Ssssshhh, don't tell anyone I'm pretending to be a grown-up

Do you ever feel like a fraud? Like, you’re doing something that you shouldn’t necessarily be doing? I don’t mean swearing under your breath when a small child asks you to wipe their arse, but rather, in general – in life – do you feel like you’re playing a part that you’re not actually qualified for. I DO.

Right now, I feel like a fraud playing the part of the following:

A mother

A grown-up

A wife

A homeowner

A driver

A fitness instructor

A writer

A responsible adult

Which is a problem, because those things that I’ve listed above? THEY’RE ALL THAT I FUCKING DO.

I’ll be honest, I don’t feel qualified to do any of these things. I also feel that I’m going to be called out as a fraud at any given moment. 

Like, the motherhood thing. I have, on paper, been a mother for 11 years. Eleven years! That’s more than a decade! We only had dial-up internet when I became a parent! But I still don’t know what the fuck I’m doing, and I’m not entirely sure I should be left in charge of small people. At school, at football training, in any interactions with other mothers, I’m acutely aware that I’m just pretending to be one of them, and that at any point a proper mother might realise that I’m unfit for the job and say HEY, you’re not a proper mother! You’re just a dickhead with a high-functioning womb! And they’d be right, of course. I have no idea what I’m doing; I make up all the shit as I go along, which is the equivalent of closing my eyes and hoping for the best, which is also what I do.

Most of the time I can blag it, but sometimes I feel like I’m living on the edge. Like, when I’m left in charge of a child that’s not my own. Man, I panic in those situations. Last week, my friend asked me to watch her kid for 20 minutes after school. Twenty minutes! But I floundered, I faltered and I fucked it up, with the result that I lost Frankie, and my friend returned to find her own son standing in the sandpit with his willy out. It wasn’t a great result.

And then there are the parent-teacher interviews. I’m sure, by now, the teachers have rumbled me as an unqualified grown-up. I wear the wrong clothes, make inappropriate jokes, and sometimes – but not often – swear when I should be nodding and smiling. It’s a minefield.

By the same token, it’s only a matter of time before my own children figure out that I’m a pretend parent. They think I know what I’m doing; I don’t. The other day I did parent help in Frankie’s pre-primary class. Frankie was SO PROUD; we got to school early and he told every single child who arrived that his mummy was helping in the classroom that day. And I’m, like, “Who’s this mummy you’re bigging up? She sounds awesome.” The realisation that I’M the mummy – that I’m someone’s MUMMY – still floors me. That sounds like a position of responsibility and authority; I’m not sure I’m the right person for the job – my jeans are ripped and my shoes are flat, and I’m yet to invest in all-purpose, just-above-the-knee denim shorts.

Of course, this “imposter syndrome” (because that’s what it is) extends far beyond just motherhood. I’m also pretending to be a fitness instructor. It’s going okay so far, but I was nearly caught out last week when a nice gentleman asked for advice on his Achilles tendon. Fortunately, he was pointing in the general vicinity of his discomfort, so I put two and two together and surmised that the Achilles must be around THERE, somewhere, so I made up some shit about stretching beforehand and hoped for the best. But there you go! I’m a fitness fraud! I get up on stage and prance about and pretend to be competent, but in reality I’m just a dickhead who likes to shout at people from a safe place.

And I mean, have you ever bought a house? Mate, that’s some grown-up shit, right there. All those offers and counter-offers, rates and mortgages and loans and applications; I was certain that at some point a bank manager or a real-estate agent or a real, proper grown-up would turn around and say, “You’re taking the piss. You shouldn’t be in charge of a child’s scooter, let alone a massive house with reticulation and shit. Piss off back to playgroup, baby-human.”

I’m turning 40 this year. I can only assume that come November 8th I’ll have figured this shit out, and be wearing sensible shorts with those practical clippy-cloppy grown-up shoes that are both comfortable AND versatile. I’ll report back. 

The one where I opt out of modern society (and buy a kaftan)

You want to know something? I reckon we’ve got this whole work-life balance completely wrong. I say this on the first day back to reality after our Easter holiday. I call it a holiday, but we didn’t go anywhere. We just hung out together, as a family, for four whole days. We’re pretty broke, so we did things on the cheap – beach, playground, beach, park, beach, beach.

I understand that some of you may not be down with this concept. I understand that to some of you, this may equate to a term of incarceration. But yeah, I’m one of those #smugmums who really likes my family. Or rather, I like my husband. And, as a result, I like my children much more when my husband is around. Life is easier; it’s fun, even. And also: I don’t have to wipe bottoms when Paul is around.

I feel like I’m struggling today. Yes, it’s a first-world struggle of suncream application and hat policing, but it’s MY first-world struggle. Paul – after four days off – went back to work today. His alarm went off at 5.14am (ALWAYS WITH THE AWKWARD NUMBERS) and he left me alone with our three children at 5.25am (he moves stealthily and quickly; he doesn’t even turn a light on).

As I lay there, with Alice’s foot in my face, I felt a rising sense of panic. It sounds insane, doesn’t it – being afraid to spend time with your own children – but, well, you haven’t met my children. Ah, it’s not that. They’re entertaining little creatures, when they want to be, but it’s just so much HARDER when Paul isn’t around. It’s harder to get three children dressed and ready for the park. It’s harder to look after them all, and ensure you come home with the same number of children as you left with. It’s harder to carry all the STUFF. And it’s just not as much fun. I lay there, as Frankie commando-rolled out of bed and crawled towards the Lego box in the living room, and worked out when we’d next be spending an extended length of time together as a family. As far as I can see, our next break won’t come until my 40th (AHEM) in November. November! I mean, yeah, Paul comes home from work every day (he better), and obviously we have the weekends, but it’s the not the same as just hanging out together for days at a time, is it?

We’ve been talking about this a lot, recently. I think it’s to do with the realisation that we’re wishing our lives away – counting down the years until retirement, when we can buy a Combi and trundle across Australia – but that’s RUBBISH, isn’t it? We’re actually looking forward to being old (sorry mum, older), and to the kids not being around anymore. And, as nice as that sounds, I really like having the kids around, so long as Paul’s around too. I don’t want them to grow up and leave home. I love the little shows they put on, and the mad games that the three of them invent, and Frankie commando crawling out of the bedroom every morning, and Alice calling everyone a silly sod. I don’t want to wish this time away.

Do you know Bruce, from Big Family Little Income? If you don’t, you should. Bruce likes his wife, and he likes his kids, and he wanted to spend more quality time with them, so he bought a BUS and now he’s travelling around Australia. The kids are being schooled en route, and they’re having the best kind of fun, together. I’m entranced by this idea. Paul and I have had proper, grown-up discussions about whether we should do this – because honestly? This Monday-to-Friday working week isn’t working for us. We talked – briefly – about him working FIFO, because at least he’d have a block of time at home each month, but then we came to our senses, because if you think I get bad Sunday-itis now, I can’t even imagine what I’d be like on the night before he left for his two-weekly shift, or whatever it might be. No. Not gonna happen.

To be honest, I don’t have the solution. I just know that I like my family being together. I like sharing the fun (and the bottom wiping) with another grown-up human. I’m a bit sad, like that. Maybe we should start a commune, live off the land, bake our own bread, that sort of thing. Who’s in? 

The drugs do work

It was the point at which I started crying into the Vegemite sandwiches that I realised that maybe – just maybe – I was losing my shit. Paul put his arm around me as I stood in the kitchen, surrounded by Vegemite and ham and bread and the general chaos of school lunches, and I sobbed and said: “IT’S ALL SO FUCKING RELENTLESS.”

Which, I think you’ll admit, is a slight overreaction to having to make three Vegemite sandwiches. But of course, it WASN’T just three Vegemite sandwiches. FRANKIE has Vegemite sandwiches, breakfast, lunch and tea, day after day, without variation or so help me god. BEN has ham and cheese on white bread – always white bread – and if I try and sneak anything green in it’s rejected out of hand. Alice, who’s on a perpetual quest for Mrs G’s healthy lunchbox award – wants salad sandwiches, with all the trimmings.

I make all the sandwiches the night before, at the same point that I’m trying to make tea, and sometimes, just sometimes, the sight of my kitchen benchtop covered in the entire contents of the fridge, while Frankie takes his sand-filled shoes off on the sofa, and Ben brings 14 different friends home, all asking to sleep over, and Alice begs to watch Ryan’s Motherfucking Toy Reveal on YouTube, I cry into the Vegemite sandwiches.

Or rather, I cried. I don’t cry anymore.

I don’t cry, because I’m on drugs. Prozac, specifically.

Man, that is one under-rated drug (my doctor’s words, not mine).

If you’d asked me a couple of months ago whether I needed happy pills I’d have said no, no! I exercise! I run! I clear my head and breathe in the fresh sea air. My body is a temple and I have no need for your fancy medication. And anyway, won’t it make me fat? But then I went to see my doctor, who began writing the prescription before my bottom had hit the seat, and shooed me out the door towards the nearby chemist. “If you go now you’ll get there before it closes. Go now. Go,” she said, in what I thought was an unnecessarily urgent tone.

And yeah, I googled. I’m 39 years old and I’ve never taken anti-depressants before. I needed to know the side-effects and, yeah, whether they’d make me fat.

Well, it’s been two weeks, and I’m not fat yet. I’m not sleeping brilliantly, but by the same token, I’m not waking up at 3am to worry about the water bill. Basically, I’m just a sleepy hippy.

Guys, I’m so fucking chilled. See – I used the word guys. I’d have never done that a fortnight ago. I feel like Neil out of The Young Ones. I don’t shout anymore. I tried to shout yesterday, when Frankie went skidding across my freshly mopped floor, but it came out as like a “woah, dude, easy does it”. I’m very fucking zen right now.

Technically, Prozac regulates the amount of serotonin in the brain. It is a LITERAL happy pill. The way I see it, my brain had got to the point where it was so full of worry that there was no room left for the serotonin. That shit was leaking out of my ears. I wrote just a couple of weeks ago about all the shit that was on my mind at any given moment – library books and school lunches and uniforms and clean sheets and emails and meetings and Trump and monkeys. These worries were like drunk, uninvited guests at a party, gatecrashing and spoiling the fun for the cool kids who just want to play Jenga. My poor serotonin had sighed, picked up its rucksack and bid me farewell. There was no room at the party for the poor little guy. It wasn’t that I was especially depressed, I was just too fucking worried about Vegemite sandwiches to be happy. I mean, I cried when someone shook their head at me for taking a corner too wide on the way to school. That’s not right. That’s not me.

Prozac has taken the edge off. I still sweat the small shit, but it doesn’t weigh me down as much. I feel lighter, clearer, floatier. I waved at a road rager today. Hello!  

Good Friday (it's not what you think)

I’m no Christian, but I do believe in that “do unto others” shit. Be the good that you want to see in the world, that’s what they say, isn’t it? I’m all about that. I’ve always been about that, except when I was quite small, and something of a racist only child.

But! That aside, I’m into being kind. I’ve told you this before – it’s hardly a newsflash. I tell my children – every night, before they go to sleep – to be brave, and to be kind. They can do what they want (within State laws), provided they’re brave and kind. And they take their shoes off at the door. And they don’t touch my fucking windows. But apart from THAT, just be kind, kids!

Recently, this whole kindness thing has gone next level. Not with my kids, they’re still selfish little fuckers, but with my friends. And that, subsequently, has been passed on to acquaintances, and then the nice lady in the post office. Turns out that kindness is contagious! Who knew?!

It started a few weeks ago. I got a new job – which I’ve harped on about endlessly; forgive me – and, instead of a contract in the post, I received a pretty posy of flowers. That rocked. I can’t tell you how wonderful it felt to receive a bunch of blooms delivered to my door. I loved that.

Because of that warm, bloom-induced glow, I sent a similar posy to a friend of mine who’d just had some shit news. That seemed to cheer her up, and cheering her up felt good. I decided there and then to do more cheering up, when necessary.

That got the ball rolling, and suddenly, within days, small gifts of kindness were pinging their way across the country, back and forth, here and there, amongst my friend group. This. Felt. Ace. I had a bad week, and found small packages of beads, chocolate and body scrub on my doorstep (separate packages – that’d be quite a random gift hamper), all accompanied by sweet little notes of support. You can’t do that on Facebook. You can show support, but you can’t repair a battered old doll, and hand it back with a bottle of wine and a scented candle. That’s above and beyond. That shit changes the world.

In return, we – Paul and I – sent out our own little gifts. A four-pack of beer for a work chum of Paul’s. A card for a kid whose mum said checked the letterbox every day, hoping for post. Profiteroles. Home-made sausage rolls. Hand-drawn pictures of recently deceased cats. You gotta think creative with this shit, but trust me, it feels good.  

In a weird coincidence, as I was couriering sausage rolls across town, I was also listening to an old Scroobius Pip Distraction Pieces podcast, in which he was interviewing Danny Wallace. Do you know Danny Wallace? He’s a writer, sort of, and he’s done bits and pieces on telly, and for a while there I thought we were probably going to get married, because we lived near each other in East London and kept standing next to each other on the tube. ANYWAY, he wrote a book called Yes Man, and another called Join Me, in which he accidentally started a cult. I’d forgotten about this book, and about the impact it had on me when I read it in the early 2000s. Danny Wallace was telling Scroobius Pip that he didn’t really know what to do with his cult once he’d started it, so he settled on instructing his followers to commit random acts of kindness – or more specifically, random acts of kindness on a FRIDAY. Otherwise known as: Good Friday. Man, this took off. For a while there, there were enthusiastic folk running all over London doing nice things for surprised humans – and one con man, who scored a shit-load of money and a great story to tell down the boozer. Good Fridays – they warmed up cold London town, and changed my outlook on life, for a little while there.

I say – and hands up if you’re with me – we should bring back Good Fridays. Do nice shit for unsuspecting people who would benefit from nice shit. Make people smile. Don’t spend lots of money – draw a picture, write a card, pay for someone’s coffee, be really fucking effusive with your thanks when the post-office lady sorts out your driver’s licence. I mean, I don’t want to sound like Mother fucking Teresa here, but I’ve started leaving Facebook reviews for small businesses who offer a good service. Five stars! Costs nothing!

Little things – small acts of kindness – make a big fucking difference. Watch how they make people smile, and how you’ll smile in return. Go forth into Good Friday, lovely people, and report back!

All the worries, crazy worries (throw your hands up in the air)

I used to think I was the only person in the world who worried excessively. I knew people WORRIED – about war and famine and whether there’d be another season of Happy Days and shit – but I didn’t know they sweated the small stuff to the extent that I did. Or rather, to the extent that I do. Like, let’s take this precise moment. It’s Sunday morning, the coffee is hot, my husband is squeegeeing the shower in the nude (double-win) and my children are home, happy and healthy, although Frankie has the shits and Alice just scratched a mozzie bite on her cheek and bled on to her new nurse dress-up. But now – RIGHT NOW – I’m worrying excessively. In no particular order, I’m worried about:

Alice’s scratched mozzie bite, and whether it will leave a scar on her beautiful, flawless, olive-skinned head

Frankie’s arse, and whether it was a one-off episode, or if we’re talking longer-term shittage

Ben (general)

Frankie (general)

Alice (general)

Frankie’s library book, which – in a “my-dog-ate-my-homework” episode – was left by an open window in the great storm of summer 2017, and is now sodden, crinkled and colour-run. I’ve dried it in the oven and ironed it flat, but it resolutely REFUSES to go back to its original unblemished state. Which would be FINE, but our library lady is a fascist, who pours bottles of water over library bags to test their water-proofedness. She’s gonna destroy me

My friend who’s gone really quiet, and I need to send her a proper, lengthy catch-up message, but instead I’m pissing about with my blog and Facebook and shit

That thing I said yesterday to that woman

That thing I said the day before to that man

Where Ben’s library book is

Where Frankie’s home-reading book is

Where Ben’s home-reading book is

Where Ben will go to high-school

That meeting I have on Monday

Money (always money)

Whether I’ve wasted a year of my life and ALL OUR MONEY on training to be a Bodyattack fitness instructor

The chocolate pavlova I ate excessive amounts of last night

Today’s birthday party at Inflatable World. Who will I talk to? What if I say a dumb thing?

Deadlines

Not having deadlines

The state of the car

Socks, and their mysterious absence

What to have for tea

Annoying Orange, and Frankie’s obsession with him

The kid from down the road who’s trouble but also troubled, if you know what I mean. I’m worried Ben and his friends aren’t being kind enough to him

My grandparents, and the fact that I don’t visit enough

Un-replied-to messages, texts and emails

The fact that it’s just started raining on my clean fucking windows. Actually that’s less of a worry and more of a gigantic fucking rage-inducer. Those fuckers have just been cleaned! Stop raining on my fucking windows!

By way of comparison, I just asked Paul what he’s worrying about at this precise moment in time (he has clothes on by now, so that’s one concern ticked off). He looked at me blankly.

“Like, right now, what’s on your mind?” I asked him.

Blank look. “Nothing.”

“There must be SOMETHING.” His jaw dropped, as he went into thinking mode.

“I’m a bit worried about what we’re going to have for tea. What’re we gonna have for tea?”

This reminded me of a conversation I’d had a week earlier, with a friend who’d just arrived from England with her fella and two small children. “How was the flight?” I asked, as her face drained of colour, and she told me a harrowing tale of arriving at Manchester Airport to discover that a page in her small son’s passport was ripped.

“I mean, we can let you through at this end,” the jobsworthy airline knobhead said, “but there’s every possibility you’ll be turned back at Perth Airport. This is a LEGAL DOCUMENT, and you’ve defaced a LEGAL DOCUMENT, and you may well be hung upon arrival in the colonies. Have a nice flight!”

My poor friend spent the next 24 hours – TWENTY-FOUR HOURS – panicking and worrying and mithering and generally shitting herself, while simultaneously enduring the hell that is international plane travel with two small children. Turns out she needn’t have worried – the officials at Perth Airport were more worried about a banana peel in someone’s hand luggage than a torn page of a passport, but STILL.

By contrast, I then asked her gentleman partner about his journey. “Yeah it was fine,” he said. “Kids were a bit restless, but nothing to worry about.”

I envy – ENVY – these gentlemen with their simple minds and rumbling bellies. Oh, for a life ruled by mealtimes and, well, mealtimes. How sweet it must be.   

Thing is, I’ve always been a worrier. I’m highly strung, anxious and nervy. I’ve always been like this – my fingernails are chewed, the skin around them jagged, red and sore. I went grey at about 25 – partly genetics, partly self-induced brain-worry.

I have reason to believe – because I’ve been told – that I was a bit of a fucking nightmare as a kid. I remember my mum constantly telling me that I’d worry myself sick, and I think I probably did. I worried about everything – EVERTHING – but my number-one worry was that my parents would die and that I’d be left all alone. I was an only child, you see, and we’d emigrated to Perth when I was quite small, leaving us without any extended family. And then, when I was eight, my dad had a motorbike accident – a knock-on-the-door, you’d-better-get-to-the-hospital-quickly motorbike accident – that left him hospitalised for months, and me with six months of my life that I have absolutely no recollection of. From that point – at least I think this was the point at which I became a nervous fucking wreck – I was a nervous fucking wreck. My mum worked full-time, and came home at 5.30 every night. If she wasn’t home by 5.30 – if she hadn’t pulled into the driveway by the closing credits of Mork & Mindy – I fell to hysterical pieces. That must’ve been fun for my parents, I’m sure.

That worry – that sense of sweating the small shit – has stayed with me through to adulthood. I wake up most days feeling a little bit sick, a nervous knot in my stomach. If the kids wake me up in the night, my brain instantly lights up my worry list, so I can spend a good couple of hours fretting about the water bill before the next kid comes in to tell me that they’ve lost a sock.

I’ve worked on this over the years. I’ve seen hypnotists and therapists and everyone apart from qualified medical practitioners. I’ve tried to learn to “live in the moment”, but that’s really fucking hard when your worry bag is full to overflowing, and you know – you just know – that your unread emails are multiplying in your inbox, and that the senders of said emails are forming a secret Facebook group just to talk about how shit you are at replying to emails.

I realise that I have absolutely nothing to worry about; that there are people in the world with proper, real, legitimate worries, and that I’m insulting them with my bullshit next-mealtime worries. I’m sorry for that. I’ll add it to my worry list.  

That time I actually finished something that I started

I am, by my very nature, a quitter. Hear me out here. I start things and I don’t finish them; it’s WHAT I DO. Just ask my mother, and her wasted extra-curricular term fees (again, mum, sorry about the horse-riding. I just really liked those snazzy velvet hats).

That’s by the by. The point is, I rarely complete activities that I start. God knows I’ve tried to quit motherhood a few times, but those little fuckers keep following me, demanding Le Snacks and Pop Tops. One day I’ll shake them. I’m the same in queues. I’ll queue for ages and ages and ages, silently fuming, and then get THIS close to the front and go FUCK IT, and stomp off with my incomplete purchase. I genuinely do this. It’s weird. I did the same thing at university. Got to the LAST SEMESTER of a three-year degree and went, na, fuck it, and pissed off to London to work in a record store. There I’d have stayed (although probably not stayed, because chances are I’d have quit that, too), if my mother hadn’t threatened to forcibly drag my sorry white arse back on to a British Airways jet and back to the hallowed corridors of Curtin University, where I did, in fact, complete my nonsensical and entirely pointless Bachelor of Arts.

And so, it is with complete and unequivocal surprise that I can announce that I have – somehow – completed my training, and am now a qualified, professional Bodyattack instructor. As with everything I undertake, this began on a whim. I’d moved house, and moved gyms, and my new gym didn’t have many Bodyattack classes, because of a lack of instructors. So I did what every normal person does in that situation: I shrugged and said, “Oh well, I suppose I’ll have to become one then.” I was sitting with my friend Emma at the time. “You should do it too,” I said, and she did, because I can be very persuasive when I want to be. “You do it you do it you do it you do it you do you do etc etc etc,” while poking her in the arm with my finger. 

Man, I thought it would be pretty easy to become a Bodyattack instructor. A little bit of moving, a little bit of grooving, a little bit of shouting, a little bit of pouting and bob’s your uncle, you’re up on stage, strutting your stuff.

That was my first mistake. Fuck me, the training was hard. It took a year – A YEAR – to finally get my certificate, the one that lets you get up on stage and shout at people. A year! I never anticipated it taking a year. I thought maybe a week, tops. But no, a year, and many, many dollars on top of that. So many fucking dollars. At each stage of the process – and let me tell you, there have been many, many stages to this process – I considered quitting. I considered quitting the first time I was presented with choreography notes. Emma took one look at them and went, yep, eight beats there, 16 there, hop, skip, side shuffle, twirl. To me, it was Greek. I couldn’t make head nor tail of it. Even at the first training weekend, under the guidance of the king of all Bodyattack instructors, I couldn’t fathom it. My left foot moved instead of my right, my arms flailed when they should’ve flung. That was the weekend that Ben got sick (like, real sick), and I had to call it quits to go and be by his hospital bedside. Ben apologised, a few days later, for ruining my Bodyattack dream, but I was, like, “Na, kid, it’s alright, I was spectacularly shit. I don’t think Bodyattack’s for me.” I took it as a sign, to be honest.

But, for some reason, I carried on. I carried on, thinking, I’ll just do this next bit, and then I’ll quit. I started my Certificate III in Fitness, and it was fucking hard – way harder than I’d anticipated – with questions about anatomy and shit – and I just kept thinking, I’ll quit once I’ve done this. I’ll get my Cert III and then we’ll call it a day. But I finished my Cert III – with its ridiculous fucking gym simulation (search for me on YouTube if you fancy a laugh; my assessment is there in GLORIOUS FUCKING TECHNICOLOUR) – and signed up to do a second weekend of Bodyattack training, thinking, I’ll quit after THIS bit. 

I don’t know why, but something clicked on that second weekend. The trainer – the same trainer who’d seen me stumble and fumble on my first weekend – asked what was with the newfound confidence. I shrugged and said, “I dunno, what’s the worst that could happen?” And that was it, I suppose. My eldest son had nearly died three months earlier as I’d gallivanted across that same stage like an uncoordinated donkey. Perhaps my priorities had changed: this wasn’t a life-or-death situation anymore; it was simply something I’d probably quit in due course anyway. In any case, I sailed through, and it was on to the next stage: a 12-week mentoring programme.

This was in October, or thereabouts. The 12-week mentoring programme – in which you teach Bodyattack in a REAL-LIFE CLASS SITUATION, under the guidance of a pro-star mentor – filled me with abject horror. I decided that, on the whole, I did not want to be filled with abject horror, so I said, yeah, na, I won’t bother thanks. But Emma – now a fully qualified instructor herself – and Paul – my esteemed husband – said JUST FUCKING DO IT, although Emma probably didn’t say that, on account of her being quite a well-mannered individual. So I just fucking did it.

There were highs and there were lows in the 12-week mentoring programme. The low came as I tried to teach a Sunday morning class after Ben had had a sleepover with mates the night before. I hadn’t slept, I hadn’t had breakfast, I couldn’t remember actually arriving at the fucking gym. I stood on stage, feet hips distance apart, abs braced, shoulders back, hands on hips, and my mind emptied. Or rather, it scrambled. I couldn’t think of words. The words had gone. The moves had gone. I fucked it. I may as well have directed the entire class out of the fucking door while doing the conga, it went so fucking badly. That was a bit of a wake-up call, and after that, something clicked (again) and I kind of found my groove. Turns out, I like shouting at people, ideally from a safe place where they can’t shout back. Or hit me.

The final stage in the certification process is a video of you teaching one entire class. It sounds straightforward, but understand this: IT IS NOT. Every side step, every tuck jump, every toe point, is critiqued. The words you say, the way you stand, the position of your hands as you highland fling – it all comes under intense scrutiny, and it’s a three-strikes-you’re-out system. Literally. I decided that if I failed the video – which was highly likely, let’s be honest – then I would quit, end of story. Bye bye Bodyattack dream.

Surprisingly, I did not fail. I passed. Four weeks after sending in the video, I received an email that said PASS. Yeah, my lunges didn’t extend quite far enough back, and I slumped a little on the tuck jump, but on the whole, yeah, I passed.

This means, of course, that I’ll be coming soon to a Les-Mills-certified gym near you. Which is weird, because I never thought I’d get to this stage, but it turns out that completing shit is quite good fun, when you set your mind to it. Who knew?

And listen, the point is, if I can become a fully qualified Bodyattack instructor - ME, a two-left-footed, light-headed numpty - then you - YOU - can do anything. Go do something! And report back! 

That time we weren't the worst parents on the playground

It has been a weekend of WEIRD playground interactions.

It all started on Friday. On Friday evening we were in a playground, and Alice wanted to go down the slide, except she couldn't go down the slide because there was a baby sitting at the end of the slide, chaperoned by his two big sisters. I said to the two big sisters: "Would you mind moving your little brother?" and they looked at me with a blank, dead-behind-the-eyes stare and did nothing - which left me in a predicament. Alice was waiting patiently at the top of the slide, and the zombie baby was at the bottom. I considered moving zombie baby, but I believe that picking up strange zombie babies and plonking them elsewhere in playgrounds is frowned upon, right? I looked around for a supervising parent; there was none to be seen. I mean, NO JUDGEMENT HERE – my five-year-old son was standing in a pirate ship at the exact same time shouting, "Fuck you, me fucking hearties," so I'm hardly mother of the year, am I? And so, there was a stand-off. A prolonged, awkward, blank-staring stand-off, which made me feel tired, and a bit sad.

And then, on Saturday, we went to my new favourite café, which scores extra points for having a small playground attached. This café also has two enormous Dalmatians at its entrance. Not real Dalmatians; they’re made from a lightweight resin, or something, and they come all the way from Italy, because I saw this on Instagram. I’m quite taken with these Dalmatians, as are my children.

Anyway, as we drove into the carpark, I saw two boys – probably around Ben’s age, like maybe 11 or 12 – standing at the top of the slide and THROWING the Dalmatians down it. I sighed, and said to Paul, “I’m gonna have to fix this, aren’t I?” And he sighed and said yes, yes I was. With no parentals in sight, I marched up to the boys and said STOP THAT, while trying to pretend that my voice wasn’t shaking. They stopped that, yes, but they also – and this is the part that leads me to believe that they may have had a collective death wish – put out their arms and did the “what the fuck’s it got to do with you” shrug. Ohhhhhhhh, my friends. I am all too familiar with the what-the-fuck’s-it-got-to-do-with-you shrug. My husband knows that I am all too familiar with the WTFIGTDWY shrug. My children know that I am all too familiar with the WTFIGTDWY shrug. They also know that very, very few things cause the red mist to descend quite like the WTFIGTDWY shrug given by an 11/12-year-old boy. My husband and my children cowered while I marched into the café and DOBBED on those little fuckers, and shook my head and said, “WHERE ARE THE PARENTS?” just like a proper mum would, and not one whose five-year-old was currently pissing in a sand dune.

You’d think that would be enough of playground weirdness, wouldn’t you? But no. On the way home, we stopped at another playground (my kids love playgrounds with the same degree of passion that I hate them) (playgrounds, not my kids). At this playground, there was a small boy sitting on a swing and saying forlornly, “Please push me. Please won’t somebody push me.” Well, a sadder sight I have never before seen. I told Paul to go and push him (I needed to check Instagram). Paul said no, because what would happen when the mother finally emerged from her crack den and saw a strange but handsome man pushing her kid on the swing? He said this was largely frowned upon, and he seemed to be talking from bitter, bitter experience, so I went with it. Poor swing boy.

But it gets better! Because then, watching our own children on the flying fox, we spotted another boy – aged around 7 or 8, I reckon – stuck at the top of the very low monkey bars. Oh, he wept. “Mummy, help me,” he kept weeping, over and over. I told Paul to go and get him down, but he said no, because what would happen when the the mother finally emerged from her crack den and saw a strange but handsome man helping her son down from the monkey bars? He said this was largely frowned upon, and he seemed to be talking from bitter, bitter experience, so I went with it. Poor monkey-bar boy. He was there for so long, weeping and wailing, until another woman came along and said, “Mummy’s not coming. She said she doesn’t want to help you,” and got him him down herself. Good on her.

We went home shortly after that, very confused but quietly satisfied that – even though our children were half-dressed and had eaten their lunch on the floor of the café – we are fucking top-notch parents, after all. Go us. 

I dreamed about you for 32 years before I met you

Up until the age of 32, I didn’t much believe in love. All those songs and movies and high-gloss Facebook updates? I thought it was an elaborate government ploy to keep us sweet and unruly. You know – like religion. And McDonalds. I played the game – I’d give a cheery thumbs-up to the pictures of fat fingers wedged into engagement rings – but I wasn’t falling for it. Instead, I’d pat myself on the back and go, “Look at me, all non-conformist and single and shit. Fuck you, system. Fuck you and your love drug.”

And then, on Australia Day 2010, I got a call from a pal of mine: “Ere,” she said. “I’ve found you one,” in much the same the same way you’d inform someone that they’d spotted a parking space really close to the entrance of Myer. I was just, like, yeah, whatever. I’d been a single parent for just over two years, and I was doing alright. I wasn’t on the hunt for a husband, or even a sexy cuddle. Four-year-old Ben was about to start school, I was back in my own little house, and I had a Healthcare card with all the associated benefits (fuck, I miss that card). So yeah, I was interested, but I didn’t rush off to shave my legs and wax my moustache (I don’t have a moustache).

But then, on January 28 – two days after my pal phoned me – I agreed to go to the pub with a few friends … and a gentleman called Paul. Now, let it be known that the one-syllable thing was always going to be a selling point. Never trust a man with more than one syllable in his name – that’s my theory, and it’s proven to be true. Paul and I were introduced, sat next to each other, and that was that, I suppose. It wasn’t so much love at first sight as, “Oh hello. I’ve been waiting for you.” That sounds creepy, but you know what I mean. We were instant. We were meant to be. We wrote our wedding disco playlist within the first three days of meeting. It was never a case of “will they or won’t they?” just “how will they?” Because, of course, Paul lived in Leeds, England, and I lived in Perth, Western Australia. We’d both watched enough Border Security to know that the Australian Government didn’t look too kindly upon English tourists deciding to set up home in their country. We knew it would be tricky – close to impossible, almost. But then, one night, running late for a show that would almost certainly start without us, the taxi driver turned around to us and said, “Never, ever give up.” That was it; that became our mantra – never, ever give up.

We didn’t give up, and we were married a year later, on the beach beside the pub where we’d first met, and where Paul had met Ben the day after. No prizes for guessing where the reception was held. A year after that, Frankie arrived, and 17 months after that, Alice. We’ve been pretty busy. In all that time – through all the swings and roundabouts that married life can throw at you – our love has been constant. It never, ever wavers – just grows. 

I was going to say that Paul makes my life complete, but that would imply that my life was incomplete before he came along. So na, not that. Okay – you know the Wizard of Oz, when it starts in black and white, and then suddenly goes all technicolour and shit? That’s the effect Paul has had on my life. Everything’s brighter when he’s around; there is more joy to be had. He makes me smile when I’m feeling shit, and he makes me laugh when I’m stomping around the house. He holds me up and keeps me steady. He helps me find the happiness in the small things. He reigns me in when I'm pushing the boundaries, and he pushes me forward when I can't put one foot in front of the other. He indulges my quirks, and goes along with my mad plans, and doesn't even mind when I ask him to put the kids in the car so that I can mop us out of the front door. He's the calm to my chaos. 

I’m not telling you this to be a #smugcunt, although I realise that by telling you this I sound like a #smugcunt. I understand that if you’re single, or you’re in a shitty relationship, then you’ll probably hate me for writing this loved-up ode to my wonderful husband. I understand this, because I’ve been there; that’s why I take none of this for granted – I understand how lucky I am. I also know that you deserve this, too. Not necessarily Paul – his obscure taste in music and penchant for sweary t-shirts might not be your bag – but you deserve that person who brings the world into HD. It’s not a case of you could have this, but that you should have this. Everyone – unless they're a massive cunt – deserves to have a partner to lift them up and make them smile. You may have to wait a while, but it’ll be worth the wait, I promise. Just never, ever give up. 

The Broken Record App - are you in?

I’ve come up with a new idea for an app, right, and I’m going to launch it at the breaking point of the school holidays. You know, like, RIGHT NOW. It’s called the BROKEN RECORD APP, and it is way cool.

The BROKEN RECORD app is going to be aimed at mothers. Mothers of school-aged children. The app will be loaded with many of the day-to-day sayings that we mothers use regularly throughout the school holidays. But – and here’s the thing – the app will be INTUITIVE, so that it assesses a situation and responds accordingly, saving you time, effort and YOUR VOCAL CORDS. Here’s the good bit! It’ll be divided into volume categories, and will know JUST WHEN to shout, mutter, and whisper in a threatening tone. Fucking hell, does anyone know an app developer? I need this.

I’ve brainstormed with my best mum friends, and we’ve come up with the following list of common phrases used during school holidays. It’s by no means exhaustive, and I WELCOME further suggestions.

SHOUTING (LOUDLY) CATEGORY

Oi

Break it up

I don’t have favourites; I dislike you all equally

Who hit who?

Who punched who?

I saw that

I heard that

No iPad for you

No ice-cream for you

Just be normal

Go to your room

Get your own damn lunch/breakfast/dinner

Stop fucking swearing

Stop fucking shouting

Just be nice

Who punched who?

I’m going to use one of you to hit the other

I’m going to count to three

I heard that

Don’t make me come in there

The police are at the door

This is not a café

Find a new slave

Get in the damn car

Hurry up

You are not helping. That is not helpful

We’re going to be late

Gah

Put your shoes on

I’m changing my name

Don’t. You. Dare

One. Two …

I just cleaned that

Outside with food

I am on the phone

Get that out of your mouth

Time out

Flush the toilet

Wash your hands

I’ve changed my name

Please just stop

MUTTERING-UNDER-YOUR-BREATH CATEGORY

Fuck’s sake

What. Fucking. Now?

Fuck you, little fuckers

You’re adopted

Make your own fucking lunch/breakfast/dinner

Can I just finish my fucking coffee? For once?

Wipe your own fucking arse

Find your own fucking shoes

May the best man win

Fuck my life

Fuck this shit

This is not my life

I did not sign up for this shit

OUT-OF-LEFTFIELD CATEGORY

Don’t sellotape your sister’s bum-cheeks together

Don’t colour in your sister

Avocadoes are not for bowling

Where are your clothes?

Please stop barking

That is not edible

Did you swallow any?

Don’t wee on your brother

Don’t wee on your sister

Carrots don’t go there

Don’t put that up your nose

Don’t put that in your ear

Don’t lick the cat

Don’t lick the dog

No one wants to see your willy

Dolly Ivy is not a weapon

Just let him fucking bite you

There is EVEN a “text message to your husband” category. I know! The app senses impending breakdown, and sends an appropriate text, such as:

Come home now

Hurry up

Bring wine

Help me

Fuck this shit

Fuck my life

This was your idea

They’ve broken the house

They’ve broken me

I’m hiding in the wardrobe until you come home

I may not be here when you get home

On strike. Bring dinner

I’m leaving

I’m not pissing about with this. I’ve done market research and EVERYTHING. One of my pals even suggested an in-app purchase. For a small price, you could upgrade the app so that it syncs via Bluetooth connectivity to your children’s devices. YOU WOULDN’T NEED TO BE IN THE SAME ROOM AS THEM TO SHOUT AT THEM. Their own devices would shout at them! If that’s not genius, I don’t know what is.

So, dragons: are you in? 

PR-friendly mummy blogger asks: where's my free sandwich?

For a while now, I’ve had a bee in my bonnet about the lack of free shit coming my way. Like, I was eating Vietnamese spring rolls with my friend the other day, and she asked me what free shit I’d scored recently. And I was, like, not much mate (by which I mean, nothing). She told me about her friend who’d scored a free fancy car to drive around for a year, for the simple reason that she has 12,000 Facebook followers, or something.

And then I was talking to another friend, and telling her about seeing Vietnamese spring roll friend, and she goes, “Oh yeah! I saw Vietnamese spring roll friend at the launch of the six-star hotel in the city. That was a great night; we had a great time – YOU SHOULD’VE BEEN THERE.” And I’m, like, DUDE. I don’t get invited anywhere. I don’t get given anything. I’m not bitter about this, because it’s not why I started blogging, but – okay fuck it – I’m bitter about it. WHERE IS MY FREE SHIT?  

Let me explain. When bloggers get to a certain point, they’re considered influencers rather than mere bloggers. Influencers get free shit. Influencers get paid to casually pose with Subway sandwiches on Instagram, and say, “oh yummy”, or some shit. You would not BELIEVE what influencers get paid. Like, a couple of years ago, I was involved in launching and marketing a new app aimed at parents. To get the message out there, we paid a shiny mummy blogger a shit-load of money to post a picture of herself casually using the app, saying “oh yummy”, or some shit. I was aghast at the amount of money paid to this shiny mummy blogger, and when I say aghast I mean jealous, obviously. Why won’t someone pay me a shitload of money to casually pose with an app? Or just give me a free sandwich? I’m not fussy, just poor and hungry.

I’ll tell you something: today I discovered the reason that I’m not paid shitloads of dollars to casually pose with baguettes. Today I discovered that I am the least PR friendly mummy blogger in the land. Somehow – don’t ask me how – I’ve become one of the WA ambassadors for Cupid’s Undie Run, a run (on February 19) aimed at raising funds for the Children’s Tumour Foundation. I’m pleased and proud to be a part of this fundraising enterprise – a friend of mine has a granddaughter with NF, and anything I can do to help raise awareness is worthwhile, as far as I’m concerned.

Today, there was a photo shoot for the local paper. It did not go so well. The photo shoot was at 12 midday, on the other side of Perth to where to I live. The first issue arose when I took the kids to our local café in the morning to meet my Grandad for his 85th birthday. Frankie painted me with ice-cream and then turned his attention to himself, and obviously I hadn’t brought spare clothes, so that wasn’t the greatest start, us both being covered in Bubble o’ Bill. Then we drove for an hour. By the time we arrived in Fremantle, I needed a wee. I needed a wee so bad. I needed a wee so bad that I couldn’t even buy a parking ticket because if I thought about coin distribution for a single second I’d piss myself, end of story. I was hopping. I dragged the kids to a café, towing Frankie and Alice behind me. “Watch me run in slow motion,” Frankie shouted, to which I didn’t even respond, because if I even thought about responding, I’d piss myself. I mean, that’s not ideal, is it? Covered in ice-cream and urine for a photo-shoot with a local paper? Not GREAT, is it? I ran into a café, asked to use their toilet, and they were, like, oh, it’s occupied, it’s around the corner, if you go now you might be able to intercept the previous urinator – you’ll know her because she’ll be holding a big fucking spoon with a key on, and a look of relief. Well I’ll tell you, the previous urinator must’ve been waxing her legs in there, or something, because I actually considered pissing in a plant pot, my need was so great. Finally, she came out, and I had a wee (in a toilet), and that was all fine thank you very much and PHEW.

Half an hour before the photo shoot, I met up with my friend Jo and her little boy Ollie. My kids fucking love Ollie, but he does bring out their wild side. When I say wild, I mean that on the way to the pub (where the photo shoot was taking place), the kids all stuffed those catkins (you know, the long things that fall from trees that aren’t leaves or branches) down their pants and paraded down the street going LOOK AT MY WILLY. And then Frankie got his ACTUAL willy out, and I had to issue stern warnings before we went inside to meet actual grown-ups and do actual grown-up things without our genitals exposed. And that would’ve been FINE, if the grown-ups hadn’t brought a massive stuffed penguin along. The kids went fucking nuts. Ollie wrestled the penguin to the floor. Frankie wrestled Ollie wrestling the penguin. Alice wrestled Frankie wrestling Ollie wrestling the penguin. This went on for a solid 30 minutes. At one point I found myself shouting, “Just let Ollie hold the penguin’s flap,” and then turning to one of the grown-ups present, and saying, “Flap? Flipper? Wing? Arm?” (He said flipper, but I still say wing.)

It was a fucking disaster. The kids were like wild animals. I had to halt the photo shoot to try and help Jo stop Frankie and Ollie pushing each other into a busy street. I mean, that’s not particularly professional, is it? I said FOR FUCK’S SAKE, which definitely makes me #prunfriendly and also a #badmother, official.

The upshot is, my heart’s in the right place, but my professional demeanour is not. I’d love to help you out with your PR/marketing strategy, but I’d only fuck it up. I’d still like a sandwich and a free steam mop, though.

Other mothers: the best contraception available

I’ll tell you something for free: if I was young and childless, there’s no way I’d be signing up for parenthood, and not even because of the kid factor. The kids are the easy bit; I swear to god! No, if I was young and childless, all pert of bosom and unlined of forehead, I’d be running a fucking mile from virile semen, for one simple reason: other mothers.

I first fell pregnant in the heady, wayward days of 2005. It was a simpler time – the only internet I had access to was at work, and our social media consisted of an email noticeboard dedicated to lost Nokia phone chargers and inconsiderate users of the disabled toilets. Simpler times, man!

When I was expecting Ben, I had no idea what to expect. I was the first of my friends to have children and I’m not entirely sure I’d even met another mother. I mean, I’d obviously MET other mothers, but oh, you know. My first exposure to a mothers’ group was a very civilised affair, via an NCT antenatal group that met in a charming little room above a pie and mash shop in Bethnal Green. It was ace. The mothers were ace. They still are ace! I thought that all parents would be like this. I thought everyone would be lovely. If I’d known the reality, I might’ve viewed impending parenthood slightly differently.

Young, childless women must look at us – the warring, weary mothers – and think, FUCK THAT SHIT. Because look at us! We’re fucking destroying each other and managing – in the process – to suck all the joy, humour and fun out of parenthood. WE ARE NOT THE BEST ADVERTISEMENT FOR PARENTHOOD. Contraception, maybe, but not parenthood.

Where’s this rant come from? Let me tell you. Yesterday, my mate Carmen copped a load of grief from another mother when her small sons hurt a little girl on a playground. Long story short: although Carmen made the appropriate apologies and meted out the appropriate discipline, the mother of the little girl lost her shit and abused the crap out of my pal. Carmen wrote a blog about it, I shared it on my Facebook page, with the suggestion that perhaps – JUST PERHAPS – we mothers should all start being kinder to each other. Go easy. We don’t know each other’s back story, so let’s be nice and go from there, eh?

Well, apparently not. Apparently we should destroy first, ask questions later. Your kids hurt my kids, I hurt you! According to the holy mothers of Facebook, it’s entirely acceptable to abuse the SHIT out of someone who’s trying to do her parenting best.

Oh, fuck off. Fuck off fuck off fuck off fuck off.

What the fuck have we become?

I’ll tell you, shall I: we’ve become a miserable, sanctimonious group of fun-sucking fuck-trumpets. Otherwise known as: mothers. Would you want to be one of us? Seizing the first opportunity to belittle other mothers? Wading in on Facebook threads to point out, “Ooo, well, I wouldn’t use suncream on a small child anyway; I’d knit my own protective sun-gear out of yoghurt and marzipan.” Being so fucking lacking in humour that we’re outraged by a small child calling his older brother a dickhead in Woolworths?

THE FUCK IS WRONG WITH Y’ALL?

Here’s the thing: it’s okay to think these thoughts in your head. I’m the most judgemental motherfucker of the lot, when I want to be, but I keep these stupid fucking thoughts in my stupid fucking head. I don’t feel the need to share my stupid fucking judgements on social media (she says, sharing her stupid fucking judgements on social media).

And of course, we’re not just giving ourselves a bad name on social media. Bitch mummas are everywhere – tutting in the shopping centre, muttering in the carparks, abusing in the playcentres. I don’t know why mothers do this. Perhaps it makes us feel better about our own shit parenting if we make others want to drown themselves.

Here’s what I want to tell the young, childless women of the world: we’re not all like this. Some of us don’t take ourselves – or parenthood – that seriously. Some of us still manage to laugh at the stupid shit, and the stupid parents, and the stupid kids. There’s so much fun to be had with parenthood – I promise you, there is – but most mothers miss out on it because they’re so busy reminding people that they baked an organic loaf of dust and quinoa for breakfast, and shame on those who didn’t.

Prospective mothers: I want you to know that we’re not all like this. Find your tribe, and find your fun, and don’t forget to fucking laugh. We’re not all sanctimummies, and the world IS sunshine and lollipops, so fuck you.  

Excuse me, has anyone seen my GRRRRRRRR?

There are days when I am sick of myself. Today, I am sick of myself. I wasn’t; I was having a perfectly lovely day. I’d caught up with a dear friend in the morning, then scored a couple of hours off to go birthday shopping for my mum and Frankie. I was even going to sneak in a cheeky coast run before I went to pick the kids up from my parents’. So far, so good, yeah? And then – then – a woman queue-jumped in front of me at the check-out in David Jones.

I know, first-world problems, right? But I was CLEARLY first, and she was CLEARLY next, but the sales lady got it wrong, and served her instead. I looked at the queue-jumping lady, who refused to make eye contact, but had this, like, half-smile on her smug-bitch head. And I did this (tiny, squeaky voice): “Um, hello?” Like a fucking mouse. A squeaky fucking timid-arse mouse. And obviously the sales lady didn’t hear – nor care – and if the queue-jumping lady did hear then she pretended not to. And – get this – she wasn’t even buying anything. She was doing a fucking RETURN. A complicated RETURN. And I stood there, holding the simple item that I wished to simply buy – with CASH – and got angrier and angrier and angrier. I started off being angry at the smug-bitch queue-jumper. Man, I was angry at that bitch. I stared at that queue-jumping bitch, and tried to find flaws in her smug-bitch head (she was fucking flawless), and then I looked for flaws in her smug children (also flawless), and then I stopped being angry at her, and started being angry at me. I had time to do this; the return was not a straightforward one. There was plenty of time to fume. By the time it was finally my turn to transact, I felt like crying. I still kind of do.

My friends, I get that I’m over-reacting. A lady queue-jumped. She didn’t kick my daughter up the arse and steal my husband. There is absolutely no reason to cry. But I’M JUST SO CROSS AT MYSELF. I’m sick of being so fucking piss-weak. I’m sick of losing my spot in the queue.

It comes down to jealousy, of course. Jealousy is not an attractive trait to have, but some days I’m consumed by it. I’m not angry at the queue-jumping lady; I’m jealous of her. I’m jealous of her forthright nature and fuck-you attitude. This bitch gets things done! She needed to return an item, and goddamnit, she returned that damn item! In record time! She probably has a book deal and a money-making blog and well-dressed children who don’t call people “motherfuckers” in Myer. Oh, queue-jumping lady, I envy you.

I’m pretty piss-weak, did you know? Oh yeah, I come across all feisty and forthright and fuck youuuuu but it’s all bullshit. I get walked over and trod on and pushed out of line, quite literally. I do things that I don’t want to do, go places I don’t want to go, and tolerate friends who I don’t want to be friends with, for the simple reason that I can’t find my fuck you. I have a head full of plans and ambition and ideas, but a distinct inability to put them into action. I could take over the world, if it was presented to me on a silver platter and I didn’t have to talk to anyone on the telephone.

THE PROBLEM IS, I belong to all these kick-arse, take-over-the-world Facebook groups. Like-Minded Bitches Who Drink Wine, Girl Bosses, Mums with Hustle, Have Tits Will Take Over. (One of those groups does not actually exist, although I wish it did.) These groups are full of FUCK-YOU women taking over the world. They’re nice ladies, don’t get me wrong, but man, do they get things done. And man, do they make me feel bad for not getting things done.

You should pity my poor husband. Every day, when he’s trying to watch Banged Up Abroad, I whine at him that I should have a book deal/job/money/accolades by now. And he’s, like, “Well what have you done to get a book deal/job/money/accolades? And I’m, like, “That’s not the point, PAUL, JESUS.” And then he remembers that he’s in possession of the exact same personality, and we go back to getting all cross that no one has asked us to be on Gogglebox yet. My friends take a slightly more persuasive approach: “You need to put yourself out there. Push others out of the way and be proactive. Identify what you want and go and get it! Grrrrrrrrrr.” And I sigh, and say yeah, but the truth is, I have no grrrrrrrrrrr.

Obviously this is getting to me. OBVIOUSLY – or I wouldn’t be nearly crying because a lady got served before I did. I’m well aware that I need to step up and find my grrrrrrrrrrr. My question is: DOES ANYONE KNOW WHERE I CAN FIND MY GRRRRR? ‘Cos I’d really take over the world, if you don’t mind, and if I’m not in the way, y’know, thank you.  

The good, the great, the remarkably average

Yes, yes, I know, there isn’t enough Botox in Essex to iron out the wrinkles that 2016 has left us with. I hear you. This was a year in which I spent six entire weeks at the hospital, without missing a day. I’m not kidding. Ben and I were in hospital for a week after his asthma attack, and on the night that he was discharged, my nan was rushed in for emergency surgery on a twisted bowel. While she was still recovering (and violently delirious from the anaesthetic), my grandad developed pneumonia. It’d be fucking funny if it hadn’t been, y’know, fairly upsetting.

This was a year in which stresses and struggles formed an orderly queue at the front door, patiently waiting their turn. One in, one out. A year of altercations (both public and private), trials and tribulations. A year that saw me lose contract after contract, and be rejected from job after job. Pennies were tight, our luck seemed to be low.

But, are we sitting here, on the second day of 2017, mourning a shitty old year? Fuck, NO. Because, for all the shit that went down, there was good stuff, too. Of course there was! We’re still standing, aren’t we? We’re still laughing. It’d take more than 2106 to stop us laughing.

And so, with that, I want to offer you my best bits of 2016. BECAUSE THERE WERE GOOD BITS. These are the things that provided distraction, entertained me, and made me smile. This is the good shit. Check this shit out. And report back, please – I’d love to know what you thought about the shit that I loved.

Telly that I watched

Love

Orange is the New Black

Master of None

Gogglebox

Toast

Black Mirror

First Dates

Billy & Billie

Very British Problems

The Undateables

Would I Lie to You

Movies that I saw

Sing

Victoria

Hunt for the Wilderpeople

The Fundamentals of Caring

Man Up

The Skeleton Twins

Sing Street

Music that I listened to

The XX – On Hold

Stone Roses – All for One

Warpaint – New Song

Jagwar Mar – Obi Wan

Whyte Horses – Snowfalls

Nick Cave – Skeleton Tree

Avalanches – Frankie Sinatra

DJ Shadow – Nobody Speak

Jamie T – Tesco Land

Ultimate Painting – Monday Morning, Somewhere Central

Podcasts that I enjoyed

Adam Buxton

Athletico Mince

My Dad Wrote a Porno

The Archers

Scroobius Pip

Blogs that I loved

Mummy Muckups

Mum to Five

Handbag Mafia

Toilets aren’t for Turtles

The Thud

Hugzilla

Veggie Mama

Mrs Woog @ Woogsworld

The Joys of Three Boys

Carly Findlay

Potential Psychology Blog

Gift Grapevine

The United States of Mama

Between Roots and Wings

Hurrah for Gin

Totes Inappropes

Say Hello Jo

Awesomely Unprepared

Kangaroo Spotting

Rebel Without a Pause

Maxabella Loves

Books I read

This year, I didn’t read shit. I know! I’ll tell you for why: the time that I would’ve spent reading (or drinking, whatevs), I actually spent writing. My first book – a work of funny-as-fuck fiction (new genre) – is halfway to completion. I didn’t expect it to take quite as long as it is, but then, I didn’t expect three children to rob me of quite as much time as they do. Go figure.

People I adored

My husband, pro-doodler and handsome hound dog

Kids that I quite liked

Ben

Frankie

Alice

And that kid I saw helping himself to the free samples at Lennards the chicken shop. I liked him.

This must end

On Tuesday – five days before Christmas – a 33-year-old mother of two was allegedly stabbed in the throat by her estranged partner. The stabbing happened in the local court house – about 10 minutes away from where I’m writing this right now – and in front of a court mediator.

My hatred for this man quickens my heart and fills my eyes. I can’t bring myself to think about these two beautiful kids, left without a mother. I can’t let myself feel that sadness. But the hatred and the anger? Yeah, I can do that. I can feel that, and I can shout from the fucking rooftops that THIS NEEDS TO STOP.

In the news reports about the stabbing, the point being made is that the court house should’ve had a metal detector. Yeah, maybe, but that strikes me as shutting the stable door once the horse has bolted. It’s probably necessary, but it’s not really the point. The point is that cunts like this – with a chip on their shoulder and a deep-rooted sense of misguided entitlement – are doing more than just stamping their feet when they don’t get their own way. These men – these childish, narcissistic, heartless humans – are taking matters into their own hands, with tragic, unthinkable consequences.

At which point do we – as a society – put our hands up and say, “Okay, something needs to change”? Clearly, something isn’t working. The system is flawed. This system that allows dangerous, angry, embittered men access to their former partners and children is seriously fucking flawed. I was going to say that these men are unpredictable, but it’s the exact opposite of that. These men are completely fucking predictable. We know the ending to these stories before the first chapter has finished.

We know how these stories end: women with VROs against violent exes, which are consistently and repeatedly contested, so that they never feel safe, not truly. Women with VROs that protect them, but who have to stand by and watch their children get into a car with a man who they know to be violent and vengeful, because a father has a right to see his kids. Women who are endlessly failed by the system.

At which point do we say: THIS IS NOT WORKING? It’s not a case of waiting for the worst to happen. THE WORST HAS HAPPENED – on multiple occasions. Mothers left without children, children left without mothers, men facing court with a wry smile and absolutely no fucking remorse, because “she got what was coming to her”.

I’m so fucking angry right now. I’m angry at the spoilt, petulant boy-men with their hurt pride and twisted sense of justice. I’m angry at the parents who raised them, who taught them that it’s okay to kill if you don’t get your own way. I’m angry at the endlessly flawed system. I have to be angry, because if I let the anger slip – even for a second – then it will be replaced with devastation and despair; for this mother and her beautiful children and her grieving family, and for all the women living every day in fear of the inevitable ending.

If you'd like to make a donation to Sarah's family, you can click here: https://www.gofundme.com/memorial-fund-for-sarah-thomas

Mumma Do Good

I’ll tell you the best thing about having a blog, and it’s not the re-usable sandwich bags that a nice lady once sent me FOR FREE. No: it’s the parents that I’ve met along the way. Every time I think about packing in this silly little blog and getting on with my silly little life, I remember the people that I’ve met, and keep on keeping on.

Through my blog, I’ve met the most incredible mothers. Women who – in the face of absolute adversity, hardship and heartbreak – keep smiling, keep laughing, and keep on keeping on. I’ve met women who are truly struggling – by which I don’t mean that their kids have head lice that they can’t be arsed treating, or shitty nappies that they can’t be arsed changing. That’s not a fucking struggle. It’s a pain in the arse, yes, and a parenting inconvenience, but that’s not a struggle – not compared with what some women are going through.

The problem, of course, is that I can’t give a voice to all these women. I want to help each and every one of them – my heart breaks for each and every one of them – but it’s really fucking hard, because I can’t help everyone. I just can’t.

Last week, I got an email from a fucking rock-star of a human – a woman who writes so well that she makes me want to hang up my Bic – who’d met another struggling mum called Kelly. My rock-star friend told me about Kelly. Kelly is 32 years old. Kelly has three children. Kelly also has incurable stage 4b cervical cancer. My rock-star friend made me cry. I cried for Kelly, for her kids, for her husband, and for the fact that I can’t do more to help.

Here’s the thing though: my rock-star friend wasn’t asking me for money. She wasn’t even asking me to share the GoFundMe page that she’d set up on Kelly’s behalf. She just wanted to tell me about the Facebook community that she’s set up, for ALL struggling mothers. The Facebook page is called Mumma Do Good, and it’s a place to tell the stories of struggling mothers, and call on other mothers to help, however they can. That might be money, yes, but it’s just as likely to be love, support and a shoulder to cry on.

I’m going to let my rock-star friend take over now, ‘cos like I said, she can explain it far better than I ever could:

“There's so much negativity in this world, there's so much bullshit, and unfortunately a lot of it can come from mums. I've never understood that, because WE ARE THE BEST PEOPLE! Being a mother has shown me the best of myself; it has tapped into a well of patience and love I never knew I had. I think that mums have so much to offer, but in our society's shitty climate of pitting woman against woman we're channelling it in the worst ways.

“I've been volunteering for the past decade and it’s shown me that people genuinely want to help but they don't know where to start. We're bombarded with ads from World Vision, see dozens of GoFundMe pages on our social media, told to buy THIS ethical non-profit coffee (no, buy THIS one!), we do our shopping and get grabbed by an Oxfam fundraiser, we head out for dinner and the homeless are asking for change. There's nothing wrong with any of these things but it's so overwhelming. Its easy to slip into a mindset of ‘I can't help them all so I won't help any’. It's the paradox of choice, it’s compassion fatigue; both are understandable and they don't mean people don't care.

“I want Mumma Do Good to be an opportunity for women like Kelly, and those you know, to get their stories out there. To have them told in a way that forces people to pay attention. I want to show that you can make the world a bit nicer without a huge amount of work or money. I want to help women discover ways of helping that aren't merely financial: volunteering, donating goods or handmade crafts, listening, just giving a shit in general. I want to narrow down those overwhelming, guilt-inducing choices to something achievable. I want to do it in a way that isn't preachy or sanctimonious. I want to make people laugh, I want to be inclusive.”

Far out, it gives me goosebumps just cutting and pasting those words.

Gang, I need you to get behind Mumma Do Good. I want us to change the world, together. I want to tell the stories of so many of you who’ve shared your struggles with me, and who desperately need help (although many of you would never fucking admit it). I want us to support each other in whichever way possible.  

You will join me, yes? You can find the Facebook page here, and if you want to share your story – or the story of someone you know – please send me a message. And if you can help Kelly and her family, that would also be wonderful. Click here for the GoFundMe link.

Go forth and change the world, you wonderful humans you. 

Have a Christmas

I’d like to take this opportunity to offer a blanket apology for my lack of participation in the festive season. Don’t get me wrong: I fucking love Christmas. I just don’t have enough hours to deal with the regular, day-to-day shit, let alone a DIY advent calendar. Oh, we’ve got one (Kmart, natch) – and an Elf on the Shelf, too (we call him Chinese Ben) – but we’re failing pretty dismally. While other imaginative (see also: fucking annoying) parents are recreating Pulp Fiction’s gimp scene with their elf at centre stage (hey, I’ve seen Pinterest), we get to 10pm, say WHAT ABOUT THE FUCKING ELF, and stick him in a teapot. Or something. And I keep forgetting to fill the advent calendar up. I had grand plans to fill each box with home-made treats, but – for the woman who forgot to make her eldest son lunch last week – that was pretty fucking optimistic.

Sigh.

I haven’t sent any Christmas cards, either. My mum – knowing my form – told me today not to worry about a card for her and dad, because she’s kept the one from last year. My nan said the same. And yeah, fair enough, nothing’s changed. I still wish them well, from the five of us. I think there’s still five of us. Let me do a quick head count – I may have lost one in Farmer Jack’s today.

I haven’t done a scrap of Christmas shopping, and our wardrobe’s top shelf would be looking pretty bare if it wasn’t for Paul’s fast-fingered internet shopping in his tea breaks at work.

And then, of course, there’s all the end-of-term shit to deal with. I forgot to reply to the class reps' emails about the collection for the teachers, and now I have to buy my own present and thank-you cards. Which means I’ll also have to find out what Ben’s teacher is called.

I haven’t baked. I fucking love baking. I’m what you might call a STAR BAKER, but despite my best intentions, Ben’s going to have to take pikelets from Woolies to his class party on Thursday, just like Frankie had to take McCain pizza slices last week. I could bake. I SHOULD bake. I just haven’t got time to bake – let alone make cupcakes that look like miniature santas, all squirty cream and strawberries (again, Pinterest, fuck you).

There will be no Christmas craft this year, just as there was no Christmas craft last year.

There will be no personalised calendars for family and friends.

There will be no trifle or truffles or mince pies or gingerbread houses. Unless my mum makes them. I might do Jamie’s glazed ham, but only because I fucking love ham.

There will be no cards and gifts for the children in Ben and Frankie’s respective classes.

There will be no advance wrapping. We will leave all the wrapping until Christmas Eve – which is also Ben’s birthday, which means we’ll have got all the presents muddled up, giving Ben too many on his birthday, and have to make a mad, drunken dash to Red Dot at 5pm on the 24th for stocking fillers.

There will be no tour of the Christmas lights.

There will be Christmas songs – PLENTY OF CHRISTMAS SONGS – and by songs, I obviously mean booze. We have done the Christmas booze shopping, ‘cos PRIORITIES.

Sigh.

Like I said, I fucking love Christmas, but I have neither the time nor the inclination to go full-on festive. Please, accept my apologies, and know that I wish you the happiest of Christmases and the most prosperous of New Years. But no candy canes from me, motherfuckers!

Enjoy the little things

Paul told me a bedtime story last night. It went a little something like this.

“So, there was this old woman, right. Like, maybe 102.”

“Tell me more.”

“Right, and she was sitting on her doorstep.”

“Her doorstep?”

“Yeah. Except maybe not her doorstep. Anyway she was sitting. And she’s all, like, old and alone, ‘cos everyone she knows is dead. And this guy walks past and goes, ‘You’re all old and alone and shit.’”

“I’m not sure this actually happened.”

“Yeah yeah, it did, I saw it on Facebook. So this guy goes to the old lonely lady, ‘You’re really old. What’s been the best bit of your life?’”

“Good question.”

“Yeah, good question. And the old lady thinks for a bit, and says, ‘The bit when the children were little, and I was needed. That was my best bit.’”

Well, that floored me. True or not, Paul’s story hit me like a small child’s kick in the ribs when they take over your bed at night. Because maybe – just maybe – THIS is the best bit. Maybe this is what we’ll miss when we’re 102 and sitting on a doorstep, all old and alone and shit. And maybe – just maybe – I choked up a little bit. Remember, this was at night. The kids were in bed, asleep, and causing no bother whatsoever. If Paul had told me this story as I was making school lunches and unknotting dreadlocks, I’d have probably flung a piece of ham at him and sent him to fuckery. But they weren’t causing havoc. They were being all asleep and cute and shit, and I started thinking about the day we’d just had. Yeah, there’d been tears. Of course there’d been tears – I have three wild children who take enormous pleasure in tormenting the fuck out of me – but amidst the tears, we’d also laughed a little bit, too. Frankie had called Ben a rubber chicken, which had made me laugh so much that I had to sit down in the shower. Alice had walked around the shops with her hands framing her face, exclaiming OH MY GOD breathlessly at the Christmas decorations – even the shitty bits of tinsel at Red Dot. This had made me laugh. We had to drive three times around the roundabout in our estate to look at the inflatable Santa coming down the chimney, and wave and cheer each time. This had made me laugh. Alice gave Frankie a flower, and Frankie asked Alice to marry him in return. This made me smile. And then, while grocery shopping in an empty supermarket, we’d walked hand in hand around the aisles singing I LIKE BANANAS, MONKEY NUTS AND GRAPES, AND THAT’S WHY THEY CALL ME TARZAN OF THE APES. It was harmonious, wondrous and spirit lifting, and I laughed.

Having given the matter a great deal of thought, I’ve realised it’s entirely possible I’ve been taking this whole parenting gig too seriously. I’ve let the little fuckers get to me, when I should’ve been enjoying them. It’s easy to say that when they’re cute and asleep – it’s another thing entirely when you’re being accused of ruining Christmas because Santa ain’t bringing an iPad Mini. Or an iPad Maxi, for that matter. Or even a lump of fucking coal and a sugar cube, if a certain 10-year-old’s behaviour doesn’t start to improve.

I’m not a big fan of New Year’s resolutions – I never did learn to crochet, and I’m yet to appear on Gogglebox – but I reckon next year I’m gonna go back to parenting basics. As in, I’m gonna stop sweating the small shit. Enjoy the little things. Laugh a bit more. Cry a bit less.

Okay, here comes the sentimental shit: Ben nearly died this year. He came as close to death as a person can physically get without handing back the keys and switching off the lights on the way out. It’s kind of hard for me to write this. But – there’s a but! – he didn’t die. He survived. As we drove home from the hospital a week later, I asked my 10-year-old son how it felt to nearly die. Ben told me that – as he lay on the hospital bed, struggling to breathe –he started to see pictures of happy memories. I told him that was called your life flashing before your eyes, but that I didn’t know it was a real thing. He said yeah, it was. I asked him what he saw. He said he saw our wedding day. He said he saw his newborn brother and sister. He said he saw me taking him out for churros and hot chocolate.  

In a decade of life, the event that stood out to my son was the day I took him for Spanish donuts. Fucking hell, the kid’s been to the major cities of the world, had the most extravagant gifts lavished up on him, experienced elaborate and expensive days out, and his most precious memory is just me and him, eating donuts.

It kind of puts things into perspective; because when I’m 102 and sitting on my doorstep, that’s the shit I want to remember, too – eating donuts with my kids, and enjoying their weird little company.

I’ll probably also remember the time Frankie shat in the park – but that’s by the by. 

Eat, sleep, weep, repeat

Our house runs like clockwork. By which, I don’t mean that our house runs like a well-oiled machine – oh no, nothing like that – but rather, our house operates to a Rainman-like schedule. Seriously, you could set your fucking watch to the goings-on in our house.

I’m making us sound more organised than we are. We’re not organised. We’re just predictable. For example: I have a breakdown every Friday afternoon, between the hours of 3 and 4pm. When Paul comes home from work, I’m usually to be found hiding in the wardrobe/pantry, rocking and weeping, weeping and rocking. Because Paul deals with this situation every week, at the same time, he now knows to send me out for a run, and pour me a glass of wine for my return. Thus, Friday night is Party Night. We drink the week’s tears away, and watch First Dates or Gogglebox, depending on the televisual season. Don’t fuck with our Friday night. By which I mean, don’t schedule a school fucking disco on Party Night, and then advertise it on the big flashing billboard at the kiss ‘n’ drive, so Ben is reminded to start hassling me about it. I need Party Night. You’d need Party Night, if you’d dealt with my children all week.

Which brings me to the next significant point on the calendar: Paul has his own breakdown at 4pm ON THE FUCKING DOT every Sunday afternoon, precisely 48 hours after mine. This is because I hand over the keys to the kids when he walks through the door on Friday afternoon, and have nothing more to do with them until Monday morning. I mean, I’m around, but half-heartedly. The bum wiping, wound healing and hair washing? All Paul. And that’s why, of course, he’s rocking in a corner by 4pm on a Sunday afternoon, shouting: “WHY CAN’T YOU ALL JUST BE NORMAL?” while the kids climb on his head and pull out his arm hairs. This makes me laugh … until I realise that I’m close to clocking back on.

This realisation leads to my regular-as-clockwork Sunday 6pm plea to Paul to PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE take tomorrow off work! Please please please! Your boss won’t mind! I’ll explain! DO THIS FOR ME! He never does. He can’t call in sick. It’s cos he’s English. He doesn’t understand the Aussie entitlement to sick days. He thinks you have to be sick to take a sick day. Silly Paul.  

Because Paul leaves for work at 5.20am – leaving skid marks on the driveway in his desperation to get away quickly – I inevitably wake up on a Monday morning with the darkest feelings of dread and foreboding. It’s really weird. I don’t get this on any other day of the week – just Monday. I’m often to be found muttering, “I can’t fucking do this,” as I pack lunches and search for socks.

Monday mornings are bad in this house. Comically bad. Don’t believe me? Take this Monday: Paul’s alarm (5.12am; can’t deal) woke the little kids up, because they were both in our bed. The little kids got up, found the keys, and started filling the car up with household items, in a game ingeniously titled “putting stuff in the boot”. I got up, shouted at them to get out of the car, then realised they’d hidden the car keys and stuffed up the retractable seats. In a new record, I’d rung Paul before he’d even arrived at work. I cried and told him that I couldn’t fucking do this, and the car’s broken, and I’m broken, and his kids are broken, boo hoo. Usually I save this kind of breakdown until at least WEDNESDAY, so who says I can’t be spontaneous? I got off the phone, fixed the car, found the car keys, but couldn’t fix the kids or me; we’re all fucked.

Fast forward a couple of hours and somehow – somehow! – we were all dressed and ready on time (I even had clothes on!). But, as I tried to close Frankie’s car door, it bounced back comically. Boing! Totally refused to close. The little fucker had fiddled with the latch. I couldn’t fix it. I rang Paul. (Two phonecalls in one morning, new record!) I rang the RAC. I rang my mummy. (I would like to take this moment to honour these three heroes of the hour – you have my total and undying gratitude, all three of you.) Crisis averted, I managed to get Frankie to school (late, but THERE) and even made it to the gym on time. Ah, that’s another note on the calendar – 9.15 Monday morning F45. I believe this to be the point that turns the day around. Or it would’ve, if I hadn’t spurted blood on my fellow participants on this occasion.

“Um, your nose,” one girl asked, as we stretched after the class.

“Oh, I know,” I said, self-consciously.

“Yeah but …” she said, pointing.

“I KNOW, it’s a spot.” (Bitch, PLEASE.)

“I mean, blood. It’s all over.”

I looked at my hand. My hand was covered in blood, which would mean, I suspected, that my entire head was covered in blood. Well, that's a jolly good look, no? I laughed and said something about “blood, sweat and tears” and made a considered decision to stay at home for the rest of the day. Possibly week. Possibly life.

It’s entirely possible my 4pm Friday breakdown will come early this week.

Teaching my kids to be kind (harder than it sounds)

There are two things I’m trying to teach my children: kindness, and gratitude. And also how to make a decent cup of tea. And how to wipe their own bottoms. And the lyrics to Uptown Funk. But that’s by the by. My point is, I’m trying to teach my kids to be good humans – to appreciate what they’ve got, and to empathise with those less fortunate. You’ll be pleased to hear that I’m failing miserably on all counts. Seriously, my kids are unanimously and spectacularly ungrateful.

Take breakfast this morning. I made them breakfast this morning, as I do every morning, despite the 10-year-old being perfectly capable of making said breakfast. I took their VERY SPECIFIC orders regarding their toast, and prepared their toast as per the VERY SPECIFIC ORDERS. I presented the toast to them on their appropriately coloured plates (green for Ben, 10, blue for Frankie, 4, and pink for Alice, 3), as they watched The Adventures of Gumball, goggle-eyed and open-mouthed. I stood in front of them, waiting for acknowledgement. Nothing. “Manners?” I asked. “Thank you,” they all mumbled, eyes not leaving the telly for a SECOND. So I stood in front of the telly. “Can you MOVE?” Ben asked, as I muttered bad words under my breath.

That wasn’t the end of it – of course it wasn’t. Eighteen seconds later they were all arguing over the toast, because someone stole someone else’s crusts (“I THOUGHT HE WAS FINISHED”), someone else had changed their mind on the last bite (“I WANTED ARTISAN HONEY INSTEAD OF JAAAAAAM”) and a third was just being a prat (“HIS TRIANGLES WERE BIGGER THAN MY TRIANGLES”) and using a carefully aimed toast segment as a weapon. Like, I had to spend 10 minutes wiping strawberry jam off the walls. Not cool.

Clearly, I’m not doing a great job at teaching my children gratitude and kindness. Parent fail, and all that. But I’m working on this. I started a reverse-advent-calendar thingy with them last week. I love this idea. Every time we go to the shops, I get the kids to choose something for a family in need. We chuck it in a box, and then – when it gets closer to Christmas – we’ll drop the box off to a charity that can pass it on. Yes, it means I have to take my children shopping with me, but, well … no, sorry, there is no upside to this. Taking children to the shops is horrific. Let’s just hope we don’t get banned before we’ve filled our box.

Explaining the reverse-advent-calendar concept to my children was not without its challenges.

Me: “So, kids, we’re going to the shops, and we’re going to buy things for families who aren’t as lucky as us.”

Ben: “What, people without Foxtel?”

Me: “Um, well no, they probably don’t have Foxtel, but that’s not what I mean. I mean families who don’t have as much as us.”

Ben: “But you said we were poor. You said that’s why I can’t have FIFA 17.”

Me: “Dude. We’re not poor. We’re not rich, but we’re not poor. There are families out there who can’t afford dinner.”

Ben: “If I was poor, I’d just eat bread for dinner.”

Me: “If you were rich, you’d just eat bread for dinner.”

Frankie: “I want to be poor! I want bread for dinner!”

Me: “Okay. Stop. What I’m trying to say is, there are families who don’t have much money. How could we help them? What could we buy these families?”

Frankie: “A Hulk costume!”

Alice: “Broccoli!”

Ben: “A Jamie Oliver cookbook!”

{Me, puts head in hands, despairs}: “What about everyday stuff? Like, the things we use all the time, and that we’d miss if we didn’t have?”

Frankie: “Soap.”

Alice: “A toothbrush.”

Ben: “Chocolate.”

Me: “Thank Christ for that.”

So yeah, we finally got there. It’s really important that the kids think about what they’re donating, and why. You remember those charity boxes at school, when you had to bring a tin of something for the poor families, and everyone (okay me) used to take whatever was past its use-by date in the cupboard? Tinned peaches and sweetcorn? That’s bullshit. That’s not what families in need want. I’m guessing – and I could be wrong here – that these families just want to feel normal. Because they are normal – they’ve just hit a bumpy patch in the road, and they need a hand to get back on their feet. It could happen to any of us, at any time, and I swear to god, I wouldn’t want tinned peaches and sweetcorn if it was me.

Anyway, that’s what I’m talking about with my kids. I’m hoping that if we keep talking, the concept will finally sink it, and gratitude and kindness will become second nature. I mean, I’m not holding my breath, but it’s worth a try, eh?

Thank you for being a friend (travelled down the road and back again)

I’ll be honest, I haven’t got a fucking clue what to write about. But, it’s been a month – a month! – since I last blogged, so I’ve got to write something, even if it’s just a light-hearted ode to Twix bars. Ah, I don’t know. The thing is, I’ve always written on the assumption that no one will ever read my ramblings. That has, of course, gotten me into trouble, like the time I wrote about Ben’s misfit mates, and got called into his school principal’s office. It was my own fucking fault – I named the school, and identified the kids (I know, I know), and even though the stories were FUCKING funny (the Irish kid who came for a playdate with an empty rucksack and left with a full one, and the Filipino boy whose dad would consistently forget to pick him up after playdates, and then appear, post watershed, with Dominoes pizza and a cheery grin), the school failed to find the humour in my anecdotes, and told me right off. And of course, I failed to learn my lesson, and went on to mention an old, embittered friend in a blog (her FULL NAME, for fuck’s sake), thinking that she would never in a million years read what I’d written and – of course – she did, and a thousand apologies and a hasty deletion couldn’t make me feel any less dreadful about what I’d done.

It all comes back to the fact that no one was ever meant to read this shit. I started my blog after a particularly disastrous Wednesday, in which – I believe – I’d forgotten Ben’s free-dress day, Frankie had flung a cupcake in a charming café, and Alice had stripped naked and pissed in a sandpit, and – in an attempt to deal with my failed attempts at mothering – I wrote my thoughts down, dear-diary style. It was the BEST therapy. You have no idea. I wholeheartedly believe that I’d be rocking in a corner, wearing a potato sack as a nightie and a flower crown as a headpiece, if I hadn’t dealt with my issues via the medium of blogging. That, my friends, is what The Notorious M.U.M is: therapy. I work through shit by writing it down. 

Here’s the honest truth: I nearly drew a line under the whole thing a few weeks ago. Cos, like, what the FUCK am I doing, writing down the silly thoughts in my silly head? It’s all a bit nonsensical. I’m investing my heart and soul into something that keeps me away from my kids (um, actually …), makes me no money, and leaves me open to people calling me names (although I STILL say lesbian earth mother is a compliment rather than an insult). You know? What the FUCK? And so, I shut the whole thing down. For half an hour. A whole 30 minutes! And then – in those 30 minutes – I thought about everything this silly blog has given me, apart from the grey hairs and nervous tic.

Primarily, of course, my blog has provided me with friends. Real, legitimate and excellent friends – 90% of whom live in parts of the world inaccessible by motor car or scooter, but all of whom feature highly on my “people I don’t hate” list. One of these bitches is actually coming to visit me next week. My parents are SPECTACULARLY freaked out by this. “But what if she doesn’t look anything like her profile picture!” “What if she’s ENORMOUS?” I was, like, “Guys? I’m not marrying this chick, we’re just gonna hang out for a few days.” Despite my explanations that it’s not an arranged marriage we’re planning, they’re still struggling to comprehend the fact that I’m inviting into my lovely home someone who drunk messaged me a year ago, telling me they fuckckcing loved my wordsszzzz and cood we be friendz?  

I really can’t overstate the quality of excellent friends I’ve acquired through blogging. Last week, I hung out for the best part of a day at a friend’s shop in the hills, with another friend who I found through Instagram, I think. I can’t remember. I just know that these are likeminded humans who love Spaced, swearing and well-brewed cups of tea, and who I wouldn’t have met without my blog. Well done my blog! 

Truth is, I was struggling a bit pre-TNM. I’ve always struggled making mum friends – this is well documented – after my nearest and dearest conveniently fucked off and made lives for themselves in the furthest corners of the globe (read into that what you will). I had a handful of lovely friends, but only a handful. Since the inception of The Notorious M.U.M just under two years ago, that number has quadrupled. Na, more than that. Quintupled – is that a word? Sextupled? Well that just sounds rude. But yeah, I’ve got shit-loads now. Excellent, likeminded humans – TNM followers and fellow bloggers – who I fucking adore, if that’s not overstating the fact. The best part is, these friends have made friends with each other and have formed allegiances and support networks independent of my blog. True story!

And so: I will continue to blog. I dunno what I’m gonna blog about, but if there’s a chance it’ll provide me with a few more friends, and those friends with more friends, then it’s worth the effort, yeah?