Caravan of Courage

Just returned home from THE BEST weekend.

This was the equation:

Caravan + kids + beach + pals + fire pit + meat + mud + bikes + hikes + swimming + beers + dirty feet = THE BEST weekend.

We hired a rad caravan down at Skenes Creek. If you've never been to this hideaway caravan park near Apollo Bay, it's time to try it. This sensational area is like a time warp to 1986, in the best possible way.

The on site caravans with their chocked up wheels and dusty annexes are like holidays from my childhood, the beige exteriors bringing an instant feeling of calm.  The smell of charcoal and sausages bringing back memories of fortnight-long vacations in Mallacoota, Nelsons Bay, Port Stephens, Caloundra.

The sight of packs of kids racing their pushies along the track, taking a risk and smashing out metre long burn outs wearing only thongs and a pair of faded boardies. Filthy children with sand stuck between their toes, their parents sitting by the caravan stoking the fire pit, iceburg lettuce ready to fill a rissole sandwich.

No money is spent on these holidays. No TV is watched. No bedtime routine is followed. Sometimes there isn't even a shower before bed coz 'I had a shower on the beach and I've wiped my feet with a towel, mum'.

It's the best.

I love waking in the morning and watching the zombie-like parents in their checkered ill-fitting pj's (some dads just wearing their jocks) heading towards the shared toilet block, still glaring out its 1980s sunshine pine coloured rendered brick, with concrete planters filled with succulents and cigarette butts standing like two soldiers at the entrance. Sometimes the parents look nervous, knowing they need to shit but aware of the queue.

At night, you might bump into the same person, no longer a stranger because you had to tell their kid off for licking the communal bin, and you chat in front of the mirror with your mouth full of toothpaste.

It's the best.

Our pals, with their sons in tow, would run around with our boys at the beach, on their bikes, up the track. Jumping, wrestling, smashing the sand. Kids being kids. No adults in sight.

At night, we would nestle in after the kids had gone to sleep for tea out the front of our caravan, watch the fire burn and discuss the difference between Aldi and Coles, favourite pizza toppings and holidays of our youth.  Adults being adults until someone would let off a fart then we'd all cack ourselves with laughter.

Caravaning. Camping. This is the way forward with our holidays now. Long ago are the days of five star resorts and stunning hotel rooms. But by golly, it's so much fun to be disgustingly grotty for a few days, acting like a kid, just like it was 1986 all over again. I can't wait to return next year.

Pants for grots

My son's a grot. He's outside all the time, loves to eat with his whole face, sit in puddles and has had a runny nose for about two months. It's totally cool. I think we all wish we could be grots most days. So this got me thinking; if I was a grot, what would I wear? Stretchy pants, absolutely. Pants I could high kick in, pretend to karate kick-n-sweep, jumping pants, climbing pants, scratch and sniff pants, and pass out in the hallway on my face pants.

So I decided to make some Pants for Grots for Alfie. Here they are. They cost me $4 each to make (thanks to a ripper sale at Spotlight) - the price of a cup of coffee. They took thirty minutes to cut, sew and elasticise and presto, here they are! 

And here's how I made them:

• Grab a pair of your grot's current jeans. 
• Measure the length and add an inch on the top and on the bottom. 
• Trace out a big letter 'U', like a harem pant. 
• Sew the sides of the U together, turn over the top of the pants an inch for the elastic, and same for the bottom of each leg. 
• Measure the elastic around your kid's waist and ankles.
• Cut the elastic and weave it with a mega safety pin through each folded cuff.
• Cut off all the loose threads, turn inside out and WHAM... Pants for Grots.

I'm hoping the elastic waist is going to be ace when it comes to toilet training. However, let's start with the basics... trying to get my kid to wear pants in the first place!

Enjoy!

xx

Boys have a penis and girls have a vagina

It’s a famous line in the Kindergarten Cop flick

You know the one, where the little boy’s so slick

When he states to Arnie, in the classic one liner

That ‘boys have a penis, and girls a vagina’.

It’s stuck with me for all of these years

A line that’s shouted with peers and beers

But now with my two-year-old boy in tow

He thinks it’s something that everyone must know.

While standing in a very long bank queue

My son (who is also fascinated with poo)

Went up to a stranger, and pointed at his dacks

And shouted ‘doodle?’followed by sniggers and cracks.

The man looked at me, unsure what to do

I explained that my son had just turned two

That he was curious about the thing in his nappy

But talking about it seemed to make him happy.

The tantrums themselves are awkward enough

But how in the hell are you meant to handle this stuff?

There’s a time and a place for this chat, to be frank

But it’s not the time, nor the place when we are in a bank.

It’s no different at all when we go to the zoo

Where there are plenty of doodles and a whole lot of poo

We explore all the gardens and eat picnic feasts

But it all gets exciting when we check out the beasts.

Just last week, we watched the elephants play

My son glued to the fence on this rainy day

Then a male elephant weed and boy it was a hit

And on top of that he took a massive shit.

Oh the squeals of delights, from my son and other boys

Who were all lined up, attracted by the noise

The other parents and I all rolled our eyes

I was thankful that the excitement was no surprise.

In my household filled with blokey gents

Where it’s rare if anyone is wearing pants

I feel left out because I’m ‘missing a tail’

But at the end of the day, I’m proud to be female.

This ode first appeared on BubbaWest.

Knocked down, not up

I recently wrote an article encouraging people to find their inner Chicken Crimpy.  The piece was about taking a chill pill and stop over-commiting myself to a million things at once. So I did. For six days. Then we started our renovations.

When we were heavily pregnant we lived in renovation land. Our house had been gutted, meaning there were no walls at the back of the house. No bathroom, just a portaloo and portashower in the front yard. Our kitchen was a camping stove and a BBQ for three months and we drank water from the front garden tap. Our neighbours all knew that I peed at 4am every morning because they would see our front light go on as I tip toed to our portaloo where I would try to wee in a plastic bowl as quietly as possible in the dead of the night. I couldn’t even shut the portaloo door because my stomach was so achingly big.

Our builders during this time were so patient, especially when I started mat leave and was hanging around the house growing bigger by the minute. We formed a special bond. One that saw the builders put spare towels in the back of their utes, ‘just in case of an emergency trip to the hospital’.

This bond also meant that our three or so builders, who were strangers to us before our renovations began, got to know us so very quickly as they lived through our pregnancy. I can’t even tell you how many times our main builder would walk past our bedroom and see me lying on my side in undies and a tank snoozing with my mouth open, dribble pouring into the top end of my pregnancy pillow while the rest of the long sack was wedged between my legs.

I didn’t care after a few weeks. It was hot. 40 degrees hot and I was so hungry and pregnant. I would eye off their eskies, excited for smoko just to see what treats they had brought in. Once they saw me eat a WHOLE watermelon in one sitting with a soup spoon.

So here we are again. In renovation land. Finishing the last bits of our whole house renovation. Finally. Almost 20 months after our builder received a call from my husband asking if they could quickly put the toilet in as we had just had Alfie.

Here we are, living in renovation land, camping in the rear of our house like a Little House on the Prairie, except this time instead of being severely knocked up we have a toddler running around knocking everything over.

What’s harder? Renovating while pregnant or renovating with a toddler?

My husband and I are no less feral. Instead of passing out at 11am in my undies drooling on my side, I’m running around like a headless chook in the morning wearing just a bra and dacks trying to sort out lunches, breakfast, attempting not to fist fight my husband and always looking for a goddamn shoe. Trying to squeeze a shower in and attempt to be a loving, happy family before our builder arrives is a joke. We just let him see how real it is. He’s newly married, perhaps the Webb family visual is a perfect form of contraception for him.

Today is Friday and it is my ‘day off’ from work. Normally when my kid is snoozing, I take my pants off and have a nap on the couch.

I’m wondering if this is pushing the boundary a bit too far. I mean, what’s my excuse? I have plenty.  But instead I might smash a box of Chicken Crimpy’s. At this moment, it’s the best way to find one within.

This post first appeared on Bubba West.

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.

Granny Peanut

I recently called my mum and bawled my eyes out.  Like an adult baby. A 30 something year old baby, wearing a big baby nappy, crying to her mummy, sucking her thumb and sooking up a storm.

It went something like this:

Mum: “Hi Al”

Me: “Muuuummmm…mummma….mum,” sob, sob, gasp, sob.

Mum: “What’s wrong honey?”

Me: “Whaaa… mummmma… it’s hard.” Sob, sob, boogas, tears. “It’s hard and I’m tired and there’s nothing to eat and I hate my internet provider because they’re mean. Mummmammum…”

Mum: “Oh. Ok. I will come down. You’re crying like a baby. I can’t understand what you’re saying. How’s my little boy?”

And with that, my mum is driving down from the country over three hours away to be with me. Ok, I admit it, she just wants to be Granny Peanut and hold and squeeze her only grandson and show me how to wipe his nose, but that’s ok.

My husband is a chef. He’s a real hard worker, so am I. He works some nights. So do I. We wing it. Every day. We work out who is doing the day care run the night before, and sometimes it changes during the day. The only tricky thing is that as a chef you can’t work from home. As a publicist, you can. Sometimes. So quite often when it comes to the crunch, it is me who has to re-prioritise at a minute’s notice. And that’s ok. BUT! For the past three weeks, my husband has had to work both weekend days and a bucketload of nights. Normally that’s fine and totally acceptable. I have a mighty fine friendship circle to play with on the weekend, but I haven’t had a chance for almost four weeks to switch off. And I have to admit, I’ve turned a bit loopy.

I’m buggered but I don’t have time to be buggered. I’ve been sick but I haven’t had time to be sick because my son has also been sick. I’ve lost weight, but I haven’t been taking my dog for his regular daily 2 hour walk. It’s simply because I’ve forgotten to eat. The house looks like a derelict brothel, the fridge is empty, the car is almost out of petrol, the sheets need to be changed, the dishwasher smells, there are loads of washing everywhere, there are emails fighting me for my time, there’s deadlines, there’s dog poo in the yard, there’s something in the hallway that I keep stubbing my toe on, there’s unopened mail, I’ve given up putting toilet paper on the roller thing, and the front garden looks like our house has been taken over by squatters. I feel like I have failed.

Earlier this week I caught the train to work, fell asleep and woke up in Richmond. I wasn’t even wearing a winter coat, simply because I forgot to. Passengers must have thought I had had a big night out on the turps.

So I called my mum and cried. Like a baby. In a the fetal position, surrounded by Duplo and half written press releases with A Current Affair blaring in the background.

Mum arrives tomorrow and I can guarantee that within minutes the house will be sparkling without me noticing her cleaning. There will be a mince dish in the oven, a hot tea in my hand, books for my son which she will be reading to him on the floor and some kind of sweet treat or fresh bread from the Beechworth Bakery. Within minutes everything will be better.

The last three weeks have been slightly hellish – Alfie has cut six teeth like a shark. Surely that’s all of them by now? He goes to sleep (and my God, some nights I can’t wait until he goes to sleep), then wakes up screaming at 2am. So loud, that even my husband wakes up (yay). It takes hours to get him back to sleep then Bam! he crashes. My husband crashes. I crash. Then our alarms go off and I cry a little inside. When did our 16 month old turn into a newborn baby again. I’m feral.

Work is like a break. I drink hot tea all day and I’m in control of my situation. However as soon as I hit that train platform and the loud speaker announces that my train is delayed, I start to crash and turn feral all over again. I get to day care, pick up my little man, hit the old home peak hour between 6-7pm: tea, bath, story, bed struggle and cross my fingers and toes that he goes to sleep easily so I can pass out on the couch in front of The Block.

So I need to know: how do mums, as in our mums, have everything so together considering they are that: mums. Am I the only mum that cries to her mum like a baby about anything from my internet provider service operator being mean to me or the fact that Channel Ten keeps cutting out? I don’t think I cried to my mum before I became a mum myself? I wonder if my mum cries to her mum about things as pathetic as slugs in the garden? I’m going to ask her when she gets here tomorrow, but before any questions are asked of my mum, I’m going to take off my leggings that I’m wearing as pants, slide into my freshly washed sheets and take a long sweet nap with a tummy full of bakery treats.

This post first appeared on Bubba West.