Chicken Crimpy

Our car is such a tip. Which is strange, as my house is somewhat clean because I keep it that way. I wash a gazillion loads of clothes every week, I wash the floors all the time, I wipe down surfaces, I even polish my stainless steel appliances.

So why is it that my car smells like banana, even though I can’t for the life of me find one in there? That the floor of our car is covered in millions of sultanas which could easily be taken for an invasion? There are wrappers, tissues, sticks, rocks, dinosaurs, mandarins and other fruit-like matter, old balloons, balls, an umbrella stroller, a plastic motorbike, other peoples picnic rugs, an esky I’m too scared to open, a random backpack, crumbs, coffee cups and for the love of God, a goddamn Chicken Crimpy biscuit sitting on the dashboard. I hate that biscuit. We don’t even eat Chicken Crimpy’s in our family.

I see the Chicken Crimpy every morning as I drive my kid to daycare. It annoys me but I don’t do a thing about it. I promise myself that I will, the next time I leave my car with nothing to carry. Ha!

The Chicken Crimpy has been on the dash now for weeks, maybe months. Last week it brought me to tears.

Someone had parked outside of my house meaning I had to park 50 metres down the street. Now I know 50 metres isn’t much of a walk, I’m sure my son being the size of a teenager could probably jump it in three go’s, but walking from the car to my house in work clothes and heels with a busy toddler, two bags of dairy groceries, my laptop, my backpack, my son’s backpack, Blah Blah, and a Big M was no easy feat. It was hard. I struggled. I held the tears back for that whole 50 metres. It took me 10 minutes to walk that small distance with the plastic bag bursting along the way, 2 litres of milk pouring into the gutter. Milk that I needed for my son. I got to my house, dropped off everything then walked the 50 metres back to my car, put Alfie back in his seat as he struggled and fought, and drove back to the supermarket to get more milk.

The Chicken Crimpy stared at me in the car.

This wasn’t the time to remove it. I arrived back home, this time having to park further down the street than before. My hands were full with Alfie and milk, so I couldn’t remove the Chicken Crimpy. I swear it stuck its little crimpy bit up at me.

My husband walked in from work just after Alfie had gone to bed. I’d been fighting off tears the whole time, through Alfie’s tea, his bath, his story. As soon as I saw my husband I sat on the ground, still in my work clothes and cried.

He asked me: “what’s wrong?”

I cried: “It’s that f#$king Chicken Crimpy. It’s ruining me.”

My husband looked confused. “Why are you crying about a biscuit? Do you need me to get you a biscuit? Is that what’s wrong? Is it Tim Tam time?”

No. I didn’t have my period. No. I didn’t want a Tim Tam. No. The Chicken Crimpy represented so much more. The Chicken Crimpy represented time and how hard it sometimes is to do everything and be everything. Why do I always have to carry ALL the groceries from the car to the house? Why don’t I do this in a couple of trips? Why do I always say yes to everything and find myself over committed that I have no time to sit and fart and cut my toenails and look at YouTube? Why am I always carrying so many items that are awkward and misshapen?

So after my Chicken Crimpy meltdown, I tuned out of social media, turned off electronic devices, said yes to only two social outings for the week, caught up with my girlfriends, cut my toenails, read a book, hung out with my family without a phone stuck to my face, patted my dog, tended to my roses and cooked. It was heaven. It lasted a week.

Alfie and I were heading to Williamstown in the car. On our way to the beach to watch the boats, I stared at the Chicken Crimpy while waiting at a traffic light. I turned off at the car wash before reaching the sea and Alfie and I washed the car together. It was the best, we both got satched from the hoses. We laughed at the vacuum sucking up the sultanas, and when we found the banana, I giggled remembering the time I handed it to Alfie mid-car tantrum on a trip to the country.

We finished the epic car clean and continued to the beach. When we were back on the road I smiled at the clean car, sparkling and smelling like faded banana. I parked out the front of MY HOUSE and sat in the clean car for just a few minutes. The Chicken Crimpy remained on the clean dashboard. I kept it there to remind me that every now and then, I need to stop and smell the banana.

Mums and dads: Don’t forget to every now and then, Stop. Collaborate. And Listen. Find your inner Chicken Crimpy.

This post first appeared on Bubba West.

Care factor

My son has started saying a couple of words and it is oh so very exciting. “Na” seems to mean anything from Blah Blah his stuffed manky rabbit to his cot or a banana. “There” is usually said when he is pointing to a plane in the sky or someone with a VPL and then there’s the “mumma” and “dada” that makes my little heart melt (slightly awkward that he also calls Cheef Dog “mumma” as well… but he will get there).

The other night while partaking in the 6-7pm peak hour home rush (tea, bath, story bed), Alfie threw a piece of mandarin off his high chair tray and said “oh, shiiiit”.

I died.

Then I laughed. Which was wrong. So of course he said it again. Then I died a little more inside. Oh shit.

How can this be my kid’s FIRST sentence?

Oh, that’s an easy one to answer: I have a potty mouth.

When Alfie was first born, we introduced a swear jar into our home. It became filled with IOU’s from me, and then it was bypassed as I kept nicking money out of the jar to buy coffee. I lied to my husband about how good I was getting at avoiding the nasty words, and then I would head out for beers with a bunch of pals and push out as many swear words as possible. It was like I had been saving them up. Sometimes I would sneak outside and secretly whisper naughty words behind the bin, crouching so I wouldn’t get caught. When driving on my own, I would shout big f-bombs as loud as I could just to shake them out of my system. I would always feel heaps better afterwards.

My care factor levels have changed post baby. What I didn’t care about before – such as using the F word as commonly as the word ‘and’ – is something I really care about now, especially in the presence of my kid (and my dog, who has a mouth like gutter trash).

I used to care about wearing lipstick on the weekend. This is now reserved for work time and playtime. There’s nothing worse than seeing my son covered in red smooches like he’s been rolling around in a barrel of tarts. I’m now two people – mum and office worker. I wear two uniforms – jersey and crepe. Both of which usually have a line of snot across the thigh or a scraping of yoghurt on the shoulder, which I have been known to scratch off on the train. Care factor.

On Saturday, I was playing mum wearing jersey sans lippy at Coles. Alfie lost his poo and started hailing from his trolley seat.  I felt the pressure – I was halfway through a mega shop – and I had to fix the problem pronto. I popped a bag of rice on my head and my kid thought this was the best. We finished the shop in hysterics, the whole time balancing the bag of Sunraysia on my skull. My care factor for others was low, but by God, the care factor for getting through the mega shop entertaining my son was as high as the sky.

As I headed towards the register I bumped into someone from my work world. He looked a little shocked. This person possibly did not know that I was a mum, had never seen me without lippy, without a frock, in jeggings and sneakers and a t-shirt bearing Jason Priestley’s face.

We shared our hellos and I introduced Alfie to the new face and he clapped wildly. My work acquaintance had a little giggle and I explained that this was the ‘other me’. He continued to laugh and so did my son. I was confused. I turned to push my stacked high trolley towards a counter and the bag of rice fell off my head and split open. My cheeks reddened.

Then Alfie summed up the situation perfectly: “Oh shiiiiiiiiiiiiit.”

This post first appeared on Bubba West.

Blah Blah the manky rabbit

I live in a house full of boys: my husband, my son, my dog and Blah-Blah the skanky stuffed rabbit. Before I go into detail about living in such a masculine (insert stinky) house, I need to tell you that I grew up as a rose between two thorns, growing up as a middle child with two brothers in the country, surrounded by BMX bikes, dams and land, sweet, land. I’m fully aware of male behaviour.

Way before we had Alfie, my husband Reggie and I introduced an invisible foal into our house. His name was Tony. Tony arrived after I had had enough of the discussions about leaving the toilet seat up, not replacing the toilet paper, not putting the toilet paper on the holder the right way (waterfall), the wet towels on the floor, the lid not put back on the milk container… you get the gist.

When Tony arrived, we suddenly had someone to blame:

Me: “Who left the skid in the toilet? There’s a brush, you know!”

Reggie: “Arrgh. Tony! I’ll have a word with him. Stupid horse.”

Happy marriage.

Me: “Are you hung over? You stink!”

Reggie: “Tony threw beer all over me last night and then punched me in the face. That’s why I stink and have a headache. Stupid horse.”

Happy marriage.

Reggie and I stopped arguing, domestic life was grand and easy to manage.  Then Windsor, where we were living at the time, became too hip and busy. A man was shot in the leg out the front of our house, which increased the rent, and Tony couldn’t offer us the safety we needed. So we decided to move to a safer area. We moved west-side and left Tony behind.

Our new house was pretty and didn’t have that boy stink that would follow Tony into any room. I bought flowers weekly and baked cakes that made the house smell good. Then I was knocked up, we knocked our house down and renovated heavily pregnant. Dickheads, but really funny ones!

Now I have a house FULL of boys. I recently came home to a trail of muddy footprints running down the hallway leading to the couch, a plastic motorbike lying on its side as if it was thrown there by a giant, two matchbox cars on the floor staring at each other ready to be smashed together, an odour of beef pie in the air, a pair of Converse with ratty shoelaces thrown in the corner, a half-eaten sandwich sitting in the dog’s bed, a toenail on the ottoman, a pair of size 2 trackies covered in spaghetti crumpled at the base of the high chair, a penis doodled on the shopping list, a Duplo tower toppled in a pile, a dog biscuit which looked like it was mistaken for a rusk, and a hunk of meat thawing on the bench. I felt like I had entered a cave.

Strangely though, the house was deadly silent. For a second, I thought we had been burgled. The house resembled the baby aisle at the Yarraville Coles. It had been ripped apart. Shredded. Destroyed.

It was so strange that there was all this destruction, but no one to blame. I became instantly lonely amongst the mess. I missed Tony.

Then I heard it. A really squeaky and long fart from behind the curtain, followed by that familiar pushing sound and a muffled giggle or was that a struggle. I knew what was going on, but I played dumb. I started cleaning up. I could hear Cheef Dog start to pant and Reggie trying to breathe heavily behind the curtain. It was obviously stinky behind there. Cheef Dog came running out, straight at me then stopped and rubbed his bum across the ground. Next came out Reggie and then Alfie holding Blah-Blah. All running at me, all covered in mud and dried grass. They both screamed BOO! And I jumped. Alfie’s face was red as a tomato. He stank.

I yelled at Cheef Dog to stop licking his backside and thanked the boys for their little surprise.  Reggie picked up Alfie to go and change him and the poo had leaked out the side of his nappy (the men in my household don’t wear pants at home). My husband had dipped his index finger in the poo. It was gross, but I was treating it like it wasn’t my problem. Reggie knows that our son likes to poo behind the curtain.

There was a mass tidy up. The house became liveable again, for a second. Then the boys started running around the house again, pushing burps, kicking balls, drinking sippy cups on the couch. It was chaos. I kicked the boys out and sent them to the park. Blah-Blah went along for the ride.

Within 15 minutes of the boys leaving, Reggie called me. Blah-Blah had jumped ship. He had jumped out of the pram and Reggie was backtracking their original path, but he was nowhere to be found. Alfie was panicking. Cheef was nervous. Reggie was scared.

I went out to join the search party, hoping I’d find him along the way. We searched high and low for an hour with no success. I put a call out of Facebook hoping one of our neighbours had found the jam-soaked, booga-stained designer knitted rabbit. No luck. It was getting dark and our time was becoming limited. We were about to hit family ‘peak hour’ – tea, bath, book, bed. Alfie was beside himself.

We were only a few houses away from our own when I saw a little rustle in the bushes. I put my head over the short fence, and sure enough, there was Blah-Blah in a state of disarray, stinking of grog and sweet smoke. I picked him up and pulled the dried leaves out of his ears. I shook the dirt off his back and fixed the pom-pom tail attached to his behind. Blah-Blah couldn’t even string a sentence together.

We took him back home without saying a word. It was obvious that Reggie and I were disappointed. We got through peak hour, cleaned Blah-Blah up and put him to bed with a panadol.

Reggie and I tidied the house again and fell in a heap on the couch. I looked at my tired husband and he shook his head.

“What’s wrong,” I asked?

“It’s Tony. He’s back.”

And sure enough he was. Corrupting my little family of boys, leaving the toilet seat up and bringing the stinky smell with him. Something tells me that our little foal is back for good. Sigh.

This post first appeared on Bubba West.