Whats your whinge?

So today started out just swimmingly.

Gorgeous day.

Gorgeously warm sunshine streaming down into every nook and cranny. Kissing my face.

The littlest munchkins playing out in said sunshine. Bliss.

Then the H decides he isn’t feeling well. I think he was just super tired and wanted a nap, but I was happy to work with not feeling well.

So I kept the kids outside until lunch. We then had a picnic outside for lunch. The littlest of the mob had a nap. The boy and I baked scones, after a quick google search, because, would you believe, that amongst my nearly 50 recipe books I could not find a scone recipe! So thankyou Taste!

The boy and I thought that these would be just perfect to share with daddy and the girls when they got home from school.

Man did I think wrong. Not about the scones, they were freaking beautiful!

The one thing that comes with H’s illness, is mood swings. They are few and far between, but when one strikes, prepare for a tongue lashing!

Today, after all of the above, it turns out that I am a total Bitch, who has always been a bitch, and is nothing but a bitch, and I couldn’t just let him be sick for one day! I can never just let him be sick!

Apparently we running through the house all day. We spent hours in the lounge room while he was trying to sleep. Ahem, I would have love to have reminded him that this is what BED’S are for, but didn’t think it quite the right time 😉

So now, rather than it being swimmingly, I am just trying to channel my inner Dory and just keep swimming.

Whilst I am currently fuming, I’m still unsure who at. I can’t hold him that accountable. Yet in the morning he will be made to apologise. You can’t put a girl in tears, and through a bathroom floor moment, without wearing some of it !

So, tonight on the thankyou list, is Sir Tumour! You can now kindly piss off and give me my husband back!

Thats my whinge for the night. Whats your’s?

 

Your a clever little chook aren’t you?

We have a pet chicken.

She was a rescue mission by the boy.

She had previously been rescued by a man. And she was destined for the pot, until the boy came along, looking all sweet and innocent, and the man let him choose a chicken from a whole bunch of drumsticks.

At that moment, Chicken Sally knew her luck had changed.

Chicken Sally isn’t the prettiest of hen’s. She kinda lucked out in the gene pool. But I think that’s why she is so god damn cool.

That, and the fact that she thinks she is a dog.  She really has no understanding of the fact that she is a hen, she fully walks around going ‘yeah, I’m a puppy. This is sweet’. She eats with the dogs. Wants to be fed at the same as the dogs. Free ranges around the yard with the dogs. She even let herself into the husbands office this morning, and scared the shit out of him I might add! After all, who expects to find a chicken scratching around their office?

 

But she isn’t stupid. She knows exactly what she is doing. She is cementing her place in the world as a much-loved pet, rather than just any old chicken. She is making us have an emotional connection to her. So she will never be shunted from the family.

Clever, Chicken Sally. Very Clever.

Making the most of the appliance.

I love my dishwasher.

But I don’t love it purely because it gets me out of doing the dishes.

We have a rule in our house that if it doesn’t go in the dishwasher we don’t own it. And I have recently taken it a whole new level.

Things that CAN go in the dishwasher, that aren’t dishes:

• The potty. Washed properly first of course. But pop it in to get a good dose of heat happening for ultimate germ killing.
• The toddler toilet seat.
• The bin lids.
• And my latest favourite, my Havaiana’s.

As mentioned here before, I have a love affair with Havainas. I have some for outside. Some for inside. In colours to match my entire wardrobe. Love Love Love.

Last night, I realised that I had worn them far too much, and they were looking kinda skanky… Hmm, wonder if they would melt in the dishwasher? NOPE! And they all sparkly and new now.

I do suggest, before chucking things willy-nilly into the dishwasher, that you do check their heat resistance, because I will admit, I have had a few things melt!

What have you thrown into the dishwasher that probably wasn’t intended to be there?

Baby Lotto Bullshit

I am one of those people who some call blessed. My husband holds my hand, and voila, a pregnancy appears.

But sadly, I have many friends that it isn’t so easy for. unfortunately, jealously can come into play, and I have been known to feel incredibly guilty for the fact that I have no issues in conceiving children.

Lately, I keep seeing/reading/watching headlines related to ‘Winning a Baby’, and ‘Baby Lotto’. What? Winning a baby? Are you for real?

Apon reading further, I realised that, once again, it’s just the media stirring shit, as they always seem to do. Blowing things out of proportion. Making the worst out of a situation that I don’t think is all that bad.

Here is the low down on the lottery from the Herald Sun:

•  Thousands of £20 tickets will go up for grabs on July 30 in the UK, giving the winner £25,000 ($37,000) worth of fertility treatment to realise their dream of parenthood.
• The competition has the approval of Britain’s Gaming Commission.
• The prize includes accommodation at a luxury hotel, a chauffeur to take the winner to appointments and a personal assistant.
• The winner will choose their own fertility clinic, as well as having their fertility drugs and therapies paid for.
• If the standard treatment isn’t successful, the winner can choose another way of fulfilling the deal, such as reproductive surgery, donor eggs or a surrogate birth.

Before I give my opinion, here is a little from Mamamia on the subject.

And here are a few quotes that have been left out, by lottery organiser Camille Strachan, who set up the fertility support group To Hatch after her own failed IVF treatment.

• The competition would help relieve financial pressures on would-be parents.
• “You’re not picking up a baby from a shelf to give them, you’re giving them an opportunity.
• “Some people don’t have a choice apart from IVF and they should be given an opportunity just as much as anyone else. We just want it to be less stressful so IVF is all they need to concentrate on, not the money.”

It wasn’t until recently that I realised how many of my friends have had to seek help in order to conceive. It’s astonishing actually. The numbers seeking help within my circle far out weigh those who don’t.

And I had no idea just how difficult it was. Whilst most don’t talk about it, I have one very close friend in particular who is currently facing this.

She and her partner cannot conceive naturally due to an accident she had when she was younger, which damaged her abdomen and left her with a lot of scar tissue within her fallopian tubes, making it impossible for sperm to fertilise an egg.

They are your average middle class couple. Both working. But having to now factor in IVF treatment, and who knows how many cycles, is daunting to them. As it would be for me.

I now see them, both working 7 days a week, 13 hour days, just to save enough money to be able to have the blessing of a child. Actually. Correction. To be able to have the blessing of trying! And it breaks my heart.

Maybe this is my reason for thinking that an IVF lottery isn’t such a bad thing. For the everyday person to be able to try to conceive what so many women see as their god given right. For a woman to become a mother. For someone to try to find $30 rather than thousands for this chance.

Hearing the words ‘cheapening motherhood’ and having it somehow compared to abortion on certain Facebook pages (don’t ask me how!) makes my blood boil! Cheapening motherhood? Are you kidding me?

What is cheapening motherhood is all these women who have children and make it their mission to return to their pre baby body 3 weeks after birth! Who take those all glamorous post birth photos that make the rest of look like shit. (to see an awesome display of REAL post birthing mama’s click here)

What is cheapening motherhood is the bullshit idea that mothers have it easy to the outside world. Because we never tell it like it is.

What is cheapening motherhood is the competition we all seem to be in with each other!

All this shit is cheapening motherhood. Making IVF treatment accessible to people who may otherwise have not been able to become a parent is not.

I ask you, would you be happy if your parental rights were stripped from you before they had begun because people thought you were cheapening motherhood? Or because you couldn’t afford to have children?

Love is all it takes to be a good parent.

Do you think this should be brought to Australia? Would you buy a ticket?

Acting your age is overrated.

If you are a part of my Facebook page, last night you may have found yourself grooving along to a few Saturday night tunes, from DJ Yours Truly AKA me! If you aren’t there, I do suggest you show me a little love and pop on over!

I was grooving away in my kitchen that I converted into a fully sick music festival minus the drugs, famous faces, live music, and skanky shoes, but plus paint stained track pants, unwashed and unbrushed hair, and a pile of washing. Who am I trying to kid, it was a mountian!

Then, out of no where, I decided I am so not lame enough to be spending my Saturday nights like this, all boring and housewife-ish. And dare I say it, like a MUM!

So, in the space of 20 minutes, I got my shit together and went out! Yep, hair, make up, clothes that are fit for the human to see, the lot!

And I danced. And I drank. At one point I thought I was going to die from a heart attack but in hindsight it was just vodka induced indigestion, I almost hit a dude. By dude I mean short fat man/boy who thought he was super hot with the slickest dance moves that the world had ever seen and was under some illusion that shaving is waaaaay uncool. He is wrong.

Basically, I thought I was 21 again, and loved every minute. btw – I am not too far from 21… ok ok, I havent hit 30 yet though, that’s still young isn’t it?

I thought I was young enough to stay out until 5am.

And still function this morning.

And still get up at 7 to the kids.

And still function now, at 3pm.

And eat a kebab. Before coming home.

I was wrong.

The truth of the story, that I am learning slowly as the hours pass today, is that I am old enough to need to sleep until lunch time.

That my husband is amazing enough to let me sleep til lunch time.

That I bought good heels because my feet don’t hurt a bit. And they aren’t even sensible heel’s either!

That nothing good happens after 1am and you should NOT text, and Facebook at that hour, under the influence. Damn you smart phones!

That a dose of salmonella at 4am is not ideal. Thankfully I couldn’t find a kebab shop, so had to settle for a servo pie. I bow to you Mrs Mac. I truly do.

That ‘Adding some crunch to your lunch’ as recommended by chip companies world-wide, was also a great move.

That you can now Nibble Nobby’s Nuts in the Nude. Hmmmmmm

That I intend to not act my age at least once every 3 months.

The F-bomb.

Whilst on the subject of parenting, here is a little gem from the boy. Aged almost 4.

The boy has been known to let a few unauthorized words fly from his precious little mouth at times.

Once, it was slipping a ‘dickhead’ in at the grocery store. At his father. Yep, a good old “Dad you’re a dickhead” does great things to my husbands temper. Which is not helped at all by me, pissing myself laughing, not able to get a word out, almost rolling on the floor in the toilet paper aisle (appropriately as I swear I almost pee’d a little, damn you pelvic floor), and getting in more trouble than the boy did because I should know better and my behaviour isnt teaching him anything!

*NOTE* My husband is the one who taught the boy this word in the first place. Which just added to the humour! Nothing like a little Karma Darling Husband.

This however is mild. Compared to recent standards.

 

 

If you aren’t familiar with swear words, or are offended by them, or you are my grandmother, I do advise you turn off your computer right now. Redirect yourself from this post by clicking here where you will be taken to a warmer, happier, friendly place that doesn’t drop the F-Bomb and you can learn how to cope with this situation when it isn’t in the toilet paper aisle. Nothing like working on your pelvic floor ladies!

The boy, last week, was sitting on the step putting on his boots, happy, ‘Oh mum, it’s a beautiful day, something something Fucking Mice’! (yes we are in the middle of a ‘fucking mouse plague’).

!!!!!!!!!! was about all I could manage. When I thought that maybe I misheard him he kindly repeated it for me. I heard correctly the first time.

Fast Forward a few hours, and a few hundred km’s, to a small country town that I grew up in, and that the hillbilly side of the family still live in.

I ducked off the nearest airport another few hundred km’s, whilst the kids stayed with the family, awaiting the arrival of their dad. Apon his arrival, he thought a trip to the local watering hole to catch up with long-lost gossip   friends, was in order. Again the kids stayed with said hillbilly family.

My lovely aunt, bless her soul, took one for the team and looked after the kids for a few hours, and as the ‘men’ walked out the gate, at about 4.30pm, she clapped her hands, looked at the kids, and said ‘Right, it’s time for bed’.

The boy, astonished at such a statement, turned to her and replied ‘ it’s not time for bed, it’s not even fucking dark yet’!

Oh My. Yep. Twice in one day.

I’m unsure how to parent this behaviour. He gets in trouble when he tells one of the girls he hates them and that we don’t even love her anyway, because he is outrightly being mean, and rude, and he knows it. But this. This dropping of the F-bomb, while used in context, he doesn’t quite understand the meaning behind it.

I simply told him it wasn’t a nice word for nice boys to say and he will make people sad. In my nicest mum voice.

What I was really thinking was, You fucking little shit, I am going to fucking strangle you if I hear that come from your mouth one more fucking time! Fucking fucking.

unfortunately this blog does not come with a ‘bleep’ sound. Just add where you feel it is needed. I suggest over the word Hillbilly. 🙂

Have your children let some ‘unauthorized’ words go? Or did you raise them correctly.

 

Lucky I am not my grandmother.

If you a parent, stop for a moment and listen. Whats your background noise right now?

I did this today. For some god knows why random reason. And I heard 2 of the girls singing.

I always having music playing where ever we are. Our own little life’s soundtrack in the car, in the house, in the everywhere.

But today I have learnt that I need to be a little more careful about my choice of soundtracks.

I was washing up after lunch, the girls are belting out a tune, singing with my music that I had playing.

…’ Sex in the air, I like the smell of it’….

Ok, I nearly fell over. But in the interest of not making a scene so that I don’t have to explain why it is that I am making a scene, I kept quite. And came here instead.

Somehow, I’m feeling, that ….’chains and whips excite me’… is not appropriate language for young girls.

Rhianna, I love you, but I am going to have to put you in the When Mummy Is Alone playlist. Or when the girls are 18. Or 30 to keep their father happy.

Bad parenting 101

My kids are lucky to have such a great daddy.  He is very hands on, and tuned in with them.

But at times, play can quickly turn rough, usually when he is fighting for life trying to fend them all off at the same time, and someone always ends in tears. Sometimes daddy himself.

Last night however, it wasn’t him.

A pillow fight, gone wrong.

The loungeroom floor a war zone.

A tsunami of tears were shed. From a few different parties.

A black eye, instantly. On an 8-year-old. Caused by a 30 something year old man. Who is now being refered to by his first name from said 8-year-old.

The pillow missed. The fist holding it connected. OUCH!

This is the part where I reminded the man that he is playing with children, so therefore children sized force must be used. Not beating down an intruder with a pillow sized force. And that if he was to encounter an intruder in our home that I suggest he uses something more than a pillow.

So now, we are at the end of the school holidays, the 8-year-old has a shinner that is yet to shine to its full brightness, and I am preparing my speech for when the school rings on Monday and DOCS arrives on my doorstep that same day.

‘No, there is no domestic violence in this house I swear, it was totally a result of love. Gone wrong’.

 

10 Things I have learnt

#1 – Life is far too short, and can be taken away from you at any moment. Stop living for the tomorrow’s and start living for the todays!

#2 – Smoking really is addictive

#3 – Slow cookers are just about the only kitchen appliance one needs.

#4 – If a friendship can last since your school days, it’s worth hanging on too.

#5 – Marry your best friend.

#6 – Make your words sweet, in case one day you have to eat them

#7 – Sleep as much as you can before you have children, because you never will again.

#8 – Wear sensible shoes. And underwear.

#9 – The oil light on your car wont always work. You really do need to check it.

#10 – Surrounding yourself with negative people will make you a negative person also. You are a product of your environment.

Need a holiday?

I love holidays.

There is something about room service and someone else making my bed, and $20 cocktails, and day spa’s that really does it for me!

We recently took a vacation to Fiji. Kids and all. Nanny in tow. Der, I’m not stupid.

We researched. By researched I mean Googled. Der.

I am not very adventurous. I like to stick to shit I know. Names I know. I don’t like the idea of leaving my comfort zone. So of course all the ‘big’ name hotels were the one’s I was looking for. Trying to get an awesome deal. Which, if you have ever tried to get an ‘awesome’ deal at a big name hotel, you would know it’s impossible. But I like to call paying ‘RRP’ a good deal!

My husband on the other hand, he loves bargain hunting, he is made of adventurous bones, where as I contain none, and he is happy to stay in a caravan park. So you could imagine my shock/fear/nausea  excitement, when he booked a room, on an Island, that I had never ever heard of, and that didn’t contain a swim up bar or nightclub!

And he used a travel agent! Who does that?

Anyway, the agent assured us that we love it, and sent us on our merry way. Me still freaking. Slightly.

We boarded the plane in Sydney. Where it was freezing. Flew/ate/watched movies/attended children/tried to smother said children when they decided to scream and that 4 hours on a plane was waaaay to long and arrived in Fiji. Where we were smacked in the face with glorious warmth and humidity.

I have travelled. But I try to stick to civilisation. You know, where there are no pot holes in roads, people stay in their designated lane, that kind of thing. Man was I in for a culture shock. I was ready to kill the travel agent.

Until we arrived here. It was gorgeous!  The rooms were beautiful. The gardens were beautiful. The pools were beautiful. The cocktails were beautiful. I was a tad let down with the food, but only slightly.

I was starting to feel a little more towards my travel agent.

The next morning we jumped onto a bus (scary shit man) and went to the marina. Where I lovingly gazed at the Hilton and tried to ignore it’s beckoning, it’s pleading for me to come and visit, whilst I assured it I would be back soon. I felt like a dirty cheating tramp. With a scarlet letter.

Que the boat trip. On a nice new Catamaran. I felt safer in this than I did in any bus or taxi.

Que the sunburn I got while I refused to sit inside the air-conditioned cabin, because I wanted to see the view in all its glory. The coral. The changing tones of the water. The sleeping giant. Just gorgeous. I say until I find a melanoma.

An hour or so passes, and we slow down, making our way to a long wooden jetty. Hills with crops growing up their steep surfaces. And a group of big, black, singing Fijian men with guitars, serenading us as we stepped, some of us shakily, off the boat.

This is the point where I decided, Dude, I’m Fiji, I’m not wearing shoes all week! Needless to say this is also the point where I burnt the shit out of my feet! That sand gets mighty hot. Thank god for Havaianas – my shoes of choice, always.

After a welcome drink, and BULLA from the locals, we headed to our room. I was relaxed.

The rooms were gorgeous. We had 2 interconnecting, maybe 20 metres from the beach, which was CHEAPER than being smack on the beach. I was happy to walk the 20 metres in order to have the nights alone with my husband. And it made for it by being closer to the day spa.

Ah yes the day spa! With all the luxuries you could ask for! Me and the nanny had a massage. Me and the hubby had a massage. (the oils this place uses are to-die-for and they are soooooo good!) and the girls and I channeled our inner Bo Derek and got our hair braided.

We spent up at the gift store. We played bingo by the pool and won cash, whilst sipping cocktails. We ate awesome food from 3 different restaurants. I drank more cocktails. We enjoyed the free evening entertainment. The kids enjoyed the kids club. We strolled along the white beaches. We snorkelled off the beach, as it was literally 10 metres out and you were seeing amazing coral and fish. The hubby and I took a day trip out on a big ass boat, to some remote villages, and islands. We dreamt about being castaway where Tome Hanks filmed ‘castaway’. I really wanted to go searching for Wilson. The guide thought it was best that I didn’t. It was rather rugged terrain. I reminded him I was Australian… mate. I live in rugged terrain.

Oh and did I mention I shopped up big in said remote villages? Yeah, real big. Big enough that the boat was about to leave without me because I was taking too long!

If you are looking for a family, or not so family, holiday, I HUGELY recommend you take a look here, Mana Island Resort. It has everything that you think of when you think Fiji. White beaches (the ‘big’ name places don’t have that, as its volcanic sand), amazing blue water, and loads of Fijians saying Bulla to you, so much so that you will p[ick up the language in no time! Fresh flowers in your gorgeous room each day, an amazing cocktail menu, oh and a good food menu too. It will fit everyone’s taste. And surprisingly cheap. In fact, I think we spent no more, if not less, money that we would have to visit someone in Australia. Seriously!

I would also like to say, that this is not  a Guthy Renker style paid presentation. It is not a sponsored post, it is written purely because I loved the place, and I think everyone else will too! And I really really wanna go back!!!! So Mana Island, feel free to drop me a line at bloggingbehindshades@gmail.com and I would be happy to turn this into a sponsored post! 😉

Bulla!