"Superman" = onesie buttoned on the outside of the pants.
"Peter-pan" = pants tucked into socks.
"Butt-sprout" = small pooh.
"Poonami" = enough pooh to destroy a small village, requiring a full change for both mother and child and wiping down of furniture.
"Throwing a party" = child wakes in the middle of the night, happy as a birthday boy and ready to start the day.
"Doing the Dishes" = child is so upset that bottom lip protrudes like a dish drawer. The dishes are truly done when crying ensues, revealing the porcelin.
Please feel free to add your own family jargon.
Friday, 30 September 2011
Tuesday, 27 September 2011
Welcome me to motherhood...I'm well and truly yours.
For the past month, I have been busy becoming a cliche.
I visit the mall for coffee, with other baby-bound girlfriends, twice a week. We debrief on men, monotony and other unpleasantries of motherhood. Mall coffee is shit, but the conversation is orgasmic...mainly because it's conversation.
We meet twice a week because we actually have enough to bitch about to warrant this? Tick! Add that to the ciche making characteristics.
I bitch about my weight. All three of said friends have given birth in the past 4 months and yet the only thing on their bodies that competes with my fat collection is their milk-laden breasts. They claim I have body dismorphic disorder. I think they do. Who could miss this stomach!? The jowels? The upper thighs that I now call "labia mega majora"?
I have developed an eating disorder. I can't stop myself. My definition of one peppermint tim tam is one packet! So comfort eating finds its place on the cliche checklist.
I spent $190 on herbal remedies, so my pantry now looks like a 50 year old divorced woman's chasing youth and a rich 90 year old. Multi-vitamins for the husband; to cure his persitent man-flu. Central Nervous System tonic
to cure baby's cerebral palsy...it contains catnip??? Dubious. Magical seaweed and berry mix to cure my food addiction. Eutherol throat elixir to cure effects of smoking addiction. Emphysemol Lung elixir for the same. I'm pretty sure I bought cigarettes on the same shopping expedition. Flax seed oil and spirulina, because they apparently cure everything.
Ridiculous spending habits - another tick for the list. Although I can see why this finds its way on to every mother's list as we get no self-gratification from work and shop assistants always thank us for what we've just done for their business.
Boredom and worthlessness - tick! - I've taken on an unpaid, part time job for charity.
Depression...although I have to say that the black dog wouldn't have come in if I hadn't opened the door and teased it with biscuits, but I just had to see if I could get to that place despite the anti-depressants. However, the black dog swiftly left after discovering the biscuit was the last one left in the packet.
Bitching at my husband about quitting his job because it doesn't make enough money, keeps him away weekends and has just demolished the one thing I had to look forward to all year - our end of year holiday.
Creating distractions. Some women plan facials, I had this one holiday plan and now it's obliterated. Hence the depression.
The things about my life that spit in the face of the cliche:
1 I am just about to receive a disability parking sticker, so my carpark will kick arse on all your 4-wheel drive mummy machines!
2 I never compete at mothers' coffee groups - I know my child already lost.
3 My baby now reaches out for me and only me. It makes me feel like a million dollars and not just because every mother feels that way, but because we were told he would never know who we are.
My love and admiration to all the mothers out there, every shape, size and situation. xx
I visit the mall for coffee, with other baby-bound girlfriends, twice a week. We debrief on men, monotony and other unpleasantries of motherhood. Mall coffee is shit, but the conversation is orgasmic...mainly because it's conversation.
We meet twice a week because we actually have enough to bitch about to warrant this? Tick! Add that to the ciche making characteristics.
I bitch about my weight. All three of said friends have given birth in the past 4 months and yet the only thing on their bodies that competes with my fat collection is their milk-laden breasts. They claim I have body dismorphic disorder. I think they do. Who could miss this stomach!? The jowels? The upper thighs that I now call "labia mega majora"?
I have developed an eating disorder. I can't stop myself. My definition of one peppermint tim tam is one packet! So comfort eating finds its place on the cliche checklist.
I spent $190 on herbal remedies, so my pantry now looks like a 50 year old divorced woman's chasing youth and a rich 90 year old. Multi-vitamins for the husband; to cure his persitent man-flu. Central Nervous System tonic
to cure baby's cerebral palsy...it contains catnip??? Dubious. Magical seaweed and berry mix to cure my food addiction. Eutherol throat elixir to cure effects of smoking addiction. Emphysemol Lung elixir for the same. I'm pretty sure I bought cigarettes on the same shopping expedition. Flax seed oil and spirulina, because they apparently cure everything.
Ridiculous spending habits - another tick for the list. Although I can see why this finds its way on to every mother's list as we get no self-gratification from work and shop assistants always thank us for what we've just done for their business.
Boredom and worthlessness - tick! - I've taken on an unpaid, part time job for charity.
Depression...although I have to say that the black dog wouldn't have come in if I hadn't opened the door and teased it with biscuits, but I just had to see if I could get to that place despite the anti-depressants. However, the black dog swiftly left after discovering the biscuit was the last one left in the packet.
Bitching at my husband about quitting his job because it doesn't make enough money, keeps him away weekends and has just demolished the one thing I had to look forward to all year - our end of year holiday.
Creating distractions. Some women plan facials, I had this one holiday plan and now it's obliterated. Hence the depression.
The things about my life that spit in the face of the cliche:
1 I am just about to receive a disability parking sticker, so my carpark will kick arse on all your 4-wheel drive mummy machines!
2 I never compete at mothers' coffee groups - I know my child already lost.
3 My baby now reaches out for me and only me. It makes me feel like a million dollars and not just because every mother feels that way, but because we were told he would never know who we are.
My love and admiration to all the mothers out there, every shape, size and situation. xx
Wednesday, 3 August 2011
Say "yes" to drugs
I've been rather absent to say the least. Over a month ago I booked into a motel. I packed my computer and little else. I didn't think I'd need much, just a word processor for my farewells.
It was saying goodbye to my son that made me realise I needed help.
Bring on the FLUOX!
I used to talk my friends out of anti-depressants since it turns men into dickless zombies. Women, however seem to be normal but better, except that you'll find them working alot harder in the bedroom for that already elusive orgasm.
Other than that, anti-d's are amazing when you're in need. Edges smoothed, not fuzzied and I'm actually feeling happy, god forbid.
It was saying goodbye to my son that made me realise I needed help.
Bring on the FLUOX!
I used to talk my friends out of anti-depressants since it turns men into dickless zombies. Women, however seem to be normal but better, except that you'll find them working alot harder in the bedroom for that already elusive orgasm.
Other than that, anti-d's are amazing when you're in need. Edges smoothed, not fuzzied and I'm actually feeling happy, god forbid.
Tuesday, 24 May 2011
Fears
I have been taking stock of my fears lately and, if not totally irradicating them, certainly hiding them in the dark depths of the monsters' closet.
Children inherit the fears of the mother. I know I inherited some of my mother's. Her fear of heights was never a problem for my skydiving self until I got engaged. Weird, but as soon as that ring was on my finger, my sense of responsibility kicked in and I became pathologically afraid of anything that goes up, plummeting down. Her fear of losing control...definitely with me to a degree. Her hypochondria...a well set stain on my genes until last year.
My fear of flying - gone, my fear of heights - gone, my fear of dying - been there, done that, my fear of my son dying - been there, done that and if he wants to do it again, he will in his own time. Don't misunderstand, I would be devastated. I adore him to the core of his being. To fear or not to fear a death can't diminish the sadness of it, but it also can't save you in the end. I feared his dying for the first 3 months of his life and it stopped me from bonding with him. If fear can do this to mother and child, what does it do to every aspect of our lives?
After 12 minutes of death, he moved his arm. He decided to live for now and maybe that's all any of us can do.
Children inherit the fears of the mother. I know I inherited some of my mother's. Her fear of heights was never a problem for my skydiving self until I got engaged. Weird, but as soon as that ring was on my finger, my sense of responsibility kicked in and I became pathologically afraid of anything that goes up, plummeting down. Her fear of losing control...definitely with me to a degree. Her hypochondria...a well set stain on my genes until last year.
My fear of flying - gone, my fear of heights - gone, my fear of dying - been there, done that, my fear of my son dying - been there, done that and if he wants to do it again, he will in his own time. Don't misunderstand, I would be devastated. I adore him to the core of his being. To fear or not to fear a death can't diminish the sadness of it, but it also can't save you in the end. I feared his dying for the first 3 months of his life and it stopped me from bonding with him. If fear can do this to mother and child, what does it do to every aspect of our lives?
After 12 minutes of death, he moved his arm. He decided to live for now and maybe that's all any of us can do.
Sunday, 1 May 2011
yesterday
If you don't know how lucky you are, then think about it. It was all around me yesterday, drinking, laughing, crying and feeding me sausage rolls. It's made all the difference to my frame of my mind, not to mention my complexion.
Wednesday, 27 April 2011
Drinks with the devil.
Strangest dream last night. My husband and I were at a bar...and wait...that wasn't the strange part.
I bumped in to a girl I know called P. She told us about a better, more exclusive bar that you can only enter if you pray to the devil and find his money. Clearly we did just that (my Catholic mother would be horrified).
Suddenly, we're on a dark street where I find a small pile of what looks like black carbon paper fillagreed in gold. I pick it up and it crunches and partially crumbles in my hand.
Ahead, we see an old house in the process of renovation - scaffolded and such. We discover a bar concealed inside the scaffolding. The music was rich, sexy, experimental melodies. The patrons all looked like the types I used to know - social climbers dressed in well arranged combinations of exclusive labels and op-shop chic.
We had a drink with the devil, who had beautiful, youthful, blue eyes in an aging, beaten up face and spoke a little softer than Tom Waits. He's only of average height by the way.
The devil was witty, charming and friendly in an aloof kind of way. I almost felt like he was slightly intimidated. He counselled my husband and I on our relationship. Everything he said made sense and it almost seemed like he cared. Then he told me "You have to be careful pretty girl, I can see scars inside you, particularly around your lungs." In a matter of fact way, as if I'd expected him to say something like that, I replied; "Lung cancer right?" He nodded with pseudo-sympathy. Then I laughed and said "Is that the best you can do?" My husband put his arm around me and said "What a wanker". I woke soon after.
So, Tuesday night drinks with the devil...I wonder where I'll go tonight.
I bumped in to a girl I know called P. She told us about a better, more exclusive bar that you can only enter if you pray to the devil and find his money. Clearly we did just that (my Catholic mother would be horrified).
Suddenly, we're on a dark street where I find a small pile of what looks like black carbon paper fillagreed in gold. I pick it up and it crunches and partially crumbles in my hand.
Ahead, we see an old house in the process of renovation - scaffolded and such. We discover a bar concealed inside the scaffolding. The music was rich, sexy, experimental melodies. The patrons all looked like the types I used to know - social climbers dressed in well arranged combinations of exclusive labels and op-shop chic.
We had a drink with the devil, who had beautiful, youthful, blue eyes in an aging, beaten up face and spoke a little softer than Tom Waits. He's only of average height by the way.
The devil was witty, charming and friendly in an aloof kind of way. I almost felt like he was slightly intimidated. He counselled my husband and I on our relationship. Everything he said made sense and it almost seemed like he cared. Then he told me "You have to be careful pretty girl, I can see scars inside you, particularly around your lungs." In a matter of fact way, as if I'd expected him to say something like that, I replied; "Lung cancer right?" He nodded with pseudo-sympathy. Then I laughed and said "Is that the best you can do?" My husband put his arm around me and said "What a wanker". I woke soon after.
So, Tuesday night drinks with the devil...I wonder where I'll go tonight.
Tuesday, 26 April 2011
The anniversary of birth and death.
Today is my son's first birthday and the anniversary of his death and mine.
We have been to hospital to have his hips x-rayed. An appropriate place to be today I suppose
- our old haunt.
Unconciously, til now, I'm wearing the shirt I wore a year ago, minus the arch where a belly would have been til 8.44pm tonight.
Memories tearing shreds off me right now. Next year, I hope they will have faded, but unlikely wonder-soaped away like the sweat stains on said shirt. Speaking of...laundry! I am well behind on pooh-cloth bleaching.
We have been to hospital to have his hips x-rayed. An appropriate place to be today I suppose
- our old haunt.
Unconciously, til now, I'm wearing the shirt I wore a year ago, minus the arch where a belly would have been til 8.44pm tonight.
Memories tearing shreds off me right now. Next year, I hope they will have faded, but unlikely wonder-soaped away like the sweat stains on said shirt. Speaking of...laundry! I am well behind on pooh-cloth bleaching.
My son
put death in its place.
In his heart
He lifted his tiny head
Raised his tiny arm
And said
Later
When I've lived.
When I've learned to say the word.
When I've mastered it.
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