To pet or not to pet?

You know the youngest child must be out of nappies when you find yourself saying – un-ironically and without a hint of sarcasm – “We should get a pet.” A pet! Paul’s response was, of course, to ask whether we could get a monkey. Not a monkey, I said. “There was a monkey for sale in the pet shop when I was a kid,” Paul sighed, with real regret in his eyes. “Me and Craig Mail used to go and watch him wanking.” Not a monkey, I repeated. And not a dog or a cat or a guinea pig or a rabbit or a mouse or a pony or a horse or even a Shetland pony, on account of Ben’s spectacular allergies to animal hair.   

I forgot about Ben’s animal-hair allergy last year. Tell a lie, I forgot about about his animal-hair allergy on TWO memorable occasions last year. The first, when we dog-sat a wonderful creature called Shandy (cue: midnight trip to A&E) and the second, when we went on a horse-drawn wagon tour of the wineries, and Ben wheezed all over the wagon driver and knocked over a table (cue: scrounging antihistamines off a waitress). No, Ben’s not one for the furry friends.

We did have a dog, once, when Ben was four. For reasons that I can’t explain, Ben wasn’t allergic to Barry the Frank, possibly because he wasn’t a dog, just a creature from the black fucking lagoon. Technically he was a Jack Russell crossed with a Poodle; in reality he was an objectionable, unlovable creature with a pus-filled tumour on the top of his head. The lesson here, I suppose, is to never take pity on a dog that’s being given away by a man in a pub the day after you get married – particularly if the dog looks rather like his owner, all scraggly, grey hair and weeping tumours.

Barry was called Frank when we got him from the man in the pub, which actually kind of suited him, but Ben – who was five at the time – wanted to call the dog Barry, after Grandad Barry, Paul’s dad. And because we felt bad renaming a dog in the prime of his life (ahem), he became “Barry the Frank”. And Barry the Frank he remained, until he left us for a “better place”.

We tried to love Barry the Frank, we really did, but it was close to impossible. Even dog lovers – you know, the ones who don’t understand why you’d have a child when you could have a dog – disliked Barry the Frank. They’d come round and be all, like, “Oh, I’m such a dog person, I’m not at all offended by the INCESSANT YAPPING and ARSE WIPING ON THE RUG,” but then he’d start humping their leg and wiping his weeping tumour on their crotch and they’d make their excuses and leave. If they didn’t straightaway, then they would after he’d pooed on their shoe and pissed on their trouser leg. THIS IS A TRUE STORY. He would actually sidle up to visitors and poo – if not directly on to their shoe, but right next to it. And one time, while talking to a school mum friend on the oval, he cocked his leg on her tights. Yes. He pissed on a school mum.

Barry the Frank was vile. He’d only sleep in the car, and he’d leave a big pile of poo in the garage most nights, just for Paul to step in when he left for work at 5.30 in the morning. He ran away constantly, leaving us to walk the streets shouting BARRY THE FRANK and CURSING OURSELVES for ever getting him micro-chipped. And, of course, he barked constantly and unrelentingly, for no actual reason.

When I was 36 weeks pregnant with Frankie I was put into hospital. With Paul working full-time, my mum and dad took Ben and Barry the Frank home with them. After a week of barking and shitting and weeing and running away (Barry the Frank, not Ben), mum rang me in hospital and asked: “Permission to get rid of Barry the Frank?” And because I could hear that bloody dog yapping in the background and could only imagine what I’d do to him if he yapped like that around my new baby, I said: “Permission granted.” We said no more, but left the matter in my dad’s capable (ruthless) hands. He took Barry the Frank to the RSPCA first of all. They took one look at him (Barry the Frank, not dad) and said “DEAR GOD, NO! WHAT ARE WE SUPPOSED TO DO WITH THAT?” They actually did! Which left dad with no other option but the vet, and the kindest possible ending … which, as it turned out, wasn’t the green dream, but rather, the removal of Barry the Frank’s tumour and a new home, all for the very reasonable sum of $150. 

That was four years ago, and we’ve been pet-free since then. It says a lot about the power of selective memory that we’re actively considering getting a pet now. In all honesty, Frankie thinks we already have a pet (a pet monkey. Called Ben. Hahahahahahha). Not really. He told his teacher we have a pet lizard called Eric. And yeah, I mean, there is a bobtail who comes into our garden, and we do call him Eric, but it’s a piss-poor excuse for a pet, and I don’t have any photos of the children frolicking with him – just of the time he got mashed up between the flyscreen and the sliding door in the laundry, and looked funny.  

So go on then, keeping in mind Ben’s allergies, and my reluctance to clean up shit, what type of pet should we get, if at all? Answers on a postcard, please. 

BARRY THE FUCKING FRANK

What it means to be a mum

I have this friend, right, and he doesn’t have any children; not yet, anyway. He came to my house for breakfast on Sunday morning, although we’d already been awake for so long that it was practically lunchtime. This friend – let’s call him Trevor, on account of that being his actual name – came over for breakfast foodstuffs and coffee, and we chatted, as old friends tend to do when they catch up over breakfast foodstuffs and coffee. Trevor’s been thinking a lot about fatherhood lately, and what it might mean for him and his lovely lady wife, who we shall call Dr Sexy, on account of that not being her name, but on account of her being a very attractive lady doctor.

“Do you find parenthood fulfilling?” he asked, as my two youngest children wrestled each other to the ground over a piece of Duplo. Bearing in mind that I’d been woken before dawn by a small girl saying MILO with devilish undertones, and then shouted at by a small boy for stirring the honey INTO the porridge rather than leaving it delicately swirled on top in the shape of a happy face, that was kinda self explanatory.

“I wouldn’t say fulfilling’s the word,” I answered, narrowly dodging the aforementioned piece of Duplo.

“Why’d you have kids then?”

I thought about this. I looked at my (tired) husband. I looked at my (naked, wrestling) children.

“Cos they give me something to write about?”

“Yeah, but if they weren’t providing you with a constant source of material for your blog, why’d you have them?”

Well my friends, that got me fucking thinking. I’ve been thinking about very little else since the question was posed (well, apart from monkeys on bicycles; I’m pretty much always thinking about monkeys on bicycles). I’ve been asking people whether they find parenthood fulfilling. I’ve been asking them why they had children. This elicits strange looks in the condiments aisle of Woolworths, I grant you, but I have to know. I shall not sleep until I figure this out. Well that’s bullshit, right there; the only things preventing me from sleeping are my fucking children, who take it in turns to come in at half-hourly intervals throughout the night and stand at my bedside, staring at me until I wake up.

So go on then, why did you have kids? Why, for that matter, did I have kids? No, kids aren’t fulfilling; they’re ENTERTAINING and they’re EXHAUSTING and they’re TIME CONSUMING and they’re ENERGY DRAINING and they’re FUCKING EXPENSIVE, but they’re not fulfilling. Describing them as fulfilling would be to imply that I was unfulfilled before they came along; that I was incomplete before I became a parent; that childless women (and men!) are somehow lacking. It would imply that I’m nothing beyond a mother. It would imply that my children are EVERYTHING to me, and they’re not. They’re a spectacularly large percentage of me, but not EVERYTHING. Take them away, and there’s still a bit of me left. Remember me? Hello! I’m still here! I like biscuits!

Which is not to say, of course, that I don’t love the little fuckers. I adore them. I adore them more when they’re asleep, but for the most part – except when they’re yanking on my pyjama shorts to play Mouse Trap, while I’m trying to make a cup of tea at 6 o’clock in the morning – I fucking love the little fuckers. I love them for the spontaneous kisses they plant on my cheek, for the arms that wrap around me at the end of a school day, for the gasping, hysterical giggles as I plant a raspberry on their squidgy bellies. I love them with a fierce mamma love that dares any fucker to make my babies sad.

Here’s what I’ve figured out: kids change your world. Yes, they turn your world upside-fucking-down, but they change the way you look at it, too. For better or for worse you stop focusing on yourself and focus, instead, on their world, and their happiness. Fire engines and police cars and green grass and whizzy slides take on a particular shade of magic when you’ve got kids, and you can’t help but experience the world through their inquisitive, bat-shit-mental little eyes. That’s fucking magical. The world’s a better, shinier, funnier place when you’ve got kids. Well, not just kids. I reckon if you’ve got a fucking excellent pet, or a brilliant hobby, like, for instance, dogging, or something, then you’d also see the world in a different light. It’s all about perspective.

Ben said to me last night, at bath-time: “You laugh a lot, don’t you?” And yeah, I do. I laugh a lot. I laugh far more than I ever laughed as a childless woman. Admittedly, yes, I cry a lot more too. And drink; I drink way, way more than I ever did before I had children. But the point is that I laugh a lot, too. I find humour in the most ridiculous places, because there’s actually nothing funnier than a four-year-old telling his older brother that he’s had a FUCKING good day.

My life is chaotically unfulfilling, but it’s fucking hilarious. Yesterday evening, Paul and I were sitting out the front of our house, watching the kids have bike races in the street (cos yeah, it’s actually 1960 where we live). Another couple walked past, with a dog and a pram, rocking the whole nuclear family vibe, and Frankie shouted – loudly – LOOK DADDY, THAT MAN WILL BE YOUR FWEND. And we blushed, and waved, and they waved back, and it was all very awkward for a moment there (because, yes, Paul is kinda short on men friends) but it was fucking funny, too. And then Alice went over the road to chat to the charming yet devout pastor who lives there, and he was looking at her a bit strangely, and we realised she was wearing just her knickers, with a handful of Little People stuffed down the front, and was telling him that she had a willy now. We have moments like that at least once an hour, day and night, and while they’re interspersed with wrestling and wrangling and tantrums and tears, there are enough of those moments to keep me going. That’s why I had kids, I think. Either that, or I was just very fucking drunk.    

A message to my girl

Every night – after I’ve re-told the story of Little Red Riding Hood, and sung 12 verses of Soldier, Soldier – I offer my two-year-old daughter two pieces of advice, which, yes, I nicked straight from the film version of Cinderella, but which kind of sum up the whole humanity gig, for me: “Be brave, and be kind.”

“Kind means sharing,” Alice clarifies, every night.

“Yep,” I say, “and helping people who need you.”

And she nods, and tells me she loves me, and goes to sleep.

(Ha! Does she fuck! She asks for another eight pints of milk and a re-telling of Goldilocks, with voices and actions, and then the same from daddy, twice over, thank you very much and GOODNIGHT.)

I don’t ask for much from my daughter – from any of my children, for that matter – but I do insist that she’s not an arsehole. There are a lot of little arseholes about – arseholes in training, if you will – and I’ll be fucked if my kids are gonna be one of them. For my sins, I spend an awful lot of time in playgrounds, which are what you might call little arsehole factories (see also: playcentres). I’m not a helicopter parent – I let my kids climb, and I let my kids fall, and I also sometimes let them dangle for a bit, if I’m on my phone and not paying attention – but I do keep an eye on the little fuckers they’re sharing the playground with. I can spot a little bitch at 50 paces; I know how they operate: wait until no one’s watching, then administer a sly pinch, or a venomous comment and – hoorah! – the swing is theirs. Well not on my fucking watch, kid, not unless your parent is way bigger and way tougher than me.

Here’s what I don’t understand: how could you breed a child who thinks it’s okay to bully their way on to the swing? Is that what you’re calling assertive behaviour? A sense of entitlement? “Don’t take shit from anyone!” “Stand up for yourself!” “Give zero fucks!” Well my friends, that is fucked. I kind of get it – you want your kids, and particularly your girls, to be feisty – but it’s still fucked. You can’t teach your daughters how to be assertive without teaching them how to be kind, too, you silly fuckers.

This whole idea of giving zero fucks and sticking two fingers up at the world makes me cringe, a bit. I understand that it’s about women standing tall and saying DON’T TRY AND HOLD ME BACK, MALE-DOMINATED SOCIETY, which is great and all, but could we not try and be a bit politer about the whole thing? A bit more considerate? Could we perhaps just give a couple of fucks, for those that might need it?

I want my daughter to get her go, of course I do, but by saying please, and thank you, and waiting her turn patiently. It’s not fucking rocket science, this whole business of good manners. I want my daughter to know that she can be whatever she wants to be (fuck you, Barbie annual 2016. My daughter’s career options are not, in fact, limited to fairy, princess and rockstar), but that she doesn’t need to crush anyone on the way up. Wait your turn kid, and use your manners, and you’ll be fine. I don’t know why I’m just talking about my daughter, this obviously applies to my sons, too. If I catch one of them bullying their way on to the swing they won’t see fucking Christmas.

My daughter, however, won’t be limited by can’t, or won’t, or shouldn’t (unless approached by a crack dealer, obviously). Ben, getting Alice dressed this morning (kid of the week, right there), came into my bedroom and said: “Mummy! Can you kindly tell Alice that she can’t wear a dress with jeans?” And I was, like, actually no, she can wear whatever she wants, unless it’s a Man United football kit with a strap-on. My daughter can wear what she wants, play with who she wants, and do what she wants, as long as it makes her happy and doesn’t harm anyone else.

In establishing her identity, Alice has three generations of women to use as her reference point. There’s me (amazing), my mum, and my mum’s mum. We’re a cool bunch of chicks. We’ve raised children, we’ve worked, we’ve stood up for ourselves, and we’ve looked out for others. My nan, perhaps, is a little more, shall we say, feistier than me and mum; she swears like a sailor, takes no shit, and loves her family with a fierceness that belies her 82 years. Maybe don’t fuck with her.

But, this is Alice’s reality: fiercely loving women who stand up for what they believe, do what makes them happy, and give a few fucks, when necessary. She could do a lot fucking worse.       

Hello! I'm a useless blogger!

I’ve been thinking a lot, lately, about the weird business of being a blogger – and specifically, a mummy blogger, which is a term that doesn’t sit well with me, because it makes me think of breastmilk and baby-led weaning. It sounds boring, and a bit smug, and the description of a person who I wouldn’t really want to be friends with.

I don’t tell people that I’m a blogger – I especially don’t tell people that I’m a mummy blogger – and even get a bit sheepish telling people that I’m a writer by profession. I’d rather be a hairdresser, or a bus driver, or something. “Writer” sounds so fucking smug, doesn’t it? The other day, at school, a mum asked me what I did (for a job, not for a fucking hobby) and I BLUSHED and was, like, “I write. I do writing. I mean, I’m a writer.” I DO WRITING? For fuck’s sake.

Being a writer is one thing – as in, getting paid to write words – but being a blogger? Being a mummy blogger? What’s all that about? Not even getting paid to write nonsense about your stupid life? Why would anyone CARE? And then, in the midst of my existential crisis (not really, I was actually just thinking about cheese), my virtual pal and long-time girl crush Veggie Mama wrote a piece about having her own existential blogging crisis. She’d become bogged down in the notion of being a useful blogger, pleasing all of the people all of the time, and had forgotten about HER. She’d forgotten to write for her, and as such had forgotten how to write, full stop. This was a big fucking deal; Veggie Mama had writer’s block. And then – LIGHTBULB MOMENT – she thought, fuck it. I’m just going to write. I’m going to write for me.  

This resonated with me. I’m not too proud to say it gave me goosebumps. I’ve only ever written for me, which is possibly the reason my blog doesn’t make me any pennies. I began my blog on the assumption that no one would read it anyway, so it didn’t really matter what I wrote. I wrote the stupid words that came into my stupid head. I wrote about the stupid things that my stupid kids did. I wrote about the stupid things that stupid people did. I treated my blog as a journal; to be honest, you’re lucky I don’t begin every blog post with “Dear Diary,” like I did when I was 13, and a bit of a twat. I’ve harped on about this before, but blogging is my therapy – when my head’s clouded up with kids and work and bills and laundry and school and biological fathers – I write, and the fog clears, a bit. You should try it, it’s cool. It also makes me, officially, a useless blogger.

Useless blogging. It’s a thing – a new thing – but a thing nonetheless. It’s a movement, if you will, started by I Give you the Verbs and inspired by Veggie Mama. It’s the notion of writing for yourself, on the understanding that your blog probably won’t help someone toilet train their child, teach another to crochet, and inspire a third to take up Spanish. Some might say I was born to useless blog. God knows the world isn’t a better place now that I’ve told y’all my husband’s brother had his balls cupped by a clown when he was six.

I’m a useless blogger and I shall continue being a useless blogger. My blog shall make me no money and certainly no friends, but fuck it, it’s mine. Isn’t that the point? Isn’t that what makes the world of blogging so fucking wonderful? It’s YOURS. No editors or proofreaders or advertisers or sponsors or bosses telling you what to write – here, on your website, you can write whatever the fuck you want to write. Here, on your blog, you have a voice. For mothers, in particular, this is more important than you may realise. We were smart women, once, climbing career ladders and taking lunchbreaks and issuing memos. We wore pencil skirts and high heels (never high heels) and makeup (never makeup). We were something and someone. And then we had kids and, as important as that is, we kind of faded into the background, and people – everyone – just saw us as breeding, breastfeeding, bum-wiping martyrs, and didn’t give a shit that we used to have an office and underlings.

My blog is my way of saying HELLO! I’M STILL HERE! I STILL SWEAR! I STILL LISTEN TO THE PIXIES! I MAY NOT GO TO MANY GIGS ANYMORE (cos, late) BUT I STILL WEAR CONVERSE! I’M STILL SMART, SORT OF, AND – here’s the important bit – I’VE STILL GOT A VOICE! I’VE STILL GOT SOMETHING TO SAY! I STILL MATTER! HELLO? ANYONE?

Well this is a rambling old load of nonsense, isn’t it? Which proves my point, sort of: MY NAME IS LISA, AND I’M A USELESS BLOGGER. 

NOW is better than the 1980s

Here’s the thing: I’m as nostalgic as the next Generation Xer for the 1980s. Long summer days filled with Bubble O’ Bills and stretchy belts. School holidays spent peddling my Indy 500 around the streets of Thornlie, Spokey Dokeys lighting the way. It was a golden time in a slightly average suburb, punctuated by midnight feasts and Telethon. As childhoods go, it was a fucking good one, but you know what? All childhoods are golden (unless you’re an orphaned Taiwanese child stitching sneakers for Nike, but you know); any period of your life where your meals are prepared by a third-party, the bills aren’t addressed to you, and you don’t have to wipe another human’s arse is gonna be pretty fucking peachy.

Here’s the thing: the kids of today have never had it so good. Yeah yeah, we can get hung up on the loss of the golden days of childhood, where innocence was plentiful and curfews were late, but I’ll say it again: NOW IS GOOD. Here’s why:

1.     The sex offender register. Back then, it was kinda left to chance, and a mistrust of gentleman with short shorts and moustaches. Now we know exactly which streets to avoid, and why.

2.     When I was a kid, if I wanted to play a video game on my Commodore 64, I had to plan my activity hours in advance, ‘cos it’d take at least – AT LEAST – 52 minutes to load Frogger.

3.     In the 80s, kiddy fiddlers were kinda, I dunno, tolerated. Not encouraged, necessarily, but tolerated. My husband has a photo of him and his two siblings sitting with a dubious looking clown who is clearly – CLEARLY – cupping his brother’s balls. That sort of thing was okay in the 80s.

4.     When I was at school in Perth, Western Australia, we had nothing even resembling a sun-safety policy. I don’t ever recall wearing a hat, and our school assemblies were held in full sun, on concrete, standing up. Kids passed out like dominoes; this wasn’t a big deal, this was simply a rite of passage.

This is me, in 1980, sitting on the bonnet of a (probably moving) car and smoking what appears to be, yes, a fag. Like I say, parents were more relaxed (see also: negligent) in the olden days. 

5.     There were no such things as booster seats, in my day. Jesus, we didn’t even have SEAT BELTS. My husband (him again) FELL OUT of his dad’s moving car on one momentous journey. His parents – being of the free-range variety – barely even noticed they were down one kid.

6.     Holidays were shit when I was a kid. When we lived in England, we used to go to Butlins, a self-catering holiday camp for the simple minded, with entertainment provided in the form of holiday clown Billy Butlins (see point 3, above). International travel was the preserve of Boy George, Michael Jackson and – possibly – Bros.

7.     In my day, stranger danger simply meant instinctively mistrusting men with short shorts and moustaches, and Billy Butlins. I’d have got in anyone’s van for a Mars Bar. Kids today are much more clued up; they’ve got code words and safe houses and flick knives. Today’s kids are gangsta.

8.     Bullying was condoned, accepted and – indeed – encouraged. Fit in or fuck off, as the bumper sticker so eloquently pronounces. We didn’t ‘do’ multiculturalism in the 1980s. Jesus, we didn’t even do red-headed kids, or spectacles. We were the most intolerant bunch of motherfuckers, and yeah, that includes me. At this point, I would like to take this opportunity to apologise profusely for contaminating Sylvia Wong with boy germs. I hope it didn't leave psychological scars. 

9.     The healthy-eating pyramid was a thing of fantasy and distrust. I ate sandwiches of beef dripping and salt FOR A SNACK. On one memorable occasion, at that most 80s of luncheons (a smorgasbord), I ate seven prawn cocktails. In a row. I also ate all the icing off a Sara Lee carrot cake, once. Fortunately, the BMI was also a thing of fantasy and distrust.

10.  TV was total shit when I was a kid, and littered – LITTERED – with crap adverts for Len Hughes Mitsubishi and Mr Sheen. My kids have never watched a fucking advert. Nor have they watched Hey Hey It’s Saturday. For that reason, and that reason alone, they are winning at childhood.

11.  And finally: corrective surgeries/therapies are commonplace and accessible to all. When was the last time you saw a kid with a distinctive cleft lip and palette? That’s right, not since primary school. Not since the EIGHTIES.

What’s my point? Here’s my point: THE POINT IS, the streets have never been safer, the kiddy fiddlers more easily identifiable, the hats more wide-brimmed. There’s no reason on earth why your kids can’t go out and experience the same golden childhood that you did, albeit with better-balanced lunchboxes and a more open-minded attitude to the minorities and the misunderstood. Now is good, and now is safe, and now could even be fun, if we – as parents – lightened the fuck up, and let our kids be kids. (That’s my excuse for my laissez-faire attitude to parenting, and I’m sticking to it, okay?)  

Mistakes? I've made a few

Believe it or not, it was always my intention to have three children. I know! I wished this chaos upon myself! But honestly, there was a method in my madness, as follows:

1.     If the children are tragically orphaned, they can look after each other, and make a TV programme out of it. This was a big deal for me as an only child. I’d watched Annie too many times; I knew how these things could pan out.

2.     If you have three children, you can afford for one – or even two – of them to be gay. To clarify: I would wholeheartedly welcome a homosexual child, but it’s nice to have a mix, yeah?  

3.     If you have three children, you can afford for one of them to opt out of society, and the other to be an accountant. So long as one of my kids earns enough to finance my retirement, the others can do whatever the fuck they want.

4.     Of the three kids, surely ONE of them will look after me in my deranged old age, won’t they?

5.     Here’s the big one: if you have three children, you’ve got room to make a few mistakes. Treat your first child as your draft copy, your guinea pig, your test run. Iron out the wrinkles with the second child, and by number three you’ll basically have this parenting gig nailed. That’s the theory, anyway; I’m yet to put it into fucking practice.  

Because, yeah, in my decade as a parent I’ve made a fair few mistakes, at Ben’s expense. Poor Ben. I didn’t have a fucking clue what to do with him when he was born, and didn’t even have the benefit of YouTube to guide me through the complicated bits (nappy changing, breastfeeding, removing a Babygro that’s covered from collar to cuff in explosive yellow shit). I made it all up, and I fucked it up quite spectacularly along the way. That Ben survived with teeth and hair and limbs in tact says far more about his resilience than it does about my mothering.

As he’s got older, I’ve continued to make mistakes – repeatedly and without reprieve. But you know what? I never make the same mistake twice! Well, apart from that one where I forget to give them dinner, but hey, I’m only human. For the most part, I LEARN from my mistakes. The stuff-ups I’ve subjected Ben to will not be repeated on Frankie and Alice. By the time Alice reaches 10 years old, she’ll be a well-balanced, well-rounded, well-mannered, well-fed individual benefitting from the most proficient parenting on offer. She might even be able to eat with a knife and fork. Again, that’s the theory. Right now she’s naked, and angrily telling her daddy that she’s going to wee on him, so we’ve got a way to go.

In a rare and spirited act of public service, I’m going to tell you the mistakes I’ve made over the past decade, so that you may spare your own first-born children the misery and injustice. I know. I’m good like that.

1.     PlayStations are the devil’s work. Xboxes probably are too, but we never went there. PlayStations might work for your kid, but they didn’t work for mine. The PlayStation sent my kid bat-shit fucking mental. We tried setting limits – an hour on the weekend, nothing on weekdays – but that hour became the only thing Ben could think about for the week beforehand. “Can I have my hour” became his catchphrase, and a fucking annoying one at that. Then we tried offering him unlimited access, believing him to be old enough to set his own limits. WRONG! He simply wouldn’t get off. Ever. When I asked him if he wanted to end up like those lonely fat dudes who sit in dirty Y-fronts making YouTube videos of themselves playing Minecraft, his eyes lit up, like I’d offered him a day-trip to Sizzler. Aim high, kid, aim high. In the end, we realised that the PlayStation was Ben’s crack. It’d been the main cause of arguments for THREE YEARS. It was time to go cold turkey. The PlayStation has now left the building. Frankie and Alice will hear talk of this mystical piece of addictive technology, but they’ll own one over my dead body. You dig?

2.     Just say no. Say no! I never said no to Ben. I had too much mother guilt. The poor child’s from a broken home! The poor child has constricted nasal passages! The poor child is pigeon-toed! WE MUST GIVE HIM WHATEVER HE DEMANDS, WHENEVER HE DEMANDS IT. Big fucking mistake. Last weekend I tried this “no” thing out for the first time in ten years. I’d told him if he didn’t behave he couldn’t go to the disco. He didn’t behave. He didn’t go to the disco. Taking a wild guess, how do you think that went down? Yeah. Not very fucking well. For reference, I will be saying no to my younger two children. Regularly and without restraint. Tough love kids, tough love.

3.     Don’t give your kids free reign on their wardrobe. Last weekend Ben came out of his bedroom dressed as – how can I put this nicely? – an enthusiastic, drunken vagrant with an affiliation to Perth Glory FC. I shall be dressing Alice and Frankie until their life partners take over.

4.     Extracurricular activities are for suckers. Ben did everything. EVERYTHING. Because I thought if I didn’t do EVERYTHING then I was depriving him off his opportunity to be, I dunno, a gymnast, or a tap-dancer, or something. Frankie and Alice don’t do shit. Oh, tell a lie. They do kindy gym on a Wednesday morning, because it’s fun, and I like the parachute bit at the end.

5.     That rash? That rash probably isn’t meningitis. That rash is probably just the seatbelt rubbing your kid’s belly, ‘cos you forgot to dress them again.

6.     Milestones are for motherfuckers. Your kid will walk, talk and wipe their own arse when they’re ready, and not a moment before. If Ben can do it, anyone can.

7.     Homeopathic remedies are for fuckwits. See also: teething necklaces.

8.     Finally. These kids? These kids grow up really fucking fast. Before you know it they’ll smell weird, and not want you to hold their hand, and blush when you cuddle them in public. Make the most of every precious fucking second with your little people. That's what I've learned. 

The week I needed help, so I asked for help, and I got help

I’ve always considered myself to be pretty strong. I mean, not Geoff Capes strong – I couldn’t pull an articulated lorry down a main road, with or without a rope, although I have carried three children screaming across a carpark while simultaneously holding aloft a half-eaten birthday cake – but pretty, you know, tough. I’ve suffered the slings and arrows, rode the highs and lows, weathered the storm, swum the channel (is that one? I’m not sure) and still come out smiling and with my sanity in tact, give or take. What I’m trying to say, in a very, very roundabout way, is that I’ve survived my fair share of shit.

Having said that, the last few weeks have very nearly broken me. There have been occasions this month when I’ve been perilously close to the edge, by which I mean, screaming in the car. And yeah, actually screaming. I screamed until my throat was hoarse and my nerves were shattered. I just screamed. I screamed because if I didn’t, my head and my heart would explode in a catastrophic shower of madness and sadness.  

Because things always come in threes, right? Because dealing with one thing at a time would be too easy, yeah? Because life, sometimes, has to test your limits by saying, okay, bitch, I reckon you could cope with your middle child refusing, point blank, to go to school, and hiding his school stuff in random places around the house, and refusing to get in the car, and then refusing to get out of the car, and screaming PLEASE DON’T LEAVE ME for 30 minutes straight, until you peel him off your shoulder and run back to the car without looking back once, although you still can’t escape the piercing howls of a four-year-old. You could probably deal with that.

So, tough girl, with that in mind, I’m going to throw in a 10-year-old with a PlayStation addiction and a predisposition to SHOUTING, SCREAMING and HOWLING (ideally in public) when he doesn’t get what he wants, because that’ll be fun, yeah?

You’re on top of all that, yeah?

My lovely friends, I’m not on top of all that. Or rather, I wasn’t on top of all that. There came a point, early this week, when I was buried so deeply beneath my own personal pile of shit that it seemed wholly insurmountable. So I asked for help. Not just the usual help – not the help from my parents and my husband, which is invaluable, and is a given – but help from relative strangers, from professionals, from my guardian fucking angels. These are the people who’ve saved my bacon this week: a developmental paediatrician, a personal mind trainer, a school teacher, a kindy mum, a lawyer, and a fitness instructor. Some of them I’ve paid, some have offered their services for free, some simply said the right thing at the right time. People are fucking amazing, when they have to be.  

You know what every single one of them said, in a roundabout kinda way? “You got this.” It sounds a bit glib and clichéd now I’ve put it on paper, but I can’t tell you how much I needed to hear “you got this” from a selection of trained professionals. Because if I haven’t got this, then what are my options? To say FUCK THIS and run screaming down the street? To say FUCK YOU ALL and hide in the pantry drinking wine and eating Cadbury Crème Eggs, while my kids burn out the PlayStation, paint the walls in their own faeces and invite the neighbourhood cats in, and my husband leaves me for a less-screamy/drunk version?

The paediatrician – while providing me with the tools to sort my kid out – also told me to be the mother I wanted to be. The personal mind trainer – while teaching me how to be cool, Yolanda – also told me that I was strong and powerful. The fitness instructor – while showing me how to uppercut with intent – also told me I was empowered. The teacher told me to stay strong. The kindy mum told me things would get better, while giving me a hug. Oh, and my husband? My husband told me I’m a motherfucking gangsta mamma, while my indisputably amazing parents stumped up money and hugs and off-the-chart support.  

SO ANYWAY. I got to a point this week where I needed help – proper, professional help – so I asked for it, and yeah, in some cases I paid for it, but I needed it, and I got it. I needed to be told by people who don’t know me that I’m strong enough to take on the world and all its shit. I’m gonna give you the same advice, for free. For free! I don’t know what you’re dealing with at the moment, but chances are you’re dealing with something, because we all are. Here’s what I want you to know: YOU GOT THIS. You’ve dealt with shit in the past, and it didn’t kill you. In fact, it probably makes for a bloody good dinner party anecdote. This is just another bump in the road, another twist in the tale, another chapter in your story. This is the shit that gives you character. Don’t run away, and don’t eat all the crème eggs (some, but not all), because you got this, you amazing fucking human.     

Missing: sense of humour. Reward offered.

I have been ASTONISHED recently by our collective sense-of-humour failure. I mean, not my sense of humour, I’m as funny as fucking always, but, like, the mass outrage at innocently humorous jokes. I get that humour is very subjective; what some people may find funny, others obstinately won’t (like Miranda, for instance. People go fucking nuts for that show, but I find it so un-funny that it hurts my teeth). No, I get that. What I’m finding strange is how people are taking offence to silly little jokes, and making a big fucking song and dance about it in the process. That’s weird.  

For instance, an acquaintance of mine recently changed her name on Facebook to Far Kew and posted the following on the sanctimonious North Shore Mums page: “Can anyone recommend a counsellor on the North Shore that specialises in helping people with PTS? I just changed my name by deed poll and I am worried I made a small spelling mistake.” BAHAHAHAHAHA, yeah? Within minutes, the post had been removed, and Far Kew (in reality a long-standing member of the North Shore Mums) banned from the page. Say WHAT? I get that some people might not find that funny. That’s cool. We all find our humour in different places. But to BAN her for trying to have a bit of a giggle? Fuck right off.

A couple of months ago, on my Facebook page, I posted a story about Frankie standing up on an aeroplane and telling hundreds of disembarking passengers to go and fuck their fucking faces off. It’s inappropriate, yeah, but very fucking funny. A lady called Joan begged to differ. She piped up: “I find this very offensive! I can’t be the only person who finds this very offensive and not at all funny!” And I’m, like, Joan, mate, clearly this is not the Facebook page for you. Maybe the "fans of Miranda" page is more up your street.

If you don’t think something is funny, or if you find it offensive, then avert your fucking eyes. Accept that people find humour in different places, and move on. Unless the comments are nasty, malicious or capable of causing hurt, then shut the fuck up.  

Over the course of my three decades and a bit (ahem), I’ve surrounded myself with people who share the same sense of humour as me. This is important. I only have friends who make me laugh. Paul, my brilliant husband, makes me laugh more than you can possibly imagine of a man who gets up at 5.20 every morning and has three children who like to stick Duplo in his mouth. That’s why I married him, and why I’ll stay married to him. We find the same things funny; things that other people, it seems, don’t. Things like:

1. Naked children. MY children, not other people’s children, and not in a sexy way. Ben did a nudie run through the streets of Seminyak when he was four. The locals cheered and waved their pinky fingers at him. It was hilarious, my best holiday memory ever. Little boys with no underpants on are funny.

2. Napoleon Dynamite. I WAS THE ONLY PERSON IN THE WHOLE CINEMA LAUGHING. Paul and I watched the DVD on our second date, but we couldn’t make it to the end because we both giggled way too much and I think I snorted wine out of my nose so we had to stop it. Even now, if someone says, “I’m going to build her a cake” in a Mexican accent I laugh for about a fortnight.

3. Mexicans. Mexicans are funny. See above.

4. Swearing. Two or three days after Paul and I met, we took two old people to Rottnest Island. They texted to ask what time we would pick them up. We replied: “9.30 on the fucking dot.” And for some reason, this made us both giggle for three days straight.

5. Other people falling over. Not if they’re seriously injured, obviously, but if they are just gently grazed, then that’s funny. See also: drunk people.

6. My friend Moray. He once went for a job interview and his potential employer told him the company had strong ties with China, and how did he feel about that. And Moray said that was great, because he spoke Mandarin. And at the end of the interview he shook his potential employer’s hand and admitted, "Actually, I don’t speak Mandarin." And another time, when we were both working at the BBC in London, a girl brought in a box of kittens to give away to good homes, and another girl came into our office looking for the girl who was giving away the kittens, and she asked Moray where she might find her, and Moray said, without missing a beat, in his silky Scottish burr: "You’re too late, they’ve all been drowned." 

If you don’t find any of the above funny, then chances are we’re not gonna get on all that well. And that’s cool. Just keep it to yourself, yeah Joan?  

Tantrums by the Sea

Well, things didn’t quite go according to plan. Which, I’ll grant you, is a ridiculous thing for a mother of small children to say. Things NEVER go to plan. Oh, it started well enough. We were in the car – dressed – by 8.30. In the AM! I know! And the car ride was fun, and we sang songs, and although we got stuck in a bit of traffic, we still made it to Cottesloe roughly on time to meet my beautiful French cousin-in-law and her small half-French son. But then, I dunno, things started to deteriorate.

I don’t know if small children are a commonplace sight in Cottesloe, but mine were definitely frowned upon, particularly at the shall-remain-nameless café on John St where I met my beautiful French cousin-in-law. Both the staff and the clientele seemed to take an instant dislike to our three children, even before they started emptying sugar sachets over the table. The coffee was great, and the cakes were good, but the service was horrible, and the atmosphere cold, and we couldn’t get out of there quick enough, truth be told. We weren’t there for the café, anyway – we were there for Sculptures by the Sea, and we were EXCITED.

I know this isn’t billed as a child-friendly event, but it still looked fun, and I’d sold it to Frankie on the back of the bouncy balls buried in the sand. I’d seen photos of kids having what Frankie calls “massive great fun” and decided we wanted a piece of this interactive bouncing action. We decided to build up to the balls – save it as a grand finale, if you will – and headed to the sculptures on the left-hand side of the beach first. But there was a problem. Some of the sculptures allowed – nay, encouraged – children to clamber on them. Others had signs saying: “Don’t touch”, while still others had signs saying: “Don’t climb.” YOU try and explain that to a 3, 2 and 1 year old. Go on. One of the signs was slightly hidden, and the kids started climbing, and a mean woman picked up a sign and waved it under my nose so I couldn’t miss it and it was then that I rather lost my enthusiasm for Sculptures by the Sea, to be honest.

It was hot, and really humid, and Alice wanted to be carried, and Frankie wanted to swim, and sweat was dripping into my ears, and I felt very much as I did when we took Ben to the monkey forest in Bali. As in: I know this was my idea, and I’m sure others are gaining great enjoyment from this, but right now, as a rabid monkey/small child nips at my ankle, this is my idea of hell.

STILL, at least we had the balls to look forward to. If all else fails, we’ve got the balls. Except, as we got closer to the balls, it very much looked like the balls were roped off. I looked at my cousin-in-law, and she looked at me, and we weighed up our options, but it was too late, the kids were heading for the balls, under the ropes, caring not one whit for the signs that clearly said: “No bouncing on the balls.” Ahhhh, crap. As we dragged the kids out, the screaming started. From my two, anyway. Let me ask you: have you ever considered how many times a small child can repeatedly scream I WANT TO BOUNCE ON THE BALLS? From Cottesloe Beach, back to the car, and home to Madeley, a 40-minute drive away? Yeah, quite a lot actually. It’s still ringing in my ears, two hours later.

Now listen. I don’t want to detract from the magnificence of this exhibition. The artwork is quite wonderful, and it’s brilliant to have something of this scale on a Perth beach. I’m all for it. But next time, I’ll be leaving the kids at home. 

When parents go OUT out

I’m not very good at going OUT out. I can’t do makeup. My hair’s too short to ever look fancy, and I can’t walk in high-heels. Then, of course, there’s the whole socially awkward factor, as discussed in great length last week, which means that it’s probably in everyone’s best interests for me to stay at home and watch First Dates.

As improbable as it may seem, I’ve actually become worse at going out since having kids. You’d think the urge to leave the house would be greater when the living room’s full of small children cutting up cheese scones with scissors (THIS IS HAPPENING RIGHT NOW), but no, I’d still rather be at home, watching shit TV and eating Scotch fingers with my husband (not a euphemism).

And so it came to be that Paul and I went to a ball last weekend. A BALL. For this non-going-out-out individual this was looked forward to with the same degree of enthusiasm as one might look forward to, um, I dunno, that weird new reality programme on Channel 7, whereby a dude is encouraged to root a chick that’s not his wife. (Actually …) To clarify: the ball was NOT looked forward to. I’d only agreed to go because I’m too socially awkward to give the appropriate response (“I cannot attend, for secret reasons”) so instead I had to say yes and hope that the end of the world came in the meantime. It didn’t, and we did go to the ball. This is how it panned out:

BEFORE I got drunk, and AFTER I'd put my eyelashes on the right way up. 

1.     I remembered, late on Saturday, that I don’t own a ball gown, or anything vaguely resembling a ball gown. I do own a dress that I wore to my best friend’s big fat Jewish wedding a couple of years ago, so I dug that out and hoped it still fitted.

2.     I remembered that I don’t own ball shoes. I do own a pair of high heels that I wore to my wedding five years ago, so I dug those out and hoped that my feet hadn’t permanently swollen with child-bearing.  

3.     Same for earrings.

4.     I remembered – AS WE WERE LEAVING THE HOUSE – that I don’t own a handbag. My two-year-old daughter does though, albeit handbags emblazoned with Elsa and Cinderella and Barbie. In the end I stuffed my belongings into a small black sack that came free with my Senheisser headphones, and made Paul carry it.

5.     I remembered that I don’t have visible eyelashes. I do own fake eyelashes though, bought for the aforementioned Jewish wedding two years ago.

6.     I remembered that I don’t own glue to stick the eyelashes on, so I rang my mummy, who made a quick dash to Woolies, ‘cos she’s a fucking lifesaver.  

7.     I remembered the three children, and the fact that leaving them in a cupboard while attending a ball is, largely, frowned upon. I raced them round to my mum and dad’s, swapped three children for one small tube of eyelash glue, and then realised I’d left myself with just 16 minutes to get ready.

8.     I remembered that I can’t put on fake eyelashes, so handed eyelash-sticking duties to my husband, who put them on upside down, sweeping DOWNWARDS. He looked at his handiwork, smiled, and said they looked good. My husband’s a well-meaning dickhead.  

9.     We left the house! We got on the train! We got off the train! We found the venue!

10.  We couldn’t find the entrance to the venue, but we did find a man in a shiny suit also looking for the entrance to the venue. This man got on my tits, ‘cos he assumed we were at the ball because of Paul’s profession, rather than my profession. Silly shiny-suit man. Paul was just there for the free booze.

11.  We found the entrance! Hurrah! We went in. It was then the true meaning of ‘ball’ became clear. ‘Ball’ means ball-gowns, doesn’t it? Ball-gowns with sparkle and shine and fucking TRAINS. I did not have a train, although I did have my belongings in a small black headphone sack. Cue social anxiety …

12.  And champagne. ‘Cos nothing cures social anxiety like champagne, guzzled like a parent who hasn’t been out of the house in six months. As such, we found the lady with the tray of champagne, and guzzled it like parents who hadn’t been out of the house in six months.

13.  We wobbled into the ballroom for dinner. I was hungry but couldn’t reach the bread rolls, so continued with the whole hunger thing.

14.  I made friends with the waitress, who quickly gathered that we were parents who hadn’t been out of the house in six months, and topped up our champagne. She was a good waitress. Maybe I should’ve asked her to pass the bread rolls.

15.  The waiter came round with the main meal and asked – in slightly broken English – whether I had any dietary requirements. Because I was (a) deaf (b) drunk (c) a dickhead, I grabbed the plate enthusiastically and said “YES! Thank you!”

16.  I became obsessed with the MC for the evening, one Basil Zempilas. In my first-ever publishing job – on a slightly average homes magazine in Watford, England – I was tasked with writing the readers’ letters (cos no readers meant no letters, natch). One of the regular letter writers was Basil Zempilas (“I have mould in my bathroom!” “My front door-knob is loose!”), so to see him in the flesh kinda blue my drunken, stupid mind.

17.  I got the hiccups. I continued to have the hiccups until Sunday morning.

18.  Everything got a bit blurry.

19.  I became obsessed with the band – Frankie and the Seasons. Did they WANT to be up on stage, spinning and smiling and entertaining a room full of drunken humans in ball-gowns with trains? Was this what they’d hoped and dreamt of? Were they being paid VERY FUCKING WELL?

20.  I started filming the drunken humans in ball-gowns with trains dancing (with ALL the moves) to Frankie and the Seasons singing Grease Lightening, cos it blew my drunken, stupid mind.

21.  I COULD NOT STOP HICUPPING.

22.  I decided that this was the perfect time to find that guy who looked a bit like the guy I went to school with 20 years ago, and ask if it was the same guy who I’d never spoken to in high-school anyway. And also the Mayor, to apologise for the whole tree thing.

23.  I made moves to join the dance-floor.

24.  Paul made the WISE and SENSIBLE decision to take me home. The hiccupping was getting louder, and I was edging closer to the dance-floor. And the Mayor.

25.  We called an Uber. The Uber arrived. The Uber driver thought I was going to be sick, so Paul had to explain that it was just hiccups, and he’d catch my spew, if worse came to worse.

26.  Can’t remember a fucking thing after that, except for thinking that I’d lost my earrings, only to find them still in my fucking ears the next morning.

27.  Never going out again. Okay? 

Confessions of a socially awkward dickhead

It’s tough being a socially awkward dickhead. Take it from me – I’ve been a socially awkward dickhead for 38 years, or thereabouts. I pay for being a socially awkward dickhead about two to three times each day. For instance:

1.     I inadvertently purchased one of those bullshit Disney card folders from Woolworths, because I am a socially awkward dickhead and would rather nod and smile than say ‘pardon’ more than once to a check-out chick with a strong foreign accent. (This might also explain why Ben came home from school with a fucking trombone.)

2.     I hide from people. I hide from casual acquaintances and old friends. I hide behind trees and lampposts and iPhones – not because I’m a rude bitch (I’m not!), or because I’ve got fat since I last saw them (I haven’t!), but because I am TERRIBLE at small talk. Just awful. My heart races and my palms sweat and I blush – actually blush – when engaged in a one-on-one conversation that involves “how are you and what have you been up to since I saw you last?” (the big questions). I know; socially awkward dickhead, right here.

3.     I become afflicted with foot-in-mouth-itis. It’s a thing, and I’ve got it. FOR INSTANCE, while pregnant with Frankie, we’d joke a lot about him being ginger. NOT THAT THERE’S ANYTHING WRONG WITH THAT, there just happens to be a ginger gene running through Paul’s family, and we thought it’d be funny (not funny ha-ha, just funny funny) if we got a ginger baby. This meant, of course, that whenever we encountered a ginger person (there’s a lot of them about) I’d say – quite randomly, and without warning – I HOPE OUR BABY’S NOT GINGER. Paul blamed it on pregnancy hormones, I blame it on being a socially awkward dickhead.

4.     I adopt other people’s accents. Paul refuses to accompany me to Chinese restaurants anymore, and I don’t think we’ll EVER be able to visit Ireland.  

5.     I don’t answer the phone. Ever. The chances of an awkward silence are just too great over the phone, so I don’t even go there. A colleague once suggested a Skype chat, and I had to quit my job immediately. Text me, email me or send me a Facebook message, but don’t fucking phone me.   

6.     I make stupid jokes at stupid times. This is an affliction, which gets worse when I’m slightly nervous (in the hospital, at job interviews, meeting new people). For some reason this affliction is greatest at F45 circuit classes. I don’t know why. The instructor will be going through the exercises, and say, “Don’t do this one if you’ve got bad knees,” and I’ll pipe up, “OW, THERE GOES MY KNEE!” and there’ll be a cold, stony silence for far too many seconds. And then, weirdly, people avoid partnering up with me. Go figure.

7.     I tell inappropriate stories. I don’t know what the fuck is wrong with me, I really don’t. There was a meet-and-greet for new parents at the school this week, and I don’t think Paul drew breath for close to two hours, waiting for me to tell the principal about the time Frankie shat in a park, or the other kindy parents about Alice’s tendency to stick long bits of Lego up her faloola and say: “Look! My got a willy!”

8.     I bit a DJ’s nose. Yeah, that happened, many years ago, at a hipster London bar, where everyone was double-kissing. I got all flustered and missed both cheeks, and ended up – yes – nibbling the DJ’s nose. I stopped leaving the house around that point.

My friends, it would take YEARS of intensive psychotherapy to get to the root of these issues, so let’s not even go there. Instead, I offer you this post by way of an apology in advance. If we meet in person then I can personally guarantee that – after worrying about the meeting for at least a week beforehand, and praying for the end of the world to come in the meantime – I’ll either bite your nose, insult your disabled, red-headed son or pretend to be a statue in the hope that you walk straight past me. Because my name is Lisa, and I’m a socially awkward dickhead.    

Sleep is for wimps

It’s widely known that my kids can be shitheads, but when they’re short on sleep – my God – they take shitheadedness to the next level. I understand that this is a piss-weak excuse for bad behaviour; in fact, I’m reliably informed (by my friend Alison, no less) that in France the whole “tired and hungry” excuse for shithead kids is widely frowned upon. Your kid’s either well behaved or a shithead – there’s no tired-and-hungry grey area.

In retaliation to this argument, I present to you exhibit A: my 10-year-old son, Ben. When Ben’s had enough sleep he’s a CHARMING fellow, but any fewer than his necessary 10.5 hours and he’s giving Damian a run for his money. Unfortunately, Ben doesn’t sleep very well. One of these days, I’ll get him tested for sleep apnoea, but right now I’ll stay out of his way and pledge to never, ever let him have a sleepover again, because right now he’s a sleep-deprived shithead.

His behaviour at the moment is reminiscent of last year’s Bali holiday, when we had to get up at 4am for an early morning flight. The sensible, right-thinking members of our family (that is, the toddlers and the parents) got to the hotel and crashed, then woke up at 4ish refreshed and ready to hit the bar. Ben didn’t. Ben stayed awake. By the time the beer and peanuts were served he was stabbing a sharpened pencil through a complimentary colouring book and snarling at the waiters. And of course I’ve told you about our journey to England at Christmas, when he didn’t sleep for FORTY-THREE HOURS, until he finally fell elbow first into his lasagne. That was quite the achievement.

The problem is, no matter what time Ben goes to bed, he still wakes up at 6am, or earlier (shudder). It makes him an unpopular sleepover buddy. And son. It definitely makes him an unpopular son. But still, that’d be fine (sort of) if lack of sleep didn’t have such a real and dramatic effect on his behaviour.

When Ben came back from his friend’s house on Sunday afternoon – after a sleepover on Saturday night – I could see that he was slightly unhinged (first clue: he shouted at a lamb chop). We made light of it, ‘cos a 10-year-old shouting at a lamb chop is funny, kind of. Then we were, like, “early night tonight eh bud?” and he snarled and said something along the lines of: “You can’t tell me what to do, woman.” Ohhhhhhhhhhhh my friends, you want to press my buttons? You want to see the red mist descend? Call me “woman” and see what happens.

And then – get this – I asked him to take a box of Maltesers round to the house where he’d had the sleepover, ‘cos GODDAMN it, I’m grateful to those people. Bearing in mind they live about, oh, 12 seconds away, I didn’t think this was a particularly arduous task. He howled, and cried a little bit, and when I lent forward to wipe off the Nutella he’d smeared around his gob, screamed: DON’T ATTACK ME, as if I’m in the habit of attacking him on the driveway of our lovely new home. My friends, I was murderous. Not enough to attack my eldest son, but pretty fucking stabby nonetheless. Yeah, he went to bed early that night, but not before he’d kicked a wall, demanded NEW PARENTS, and told us he DIDN’T WANT A PLAYSTATION ANYWAY (good, ‘cos it’s fucking gone for the foreseeable, mate).

Kids need sleep. Kids need loads of sleep. I reckon – and I’ve got no scientific backing for this, just my own experience – that most behavioural issues can be attributed to a lack of sleep; to the pre-dawn wake-up calls and the post-bedtime wanderings. All kids have tantrums, but the tired ones (mine) will scream for a little bit louder and a little bit longer on the floor of Woolworths when refused a multi-pack of Kinder Surprise eggs. It’s a pisser, ‘cos there’s not that much we can do about it, as parents. Believe me, we’ve tried EVERYTHING to get our kids to sleep longer. We’ve put the clocks forward so they go to bed at 6 rather than 7. We’ve blocked out the windows with bin-bags (five-star interior design). Phenergan. Gro Clocks. Nothing really works. If you’ve got an early riser, you’ve got an early riser.

People keep telling me that I’ll soon be banging on Ben’s door to get him up for school, and then I’ll be, like, “Oh, I miss the days when he got up at 4 to eat all my Lindts and make weird YouTube videos.” Bullshit. If that day ever does come, I’ll just stand by the side of his bed, heavy breathing and prodding him to tell him that my sock’s come off.

The REAL motherhood challenge starts here

Facebook shits me. I mean, not Facebook so much as the people using Facebook (present company excluded, obviously). “Comment and like or the cancer kid gets it.” That shits me. “Illegal refugees receive more in benefits than war veterans.” That shits me. Anti-vaxxers. Homeopaths. Candy Crush. They OBVIOUSLY shit me. But right now, this week, the thing that’s shitting me most about Facebook is the motherhood challenge. I mean no disrespect to the mammas out there who’ve taken up the motherhood challenge by posting three pictures that capture their proudest mummy moments (or some bollocks), but – as I think I’ve made quite clear – it’s shitting me.

First of all, there are enough pictures of your kid/s on Facebook. There are enough pictures of MY kid/s on Facebook. The world doesn’t need anymore. We KNOW you made a baby. Excellent work, well done, gold star, go to the top of the class. You made a fucking baby. Now get over it.

Secondly, what about all those people without babies? The ones who choose not to have children (sensible bitches that they are) and the ones who can’t. Glorified images of motherhood are everywhere on the best of days, so why do we need to keep rubbing childless-women’s noses in our smug accomplishments?

Thirdly – and here’s the big one – those pictures are NOT MOTHERHOOD. They’re not even close to motherhood. The motherhood challenge encapsulates EVERYTHING that shits me about social media – it’s selling a styled, sepia-tinted version of parenthood thats one and only objective is to make everybody else feel like shit. “Oh! Look at my twins turning the pages of a foreign-language storybook together, ain’t life GRAND?” But what you don’t see, just out of shot, is the older kid – the one with the cross-eyes and a limp – about to attack his straight-seeing siblings with a potato peeler.

That might be an exaggeration. Slightly. But what about the pictures of mums in parks, with their newborn infant draped delicately across their full and enviable bosom? What you don’t see is the breastmilk leaking from mummy’s engorged mammaries, and the explosive shit that’s seeping out of baby’s Country Road onesie. THAT’S fucking motherhood.

The poo and the swearing and the fights and the shouting and the spew and the wee and the poo (yep, more of it) and the exhaustion – and, despite all that, or perhaps because of it – our fierce fucking love for these demanding little humans – THAT’S motherhood. 

As some of you may know, I started my blog as a diary. Motherhood was passing me by in a blur, and I wanted to document it. Along the way, it’s become my therapy – if you don’t laugh you cry, that sort of thing. And no, I don’t hold back. If my kid shits in a park, then I’m going to write about it, if only as material for his 21st.

Along the way, something quite unexpected and kinda brilliant has happened. Other battle-weary parents have started sharing their tales from the frontline. And I tell you what, nothing – NOTHING – makes you feel better about your kids smearing themselves from head to toe in Sudocrem than being told that someone else’s kids have painted themselves, their bedrooms and the soft furnishings in purple paint. Nothing cheers you up more after a supermarket tantrum than hearing about the kid who stood in the garden shouting loud enough for the neighbours to hear: PLEASE DON’T HIT ME AGAIN MUMMY! And nothing makes up for forgetting what time the siren goes than being told that another mum only picked up one of her two children from school. I live for this shit. This shit keeps me going. This shit is REAL parenthood, and again: if you don’t laugh, you cry.

Which brings me to the point I probably should’ve made four paragraphs ago: I want you to hit me up with your real motherhood moments. Send me a message, post on my Facebook page, email me or tag me in a photo on Instagram. If you want me to share your motherhood moment with the rest of the sweary mums’ club, then just give me the nod (THINK OF HOW MUCH BETTER YOU’LL BE MAKING THE REST OF THE GANG FEEL) but if not, that’s cool too. We’re gonna use the hashtag #swearymumsclub, just COS, and may even get t-shirts and mugs printed, just to keep things real. I’m getting carried away now. I apologise. But seriously, let’s do this, and then we’ll all get together and drink and dance and tell inappropriate stories and be home by 9pm cos CHILDREN. You in? 

A little love story

My husband and I have the BEST love story. I love that we have a love story. I’m not taking anything away from online dating, but “she ticked the relevant boxes” isn’t really Wuthering Heights, is it? (Weird that that’s the first love story I thought of. We’re hardly Cathy and Heathcliff. More Gavin and Stacey. Or Rob and Sharon. And yeah, I will continue to reference Catastrophe in every blog post EVER until you all commit to watching it. Together.)

Our story is brilliant. January 28, 2010, the Breakwater, Hillarys (categorically NOT the sticky-carpeted Breakwater of the 1990s; it was the shiny new version, just for those who were asking. Actually, the fact that it was the shiny Breakwater nearly rewrote history, because Paul was wearing thongs, and – because this is Perth, and Perth can be a little backwards – was refused entry).

Paul had arrived in Perth from Leeds, England, two days prior, with his mum and his sister, to visit his sister’s best friend. It’s a long story. I’ve been assured he didn’t make a habit of travelling 15,000km to visit his sister’s best friend.

His first couple of days in our fine city sucked, because his sister’s best friend thought “seeing the sights” meant going to a $12 steak night and the Leeds United fan club monthly meet-up. Fortunately, he had the good fortune to meet me two days later, at the aforementioned Breakwater. I was there because his sister’s best friend was also a friend of mine. Was being the operative word. Long story.

So anyway, I suppose it was something of a blind date. Paul was single and I was single, and another friend from the gym – Sharon, also from Leeds (it’s a thing) – thought we’d be well suited. She’d actually met Paul on Australia Day, and had phoned me up from the Sky Show. “Ere, I’ve found you one,” she told me, in the same way you’d ring someone to tell them you’d tracked down the free potatoes in Spud Shed. And I was, like, go on then, what’s wrong with him. And she said, no, actually, he’s GORGEOUS, which coming from Sharon is HIGH PRAISE indeed. But I was still suspicious.

On the whole, my friends had failed dismally at matchmaking. I’d even attempted online dating, with my friend Trevor’s help, but that was a disaster because I didn’t read the small print and ended up on a date with a very, very small gentleman. Not a midget per se, but a very, very small human nonetheless. I could pat him on the head. As my friend Trudi said at the time, it was like going out with a hairy toddler.

But anyway – it turns out Sharon was right, he was gorgeous and we were perfect for each other. We still are, for that matter. Ridiculously, sickeningly well suited. You couldn’t make this shit up, honestly. Despite living on other sides of the world, despite me having a four-year-old Ben, despite him having a failed first marriage of which we never speak, and despite the fact that he was only in Perth for 12 days, we were two sides of the same coin, to borrow a cliché, even down to the fact that we both loved Adam & Joe.

You know Adam & Joe, right? The funny guys off of the radio? They had a TV show in the 90s on Channel 4, and then a radio show on Xfm in London, and then a Saturday morning show on BBC 6 Music, which I was devoted to, to the point that I had their theme tune as my ring tone on my, ahem, Nokia. Besides my immediate friend group, not many people in Perth recognised that ring tone. And I don’t suppose Paul – an equally devoted Adam & Joe fan – expected to hear that ring tone coming out of the handbag of the girl he’d just pulled (easily) at a shiny bar with a no-thongs-after-8pm policy (the bar had that policy, not the girl, FYI).

And that was it, really. We spent the next 10 days behaving in what can only be described as a YOUTHFUL fashion – despite being 32 and 37 respectively – quoting Adam & Joe lines at each other, not sleeping, missing trains and giggling, actually giggling, way more than is right or proper for a 32- and 37-year-old, respectively. We fell in love instantly and irrevocably, and he sealed the deal when I asked how he felt about taking on Ben, as well as me. “I love you,” he said, without hesitation, “and Ben’s a part of you, so I love him too,” which was a BIG DEAL considering Ben’s propensity to eat with his fingers and not wipe his arse.

It was all kind of magical, and surreal – proper pinch-me-I-must-be-dreaming kind of stuff – but set against the backdrop of the certain knowledge that real life was about to kick in, and Paul was going to have to go home – to the other side of the WORLD – and this would end. And yeah, it did end, and Paul did go home, but – and you might have already guessed this bit – he came BACK! Three cheers for Australian Immigration and their intention-to-marry visas!

We got married precisely a year to the day after we met, with no prizes for guessing where the reception was held (clue: not the Perth branch of the Leeds United fan club). And yeah, despite the kids (so many kids), and the lack of sleep, and the mortgage, our relationship is still surreal, and still magical, and I still pinch myself every day (to keep myself awake, actually, but you take my point). Happy anniversary Mr Shearon. You’re still the best thing that ever happened to me.

Frankie goes to ... kindy

You know those mums who can’t wait for their kid to start school? Who start counting the days until they can formally enrol their children into the education system before they’ve even left the maternity ward? Yeah, I’m not one of them. Well, sort of. Oh, I dunno. I mean, I’m looking forward to not having two small people at home with me ALL THE TIME, but I’m also dreading not having two small people home with me ALL THE TIME. Work with me here; I’m struggling.

So here you have it: Frankie starts kindy – five days a fortnight, at the same school as Ben – in just over a week. This is the same Frankie who’s never been left with ANYONE apart from immediate family since he was born. I mean, yeah, there was our ill-fated attempt at daycare, when I got brainwashed into thinking Frankie would struggle at kindy unless I enrolled him into daycare RIGHT NOW, so I did, and he went twice, for a grand total of three hours, but he cried, and I cried, and I thought fuck it, and kept him home with me instead.

And then, just recently, I tried out the crèche at my new gym. I told them – loudly and categorically, with eye contact and no room for confusion – that they should come and get me if either or both of my children cried. Don’t misunderstand me, I’m fine with my kids crying, but only if I’m the one responsible for it, you dig? So I did a whole 55-minute Body Attack class, including cool-down, and was feeling pretty fucking optimistic about the future, until I went to collect my children, and saw Frankie and Alice holding hands in the middle of the room, red eyed and gulping. Yeah, they’d gone past the whole ‘crying’ stage and had entered the gaspy-gulpy-run-out-of-tears-abandon-all-hope stage. “Oh! They’ve been crying the whole time! We couldn’t make them stop!” Yep. That happened.

You can understand why, then, I’m not sure how the whole kindy thing’s gonna go. Frankie’s a tough little dude – you could drop him from a great height, and he’d bounce, and brush himself off, and climb to the top again (not that I’d DO that, but you take my point, yeah) but he’s happiest at home, with his people. He’s ridiculously fucking shy, to the point that he’ll try to climb inside you if an unrelated human tries to make eye contact.

And don’t forget, I’ve been here before, six years ago, when Ben started kindy. I’ve had six years of school shit to deal with: lost lunchboxes and forgotten sports days and P&C mums and grammatically incorrect notes home and birthday parties not invited to and mean kids and did I mention the P&C mums? Paul reckons he’s gonna make some kindy dad friends. He won’t, because he’s married to me, but don’t tell him, not yet. He’s got his sights set on a gentleman I spotted at the kindy orientation (All Saints shirt, good shoes), but don’t worry, I’ll fuck it up, by saying something wildly inappropriate on the first morning, ‘cos I’ll be all nervous and shit. There’s a scene in my new favourite programme Catastrophe (tell me you’ve seen it), where the main character Sharon approaches her new mummy friends and says: “What’s up, you crazy bitches?” and it hit so close to home that I couldn’t even laugh. I always say the wrong thing. It’s a fucking affliction. If I could TYPE my opening line that’d be fine, but the spoken word? It doesn’t come easily to me.

(That’s a good point. If ever I meet you, I won’t know what to say, and I’ll probably make an inappropriate comment about cancer, or dwarves, or red-heads, or something. If you’re a red-headed, cancerous dwarf this is practically guaranteed. I’m a fuck-wit. I say stupid things, then lie awake for nights on end thinking about what a fuck-wit I am. So basically, I’m apologising in advance. If you want any form of relationship with me, it’s probably better if we do it in note form.)

Also, what am I supposed to WEAR on Frankie’s first day of kindy? I wore my running kit on Ben’s first day, which was probably wrong, ‘cos the other mums must’ve labelled me “smug jogging mum” there and then, and no one wants THAT. My heart tells me to wear my “I fucking love Paul fucking Rudd” t-shirt, but my head (and my husband) says no. But what then?  Prim and proper, or a little bit edgy? The PRESSURE, gang, the PRESSURE.

But obviously this isn’t all about me, OBVIOUSLY. This is about my little dude Frankie, just turned four, entering into the big ol’ education system, and waving me goodbye a couple of times a week. It’s about missing the kid already, and wishing I could keep all my babies little forever. Frankie might be ready for kindy, but I dunno if I am.   

The school-holiday blues

Right now, at 6 o’clock in the morning, my house resembles a scene from Lord of the Flies, complete with bloodlust, primal chaos and a pig’s head. Well okay, a slice of ham, but you get the porky reference. Seriously gang, the school holidays have taken their toll, and I’ve given up trying to be the peacekeeper and conch holder (conch, heh heh) and instead I’m hiding in the toilet, with the door locked. Those bitches can bang all they want, but I’m not coming out until the wood splinters.

Please tell me your house is like this. Please tell me your days aren’t filled with pipe-cleaner craft activities and merriment. ‘Cos I don’t think I could take it, not right now, not while one kid is trying to impale another kid on a Strawberry Shortcake doll. I actually just stood in the middle of the living room and implored them to LOVE ONE ANOTHER, PLEASE, but that was a waste of fucking time – they just threw Mr Potato Head ears at me and continued smearing themselves in Sudocrem.

As you probably know, we spent the first two weeks of the school holidays in England, which was brilliant, because I had back-up in the form of my excellent husband, who has no authority whatsoever, but knows where the booze is stashed.

Now that we’re home, however, and Paul’s back at work, I’m left alone with these hoof-wankers, and I’m seriously outnumbered. Ten-year-old Ben’s been sick too – properly sick, with a week’s worth of high temperatures, sweating and so much snot that he actually puked. That was nice. And while I am sympathetic, yes, I’m also seriously lacking in bedside charm. The snot noises turned my stomach, and I couldn’t get too close, ‘cos he smelled weird. And – as I’ve discussed before – Ben’s got a tissue-phobia, and will only blow his nose on handkerchiefs and – when they run out, ‘cos I’m not touching/washing a fucking HANDKERCHIEF – underpants. And then socks. And then small children. It really is the icing on the puke cake.

There was a plus side to Ben being sick: he wasn’t such a dick. Now that he’s better, he’s back to winding up Frankie and Alice to the point that one leaves teeth marks in his arse and the other pulls out so much hair that he squeals loud enough to drown out the music from the ice-cream van (silver lining, etc). Their fights revolve mainly around the sofa, and each other’s refusal to get off it. (It’s a BIG sofa, but each person wants to lie COMPLETELY horizontal, without touching another human.) And also Disney Jr versus Cartoon Network versus CBeebies, and the subsequent volume of the aforementioned channels. It shits me. Go the fuck outside.   

Some might say, then, that perhaps now – in the midst of school holiday chaos – wasn’t the best time to start toilet training Alice. Yeah, you could definitely say that. But when is the right time to toilet train? When is it ever a good time to hear your daughter shouting – in the park – “poo coming!” and have to pick her up and run, run like the wind, to the café toilets, shouting “HOLD THE POO IN” while holiday-makers tuck into their tortillas. Also: Alice wees like a boy, with her pants around her ankles and her hands around a wishful willy. This attracts much amusement in sand dunes and parks. Yesterday a crowd of small boys formed around her as she pissed in a bush, to to the point that I said: “Haven’t you ever seen a girl wee like a bloke before? Eh?” And they shook their heads, no.

So yeah, the kids are feral, and I’m outnumbered. I’ve got nothing. I tell them I’m going to COUNT TO THREE, but get to two-and-three-quarters and realise – as they’re still smacking each other in the face with TV remote controls and colanders (basically, whatever they can get their filthy hands on) – that I’ve still got nothing, apart from getting “REALLY, REALLY ANGRY AND CALLING THE POLICE”. And that’s why I hide in the toilet, and why the kids have taken over, and why I’m counting the days until school goes back (17).   

Sippin' on gin and juice: happy birthday Frankie!

Frankie - my acclaimed middle chid - turns four today. Four! To celebrate, I'm reposting a blog I wrote for his third birthday. I know, kid doesn't know he's born. It's still pretty spot on, apart from the bit about him being three, which hasn't dated that well. Also, I'm pleased to announce that he now poos in the toilet (and the park, but primarily the toilet) and sleeps in a bed (our bed, mainly, but a bed nonetheless). You down with all that? Yeah? Cool, then here's my happy birthday to Frankie story. 

There’s this kid, right, with a crazy mane of white-blonde hair and blue eyes to wade in, who’s three today. Three! Like all my children, his entry into the world wasn’t straightforward – on this occasion, quite literally.

I went for the usual check-up at 36 weeks, a good month before his scheduled due date of ‘Straya Day 2012, and the midwife poked and prodded, and the doctor poked and prodded, and an ultrasound was quickly done, and the doctor turned to me and said: “How far away do you live?” And I was confused, obviously, and she went on to explain that (the as-yet-unnamed) Frankie was transverse, lying sideways in my belly, and I was all, like, yeah, no big deal. And she was, like, actually VERY big deal, go home, pack a bag and I’ll see you back here in 20 minutes. Twenty minutes! I tried to explain that I had a six year old, and a husband, and work, and tickets for the Arctic Monkeys at Belvoir Amphitheatre, and a dog with a massive tumour on his head, and anyway I hadn’t cleaned the windows in readiness for my new baby’s arrival and couldn’t possibly consider a lengthy stay in hospital, as kind as the offer was, so thank you but no thank you. “Twenty minutes,” she said. “Not a second longer.”

Turns out, transverse babies ARE a big deal. If you were to go into labour with a baby in that position, the umbilical cord could pop out first (technical term), with dramatic consequences. So that was that. I went home, packed a bag, handed Ben (the child) and Barry (the dog) to my mum (turns out that would be the last time I saw one of them. The hairy one with the tumour. After a week with mum and dad, he was sent to a “better place”. Please see an earlier blog post to clarify the meaning of “better place”) and checked in. By that evening, Frankie was head down and vertical, and I thought I might be sent home to clean my windows. By the next morning he’d flipped 180 degrees and was tap dancing. Then by lunchtime he was back lying across my belly. He was quite the timekeeper.

After a week in hospital, as Frankie continued to move with meal times, the decision was made to deliver him, by c-section, that afternoon. I was devo. After my ridiculously long labour with Ben and subsequent caesarean, I was determined to do things as nature intended with Frankie, but hey ho, the only thing that mattered now was whether or not he was ginger. He was, as the deliveryman (obstetrician?) announced proudly as he produced Frankie from behind the sheet of shame. But oh, what a gorgeous little ranga he was, the very double of his pappa, all button nosed, bow lipped and perfect eared. I fell in love, as you tend to do with your own children, even if they’re a bit ginger. I can’t remember what he weighed, but he was teeny tiny, the real runt of the litter, although my super-powered breast milk soon put paid to that, and within a couple of weeks he was morbidly obese – so fat, in fact, that he popped his own bellybutton.

Oh, Frankie was HORRIFIC from weeks 6 to 12 (approx). I didn’t see it at the time, but there’s a reason we only have a few photos of him between two and three months old. He had acne, and a hernia, a massive head, and no neck to speak of. There WAS no flattering angle for this kid. Then, at about the time we took him to England, he kind of blossomed – some might say he grew into his own head – and his acne cleared, and the sellotaping of a 20c coin on to his massive bulbous bellybutton seemed to work (thanks Nanny Ivy), and we were able to take him out in public again.

My goodness he’s beautiful now. And smart. And wickedly funny. We all think that about our children, don’t we – even the mums with the kids like Ralph Wigan (Ben had one of those in his class last year, a real “I glued my head to my shoulder” kind of fellow, who spent his kindy year pretending to be a pterodactyl, to the point that Paul still calls him Terry) – but with Frankie, it’s true. He’s properly tuned into people’s feelings, and facial expressions; he wouldn’t go to Ben’s school for months after an “orange boy looked at me funny". When Paul and I had gastro, and were taking it in turns to spew, Frankie couldn’t cope; he stood at the bathroom door crying “no mummy, no daddy, no more coughing,” and if you’re ever a bit sad, or a bit teary, he just KNOWS, and he’ll come up and stroke your arm and give you a worried Frankie look.

Oh yeah, he can be a proper pain in the arse at times, as all toddlers can; he forced me to wash the sauce off the pasta last night because it was “bleurgh for me”, and he STILL refuses to sleep in a bed, or poo in the toilet, or eat from a plate that’s not blue, but he’s so funny that it’s impossible to stay cross at him for long. The other day he asked Paul what he’d just said. “Did you say, Frankie, do you want a Kinder?” “Err, no.” “DID you say Frankie do you want a Kinder.” “Definitely not.” “CAN you say Frankie do you want a Kinder?” “Frankie, do you want a Kinder?” “Yes please!”

He’s debilitatingly shy, to the point where he’ll physically wither (and scream, loudly) if faced with people he doesn’t know – or does know, but who aren’t immediate family members – but once he’s warmed up he’ll slay you with his intelligence, humour and uncanny knack for remembering hip-hop lyrics, especially the sweary drug-reference ones. So if you spot a crazy-haired naked kid swaying and murmuring, “Rollin’ down the street, smokin’ indo, sippin’ on gin and juice, laid back, with my mind on my money and my money on my mind,” wish him a happy birthday, ‘cos he’s three today. 

Plane travel with kids: a survival guide

You want to talk about plane travel? With kids? Talk to me. I’m the motherfucking expert on plane travel with kids. Over the course of the last three weeks I’ve travelled 28,000km on a plane. With kids. Three of the them! Two pre-schoolers and one 10-year-old non-sleeping oddity, plus my husband, who saved my sanity on more than one occasion (by pressing the bell and asking for MORE VODKA. More!). So yeah, I know a thing or two about long-haul, international plane travel with children, which is why you should listen to what I’ve got to say about it, as below:

1.     Stay at home.

Ha! Not really. It’s not that bad, honestly, and the reward for surviving an international long-haul flight with your bitch kids is that you get to be in a different country, with different telly, and excellent foodstuffs, for a holiday. You get to make memories or, failing that bullshit, acquire heaps more material for your underrated blog. So, follow my tips, and you’ll be FINE, just fine:

1.     Don’t pack all the shit. You don’t need all the shit. On the outward journey, I packed my kids’ Trunkies (invaluable) with SO. MUCH. SHIT. Tiny Teddies and Arnotts Shapes and some weird kangaroo crisps that I found on special in Big W. Apples and oranges and grapes. Juice boxes and water and emergency Milo. I packed colouring pens and cheapo K-Mart Magnadoodles (x 2, to avoid arguments) and activity books and even Lego, for I am a fool. Of everything I packed, what do you think we needed? Nothing. Maybe the Arnotts Shapes, at a push, and that was just on the two-hour stopover in Abu Dhabi, in attempt to distract the kids from trying to stab each other with blunt plastic knives stolen from the plane. But seriously, we needed nothing except for babywipes and Phenergan, of which more later.

2.     Sit your children separately. At opposite ends of the plane, ideally.

3.     Be nice to the air hostesses. Ridiculously nice. Curl your children’s hair and teach them how to look cute, if only while embarking the plane. Say please and thank you, and you will be rewarded with kind smiles and extra biscuits.  

4.     Select your travel times wisely. Early morning flights suck balls. We thought we’d be smart this time, and stay in a hotel close to the airport on the night before our return flight to Perth. Ha! Ha and ha! The hotel was a pile of shit, in terms of customer service, leaving us to manoeuvre 16 suitcases and three children from the taxi through the foyer and up to floor five. And back down again a few hours later, while they stood behind the reception desk and chuckled at our idiocy. We thought the hotel stay would score us a few extra hours sleep. Ha! Ha and ha! What we failed to take into account was that two out of our three children would refuse to sleep, such was the excitement of being in a hotel room with an empty (empty!) mini bar. This was New Year’s Eve, by the way, and marked our only domestic of the holiday. Paul tried to walk out, but couldn’t find his clothes, and stood at the door in a heady mix of pyjamas and running shoes, while Ben sobbed and begged us not to get divorced. We’re fine now, don’t worry. We only have one fight every five years, and it only lasts four minutes, on average.  

5.     Expect the unexpected. The kid you expect to be the hardest work on the flight will be a dream, while your usual favourite will be an absolute pain in the arse, deciding that a stopover in Abu Dhabi is the ideal moment to practise his entire swearing vocabulary. Loudly.

6.     Don’t worry about other people. Other people are arseholes. I lost count of the times I muttered: “Haven’t you ever seen a KID before?” (albeit a kid trapped under the wheels of your luggage trolley, telling his brother to fuck his fucking face off).

7.     The plane journey is the easy bit. It’s the check-ins, transfers and luggage collections that drive you to the point of wild-eyed insanity. My advice to you in these situations is to slow down, take your time and ignore the looks of disdain and contempt coming your way. So what if you’re the last people to collect your luggage? It’s better than being in such a rush that you knock a small child off her Trunki (invaluable) with your massive handbag stuffed with babywipes and Phenergan. Not that I’ve ever done that, ahem.

8.     Pack extra clothes! For everyone! We hadn’t even CHECKED IN before Frankie had thrown a bottle of apple juice at me, and then pissed himself.  

9.     Drug those bitches. Phenergan is your friend. Unless it’s not, and has the reverse effect, in which case you never heard it from me.

10.  You won’t sleep. You won’t die, but you won’t sleep either. Your kids will, eventually, but not before they’ve subjected the entire plane to half-an-hour of pre-sleep hysteria, screaming “I WANT A STRAW” or “I WANT SOPHIA THE FIRST” until they pass out in an unusual position, after which point you daren’t sleep because you’re so terrified of them rolling off the seat and – god forbid – waking up again.

11.  Remember that all things must end. Eventually, after many, many miles, and many, many hours, you will find yourself on dry land, surrounded by home comforts. You may not have slept in 43 hours, and you may have developed an eye twitch, and your marriage may be on shaky ground, and you may have lost a child en route (hey, two out of three’s not bad), but you will have made it. Well done you.

Next week! Let’s talk about jetlag. And children. And children with jetlag. ‘Cos that’s fun. 

PS. People who recline their seats way, way back are MOTHERFUCKING ARSEHOLES. On both legs of our return journey I had a (different) man’s bald spot eyeballing me for hours on end. The temptation to draw a massive knob on his shiny bonce was WAY too tempting. To the seat recliners of the world, in the words of my three year old: FUCK YOUR FUCKING FACE OFF.

Oh England, you funny little island in the shade

As you’re no doubt aware, we’ve spent the last three weeks in England. The north of England. In winter. In a house that is by no means large enough to accommodate four grown adults and three noisy, noisy children with a tendency to attack one another without warning. But somehow – against the odds, and the predictions, and the potential for disaster – we’ve had a ruddy good time.

The thing is, I love England. I even love England in the winter, when your toes go numb in your inappropriate Converse and you can’t tie your children’s shoelaces because you refuse to take off your mittens. I love the mud and the fog and even the fact that, on some days, the sun never actually rises (because, my friends, when the sun doesn’t rise, your children sleep FOREVER, and for that I would happily forfeit vitamin D for life, rickets and all).

I was born in England, Ben was born in England and my lovely husband is English. I’ve a lot to thank England for. Which is why, with all due respect, I can tell you that England is a little bit weird. And yeah, I’ve got issues with saying ‘with all due respect’, too. It’s the same as prefacing an insult with ‘no offence’. ‘No offence, but you stink of fish.’ ‘With all due respect, you are twice the size of your Facebook profile picture.’ It’s not respectful and it is offensive, but still, you take my point.

So ANYWAY, with all due respect, I’ve noticed some oddities about England this time around. No offence, but it’s a weird little island. Here’s why:

ARGOS. Argos is weird. We have no Australian equivalent of Argos, and with very good reason. ARGOS IS WEIRD. For the uninitiated, Argos is a brightly lit shop selling everything your heart could possibly desire, from christening bracelets to washing machines (we bought both from Argos, on Christmas Eve, and it was the saddest experience of my life). Here’s the thing about Argos: its shelves are bare. Yes! The point of Argos is that you choose what you want from a thick, laminated brochure tied to a table. Then you use a little Argos pencil to write down the brochure number, IKEA style. Then you join a very sad queue, wait in line for many days, until a sad sales assistant taps in your numbers, confirms (or denies) your item’s availability, takes your money and gives you a number. THEN you take the aforementioned number, join another sad group of people at a vague collection-type point, and wait for your number to be called. Every now and again, while you’re waiting for Tuesday to become Wednesday, a sad sales assistant emerges and ask, hopefully, ‘Anyone order a Nerf gun?’ only to skulk sadly back behind the scenes when it’s left unclaimed. I’d never realised how weird the Argos concept was until Christmas Eve, after we’d broken Paul’s mum’s washing machine through constant and relentless usage. And I said to Paul that it might make more sense to have the stuff on shelves, for people to select and purchase at their will. “What, like an actual shop?” Yes! Like an actual SHOP! What an inspired concept!” So yeah, Argos; Argos is weird.

BOOZE. Booze is everywhere. Heck, I’m not complaining, I’m just saying that it’s a bit weird. Like, the supermarkets sell booze, which some might say is as it should be. At our local Sainsbury’s, here in East Leeds, crates and crates of on-special Stella beckon you in like sexy sirens when you only want a pint of milk and some Jaffa Cakes. There’s wine and whiskey at the end of every aisle. Either English people have way more willpower than me, or they’re just drinking their way through the cold winter months. Either way, I applaud them.

COFFEE. Coffee’s a bit shit here. The tea’s good, but the coffee’s shit. I’ve struggled with this. They make me drink all the booze, but don’t offer me a strong flat white the next morning to soften the blow. I’m so desperate for good coffee that I personally thanked a girl in a coffee shop today for making me a not-shit coffee. “You’re from Australia, aren’t you?” she asked. “You people know your coffee.” Madame, we DO.

SALES ASSISTANTS. When I lived in England, the customer service was comically bad. I can say this, because I worked in customer service for a little bit, and was a complete bitch. ALL the people ALL wanting stuff ALL day long. It became tiresome. I brought my best London friend over to Perth, back in the day, and she got frightened at Bakers Delight ‘cos the girl said, “Hey! How ya going? Ya having a good day?” and Louise thought she must know her. Now, to England’s credit, the customer service is BETTER, but still a little half-hearted. The checkout chicks sit down in the supermarkets, and you have to pack your own shopping bags, like, YOURSELF. The first time this happened, the checkout chick and I just stared at each other, like a Mexican standoff. She won. And I had to pay for the bags.

TELLY. Now you know I love telly. What I love even more is English telly. It is outrageously good. Even the ads are good. My one regret of this holiday is that I haven’t watched more telly, what with the whole “giving my children the experience of a lifetime” thing going on. My best TV discovery since I’ve been here is Catastrophe. My friends, it’s out-of-this-world good. I watched the first episode open-mouthed and awestruck, because these people – Sharon and Rob, who also write it – speak my language, sarcastic swearing and ALL. Goddamn, they’ve even got a kid called Frankie (spoiler alert). Every night, Paul and I wait until his parents go to bed, switch over from Bargain Hunt and Cash in the Attic and watch back-to-back episodes in an attempt to fit all four series in before we go back to Perth.

God, I’m going on a bit here, aren’t I? That’s ‘cos Paul’s taken Ben to the football, and I’m watching illegally streamed telly with Paul’s parents, but there’s no sound, on account of it being illegally streamed, and now they’ve both fallen asleep on the sofa, and, well, this is awkward, isn’t it? Before I go and hide in my room with my light off, ‘cos Alice is sleeping with us, in a blow-up boat, I’m going to bullet point my final observations:

1.     English dogs wear coats. At Christmas, the coats are festive themed. I always thought fur was pretty effective as a dog warmer, but that shows how much I know.  

2.     English people don’t draw their curtains, so you can see straight into their front rooms on dark winter evenings. I love this. I love the little glimpses into people’s cosy and heavily wallpapered lives.  

3.     Lunchtime options. England rules at the pre-packaged sandwich. Australia is piss-poor by comparison. What does one have for lunch on the run in Australia? A fucking lamington?

4.     Traffic. England has lots of cars and not enough roads. I suggest walking if you want to get anywhere before tomorrow.  

5.     Chips. I can safely say that I’ve eaten chips with every meal since I’ve been here, including Indian takeaways and breakfast.

6.     Toilets in bathrooms. I’m sick of my children coming in for a wee while I’m in the bath. And vice versa.

7.    Which leads me to the subject of baths. I love having a bath, but it’s an OCCASION, not an everyday occurrence. I do not enjoy sharing bathwater with my children, unless I get to go first. I like coming out of a bathroom cleaner than when I went in, as a rule.

8.     Carpet. English homes are heavily carpeted. Carpet and my children – particularly my children who aren’t completely toilet trained – aren’t happy bedfellows.

9.     Vaping. It’s a thing. I don’t know what kind of thing, but it something to do with smoking, except not smoking. It confuses me. I thought people smoked to look cool, which begs the question, why would you smoke something that makes you look distinctly uncool? Like, a bit of a dickhead? I nearly wrote “confused.com”, there, but then who’d be the dickhead?

10.  Houses. They all look the same. If I’ve walked into the wrong home once, I’ve walked into it a thousand times.

And there you have it. I could go on forever, but the TV is making weird, high-pitched noises now – it’s either that or Paul’s dad’s hearing aid – so I’m going to head upstairs to the bedroom that I share with too many humans and suitcases, and dream of pork pies and toilets with doors. G’night! 

Flying with kids: not for the faint hearted

We did it. Twenty-four hours, countless time zones, 14,617 kilometres, one international transfer, three children and no sleep. But we did it. And you know what? It wasn’t that bad. I mean, granted, Ben slept for only 40 minutes in TOTAL, but hey, at least we now know how long my eldest son can go without sleep before he falls, elbow first, into his lasagne (43 hours, as you ask. FORTY-THREE FUCKING HOURS.)

There were tantrums, of course there were, and raised voices, and smacked bums, but there are tantrums and raised voices and smacked bums on an average trip to Woolworths, so that’s hardly breaking news.

It was chaos, of course it was, which started the night before we left, when I discovered that Ben no longer fitted into ANY of his jeans or trousers. And I MAY have thrown away his trackies in a house-moving purge a few months ago, cos they made him look like a fat tramp. Which left us in something of a pickle, given that we were travelling to England in the bleak midwinter, and the only clothes that fitted my nine-year-old son were football kits (“I’ll just wear two at the same time,” he said, “with football socks!”). And so it came to be that Ben travelled light, wearing shorts (elasticated) and a Manchester City football shirt, emblazoned with the name of our airline, because, Ben said, this would GUARANTEE US an upgrade into business class. A double guarantee if Frankie wore his, too. (It didn't.)

And then, on the day of travel, he went all Rain Man on our ass: “Is this the right terminal? I don’t think this is the right terminal. Is this our gate? What if we don’t hear the boarding call? We should be boarding by now. We should definitely be boarding by now. What if they don’t let us on the plane?” and so on and so forth, while Alice tried to feed her sucked-on lollipop to an infant and Frankie practised his tightrope-walking skills on the back of a row of chairs, and Paul said: “I suppose it’s good that they get it out of their systems now, eh?” and I said to the chilled-out mamma with her sleeping baby in a papoose on her chest: “Stick with one. For the love of god just stick with one.”

Surprisingly, they let us board, and, as we settled in for the 11-hour flight to Abu Dhabi, I launched stage one of my surviving-a-long-haul-flight-with-three-children action plan: charm the hostesses. It wasn’t me doing the charming, you understand, or even Ben, with his hacking cough, a snotty nose he refused to blow, and an increasing sense of delirium, but Frankie and Alice, who are cute, curly haired and – when they want to be – quite adorable, with their pweases and fank oos. Yes, the hostess thought Frankie was a girl, but fuck it, if it meant extra biscuits and more wine, then I’d put him in a frock and teach him to curtsey. The charm offensive worked, to the point that the hostesses presented my children with a hand-drawn declaration of their love and appreciation as we touched down at Abu Dhabi. I still don't understand the parrot reference. 

The Phenergan worked, by the way, on two out of the three children anyway, who slept on my lap for six out of the 11 hours, pinning me to my seat and forcing me to cross my legs, refuse liquids and watch dry-sounding films such as Amy (4.5 stars, on account of the tragic ending) and Pitch Perfect (FIVE stars. It was all I could do not to stand up and APPLAUD as the credits rolled. What a rollercoaster of plot and emotion!).

The cracks started to show during the three-hour stopover in Abu Dhabi, as the kids wrestled on the less-than-clean floor of the transit lounge and my eyes started to burn. At one point Paul and I fell asleep on each other’s shoulder, until a piercing scream shattered the silence. I jolted awake to see Ben standing on a chair, shouting “ALLLLLICCCCCCCCCCEE RIPPED MY MAGAZIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIINE” at the exact same point a fellow traveller saw fit to strike up a conversation with us. “Oooo, have you come far?” “Eleven hours, yes, Ben! Get down!” “Oh! We’ve travelled 14 hours!” “Alice tore my magazine! How would you feel if Alice tore your magazine?” “Oh! We’ve come from Sydney! We went on a ferry ride!” “I’D PROBABLY GET OVER IT. We’ve come from Perth.” “We went to Perth! We went to Monkey Mia! Have you been to Monkey Mia?” “When I was little. ALICE, STOP BITING YOUR BROTHER.” “We moved to Dubai, but it wasn’t for us, so we went to Thailand instead. We adore Thailand, have you been?” “No, but Paul has, I hear it’s lovely, FRANKIE FOR FUCK’S SAKE STOP JUMPING ON THE IPAD.” This went on indefinitely, until we were called to the gate, and Frankie decided that was a really, really good time to have a massive, screaming tantrum on the floor, and we were asked to step out of the queue until peace was restored.

On the next flight, from Abu Dhabi to Manchester (eight hours, a little longer than usual, on account of diversions around Syria – no complaints here), there was a bit of a drama with the seats; Ben had been seated at the opposite end of the plane from us (an honest mistake, any parent could’ve made it) so we had to stand around until it was resolved, and a kindly Asian gentleman gave up his emergency exit seat for ME, because you can’t sit there if you’re under 16 (RESULT).

By the 30-hours-without-sleep mark, Ben went a bit mental, stabbing at the video screen with tired, uncoordinated fingers, blinking to keep himself awake, and dribbling. Yes, dribbling. As I desperately tried to convince him to sleep – “BUT WHY, WHY DO I NEED TO SLEEEEEEEP” – the guy next to me decided to run me through the camera roll on his iPhone. “This is my long-legged Jack Russell! This is a blurry photo of my niece having dinner! This is my other long-legged Jack Russell! This is my granddaughter, no, not him, that’s someone else, she’s there, in the background, behind that other blurred head.”

And then, precisely 24 hours after we left Perth, we landed in Manchester. Because, yes, we’d made it. Some of us with colder knees and slightly less will to live than others, but we’d made it nonetheless. Now we’ve just got to find Ben some slacks, before the hypothermia kicks in.