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.

Ali-has-a-saurus

Alfie is just about to hit 20 months and boy, this age is awesome.  While he hasn’t been a little baby for ages, a recent haircut has really turned him into a little boy. A little bruiser.

When he was a really small babe, I was nervous and anxious and relaxed at all the wrong times. I was upside down in a snow dome that someone had just shaken. I’m not sure when it flipped around, but now I have this kid who is also one of my best mates.

I’m up to God knows how many weeks where my husband has worked six days and six nights. While this has been testing it’s also meant that I’m the sole parent for whom my son relies on and it has brought us so close together.

Mum vs Wife

Sometimes I talk to my husband through my child. It really annoys me when I do it, but I still do it. It’s not funny, it’s condescending, but I can’t help it. Perhaps it makes me feel better. For example:

“Hey Alfie, why don’t we ask dad to pick up all the crusts on the floor?”

“Let’s see if dad can take you to the park so that mum can have a sleep on her face.”

“Why don’t you go into mum and dads room and wake up your father and show him how you have worked out how to squeal like a pinched pig?”

“Why don’t we ask dad to change your stinky nappy?”

“Let’s leave the wet washing on the floor and see if dad will hang it out.”

It’s not as if my husband doesn’t do anything. He does. Some weeks he parents more than me, some weeks I parent more than him. It all depends on our crazy work shifts. So I don’t know why I turn into a condescending brat using my son as a force field. Have I forgotten how to talk to my husband?

Now we are parents we seem so much more connected. We were connected before, but it’s different now. We still have the occasional fight – mainly about food management or domestic duties – but we get over a fight so much quicker now. We both know how to cheer up our son if he is sad, we have even busted out synchronised dances without a rehearsal. This is how connected we are.

But then there are things about our relationship that seem so disconnected. The other day I had a wax, not because I wanted to impress the old hubby, but because our son had swimming lessons later that week. I wear pyjamas now just in case I have to get up during the night. Sometimes I put these on within ten minutes of arriving home from work. I pull my bra off through my sleeve in front of my husband while giving him the low-down on my day. And yesterday I pointed to the aeroplane in the sky, forcing him to look.

Who am I now? When did I start wearing my husband’s socks to work? Why are farts now so ridiculously funny? Why did I just send my hubby a text saying ‘Alfie took a crap on the abacus’ rather than ‘You’re a spunk’?

It’s so bloody difficult finding the balance between being a wife and a mum, some days the roles just overlap. Some days they are so far removed from each other that it all becomes confusing and other days it just gels. What I do know is that in our little family we all seem to have a connection during the highs and the lows, even if it is laughing at farts, laughing at me or just doing a plain old robot dance in the kitchen while arguing through gritted teeth.  All in all, it gives us something to giggle about when we sit down for tea in our pj’s.

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.

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.

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.