Mother's Day sucks pom poms

It sucks balls.  I dread it every year because it’s yet another reminder that our family is not a normal nine-to-five family where everyone sits around the table at the same time telling tales about bigfoot sightings and camping adventures. We’re a tag-team family who work hours unbeknownst to many, and sometimes our hours clash and we panic.

Mother’s Day is a day that I avoid all family locations – zoos, lunch spots, picnic areas, day spas (ha) – because I want to cry my face off when I see parents together with their kids celebrating all things mum.

The Twins

My husband recently came home with twin baby dolls for Alfie. He’d picked them up from Kmart and when I asked him why he purchased a twin set instead of a single babe, he told me that all the other babies had looked too real. So real, that you’d do a double take if you walked past them in the corner of the bedroom. So real, that they were root of all the darkest nightmares.

I didn’t probe him on this. I unpacked The Twins from the packaging, cable tie-like attachments holding their arms and neck in place. I freed them from the box and accepted that The Twins, Baby Jesse and Beak, had entered our busy lives.

Do Mums Wear Bikinis?

Last weekend I was hanging out with fellow mum Miss P, when we got onto the topic of swimming.

We both sighed. A sigh of a sweet summer of swimming with our kids but also a deep sigh as we started discussing pool logistics.

Ahhh….. swimming. What should be so simple is such a logistical nightmare.

Pool season is upon us. I went to a large pool in my area on Saturday. It was hot outside so it was the place to be. The carpark was packed and I spent fifteen minutes stalking and circling fellow bathers in my car, hoping they’d be on the move. The mega shopping centre nearby was heaving and I managed to find a park somewhere in the suburb nearby. I was cranky and hot and sweaty with my swimmers on underneath my frock. Alfie was a sweating, slippery mass, fidgeting and annoyed.

An ode to my husband who sleeps through the night

Hello to my husband who sleeps through the night.

Lying beside me with the quilt wrapped ‘round tight

Your heavy breathing means you’re fast asleep

There’s not a sound in the house, not even a peep.

The first cry I hear, it’s not even eleven

Here I was thinking, this night could be heaven

I tip toe to my son’s room, careful not to wake

My sleeping husband. Not a sound I make.

Hello to my husband who sleeps through the night

I’ve settled our son, and he’s out like a light

I creep into bed, coz it’s damn cold out there

My toes are like ice and you don’t even care.

The second cry I hear, it’s quarter to two

I wake in a jolt and head to the loo

I tuck my kid in and rub his little chest

Then I notice my husband has taken over the nest

Hello to my husband who sleeps through the night

There’s no quilt to spare, it’s wrapped round you tight

I climb into bed and make a real fuss

Kicking and moving and I start to cuss.

How can you sleep so heavy and still?

While I walk the hallway right up until

Three thirty AM when our kid starts to doze

He’s teething I think, but who really knows.

Hello to my husband who sleeps through the night

I rip off the quilt and give him a fright

I shout at him: “Get up and settle YOUR child”

“Can’t you see I’m tired, I’m about to run wild”

My husband gets up and soothes the kid

I lay in bed listening to what he just did

He comes back to bed and falls in a coma

I punch him in the back and scream “Roll over!”

Hello to my husband who sleeps through the night

It’s five in the morning and I’m a real sight

It’s been a hell of a night, Panadol and teeth

There’s a tap at the door and it’s my dog Cheef.

He’s an old dog and needs to wee

I let him outside and he runs free

He chases a cat around the front garden

In the chilly air my frown starts to harden.

Hello to my husband who sleeps through the night

I scramble for quilt and turn out the light

I pass out so solidly, and dream of steamed greens

I’m sleeping so hard, I don’t hear the screams.

I wake up so late, it’s past nine o’clock

I look at the bed in a state of shock

I’m back to front, I don’t know what to feel

Then I hear it so loudly: a sensational squeal.

Hello to my husband who slept through the night

It’s nice to see you awake in the daylight

I say “thanks for the sleep in, what a difference it makes”

He says “no worries, we’ve made pancakes.”

Hello to my husband who I want to beat black and blue

When you pass out so heavily and sleep right through

But far out you’re a delight when you’re awake with our son

You bring along some magic, and you’re actually quite fun.

Hello to my husband who sleeps through the night

It’s nine o’clock, and I think you’re alright

However tonight do you mind helping out?

Especially at 4am when our kid likes to shout.

Love Ali.

This post first appeared on Bubba West.

Swimming

I work four days a week. Monday to Thursday. It’s busy, but I don’t mind. It’s life. We deal with it daily.

I can’t wait until Friday comes along though. I get to hang out with my son Alfie who has just turned 15 months old. He’s an absolute nugget. He’s built like a tank, eats like a teenager and has two speeds: on and off.

So come Friday, we head down to the local pool for swimming lessons. I love it. I get to catch up with a small group of parents and their kids. We laugh, we might occasionally swear and we do the same hokey-pokey / jelly on a plate / this is the way we wash our face routine every week. Brilliant. It’s the only routine Alfie and I have.

Last week I was in a bit of a frazzled state. My son didn't want a morning sleep so I was busy trying to play, pack a swimming bag (and we all know I’m not the greatest with this [Ed refer to Undies piece]), monitor the hyper dog and find my togs.

I couldn't find my swimming lesson togs – you know the ones, plain black, boring, racer back style, non statement, non bikini. I was running late as per usual, and the only pair of swimmers I could find were resort-wear style aka they were cheetah print with gold baubles down the front, low cut, halter neck and, god-forbid, sexy. Not appropriate.

I rock up to the pool, get in the water up to my shoulders hoping the gold baubles could hide under the waves. The lights kept reflecting off them. Eep. Another parent rocks up, a dad, he’s cool and I’m hoping he doesn’t notice. He does. I apologise for wearing inappropriate ‘sexy’ swimwear and make a joke about how I thought I could pick up the Friday dads by doing so. He looked uncomfortable and found a distraction.

The teacher rocks up. She’s great and we get along like sisters. She says: “Wow Ali, you’re heating up the pool today!” I’m red cheeked.

Alfie gets fidgety and starts playing with the gold baubles. My halter comes undone and my boob is flashed. I get panicky and hand Alfie to the teacher trying to do up my inappropriate resort suit. I’m dying.

We do the lesson. All the kids want to play with the baubles during hokey-pokey. I’m mortified. Boob pops out again.

The lesson ends and I stand with Alfie in the shower feeling self conscious in the cheetah print. He wants to walk everywhere so I walk him to the dreaded change room where the logistics always get tough. It’s bloody difficult trying to get a kid changed out of wet clothes into dry clothes while you are standing around in soaking cheetah lycra, freezing. I manage to get him changed and I give him a snack to distract him. I do that weird changing room change where you modestly try not to reveal anything.

I manage to get my underwear on and a t-shirt. Then I look around, Alfie has disappeared in the 20 seconds it took me to get my t-shirt over my fat head. I run out of the changing room and he is headed for the automatic doors. He gets through them and is running out onto the footpath. I run outside, wearing just a t-shirt and my undies and grab him and take him back inside. A truck beeps its horn.

Standing at the counter are the other parents looking at me, standing there holding my kid like a surfboard, pantless and cold.

I head back to the change room, put my pants on and grab the swimming bag. I go to leave and the teacher shouts to me over the top of the other parents: “Yo, cheetah. See you next week. Bring those togs again. And some pants. It all adds to the excitement around here.”

This post first appeared on Bubba West.

Pressure

I recently stopped myself during another hardcore clap-slash-high-kick-hip-shaking-sing-songy-wiggly-giggly dance move in front of the high chair.

What on earth was I doing?

I was dealing with pressure.

We are not talking about the pressure that comes with working in a busy press office that I deal with four days a week. We are not even talking about the pressure involved in creating an awesome PowerPoint presentation for important people using Microsoft two-thousand-and-still-no-idea. We are certainly not talking about the pressure involved with making VERY important decisions VERY quickly using other people’s budgets and money. And we are definitely not talking about the ‘just give me five seconds to do a wee’ pressure.

Mumz

I have to admit, I was super nervous when I received a letter in the post when my son was 8 weeks old announcing that my parent’s group would start meeting the following week.

I was nervous because I hadn’t really needed to go out and source new buddies since uni or since starting my last job, let alone meeting a whole posse of chicks who I may or may not have had anything in common with.

I was late to the first meeting by about twenty minutes and even though it was winter I was sweating – probably more from trying to breastfeed and watching Channing in Magic Mike.

Jeggings

My husband Reggie was a pretty good bloke to me while I was on maternity leave. During the twelve months of being a stay at home mum trying to work out what the eff I was doing on a daily basis, he would come home from work as a chef, cook tea, bathe the babe and make me a cuppa. What a sweetheart.

There was one huge problem though. I hated him. I loved him so much that I hated him. I’m not sure why I hated him and his face so much. Once I told him that I wanted to smash his face in. Then I cried, and then I said sorry. Then he gave me a biscuit and I ate it in my leggings and moved on.

Undies

I’m well rehearsed in the act of taking day care calls at work. You know the ones: Your son has hit his head, he has an egg. Your son has been

bitten, he is missing half his ear. Your son won’t settle when he’s wearing pants, are you ok if he goes pantless for the afternoon? Yep, all fine.

However recently, I was hit with a doozy.

Day care: “Hey Ali, ummm… did you pack Alfie’s bag this morning?”

Me: “Sure did. What did I forget?”

Day care: “So there’s a pair of men’s undies in Alfie’s bag, but no

t-shirt.”

Me: “Fuck. Ok. Can he wear the undies as a t-shirt?”

Day care: “Probably not, because that would be inappropriate. Don’t worry, we can find something in lost property for him to wear.”

Winging it

I’m having one of those days. One of those days where it is clear that my husband and I are just winging this whole parenting thing.

I don’t know how it happened, but my whole family slept in on a working

day. I opened my eyes and the clock said 7:30am EXACTLY. My husband was lying beside me, my dog was shaped like a cashew and my kid was on his side in his cot. I went around checking that they were all alive. They were.

An overalled thief in the night

I'm a thief.

I have started cruising the streets of Yarraville with the pram and my boys with a pair of scissors. No sidewalk succulent is safe from my snippity-snips. I figure that now that I dress like Bonita from Playschool I look less intrusive and more inquisitive, so I feel I can get away with this...

Succulent-ish

She put the lime in the coconut

Oh, hi. How are you? Sorry, we were laying low for a while. We survived three months. We are officially parents.

Super quick deliveries

Well hello. It's been ages - almost a month - and boy has a lot happened!

Firstly, I need to explain why I have been so absent... we kinda had a baby. Nice and early. And he's perfect.