Random Acts of Poo-mess

You have a few coffees, it's natural, it's going to happen. You're aware that it will and you plan accordingly.

I know my kid is only 3 but the instant urge he has to take a crap right then and there is still a bit beyond me.

Yesterday in the supermarket. I've got a full trolley.

Alfie: "mum, poo's coming out my bum."

Me: "ok, let's pay the lady and get you to a toilet."

Alfie; "it's coming out now. RIGHT NOW MUM. I can feel it!"

We abandon the trolley. The poo was coming out. I throw the Paw Patrol undies in the bin. I shouldn't have waited. It wasn't his fault. I just assumed he could hold it for 2 minutes and 48 seconds longer. 

He couldn't.

Today in the main street of Yarraville. Alfie starts riding his bike standing up.

Alfie: "mum. I need to do a poo."

Me: "ok, let's find a toilet. The pub's open."

As I rush towards the pub carrying his bike I turn around to see him doing a poo in a shopfront with a garden. I pick it up with a doggy bag and turf it in the bin. Let us never speak of this again.

I think I'm becoming a lot more patient as a parent. I can deal with things easier as they happen, I'm  crap when it comes to planning. 

And that's how I had a rad weekend. 

We had our first open for inspection at our Yarraville house. Loads of attractive bearded men and chicks with patterned socks checking out our goods while we peeked at the house traffic from 50 metres down the street in the pissing rain. The three of us held hands while Cheef Dog weed on the neighbour's fence.

I was an anxious mess before it happened. The inspection was planned. There was lead up. There needed to be a result. There was waiting. Someone recently told me that having an open for inspection was like holding a massive party and not knowing if anyone would turn up. 

Once it was over Alfie and I headed to the NGV with mates to lay on the floor and stare at the ceiling. Today a random massive bike ride lead to hot chips in the park watching sprinklers turn on and off in places where 'ginger turtles' live. Splendid, rancho relaxo stuff.

Reg finishes up at work this week. That's a big milestone. Hopefully we lease out our Yarraville house this week. Another big milestone. Then we settle at our Trentham house on the seventh of November and from there... golly, who knows?  We don't even have daycare let alone an inside toilet.

So in the meantime, I'm liking the 'winging it' theories of life at the moment. Going with the flow seems to be the only way we can get a grip on this tree-change. 

I'm not saying that if you need to take a crap, just drop your dacks and do it in a shop front, but there's something to say about not over-thinking the big things in life and just letting them happen. Even if it is a poo.

Have a most excellent week.

Ali xx

Shits and Piddles

We are toilet training. This is epic. I’m so inpatient; I thought learning to wee out a doodle would be easy. Isn’t it like a hose, you can aim? As I don’t have one myself, I just assumed that wee and doodle and aiming would all come together in three days.

Why three days? A friend of a friend told me that her son was toilet trained in three days. Was he 23? Three days. Snort.

My son is almost three. And I know he is super close to learning how to use a toilet, or at least know when he needs to go.

So how do you train a kid to use a potty? I have no answers for you here, but this is what I’ve learnt so far:

1.       If you smell a pop off, a poo is on the horizon. Dacks off and get potty ready.

2.       Nude aint rude, it’s so very good. Let the kid run and watch their wee go everywhere.

3.       Hold onto those old cloth nappies. Accidents and I mean LOTS of accidents, happen. I hope you have floorboards and a good mop, oh and a dog that doesn’t eat poo.

4.       Rewards are winners. We used stickers for wees, miniThomas trains for poo. I let my son put the stickers on the potty so it looks like a trophy.

5.       Undies with your kid’s favourite TV or cinematic characters rule the roost. There is no way my son is going to want to piss on Lightning McQueen’s face.

6.       Be super positive. Dance hard when a wee makes it in the potty. Let your kid press the button on the toilet. Tell your kid that the poo and wee is going to the ocean to swim with all the rad fishies and crocodiles and really cool happy sharks (don’t tell them that if they are shit-scared of fishies and crocs and sharks though).

7.       Poo is exciting not scary. My son loves looking at his afterwards. Yep, it’s gross, but I would rather my kid be excited about taking a crap than holding it in, terrified it’s going to eat him alive.

8.      Let your kid watch you go to the toilet. It’s creepy, but it’s been creepy these last few years hasn’t it– remember that kid was in your tummy. You haven’t had a private moment for almost three years, what’s a crap in front of your kid once a day in the scheme of things. Make sure you smile when you do it.

9.       If you find a poo on the floor… whoops, clean it up, highlight the potty  is nearby if your kid needs it, but let them know that once daddy did something similar and he hasn’t done it again because he’s a big boy. Poo on the floor happens to the best of us, let’s not dwell.

10.   And finally, when you are out in the world with your kid wearing undies, take them to the nearest toilet/gutter/tree/bush/garden the SECOND they say… “mummy, I need to wee”. You don’t have any longer than a second, that wee is coming out now. Run. Carry a towel with you.

So accidents have happened this summer, my son has taken a crap in the display cubby at Bunnings, weed on the card stand in the post office, pooed in his Lightning McQueen undies so massively that I just chucked them in the park bin, and told every person he meets that wee comes out of his doodle.

It’s ok. We are not quite there yet, but it’s on the horizon. We are so close, I can LITERALLY smell it.

This article first appeared in the Autumn issue of BubbaWest Magazine.

Vision vs Reality: Holidays with kids

This afternoon while walking my pooch Cheef Dog, I witnessed a hero.

This man was reversing his Nissan Patrol complete with trailer and massive boat into his garage off a main road.

Not only was he owning this stressful situation, he was using all four of his reversing mirrors while his two dogs barked and scratched at the fence, his reverse beeper sound went off every half second, traffic had come to a standstill, a cyclist leaned on his bike obstructed by the trailer, and here I was standing there awkwardly while my dog ran his bum along the patch of turf and bindis on the nature strip, watching in awe. And during this whole time, the man's wife was shouting directions from the rear of the garage.

"Straighten her up, ya trombone."
"No the other right, ya peanut."
"Use your mirrors."
"Do you want me to do it? I've got to get dinner on."
"Just leave it there and fix it in the morning."
"I've got to call nan."
"To your left, left, LEFT. Oh no, your right"

And so on. Then he parked the boat trailer.

Then the man got out of the car, went and checked it's position and said to me: "She's not perfect, but she's straight enough."

I didn't know if he was talking about his boat or his wife.

Either way, it got me to thinking about the short little holiday my son and I went on over the weekend. Holidays with kids, they're never really holidays are they?

Here's my weekend in a chart:

VISION:
Taking my son to see a lighthouse. Together we would hold hands and experience the nostalgia of an iconic historical architectural emblem. We would take a picture perfect selfie and ride our bikes slowly back down the hill and stop by the ice cream parlour on the way home for a treat.

REALITY:
We arrive at the beach house we are staying at, which is STUNNING. My son notices the TV and says "Turn it on mum" (note the absence of manners). I tell him "no, we are going to see the lighthouse, hop on your bike". He says, "later, not now, mum. Turn it on." I get a packed lunch ready while he chucks a tantrum.
Finally on the bike he rides really fast ahead of me, so I have to chase him up a hill in thongs. I noticed he has crapped his dacks, but he doesn't care he is distracted by the lighthouse. He races towards it and runs through a wedding which is taking place underneath, poo appearing on his thigh.
I'm out of breath when I arrive at the lighthouse to find my kid clawing at the door, beside himself with tears. "Make it open, mum. Make it open. I want to see the lighthouse."
The lighthouse is closed, the wedding guests are staring at me and my crap-dacked kid. I tell him there's a pterodactyl (who knew that word started with a 'p') laying eggs at the lookout to get him away  from the beautiful wedding scene.
Arrive at the look out, ready for our beautiful selfie moment. The view is breathtaking. I go to show my son, but he is two busy playing with a broken wench thing. I ask him to look up at the view to see the boats and the yachts and the water and the sky and all the pretty things. He says "go away, not now, busy mum."
He doesn't even look. Not once. The wench is 'broken' he must fix it. We spend a long time playing with it. A long time.
We ride past the ice cream parlour on the way home because the poo has reached his ankle and I had forgotten a nappy/spare jocks/spare shorts/wipes/money.

VISION:
My beautiful blonde boy playing on the beach, building perfect sandcastles and Instagram-worthy moats while I relax with my Lena Dunham book on a flat, clean beach towel, skinny in a two piece bikini. No sunburn.

REALITY:
My son squealing with absolute fear from the huge flock of seagulls which are trying to eat his cupcake. They crowd in so fucking thick, I'm terrified they're going to grab him and fly away with him clenched in their claws. I shoo them away, running after the birds flicking them with my hand towel (I packed the wrong beach towel from the beach house) feeling my thighs wobble in my 1990s-esque one piece complete with 'Totally' written in fluro font across the chest. My son somehow in all of this decides to take off his shorts, and he doesn't wear another pair for the rest of the holiday.

There's so many visions vs reality scenarios I could take you through (steam train ride = kid falling asleep in the cabin for most of the trip, Alfie telling the man at the IGA counter that the six pack of beer I had was "mum's way of dealing with it", or explaining to the fish and chip shop lady that "mum gives me chips all the time", or asking the bikie who chased after us to give us Alfie's forgotten thongs if he was a pirate), but you would be bored.

In saying that though, without a kid on holiday with me, I reckon I'd be bored too. Whilst there's heaps more stress, anxiety, unsure feelings and frustrations, I kind of relate to the boat reversing man today, if holidays were as perfect as you planned, they'd be boring. If he cracked that trailer reverse in one go without anyone looking, no dogs barking, no wife directing him while live tweeting, well that would be just plain pointless.

So to the boat reversing man, you're my hero. I hope I'm like you and cool as a cucumber next weekend when it comes to reversing our four wheeler next to the crooked beach caravan while my kid throws toys at me from the back seat.

I look forward to it already.

Parents: It’s Time We Grew Up

My son is now 2.5 and he’s freakin’ hilarious. He is now speaking in sentences (or fluent tongue) and the things that come out of his mouth are great, especially for someone like me who has not quite reached a mature level when it comes to childish humour.

How do parents NOT crack up and whack their thighs in hysterical laughter when their kid says something like: “Mum, I want to take my bum off and sit it on your head and watch the poo.”

Chewed my cheeks. Closed my eyes. Thought about Jimmy Giggle. Did not laugh out loud.

Seriously. How does he say that with a serious face and how do I respond with a serious face? I know I shouldn’t laugh at him because that will only encourage him to say it again: In a dentist waiting room. To an elderly stranger, who has a giant bum. Seriously.

Last week he told me his fingers looked like doodles and didn’t stop staring at them for days. He poured water on his hands from the watering can just so he could watch his fingers wee. He told the lady at Baker’s Delight about his doodle fingers and she laughed. I walked out empty handed. I refused to buy finger buns that day.

Bit my tongue. Tears rolled down my cheeks. Focused on my pelvic floor. Did not laugh out loud,

Heading to the zoo is a joy, purely for the social commentary on animal life coming from my son:

“Mum, why doesn’t that elephant have a doodle? The other one does? And so does daddy.”

“Mum, is daddy a lion?”

“Mum, can we eat the hippo poo?”

“Mum, can I go inside the elephant?”

“Mum, I’m licking the window so the hippo can see the baby snake in my tummy.”

Pinched my arm. Held my breath. Thought about the washing. Did not laugh out loud.

It’s so much fun watching my son discover all these natural delights. But what’s funnier is the absolute refreshing perspective he brings to everyday life and how hilarious I am with dealing with these moments where I actually have to behave like a grown up.

When I explained to my son why I didn’t have a doodle (he asked me if it had fallen off when I sneezed), he gently put his hand on my knee and, staring me straight in the eyes, he said, “Mummy, it will be alright. We can ask Santa for one when he takes my dummies. He’s bringing me a big parcel, he can bring you a big doodle just like daddy’s.”

My strong blank stare focusing above his head and the tears rolling down my cheeks as I bit the inside of my mouth to hold back the huge giggle was too much for him to handle.

“Mummy, don’t cry. You can have my doodle. I don’t need it coz I can wee out my eyes like you.”

Who is Ali Webb?

When she's not parenting her two-and-a-half year old son Alfie, Ali tries to figure out the difference between Gordon and Thomas and why the producers would create two trains the same colour. But colour is Ali's thing. She loves to live a colourful life filled with running (after her kid, not for exercise), writing, hunting for vintage treasures, whipping up a macrame or broccoli-shaped cushion and composing raps in her mind about Milo and Sunshine Pine. Ali is a nutcase. Support her on this journey.

This article first appeared in the December issue of Bubba West Magazine.

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.

Missing Person

I want to let you in on a little secret. Actually, it’s a pretty big secret, because I feel a little embarrassed about it. But it’s not a ‘do-not-tell-anyone’ secret like the time I got so hideously drunk off five beers and spewed in front of my son, or a ‘please-don’t-judge-me’ secret like the time I used a tea-towel  tied up with a ribbon as a nappy and took my son to Coles’ to buy nappies (I was totally and ashamedly out), or a ‘what’s-wrong-with-me-medically’ secret where I laughed so hard I weed my pants a little moment.  No this is a secret that I want to tell you because I don’t think I should feel embarrassed about it. So instead, I want to share this secret so other people can say: “Yo, Ali… I’m in exactly the same boat. Let’s be mates and freaking rule this world.”

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.

Poos and wees

We’ve been thinking about toilet training. Our son isn’t ready, I don’t think, but perhaps over summer he will be? We have bought a potty and like everything plastic introduced into our house, this one has caused a whole lot of excitement.

Alfie has been pouring cups of water into the potty and both he and the dog drink out of it. The potty gets dragged across the floor and shown to anyone who comes over for a visit. No one else is allowed to sit on the potty. No one is allowed to touch it either. God forbid.

The potty has caused so much excitement that my son keeps taking my hand and showing it to me in the bathroom. He has no idea what to do with it, but he likes looking at it and showing me how to take the lid off it and drink out of it. Sigh.

We’ve been using the words ‘poos and wees’ in our house for a while now. Ever since we discovered that Alfie liked to poo behind the curtain. When we see him heading in that direction we ask him if he is going to do poos, usually his raised brow, red fierce face, hunched back and clenched hands leaning on the wall say it all.

When my husband or I go to the toilet it’s a huge ceremony. Alfie always wants to watch and wave bye-bye to the poo. It’s always so exciting to press the flush button and to see how the toilet paper goes around on the holder.

Some mornings after a poo ceremony, it’s really hard to move on from this farewell display to go to the office and take on serious meetings about serious stuff. Sometimes during serious discussions at work I might get a call from my husband who will explain to me the ins and outs of a new poo dance that Alfie has devised or a story about the fascination with the toilet. It can be very hard to switch back to writing documents and speaking with managers.

Prior to the last few months, I had never been to the toilet in front of my husband. It was the one thing I held onto. My one last piece of dignity. Since the fascination with all things bathroom has kicked in, I’m now showering while my dog, son and husband clean teeth, do wees, play with the potty, fix the toilet roll holder, close and open and close the toilet lid, pull the towel off the rail, look in the toilet, throw things in the bath, talk about poos… the list goes on. I can’t even do that secret wee in the shower that no one ever admits to.

So now that I go to the toilet with an audience, what dignity remains? I have no idea about this toilet training thing apart from the many discussions I have had with my husband about putting down the lid. I still continue to lie to my husband that I have diarrhoea and I shut the door of the bathroom and secretly play Tetris on my phone. My husband recently said that I should go and see a doctor as I had been sick in the tummy for some time. I think my private time is almost up.

I would love to know where you go from here. Once your kid grows up, can you revive any sense of mystery about yourself? Will there ever be a time where no one knows that you’ve done a poo?

Until that time arrives, I’m making the most of my toilet time at work.

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.

Crap snack

My son is a collector. Unfortunately we aren’t talking antiques or Chapel Street Bazaar or even something you could sell on IWBSS. My son loves collecting crap.

When we go out my pockets are quickly filled as I am handed miscellaneous goods such as rocks, sticks, lolly wrappers, and most recently a condom packet. Disgusting. But so sweet that he cares for the environment and wants to clean up Australia. Good on ya Alfie.

We are regulars at a local park and love kicking back in the sandpit and doing the playground activity lap (even though I am extremely challenged by it). We take props such as a bucket and spade, a truck or even a little car to push around and make brrrm sounds with. It’s bliss, especially if there’s a group of young men playing basketball on the courts. Fresh air and park life = brilliant.

There’s one problem though. Every time we go to this one particular park, Alfie goes straight for the waist strap on the baby swing – you know the one, the safety chain thing covered in clear plastic that you clip around your kid’s tummy. He goes straight for the strap and sucks on it. Hard. It’s really foul and each time he does it a little vomit forms in the back of my throat.

I mean, it’s not like he isn’t well fed and that I don’t have a fabulous array of snacks in my backpack soaked in water from the leaking sippy cup. It’s not like there isn’t a variety of sticks and leaves and other ‘natural’ items available he can put in his mouth. I offer all of the above and pick him up and take him away from the strap and he LOSES it. Face down on the grass slamming his fists and feet into the ground. How dare I. He gets back up and runs for the strap. Gross. I repeat the actions above. Then I give up and let him suck at it.

After about five minutes he gets bored. I’m sitting on the edge of the sandpit waiting for him, trying to hold back my vomit from the strap sucking. Finally he comes around and hangs out with me in the ‘pit passing me bits of sticks and leaves.

We dig a hole. He has a snack. He tries to put the snack in my mouth, yum. Whatever. We dig some more of the hole. I’m distracted by my phone beeping and I check out a text. He pushes some more of his muesli bar in my mouth. I eat it. Whatever. He goes back to his hole and I start responding to the text message. He pushes something into my mouth. I bite into it thinking it’s the muesli bar but it’s not. It’s a crusty sun-bleached dog shit.

I spit. I squeal and dry wretch. I’m scraping the inside of my mouth and pulling out everything except my tongue. My hand is covered in sand and the texture is making everything worse. The cool mums wearing puffer vests around the edge of the sandpit are staring at me over their soy lattes. Then it happens. I’ve dry wretched so much that I start convulsing. I can’t stop thinking about the poo. I’m horrified. I spew in my kid’s sand bucket.

I get my shit together, realign and refocus. I’m a mum. I sort myself out. I’ve got to. People, including my son, are watching.

I look at my little boy sitting in the massive hole we’ve dug together. He’s laughing at his car as he pushes it through the sand. Perhaps he didn’t notice my behaviour.  I pick him up to put him in the SuperTrike and I notice there’s something in his mouth. It’s another piece of the white crusty turd and he’s chewing on it. I try to fish it out. It’s so gross.

We wheel home with our pooey mouths and spewy bucket, through Yarraville village passing all the parents who look so together. I decide to grab a coffee and when I pull out money from my parka pocket, the miscellaneous condom packet falls out.

Seriously unfair.

This post first appeared on Bubba West.