Good Golly Miss Holly!

Pride in your country isn't about putting wanky stickers on your car and wearing the flag as a shirt.

2012-01-30T13:41:00.000+11:00

Image from here.

I'm not interested in getting into a slanging match with anyone over whose the more patriotic around here since I'd be pretty hard pressed to find someone who isn't proud to call this great Southern land home.

That said there are some very vocal, blessed souls who scream the loudest about how they grew here, you flew here so if you don't like their self proclamations of 'Aussie Pride' then you can fuck off.

I'm sorry, WHAT?

The minute you take it down the path where you criticise or ostracise someone for their supposed anti-patriotism, your cries of pride take on an ugly hypocritical glow.
Patriotism can mean alot of different things and can be expressed in alot of different ways but I hardly doubt paying lip-service by just getting pissed on the January 26th or worse, spouting racism thinly disguised as pride does this country the justice it deserves.

For me personally, being proud of Australia is taking pride in our environment, working an honest day (and unfortunately, paying taxes), embracing multiculturalism, teaching acceptance to our children and loving thy neighbour. Seems pretty basic and yet more realistic than just changing my Facebook name to Holly 'Aussie Princess' Homemaker.

So how about getting that wanky Southern Cross sticker off your car, popping that flag up where it belongs (ie; not as a bikini cover or curtain) and take some real pride in your country, people!

The babe that wasn't breastfed and why I became an advocate for breastfeeding.

2012-01-27T10:17:00.002+11:00

I'm not writing this post to highlight the differences between breastfeeding or formula feeding, nor am I writing this to fan the flames of the mother of all arguments. Instead, I'm writing this post in a bid to show the world that breastfeeding advocacy isn't synonymous with a disdain or fear of formula for many of us.

The Bug & I, when she was a wee 4 months old.

My passion for breastfeeding and my breastfeeding journey with the Boy has been well documented on this blog.

There have also been times, more on social media than here on the blog, that I have gotten in heated discussions with other women on the topic who would tell me that I was "lucky", that breastfeeding must have been "easy" for me and my favourite, that I "don't understand what it's like to have to reach for a tin of formula."

I do though. Understand, I mean.

I wasn't always a breastfeeding advocate and if you had told that I would be 4 years ago, I would have told you to put the crack pipe down.

The Bug and I, you see, had a very short-lived breastfeeding relationship and she was formula fed from 3 weeks of age.

The beginning

I had always planned to breastfeed and I don't think I ever contemplated not doing so.

I remember proudly telling the Midwife that I planned to breastfeed when she asked at my 20 week checkup. "Good for you," She said "Alot of girls your age think they were given breasts just to look good in a tank top." I nodded, and vowed to not be one of those girls.

The birth and the first daze

The Bug & I shared our first breastfeed when she was about 90 minutes old and I remember feeling overwhelmed by the whole experience. Breasts were meant to breastfeed, mothers were meant to feed their babies breastmilk so why wasn't this whole breastfeeding caper coming naturally to us? Shit, I mean wasn't this what I was designed to do?

Having had a caesarean, I stayed in the hospital for 5 nights and was lucky enough to be transferred to a smaller, quieter hospital where the Midwives were more than happy to lend a hand to a new Mum, struggling to feed her baby. My breasts were engorged, my nipples were cracked and bleeding and I cried every time the Bug wanted to feed. My midwife hooked me up to a Lactina electric breast pump that I affectionately nicknamed Big Blue and I began to express to give my nipples a break.

When we got home, I went out and hired a Big Blue for myself and continued to milk myself like a jersey cow for a few more days. Upon Big Blue's return to the community health centre, I invested in a pair of nipple shields and rejoiced in the fact that I was actually able to put my hungry baby to my breast without dissolving into a flood of pained tears.

Trouble in paradise

One night at around 3 weeks, we just could not settle our little Bug. She screamed all. night. long. Literally, all night. We walked around the house, paced, bounced and bopped to no avail. At 4am, we were desperate and loaded her up into the car, planning to pay a visit to the hospital. No healthy baby could possibly fight sleep and scream for 8 continuous hours for no bloody good reason! 20 minutes down the road, she fell into an exhausted sleep and we wearily turned the car around, agreeing to phone our maternal health nurse in the morning.

"She's lost weight in the past 5 days," Margaret, our nurse informed us the next morning "How often is she feeding?" Often. "It sounds like your supply is low." Fabulous, I was starving my baby! Margaret left that day, leaving me with the instructions to demand feed and to visit my GP for a script for some Motilium.

I was left feeling confused by the whole situation and I didn't know who to ask. Though she had breastfed us and offered me her full support, my Mum didn't know much about supply issues and the few girlfriends with babies I had that had back then weren't able to successfully breastfeed or chose not to. If there wasn't enough milk there, how on Earth was putting my screaming baby to my breast more often going to help her or me? It just didn't make sense! "I'm weaning her," I announced afterwards "This is supposed to be natural but I just can't seem to get the hang of it. If I did and it was meant to be, I wouldn't have supply problems!" As far as I was concerned, Margaret's diagnosis of supply issues was permission to give up.

Later that afternoon, I went to Woolworths and bought a tin of formula.

You tried, I cajoled myself as a wave of guilt swept over me while making the Bug her first bottle. You tried and you didn't make enough milk for her, I repeated as I fed her. She hungrily gulped down that bottle and just like that, I had weaned my daughter.

G is for guilt

There was so much more to be a loving and nurturing mother than just breastfeeding and yet, I could overcome the insurmountable guilt I felt from weaning my Bug. I loved her in every way I could but I still felt like I had failed her. I could not look at a "Breast is best" logo without feeling offended. I despised breastfeeding advocates. I couldn't look at a mother breastfeeding her baby without feeling a pang of something that I later realised was jealousy.

I was mourning the premature end of the Bug and my breastfeeding relationship by shooting bitter venom into the direction of anyone or anything that uttered the word 'breastfeeding', it represented my failure as a mother.

What I know now that I didn't know then

I often wonder if I would have weaned the Bug if I had been more informed. I had no idea of the mechanics of how my breastmilk was made or how a caesarean delivery or the absence of skin to skin after baby's birth can have a negative effect on milk production. No one told me that using nipple shields can have a detrimental effect on a mother's milk supply nor did anyone tell me that breastfeeding was a skill to master, both for Mum and Baby. Ahhh, hindsight!

What I do know however is that not breastfeeding has not affected my daughter in any foreseeable way. She is healthy, intelligent with an amazing sense of humour and a definite future in acting because she is a drama queen! While I struggled for a long time with my perceived failure, I am thankful for it because it made me search to connect with her in other ways and it provided me with the pig-headedness I needed to perceive the second time around ...

The second time around

In the early weeks after giving birth to the Boy 21 months down the track, I became obsessed with researching the ins, outs and inbetweens of breastfeeding. I was determined to give it another try and I wanted to know everything there was to know about breastfeeding so at least if I failed this time, it was not through a lack of knowledge. I enlisted the help of the Australian Breastfeeding Association (ABA) and despite wanting to wean every single day, I rode out those stormy first 8 weeks until nursing became second nature to both of us, The Boy and I. He ended up nursing until he was 14 months.

Why I am a breastfeeding advocate

I advocate for breastfeeding in little ways. A gentle nudge to dispel a myth here, advice offered when called upon there, sharing of an evidence-based article or a positive blog post or tweet. Mainly though, I advocate through the ABA where I'm training as a Breastfeeding Educator/Counsellor. The main role of a BC is to volunteer on ABA's Breastfeeding Helpline, a hotline that I rang many, many times during those first few months.

Remembering I have fed my babies every which way and in between, I am not interested in judgement or making anyone feel inferior.

I want to help Mums to ensure they know how their bodies work to feed their babies and so if they do make the decision to wean, they make an informed decision which will hopefully see them not struggle with the overwhelming guilt that I did. If she can go on to have a positive breastfeeding experience, no matter how long or short, then to me, it is all worth it!

The dilemma of the unplanned pregnancy and university.

2012-01-24T16:22:00.000+11:00

Oh shit indeed! Image from here.

This pregnancy was unplanned. The plan was to have more sprog after I finished uni but I guess the universe (and my uterus) had other plans. So as soon as that second blue line appeared on that stick I had just pee'd on, I immediately thought "What about uni?"

At that time, we were about three quarters through the semester and I had more pressing things to worry about - You know, like how the fuck am I going to pass this hell boring subject when I've been sitting up the back of the class tweeting? Then the morning sickness set in and I was more concerned about how I was drag my sorry ass off the lounge and into class, so it was filed in the "Worry yourself into a state over this later" tray for future reference.

In the end, I passed both my subjects and uni finished up for 2011 but I just told myself to worry about 2012's study plans later and kept that shit in it's tray. Out of sight, out of mind!

Alas Semester 1 for 2012 is looming on the horizon and I can't put off the decision making any further so I sat down this morning gave the situation some thoughts.

I have a few options;

- Defer all of 2012 and look into going back in 2013. Learn how to sew, finish my ABA training and generally soak up life being barefoot and pregnant.

- Return to class for the 1st semester of 2012, be awesome, rock that shit and then defer the second semester.

- Continue studying during 2012 as planned, losing my sanity in the process whilst attending 80 hour clinicals in a local hospital with a 2-4 month old babe at home.

- Put it all in the too-fucking-hard pile and go eat a hunk of White Choc Raspberry cake!

These are my concerns;

- This is most likely my last pregnancy, should I stay home with my feet up and enjoy?

- Will poor Kim Kardashian ever find true love?

- If I defer this year, will I go back at all?

- If I don't go back and finish, how the fuck will we ever afford to live in something abit bigger than our shoebox?

- The 2 units that I will be studying are more in-depth than the ones I studied last year as they begin to address how the body works, etc. Can I handle it?

- Do I really want/need more grey hairs?

I keep reminding myself that;

- While I often struggled keeping my shit together last year, I enjoyed being at uni.

- It feels damn good to know I'm working toward my goal of being a Midwife.

- I am only 25 this year and my kids will only be little once.

- I need to get off my ass and organise dinner before my energy runs out. Blergh.

For now I have re-enrolled, knowing that the option of deferment is there if I need it. The problem is, how the fuck am I going to know if I will need it or not?

What would you do?

The one where I am so glad I got it so wrong.

2012-01-20T13:41:00.000+11:00

For fear of sounding like a drama queen, I wasn't going to share this post but there's nothing I hate more than writing a post and having it sit in my draft folder, taunting me for being too much of a self conscious twat to share it.

I wrote this on Monday afternoon after getting home from the sonographer, still breathless at how wrong I was. I don't know if it was self preservation or what but I am so glad that I had gotten it so wrong.

* * * * * * * * * *

I only had my dating scan this week. Yes, at the ripe gestation of 16 weeks.

What I hadn't made public is that I have spent the last 4 weeks convinced that a scan was going to show no heartbeat or worse still, an empty uterus.

Why? I don't exactly know.

It could have been the fact that I hadn't been reassured by seeing our baby on screen for 16 whole weeks.

It could have been the fact that unlike my other pregnancies, I am still yet to feel my baby move.

It could have been the fact that in the absence of the morning sickness, there was no other symptom that I was in fact pregnant.

When you don't feel pregnant, it's kind of hard to connect with a baby you're terrified doesn't actually exist.

On Monday morning, I prepared for the worst as I laid myself down on the sonographer's table.

"Why are you looking away?" He asked me gently, as I fixated on the poster about skin cancers on the wall next to me.

I threw him a weak smile and willed him to hurry the hell up.

Oh god, how would I tell the Bug that there was no baby on the way? Would we try for another? Would we grieve for a life we didn't feel connected with? Why had my body let me down?

"And here is your baby, Holly." He said, interrupting my frantic thoughts.

The wind felt momentarily knocked out of me as I looked over at the screen.

The baby that I was so sure didn't exist greeted me. There was a baby, my baby, wriggling about before my eyes. Legs kicking to and fro just like his/her big brother does when he's throwing a tantrum.

My heart felt like it was going to burst and my eyes filled with relieved, crazy hormonal lady tears.

Sitting here now, I realise that the signs had been there the whole time (you know, other icky unmentionable symptoms that I won't share) but I had been oblivious to them, adamant that I wasn't actually pregnant. I have no idea why I refused to place any trust in my own body? You'd think that after carrying two more babies, it'd give it the benefit of the doubt but no.

As you can imagine, blessed (or embarrassed) does not fully describe how I am feeling ...

The Mum that yells.

2012-01-18T15:27:00.000+11:00

I've never done much planning in the way of discipline. I just assumed my offspring would behave. I mean, since I'm perfect then wouldn't my children naturally be too? Heh! Bet you $100 my Mum is rolling her eyes as she reads this!

My babes aren't obscenely naughty or troublesome, they're just normal two and four year olds. With that brings fart jokes (I am asked to pull someone's finger at least five times a day), lots of laughter, an enormous amount of washing and some pretty bullshit behaviour. Not to mention that inevitable fisty-cuffs that breaks out multiple times a day when you have more than one at home at the same time.

The problem, well my main problem, lies with my reaction to the pretty bullshit behaviour.

9 times out of 10, I am reactive. Shit hits the fan before I respond. Not because I'm lazy or half-assed ~~all the time~~ but because this is real life and I don't spend every waking moment hovering over the babes. I know all you Mums out there are feeling me on that one!

I'm not sold on the claim that being proactive fixes all pretty bullshit behaviour but I do know that my current method isn't working - Yelling with a serve of smacking when I just can not hold it together anymore.

Yes, I have am the Mum that yells.

It's something new everyday and yet my reaction is always the same. Just last night, MC said to me after I went off my rocker at the Boy who'd gotten out of bed for the 3rd time, "I feel bad for him. He doesn't get explained things when he's in trouble, he just gets yelled at." Cue floods of hormonal tears as I berated myself for being the worst mother in the world. Hormonal tears aside though, I can not handle the forlorn, sometimes scared expression I am rewarded with after yelling or smacking. I long to be one of those calm, cool as cucumber mums who positively disciplines instead of, you know, yelling like a Shaz.

When I sit back and think about how life will be with another baby in the house, I start to fret. How the fuck am I going not lose my shit? How am I going to handle the pretty bullshit behaviour from two preschoolers as I tend to the constant demands of a newborn? Are we going to live to tell the tale? OH GOD, WHY DID I HAVE TO HAVE SEX?

Changes need to be made and so, I have decided to break my rule of not consulting anything written by self-proclaimed parenting experts and am going to start researching positive discipline methods. Nothing too outrageous and nothing too peace/love/stoner/nurture the second coming of Christ through your child though. Just ways to manage the pretty bullshit behaviour without getting the Shaz out.

Wish me luck and feel free to share any wisdom, or dessert!

It's all too hard, so much so that I couldn't even be bothered thinking of a witty title for this blogpost.

2012-01-17T17:42:00.000+11:00

*Image from here.

After a fab lunch with family, we set off home just abit over an hour ago where I planned out all the things I would accomplish at home before dinner time tonight.

Hang out a load of washing, fold and put away a basket and a half of clean washing, pack away last night's clean dishes, make everyone's bed with fresh linen, prep dinner, feed the animals, sweep the floors and bath the kids.

We have been home for near on 45 minutes now and I have done nothing. Zip. Nada.

With each wasted minute that ticks by, another thing on the to-do list is screwed up and thrown into the too-hard basket.

This seems to be happening alot lately.

Hell, I've stopped about three times in the past 15 minutes writing this post because it feels too hard!

Normally an organised and house-proud soul, I am finding my house is being left in a state of disarray. Things are being left until the last minute. I keep finding myself drawn to my lounge or my bed and perhaps most guilt-inducing of all, my children are often being left to their own devices to amuse themselves.

Drained and tired all the damn time, I feel like I'm not keeping up the demands of every day life - Running after 2 preschoolers, keeping a house tidy, so on and so forth. I'd like to think that I'm not expecting too much of myself either which makes me feel even worse because if I'm not making outrageous demands then you know, I must be a failure.

Is that what happens when the superwoman thing gets too much? We just burn out and make ourselves miserable? Oh, and if this is just a funk then I would very much like out now, ploise.

Tell me, how do you keep on top of things when you just can not bothered?

Bringing home The Bug.

2012-01-12T12:00:00.002+11:00

My memory doesn't serve me that fabulously but two things I can vividly recall are the births of my babies, and the day we brought them home. My senses were heightened that day and the sights, sounds and smells are forever imprinted into my memory.

This post is more for me than you. Actually, it's more for The Bug. She is sitting next to me right now, writing her own grocery list and I know it's such a Mum thing to do, but I am feeling amazed that this smart, funny little girl is the baby I brought home. One day I hope she will read this and not be totally embarrassed by her mother's public display of sentiment!

* * * * * *

The Bug, ready for us to bring her home.

The Bug was born in October 2007 and Sydney was in the throes of a disgustingly hot and humid spring. It was a Tuesday, after lunch and our five night stay in the beautiful small, country-ish hospital nearby had come to an end and we were aching to take our baby home.

I remember lovingly dressing my squishy, pink bundle in a soft white 0000 Wondersuit and stepping into the bathroom, excited to finally change out of pyjamas and into something abit more glamorous.

Being a first time mum, I assumed my body would snap back immediately after giving birth (stupid girl) and I'd packed a Size 10 dress to wear home. I remember promptly bursting into tears when I realised how tight the dress had become around my middle and cried even harder as I struggled to get the zipper up over my leaking, engorged chest. Determined not to let anything dampen the day, I squished my chest down and got the zipper up, only to unleash a torrent of milk from my breast pads. The smell of sour breastmilk stung my nostrils and I wondered if any other women out there couldn't handle that smell as much as I couldn't on that day.

We slowly made our way down the corridor, wheeling our babe along. I ambled along, still adjusting to the sensation of my healing caesarean scar while cursing my shins which had become swollen in the days that passed since delivering my daughter.

As the sliding front doors opened, we were enveloped in a stifling whirlwind of humidity and heat. My dress flew up over my head, exposing an amazing pair of granny undies to the old couple walking into the hospital and I found myself fighting back another round of tears. We loaded up our precious cargo and I couldn't bear to leave her in the back alone so I sat next to her, my hand resting on hers the journey home.

A few minutes from home, we were going around the roundabout and a car pulled out too early, almost hitting us. Something rose in chest, my palms started to sweat and a feeling of blind rage washed over me - It was at that moment I realised that I would kill for my baby. Woe betide anyone who brought harm to her, ever. It was a pretty amazing feeling for someone who often thought the world should revolve around them!

The sweet scent of jasmine greeted us as we walked through the front door of Mum's. It was a surreal moment walking into the house, the house I grew up in, with a baby in my arms. After settling in, we wrapped little Bug up and placed her gently in her pink basinette. We didn't know what to do with ourselves. I remember gingerly sitting down on the lounge, suddenly exhausted. So I just sat and reflected - A few days earlier, I had a walked out with a bump and now the bump was another human being: One that relied on me for her everything. My mind boggled.

A few hours later, the euphoria had dipped as the thrill of being home started to fade and life slowly returned to normal. Well, a different kind of normal. It didn't matter though because our Bug was home!

Oh god ... I think I'm ... gasp ... a Mummy Blogger!

2012-01-11T13:21:00.000+11:00

Let me start off with a big fuck you to anyone who looks upon the whole concept of the Mummy blogger with disdain.

Image from here.

Personally, I don't get the blogging label, blogging niche bizo and I certainly do not understand why there would be any sort of negativity attached to being a mummy blogger.

Mums are cool. Mums work hard. Some Mums do yoga and their pelvic floor exercises and others write blogs.

Anyway, I am waffling ...

If I ever had to label myself, I would normally jump and say that I am a personal blogger.

Yes yes, I know I state on my about page that this is one of those blogs and sure, I roll with a bunch of awesome mums but I blog about a plethora of things from body image to living with my in-laws to how music touches my vagina. Naturally, I just assumed that would make me ~~an awesome~~ a personal blogger?

I mean, don't mummy bloggers write posts where they gush about playgroup, share recipes and how despite the fact their vagina will never be the same, they love their babies?

DON'T THEY?

Aren't Mummy bloggers a different breed from I? I mean, I often call my kids bastards!

Well, scrolling through my archives looking for rewind posts, I realised something;

There's an awful lot of red mummy blogs there, huh?

For a "personal blogger", I sure as hell post ALOT about motherhood!

Oh god, I think I'm a mummy blogger ...

and you know what? I think that's pretty fucking cool!

"It's just a phase" and other assorted lies about motherhood they tell you to keep you poppin' em out!

2012-01-09T09:00:00.003+11:00

I don't know about you but I've been told alot of porkies about motherhood since falling pregnant with The Bug in early '07. Not cool. I mean, what kind of mean spirited asshole pushes a whole lot of lies in your face so you keep putting your uterus to work?

Here are a few of my fave lies, probably all coined by my Mum so I keep giving her grandbabies. I'M ONTO YOU MUM!

- My fussy eater's penchant for fussy eating is "just a phase" that she will outgrow.
Um, it has been over 3 years now and I am still waiting for her to outgrow this dear little phase. Unless it's plain pasta, sausages, yoghurt, peanut butter or comes in a Happy Meal box then she is not interested.

- Actually, anything that meets the reassuring response of "It's just a phase."
'Nuff said.

- "A routine will make your baby sleep."
Tizzie Hall fucking lied, or just never found herself in the company of a bona fide sleep dodger.

- "Breastfeeding will help you shed the baby weight."
Granted this may work for you, it does not work for me and I feel majorly RIPPED ORF!

- "It gets easier, dear."
No, it does not you lying asshole! I just want for a better word on this one - Changes, new challenges, different. Just don't tell me it gets easier or else I'll have to stab you in the eye with one of the kid's melamine forks.

- "You learn to ignore the housework" or my personal favourite, "Just worry about that housework later!"
Because really, there is nothing we love more than watching our children wade through a battlefield of cookie crumbs and lego pieces with no clean clothes to wear! I am often baffled by the logic on this one - Sure, sometimes a nap is more important but then what? You keep ignoring that housework and that shit just keeps multiplying. No. Thank you!

- "Don't cuddle your baby to sleep, you will just create bad habits."
Bitch, if I want to soak up that baby-ness for as long as I can then I will. Sure, we may create bad habits but there's a myriad of bad habits my baby can make and if it came down to cuddling my baby or teaching him to steal a car, I know which one I would go for!

- "Oh those two (three, four or five) won't fight forever. They'll grow out of it, you know!"
Now I know this one is a great big dirty lie because I am 24, my sister is 23 and we still argue sometimes. We're not asshole, we're siblings. Siblings fight. Parents drink because siblings fight. Simple, yes?

- "You will sleep again one day soon."
Really? REALLY? When? That sounds an awful lot like an offer for you to come and take my kids for a few nights so I can sleep. Bless you!

- "Look at how cute your babies are! You simply can not deny the world such cute babies!"
I'm onboard with that idea if the world will provide me with a nanny, a cook and a cleaner free of charge to help me rear these cute babies. These are my demands, darlings!

- "It easier the second (third, fourth, etc) time around!"
Again with that bloody e-word! Unless you've consulted your crystal ball and checked it twice, do not try and feed me false hope! I cruised into motherhood the second time around, expecting it to be easier and was rewarded with a refluxy, catnapping, round-the-clock feeder who insisted on being carried everywhere. Easier my ass!

- "You are going to enjoy every moment of motherhood!"
There is alot about motherhood that is to be enjoyed, no mistaking that. However, I do not find myself feeling thankful, fulfilled or remotely joyous when I am scrubbing poo off the wall or dealing with public displays of tantrum!

What lies have you been told about motherhood?

My plan of awesome. Alternatively known as "How I am not going to f*ck 2012 up."

2012-01-05T19:40:00.000+11:00

Image from here.

2012 is going to be a pretty damn amazing year.

But, I tend to think every year is.

You know, some parts are. Some parts not so.

Nothing majorly bad has happened these past few years so I try to remain upbeat and shit.

My only problem lies in the fact that I kind of drift from year to year with no clear plan for what's ahead. I mean, I know nothing is set in stone and there's a small part of me that likes to believe in the magic of fate but still, it'd be nice to have some sort of idea.

So, I am going to set myself some goals for 2012.

I know I know, heaps original of me but this is a BIG thing for me here, people!

- 2012 needs to be the year of the friendship for moi. Over the last couple of years, I have allowed friendships to fall by the wayside. Some because they were high-maintenance, some because I felt like I'd left it too long without contact and didn't want to face rejection (Yes, stupid I know) and some because I am simply stubborn. This year, I am resolving to take a leap - Make some new friendships, reignite some old friendships, and get out of the house for catch ups! I need girlfriends!

- Not swear so much. Oh fuck, who am I kidding?

- Inject abit of, as my girl Kelley would say, motherfucking zen into my life. I am not the calmest person at the best of times. Anxious and erm, highly strung with limited patience does not equal a happy, relaxed Mum of soon to be 3 under 5. Quite frankly, I need to learn how to calm the fuck down, meditate, buy a punching bag or pop a pill or else, it's going to be hard to write out my 2013 goals in a straightjacket!

- Retrain myself to eat clean. Especially after BabyGolly is born, given my track record. It seems that I find myself coping with the demands of a newborn by eating copious amounts of McDonalds, chocolate and Tim Tams. I don't fancy stacking on a shitload of weight again post birth and more importantly, I am going to need all the energy I can get!

- Read more books. In the past month, I have read 2 novels and started reading a book on Hypnobirthing. I am pretty stoked with myself after taking an extended break from reading, and I am aiming to read as many as I can before July!

- Work on my relationship. Just because I don't put out the way I used to doesn't mean it'd hurt to invest abit more time into us. I think it's so easy to take someone for granted when you are both used to doing the same dance, day in day out.

- Not let my plan of becoming a Midwife become a mere dream. Uni is probably off the cards for this year (A post on that little issue to follow shortly!) but I am determined to stay on track. For now, my best bet is taking the opportunity now to complete my ABA training and become a qualified breastfeeding counsellor. It all goes together - Babies, birthing, breastfeeding, right? Right!

- Ease my bigger two through the transition of having another babe in the house. After welcoming her brother, the Bug is a seasoned pro and is eagerly awaiting the arrival of a sibling (She had put in an order for a sister, not a brother because boys are smelly). Her brother on the other hand, I worry about. Children are resiliant yada yada yada, but the bond I have with my little dude is strong and I can not help but worry that he will have a hard time learning to share the limelight with a newborn who will demand every scrap of my attention. Shudder. I want 2012 to be an eventful year for my babies, but not too eventful. Calm eventful, if there's such a thing!

- Achieve my blog goals. Except the part about total world domination. Let't just see if the world makes it to 2013 first ;)

Here's to not fucking 2012 up, baby!

A letter to my lovely husband type person about sex.

2012-01-03T15:20:00.000+11:00

Image from here.

Dear Lovely Husband Type Person,

Allow me to channel a little bit of Salt N Pepa here - Let's talk about sex baby. Let's talk about you and me. Let's talk about all the good things and the bad things that may be.

There was once a time where all we did was boink. Those days were fun, well except for that summer where your room didn't have air con or even a goddamn fan. That was not so fun. The time your Mum found all those scratches on your back was pretty awkward too but hey, the priority was to live it up and live it up we did.

These days, the priorities have changed. Apparently motherhood will do that to a person. It's not that I don't like sex anymore, it's that there are a million other fucking things that command my attention while you are sitting there, talking about how sex will put me in a better mood.

While you are hounding me for sex, here is a quick list of what I could be doing

- Bathing children
- Sleeping
- Cooking dinner
- Sleeping
- Washing up
- Sleeping
- Vacuuming
- Sleeping
- Cleaning out the kitty litter
- Sleeping
- Making the beds
- Sleeping
- Folding and putting away the washing
- Sleeping
- Vomiting
- Sleeping
- Packing up the toy bombsite that is my loungeroom
- Sleeping
- Scrubbing the toilet, thanks to yourself and the Bug. Seriously, work on that aim for me.

And baby, these are just a few of my daily duties.

While I'm here, I'd also like to dispel a few myths for you.

- Sex will not make my hormone-induced headache go away.
- Sex will not make that pimple on my chin disappear.
- Sex will not ensure the children will sleep through the night.
- You do not have to have sex daily to ensure your penis is in working order.
- You will not DIE if you do not have sex tonight.
- You know your friend, the married one with 2 kids, that tells you that he is having sex every night? C'mon, everyone has a mate like that. That mate is a fucking LIAR. The only sex he's getting every night is with his hand, in the shower.

For future reference, here are a few pointers for you also;

- Do not pout after I knock back your smooth moves. A dropped lip and a whingy or worse, argumentative tone makes me more determined to not put out.
- Hit me up for lovin' after 11pm at your own risk. I am generally tired and bitchy and over it by this time so do not act surprised when I deliver a sharp kick to your jewels. OK?
- No actually means no in wife-land. It does not mean "I just need a little more convincing" or "I'm playing hard to get", nor does it mean "Grab me on the bum and that no will turn into a yes" or "Today is opposites day, baby!"

In case you've forgotten as well, pregnancy around here is known as the dry season. Drought. Sex-free zone. Vagina becomes an exit, not an entry. Since this is my third pregnancy now, I feel no sympathy for you because you know the game, sport! I am battling nausea, tiredness, frequent headaches and backaches - Could you blame me for not feeling turned on?

Just quietly though, if you want to try and turn me on then how about YOU USE SOME OF THAT EXCESS ENERGY THAT YOU'RE OBVIOUSLY BURSTING WITH AND HELP ME OUT AROUND THE HOUSE? Goddamn.

At the end of the day sweetness, life isn't that bad. I mean, I'm pregnant with our third child so the whole world knows you've had sex at least three times in your life. What are you complaining for?

Love and all that shit,

Your pregnant and not amused wife x

The obligatory new year post of bloggy goals and dreams and shit for Good Golly Miss Holly in 2012!

2011-12-31T12:33:00.000+11:00

2011 is almost at a close and this time of year makes everyone fucking reflective. Myself included.

2012 is going to rock my world, and evidently my vagina as I pray this baby is not another 9lb'er but that's a story for another day, my friends!

This right here is the goals and dreams I have for Good Golly Miss Holly in the new year;

------------------

- Find myself a blogging routine again. I tend to slack off at time throughout the year and it always makes me sad because you can be away from the interwebs for just a week and it feels like 50 years!

- Perhaps even set out some sort of efficient post writing schedule where I don't find myself entertaining ideas of throwing my laptop at the wall because I really want to blog but can't ahem, think of anything to ~~overshare~~ write.

- Hit 1000 followers. That's just under double the awesome of right now. Why? Because I am pedantic and increasing numbers are good for my OCD, unless it's my weight of course.

- Achieve total world domination.

- Give up the dream of BlogHer, for 2012 at least. I do not fancy hitting up New York with a newborn. No sir, I do not.

- Instead, focus on pulling my finger out and organising sponsorship for DPCon'12. Or even just organise my ticket. I have heart palpitations at the sheer thought of having to live the event vicariously through a twitter stream.

- Write an amazing post that receives 24539271 hits so my highest ranking posts are no longer the ones where people are googling 12-fucking-WBT (for I am a 12WBT drop out) or images of 'fat naked chicks'.

- Create some sort of meme about penises. Or vaginas. Or something totally inappropriate. Because that is exactly what the blogosphere needs.

- Write more ranty posts because y'all just love when I lose my shit and say fuck alot. Fuck.

- Maybe learn the meaning of SEO. Note to self; It is not an acronym for Stupid Effing Octopus.

- Live stream the birth of my third baby so the blogging community can see my erm, grand opening. I am kidding! Or am I?

- Not worry so much about being the coolest blogger on the block. It's probably never going to happen and my Mum is probably always going to be my biggest fan, which isn't too bad because she can cook me chicken schnitzel and quiche in exchange for an autographed bikini shot of yours truly.

------------

Righto, I think that list is pretty damn achievable. Yes? YES!

Here's to a fucking amazingly inappropriate 2012, bitches! MWAH!

GoodGollyRewind - I'm bringing SaggyBack!

2011-12-30T08:00:00.001+11:00

Sick of the rewinds yet? Don't despair, regular programming will kick off Monday. Very niiice!

In the meantime though, I'm talking about rockin' the not-so-yummy mummy look and learning to appreciate it. Perfection is for fuckers anyway, right? Right!

Do you ever feel that you take the cake. The whole cake ... but not in a good way? That you know, you aren't glamorous enough? Clothes aren't on the cutting edge of fashion? I might even drop the d-bomb here - Daggy?
There's talk out there about how the so called 'yummy' mummies out there are putting us normal mummies to shame. With their perfectly straightened hair, flawless complexions and effortlessly chic outfits. You know, the ones that get up at 5am to ensure that they look a million bucks by the time playgroup starts at 10am.
Me? Well I couldn't give a flying freak. Slummy mummy over here! Ok, I'm kind of lying. I wish I had the will and dedication required to be a yummy mummy but alas, I don't. I even struggle to get in for a regular eyebrow wax. Ahoy there monobrow!
Yes, I have silenced my inner fashionista since becoming a mum to make way for comfort. Kimmy (circa Kath & Kim) said it best when she said "Glamour hurts Sharon." Never a truer word spoken. If I can keep that muffin top in, strap the girls down with some kind of grandma-ish over the shoulder nursing boulder holder and stop my crack from showing then I'm going to work it. Strut the best that I can in erm, flats. If my hair is brushed, if my socks match and if there's no snot or milk on my clothes then that's just gravy baby!
9 times out of 10, I'm ok with my nicely dressed but slightly daggy fashion status. Honest. I'd like to think that if I were a construction worker I'd whistle at myself walking past. Everything's peachy, all glorious and overly confident ... until I stand next to my bestest lady friends or my sister. That's when I start to think "Shit, did I remember to shave my legs?" or "I probably should have picked out a top in a colour that accentuates the bags under my eyes." FML.
Do not even get me started on nights out on the town. Massive source of anxiety on my part. Out mingling with a crowd that doesn't care for The Wiggles and juice boxes. Damn. How does one look young and fabulous without flashing abit of vadge these days?
Do you ever feel this way? Do you ever feel silly for worrying about such things? You're not alone there.
I sat in on a talk about the 'Wonder woman' syndrome at an ABA conference a couple of weekends ago. When women place all these pressures on themselves to do it all - Perfect mother, perfect wife, trim and terrific, etc. Girlfriend who gave the talk knew her stuff. She was fantastic and funny. Then she brought out the guns of wisdom. She encouraged us all to stop for a second and look down at our babies;
"You are perfection. Look down at your child and watch how they gaze up at you, loving you unconditionally. To them, you are perfect. The centre of the universe." Oh. My. God.
At that moment, a lightbulb went off in my head. If we strip away all the layers, there is nothing more sincere than the admiration and love that a child has for their mother. Mummy really is perfect, and who can argue with that?
It also dawned on me that the people that mean most to me aren't fixed on how I look. The Manchild loves what's underneath (Don't they all?!), the Bug loves the cugs and kisses that we share and the Boy loves the quiet, milky moments we share. My girlfriends don't look at me any different when they come over and I'm lounging about in jarmies. They don't care if my hair is in dire need of a wash or if my clothes aren't the latest and greatest.
They love me for yep, you guessed it - ME!
I'm sure you're sitting there right, nodding and thinking of the special few in your life that think you are just the bombdiggity. It's a pretty awesome feeling, huh?
Bearing all of this in mind, next time I start to feel decidedly unglamorous in my saggy breasted, stretch marky, jelly thighs, big ass booty glory, I'm going to try and remind myself that I AM perfect. Perfection comes in all shapes and sizes. And maybe, just maybe we are all expecting too much of ourselves? Trying to be Wonder Women and shiz.
My mantra, for the 'off' moments shall be "Holly, if I were a guy, I'd totally root you!"BAHAHAHAJust kidding .... or am I?

GoodGollyRewind - Is there such thing as being too comfortable in a relationship?

2011-12-29T10:08:00.004+11:00

This here's another fave of mine, kittens. 14 months on and I still have no idea if you can be too comfy in a relationship. Eh. What do you think?

Image from here.

One of my besties is in the process of finding a place to live in the city with a girlfriend that she works with. Long story short, she posted a Facebook status the other day saying how much she is going to miss burping and swearing when she moves in with said girlfriend.

Her words took me back to a magical place of time past. When the Manchild and I first started living together. Ahhh, a time where there were personal boundaries and the atmosphere, a tad abit reserved. You know, like pretending girls don't fart and men are helpful around the house. Those were such happy days!

Fast forward 3 years later, and here's a little peek into our lives. A snippet of tonight's convo over dinner. Before you freak out, no the babies weren't sitting with us either!

Manchild; Do you want some more meat?
Me: Yes please.
Manchild; Don't worry baby, I've got plenty of meat to go 'round. After the kids go to bed.
Me: I suppose so. We can celebrate.
Manchild; Celebrate what?
Me: Me shaving my legs and armpits today. It's a pretty big thing.
*Manchild shakes head*
Manchild; To think, you were the pick of bunch.
Me (with a mouthful of food): You know it!

P.S: That's pretty standard conversation for us too!

For some couples there lies problem in the lack of communication. The Manchild and I tend to overcommunicate. Everything. He is my best friend and as much as he drives me absolutely mental with his messiness, vagueness and the fact that he keeps his socks on when we do the deed, I love him. And despite my short fuse, hairy legs and inability to cook a good roast, he loves me right back. I'd like to think that this is some of the stuff needed for a good solid foundation, for a long life spent together. The nice, warm feeling of familiarity. The flame that keeps on burning. So on, and so forth.

What do you think?

Do you relationships are better off in a perpetual honeymoon phase? Or is being comfortable a good thing? Do you think you can be too comfortable?

I don't know, but what I do know is that it's nice to not have to hold in a fart or two ;)

GoodGollyRewind - A letter to my heavily pregnant, almost new-first-time-mum self.

2011-12-28T10:08:00.002+11:00

Hello hello, and welcome to session 1 of the GoodGollyRewind!

I published this post back almost 2 years now and it's still one of my faves. Oh how I wish I had received this letter from Future Holly back before I gave birth to the Bug!
______________________________________

Dear Holly from September 2007,

I am future you, three years on.
Yes, despite the dramatics and pathetic cries of "I can't do this" you survived that rollercoaster ride of pregnancy and labour.

You are a keen one aren't you?
You even did it all over again with a 21 month age gap.
That'll serve you right for not keeping it in your pants!

I can see you are anxiously awaiting the birth of your first baby, attending those birthing classes and religiously pouring over those pregnancy and prenting books and baby, it ain't doing you any good. Everything that you know when you get to where I am will not have come from the mouth of someone else or a book so put the damn thing down.

Go and get your hair done and your eyebrows waxed then come back and finish reading me.
Go on and do it, I'm warning you - You will not get another chance to do so for a long time.

Have it done it?
Good girl.
Now where was I?
Oh yes, my little home truths for you.

Start enjoying your pregnancy. Relax and revel in the wonder of it.
Yes you may feel like a big fat beached whale at the mo and I honestly understand that you are tired of vomiting so many times a day this far in but it is not going to last forever.
Besides, you are going to be sooo much bigger and uncomfy the second time around!

Do not dwell on the fact that you have to have a caesarean with the little woman.
She is stubborn, she is breech. It's just how it is.
You are no less of a woman, no less of a mother.
Besides, you will get a chance to do the whole I am woman hear me roar thing.
Pushing out a 9lb-er no less!

I just seen you pick that book up again.
PUT. IT. DOWN. YOU. TWAT!
You are wasting precious relaxation time there my girl!
Both your little monsters will have either gotten their grubby little hands on a copy of these "manuals" in-utero or they are just exceptions to the rule because despite memorising passages from these books, you will still find yourself utterly dumbfounded by the joys (and despairs) of child-wrangling!

Your children aren't fans of sleep, especially the boy.
You will think the bug is bad sleep-wise until the boy comes along in all his catnapping, frequent night feeding glory!
There is nothing you can do but suck it up princess, it won't last forever.

You will only have a short lived breastfeeding relationship with the Bug.
Don't despair, she will not suffer for it and while in hindsight you will realise you could have done more to keep at it, you did what you felt was the right thing at the time.
Take pride in the fact that will make an informed decision the second time around and find yourself passionately advocating Breastfeeding - Bet you never saw that one coming did you?
Your persistance in the beginning paid off so make sure you keep that 12 Month Goal insight - You and the boy can do it!

Don't be quick to rule anything out yet in the way you will parent.
All your great intentions will go out the window in order to soothe the bug's colicky crying and to continue breastfeeding your second, the reflux terror.

Trust those maternal instincts. They say "Mother knows best" for a reason!

It is ok that somedays you don't feel like you're coping, as our oh-so-wise Mama will remind you over and over "Take it one hour at a time."
You will get through the day, believe it or not.

Oh did you just puke back up that glass of water you just chugged down?
Noice!
You poor pet, if it's any consolation you will only vomit a grand total of three times during your second pregnancy.
I know I know, it's awesome news right?

Enjoy every single moment because on the eve of your bug's first birthday, you are going to be knocked on your ass at how quickly the time has gone.
By the time her second birthday rolls around, you will be beside yourself trying to find a way to slow the time down.
Wasn't it just yesterday you brought that little squishy bundle home from hospital?

Hope that little bit of sentiment doesn't scare you enough because I have something scarier to share - The second baby, the time goes even faster.
You will blink and he will be 6 Months.

Nothing, and I mean nothing will ever compare to the love that you feel for those babes of yours. I can't explain it to you in words, even 2 years into mummyhood you will still find yourself overwhelmed at how strong your bond with is with them.
You will feel it with every bit of your being, and it will be with you for life.
They will become your life.

And finally, stop being such a damn drama queen or else your daughter is going to win that Oscar for best actress in a drama away from you!
Yes, she will grow to mimic you.
Now that's a scary thought!

Yes Holly, life as you know it will change in each and every way but there will not be a day that goes by that you aren't thankful for it.
You are blessed my girl, truly blessed.

See you when your bum cracks!

Love,
Future Holly.
♥

I have lived to tell the tale of Christmas 2011!

2011-12-27T15:14:00.000+11:00

I am quite pleased to say that I have lived to tell the tale of Christmas 2011!

Huzzah!

Of course, I wouldn't have been able to do it with the help of a few spesh items;

Anti-nausea meds. Need I say more?

Being able to relive the childhood excitement of Christmas eve was pretty damn wonderful too!

I am fucking CRAZY about Custard at the moment. I'd bathe in it if I could!

Super stretchy clothing, to help make the post-Chrissie bloat abit more comfy.

The superstretchy clothing was needed, thanks to my foodgasmic Passionfruit and Cherry Cheesecakes. Yes bitches, I made it myself!

Ear plugs to tune out the overtired, sugar-fuelled squabbling ~~brats~~ babes.

Lotsa beauty sleep, nanna naps and siestas. It ought to be a Christmas RULE that one and all (especially overtired, sugar fuelled ~~brats~~ babes) indulge in abit of beauty sleep every single motherfucking day of the festive season!

I am off Coke and coffee and pretty much everything I used to love. So I sipped this with sparkling mineral water. The bitter, the better!

My surprise gift from the Manchild didn't exactly hurt the cause either. A voucher for a pregnancy massage and a facial from our local day spa? Yes please!

Of course though, all the stress, swearing, vomiting and bitching in the kitchen was worth it just to see the joy on their little faces!

Hope your Christmas was utterly fabulous, darlings!

Like alot of the other cool kids out there, I have decided to take a little festive blogging holiday. In the meantime, I am going to be unoriginal and replay a few posts of Christmas past that you may not have read before ♥

Testa del Pene - The "All I Want For Christmas" Edition!

2011-12-24T09:00:00.003+11:00

I haven't handed out a Testa del Penne in long time baby, long time.

14 months to be exact.

So I've been lazy but the most important thing is the schlong dong is back, babyyyy!

Watching Channel V yesterday with my sister, I felt an overwhelming urge to pull the dusty old penis statues out of the cupboard and award one tooooo ...

Mariah Carey and Justin Bieber.

Their "All I want for Christmas" duet? Makes. my. ears. bleed.

Why, why, WHY?

Now, my disdain for Biebs is well documented but I don't think I've yet to give Mariah "I need me some new titties or at least a good bra" Carey any airtime yet.

Love 80% of her music (especially her old stuff when y'know, she wasn't rollin' with the homies), do NOT love her outfits, her diva-esque behaviour or the ridiculous names she bestowed to those gorgeous babes of hers. The woman is way too OTT extravagant. Money can't buy class, heyoooo!

This song, however, was the icing on the cake.

Mariah, go home and put some bloody clothes on!

Justin ... Just go home, full stop!

Needless to say, it gives me great pleasure to present both you twats to the world in penis form!

ALL I WANT FOR CHRISTMAS IS FOR JUSTIN BIEBER & MARIAH CAREY TO SHAAARDUP!

What blogging + those dreaded numbers known as stats has taught me in 2011.

2011-12-23T11:05:00.000+11:00

A public service announcement, made by yours truly!

So, the year is coming to an end and I like to get philosophical and shit. Indulge me, yes?

Today, I am going to share the wisdom I have learnt this year about blogging and those dreaded numbers known as stats.

Awesome, yes?

- It is incredibly difficult to ignore those dreaded numbers known as stats.

- Even more, it is incredibly difficult to not let those dreaded numbers boost or inflate your mood. A rise in hits can make you feel on Cloud 9 but a sharp dip? Not cool. Leaves you feeling rejected and wondering what the fark you are doing wrong! Example - Crying "Nobody loves me, everybody hates me, I think I'll go and eat worms" into a tub of Sara Lee Rocky Road icecream. That didn't really happen, I swear!

- Whether you love it or hate it, you can not deny that social media can have a big influence on those dreaded numbers. I think most bloggers can definitely pinpoint an increase of traffic from Twitter interactions and Facebook blog flogging.

- If you comment, they will come. Coincidence or not, but GGMH enjoys higher hits if I am a practicising comment-love-leaving, retweeting, blog-hopper. Comments truly are crack to a blogger!

- Write something really controversial. Never. fails. to. boost. the. dreaded. numbers. Seriously, some of my posts with the highest hits are those where I am ranting. Y'all just love when I morph into a ranting, raving loony bag!

- Writing posts about Justin Beiber will also help you boost those dreaded numbers, especially from the illiterate tweens who spend their afternoon googling shit like "Justin Bieber's penus" (sic) instead of doing their homework!

- Maybe I should write a blog post claiming that JB is the father of my children? It could go viral and that would really benefit those dreaded numbers. It'd probably get me some hate mail and death threats from distraught tweens but whatevs, I'd be motherfucking famous yo!

- My dreaded numbers are never going to be as high as some but I'm slowly becoming ok with that. Well, I'm ok with it but my ego is dragging it's feet on the matter! The most important thing is my Mum thinks I get a helluva lot of page views and she thinks I'm cool. Oh yeah!

- Speaking of blogging and those dreaded numbers, here is a screenshot of my stats. If you're as nosy by nature as I am then you love knowing this shit!

- At the end of the day though, no matter how good or bad those dreaded numbers are, I still love blogging!

Can you add anything to the list?
_____________________________

This week, my brother from another mother, Kellie from The Good, The Bad, & The Unnecessary's first time hosting the "Things I Know" meme at her place so make sure you stop by and join in!

So, what do you know this week?

Simple pleasures from days of yonder and by yonder, I mean pre-baby days.

2011-12-22T16:12:00.000+11:00

My kids are lucky I freaking love them!

This morning, I had to lock myself in the toilet to wee in peace.

Sadly, this isn't an unusual thing in this household and sitting there, got me thinking about the simple pleasures from the pre-baby days that I wished I had enjoyed more ... You know, before my house was overrun by curious little dictators!

Simple pleasures such as;

1. Wee'ing without an audience.

Be that at home or in a public toilet. High pitched choruses are "Are you doing a poo, Mum?" is rather embarassing, especially when in a shopping centre toilet, packed full of Christmas shoppers!

2. Showering without an audience.

I'm not a fan of the current audience which likes to point out my "big, squishy belly" or "big, squishy bum". Or the dreaded question, "MUUUUM, WHY IS THERE HAIR DOWN THERE?"

3. The last mouthful of anything.

In peace. Without having to share. Bliss.

4. Being able to blast my music in the car.

Damn those sensitive little ears ;)

5. Furthermore, being able to play whatever the hell I like without any inputs from backseat DJ's.

Guys, seriously, there is only so many times I can listen to LMFAO and Disney Christmas Carols without developing an eye twitch!

6. Brie cheese, Red Bull and Sizzler.

Ok, so this one's kinda just exclusive to being duffed. Whatever. I miss all 3. Boo hoooo!

7. Impromptu anything.

But especially sex, date nights and holidays. Impromptu does not compliment routine or bebes. I do however console myself with the fact that one day these things will return to our lives!

8. The freedom to crack penis jokes without having to ensure little ears are not listening.

THIS IS A BIG THING FOR ME, PEOPLE!

9. Perky ta-tas and strutting around, bra-less.

I sported amazing little A-B cups before becoming a Mama. I could wear any little number without a bra and no one would be none the wiser. These days I can't bear of even doing the housework, bra-less. Not-so-perky and heading south? Cheers for that, babes!

and drumroll please ...

10. Uninterrupted sleep.

Oh god, this is self explanatory, right? RIGHT? Prior to being impregnated, I was pretty ok with the Boy and his waking up during the night but now, not so. I just want to sleep dammit!

What simple pleasures YOU miss from your pre-baby days?

Dear god, my children need iRehab. You know, rehab for the painfully iPhone obssessed.

2011-12-19T16:10:00.001+11:00

Right now, I'd swap my real life iPhone for these iCupcakes. No shit. Image from here.

For the longest time, I suffered from iEnvy.

Every bastard who owned an iPhone, used Instagram and played Words with Friends on the go was on my shit list.

Then I got one and I was finally a cool kid.

The honeymoon is over now though, and my iPhone is driving me goddamn iCrazy.

My children are obsessed.

Despite vowing to never let them get their dirty little mits on them, I have relented and am to blame for my own misery. In the beginning, I would let them play with it on the odd occasion. Usually to stop them from brawling in the doctor's waiting room, or to cease the endless stream of demands whilst grocery shopping.

My friends, I had opened Pandora's Box.

7 simple words, one simple request that has come to really, really grate on my nerves. Repeated over and over by one or the other. All. Day. Long.

"Mum, can I play with your phone?"

Of course, there are some variations to this request also;

"MUUUUUM, I NEED YOUR PHONE!"

"Ohhhh, I don't have a phone to play with!"

"____ isn't sharing your phone!"

"Muuuuum, can I play [insert annoying app of your choice here] now?"

This of course has led to repeat a few catch phrases of my own a hundred times a day;

"Would you turn that damn game down?"

"NO, YOU CAN NOT HAVE MY PHONE! YOU ARE [insert appropriate age here] YEARS OLD, GO ACT YOUR AGE AND EAT SOME SNOT OR DRAW ON THE WALLS!"

"Where the hell is my phone?"

"It's my bloody phone, if I ask for it then you do not give me cheek! Hand it over. NOW!"

"Everytime you and your [insert appropriate sibling here] fight over an iPhone, an angel dies."

It has gotten so bad with my little dude, whose 2 remember, that when he wakes up in the middle of night, he gets into our bed and immediately asks if he can play with my phone. It is also not an uncommon occurance for the Bug to try and go to bed with my phone. Some sort of iNightlight? I don't know.

What I do know is that children and technology do NOT mix.

If there is such thing as iRehab, I will be all over that shit and sign my children up immediately!

Things I know; The Good, The Bad & The Unnecessary Edition!

2011-12-16T15:37:00.000+11:00

I am totally ripping today's theme for Things I know off Shae because hey, I think it's fucking genius and it's a fabbo tribute to my main man, Kell from The Good, The Bad & The Unnecessary who will be hosting this meme come next week!

The Good

- Guys, I'm having a BABY! I think that's pretty good ;)

- After a really unproductive beginning to the week, I have gotten my shit together. The house is clean, the washing basket is nearly empty and dinner was prepared at 10:30am this morning. Apparently it's the small things that amuse me and I'm ok with that!

- I passed both my uni units. A credit for one and a pass for the other. I am STOKED, especially since I spent the last few weeks of uni on the lounge and not, you know, in class learning.

- For like the first time EVAH, I am prepared for Christmas and we're not even at the 20th day of the month yet! High five ploise!

- Banana smoothies are rocking my world and surprisingly enough, keeping the nausea at bay. HUZZAH!

The Bad

- Just this week alone, I have experienced what seems to have been my first migraine as well as a snot-tastic cold that I just can not seem to shake. What kind of an idiot gets a cold in the season formerly known as Summer?

- After a few weeks of blissful day napping, the Boy has lost all interest. Nooooo!

- The side effects of first trimester pregnancy are playing games with my blogging mojo. Half the time, I just don't have the energy and when I do, I don't know what to write. Blergh.

- I don't usually complain about the rain but after weeks upon weeks of shitty weather, I am dying for some sunshine. My squids are too. They have taken to fighting incessantly with one another to pass the time and I am NOT amused!

- Maternity wear in Australia has gone to shit. Seriously. Even Ebay's lacking. Not good news for ever expanding girth!

The Unnecessary

- Thanks to this bastard cold, my eyes are constantly watering over and I feel like I have chlorine pool water stuck up in my nose. I look stoned.

- I have never watched as many eps of The Big Bang Theory as I have this week and stemming from that, I think I am developing a crush on Sheldon. I know I know, that shit is whack.

- Can Christmas Day hurry up already, I want some of my Mum's freaking fab Trifle!

- Is it bedtime yet?

Vomit Comet aka; The prettiest blog post title you will ever come across!

2011-12-12T18:11:00.001+11:00

Back in primary school, I read a book called Vomit Comet. The book must have been pretty meh because I don't remember any detail of it but the title has always stuck with me.

I spent my pregnancy with The Bug hurling chunks religiously. As sure as the sun would set, I would spew. Sometimes 6 times a day.

From 6 weeks right through to 36. Awesome, right?

I quietly nicknamed myself "The Vomit Comet".

I remember Manchild & I often soaking up the baby-free time we had and going out for dinner. A romantic, quiet meal which would inevitably be disrupted by a mad dash to the toilet. MC used to get really annoyed;

"I JUST PAID $30 FOR YOU TO EAT THAT THEN HORK IT BACK UP. I'M TAKING YOU TO MACCAS NEXT TIME DUDE!"

Who said romance was dead?

When I was up the duff with the Boy, I was ever so relieved to discover that I hadn't been blessed by the morning sickness demon. I think in the end I may have been sick maybe twice? I was a right smug bitch about it too!

My Karma?

My third pregnancy has welcomed that blasted morning sickness demon back into my life and I am not impressed.

A never-ending, constantly lingering, big ass long bout of nausea.

Hello again, Vomit Comet.

If I want to pretend I'm some kind of Susie Sunshine, I can actually pen a list of some benefits to feeling spewy all the time;

- It was a breeze to give up the fags. I shit you not. It is impossible to enjoy or long for something when the very thought of it makes you want to ... yep, vom.

- I have given up Coke. After an epic struggle with Coke, I have been able to kick to habit once and for all. Can not stand the taste unless it's post-mix ... Post-mix from somewhere other than McDonalds that is!

- I have dropped all the weight I have stacked on since the beginning of the year, bar 1kg. I have been able to say hello to 74kg again after eating myself back up to 79kg. Only complaint there is I'm not entirely sure where the weight has gone from because my face (and chinny chin chins) look the same?

- Gone are the days of mindless snacking and comfort eating. Actually, gone are the days of eating pretty much full stop.

- I can NOT stands takeaway. Huzzah!

And now, the not-so-benefits;

- All I have eaten today is a vegemite and cheese sandwich and 2 bites of a carrot and bran muffin. This is not an unusual thing.

- Despite not eating dinner anymore, I still have the pleasure of cooking everyone elses. Cooking steak or cutting raw chicken breast? ICK!

- I have zero energy.

- Despite being nauseous all the time, I am not actually vomiting so I have been giving bulimia a try to obtain abit of that relief you feel once you've emptied your stomach of ev-er-y-thing!

- I do however, do some involuntary gagging. At inappropriate times of course, too. The kids think it's hilarious and mimic me. Bastards! The Bug does make up for it however but coming over and rubbing me on the back, telling me "S'ok Mummy, it's just your baby making you sick!" Boy is it ever!

- Some mornings, I have the pleasure of battling both morning sickness AND heartburn.

- Some mornings at 3am, I wake up and feel like barfing.

Like a fool, I am eagerly anticipating the 2nd trimester. Please morning sickness faaark aaawf. Please, please, please!

This whole morning sickness experience has left me wondering one thing - HOW THE HELL DO WE MANAGE TO FORGET THIS SHIT AND GO BACK AND HAVE MORE BABIES?

Interested in advertising? Then Good Golly, I have a spot for you!

2011-12-08T22:17:00.000+11:00

After a pretty damn insight convo with the divine Maxabella at an event a couple of months back now, I decided to remove the mainstream advertising from Good Golly.

Not for any reason other than that the ads that would pop up would just simply not suit me or my hardcore, rock and roll, inappropriate image. Ahem.

I remember an ad on feeding toddlers red meat and it was being showcased on my blog at a time where I was questioning whether to tip my toe in the vegetarian waters or not. The constant, flashy reminder of red meat would make me a tad nauseous. Ick.

Anywho, the plan has always been to open up some spots to private advertisers. Spots for fab businesses to advertise you know, fab (and relevant) goodies to you, the most fab audience EVAH!

OR spots for fab bloggers who'd like to attract some new readers and to showcase their fab blog.

So, I present to you four brand spankin' new advertising slots, just to your right over there, up for rent on Good Golly Miss Holly!

For now, I will be rolling with 125x125 spots but nothing is set in stone and I am happy to negoiate if you are after something a little bigger.

For a little Christmas, let's-get-this-shiz-up-and-running bonus, I will offer these spots for $10 for one month.

Fabulous, right?

Interested?

Drop me a line at goodgollymissholly@live.com.au

Thursday’s child is full of hands-on-hips-stamp-of-the-foot, my Super Sweet 16 ‘tude!

2011-12-08T13:54:00.000+11:00

Thursday’s child is full of grace.

Apparently.

I say that little diddy is full of something too because my Thursday child – Well, she’s full of ‘tude.

I’m talking hands-on-hips-stamp-of-the-foot ‘tude.

Don’t let the sweet smile fool you, the kid is 4 going on My Super Sweet 16!

When I was pregnant, MC used to say that he hoped our daughter would look like me and have his cool, calm demeanour.

When I gave birth, we were greeted by a squishy little bundle, a spitting image of her father with a shrill squork akin to that of her mother!

Madam has grown into a little person very much like myself. She possesses my very best which coincidently can also be my worst traits – Sassy, fiery, opinionated, determined, stubborn, fiercely independent. She knows what she wants and very rarely will she settle for less.

So I’m sure it comes as no surprise when I say that she’s always been abit of a handful. I don’t mean that in a negative light either, by the way.

Turning 4 however, has ramped the attitude and antics up by oh, I’d say ten fold.

“I just want it!”, “Mum! NOW!”, “No, you can NOT have that brother!”, “It’s MINE!” and “Mum, can I have your phone? I just NEED your phone. I WANT AN IPHONE!”

High pitched screaming when she doesn’t get what she wants.

Hands on hips, pouting and foot stamping.

Door slamming, sibling brawling and tears.

Some days, we giggle at the drama queen antics, others days we shake our heads and some days, it takes damn near everything to not snap.

If this just a phase, let us hope it passes soon.

If it isn’t a phase, I have every intention of enrolling Madam in drama classes and becoming a fully fledged stage mom. Make abit of money from our exasperation. I mean, that’s what smart mums do, right? RIGHT?

Has your daughter gone through the preschooler equivalent of the My Super Sweet 16 phase?

How did you overcome it?

Do not tell me wine or vodka because that would just be tormenting me!

LIKE SANDS THROUGH THE HOURGLASS, THESE ARE THE NEVER ENDING DAYS OF BEING A BABY MAKER, BAKER AND CANDLE STICK MAKER!

2011-12-05T18:08:00.000+11:00

Image from here.

Tomorrow I hit the 10 week mark in what will no doubt be the world's longest pregnancy.

10 weeks down.

30 weeks to go which is roughly about 211 days.

Two hundred and a fucking eleven, people!

In the lead-up to pee-ing on the stick, I had found myself captivated by the "I Didn't Know I Was Pregnant" series on Foxtel's Home & Health channel. If you haven't seen it, the title is pretty self explanatory - Women usually think they're constipated, go to the can (or the ER) and find themselves pushing out a real baby and one of the food variety.

I find the whole concept amazing!

These women walk around for 30-40 something weeks and do not know they are pregnant.

No debiliatating morning sickness, no exhaustion, no uncomfiness, hardly a bump if at all.

My wonderful Aunty found out she was expecting my baby cousin when she was around the 25 week mark. Did not have an inkling beforehand. She went in for an ultrasound to see how far she was in, came out afterwards and announced she was having a little girl in 15 odd weeks.

What the fuck?

AMAZING!

Jealous over here yo!

Me? I must have a direct hotline between my brain and my uterus because I know straight away when I'm up the spout. Well, not straight away but soon enough. All three pregnancies now I have pee'd on sticks and had confirmed pregnancies by Week 4. Yes, week fucking four!

The beauty of it means that (when I am not laying on the lounge, feeling like death), I can do my best to savour every moment.

The beauty of it means I am treated to the whole experience - Nausea, vomiting, stretch marks, leaking ta-ta's, separated pelvis, insomnia, wee'ing every. single. bloody. time. I sneeze. Awesome, right?

The beauty of it means that by Week 12, I am usually wishing I am double that and cursing myself for finding out so damn early.

For now though, I have my hands pretty full wishing my constant all-day-and-night-living-on-vegemite-toast nausea and lack of appetite to faaark aaawf so I'll be just peachy keen to kick start the second trimester in the hope that shit settles.

Oh, and I'm looking for to having a bump to parade around too. Yes, I will probably complain later on about how it gets in the way of me sleeping too but if you're really nice, you can rub it for good luck.

LIKE SANDS THROUGH THE HOURGLASS, THESE ARE THE NEVER ENDING DAYS OF BEING A BABY MAKER, BAKER AND CANDLE STICK MAKER!

Homemaker on holidays.

2011-12-03T08:52:00.000+11:00

This is the view from my balcony. Amazeballs.

are in holiday mode right now and just like a fat kid in a candy shop, I am l-o-v-i-n-g it!

'Tis only for the weekend but right now, we can just pretend that we are going to spend the next month here.

Manchild, Bugface, Boyo and my Ma. The 5 of us in one big ass cabin on the lakefront. Sun, sand and good food.

There's one word for that and that word is bliss!

In usual style though, the trip up here last night was eventful.

- There was fighting over what song to play next - and I don't mean just the kids arguing with one another. MC was whinging, Ma was telling me to change songs and all the while, I just wanted to put some goddamn Crowded House on and block all the yapping out.

- There was a desperate call of "Oh oh oh, I need to wee. NOW" from the backseat around 8:30pm. So on the side of the pitch black freeway, The Bug squatted next to me and did her thing. The whole time I was thinking that it's amazing how with my daughter to protect, I felt fearless standing there on the side of the road when generally I would be terrified that a rapist, axe murderer or boogey man was lurking in the bushes.

- There was the preggo (aka; your truly) who battled nausea the whole way up after eating a great, big dirty Angus burger from Maccas. "There's a plastic bag in the glovebox, there's a plastic bag in the glovebox" became a mantra but amazingly enough, that plastic bag remains in the glovebox to this very day. Huzzah for not horking up!

- There was abit of the ole inevitable miss-the-turnoff-and-argue-over-whose-fault-it-is too. Always makes for a pleasant roadtrip. Especially when your Ma's in the back. I still maintain that if I were driving, we would not have ended up on some creepy ass, pitch black turn off in the middle of no-man's land at 9:30pm had I of been driving! In actual fact, the blame should lay with Google maps for their piss weak directions because quite frankly, NOTHING is ever my fault ;)

- And to bring the trip to a close, as we rolled through the little seaside town where we're staying, we were greeted by various bogans walking the streets. Some waving, some stumbling, some carrying precious cargo home from the bottlo. All pissed. Right down to the security guard cruising the holiday park in his golf buggy, stubbie in hand. LOVE IT!

To make up for the fact that they fell asleep in the car before we arrived last night, the babes woke up at 6:12am. 6 fucking 12 am. I shit you not. I rolled over, heard Ma whispered to them to be be quiet, heard the front curtain pull across and then the chorus of excited squeals "I SEE WATER!". There was no chance I was falling back asleep after that. These kids of mine are lucky they're goddamn cute because it is 8:38am, I am exhausted and I feel like I have been up forever.

Is it naptime yet? Wait, do people even nap on holidays?

DID YOU HEAR MY BIG NEWS?

2011-11-24T18:05:00.000+11:00

Pretty self explanatory, right?

Wash out.

2011-11-17T19:56:00.001+11:00

Image from here.

I don't know why I'm sharing this but it felt so good to write and once I started, I couldn't stop.

Right now I am in the midst of changing my antidepressants.

After three years, I have bid audieu to my beloved Dothep and am changing over to Zoloft.

The Dothep was a lifesaver.

I was in the throes of PND, crippling anxiety and severe sleep deprivation when I was first prescribed them. I had a refluxy, catnapping, round-the-clock nurser and whenever he did actually sleep, for the life of me I could not. The Dothep changed that and soon enough, I found myself actually resting and recouperating and feeling human again.

Under the supervision of my GP, I halved my 150mg dose for 3 days before embarking on a 7 day "wash out period", where my body is starved of all meds so I can start the new lot with a clean slate.

Today is Day 6 of the wash out period, and I feel like ... well, I can't even describe how I feel.

Flat, dazed, miserable.

Irrititable, achey and restless.

I feel like I am treading water, barely keeping my head up and fresh air in my lungs.

Sometimes I wonder if I bashed myself in the wall hard enough, would I feel it? Would I feel pain? With that pain, would I feel relief?

Other times I am overwhelmed with the urge to run.

Do you remember that song, "Pure Shores" by All Saints?

I'm moving, I'm coming. Can you hear what I hear? It's calling you my dear, out of reach. Take me to to my beach.

I heard it on the radio the other night as I was putting the Boy to bed and I froze, the words capturing my feelings precisely.

It's a pretty scary experience.

For the first time in a few years as well, I am finding myself battling with an old foe - Insomnia.

The inability to switch off. The inability to unwind. The inability to catch my breath.

Every night I wake at 3am and lay there, tossing and turning in the darkness, willing for sweet salvation to arrive in the form of slumber.

To help combat this not-so-wonderful side effect, my GP has prescribed me valium. Except I don't want to take valium. Little white pills. Little evil, white, habit forming pills.

Once upon a time, I would smoke copious amounts of marijuana to ward off the insomnia. To ease the anxiety. To catch my breath.

It's all too easy for me to seek solace in a bad habit, and I have no desire to go back to the bad place that these sorts of habits take me too.

So, I have been riding out the ill effects on my own. Quietly, resentfully, hopefully.

I have one more night of treading water, keeping my head above what feels like a never ending torrent of rapid, bubbling water.

Tomorrow evening, I will take my first dose of Zoloft.

Tomorrow evening, I will run from this wash out and never look back.

One of those bullshit filler posts where I share with you things that you may not know, or may not want to know about yours truly.

2011-11-16T17:32:00.001+11:00

Many months ago, someone fabulous (who I can't quite recall) tagged me in something or other where I had to share 10 things about myself.

I am skint on time and patience today so I am endeavouring to share with you 10 things that you may not know, or may not want to know about yours truly.

While I type this, I just hope to bloody god that my terrible two son does not rip my house to shreds as he has been so fond of doing all this week. Oh, does anyone want have a gorgeous albeit naughty two year old? I will throw in a free set of steak knives if you call within the next 15 minutes!

Anyway, where I was? Oh, right ...

1. I have just given up the fags. 3 weeks today. How fucking awesome am I?

My mother's precise advice to me before I kicked the habit. Ain't she a charmer? Image from here

2. The money I am saving from not having to buy the aforementioned, is now being spent on blueberry muffins and banana paddle pops and cold cans of Coke. My ass is probably going to need it's own postcode soon. Hawt!

3. I get really excited at the prospect of going to Bunnings. Like really excited. I browse the aisles planning out little home projects, wishing the universe to quickly deposit hundreds of dollars into my bank account so I could buy right now. I'm one of those "Need it and need it NOW" kind of good consumers.

4. Despite being really excited about little home projects, my interest usually wanes soon there after and projects are not completed for months after they're started. If ever. At the moment, there are about 5 sample patches of paint splashed across my loungeroom and kitchen walls. They will remain there for at least another month I reckon!

5. Don't let the fact that sometimes I (intentionally) spell like a fucktard here on this blog, I am incredibly anal about grammar. So much so if I have considered unfollowing people and have not liked fantastically funny Facebook pages because of shitty spelling. IT'S YOU'RE, NOT YOUR MOTHERFUCKERS! Get it?

6. Remember my Twin Peaks obsession? Just before I was brutually disappointed by the final ep, I downloaded the spin-off movie, Fire Walk With Me and it stayed in my downloads folder, untouched until last Wednesday. I didn't want to watch it because I didn't want the dream to die. Lame, yes.

I have that problem too. Image from here.

7. Now that I've watched Fire Walk With Me, the dream has died and so has apart of me. What the fuck? IT'S A FUCKING SHOW, WOMAN! Ever felt like that about a show, a movie or a book? Congratulations, you are lame like me.

8. As my bio on Instagram says - With each days that passes, I am one step closer to becoming that crazy cat lady off The Simpsons. I shit you not. After welcoming Harry Cat into the brood then welcoming and farewelling Candy Cat, we have once again opened our door and hearts to two more stray kitties. They are currently nameless because Barry Cat and Garry Cat are just too much of a mouthful to yell out after the leave little kitten logs on the floor.

Aren't they just the sweetest thing though?

Soon enough, MC and I will be able to throw cats at each other when we argue.

9. Once upon a time when people commented on the younger folk exposing too much flesh, I rolled my eyes and mumbled something about being an old fart. I am now officially an old fart. I do not understand why Supre sell things that flash twats nor do I understand why these 18 year old lasses enjoy, you know, flashing their twat off so much.

10. My right boob is epically bigger than my right, and by epic I mean super dooper, ultra in your face noticably. My bosom ballooned when I was up the spout the first time and did not return to it's original, perky state afterwards. I feel incredibly ripped off. If I ever wanted implants, I dare say that I would only need one. Fuck.

Oh hai manky boobs. Image from here.

______________________________________________

Did you know that you can stalk me on Facebook? Click here and stalk me, um I mean connect with me ;)

A few reasons why blogging took on that sparkle (and made me happy in pants) in the first place

2011-11-10T19:00:00.000+11:00

So, after last night's frank admission, I have resolved to compile a list of reasons why blogging took on that sparkle in my books (and made me happy in pants) in the first place.

It's essentially an effort that will hopefully chase away all that unconstructive jealousy BS and help me get abit motherfucking zen and blog like no one is reading.

Riiight.

There is an old blogging mantra that goes "When in posting doubt, get your list out". No? Ok, I made that up but seriously, ever stuck for inspiration? Compile a list of some sort. Never. Fails.

So without further ado, here is my list;

1. It's amazing to meet bloggers in real life.

2. It's even more amazing to photobomb them in real life.

3. You get to read amazing blogs that you find your head nodding in such agreeance that you look like one of your bobble headed dog figurines old people drive around with on their back parcel tray. You get to read amazing blogs that sometimes make you cry. You get to read amazing blogs that make you wet your pants. You get to read blogs that inspire you. You get to read blogs that are just so pretty. Sometimes, you even get to read blogs that your awesome RL friends write!

4. It gives you a reason to get on the computer and do something other than shop online and download porn.

5. It also gives you a reason to ignore the always expanding Mt Washmore that has formed in your laundry, and sometimes it even gives you a reason to stay up past 8:30pm!

6. It also opens the door to other equally addictive forms of social media, like Twitter and if you have an iPhone, Instagram. Oh yeah!

7. Being a Mum and a wife-type person and a maid and a cook and a taxi and a negotiator and a laundress can be some soul crushing, mind numbing stuff. Having an outlet is a god sent. I stumbled around in a sleep deprived state for almost 2 years before finding my outlet. Praise Jebus!

8. You get to share birth photos and talk about shiny vaginas with a whole community of bangin' chicks who don't judge like that uptight bitchface at everyone's mothers group.

9. Blogging naturally makes you sparkle, makes your hair shine, puts a bounce in your step and makes your fart smell like roses. Um, doesn't it?

10. Sometimes, blogging even gives you a reason to create some flashy business cards that you pay out your ass for. Then, when they arrive, you realise you've mispelt your own twitter handle on it. D'oh indeed!

What is it about blogging that sparkles for you and makes you happy in pants?

Why blogging has lost some of that addictive sparkle for me.

2011-11-09T21:16:00.000+11:00

Oooh, shiny! Image from here.

I've been a pretty lousy blogger of late.

I mean, we all know life is busy and things like, you know, maybe your kids and the odd basket of dirty washing take priority.

There has been something lingering however, holding me back.

For one, there is an incredibly large secret that I can't share with you yet. Oh I will, but not yet. That's the upside of it.

There is a downside of it though, and as much as I hate to openly admit, I am going to try and keep it real. Word.

Blogging has lost some of that addictive sparkle for me.

Instead of focusing on the positives, I have become fixated on the negatives.

I have become fixated on what events I'm not invited in or what PR ventures I am overlooked for.

I have become fixated on numbers - Stats and followers, or lack thereof.

I have become jealous of anyone who I perceive to be more successful that I am at this blog shiz.

I have become jealous of newer bloggers. Lovely women that I adore and respect, but because they have bigger readerships or more likers or followers or whatever, I start to see them as competitors.

I have began to tell myself that I am not good enough, that I can not compete, blah blah blah.

I don't even know when I started to think about this whole blogging gig as a competition, or see my gorgeous peers are competitors?

But I am. Like WTF?

Every goddamn negative thought erodes abit more of that gorgeous blogging sparkle that I have spent the past two years addicted to and that shit ain't cool.

This is the darkside to blogging and social media, I guess.

I have always maintained that the trick is to write like no one is reading but with the way that the Australian blogosphere is exploding, is this really possible to do this once you put yourself out there?

Worse still, don't you just hate when people post whingy, fucking whiney posts like this?

Awesome.

What are your thoughts?

Have you ever felt this way?

Tell me to pull my head in?

Beyond the yellow brick road.

2011-11-07T15:50:00.000+11:00

The first glimpse we had of our house,
found whilst surfing Domain at like 3am with a cranky baby who refused to sleep!

We were once told that most families will buy three houses in their lives - The home that gets them into the market, the home they watch their children grow up in and the home they retire in.

We purchased our house just before Christmas in 2007.

We moved in on the Manchild's birthday. Just the three of us - The Manchild and I with our 3 month old little Bug.

Our house is a duplex, by the way. A small shoebox with a teeny lounge room, three half sized bedrooms, a 16 year old kitchen and a backyard that slopes that so strongly my babies, when they were smaller, couldn't walk down it without falling onto their squishy, nappy-clad bums.

It was perfect for a small family ... when the baby doesn't yet walk.

The day that the Bug took her first steps, off down the hallway, the house suddenly seemed smaller.

Since then we have added to the brood with one bulldozer of a boy, one dimwit of a dog and two cats who think they rule the roost (One who, bless her, is now in kitty heaven).

A shoebox bursting with Fisher Price toys, laughter, books and the other assortments that you collect along the way.

To say our home is cosy is an understatement but it's our home and the yellow brick road that we travelled these past six months to get back here has made us appreciate it that much more.

Nevertheless, The Manchild and I, we often talk about life beyond the yellow brick road.

We have hopes and dreams and goals.

We have long conversations, once we've tucked our babies into bed, where we dream about and plan our future together.

"A big block of land," The Manchild says "Nothing like these pissweak 400 odd square blocks here in Sydney."

"You can't even keep on top of our 400 odd square block lawn as it is" I tease.

We laugh and go back to dreaming.

A big yard where the kids can run wild and a decent sized clothes line (a dream that seems to be pretty common amongst us mums!). A big kitchen and an outdoor entertaining area with a veggie garden up the back. Somewhere for the dog to sleep. A garage that I can send MC to when he's getting on my last nerve.

"Semi rural, or coastal?" I muse.

"A quieter life, away from the hustle and bustle of suburban life" is his reply.

The Southern Highlands or the South Coast speak to us, sparking our interest and desires.

We picture ourselves down there. Envision what life would be like. We try to imagine our preschoolers as school aged children and ourselves in our 30's, settling into the home that we will watch our children grow up in and then leave us as they venture off into the world as adults.

Sigh, I want to pause and fast forward time simultaneously.

For now, life beyond the yellow brick road is but a dream but I hold hope that someday, we will get there and live our great Australian dream ...

Sweet dreams.

2011-11-03T11:43:00.002+11:00

The Boy, of late, has taken to insisting on having his Mama lay in bed with him while he falls asleep.

It is actually quite sweet, albeit quite time consuming.

In the beginning, he was pleased just to have his Mama near.

We would lay side by side and my breath would lull him to sleep, as I imagine it did when he was inutero.

Not content with that, he began the headlock cuddle.

Yes, a headlock. His version of a cuddle.

Such a rough nut, that boy of mine.

A few weeks passed and he grew tired of that too.

Then began the cheek to cheek, the headlock with a twist.

His chubby little hands grab at my head and turn so I am resting my left cheek on the pillow. Then the headlock move and a squish of his cheek onto my right cheek.

… and we stay like that until he drifts off.

I dare not move an inch for fear of rousing him, in which I am greeted with a dirty look and a desperate call of “No! Mummy stay!”

Most nights, I am awoken by the Manchild and realise that I too have fallen asleep.

By then my boy has rolled over and the moonlight dances across his face through the gap in the blinds.

There is no sweeter sight than that of my babies sleeping peacefully. Quiet and calm.

I stumble into bed around 10:30pm, barely awake. Drowsy from sleep and meds. The house, a mess, toys everywhere and uni readings piling up.

There is no order in my house, which I can not stand and yet I try to savour the moment, that closeness as much as I can.

For history tells me that just like the bad, these loving moments too shall pass.

** I actually wrote this post just before we moved back home, saved it and lost it in the depths of my draft folder. Just as I had predicted, this nightly ritual stopped a few weeks back. Bless! **

I don't heart my body.

2011-11-02T08:00:00.021+11:00

Image from here.

This past weekend gone, the blogosphere celebrated body love with the We Heart Life crew.

I jumped in last year head first, championing the importance of loving our bodies. This year though, you may have noticed that things remained eerily quiet here.

Oh I tried to join in. I put on a few different outfits, abit of jewellery, a change of scenery but I did not care for one single shot I took.

Instead, I looked at each shot and picked apart my appearance. My thighs, my hair, the bags under my eyes, the list was endless. What I was doing goes against every single thing I Heart My Body is about.

So, I deleted the photos and busied myself with housework. Away from the mirror, and away from the negative self talk.

I am sharing this now because the I Heart My Body celebration is over for the year. I didn’t want to post this during, and bring any kind of negativity to such an amazing and positive happening.

~

Truth be told I do not have much love for my body, at the moment. To say I did, would be a blatant lie..

I am repulsed with my diet, with the lack of care I take when it comes to my body, but when push comes to shove, I choose to succumb to what I know best and feel comfortable with.

Whatever stage I was at last year, I am not there now and buggered if I know how to get back there.

It’s all too hard.

~

For the first time ever, I’m turning comments off. I just needed to purge abit of truth and while I appreciate anyone reading this, I’m not really after well meaning comments to tell me that I am fine just the way I am. I don't feel fine just the way I am.

x

On uni and motherhood, with a golden cliche and an iconic Aussie saying thrown in for good measure.

2011-10-31T19:20:00.000+11:00

*Image from here.

* Please note that this post is sponsored by Newcastle Uni but it's not one of those ones where I'm reading off a press release ;) Honest! I'm talking my own experiences with uni, motherhood and why you should have that leap if you have a dream too!

So, if you’re a regular reader then you know that good golly, I am also juggling uni along with the ten thousand other things that I juggle as a mum, wife, etc.

I started this year in what will most likely be a 6 year degree that will see me able to practice as a registered nurse. On top of this, I will be adding another 12 months or so to become a registered midwife.

Often, I get comments like “Oh my goodness, I have no idea how you do it!” or “I would never be able to juggle study with everything else!”

I love that people think that I am doing this amazing, super woman thing but honestly, I’m not.

You see, adding study to my to-do list hasn’t been much of a drama. For something that I thought would once be out of my reach until my babies were much older, uni life (after that initial, somewhat rocky transition everyone experiences!) has fit in perfectly with our lives! My part-time load is manageable, half of my learning is online (and I’m all about anything you can do in your jarmies once the kids are in bed!) and I love the few hours on campus I have a week where I am known as Holly and not Mummy.

It sounds corny but I feel fab knowing I am working toward my dream of becoming a midwife. With each passing week, I feel like I am improving myself and perhaps most importantly, I see myself as setting a positive example for my babies.

So many mums I know confess to have dreams of returning to study or pursuing a new career and I always tell them to take that leap and just give it a try. I did, and as that iconic Aussie saying goes, “You’ll never, never know if you never ever go!”

Still not convinced? Have a quick look at the below clip. Ruth's a Mum, a nurse and someone who decided to hit the books after having kids but before they left home. Huzzah!

Have I convinced you yet? Good!

Newcastle Uni are holding some expos on Postgrad study this week (Remember, you don’t always have to have a bachelor in something or other to study as a postgrad) in both Newcastle and Sydney.

Newcastle venue – Thursday November 3rd, 4-7pm
Harbourview Function Centre @ Queenswharf (Wharf Rd, Newcastle)

Sydney venue – Thursday November 10th, 4-7pm
University of Newcastle (Cnr Sussex & Bathurst St, Sydney)

For those who can’t get there or live in another state, check out www.postgradstudy.com.au - Correspondence study is always an option too!

… And finally, let me finish with a golden cliché (but an oh-so-true one) – If I can do it, you can too!

x

Grumble Sunday: Bitch.

2011-10-30T18:57:00.000+11:00

Today, I'm all about lending a sympathetic ear and a space to vent under the cloak of anonymity for a lady love of mine.

It just so happens to tie in fabulously with Madam Bipolar's Grumble Sunday too. Huzzah!

Pretty sure there will be at least a few of you who can relate to this one too. Enjoy x

***

Now then, you silly bitch, I’ve got something I need to get off my chest.

This has been brewing for ages. Actually, probably longer, but I was naïve and far too gracious to realise what an utter bitch you really are before recently.

I know you are “family” and all, but for fucks sake woman, just because you are my sister in law does not mean I have to like you.

For a while, I did actually like you. You can be, when you want something, charming and fun. When you realise you need to ingratiate yourself, you are intelligent and entertaining. So whilst we were living close by and had children the same age, I was really glad that you and I were close friends. Sisters-in-law and mates too...how lovely!

When you first moved close by to us, it was nice. I welcomed you into our home, into our circle of friends, into our lives. I babysat for your kids and loved them as my own. We shared a lot. You helped me too – at a stage when I was juggling little children, you were a godsend. I am sure I expressed my thanks to you then, and I never took it for granted.

Gradually the cracks began to show though. Funnily enough, it was at about the same time that I lost weight that you started getting really “off” with me. I had no idea why. Until someone else pointed out that I was no longer the “safe fat frumpy sister in law”. Ummm. Interesting.

I was always baffled as to why you would ever be insecure. You are intelligent, slim, blonde and successful. What the fuck have you got to worry about? Why do you persist in competing with everything we do? Why do you brag about your children? Why do have this insane drive to be “the best” or “better”? And why can you never admit that you are an uber competitive bitch?

Why can you not get a life of your own? Why do you need to try and copy ours? Can’t you even get your own friends? When I invited you to share our established circle of friends, I never expected you to start bitching about me to them. How dumb are you?! They love me for who I am. We go way back. We are loyal. They told me. Did you never wonder why some of them were a little chilly with you after that?!

Wow. This has been therapeutic. I could go on for hours with this grumble. I won’t though. Plenty more grumbles for next week…

Things I know; Discipline and kids. The very combination of those two words sends icy cold fear into my black heart.

2011-10-28T08:00:00.002+11:00

I am feeling a little like this after the week we've had.
Image from here.

This week, well it hasn’t been the best of the best.

We’ve had tantrums, tears, brawling, berating, disobedience, disorder and a tummy bug for one Bug thrown in for good measure.

I am feeling a little like that crazy bird up the top of this post and hell, it's even raining in Sydney so I may in actual fact do that later.

Anyway, enough of the crazy bird talk ...

The thing that has knocked me for ten the hardest about mothering two preschoolers is having to deal with the same kind of bullshit behaviour x2. So not cool, and so not great for a mother who would describe herself as somewhat short tempered and perhaps abit slow on the uptake.

So, what do I know this week?

- I know that the combination of discipline and kids is enough to send icy cold fear into my black heart!

- I know that yelling is an ineffective form of discipline and yet, it’s still my first response to bullshit behaviour.

- I know that smacking does sweet F.A also, especially when it’s given after my child hits their sibling. It’s sort of like a lesson in hypocrisy 101 – “You smack him so I’ma smack you”.

- I know that time outs corner have the potential to be fab … If only I could find a designated spot in my shoebox where I could send them.

- I know that reverse psychology kind of goes over the head of preschoolers. “Fine, you go play on that busy road then”, “Ok Mummy!” Between you and me, it’s kind of a waste of your breath!

- I know that ignoring bullshit behaviour also does not give the desired effect. “Oh they’ll stop it eventually if they don’t get a response out of you!” Lady, have you actually met my kids?

- I know that saying “Stop crying” does not work. Quite the opposite in fact, with the Bug usually crying harder after I tell her to stop.

- I know that sending my children to their room does not work. Nine times out of ten, I find them having more fun in their room than what I did before I sent them in there. What kind of effing punishment is that?

- I know that many other awesome mums feel me on the aforementioned. Exhibit A;

- I know that some day my children will be suffering the same perils of discipline their own children but quite frankly, they does not give me any satisfaction when I have get down on my knees for the tenth time that day to break up an all out, punch swinging, headbutting brawl between my four year old and two year old!

- I know that shit is probably going to continue being whack for oh, another 18 years at least until the little bleeders finally leave home.

- I know that when all else fails, I call in the Manchild to take over and slip off to the kitchen to discreetly pour myself some alcoholic to drink!

So, what do YOU know this week? Share abit of wisdom and link up with my lady love Shae, yes?

______________________________________________

Did you know that you can stalk me on Facebook? Click here and stalk me, um I mean connect with me ;)

"I had to shed literally half of me" - Mel's weight loss journey.

2011-10-27T16:11:00.001+11:00

This was me at the beginning
of my weight loss journey ...

I’ve been meaning to write this for the longest time, but I’m pregnant at the moment and to be honest, I feel like a bit of a fraud in sharing my story seeing as though my baby bump somehow adds an extra 10 pounds to my cheeks .... on my face! But I promised Holly I would share this and deep down, I know I am not really a big fat fraud becaaaause I still, at 27 weeks up the duff, weigh 8 kg LESS than what I did before I fell pregnant with my first child. Awesome, yes?

Once upon a time though, I used to weigh 124kg.

Since that point, I lost nearly half of me and literally worked my ass off to get to the 65kg mark. That means I have shed literally half of me.

I guess to explain my weight loss journey I have to begin with my weight gain journey. It's not much, but it was sucky experience and I felt like I suffered so much, so here goes:

I met the Man when I was at my prime - I was 18 and he was 21. I was a bartender working in nightclubs and bars. Do you remember the "5 Cougars thanks" ad? I was a Cougar girl, baby! I still have the top, just not the rack that went with it ;)

The Man is Samoan, and with that came a whole new world of food. Rich, delicious foods that are terrible for a gal’s weight … but it was yum and I was so in love and before I knew it, my weight was starting to climb.

We moved out of home together just before I turned 20 and I vowed to take care of him the way his mother did. So more rich, delcious foods that were so, so good yet so, so evil!

By the time I fell pregnant in 2007, my weight steadily rose from 79kg to 86kg. By the end of my pregnancy, I had gained 24kg and found myself carrying around 110kg on my 167cm frame. No good, girlfriends!

After my son was born, I jumped into action and signed up for Weight Watchers. I managed to shed 12kg over a few months before finding out we were expecting again. The second time around, I stacked on another 24kg, which brought me to a staggering 122kg. Not so much a Cougar girl anymore, huh?!

My second baby arrived in Feb. '09 and 6 weeks after his arrival, we had my friends wedding. Four days before the big day, I had a breakdown of the fat girl kind - I went to the three biggest shopping centres in Victoria and didn’t find a. goddamn. thing. to wear.

Crying and sobbing, I demanded my husband (Yes, we managed to get married amongst all the babies and fat gathering!) drive me to the Contours gym that’s right near our house. I walked in the door and had a little chat with one of the staff. I cried so much that she cried, and I signed up immediately.

I was fantastic in the beginning. Three or four times I’d go and bust my big fat ass, but it died out very quickly. Luckily, the girls there weren’t having any of that and would call me and ask when they would see me again. At that point, I’d feel guilty and return for another workout.

... and this is me now, literally half the woman
I used to be!

Now, I’m not the be all, end all of weight loss gurus but I’ve worked hard and lost a lot of weight so I know me a little bit on the subject! I’d like to share you with a few important things I’ve learnt along the way;

- I can’t recommend weights for weight loss enough. I personally found cardio to be bullshit and boring and frankly, it got me nowhere. For me, walking everyday did wonders fitness levels and state of mind. I urge everybody to get out as much as they can to walk and soak up some sun and Vitamin D!

- I also cannot stress enough how important it is to MEASURE yourself. Rely on that more than your scales to check how you are going. A single kilo of fat is the size of a bottle of bubbly, a kilo of muscle equates only to a small jar of vegemite - See girls, those scales are not and will never ever be your friend! By all means weigh yourself if you wish, but maybe throw your set out and weigh yourself at a girlfriends house once a month or fortnight.

- Ditching the salt also worked wonders for me. Really, we don’t need it. It’s bad, it retains crap and it’s so hard to get rid of - Think about it, you dissolve salt in water but once the water’s all gone, the salt still remains. Do you really want that in your bod? Uh uh!!

- While you're at it, ditch the sugar too – I’m an asshole for even saying it, I know, but it’s just so, so bad for you! Why add it if we don’t need it? Keep grapes, yummy berries and yoghurts in your fridge. Reach for them when your sweet tooth tingles. It may be sugar but at least it’s none of that processed shit you find in chocolate and lollies.

- Right before Christmas I must urge you all say no to sauces and gravies and other such things. I find the low fat salad dressing goes lovely on meat if you really need to add flavour but learn to love your food as it is. The fresher your food is, the more natural flavour it will have!

- Have I mentioned my favourite weight loss weapon? LEMONS! I can’t even describe … I squeeze 2 lemons into 2 litres of water and drink that over the course of the day, and I promise you, after just a few days you will find yourself sweating. Although it sounds unpleasant, it is literally toxins leaving your body. Get religious about lemon water baby that has been my best weapon in the battle against the bulge!

- In saying all of this though, it is so important not to punish yourself. We do that enough in life so if you slip up, get back up and continue on your journey. Remember, you are not dieting, you're making changes . Besides, we need to allow ourselves a little indulgence now. Just promise me that before it goes in your mouth, take a walk or have something planned to even things out :)

- And while we’re on the subject of naughty foods, if you are good enough at google-oogleing then you should be able to find a recipe for a low fat or even 'good for you' version of your favourite takeaway foods. I know I did!

- Now, you know that moment when you realise that what you have been doing is no longer working? That moment when feel like you giving up? You really need to learn to recognise that moment and use it to find a new thing to try. No one single remedy worked for my weight loss. I swapped, I changed, and I did different things in winter to what I would do in summer. It’s simply crazy to expect the same thing to work forever so shake it up abit and keep things fresh!

Last thing beautiful girls is don’t give up. The only person you're letting down is you, and I can almost guarantee that losing weight is probably one of the only things in life we do for ourselves. Everything else, including gaining weight has been about others, even if its just because you don’t make enough time to do something about it.

Be selfish, just for once. Don’t diet, change your life. You deserve it and life will be so much easier if you are happy and healthy!

Now, go buy something in your desired size and wrap it as a gift, put it in your cupboard and forget it. That’s the last you are allowed to think about the end goal, from now on, your every goal is only to be in 5 or 10kg blocks. Who wants to overwhelm themselves? Not you!

Good luck gorgeous girls, and whatever course you take, never forget how beautiful you are!

Oh and apologies if this has come across abit ranty. I am so passionate about this subject x0

_________________________________________

Mel is a Mama to two boys, a trainee doula and a kick ass weight loss queen. We met on an online parenting forum when we were pregnant with our first borns and have been bros ever since.

I might mention at this point too that Mel has played an enormous role in my own weight loss journey. She has been an endless source of advice, support and sent me my very own goal dress - A divine little Size 10 number. Who knows? I may just be able to squeeze into it, and the rest of the things in Mel's wardrobe one day. Huzzah!

No, I am not wearing a pearl necklace.

2011-10-25T16:16:00.000+11:00

Yesterday, Mum and I got stuck into the gardens here at Casa de Homemaker.

We had 6 months worth of overgrowth to cut, pull out and prune.

By the time I rolled into work at 6:30pm for a little cocktail training session, the girls had commented on how lovely and brown my arms were.

I hate to brag but for the most part, I have been blessed with pretty fab olive skin!

… except after the boy was born.

For those of you who don’t know, the Boy’s first year of life was a whirlwind of catnapping, silent reflux, dairy/gluten intolerances and 2 hourly breastfeeds.

I was stressed, depressed, anxious and desperately trying to keep it all together.

Stress has this amazing ability to fuck your body up in ways you cannot imagine and for me; it decided to fuck up my pretty fab olive skin. If you’ve met me in person before, you’ve probably noticed not so pretty fab patches of skin on my chest and hands that are white.

Remember when Michael Jackson went from black to white? Contrary to popular belief, Wacko Jacko didn’t bleach his skin. No, his skin was literally turning white thanks to a skin condition called vitiligo.

Doesn't matter if you're black and white too, right?
Image from here.

These white patches that I too sport, are vitiligo.

In short, it’s where the pigmentation in your skin essentially dies off. Sort of like an Albino, but not.

The patches started appearing for a while before I actually noticed them. I remember one day looking in the mirror, washing baby vomit off my hands and despite knowing that they were there, it actually registered that something was amiss.

HOLY FUCK, I’M TURNING WHITE!

Unfortunately for my vain side, there is no treatment for vitiligo. Apparently you can have a good ol’ dose of UV light therapy but it’s not guaranteed to work and while the thought of having a tanned butt pleases me, I am not game enough to go. Something about solariums, UV and the rest makes me nervous and worried about skin cancer.

It’s taken quite a long time for me to become comfortable with a physical flaw that is so exposed. I’m pretty meh about it now but there was a period of time where I was considering donning some kind of Burqua because I was convinced everyone was looking at me funny. I even invested in some Thun Luzzie (aka; That Kiwi mineral makeup, Thin Lizzie) but no dice. I’d probably have to walk around in heavy makeup all day and look like a drag queen to cover the patches and RuPaul, I am most certainly not.

Working at a pub which doubles as a nightclub for Gen Y of the dirty, dirty South West makes for interesting (and sometimes awkward) moments though. I have been, by stupid young men of course, asked some really doozies about my skin including;

- “Have you been glassed? Someone shanked you with a glass, didn’t they?

No but I’m going to shank you with one if ask me one more time.

- “Were you burnt there?” I reply with a firm no “Seriously, you don’t have to lie to me. I’m not teasing you. You’ve been burnt, yeah?”

I don’t like lying, that’s why I’m going to call you a douchebag right now son, and send you on your merry way.

- “Oh wow, what does your pendant say?”

It says FUCK OFF!

”What’s wrong with your chest?”

What’s wrong with your face?

and my personal favourite, - “Is that a pearl necklace you’re wearing?”

Spot the ... erm, spots.

Yeah dickhead, I love coming to work with semen carefully sprayed across my neckline.

Oy.

I think I have to make some amazingly wild story up about it because telling them I’m morphing into Michael Jackson usually goes straight over their heads. It seems that the male Gen Y population out here do not watch E! or read Perez Hilton. Tsk tsk.

Whatever the case, I need to learn to embrace these little imperfect white patches because it seems they are here to stay.

And just quietly, someday I hope to actually learn to love them because who wants to be fucking perfect anyway?

Perfect is like, so boring.

Do you have a physical flaw or imperfection? How do you feel about? Have you come to love it, or loathe it?

Vlog it - Fresh starts, new beginnings and being a hopeful (and eventually, slimmer) bastard.

2011-10-24T13:06:00.000+11:00

Today is Monday and like all the other hopeful bastards out there, I pin all my hopes of fresh starts and new beginnings on Monday.

Never mind the fact that it's always a manic motherfucking Monday around here!

Regardless, I am inspired by Friday's piece about how being overweight does not really work for me, and I am now determined to do right by my squishy and currently sunburnt body.

So, for your viewing pleasure, here is one of the the shittiest vlogs of all time about my new fresh start;

It's recorded on my iPhone (because I haz iPhone now. Huzzah!), I have no idea if the sound even works and no, I have not brushed and/or straighten my hair today. Let's call it being authentic, shall we?

Now, please excuse me while I go and daydream about coke and chocolate and running down the beach like Pammy Anderson in a Size 10 cozzie ...

______________________________________________

Did you know that you can stalk me on Facebook? Click here and stalk me, um I mean connect with me ;)

Being overweight does not really work well for me.

2011-10-21T12:23:00.001+11:00

*Image from here.

After a pretty mad morning here, I just ducked into the garage (aka; my awful, dark and dreary creative corner) and read a blog post by Lucy, who blogs over at Diminishing Lucy, entitled When being overweight seems to work.

Lucy talks about the reality of weight loss. She says we all know how to lose weight so “why do we persist in behaviours that keep us overweight?”

It definitely got me thinking.

For me, there are two main reasons that stand out in my mind as to why I may possibly, on some stupid level, believe that being overweight is beneficial to me.

1. The belief that I will fail.

Despite the fact that I know it is physically possible for me to lose weight, I still believe I will fail. I know what I need to do to lose weight, I know my body desperately needs to be nurtured with clean foods and exercise once more but I stop because somewhere inside, there is a voice that tells me that I am going to fail and a defeated voice that replies with “Well, why bother if you’re just going to fail?” I am my own worst enemy, it seems.

2. I do not have time.

Oh, realistically speaking, I do have the time - I have spent 20 minutes on here that I could have spent working out or cutting up fruit for afternoon tea. But when I think about committing to regular exercise and healthy eating, I tell myself “I am just too busy with kids, home life, work and uni to be able to focus on something. I will just drop the ball and fail”. Yep, there’s that fucking F word again.

3. The mere thought of giving up Coke and Chocolate makes me edgy and makes me crave it even more.

I can not explain this occurance but when I contemplate giving up Coke and Chocolate (Two things that play a big role in weight gain for me), I get scared and then I find my overwhelmed with cravings. That scares me. That annoying little voice says “Lordy, if you’re battling yourself already and you haven’t even started then how the fuck are you going to manage to give it up?”

4. The correlation between food, comfort and happiness.

I am a comfort eater of the worst kind and I also reward myself for doing what I need to, what I have to with food. When I lost weight last year, I didn’t win my fight against comfort eating. I simply got rid of the temptation to seek comfort in chocolate and Tim Tams by not buying any. Oh, and taking up smoking didn’t stop the comfort eating either so if you’re thinking about that as a way to combat that little problem, DON’T! Food also equates to happiness for me. An orgasm does too, but eating is so much fun! I don't think there's anything wrong with enjoying food but wanting to make love to it is certainly a different thing. I must seek help on that one!

***

I often find myself full of resolve for getting back on track. I talk about it often. It dominates my thoughts, especially when I look in the mirror and realise how full my face is once more becoming or how I need to invest in new bras because I am literally spilling over the top of the ones I have now (No, that is not as sexy as it sounds!).

I had such plans for shedding the flab once we moved back home. In the 6 months I lived with my in-laws, I gained 4.5kg. Not alot perhaps, but it’s now another 4.5kg I have lose before being able to focus back on my goal weight.

Many women speak about the ability to embrace themselves at whatever size. I am not one of them. I applaud them for their self acceptance and amazingly enough, I am not jealous of them for that. I will get there eventually but in the meantime, I need to reaffirm to myself that being overweight doesn’t really work well for me. It hurts to think that I am trying to fool myself into believing otherwise …

** Interestingly enough as well, when I first started writing this post. Point #1 & #4 were the only two I had then as I began to write and explore the issue briefly, I came up with the other two. It's amazing at just what lurks underneath, tucked neatly away in the back of your self conscious. I wonder how many more I would come up with if I sat here for another hour, contemplating? **

There's no place like home, or some shit like that.

2011-10-18T16:06:00.000+11:00

*Image from here.

This is Holly Homemaker reporting live from Casa de Homemaker, bitches!

Yes, it’s been awhile … 6 whole fucking months actually but here we are. Back home. My space V.2. My not-so-bachelor pad.

If I had to sum it up in one sentence, I would say that it is absolutely, totally, extremely, OTT, amazing, mind blowing, happy dance, run down the street butt naked bliss.

There's no place like home, or some shit like that.

Fo’ shiz.

Never in my wildest dreams would I have thought I would get so much joy from wee’ing with the door open and showing off my moves like Jagger, sans pants!

I am back to being the queen of my shoebox sized castle and back to ruling this shoebox with an iron fist and an alcoholic drink in hand!

No more junk food in the cupboard, no more tip toeing around the house, no more scheduled sex and no more bedtime shenanigans, such as the Boy bashing his sleeping sister across the head with his pillow. 7:30pm bedtimes and making sure every bastard hangs up their wet towel instead of just leaving it in some random spot on the floor. Cooking whatever the frick I feel like and ensuring everyone eats their veggies because Christmas is coming, Santa Claus is watching and I WILL CANCEL THAT MOTHERFUCKING SHIT IF YOU DON’T EAT THAT PIECE OF BROCCOLI RIGHT NOW!

I am getting jollies from being able to sloth around on the lounge and raise my voice without judgement. I can fart and no longer have to blame it on the cat. I can be a total housewife failure and do shit like leave the washing on the line for a couple of days and go to bed without washing up – and if the Manchild says anything about it, I can openly tell him to shut the fuck up instead of mumbling it under my breath.

HUZZAH!

The only problem, the enormous skidmark on the silver lining that is my life right now though, is the probs we are having with the interwebs at the moment. According to Telstra, there are no ports available in our area for ADSL, Optus coverages doesn’t extend to the dirty, dirty South West and we are in an area that offers a pathetic answer to 3G coverage. So far I have kept my inner diva in check and have not unleashed a torrent of expletives and furious chants of “DON’T YOU KNOW WHO THE FUCK I AM? I’M A FUCKING BLOGGING SUPERSTAR!” Erm, in my head it sounds good anyway. Whatever. I don’t know how much longer I can last without regular blogging, and my phone bill? I don’t want to know, my plan has a piss weak data allowance that I have exceeded by oh probably ten fold. Poo.

Do not despair though awesome readers, for in the meantime, I have vowed to do a RRSHAM, bashing out blog posts in word before hightailing it down to Maccas to use their wi-fi. Let’s hear it from being motherfucking resourceful!

So, tell me, what’s been happening in your neck of the woods? I’ve missed you so, have you missed me? What amazing shit have I missed out on? Any Twitter scrag fights? What blog posts do I need to delve into the depths of the overflowing Google Reader to find and read? Tell me all!

MWAH!

Note; Please allow 6-8 weeks before serenading me with “The honeymoon is over baby, it’s never gonna be that way again”. Yes, I am fully aware that I will soon be back to bitching about tripping over leggo, being harassed for sex every. goddamn. night and how a woman’s work is never done. Just let me enjoy these few weeks in the sun!

P.P.S: I know this post was promised to be an amazing, hilarious vlog but my laptop has fritzed and I can’t find the installation CD for my webcam. Yes, it seems there will be no cyber sex for me for awhile. Humph.

No Foxtel and no interwebs makes Holly go something something.

2011-10-12T13:32:00.000+11:00

Yoooo hoooo, over here!

Yes, I'm still alive!

Telstra are being massive whores, and I am having total withdrawls from the interwebs.

I need to overshare and read blogs and tweet like a mofo and download porn and stuff.

No Foxtel and no interwebs makes Holly go something something.

Le sigh.

I promise to be back soon but in the meantime, you know, don't forget about me!

Love love x

Surviving Woogwind - A guest post by the divine Veggie Mama!

2011-10-03T18:14:00.000+11:00

By the time you read this, I will be neck deep in boxes and debris which comes with the joys of that never ending, fucking irritating caper referred to as moving house.

Never. Again.

Moving house also means no Foxtel and no interwebs. No Foxtel and no interwebs makes Holly go something something.

So, while I go back to rocking in my corner like a loony, I am inviting my blawg up to the divine Stacey from Veggie Mama - She and I bond over our mutual girl crush on Mrs Woog, so I am uber excited to host this post for her!

*****

Last weekend, my gorgeous friend and neighbour Nikki had a special houseguest.

Ladies and gentlemen, the Woogs had come to town.

Woogle? Why you so fabulous?

I discussed the merits of pink fairy wings with Jack, sang the Party Rock Anthem with Harry, and gave Mrs Woog a completely inappropriate postcard with boobies on it.

I drank some wine, showed off my extremely cute baby, drank some wine, ate some cheese and drank some wine.

I drank some wine, watched Jack’s ballet performance, drank some wine, talked everybody’s ear off, drank some wine and sent my fabulous husband home with the baby. Then I drank some wine, drank some wine, drank some wine and drank some wine.

Now normally this wouldn’t be an issue, but I haven’t drank some wine in such a manner in about a year and a half. And the next morning, my body went OH MY GOD WHAT THE FUCK HAVE YOU DONE TO ME?

I’m really sorry body, you used to be able to take it!

Dear lord baby cheebus, I thank thee for Mr Styling you who delivered this coffee over my fence.

Ok I lie, I actually felt pretty good up until about 11am when I had to squeeze in some work I had to do, pack for our weekend away, give the baby her porridge and tidy up before meeting Nikki and the Woogs for lunch at noon.

Suddenly it was all just too much. I threw some things in a bag, threw some stuff in the dishwasher, almost threw the laptop as far away as I could and threw myself down on a mat in the sunshine with the cutest kid in the world.

My head hurt, I felt weak and tweaked, somewhat shaky and a whole lot nauseous. Were hangovers always this bad? Or was I woefully out of practice?

Was this what I had to look forward to for the rest of my life?

I took two nurofen, dragged myself to lunch and sat, teetering, for about fifteen minutes looking green and uncertain.

Then I had an ice-cold Corona. With lime in it. And, my old faithful, you did not let me down. I lived to party another day. Amen.

Everybody just have a good time.

For the love of wine, someone halp – what hangover remedies actually work?

Things I know; The busy, this week and next, is an understatement rant, I mean edition.

2011-09-30T09:53:00.000+10:00

Ask me if I still feel this way by the end of next week, kay? Image from here.

So what do I know this week?

I know that busy, this week and next, is an understatement.

Earlier this week, I had to put the pedal to the metal and write a 1000 word paper on obesity as a national health priority, in the context of community nursing and primary, secondary and tertiary health promotion.

DID YOU JUST FALL ASLEEP READING THAT?

I totally don't blame you, that shit is snoreworthy and I am amazed that I finished the damn thing ... but I did and it's done and it's handed in and that means no more blasted uni assignments for my first year. Wooooo!

This morning, I have an hour or two to fanny about on here before having to log off and finish packing before heading off to DP Unplugged tonight.

'Tis a hard life, isn't it?

I am uber excited to be smoozing with my bloggy faves, with the exception of a few like Emma from What's in Emma's Brain? and Zoey from Good Googs. Poor form bitches, I will miss you tonight!

Tomorrow though, is the event that I know you have all been waiting for

- MOVING DAY!

Fuck yeahhhhh!

Can you believe it?

6 months has passed and we are more than ready to move back home. I fully plan to vlog once we're settled in, I am fully ready to love my in-laws again, and I am fully ready to cook dinner and have spontaneous sex once more!

I am ecstatic ... until I think about packing and then I get all stabby. Packing blows and should serve as a constant reminder to never, ever move unless absolutely, positively necessary! I have spent a fortune on storage containers because they're so much easier than crappy boxes that break and I have abit of a storage fetish. On the upside, I have been completely ruthless and be cluttered my wardrobe, the kids wardrobe and the Fisher Price wonderland that is my current loungeroom. Man, we collect some shit!

So, moral of the story?

It may take me a few days to return because you know, Telstra can be total asshats and take forever in connecting one's internet so don't miss me too much, you'll still me fannying about on Twitter using my phone.

Au revoir bitches!

________________________________________________________

In the fabulous nature of online oversharing, you should totally jump over to Yay for Home and share what you know this week. Yes? Yes!

P.S: Did you know that you can stalk me on Facebook? Click here and stalk me, um I mean connect with me ;) Do it. Do it nooow!

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Why do I feel incapable of being the mother that I so desperately want her to have? Part II.

2011-09-26T15:01:00.001+10:00

Back in June, I published possibly the rawest piece I will ever pen.

Why do I feel incapable of being the mother that I so desperately want her to have?

I bared all in that one. It pained me to do so. Left me feeling vulnerable, airing out the very feelings that make me doubt my abilities as a mother.

I was touched by the comments left, and many made me sob.

To date, it is in the top 5 most frequented posts on this blog.

In this past month alone, 272 sad and strung out mothers have googled terms like "Failing my baby" and "I want to be a good mom but feel I am not" and found that post.

My heart fucking aches.

How could this be reality for some many of us?

***

A few months have passed, and I still feel awash with guilt when I think of my darling Bug.

Her fears have simmered these days and my reactions are more controlled, but my feelings of inadequacy are still there.

An old phase passes and a new one launches, new hurdles appear and we fumble along.

Still, I do not feel like I am the mother she deserves.

I am yet to get to the bottom of why I feel like this.

My psychologist tells me that I ask why alot. She says I need to learn to roll with it and look at the situation rationally. My emotions are not rational though, and the love I feel for my children dictates my emotions.

Fuck.

***

I was speaking to the MC over breakfast this morning and confessed that I feel like I am failing our daughter.

"Why?" He asked

"I .... I can't explain it," I stumbled "I just feel it. I feel like I am giving the Boy everything he needs, I feel that our bond is stronger."

"He demands everything from you, Holly. Do you think that maybe the bond feels stronger with him because he is in your face 24/7? I mean, he won't even go to sleep unless he's next to you!"

Perhaps he is right.

She is more independent, always has been. She is demanding in her own way, but not demanding of my attention.

***

Bugface and I went down to Woolworths late yesterday afternoon, just the two of us. Two girls, running errands.

I walked behind her as she skipped and danced into the shops, marvelling about puddles of water and the smell of Subway cookies baking.

It took me back to a time where the days were long and lazy, and it was just the two of us while MC was off at work.

I wondered if I would be feeling this way, worried and anxious about her if her brother had not of come along?

Would life have been simpler?

Oh fuck, did I just think that?

Another wave of guilt washed over.

***

I love my daughter, there is no doubt there.

I feel our connection needs to be strengthened though and my attention, more balanced between my two.

Perhaps MC is right after all?

Damn it, this mothering gig is trickier than they make out in the movies, oy ...

So, I'm not crazy. Yet. My clothes are still on.

2011-09-22T09:57:00.001+10:00

Even Spongebob is uber excited that I've kept my shit together
this week! *Image from here.

You missed me, didn't you? DIDN'T YOU?

Wondering where the bloody hell I've been? Right? RIGHT!

Well, I have been studying and being a drama queen and threatening to pull out of uni at every opportunity I get.

Uni has been seriously playing with my emotions and my sanity, which is not cool for an already wacko jacko kinda person.

See, I'm not enjoying it.

Yes, I was one of those potentially crackpot people who thought they would actually enjoy studying.

Oh how wrong I was!

Being part time means that I'm only tackling two units at a time and when you do that in the first year, it means you do the academia side of things. Like writing motherfucking annotated bibliographies on sucky fucky journal articles that sport names like "The health policy pathfinder: an innovative strategy to explore interest group politics". Yawn. Snore. Fart.

Another 5 years of this? Good lordy whoadie, you must be gone off that water bottle.

Last week marked the beginning of assessment season, and I was not prepared. So completely wrong for a person who meticulously organises every aspect of their life, right down to ensuring the two pegs used to pin each item to the clothes line are of the same colour.

In this event, I found myself in a pretty lousy situation. I believe it's referred to as "up shit creek without a paddle"? Shit creek being the due date and the paddles being no completed assessment to hand over. Awesome.

Cue abit of debilitating anxiety with some writer's block, two feral children and the move back to Casa de Homemaker next weekend and you have yourself right now a fanfuckingtabulous meltdown.

I have lost count have many times I've fought to urge to pour a stiff drink at 8am, bash my head repeatedly against a wall and scream "I can't do it, I can't fucking do iiiiit!" down the main street of Campbelltown, naked.

But I can't do that now, can I?

So I cried and upped my meds and ate some chocolate, ok alot of chocolate and put on my big girl, Bridget Jones style reg grundies because said chocolate is having a dire effect on my belly and I will lose my shit if someone asks me when I am due.

My tutors, being the awesome beings they are, granted me an extension and I have spent the most of this week, head down and ass up, bashing away on my keyboard and getting this shit right.

I don't like to brag but I made those annotations my bitch and even if I still only get 50%, I will have still fucking passed yo.

P's get degrees and all that shizen.

I have all of next week to pack up all of our crap, Mr H's porn collection may be accidently thrown out in the process and I will continue to dream of cooking up something vegetarian in my own kitchen after 6 months of "Real men eat meat every night for dinner".

So there you have it - Priorties are in order, I have not lost the plot fully, my clothes are still on and I am looking forward to a stiff drink with my bitches next Friday at DP Unplugged. Yeah baby!

Gettin' paper - on monetisation, selling out, supporting each other and using your bloody instincts.

2011-09-17T14:52:00.001+10:00

* Image from here

Gettin' paper - Noun
Also known as gettin papuh.
The equivalent of "making money" except more like "making da big buk moniez$$zz$zz."

The Australian Mummy blogosphere is exploding.

Forums posts, blog posts and Twitter feeds are being awash with the hype.

Our blogosphere is following in the footsteps of the divine American mommy blogosphere.

... and of course, everyone has an opinion.

From there, people are screwing there nose up and in a huff of outrage, dropping the 'S' word.

Sell out.

This word pisses me off.

My lady love, Mrs Woog actually penned a piece a little while back entitled "Selling Out". She pretty summed up my exact thoughts on the issue;

"... I gave myself a virtual slap across the face. My blog is not my career. I gave up my career when my second son was born with special needs. My blog is a hobby. A really good hobby. And as Mr Woog tells me, it is cheaper than scrap booking. And that is what he calls a WIN WIN situation ..."

" ... So I worked out that I am not a sell out. I love my cyberspace place. And if I decide to use my ex-marketing brain to have a little adventure and fun here or there, well that sits well with me to. And I am my own boss. I mean, I am not curing cancer or ending world hunger.

It is just blogging.

And the best bit is, if you do not like what is on your screen, you can quietly click away without fuss. And that is what I call a WIN WIN."

There are so. many. hysterical cries of "BUT YOU ARE GOING TO SELL OUT" flooding the blogosphere right now.

Really?

Is this our biggest problem in the world right now?

REALLY?

Fo' real?

I have no doubt that along the lines there will be a few (though I can not think of any at this present moment in time) whose voice will get abit muddled up with their sponsors.

Think you're reading a blog like that? You probably are.

It bothers you? I get that. Use your bloody instincts, and click away.

Judging a blog by it’s cover and not it’s content? Good for you.

Into "art, and not ads"? Wonderful, but don't be smug. Remember, having possesion of Size 10 jeans doesn't instantly make me a Size 10 and having possession of a blog doesn't instantly make you a writer or an artist. Yes, I did just go there.

Think I sound like a bitch? Good, you're seeing sense in my argument even though you don't want to.

Have we all got that sorted? Awesome.

Now, here's the part that will rock your world - I guarantee you that for every voice that gets muddled, there will a hundred kick ass ones that will make monetisation their bitch and NOT compromise their voice any.

Yes, I guarantee you.

Just look at Edenland or Random Ramblings of a SAHM and of course, Woogsworld. Proof that loss of authenticity and sponsorship/monestisation is not mutually exclusive.

Don't want to monetise?

Some of my fave blogs are not into the PR side. Just look at Maxabella loves, for example. It's all gravy, baby! There is nothing that says you have to. Your blog, your choice.

So really, what is the issue here?

Why are people so invested in what others do with their own slice of the blogosphere?

Why do people believe what one does with their blog is a reflection of them and theirs?

You tell me because I am at a loss.

If you take anything away from this post, please ponder these points;

- Take a deep breath, and worry about your own ‘voice’.
- Respect others choice to monetise, or not.
- Each to their own. C'est la vie. Get over it and get on with blogging.
- Don't call anyone a sell out. Seriously. 'Tis not lady-like to be a jealous twat and we're all ladies, right?
- The issue of monetisation, PR friendliness and selling out isn't what will separate this blogging community. As the case in most situations, the lack of support for one another and that wretched "us and them" mentality is what will draw enemy lines.

And to finish, I will remind you of the wise words of Mrs Woog - it is just blogging! Have fun with it, make it your bitch in any which way you like!

Confidence - A guest post by Maxabella.

2011-09-13T16:41:00.002+10:00

I am up to my neck in uni assessments this week. I am dying to blog but alas, I really need to get a move on with this stuff. Because you know, writing annotations is an important skill for a midwife to have, blah blah wah wahhhh.

Don't despair though because I have invited one very spesh lady to come and guest post for us!

Give a hand for the divine Maxabella from Maxabella loves!

*Image from here.

These days I’m completely at home in my skin, but I remember being a little shy and a lot awkward as a child. As a towering, bone-white, redhead lass, I didn’t exactly have the sort of ‘look’ that blended in. Let’s just say that I spent a good part of my early-teens physically crouching down and emotionally crouching in.

So I guess you could say that as someone who was always going to stand out, I had to learn to like myself or I was going to have a pretty uncomfortable life all round. I’m a firm believer that everyone has something to offer everyone else and our quirks are all part of our charm. One of the delights of my life is connecting with others and I sincerely enjoy meeting new people and learning a fresh new approach to life and friendship.

So I assume they enjoy meeting me too.

It’s okay to assume the best wherever you go. Most people want to meet you and enjoy your company – if only you would introduce yourself. Most people want you to succeed in life and will offer the most amazing support to get there – if only you would ask. Expect that life will work out well, because, really, it’s supposed to. Life is mostly on your side, even if it doesn’t feel that way all the time. Sometimes the good bits are at the very bottom of the bowl. Under the brussel sprouts even.

Of course, if you put yourself out there, it’s not going to work out sometimes. You are going to say the wrong thing, wear the wrong outfit, not get the joke. I’m absolutely sure of that – I never get the joke, I’m telling you. I don’t know if it’s because I’m basically completely naive, immune to innuendo or just completely lacking in sophistication, but I never get the joke.

That’s why I find myself so funny – my jokes are the only ones I’m in on.

There will be judgey judgers along the way, that the other thing I’m absolutely sure of. I am quite certain that there is a section of the public (and definitely a section of my children’s playground) who would take one look at me in my thrown-together clothes, messy hair, no makeup and distinct lack of labels and instantly judge me as being ‘lesser’. They give me snobby ‘look at her’ looks and turn their noses up.

But, don’t worry, I’m on to them.

They’re really just jealous that I honestly don’t care. They wish they didn’t care either. Let’s face it, surely anyone in their right mind would be happy not having to spend a boring hour a day blow drying their hair; wouldn’t mind finding 27 better uses for $2,000 than buying a single handbag; wants to stop never eating anything good just to fit a size 6; and, of course, is far too intelligent to ever judge others on their appearance alone.

See, they’re jealous. It’s the only sane explanation as to why they look me up and down like that.

It’s all true, if you just trust your instinct to get out there and connect, you’re brain will eventually stop telling you you can’t do something and start telling you you can. In time you won’t even notice the judgey judgers, you’ll be so busy concentrating on all the delightful, quirky, totally-themselves other people you’ll be meeting.

Oh, please have confidence in you being you. Everyone else does!

What do you think the secret to confidence really is?

Why are some of us brimming in the stuff and others so unsure?

20 reasons why I am uber excited to be moving back to MY crib!

2011-09-12T13:41:00.000+10:00

*Image from here.

With less than ~~a month~~ 3 weeks until the big move, I am barely struggling to contain my enthusiasm.

Get. Me. The. Fuck. Out. Of. Here.

Lesson learnt.

Swear I will never give up my place again!

The weekend just gone ramped up my frustration ten fold with MIL meddling with our ~~lazy~~ laid back parenting to appease my short tempered FIL.

Want to get on my shit list? Interfere with my parenting.

IT'LL PUT YOU NUMBER ONE ON THE LIST!

But I digress, this right here is a list of why I am pee-my-pants excited to be going back to Casa de Homemaker.

If shit gets whack between now and that golden date (First weekend of October by the way bitches!), I hereby pledge to come back to this list and soak up it's awesomeness!

Here it goes;

1. Being able to pump my music. Loud.

2. Being inspired by music to do housework. Housework has suffered as a result. Well, that is my excuse anyway and I am sticking with it!

3. The ability to shower, pee or get changed with the door open.

4. Cooking whatever I damn well please for dinner.

5. My slightly larger master bedroom. Seriously. MC, me and all our junk = Our current bedroom is bursting at the seams. I am also sleeping next to the wall. Not a fan.

6. Not having an almost-coronary everytime my children draw on a wall with a crayon.

7. Two words - Spontaneous sex!

8. Not answering the house phone if I don't wanna. My in-law's phone rings constantly. Usually with people phoning to book in for a massage and I have to get my motherfucking sweet as candy, phone girl voice on which I don't like having to do!

9. Being able to consume a whole block of Cadbury in one sitting and not be judged.

10. Actually being able to consume whole said block of Cadbury without having to share with MIL. I am not all about sharing my chocolate. Ever.

11. Lay on the lounge while my devil spawn act like wild ferrets and you know, not be judged for that either.

12. Being able to cut sick, cut a bitch and fight with the Manchild. Arguing through clenched teeth, in a controlled tone is hardly satisfying.

13. Having my sister and my mates drop in, uninvited, unexpected and sometimes unappreciated.

14. No more having to keep the spawn quiet for hours at a time while my MIL massages people. An almost 4 year old and a 2 year old quiet for extended periods of time? Not bloody likely!

15. Consuming too much Malibu and pineapple then not feeling too embarrassed to dance inappropriately with the wall/broom/cat.

16. Gleefully sending the Manchild off to work without a packed lunch (MIL wakes to make FIL's every morning) and generally just revelling in my domestic fraud-ness.

17. Going back to loving my in-laws once again. Living with others has a wonderful way of magnifying their every. fucking. annoying. habit.

18. The Bug and The Boy will no longer share a room, therefore will no longer take turns in waking one another up throughout the night. Oh, it will be ever so grand to not have to get up 10+ times!

19. There will be no more daily suggestions and input on how I choose to parent my children. It's well intended but makes me stabby none the less.

20. It's mine. My place. My space. What could fucking rock more than that?

Things I know; The long lost love edition.

2011-09-09T11:01:00.001+10:00

I was once a book worm.

There was nothing I loved more than curling up in bed, on the lounge or languishing out in the sun, reading a good book.

My passion for reading once burnt so bright that it wasn't unusual for me to devour a whole novel in one night.

The key word here, was.

The last book I read was when I was in labour with the Boy. Yes, I read while I was in labour. It was a fabulous distraction until the contractions hit too hard, and I realised I was going to drop the book in the bath that I ~~had beached myself~~ was soaking in.

That was 773 days ago, or 19-ish months.

Quite obviously, reading isn't really up there on your priority list while juggling a newborn and a toddler and I kept telling myself that as things got easier, I would return to reading.

... But I haven't.

For the life of me, I now can not concentrate enough to lose myself in a book.

I have picked up many a books from the library, only to read a chapter and not pick it back up again.

I struggle to get through readings for uni and many weeks, I simply don't read them at all.

My psychologist says that loss of concentration and a lack of interest is an offset of depression. She assures me that slowly but surely, the interest will return and the concentration will strengthen.

God, I hope she's right!

In the meantime, in a bid to spark that passion again, I started collecting books.

Novels, self help guides, weight loss manual, there's even a Pinky McKay book in there. Yes, those are Twilight novels too. I want to read them so I can continue to diss them with good reason ;)

They sit in a stack next to my bed, expectantly. Waiting. Mocking.

A shrine to a past love, long gone but not forgotten.

This week I know that one day, my long lost love of reading will return ...

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Joining up Shae the babe from Yay For Home for another week of Things I know.
Have abit of wisdom to share, hop over and link up x

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Why the "Even Barbies bruise" photoshoot offends me as a woman and as a mother.

2011-09-07T14:19:00.004+10:00

This photo is of Heather Morris from Glee.

It was taken by photographer, Tyler Shields and entitled "Even Barbies bruise."

Do you find this disturbing?

The woman in me does.

The coupling of an iron, a black eye and a female? Submission and abuse were the two things that immediately entered my mind.

I come from a 'broken household' where domestic violence was apart our lives for awhile there. I can tell you there is nothing artistic or glamorous about it.

What message are they trying to send here anyway? She didn't do your ironing so you gave her a shiner and tied her hands up with the cord to the iron? Yeah, that showed her. I don't do ironing. Should the Manchild do the same to me to show me? (I'd like to see him try!)

The mother in me also finds this disturbing.

See, at 24 years of age, I know that there is nothing glamorous or trendy about domestic violence, or abuse of any kind.

At 24 years of age, I roll my eyes at pathetic attempts by celebs and the like to stir the pot and soak up abit of infamy.

At 24 years of age, I know that folk will pretty much palm off anything tacky and call it art.

However, children, mine and yours, do not see it this way.

They do not have the life experience or the knowledge to comprehend the complexity of what these photos allude to.

If they are Glee fans (which we aren't but I know many who are), they are simply seeing one of the pretty girls from Glee with a black eye.

"Mummy, why does Brittany have a black eye?"

How on Earth will you explain that to a child?

Why should you even have to explain that to a child?

I don't care why celebrities, especially the female ones choose to partake in things that sort to glamourise sex and violence.

They can call it liberation and creative expression, and I will call bullshit.

However, I get incredibly stabby when these people star in shows/movies and make music that is targeted to youngsters one minute and then the next can be found with their vag poking out of their dress or brandishing a knife in some photo, squorking "I'm not a fucking role model!"

Not a fucking role model is absolutely right dickhead, but you have no problem in taking money from these impressionable youngsters, don't you?

Morals, anyone? Social responsibility, anyone?

I now understand why some parents get their knickers in a knot over TV, music and the rest. Rappers are going on about girls "slidin' up and down dem poles" while pop molls like Katy Perry are banging on about getting blind drunk and having threesomes.

It's scary.

With sex and violence so ingrained into our mainstream culture, how will this affect our children later on in life?

Fuck.

WON'T SOMEBODY PLEASE THINK OF THE CHILDREN?

** I welcome anyone and everyone's opinion on this, and I know that not all of us will see eye to eye. C'est la vie. If you can not make your point without being a douche, however, then you have no place here and I reserve the right to delete your comment. **

Mummy just wants you to share your milky way, not your bloody germs!

2011-09-06T17:00:00.000+10:00

I am like this, just minus the booze. Image from here.

At 7:30am this morning, I rolled and switched my alarm off as usual.

Then I stopped.

It washed over me almost immediately.

Old mate, nausea.

Now before the ducks start to quack "OMG, you're up the duff!", let me assure you that I am not pregnant.

No, something far more sinister is at hand here than being the vessel of yet another demon spawn.

Devil Woman and Hell Boy have brought home this awesome bug from preschool.

You get hot, you get nauseous, your stomach aches and must stay within a 1-2 room radius of the bathroom.

I phoned the Manchild around 10:30am to ask him how he was feeling. It seemed he was feeling similar symptoms as I and being male meant that he was feeling what I was, but 100 times worse. Of course.

But do you know what the best part is? It hasn't phased the babes any.

Don't get me wrong, there is nothing I hate more than seeing my babes sick ... but nothing instils more fear in my heart than knowing I'm not on my mothering A-game (more like z-game). The little ~~bastards~~ treasures sense it and in return, bubble over with endless bounds of sass and energy.

Thank goodness for my own Mummy who saved the day and took them to the park then enforced lunchtime, naptime and the like while I spent the day sprawled across the lounge like some sort of sick sea monster.

Quite honestly, I haven't spent a day on the lounge like this, watching cruddy sitcoms on Foxtel since first trimester lethargy struck me down when I was pregnant with the Boy. I would probably really be enjoying this if I didn't feel like absolute poo.

I better be feeling better in the morning, let me tell you!

Sharing is caring kids, but REALLY? Mummy just wants you to share your milky way, not your bloody germs!

Now, can someone please pass me the bucket?

Daddy issues on Fathers Day.

2011-09-04T10:53:00.000+10:00

My heart swells knowing my
babes have a wonderful dad.

So today is father day.

It's only been the past 3 years that I've actually invested anything into this day.

Except this year, the Manchild is working.

If we were in the confines of our own home, I would busy myself with housework, homework and playtime with the babes.

Maybe call my sister and have her come around.

After all, growing up without our father on the scene meant fathers day has always just another day to us.

But I can't ignore it, because we are living here at Casa de In-law.

My mother in law is preparing a big lunch and my brother in law, along with his family will come over and raise a toast to my father in law.

Don't get me wrong, it's a lovely excuse to get together but it's one that I don't want to be involved in.

Without the father of my children to fuss over, I feel a bitterness. Ugly and spiteful, eating away at me. It subsides every so often, being replaced with anger.

I don't want to toast my father, I don't want to toast anyone else's father.

This is the first year I've actually ever experienced this. It's hard to talk about, to write about and I am not comfortable in feeling this way.

Having children of your own has a way of making you reflect on your own childhood differently.

I guess acknowledging that I feel this way is better than just bottling it up but it's not much of a consolation.

Perhaps watching my babies interact with the Manchild these past few years has made me realise what we missed out on growing up?

I don't know. I don't want to know. I can't change anything, and I'm not entirely sure I would.

Blergh.

Welcome to the never-ending stream of anxious nonsense that is my head ...
______________________________________________

The Manchild just phoned me from work. I wished him a happy fathers and promptly burst into tears. After pouring out everything that I've basically mentioned above, he gently suggested I speak to his Mum. So I did, and she told me to go out while lunch is being served. She'll look after the kids and I can have some alone time. Then She hugged me as I cried like a fool. Have I mentioned that despite all the bullshit of living here, I love my mother in law?

Goodbye Candy Cat.

2011-09-02T11:20:00.000+10:00

She was the sweetest thing and you
gradually learnt to ignore the smelly farts.

About 6:30am this morning, I heard a phone ring above my head.

I mistook it for MC's bloody alarm (Damn iPhones and their musical alarm tones) and rolled over, muttering and swearing at him for being a lazy sod. No reply, so I opened one eye and saw that I was swearing at a pillow and not aforementioned hairy Manchild.

Shit.

It was my phone. Mum. No good news comes from Mum at that time of morning.

"Candy's dead" She choked down between sobs.

My heart sank to my butt.

Candy is our cat. Candy, the cat with the stripper name, a smelly butt and a heart of gold. The cat who has had us singing "Candy" by Iggy Pop since bloody Christmas. She's been staying at Mum's since we moved to Casa de In-law.

Candy is the Bug's best mate. Seriously inseparable. Have you heard of a familiar? We thought Candy was the Bug's familiar. The kid couldn't even pee without Candy coming up and doing that weave in and out of your legs thing that cats do. She even slept up next to the Bug. At 3am, we'd hear "No Candy, moooove" from the Bug's room.

They simply adored one another.

How the hell was I going to be able to tell the Bug this?

I remember having these talks with my Mum when we were kids. We were older than the Bug but I remember the crushing helplessness of knowing your beloved pet was gone and not coming back. Death is too final for a child to comprehend.

I would have done anything to not have to have this conversation with her what choice do I have? I'm the grown up now. I'm the Mum.

BFF's, Bugface and Candy Cat.

After breakfast this morning, I pulled her up next to me and told her the sad news.

"Candy was being silly and playing on the road. She was hurt by a car ..."

Instantly, The Bug's shoulders dropped and pained confusion splashed across her face.

"But Grandma says not to play on the road!" She cut in.

"I know, baby but Candy didn't listen. She was hurt very badly and was in pain, so she decided to close her eyes and go to sleep. She's gone to heaven now."

"To heaven? But I didn't get to say goodbye!" She replied in a small voice.

My heart started to ache, and I cuddled my girl close so she couldn't see my tears.

"When she comes back on Monday, I will say goodbye." She said, firmly.

"I know she was sad that she didn't get to say goodbye to you as well, but she's gone baby. She can't come back."

The Bug, nodded and looked at me tearfully.

"This makes me feel sad."

Five words that damn near broke my heart.

It hurts so much to see her hurt and not be able to stop it or even fix it.

Today, I had to be the grown up and I tell you, it sucked.

I may not be on the cutting edge of fashion but hey, at least I don't look like a hobo or dickhead!

2011-09-01T16:32:00.002+10:00

There are some women who have babies and still have it, it being that ability to pull off the latest style while pushing around a pram.

There are some who have babies and no longer have it.

I am the latter.

I am not one of those mothers.

I am ok with that, though I think 18 year old Holly just rolled her eyes, said "Eww" and downed a shot of tequilla.

My taste in fashion have definitely evolved since having children. It had to! Running around the house in hooker heels and rocking out minidresses with labia poking out is not a good look. JORDAN, KATIE PRICE OR WHATEVER YOU CALL YOURSELF, DO YOU HEAR ME?

These days I go for jeans, ballet flats, a nice top and maybe a blazer.

Comfortable, hopefully tasteful, with no public appearances made by nipples or ahem, vag. Adventurous or risque is no longer in my fashion vocab.

So now that we've gotten that cleared up, I ask you what the fuck is with fashion these days?

Mum and I went up to our local answer to Westfields last Thursday night, and were greeted by the usual hords of preteens and teens, just hanging out and being ghetto fab. I *may* have done the same thing as a 14 year old tart but whatevs.

It is apparent that hobo chic is it at the moment.

Hobo chic is a scary, SCARY thing my friends!

Chunky midriff knits, denim cutoffs, stockings and military boots. Pretty dresses teamed with grotesque coloured stockings ... and military boots. Mismatched prints. Tattered scarves. Regrowth. Chipped nailpolish.

These young girls drop alot of cash, well at least their parents do, to end up rocking a look akin to Courtney Love.

"You mean people are actually copying my
style. That shit is whack!"

GHASTLY!

So quite frankly, I am saying a little prayer each night at bedtime that I found my own fashion feet because it means that I am not being seen in shit like this;

I call these fanny grabbers, in a lovely shade of diarhoea brown.

Reminiscent of something from the "Cotton Eye Joe" filmclip, perhaps?

One word for you - SUPRE.

I doubt this even looked good in the 80's.

... and quite possibly the worst;

Short, pink and lycra. Tack-a-rama!

I ask you, what hope do you have if even the mannequin couldn't keep her cooch in?

I suppose not all hope is lost though, we didn't spot anyone walked around a la Katy Perry.

Nice hat, dickhead.
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16 to 12 to 14 - Size 16 No More, a year on.

2011-08-31T14:50:00.000+10:00

Oh Will, I ask myself the same thing everyday! Image from here.

On the 16th September of last year, I shared my plan for fitness, health and weight loss with ... well, pretty much the entire universe.

It was here in this post, The Plan.

Still to this day, it remains a post of mine that's attracted the highest amount of comments.

The support and encouragement I received on here, on Twitter and from my divine weight loss guru, Lucy was invaluable.

I battled and fought and worked off 11 goddamn kilos.

I went from 84kg to 73kg.

A Size 16 to a Size 12-14.

... and I documented every little bit here under Size 16 No More.

Somewhere along the lines, I lost that lust for weight loss.

I went back to old habits, as many of us do.

It was just easier to seek comfort in a way that I had so long been accustomed too. Neural pathways are a bitch like that.

Since falling off the wagon and landing head first into a cheesecake, I have made many excuses. From "I am not coping with living here with my in-laws" to "I am too busy with home life, work and uni" to my personal favourtie "Fuck it, I'll eat better tomorrow!"

In the past 6 months, I have gained 3kg which I know isn't alot but it's now another 3kg I need to re-lose. I don't even bother picking up a Size 12 dress anymore, and my boobs are now spilling over the top of my bras. I FEEL LIKE A SKANKY BRITNEY SPEARS! Awesomesauce.

My psychologist is a strong advocate for healthy eating and exercise.

"Not only will it make you look good," She tells me during every session "but you will feel good"

I know this, hell I've lived it but sitting on the computer and procrastinating appears to be more fun, couple that with a can of coke and maybe a pack of Tim Tams and I am in lazy girl heaven!

Yeah, not conducive to a healthy lifestyle.

I am also currently living in a house where health is not the first and foremost when it comes to food. I think this is a motivator behind the great Mexican standoff in the kitchen but whatever. That was also an excuse I all too eagerly embraced.

Excuses do us no good, right? Right!

So anyway, to celebrate one year of cutting out the crap, I am going to ... erm, go back to cutting out the crap.

This time, it's not entirely weight motivated though. It's health related - I want to look good but more importantly, I want to feel good.

I want my babes to see me eat well and know that eating well is the norm. I don't want their eyes to light up when they see a can of Coke or the golden arches.

Sometimes this week, I plan to sit down and tweak the plan to suit 2011. Then get used to some weightloss posts bitches, because shit is goin' down and by shit, I mean fat and by goin' down, I mean GONEEE!

Anyone care to join me? C'mon, we can motivate one another! ;)

P.S: Have I mentioned that I need to also give up the dirty fags? Ugh. Not looking forward to that ... ______________________________________________

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The great Mexican standoff in the kitchen at Casa de Inlaw.

2011-08-30T11:21:00.000+10:00

*Image from here.

I wasn't going to blog about this.

Really, I wasn't. I swear. But I need to put it out there and get the fuck over it and spilling it out here is as good as any!

Plus you've missed my in-law rants, right? Riiiight?

Once of the first agreements we had when we moved into Case de Fucking Inlaw was that my MIL and I would share the duties of cooking dinner.

Now before we all lived together, she would shop every few days and grab whatever she needed as she went.

I don't - I meticulously plan our meals a fortnight in advance. Sounds incredibly anal but I love not having the "What to make for dinner" dilemma each night, and buying only what we need obviously saves us money.

We agreed that I would shop every fortnight for the whole family and MIL would help me with the meal plan. The idea worked well, we were all saving money and there was a homecooked meal every single night for everyone to enjoy.

About 4-5 weeks ago, my MIL pulled aside and bashfully asked me if I minded if she cooked my FIL dinner separately each night. My cooking didn't fill him up.

"You don't mind, do you?" She asked

"Of course not" I said, stunned.

I later heard her talking to the Manchild about it, and apparently he complained every single night about what I served up.

WHAT. THE. FUCK?

Granted I cook differently from my MIL (I do less meat, less salt, smaller portions) but still, WHAT. THE. FUCK?

I rehashed this conversation with my psychologist about 2 weeks ago. She asked me how it had made me feel.

"Honestly? I have never been so offended in my life." I replied without hesitation.

I actually don't fully understand why it offended me, or still bothers me so much.

Unlike my namesake, I am not a faboosh Homemaker. I'm abit of a domestic fraud actually, and I have never professed to be an amazing cook.

I do however think I whip up some good meals, and I strive to ensure that my kids are served up something nutritious. I pour over recipe books and websites, I try new things and perhaps most importantly, I enjoy cooking.

A for effort and all that shiz.

Every single night I have cooked for the Manchild, he has always said "Thank you babe, that was delicious" as he carries his plate to the sink.

So to have someone point blank refuse to eat what I'm cooking, when I know that it tastes pretty damn alright, hurts.

Maybe even makes me feel like more of a domestic fraud? Meh.

And that my friends, is how the great Mexican standoff here in the kitchen at Casa de fucking In-Law began!

If you were me, how would you feel? Am I being oversensitive here?

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Grab my butt, bitches. Go on, you know you want to!

2011-08-29T23:48:00.000+10:00

My PC has been hogged all night by someone who will remain nameless and therefore shameless ...

Ahem Manchild, ahem!

In any case, I have stolen a few minutes of online time to flog you my new button!

Without any further ado;

The flashy button;

The not so flashy button;

Grab my butt, bitches. Go on, you know you want to x

______________________________________________

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Why the contraceptive pill can kiss my ass.

2011-08-25T16:05:00.000+10:00

*Image from here.

I was sexually active early on and like a smart little scrubber, I went on the pill.

Well, I actually had a long term boyfriend but that's not anywhere as interesting as saying I was a scrubber.

The point in all this though, is I went on the pill.

The pill, did not agree with me.

To be quite frank, it made me go absolutely fucking apeshit mental. A mad cow actually, a pubescent mad cow.

At the time though, my GP just assumed that it was typical teenage angst and told me to ride it out. I rode it out for about 9 months. 9 months of sheer hell ... for my Mum. I won't lie, I was a pretty damn horrible teenager!

Fast forward like 8-9 years later and I haven't been on any form of contraception since the Bug was born.

Total badass, I know.

Last week, my GP gave me "the talk". The one where he point blank told me to either go on the pill or not have sex because having another baby right now would not be conducive to my career, my mental health or my vagina.

What if it sends me mental? I asked him.

He told me to stop flattering myself, that at 24 years old age, teenage angst has long since left the building. Point taken. Bastard.

So, I filled my script and that night, proposed a toast to fucking up my reproductive cycle with these little tablets of destruction.

The first 10 days were pretty cruisy.

Bam smack on the 11th hour of the 11th day, I had a shit attack.

A miserable, irrational little sod with a thumping, fuzzy head that feels like it may explode.

Today is the 11th day by the day, and I am floored.

I haven't felt this way in a long time. It's not pretty, and it's not where I want to be.

It took a 40 minute blubbering conversation to my Mum (because that's what I do when I'm having a bad day. Total badass again, I know!) before alarm bells went off and we made the correlation between me feeling like this and starting the pill.

It's baffling but for whatever reason, the pill lures out the black dog.

Fuck.

Quite frankly, I'd rather be up the spout than "ride this out" ...

So I have packed up that evil little box of destruction and shoved it right up the back of the cupboard.

And that my friends, is why the contraceptive pill can kiss my ass.

Have you had a similar experience and opt to play with fire like yours truly?

______________________________________________

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The case of the missing keys and the narrow escape from the mad cow explosion.

2011-08-24T15:05:00.000+10:00

*Image from here.

"HAVE YOU SEEN MY KEYS?" Mum shrieked at 9am this morning.

Dad, my brother and I all looked at her blankly.

"Have. you. seen. my. keys? Anyone?" Mum repeated, eyes starting to glitter.

Uh oh.

I do the whole preschool thing on Wednesdays and we were running late, which has been the norm since we moved.

When we run late, Mum becomes flustered.

When Mum becomes flustered, you fly straight and do as you're told!

My brother danced around in front of Mum's legs as she flew around the room, trying to find her keys.

"Muuuuum, are we going yet?" I asked.

Mum spun around and looked at me, she went to say something and Dad cut her off, saying "It's wonderful to see you are eager to get to school this morning Bugface, but we really need to help Mummy find her keys first."

I really wasn't interested but Dad gave me that look, the one that says do it or else poo will go down!

So we all set about helping Mum find her keys ...

This pleased Mum greatly and I noticed her face relaxed a little and she stopped looking like a mad cow. High five!

... 5 minutes later and Mum realised that her keys were tucked into her back pocket.

Everyone stopped, breathless. Anticipating a total mad cow explosion.

She giggled.

We giggled, and quietly let out a sigh of relief.

Mad cow explosion averted, and we all happily piled in the car.

Dad's taught my brother and I a pretty valuable lesson this morning - If Mum is in doubt, help her out or else she might go mad cow crazy!

Top job Dad, you know a fair bit for an old guy! Heh ;)

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Still need to get a Father’s day gift? Surprise dad with a car magazine subscription from Magshop before 4th October and you could win a VolkswagenGolf!

There is no 'in or out' crowd of blogging, just like there is no 'us and them' in community.

2011-08-23T11:22:00.003+10:00

I walked into the room on Saturday and clung to Emma and Lori for dear life.

I watched these girls greet the others, smiling, hugging.

... and I stood there like an idiot.

I made a beeline for the bar, perhaps I would feel more confident with a drink in my hand.

No.

Maybe a few more cocktails will help?

No.

The buzz in the room was electric, it excited me and scared the living hell out of me.

So, I stayed in my safe zone.

The only time I took a chance was when I met the divine Maxabella, Danimezza and Bianca from bigwords.

There was still quite a few more wonderful bloggers in that room, and I just could not bring myself to introduce myself to them.

Why?

"Would they even know who I am?"

"Would they like me?"

"Oh fuck, what do I say?"

Right, so it was because of my own stupid insecurities.

These women are approachable, they are funny and they are friendly.

Why couldn't I do it?

Why did I feel like an outsider?

A member of the 'out' crowd at a supposed 'in' crowd event.

Cue ephihany ...

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There is no 'in' or 'out' crowd of blogging, it comes down to our own insecurities.

There is no 'us and them' in a community.

Anyone who is invited to these kind of events will tell you, an invitation is not an automatic pass to the cool club. Not being invited does not make you apart of the outsiders either.

A tinge of jealousy is totally understandable, but don't let it dampen the experience or worse, make you bitter.

I do not feel like a member of the cool club, or the in crowd for having gone Saturday night.

I feel like someone who writes a blog and has found a wonderful connection with my peers.

I feel like Holly, the one who swears alot, who doesn't have the foggiest when it comes to networking and who is really regretting letting her own insecurities get the better of her.

Oh, and the one who ate copious amounts of Ribena cupcakes. All class ;)

If you want to succeed, keep doing what you are doing and keep on loving it.

Don't let your insecurities get the better of you and don't mix yourself up in the "Us and them" side of things. Nothing positive will come from it ...
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Cherishing my cherubs, so they don't tell a therapist later on that I never spoke about them on my blog!

2011-08-23T09:41:00.003+10:00

I figure that as my babes grow older, they will learn about this blog. They will then inevitably read what I have ranted on about and may find themselves telling a therapist that I never did the whole proud mum thing - and you know, that that kind of rejection was detrimental to their whatever.

You see where I'm going with this, right?

So today, I'm joining in with Naomi from Seven Cherubs, and I'm taking time out to cherish my cherubs. I must confess, this post is so much sweeter to write because my cherubs are at Grandma's for a sleepover and I can actually freaking think straight!

The Bug is 3 years old and 10 months.

My Bug, my girl, my little mate.

My salvation. She came along and made me snap out of it, made me grow up, made me get my life back on track. Will never be able to repay her for that.

She is so much like her Mother it isn't funny! Sassy, and headstrong. A wicked sense of humour, always laughing at something. Curious and eager to learn. Known to storm off with hands on hips and a dirty look if she doesn't get her own way!

At the moment, Bugface is into Dora, Katy Perry's "TGIF" (to her grandmother's horror), Zhu Zhu Pets (Not to be mistaken with Furreal Furries because they are not the real thing, according to her) and going to the park or icecream shop (aka; the corner shop up the road). She's also recently become abit obsessed with both 101 Dalmations and Aristocats. I've picked up quite a few books from our local op shops for her and these two stories are essential for our bedtime reading.

The kid is a natural with technology, and can be found cruising around on her Dad's iPhone or even on the PC. I'm not entirely sure how but girlfriend can actually get herself onto Cbeebies, Nick Jnr and YouTube without any help.

Her first love is Diego but when I tell her that, she tells me that she's not interested because Diego has a "football head".

She's really come into imaginative play these past few weeks as well. Her imagination runs wild and I love hearing the things she comes out with.

She has mastered the art of writing her own name without any help. Her name is 5 letters and she scrawls it across paper effortlessly!

Her best friends are her cousins, especially her eldest cousin, Miss S. They had their first sleepover at Miss S' place the other week and the Bug loved every minute of it. She also loves the two little girls who live next door to her Grandma.

Her favourite saying at the moment is to call everyone a "Hell breezy" (You can think Chris Brown's "Look at me now" for that one). Oh, and to mimic every firm word I say to her brother. Ugh.

The boy is 2 and almost one month.

My blue eyed sweet boy.

The one who allowed me to labour naturally, who took to the breast with gusto and allowed me to see the beauty of breastfeeding, who threw everything I knew about babies out the window and made me all crunchy.

His personality is continually changing as he morphs from babe to fully fledged toddler. He is sweet, yet rough. A bulldozer who spends his days, charging around the house and over things, including his sister. Affectionate and quite receptive to how you're feeling. His middle name should have been "Are you going to eat that?"

At the moment, he is into The Wiggles, In The Night Garden, colouring in (including the walls), dancing complete with the cutest shoulder shimmy, anything from Cars (He has quite the Cars toy collection about his birthday), running around like a Zombie and squealing "RAWRRRR" at his sister, riding his trike around and of course, eating.

He has just dropped his afternoon nap this past week and while I welcome the change, I'm a tad bit sad about it.

His best friend is his sister. No, really. It melts your heart! As he grows though, it's amazing to watch how he starts to communicate and connect with other children.

Until recently, he's been one little ball of frustration as he has been unable to communicate properly. This past couple of months though, his vocab has tripled and while the frustration is still there (you know, terrible two angst and all that crap) he can at least tell us most of what's up. Some new additions to his vocab is Please pronounced "Pweeze", Sorry pronounced as "Sowee", apple, poo, wee and wet (which he tells me when he needs a nappy change) . He can also say Nanny and his Aunty's name instead of just Mummy, Daddy and Sissy. He can also recite our pets names and all of my Mum's 8 pets names.

At the moment, his favourite saying is "More pweeze Mummy". Yes, as in more food thanks. Yes, my grocery bill is ever increasing!

Quite honestly, I am one of the proudest Mums out and why wouldn't I be? My kids are pretty damn cute ... until they throw a tanty!
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Good Golly Miss Holly @ BlogHer'12. YES!

2011-08-19T15:29:00.001+10:00

Good Golly Miss Holly. BlogHer'12. NYC.

Seeking sponsorship.

More details to come soon!

In the meantime, if you think you and your company can help get me there then you know, drop me a line - goodgollymissholly@live.com.au

Things I know; The "This week sucks big, hairy balls" edition.

2011-08-19T13:07:00.000+10:00

I know that this week sucks big, hairy balls.

The Manchild has started a new job at the airport which involves a roster that is essentially 24/7.

This week he has been on the 2pm-12am shift, which has left me to rule the roost on my own for longer periods of time.

From 12pm onwards, I am the voice of reason. The only voice of reason. Until bedtime.

I have the pleasure of navigating naptime, cactus hour, dinner time, bathtime and bedtime on my own.

Now, I am usually in charge of all of the above anyway but knowing there is someone there that I can bark "Oh my god, get off your ass and take over for 5 minutes before I cut a bitch" at is a comfort, to say the least.

To be fair, I think I have handled this quite well - Everyone is fed, everyone is bathed, everyone is still smiling and the neighbours haven't called the police on me for yelling.

Mothers are a pretty fucking fabulous breed, and I am no exception!

Add to this mix though, a sick and teething little man and slowly, the seams start to come apart.

The Boy is teething - He is spiking temps between 38-39 at least twice a day, his bum is red raw, he isn't eating much and he is just all round miserable.

He also isn't sleeping too soundly either and we play musical beds at least 3 times a night.

Despite this though, he can muster enough strength to fight as per usual with his sister. Fark.

All my sweet boy wants is his Mama, so I keep giving and giving but it's not enough.

I am tired.

I am yearning to even just shower in peace.

I am running on empty.

Blerghhh.

Just quietly, I am thankful that I am working tonight.

Here is to next week being sunshine, lollipops and rainbows everywhere!

At this point in time, I am signing off so I can sort my way through Mount Washmore which has formed on my bed but before I do, a big fuck off toast to solo parents, the worldwide - YOU. ARE. AWESOME.

*Linking up with Shae from Yay for Home. Come and share your weekly wisdom, yes? x
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The shit day that ended with a wedgie of epic proportions.

2011-08-17T17:57:00.000+10:00

Today has been pretty shit.

It probably started around 3am this morning when I was awoken as a whiney little figure emerged from the darkness and insisted on climbing into my bed.

It wouldn't be so bad except said little figure sleeps like a starfish and takes up an enormous amount of room for a 2 year old.

Whatever, I can take that on with a smile on my dial!

The upside of the bed-sharing meant a sleep in. Until 9:30am. You bloody beauty!

We then proceeded to potter around the house in our jarmies, because that's what you do on Thursdays around here ...

EXCEPT IT'S WEDNESDAY, AND NOT THURSDAY.

Cue a stampede of preparing the Bug for preschool, running a brush through my putrid hair and putting on a bra.

Again, I can take that with a smile on my dial.

On the way home from the pre-school run, I had to fill the gas-guzzler up with fuel. $1.46 a litre. OUCH!

Again, I went to my happy place and took that shit with a smile on my dial.

As we drove past the line of petrol stations around the corner from home, I was greeted with big signs that advertised fuel for $1.30 a litre.

My smile started to wear thin. Motherfuckers.

Come 2pm, I told the Boy it was time for a sleep. He promptly replied with a stern "NO!". Too bad, kid. I'm the boss and you're my loyal minion.

... or so I thought.

Come 3:15pm and it had become clear that there was going to be no napping.

So much for my loyal minion.

My eye began to twitch.

On the way home from the picking-up-from-preschool run, I was treated to a screaming match between my two little darlings.

Eye twitching increased ten fold.

We walked through the door, kids kicking off shoes and asking questions galore whilst shoving into each other in a rush to find the Foxtel remote.

I smiled. It came out more like a grimace. A for effort though, right?

I bent over to pick up the debris ... only to get a wedgie of epic proportions, courtesy of my own pretty, lacey underwear.

HOLYRATSHITMOTHERFUCKINGHELL!

I lost my shit.

All day long, I put up with absolute shyt but kept my composure. I channelled some motherfucking zen right there, AND THEN MY OWN UNDERWEAR TURNS AGAINST ME?

Pretty underwear can go and jump, fo' reals.

I'm wearing these babies from now on, a la Bridget Jones;

Sexy, right?

I don't even know what the point of this post is. Holyratshitmotherfuckinghell, is it bedtime yet?
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Mum made Dad get rid of his sweet ride and all he has now is a sweet car magazine subscription!

2011-08-17T13:43:00.002+10:00

** This post has been sponsored by the lovely crew over at Nuffnang **

This is the very first time that my Mum is letting me take the lead here on GMMH.

I'm a bit nervous, I'm a bit of a shy guy but my sissy has posted before and anything my sissy can do, I can do. I think. So here I am!

Since I'm a boy, I want to talk about boys things. Like cars.

I like cars!

My Daddy does too.

My Daddy loves to tell me about his old car.

He says that it was his baby before my sister and I were born.

It was cool and fast and made this "Choooo" noise whenever he changed the gears.

Daddy put a lot of time and money into it.

Every weekend, he would lovingly clean and polish it. His friends all had cool cars too and the cars would all hang out at Krispy Kreme together.

Sometimes he would drive like a silly bugger in it. Mainly to show off ...

... Though it never impressed my Mum any!

Sometimes he'd even take it to a big, real life race track and race - How cool is that?

My Mummy on the other hand, didn't like Daddy's car.

I'm told all she used to do was whinge and complain about it.

She said if Daddy paid as much attention to her as he did to his car then she would be the most spoilt girl in the whole world!

Daddy would just roll his eyes, apparently my Mum can be a real whinger sometimes!

When my Mum fell pregnant with my sister, she would gleefully tell my Daddy that it was time to get rid of his car.

She did tell me though that she was secretly pleased that Daddy's car liked to hang out at Krispy Kreme because it meant she got to eat lots of donuts! Don't tell her I told you though, ok?

My poor Daddy, he held onto his car as long as he could. Even though it meant listening to my Mum whine about getting in and out of the car with her big belly and complaining that she needed to pee every time he went over a speedbump!

When my sister was born at 39 weeks, Mum was ready to kill Dad because he still hadn't sold his car and she said that there was "no way in hell" that she was bringing her baby home in that car!

So he finally said goodbye to his baby.

That was 3.5 years ago and I'm pretty sure my Daddy still thinks about his babyevery day.

"One day," He tells me "I am going to buy another car like that and we can play with it and annoy your mother together!"

Yes we will!

In the meantime though, my Daddy loves to drool over car magazines so this Father's day I am thinking of getting him a Motor Magazine subscription through Magshop.

I'm a pretty awesome son, aren't I?

And if you're still on the hunt for a Father's Day pressie, surprise Dad with a car magazine subscription from Magshop before 4th August and you could win a Volkswagon Golf!

That's enough for me now folks, I think it's time for a juicebox and some Wiggles.

Catch ya!

Are you clicking through yet to purchase a Motor magazine subscription yet? Doiiiit!

The problem of Miranda Devine. Alternatively entitled "Leave the single and same sex parents the f*ck alone!"

2011-08-15T21:29:00.002+10:00

Dear Miranda Devine,

I read your latest piece, "The problem of the fatherless generation" today.

Seriously?

I am more concerned that Catholics, such as yourself, are trying to push their overly conservative, outdated and prejudicial traditions in the mainstream media than I am about this fatherless generation of which you speak.

The ideal situation for a child is one where they are loved, nurtured, supported and safe. Pretty sure there's no evidence to say that this is only possible in a household headed by both a mother and a father.

Given that fact, I would say that the real problem lays with you and those who share your opinion, not with the single parents and the same-sex parents. Leave them the fuck alone.

Sincerley,
A fatherless girl who has given birth to two ~~fatherless~~ babies to a ~~string of feckless men~~ committed and loving man. Yes, we do exist and no, we are not the exception to the rule.

P.S: WON'T SOMEBODY PLEASE THINK OF THE CHILDREN?
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Don't be a shit, let them commit! #EqualLove

2011-08-13T14:39:00.000+10:00

I get abit teary when I look at this sign because
one day, I want my kids to be able to marry the
person of their dreams regardless of gender.

Marriage is pretty much a joke in our society.

We have celebs running around, getting married for mere hours. Yes, I'm looking at you Britney.

We have people clocking up failed marriages like frequent flyer points.

An enormous amount of marriage end in divorce.

One in three Australian marriages end in divorce. Yes, one in THREE.

But do you know what the biggest joke of all is?

That in 2011, we still do not recognise gay marriage!

What the fuck are we scared of here, people?

Marriage is about love and committment, not sexual preference.

And I mean really, if you're that against gay marriage then why don't you just shut the fuck up and don't have one then?

Simple.

Three cheers to everyone taking part in the Equal Love rallies across Australia today. I am there in spirit. You can check out the Twitter feed using #EqualLove x

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Things I know; The bloggers f*cking rock edition.

2011-08-12T14:35:00.000+10:00

How the hell can it be that another week has passed?

Shit.

Well here I am, reading for another round of Things I know with Shae the sexpot!

So, what do I know this week?

That bloggers, specifically the Aussie blogging community, fucking rock.

I know I know, we all knew that anyway but here's another reason to add to the list;

As a mother and as a person, I try to keep it real. Straight talking, honest, opinionated, tongue in cheek. I try my damnest to make sure those qualities are reflected in my writing. I'm of the opinion that anyone can write fiction, but it takes balls to be authentic!

Sometimes though, when I am in the throes of a less than confident moment, I wonder if writing so openly will be my downfall. If people will misinterpret my straight talking and think I'm just a crass bitch.

So when I receive an email or a comment where someone has thanked me for my honesty, for telling it like it is, my heart soars.

"You always put it the way it is, which is the way I think..you just have guts to put it on the line." was a comment on left on my FB page last night.

An email I received last night said "It was with relief that i read through your posts ...... you're just like me. And as i have told many mums since i had my own ; When it all gets too much just remember that all over the world women are going through the same thing you are .... and sometimes that is all that gets you through!!!"

Every day I am reminded that I do not walk alone and it seems that every time someone reads my post they too are reminded of the same.

THAT right there is why I continue to write this blog.

So thank you blogosphere, for accepting me the way that I am and allowing me to keep it real.

Thank you to all the mummy bloggers out there, you remind us that we never walk this journey of motherhood alone.

But most of all, thank you to each and single one of you who has ever graced the pages of Good Golly Miss Holly - You fucking rock!

Now just in case all of this sappiness is ruining my reputation as a badass, let me leave you with this. Courtesy of Beautiful Swear Words, a way awesome site that I just discovered thanks to my Shae who happens to be a cuntbiscuit;

Good day to you sir x

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10 reasons why parenting gets trickier as your children grow.

2011-08-11T11:15:00.006+10:00

1. They lovingly stroke your tummy and marvel over the baby you have in your tummy. Only, you don't have a baby in your tummy - You just had second helpings of dessert. Cue tears into your third helping of dessert.

2. You nervously anticipate the day where telling your child that babies comes from cabbage patches no longer cuts it.

3. Instead of bathing, they insist on showering. With you. The last thing you got to do by yourself just totally walked out the door. Grieve that shit biatch!

4. They expect you to practice what you preach and share. Even if it's the last piece of Cadbury Rocky Road. So not cool.

5. They announce "MUM, I NEED TO DO A POO!" in the middle of Aldi. At the top of their voice. Like every single time you go there. Want to keep them regular? Frequent Aldi!

6. They continue to live on a diet of plain rice, sausages and yoghurt. Someone kept reassuring you that they'd grow out of their fussiness? THEY LIED!

7. They collaborate with Nick Jnr to bleed you dry of every red cent. If it's not a Dora t-shirt, it's a bloody DVD of the highly annoying sort. Three cheers for Nick Jnr. Asshats.

8. They no longer fall for the "Mummy will get it for you in a minute" trick. You know, since their memories expand from goldfish to freaking elephant. Ugh.

9. The favoured tone of voice is Whinge in A Minor. Double ugh.

10. THEY LEARN TO TALK BACK!

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We don't live in your world.

2011-08-10T20:45:00.002+10:00

Dear digusting scumbug man that lives next door to my Ma and all like-minded folk,

We don't live in your world.

I would like to have a little chat with you and maybe educate you abit about the world we live in, alternatively know as the real world.

In the real world, police are not pigs.

Fuck the police? How about OBEY THE LAW, DICKHEAD?

In the real world, people who contact the police are not dogs.

If it concerns you that people are contacting the police then again, obey the law dickhead and you will have nothing to worry about.

In the real world, you do not make threats to ANYONE.

Seriously. Don't do it.

In the real world, the people who yell the loudest that they know "people", usually don't.

and those that don't let on to the fact, generally know "people" that you don't want to meet. Ever.

In the real world, we are mature and resolve our differences rationally.

Stumbling around, liquored up and yelling? Who are you trying to kid, fool?

In the real world, it is NEVER ok to stand over a woman.

Oh neighbour, bet you still can't believe that my mother and my sister stood up to you. I would assume given the way that we have heard you speak to your partner that this has never happened to you before. Keep going and I guarantee it won't be the last either. #IHOPEYOUGETTHROWNINTHESLAMMERBYAFEMALEPOLICEOFFICER

In the real world, real men sort assistance to work out their fucked up anger problems.

It's the weak little men that don't. Yes, you are weak.

In the real world, we do not verbally abuse our partner day in, day out. So loud that the whole neighbourhood can hear. In front of our toddlers.

Again, more proof of the little weak man you are.

In the real world, we recognise the signs of when our loved ones are in danger and we get them help.

We want to help them. We don't indulge them in ridiculous fantasties and allow them to go on increasingly disturbing tangents. We. get. them. help.

In the real world, people don't act ... well, the way that you do.

We don't live in your world, and never I have been so fucking glad.

** This little gem of a post has been brought to you by the harassment and down right stupidity that my Mum and my sister have been subjected to by their neighbours recently. These neighbours embody everything that is wrong with society. Of course, in usual fashion, I have not held back either. Know someone like I've mentioned? Print this post off and leave it next to their bong or in the tailpipe of their dirt bike ... or even just pin it to their forehead. That'll be your public service for the year x **
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WBW2011- Bet you didn't think you'd read another breastfeeding post on here, y'know since the milk bar shut shop and all that!

2011-08-06T16:34:00.001+10:00

I haven't posted anything about breastfeeding for a long time, have I?

The Boy weaned 8 months ago and while I still consider myself a staunch breastfeeding advocate, the passion I was once brimming over with has slowly fizzled.

I guess this is pretty natural as you go from living, breathing and breastfeeding to ... erm, not.

In any case, I am still (very slowly) working through my training with Australian Breastfeeding Association to become a qualified Breastfeeding Counsellor/Community editor. I am also humbled to be called upon by girlfriends who often ask for information or support as they forge breastfeeding relationships with their own babies.

This week celebrates World Breastfeeding Week hence this post but since I've already shared a bevy of posts about my own experiences nursing my babies, I thought I would share with you my fave breastfeeding posts penned by others.

Some are informative and the others are opinion pieces, all which I read over and soaked up many times during the tumultuous first year of the Boy's life.

- Breastfeeding Nazi by PhD in Parenting; A piece to get you thinking about the term (that I loathe) which is often thrown about.

- What does support look like? What to do and what NOT to do to support a breastfeeding mother by PhD in Parenting.

- When it is not breast by PhD in Parenting.

- 50 reasons to breastfeed anywhere, anytime by PhD in Parenting; It's a pretty fab list!

- How does milk production work by Kellymom.com; You would be surprised just how many people don't understand exactly how breastmilk is made. Supply and demand, people!

- Breastfeeding and guilt written by Dr Jack Newman and featured on Kellymom.com.

- The seven natural laws of breastfeeding by Australian Breastfeeding Association.

- Bottle, babies, Daddy bonding and breastfeeding by Custom-made Milk; Addressing the "But Daddy wants to give me a bottle" excuse.

- Breastfeeding in Mongolia by Peaceful Parenting; Illustrating how culture affects our own perceptions of breastfeeding and what's "normal."

- Sleep training, not for breastfeeding mothers by Dr Jim Sears and featured on Bellybelly.com; Oh you better believe this one had a massive impact on us and our little sleep dodger!

- Breastfed by Lori over at Random Ramblings of a SAHM

-Breastfeeding is offensive by Sarah over at Just Me is actually resharing this post in honor of WBW!

- Does pro-breastfeeding automatically mean anti-formula feeding? by Peggy over at The Mama Diaries.

- To wean or not to wean, that is the question by G over at Where's my glow?

And of course, here are a few of my own breastfeeding posts;

- Tellin' it like it is; The one where I tell you straight - I support your choice but don't support you helping to peddle a myth to save face.

- Boosting breastfeeding rates 101; Remember the douche that made a call for all formulas to be available only on perscription? Here is my response.

- Wean me gently; My last breastfeeding post!

- If you can't say anything nice, don't say anything at all; Yep, ABA-bashing will land you on my shit list!

- The boy and the boob; Of course, a recount of the Boy and my breastfeeding journey

And on that note, I will leave you with the wise words of Miss Pink - Let's celebrate boobies!

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Things I know; The I'm not pregnant edition.

2011-08-05T13:09:00.000+10:00

'Tis been a little while since I last linked up and shared abit of "Things I know" wisdom with Shae the Sexpot from Yay for Home and the girls but here I am, ready and willing to spill!

This week has been kinda crappy but will end on abit of a high note for me.

Why?

Simple, really.

This week I know that I am not pregnant.

HUZZAH!

Yes, we had a scare in the Homemaker household.

Sparing you all the juicy gory details concerning my cycle and the fruits of my lady forest, I will tell you that I'm late.

Like 10 days late, which for a usual 28-32 day girl totally calls for a HOLY FUCK, I THINK THERE'S SOMETHING IN MY UTERUS moment.

So I pee'd on a stick. As you do.

And I held my breath and crossed my legs, anxiously awaiting my fate ...

... and then only one blessed little line appeared.

HUZZAH!

As much as my uterus is silently urging me to have another baby, now is just not the time for us.

There will most certainly be another Baby Homemaker on the way but for now, it's a vacant uterus for me!

And yes, feel free to send me one of these in the mail. Don't forget to include some celebratory vodka or Cointreau x

Got some wisdom of your own to share? Jump on over to Yay for Home and link up x
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We gotta get out of this place, if it's the last thing we ever do.

2011-08-03T15:22:00.002+10:00

Today's post is being brought to you by The Angels.

Oh yeah it is!

Do you remember my big balls?

My hypotheical ones?

Well, they've shrivelled some.

After procrastinating for 11 goddamn days, MC went to fianlly talk business with his mate. About giving them notice. About us moving back into our home.

I anxiously awaited him to come home, my heart was pounding and I could feel the excitement coursing through my veins.

Finally, the end. It's near. HUZZAH!

"So," I greeted him the minute he stepped in the door "What did he say?"

I expected a grin, a nod of the head and a confirmation that everything was finally fitting into place.

What I got, I didn't expect ...

MC looked at me sheepishly.

"He said they haven't gotten any bond money saved up and they really need an extra month to look for a rental ..."

"Not my problem." I cut in, excitement giving way to anger.

"What do you want me to do Holly?" He sighed "He's my mate, I can't just tell him to fuck off."

"But what about us? What about me? I NEED TO GET OUT OF THIS FUCKING HOUSE BEFORE I CUT SOMEONE!"

Cue eye roll from him.

Cue tears from me. Big, fat, angry tears.

My big, hairy hypothetical balls delating, dehydrating with every goddamn sooky tear I shed.

As you can imagine, an arguement ensued from that shit and ended when he left the house and I fell into the arms of a block of Cadbury Breakaway.

Sure, I sound like a brat, a hysterical one perhaps but that is with good reason.

As many couples who have lived with parents/inlaws will tell you, the living situation amplifies every. single. fucking. possible. problem in your relationship.

Big Brother is watching.

I am not even exaggerating in my usual drama queen manner on that one either.

To think I thought those who warned us beforehand to not do this were jaded and cyncial.

Now I'm one of them. HEH!

But I digress, MC & I have never had the "perfect relationship" but we have stuck together, through the shit times and enjoyed one another's company. We have been us and no one has been able to fuck around with that.

I have never felt any unease about us, our life together or our future - Until we moved in with his parents.

Now it feels like everything is under a big motherfucking magnifying glass. Not just making that shit bigger, but possibly reflecting a buttload of sun on it and slowly burning away at it, us, our relationship.

Does not make for happy relationships.

I don't know what will happen from here but we have learnt a very serious, very serious-shit lesson here - Money brings out the worst in people and never cohabit with in-laws. No if's, no but's, no maybes on the latter.
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**Edited to add - I know it sounds like I despise my in-laws but I actually don't. I pretty much just despise living in their house (as opposed to living in my own house) and all that that entails. I try to blog honestly and quite obviously, I don't hold back. Given the fact that I can't really whinge to MC about his own parents, I get it out on here and you guys get to counsel me because you know, it's cheaper than therapy x

Two.

2011-07-29T16:57:00.001+10:00

When I woke up this morning, I found myself the mother of a 3 year old and a 2 year old.

10:07am, to be precise, marked the exact moment that celebrates 2 years of my sweet boy being in this world.

I sorta, kinda can't believe it!

It's such a cliche to say but where the bloody hell does the time go?

Two years.

Two years since we welcomed this blonde little devil child and became a family of four.

Two years that have flown by in this delicious, hazy cloud of long nights, bed hopping and broken sleep.

Two years of cheekiness, of tantrums and tears, of fighting and fun.

And of course, two more bloody years of The Wiggles!

It's bittersweet, watching them grow.

I marvel at the strong and smart little man he is turning into, yet I mourn for the babyness he sheds as he grows.

The diminishing helplessness as he learns independence and how to do things for himself, not quite relying on his Mummy as much.

A task as simple as putting his own shoes on tears me up - Do I clap my hands in excitement, for his accomplishment or do I shed a tear, for the fact that my baby is growing up?

As I type this, he comes over to me and places a hand on my shoulder. Pats my shoulder and swaggers off, almost as if to say "Oh Mum, pull your head in. I'm growing up, not growing apart (from you)"

Touche.

Well, he could also be telling me to get into the kitchena and cook him some damn eggs.

Old but not old enough to make his own lunch, I see.

Bloody kids.

On that note, I am off for the weekend. Happy 2nd birthday to you, my dear sweet boy!

Oh and if you want to hear all the juicy details of his arrival, click here.

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When good hairstyles go bad. Alternatively titled "That hairdresser is such a whore!"

2011-07-27T17:06:00.001+10:00

We all remember when I took the plunge and cut the locks a few months back, yes?

I was loving myself sick with my new 'Mummy' haircut.

Then of course, the bastard grew.

It got to that between stage just below your shoulders where you don't know if you're a member of the short do club or a member of the luscious long locks club.

So I decided to drop by a salon yesterday and just get a trim.

A trim is pretty safe, right?

Right?

WRONG!

I am now sporting "professional" hair.

Or daggy Mum hair.

Or butch hair.

I haven't yet decided what to do with this hairstyle, though I was able to decide within .5 of a second that I DON'T LIKE IT!

I can't even pull the fucker up into a ponytail.

And the bottom of my tramp stamp, oh I mean tattoo now pokes out from under my hairline.

Le siiiiigh.

That hairdresser is such a whore!

Hope came to me today though in the way of a post from she with the delectable short hair, aka; Beth from BabyMac.

A post containing snaps of her various short and seriously funky do's.

And I've now decided which hair style I want so I now will be hitting up my hairdresser.

"I'll have the Beth, thanks!"

Have you got any disaster hair stories? Indulge me ploise x

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Over the weekend, I grew some balls.

2011-07-26T10:46:00.000+10:00

Over the weekend, I grew some balls.

Not like real balls.

Hypothetical balls.

And with these hypothetical balls, I asserted abit of dominance in my relationship and told the Manchild how things were going to go down.

Tired of living here and tired of whining online about how I'm tired of living here, I devised a plan.

I will be moving back home in 6 weeks. Oh yes I will.

Since MC told our tenants (who also happens to be his best mate) almost a month ago that we needed them to start looking for a new place, I think just over 2 months is ample time to house hunt.

To be 100% honest, the original plan was a 6 month tenancy.

I am asking them to leave at 5.

Since there is no legally binding contract because they couldn't get their bond together, I think I am being, as Kath Day-Knight would say, cruel but fair.

I have a sinking feeling in my stomach though that this move will have a dire affect on MC's friendship with his mate but I feel I have to do this for my family and more importantly, myself.

I could sit here and harp on for hours about why we so desperately need our own place back but I won't.

Instead, let me sum it up with this - I will turn into a drunken fool, a psychotic axe-murderer, a stark raving mad lunatic if I live here for too much longer. No shit.

No more will we have to have scheduled sex.

No more will my children share a room. Yipee.

No more will there be a 30 minute commute to work, a 30 minute commute to uni and a 40 minute commute to preschool.

No more will MC and I have to argue through clenched teeth, voices level and laced with acid.

No more will I have to pee with the door closed.

I'm coming home, I'm coming home, TELL THE WORLD I'M COMING HOME BITCHES!

And on that note, I leave with some parting wisdom;

If you love your in-laws and would like it to continue this way, DO NOT FUCKING LIVE WITH THEM!

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"I don't like myself"

2011-07-22T00:19:00.001+10:00

*Image from here.

"I don't like myself."

That was the answer I blurted out seconds after my psychologist asked why I thought I was there, seeing her.

I had rehearsed what I would speak to her about many times before our first session.

I repeated it over and over in the car on my way to her office.

I would talk about my battle with depression, how I felt like I was struggling as a mother and how being in a near constant state of anxiety had left me frazzled and overwhelmed.

This admission about not liking myself took me by complete and utter surprise.

Even now, 2 months on and I still have no idea from what depths of my sub-conscience that revelation came from.

*Shrugs shoulders*

Hearing the words outloud though made me stop, really stop and listen to myself.

Do I really feel that way about myself?

And if I do, how long have I been feeling this way for?

WHY HAVEN'T I ACKNOWLEDGED THIS?

I don't know if perhaps I felt like I was too busy or it didn't matter or if I just plain didn't want to face up to facts - But I have now, and the time is now to address this.

So I've sat down and written a list, reflecting and trying to find the cause of this self loathing.

There have always been things about myself that I haven't liked and things I've done that I'm not proud of but nothing really stood out to me.

Nothing screamed out "HERE IS THE CAUSE!"

There was the usual issue with weight, a few references to my slightly promiscuous ways of old, toxic relationships/friendships and then ...

... then it hit me.

Motherhood.

Motherhood knocked me for six.

It changed me in ways that I am eternally grateful for. My daughter is my salvation.

But it also changed me in ways that I struggled with, and sometimes still struggle with.

I sometimes miss my old life. The freedom, the selfishness, the ability to do whatever, whoever, whenever.

Pre-Mama Holly, for the most part, has been left in the wayside.

Apart from being mum, I feel like I don't know who I am anymore.

Even at work and uni, I still feel like I am The Bug and The Boy's mum, and not Holly.

Being a mother is foremost but it is not absolute, it is not all I am.

I think remembering this and sometimes asserting this may be the first step to liking myself once more?

All I know is that I need to get a hold of shit now. If not for myself, then for my babies. I need to be a good role model for them. Especially for my daughter, because being female can be tricky enough without the added stress of questioning why you are the way you are!

Do you ever feel this way? Have you overcome these feelings? How? Hold me and tell me it's easy to learn to love yourself at 24?

Oh hai!

2011-07-20T14:54:00.000+10:00

*Image from here.

Oh hai!

Have you been wondering why all has been quiet over these parts?

No, I haven't gone stark, raving mad and been arrested for streaking down the main street of Sydney CBD.

No, nothing even remotely amusing like that actually.

One of the bastard fans on my laptop has carked it and I have been left lapless.

OH THE HORROR!

I've had to like, connect with the real world and I don't care for that shit one. little. freaking. bit.

I'm blogging right now on our old PC which would be totally fine except the screen is blurry and it's set up on my TV unit where little, dirty fingers can reach and touch and fiddle.

Not cool.

Never mind, I will be return to blogging soon but in the meantime, just know that in the meantime I will be in the shadows. Reading. Watching. Lurking.

Oh and if anyone wants to toss me over a laptop *cough* Macbook *cough* then you know, feel free!

Love x

An incoherent stream of thoughts.

2011-07-14T13:21:00.000+10:00

*Image from here.

Today is a bad day.

I feel like my head might explode.

There is a knot in my stomach. It is fiery and making me feel uncomfortable.

I don't know why I am feeling this.

The feeling, it just washes over me suddenly.

It consumes me.

Every little thing riles me up.

Every. Little. Thing.

The rage is almost blinding.

It smothers me.

The Boy is pulling the DVD's out of the drawer again.

HAVEN'T I TOLD YOU THREE TIMES ALREADY TODAY TO STOP? WHY CAN'T YOU JUST GO AND PLAY WITH YOUR BLOCKS?

The Bug is perched on the side of the lounge, eating raw 2 minute noodles.

WHAT KIND OF AN IDIOT GIVES A PRESCHOOLER RAW 2 MINUTES NOODLES TO EAT? THE MESS, MY GOD! I VACUUMED LIKE 40 MINUTES AGO!

MIL is in the other room, watching TV.

WHY ARE YOU ALWAYS HERE? I KNOW THIS IS YOUR HOUSE, I KNOW THIS IS WHAT YOU DO BUT CAN'T YOU SEE HOW DESPERATE I AM FOR SOME SPACE, SOME PRIVACY?

I pace the house.

Up and down, around and round.

Everywhere I turn there is mess, high pitched noises of children fighting or dogs barking.

There is stuff to be done but I can't focus, concentration just seems out of reach.

My head can't take it anymore.

An explosion is on the cards, I can feel it.

Fuck.

** This post is a jumble of words, an incoherent stream of thoughts that I have furiously bashed out. It may not even make sense and you definitely do not need to comment. I am merely trying to make sense of the fuzziness and the blue. **

Socially Anxious - A guest post by Miss Pink.

2011-07-13T13:53:00.000+10:00

** Today, I can no longer escape the 36 million pieces of dirty clothing that needs to be washed and so, while I navigate that shit fight, I am handing the mic over to my gal pal, Miss Pink who blogs at The Mummy Biography.

I applaud P for having the courage to share this. It's no easy feat to open up publicly, it can leave you feeling rather vulnerable so well done girlfriend x **

The room is rocking. Sort of like when you're on a wharf.

Faces they appear to be laughing, at you, not with you.

The smiles on the faces isn't because they find you amusing. No. It's because they are trying to hold back laughter at the sight of you.

Eyes dart quickly around you, over you. No one wants to look at you for fear you will try to speak to them.

The corner is comforting. You creep slowly back into it almost willing yourself to become a part of the wallpaper.

People talk to you. You smile. You try to talk back but it's too noisy, when really it's not that noisy at all. Inside your head thoughts are screaming at you. They're confusing, but one thing you know is they're not very encouraging. You want to shout back, to tell them all to "rack off", only in the past this has proved to give you a one way ticket to the looney bin.

You alter between not saying a thing, then you worry you appear disinterested, snobbish, and so you talk at a mile a minute. You're not even sure what about. Suddenly you realise that you haven't really taken a breath and so you back off again quickly piping shut.

Quickly the corner feels too exposed. You feel out of breath, dizzy, and the voices all seem to agree on one thing. Run. Run. RUN.

You find yourself in the bathroom. There is a comfort to the cubicle, and yet you still feel completely exposed. You want to scream out in frustration. Howl at how upset you are, you've blown it again, and the biggest hurt is that no one understands. They think you're being rude, and you don't mean to be.

You return. You absence hasn't been missed. No one ever notices. Not that you want them to, you'd die if they caught you mid panic attack. Yet it stings just a little that no one cared enough to notice. No one wanted to hold you hand. Not that it's their problem. You're fully aware it's your own, but oh how you wish you had someone there to hold your hand as it shook, to hug you while tears streamed down your face and to give you some wise and encouraging words. Something positive to focus on.

You get home later that night. You had fun, you do not deny that. Yet something still doesn't sit right. You worry it was a huge mistake, that staying home would have been easier, less painful in the long run. You keep the lights off, as you always do so you cannot catch your reflection. A sight you cannot stand even on your best of days.

Fake it till you make it.

People don't realise how much you tell yourself that mantra, how it is one thing to fake it to others, but inside, you cannot escape how you really feel.

The one that backs up every Mum's claim of having no free time!

2011-07-12T14:26:00.000+10:00

*Image from here.

There are 10, 080 minutes in a week.

For me, roughly 2, 940 minutes of that total is spent sleeping. Broken sleep too of course.

840 minutes is spent houseworking my ass off.

630 goes to preparing breakfasts, lunches and dinners. All of which are usually met with screwed up faces and "Can I just have rice please Mummy?"

700 minutes* over the span of any said week would be spent saying "NO!" and "GET DOWN OFF THE POOL TABLE, DO YOU WANT TO FALL OFF LIKE HUMPTY BLOODY DUMPTY!"

Another 600* would be devoted to acting as ref and breaking up my brawling children.

400 minutes is spent in the car, ferrying everyone around to various places.

210 minutes for 30 mins each night of stories, songs, kisses and at least 2 tuck-ins.

1,380 minutes are spent, beer wenching and what not. That's part time work, 21 hours for those of you playing at home. If you work a full-time week, you are generally at work for 2,400 minutes.

180 minutes is spent at the gym each week, well on the weeks that I behave myself anyway. That's only 3x one hour classes, by the way!

720 minutes generally goes into uni work, both on and off campus. That's a part-time study load. 2 units, theory based with no practical aspects.

A considerable chunk of time, say around 800 minutes is spent online. Because you know, I have an addiction and all that!

70 minutes goes to knocking back sex. Particularly when propositioned at midnight when I've just laid down for the first time all day or just resettled a child for the 5th time that night.

This is the part where I'm supposed to tell you how many minutes are actually devoted to having sex but I'm not going to because I am a fucking lady ... and my Ma reads my blog!

That leaves a grand total of 1,210 minutes, unaccounted for during the course of one week.

That equates to roughly 2 hours free a day each week, which is usually spent at the park, the library, running errands for this and that ... Usually spent on doing things for other because Mums are selfless and resourceful and mother fucking awesome like that.

Is it any wonder that Mum's feel like they don't have any free time?

They don't!