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.”

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.

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.

Old el perfect

Erk. Today was one of those days where everyone else in the world looked like they had their shit together and I, well, just didn’t.

Couples were cruising around with their babes, holding hands like they have never farted in bed. Toddlers were walking on the footpath with their parents calmly cruising beside them without a care in the world. Every kid I saw had a clean face and t-shirt. Every parent I saw had a clean face and t-shirt.

Now I’m the first to admit that I’m not perfect – I’m pretty close to it – but not quite there yet. But FAR OUT, why does everyone have to look so goddamn put together on the days where things are just so out of whack for me?

It’s on these days that I want to kick myself in the shin for the extreme jealousy I have when I see dads cruising with the pram (God, it sometimes kills me when my husband works all weekend) or when I see a child SITTING STILL in a high chair in a café while their parents eat bacon and eggs and drink soy lattes and talk to each other and read the paper and sigh because they have the time to. Or when I hear that so-and-so’s kid watched TV all morning so she got all her housework done in a flash. Man, the only time Alfie watches TV is when he’s aiming something at it.

It’s also on these days  that I get really hard on myself and I reflect back on my pre-baby days when I’d hit the pub to watch the Grand Final, not whinge to my child-free pals in the park drinking a tinny hidden in my coat pocket. When I would have saffron in my pantry, not Old El Paso  burrito kits. When I would head to a Sunday movie matinee at The Astor Theatre, not prepare everything to time in with The Block’s Room Reveal.  And when it would be MY choice on how many outfits I would wear a day.

Today, being Grand Final Day was activity filled. My son and I didn’t watch any football, but we chased one around and around the park together today while we ate hot chips. All the other kids in the park were eating fruit, zucchinis, saffron and cauliflower in clean t-shirts (of course). 

My son slept after our mad park date for ages. I should have used this time smartly by hanging out washing, cleaning the floors, hosing down the high chair, cutting my toe nails, doing a poo on my own without someone looking at me, plucking my eyebrows, eating lunch, spending time with the dog, renovating my house etc. Instead I spent my time on Facebook, looking at other people’s perfect, happy, clean faces and “Liking’ statuses on Channing Tatum’s page (very excited about Magic Mike XL).

So here I am on a Saturday night. At home with my dog on the couch while my hubby works. I’ve just put Alfie to bed after singing probably the most inappropriate bed time tune (Warren G’s Regulator – it  was all I could think of after my long day). Did I waste my day – perhaps? But I got to hang out with the grubbiest kid in Yarraville, who watered everyone’s garden on the street in his nappy and gumboots. A kid who wanted to go to bed with the computer mouse. A little man who had a piece of Duplo hidden in his nappy for hours without me realising it. A tiny boy who carried a handbag with him everywhere. And the sweetest kid who told me the dinner I made him (Old El Paso) was ‘yummy’ made up for all the envious, perfect crap I witnessed today.

Perhaps I will be that person tomorrow? If you bump into me and I have a clean t-shirt and a clean child, please give me a high five. I will respond with a ‘down low’. Don’t be slow.

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.

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.