking the water on a rare lunch date alone, my husband and I sat reminiscing over all the special moments we have shared with our two baby boys so far. Three and a half years of parenting two rambunctious, energetic little boys, what did we ever do with all our time before them? we wondered out loud.

And soon there will be three babies in our life!

 “Are you ready?’ John said to me as he pulled the card from the envelope. Only hours beforehand we had watched the sonographer carefully print a few special words inside the card, as our new little addition kicked and squirmed above us on the ‘hospital tv’.

We both took a deep breath and I waited with anticipation as John read the card.

“It’s a Boy!”

Our third precious baby boy.

I had wondered what I might feel about having a third boy, if that was what the card ended up saying….would I feel sad that I might never have a little girl? Would I feel less excited than last time pulling out all the blue clothes for another round of rough and tumble muddy wear? I wanted to be prepared just in case I did, but when John made the announcement, I  didn’t feel anything like disappointment. In fact the very first thought that went through my mind was, Yes… that feels right… another little boy.

I immediately pictured my three blonde haired scallywags, all up to no good, and the mere thought of the bond they will share in their lifetime brought a smile to my lips. Then my eyes started welling as my husband took my hand and said “You know I’m not really a religious or spiritual person, but after only having mediocre men in your life, I  really believe you are just destined to have boys…. a whole gaggle of boys who love you! Three down, two to go I say!” he smiled.

His words, the hormones, the thought of nurturing another tiny little boy into a strong, successful man….it was all a little much…I would be lying if I said there were no tears.  Really, could I be any luckier in life? I thought.

Apparently the answer to that question is yes.

 For when we started to announce our news, it turned out not everyone thought we were so lucky! Whilst my husband was back slapped and congratulated on his male prowess at producing another boy to carry on the family name,  I was shot pitying glances and most hurtfully a few female friends even chose not to congratulate me.  Instead they commiserated on my behalf, simply because the healthy precious life kicking inside me was, gasp, not a female!

“Poor Renee!!.Another boy!” One very good friend commented to another about my ‘predicament’.

“How are you coping Ren?” One acquaintance touched my arm gently, as if someone in my family had died.

“You and John have always said you’d like a big family right? Maybe the next one will be a girl….there’s special diets and sex positions you can try to get a girl you know….”

Umm, I’m sorry have I missed something?

I am fully aware of gender disappointment being a very topical issue in the ‘mummy media’ of late, but I thought the disappointment was supposed to lay with the parents, not the general public? What a ridiculous notion for any person to feel sorry for an expectant mother or father because of the sex of the unborn child. What my husband and I want is to have a large family. Not a pigeon pair, not three boys and one girl, or two and two….just a happy, healthy family full of the laughter and love of our children, whatever their sex they may be!

Perhaps the most ridiculous comment I have received since finding out I am having another boy, was yesterday in the park:

“Aren’t you a little worried that you will lose your boys to their wives when they grow up and get married?” said the Mummy of a little girl, as we watched our children play together in the sandpit.

It could have been the hormones again or just my feminist rage rearing its ugly head, but my blood boiled. My youngest son has not even left the womb and my oldest is only three and a half years old so, no lady, I’m not particularly worried about losing my sons to their future wives. But, I am hoping I am the type of parent who is ‘skilled’ enough to raise my sons with the emotional capability to cope with more than just one female in their lives.

Upon arriving home, I ranted down the phone about aforementioned silly lady, to one of my best friends, who is currently expecting her second baby girl. In a show of camaraderie, she shared with me some of her own encounters with other people’s gender disappointment. She has frequently been met with comments ranging from, “Oh no, another girl!”, to “Oh no! Your poor husband!” and, “Oh dear, no heir to carry on the family name…”

Seriously? What century is this? An heir for the family name?! Isn’t there enough pressure on women to be wonderful mothers, crusading career woman and all round super stars? Do we really need to add another pressure of having to produce the right gender combination of children too? Something that biologically we absolutely have no control over?

I don’t think so.

So how about this? Next time someone announces they are adding another healthy baby to their family, whether it is their second girl, their fifth boy or the oracle pigeon pair, how about you just say congratulations, because surely it doesn’t really matter what sex a baby is? What should matter most is that the baby is wanted, loved and healthy.

It might be just me, but if you are the type of person that thinks only a Mum, a Dad, and a baby boy and  girl is what makes up the perfect family, then you need to be aware you are parenting in the wrong era. Surely, everyone knows that these days girls don’t necessarily stay close to their mothers because they are inexplicably bound by the ties of femininity… and equally boys don’t just grow up to breed and carry on their beloved  family name! Times have changed!

And on a personal note, any well wishers who are wasting their prayers in hope that I produce a girl next time or who just wish to share with me their ridiculous views about what constitutes the perfect family, please refrain,  your narrow minded views are frankly unwelcome in my little baby bubble of happiness… because as you are by now aware,  me and my little family are somewhat busy, eagerly counting down to the arrival of our third, joyous, baby BOY!

Sprinkles, Handkerchiefs and Middle Age

This morning I woke up to the sweet caress of my two year old son stroking my face. As his little chubby fingers swirled over my forehead and down my nose, I took a moment to marvel at the pure sweetness of his touch, before opening my eyes, to find his mischievous little green ones centimetres from my face. “Mumma” he whispered “Why do you have so many of these sprinkles all over your face?”

Ha. My little cherub hadn’t been caressing my face out of sheer adoration per se, but more just allowing his fingers to trace over the road map of ‘sprinkles’ that have appeared with ebola like tenacity on my previously smooth face. Each line seems to rapidly develop, fast resembling an overused highway as opposed to the barely visible, off the beaten track paths they started out as, only a few short years ago. The thing is, it isn’t just my son who has noticed the fast multiplying number of  ‘sprinkles’ on my face, I also noticed in a rare moment alone in front of the mirror recently and for the first time in my life I thought, perhaps I’m no spring chicken anymore?

I decided to give myself the benefit of the doubt, but just in case, I started to mentally compile a list of all my ‘mature moments’.

Unfortunately it didn’t take very long for the list to start padding out.

Not long after the wrinkles I encountered a couple of grey hairs. Then, few weeks after that, I parted my hair differently and a couple of grey hairs turned out to be ALOT of grey hairs.  That same week I had my annual check-up with the Optometrist who told me “it would be irresponsible, bordering on reckless if you don’t go straight from here to fill this glasses prescription, you’re practically blind Mrs McBryde!”  Sheesh, who knew twenty two year old Optometrists could be so pushy?!

Then I had to endure something that added years to my youthful status.  A difficult breakup. After years of infidelity (mine), I had continued to live under the same roof as my love of nearly fifteen years, hoping that somehow we might find our way back to each other. But the truth was undeniable, we were living separate lives. My pre-baby shoe collection and I were officially over .

“It isn’t you, ridiculously expensive silver stilettos from London, its me, I swear,  I have been an inattentive and unfaithful owner. I thought it would just be a fling, that I would end it and come back to you, but the fact is I have fallen in love with the boring and practical ballet flat. I know, I know, ballet flats have none of your pizzaz and sparkle and they could never give me calf definition like you did BUT they have loved me through swollen pregnant feet and long games in the park and well……don’t get me wrong we’ve had great times but I think we’ve just grown apart……”

The break up was hard on both of us.

In the end it was actually nothing physical that made me bon voyage my youth title. It was the words searing into my ears and tumbling out of my mouth.

Just this week my husband said “Hun, can you pick me up some handkerchiefs when you’re out today. It’s only the first day of spring and my allergies are already playing up”. Handkerchiefs? I thought the first world evolved to tissues in the 1900’s?

And then yesterday my best friend and I had a twenty minute conversation about how the agitators in her washing machine isn’t working “Its so annoying it isn’t distributing the powder equally so when I hang it out there are powdery clumps all over the clean clothes!” This topic alone would probably have been enough to close the case on my middle age membership, but then to really hammer the point home I retorted “I know and what about all this rain? Its ridiculous,  it takes two days to dry anything, its like mother nature is conspiring against us!”

The case was mounting.

Finally, I had to concede that the ship of my youth had not only set sail but had actually anchored itself to the port of my past when I heard myself say the following three comments all in the one afternoon.

“Don’t be wasteful, there are starving children in Africa who would love to eat this food”

“If the wind changes your face will freeze like that”  

“Well John, the proof is in the pudding”

Yep. I think its safe to say that the ‘sprinkles’ might just be the icing on the cake.

What are some of the things you’ve said or done lately that make you feel old?

Negotiations with a Terrorist…. I mean Two-orist…..

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My husband and I are living under siege. A fast rising leader of a covert breed of extremists, known in our house as The Two-orists, has set the peace and tranquillity of our inner west refuge in his sights as primary target of attack Our Two-orist  is particularly terrifying, as he is rumoured to have an extremely high IQ and absolutely no fear or regard for his own safety. His attacks are unpredictable and perhaps most dangerously of all he does not respond favourably to bribery.

Perhaps you don’t yet know what a Two-orist is? Well, for those of you lucky enough to have  escaped the wrath of a Two-orist, let me give you the low down, so that if you ever find yourself under attack you are able to correctly identify your assailant.

A Two-orist is a mini person usually aged between twenty four and thirty six months.

A devout Two-orist is willing to inflict as much psychological and grievous bodily harm to both themselves and/or those in their midst in order to assert their authority and acquire their own way. All in the name of The Wiggles!

Two-orists are passionate and committed to achieving their objectives in any mission: Base jumping out of the trolley for a go on the Bob The Builder tractor ride at the mall? No problem.

Screaming blue murder, fists a’pumping and legs kicking wildly on the kitchen floor, all because they were given a peanut butter sandwich, when (gasp) they asked for a peanut butter sandwich? Absolutely. Anything for the cause!

Two-orists like to keep their opponents guessing, favouring the element of surprise. They have a penchant for zeroing in on frazzled parents, preferably those who are weighted down with shopping bags, prams and scooters, so that they are at their most exposed and vulnerable.And they are renowned world wide for their kamikaze attacks on sleep deprived Mummy’s.

Two-orists generally prefer to attack unpredictably and without warning. That said, historically, the majority of reported attacks to date have occurred towards the end of the day when the two-orists primary target is deemed to be at their weakest and patience levels are operating at an all round low.

Please be careful when characterising a Two-orists as they are not always immediately identifiable. Two-orists are extremely smart. They are particularly skilled in the art of disguise, rumoured to be a result of hours of disciplined training in their rooms playing dress ups. Their chameleon like qualities can sometimes make them difficult to pick in a crowd, because they often pose as sweet, angel faced toddlers particularly when they are in the presence of older civilians, such as grandparents. In fact it is in the presence of grandparents that a Two-orist can be at their most cunning, messing with the primary targets mind by pretending that butter wouldn’t melt in their mouth!

Yes. This is the Two-orists piece de resistance in psychological warfare. Right before your very eyes they morph from a feral wild-ling into a renaissance cherub, suddenly remembering all of their pleases and thank you’s, as well as eating all of their dinner (with utensils) and not even one morsel of it ends up on the floor!!! Perhaps even more astounding is that when a Two –orist is cloaked in their disguise and in the presence of grandparents, you don’t even have to crocodile wrestle them out of the bath! No lips blue or convulsing twisting torsos a mere one degree away from hypothermia, because, wait for it, they simply step from the bath when asked….I KNOW!! We are dealing with psychological masterminds!!!

Their behaviour becomes so good that you begin to wonder if you imagined or perhaps just exaggerated it all ?  I mean really, just look at that little smile!  They aren’t so bad, are they? Surely there are no weapons of mass destruction hidden in that little Peppa Pig backpack – right?

And that’s when they know they’ve got you!

They see your eyes momentarily soften and your heart begin to melt…. and then, they pounce, sidling up to you, onto your lap, knowing their battle is won.

Smiling up at you, a tiny little hand creeps into yours and you are captured. You have no choice but to wrap them up in your white flag and surrender to the fact that once again you have been outmaneuvered, outsmarted and conquered by the beguiling manipulations of a Two-orist.

Disclaimer: Just because you are now equipped to identify a Two-orist, please keep in mind that this in no way means you are prepared to engage in battle. Negotiations with a Two-orist can be dangerous. Please approach all Two-orists with caution, preferably armed with a thick skin and a sharp mind. And try to remember that Two-orists are able to make even the most level headed of Mummy’s question their sanity at times… Good Luck!