Life. Be In It.

I won a bike today. Seriously. A bloody gorgeous baby blue bike. And it made me so freaking happy, I squealed in the open plan office.

I never win anything. Actually I don't know anyone who wins anything. But boy, it feels good when you do win something and as the saying goes, 'You've got to be in it, to win it', and goddammit I was!

As I was putting The Kid to bed tonight, I was kicking back laying next to him thinking about my new bike and all the rides we were going to go on together.

Then I started thinking about entering all the competitions that I possibly could so I could win more stuff. Then I started getting greedy, thinking about all the excess stuff I could win to put in a 'winning room' and how I would be an expert in winning stuff and make regular comment on A Current Affair as 'Champion Prizewinner'.

But perhaps I could put this new Be In It To Win It practice into my own little life. I've had a few freak out moments this week. Moments of freakiness when people get too close, moments of fear when I have to rely on or trust someone, moments of terror when I realise it's 8pm at night and I don't know what to do once my kid goes to sleep and the washing's folded and my house is clean and my toenails are trimmed. Weird huh!

So rather than become a Champion Prizewinner (which I will do anyway but under a rad alias like Crystal Beff or similar) I'm on a mission to Be In It and try and find out who the fuck I am. I ate feta the other night out of a jar and I loved it. I haven't done that in years. Recently I ordered a jug of beer at a bar - again, it's been ages. I listened to the full Jewel of the Nile soundtrack on vinyl yesterday and it was magical. I ate peanut butter and honey sandwiches at the BMX track and it was like eating candy for the first time. I bought a skateboard. I watched Indecent Proposal and crushed all over again on Woody. I drank cordial and it made me 12 years younger. I wrote a letter to Ken Done thanking him for being a legend. I played elastics between two chairs. I made a height chart at work for my colleagues to enjoy. So many things. This is all the shit I love doing but stuff I haven't done in such a long time.

Why did I stop doing stuff I love? I suppose I became someone else and I became busy being that person. But now in this limbo of life, I just want to go back to that person I was ages ago.

So what are my favourite things that I used to do?
Eat Korean BBQ and cheap food with MSG.
Travel to places with beaches.
Cook pals meals with big intentions but limited cooking capacity.
Eat picnics.
Play with my buddies in bars, on lawn bowls, at gigs, in the city.
Sit in backyards for long amounts of time.
Pick fruit and eat it.
Trivia nights.
See mates I haven't seen in ages and talk about animal reproduction.
And ride bikes.

Are you a friend of mine who I haven't seen in ages? We need to catch up and I want to hear all about your life: your babies, your partner, your friends, your job, your bike rides. All the things. I want to reminisce about our times together, back when we were young.  Email me.

Life. It's so fucking good. But you've got to be in it... to win it, right?

Good Grief

It's the end of the year, as we know it. Thank fuck. I'm tired.
But hang on, it wasn't all that bad... it has only been crap for the past two months.
Wait. It actually hasn't been that crap the last two months. The last two months just had a bit of crap in it. Maybe a few crap weeks.

So 2016 didn't really suck, it just had crap moments. Like most years. Yes, it was the year of loss: Bowie, Prince, Sharon Jones, my marriage break up, Leonard Cohen, Carrie Fisher, Debbie Reynolds and very recently my incredible 92 year old pa. But all of this loss was attached to great lives lived by radical people.

It's good to grieve loss, I've done it before - I'm sure most people have. But I do believe it's possible to turned grief into goodness. Good grief! It's healthy to cry, talk about your emotions (especially after a few tinnies), get cuddles from mates and family - sometimes strangers, weep at your desk (sorry colleagues) and feel lonely at the end of the day. It's just really bloody good to feel something because that makes you a decent human being.

I've had a little sparkle of goodness lately where I've discovered some really massive things about myself. I promise I will stop banging on about this one day, but it's the last day of the year so I feel the need to chuck in a bookend. Full  stop. New paragraph.

I have not been single or 'on my own' for close to 15 years. I was with my ex husband for 13 years, married for six. It was an excellent time, I don't regret it one bit. It just ended in a pile of shit, but I'm healing. We both are.
But here I am at 34, a single mum doing my bit in the world with an excellent tiny male-child at my side. And I'm ok. I didn't see this happening but hell, who knows what tomorrow will bring. I think that's kind of exciting. Perhaps I was a bit too much in control of my pre-separation life - or at least I thought I was.

I can't wait for this year to end as I'm looking for something to pinpoint a fresh start. The 1st January 2017 can be that moment.

As much as I don't know what tomorrow will bring, here's what I hope 2017 will have in store for me:

Adventures: bloody good, soulful, energetic, fresh, exciting, powerful, mindblowing adventures.
Friends: new and old, near and far. Just heaps of excellent humans around me.
Play: oh so many good times with my son. I just taught him the lyrics to Rapper's Delight.
Colour: I'm going to wear whatever I want - even if it is a bumbag - because that's how I roll.
Time: I refuse to use the word busy now. I will make time for my son, my pals, my family, you.
Music: I bought myself a record player for Christmas. Music sounds better with crackles. It's set up in my bedroom, like I'm a teenager. I'm thinking about putting up a poster of Johnny Diesel on the back of my door.
Food: I want people to come over and raid my fridge, let me cook for them while they sit along my bench and talk about 90s pop culture.
Good men: I've heard so many people say 'Men are hopeless/useless' lately since my husband and I split. Men are not hopeless or useless, just some people make mistakes. My son is certainly not hopeless or useless, he will grow up surrounded by decent, happy male buddies. As a society we really do need to change our gender-specific phrases. Men are excellent, ladies are excellent. Let's be excellent together.
Community: Gosh, I love living in Yarraville / inner west Melbourne. I want to write more stories about this fabulous area that I live in. Expect these soon.

And finally, I'm calling 2017 my year of winging it. If someone offers something rad, I won't feel uncomfortable about accepting. I'm excited about the adventures ahead!

Big love to all my beautiful pals for supporting me during the crap moments in 2016, but bigger love for just being super excellent people during my whole entire life.

Here's to winging it. Now crack a tinnie.

xx

Rad pic of my son and I above by the sensational Paul Large.

Sole Searching

When I meet Peter Callea, I’m guilty, sickly guilty. I’m guilty because I haven’t stepped foot into a cobbler’s store in years – I can’t work out if it’s because I chuck my shoes out once they’re done or if my shoes are too cheap to have repaired. Either way, I instantly regret my poor choice in shoes the minute I step into his shoe repairs store.

I’ve brought in a pair of my husband’s Birkenstock clogs that he wears as a chef. They are covered in oil and bits of food. A decade ago, my husband would wear his chef clogs right down to the core, they would last him two, maybe three years. Now they are lucky to last through a whole year, with the prices of his clogs increasing as the quality decreases.

When I arrive, a gentle buzzer rings and Peter comes out from behind a brown curtain next to the veneered wood paneled wall. He stands proudly behind his counter, wearing a neat tradesman’s apron, his white hair slightly wild. He doesn’t say anything, just nods his head at me.

The shelves behind him are stocked full of boxes of shoelaces in multiple colours, Nugget shoe polish in all sorts of tones, brushes, pieces of leather, rivets, eyelets and small tools. Peter doesn’t seem very sure of me but when I pop the clogs on the counter he looks them over and ‘tsks’.

“They don’t make them like they used to. It’s the glue, it doesn’t last.”

It’s true, nothing these days is made the way it used to be. I’m a pathetic time-poor sufferer of the online shopping syndrome, the mass manufactured products that are showcased in emails sent to you at the perfect time once your kid is asleep offering sweet incentives like ‘free shipping’. Why leave the house when someone can bring it to your home for free?

For the last 58 years, Peter has been fixing and mending shoes in his Somerville Road store. He wasn’t always a cobbler, he began his training at the age of 13 as an apprentice in a shoe making factory in Southern Italy where he watched shoes being made for the first few years until he moved to another factory where he was given the opportunity to create. He went on to migrate to Melbourne and worked first at a local tannery in Richmond, then at the Olympic Tyre Factory where he cleaned tyre rims and then a small workshop behind the now Footscray Arts Centre.

“I went to Footscray, along the river, where there were a lot of small factories near the bridge. I saw there was a door open at one of them and I could see a man inside doing leather work. I went in and said I was looking for a job and he asked me if I had worked in a leather factory before. I started the next day. 18 months later I started my own business here.”

When he first opened his store in 1958, business was thriving. The small shopping strip in the Kingsville pocket of Somerville Road featured four butchers, a grocery, gift shop, flower shop and a petrol station.

“Fifty-eight years ago I would start at 6 o’clock in the morning and finish around 7 o’clock in the evening. Back then I would repair 65-70 pairs of shoes a day, this is the time when people would only have one or two pairs of shoes each. Today, I will go for days where no one comes in.

“My profession is the shoemaker. Start from nothing, prepare the leather and build the shoe. Years ago I would put a pair of shoes that I had made in the window and they would be sold that day. Now, no one buys handmade shoes like we used to make. In the beginning I made shoes here in my store but a few years ago there was a fire in my workshop and I lost all my tools. At my age, it doesn’t pay to replace everything, so I stopped making shoes.

“Young people don’t want to learn the trade – you can’t learn the trade in 24 hours - and the old shoemakers will pass away. Soon there will be no one who knows how to repair shoes.”

Peter’s wife Narina pops out to see who her husband is talking to and I introduce myself. Narina invites me to look at the workshop behind the curtain. It smells like leather in the crispest sense. The machines are old and cared for, bathing in natural dusty light sneaking in past the window signage.

As I leave, Peter hands me half of a perforated swing tag. I watch him tie the other half to my husband’s shoe, his hands are old and you can see they have been his lifelong tools. Heading towards the door, I notice a brilliant brown leather brogue amongst a whole wall of shoes showing similar swing tags. I pick it up and comment on how nice it is, but quickly I can see the layer of dust sitting on the toe.

“The problem is, people drop off their shoes with promises to come back, and they never do. I do the work, sometimes very quickly, and I wait and I wait for the owner to return. Most people now don’t come back.”

I place my swing tag in my wallet, next to the receipts for the dry cleaner and the picture framer with a promise I will return.

And I do. After spending $200 on a pair of leather clogs, what’s $20 to have them fixed and looking brand spanking new again? It’s not about the $20 though, is it? It’s about so much more: speaking to someone in a shop who cares about your shoes, understanding an old  school trade, enjoying stories of the past, understanding where your item comes from and most of all watching someone really love what they do and have done for over half a century.

I’ve got another pair of shoes ready for a new sole. This time I’m taking my son with me and I’m hoping Peter can show him how real shoes are made. What a treat.

Cobbler Peter Callea can be found at 220 Somerville Road, Kingsville.

Discover more local stories by Ali Webb at www.houseofwebb.blogspot.com

This article first appeared in the March issue of The Westsider newspaper. 

Fabulous photos by Paul Large.

Don't judge a mother by her cover

Today someone said the nicest but possibly the strangest thing to me.

'Gosh Ali, you always look like you have your shit together.'

Yes! The cover is working. Holy Helen of Troy. I thought I looked the OPPOSITE of 'together' most days, but this little comment put a spring in my step.

But hang on, is that what I really strive to do... cover up all my flaws with a cheeky grin and a shirt I've hung next to the hot shower to sort out it's crinkles?

So I'm going to be super honest,  most days I don't have my shit together. Most days it's a big egg scramble and it's freaking tough to do it all. I'm constantly wishing I was a carefree mum, cruising around  in my Seed Heritage chambray, puffer vest and soy decaf latte watching my son eat stems of broccoli and asking me if he can brush his teeth.

The last day my husband and I had off together was Father's Day - two months ago. We spent the day in Barwon Heads as a little family and it was ace. Our next day off together is likely to be Christmas Eve. We normally have three nights off a week together and the other nights we usually see each other during a high five in the hallway before one of us has to head to work, or sometimes one of us just doesn't get home until super late because we are at work. But it's ok. This is our life and it's a busy one. Most weeks it works, some weeks the logistics are so stressful I suffer hard from IBS thinking about the very limited options we have. 

But the truth is, most days are pretty grotty, snotty and now filled with potty (mouth and usage). Here's a snapshot of ONE day in my week. Let's say... today. Ok. Go.

5.50am    Alfie wakes up and comes into our room. His pants are wet. So I get up and he runs around.

6.00am    I have a pantless child refusing to put on a nappy screaming at me that he wants a sticker. I give in and he puts it on our fridge. I scratch it off, caring.

6.15am    I start making my lunch for work, Alfie knocks it off the bench by accident while trying to get my attention. I give up and we sit and watch some pulsatingly weird colourful kids show on ABC2. I look at Facebook on my phone, post something about it being Back to the Future day, feel guilty about why I care about that rather then my son sitting next to me and pop it in my work bag.

6.30am  Still no pants on my kid. He wees on the kitchen floor. Hubby gets up. He's running late and has to be at work by 7.30am. Bribe the kid into wearing clothes... something about Santa and parcels and maybe cake.

6.45am  We drink instant coffee and talk about how late we are but we are both standing in the kitchen in our Kmart pjs. The Kid shovels half a banana into his mouth, the rest is pushed into the couch. Cheef Dog arises.

7.00am  Hubby is in the shower and takes ages. I start getting annoyed as I need to use the bathroom. I pace past the door, which is open. No one in our house is allowed to close the bathroom door according to Alfie. Cheef Dog does poos in the yard. Alfie looks through the window and counts them as they come out.

7.15am  I'm in the shower. I have five minutes to get ready for work before hubby has to leave for work. I curse. Spend most of my time squeezing a pimple, only to make a big red bump on my face.

7.20am  Hubby heads to work, I wrestle Alfie into the pram while bribing him about seeing diggers/tip trucks /garbage trucks, put the lead on Cheef Dog and we walk and talk about diggers/tip trucks and chocolate cake.

7.30am  Guaranteed to bump into this one lady EVERY week who makes a comment similar to: it's too early to be out with a child so young/too cold/he's not wearing shoes/he looks sad/why isn't he in bed etc.

7.50am  I bribe Alfie into the car with promised he can wear his backpack, eat cheese, look at diggers/trains through the window.

8.00am  I arrive at daycare and ALWAYS park across two parks. I'm always rushing and I feel out of place in heels as I walk through the foyer. I chat to the daycare teachers, and as I leave Alfie always explains to his educators that 'mummy's going to work to talk on the phone'.

8.45am  Drop the car at the station, jump on a train. Arrive at work and the day is hard and fast, running but also a sweet, sweet break from domesticity. I eat my breakfast and check emails. Phone starts ringing and doesn't stop until I leave.

5.15pm  I leave work and run to the train station, get off the train and jump in the car and drive to daycare. Pick up Alfie, most likely in his third set of clothes for the day. We chat to other parents and the daycare workers and then we head home.

5.30pm  Alfie shows me a dance, how to drink out of the potty, pats the dog, shows me trucks, his paintings and tells me his fingers look like doodles while I start dinner.

6.00pm  We sit down and eat tea together with the TV off ALWAYS. And we talk about our day mostly surrounding trucks, diggers, who hit who at daycare and how  his fingers look like doodles. It's lovely, especially if he eats what I made him.

6.30pm  We clean up together (i.e. he gives Cheef Dog his leftovers) and I run the bath. We have a fight about how many stickers he can have for sitting on the potty until I give in and give him four. He sticks them on the fridge. I scratch them off, trying to care.

6.45pm  I finally get him in the bath along with all of his favourite trucks and we sing some songs and he drinks the water. He tells me his fingers look like doodles. Sometimes he wees in the bath then drinks the water again.

7.00pm  He runs around the house using up the last of his energy.

7.30pm  We read Richard Scarry books about villages and hot air balloons and animals wearing clothes and acting like people. 

8.00pm  Alfie decides he wants to get up and drink milk and do some more dancing.

8.10pm  He runs around the house inviting me to catch him. He takes off his pants. I'm tired.

8.15pm  I get him back into his bed. He wants Cheef to sleep in his bed with him. I make up some story that Cheef won't dream about carrots or some shit if he sleeps on Alfie's bed. Alfie nods.

8.25pm  Alfie wants to get his handbag. It's got something in it he wants to show me - a chocolate cake. My work phone rings, I know who it is and really need to answer it, but I need to get my kid to sleep.

8.30pm  I make up a song about chocolate cake and somehow the kid crashes. As I walk out of his room I step on some squeaky toy and my heart stops. All good.

8.40pm  I turn on my computer and check my work emails and sort out any lose ends from my day.

9.00pm  I write a story for the local paper and check in with my favourite photographer to see if he can shoot some pics. 

9.45pm  I pack my lunch for tomorrow and order my fruit and veg box for the week ahead.

10.00pm  I do the dishes and tidy the house, chuck on a load of washing. Fold the washing from yesterday.

10.30pm  Bed time. I'm reading a book called Toddler Taming...

11.00pm  Hubby gets home from work. He smells like oil from the kitchen. We have a nice cuddle and he crashes.

1.30am   Cheef Dog wants to do a wee. I let him outside and he chases a possum and barks.

4.30am  Alfie comes into our room, he's cold. We let him pop into our bed for a cuddle... and it starts all over again.

So to  the person who told me I looked like I had my shit together - thank you. It's tough working under cover but sometimes you've just got to do it, no one is going to do it for you. I like my job and I'm good at it, I like being a mum and I think I'm ok at it. Both my hubby and I have solo parenting days with Alfie so he gets a lot of our individual attention and it's special. 

Sometimes I fuck up, most days I laugh  at myself, but the best bit of all is at the end of the day, when that gorgeous kid of ours is fast asleep and the pep tea is brewing and the housework is done, I can use my undercover skills to find that secret square of Lindt chocolate hiding in the cupboard which has been saved just for me.

Stocktake and Sunrise

I'm a fan, a pretty big one, of creative Melbourne blogger, Pip Lincolne from Meet Me At Mikes. A blogger from way back, this chick has released books filled with exciting cakes, craft, granny square how tos and positivity plus commentary on life in general.

I think she's awesome.

Miss Pip has inspired me to do a little stocktake of life, in general. This stocktake was loads of fun to do and made me realise that even though it's fucking hard to wake up daily at 5.15am with a dinosaur stabbed into your eyelid, it's totally worth it to see some cracking sunrises that have been sneaking into our sky.

Go on, try it. Take stock and see what you come up with. 
*notice I didn't mention jeggings once.

Ali Webb Takes Stock

• Making : pants for my kid that he can high kick in
• Cooking : grains
• Drinking : sparkling (or as I like to say, Sparkly) water
• Reading: Ian Fleming's On Her Majesty's Secret Service
• Wanting: time for my garden
• Looking: at sunsets and sunrises. Melbourne, you're so pretty at this time of year.
• Playing: with diggers, cranes and bikes
• Deciding: whether I like Sandra Bullock or not
• Wishing:for a sweet, sweet holiday
• Enjoying: my son and the vast array of salted caramel ice cream around
• Waiting: for Halloween so I can teach myself how to carve a pumpkin
• Liking: this weather. A LOT.
• Wondering: why I always thought monkeys came from eggs
• Loving: teaching my kid how to dance
• Pondering: about becoming a vegetarian
• Considering: a road trip
• Watching: A lot of James Bond films
• Hoping: my son will eat what I've made him for tea
• Marvelling: the sensational community that I live in
• Needing: a new pair of runners
• Smelling: jasmine and lavender in my garden
• Following: too many bloggers and instagrammers
• Noticing: awesome clouds
• Knowing: that monkeys do not come from eggs
• Thinking: how can I James Bond-ify my life
• Feeling: pumped 
• Admiring: my family. All. The. Time.
• Sorting: Sorted.Use the KonMari Method and it was a success
• Buying: a custom made screen door
• Getting: excited for Christmas holidays
• Bookmarking: blogs on Bloglovin'
• Disliking: Brendan Fraser. Nothing will change this.
• Opening: books that I've been meaning to read for three years
• Giggling: all over Shannon's Kitchen. She swears fucking better than me
• Feeling: vague but willing to shake it off aka Taylor Swift style
• Snacking: on cheddar and apple
• Coveting: any trace of dark chocolate and orange
• Helping: my son to understand running off and hiding from me is not cool
• Hearing: Jim Croce's Photographs and Memories album 

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.