(You ain't no) Part Time Mother

I just worked my first FULL TIME, FIVE DAY week since Alfie was born and it hurt. I crashed hard on Friday night somewhere between 8.26pm and 8.31pm. I was zonked, my body ached and my brain was filled with way too much information. In short, full time working mums: you are fucking legends. Machines. Machines who are strong, amazing, powerful and admirable. May you rest your weary feet each Friday and treat yourself to a can of your coldest ale you can find. You deserve it. You're excellent.

Here's something I wrote JUST for you.

(You ain't no) Part Time Mother

The morning is crazy: brekky, dressed and bag

Some kind of mascara so you don’t look like a hag

You drop your kid at daycare, brush the crumbs from your seat

Arrive at the station, the train you just meet.

You get straight to it at your desk: emails, phone and print

Shoveling a sanga at the same time, quickly grab a mint

Then it’s meetings and chats and it’s busy as hell

And all these new young acronyms: BRB and LOL.

Your mobile phone rings and it’s a daycare call

It’s your son, he’s being too rough and he’s taken a fall

You ask if he’s ok; ‘yeah he’s fine, just an egg’

The teacher reassures you, then you notice your ratty leg.

Somehow in the busy morn, you’ve gone and ripped your tights

You’re now dressed like a rotten punk who has had a real big night

You duck out in your lunch break, only to realise...

You’ve got no bloody veggies to go with that night’s pies.

On the way home to daycare, you’ve got five minutes to spare

The guilt rises in your belly, coz your kid’s always the last one there

You have three choices to fill your five mins, it’s all a little muddle

To buy the veggies, do a wee or dive in for a cuddle.

Fuck the veggies, fuck the wee, a giant hug will do

I’d take a cuddle any day, even over a solo poo

It makes sense when you feel the embrace, why you do all this shit

You might be tired, you might be zonked, but boy… it’s so worth it.

Great Expectations

I recently went on a little holiday to Queensland with my family. It was hilarious, like watching the Griswald family get ready for Christmas. Why is it that you can never fully pull your shit together when you have a toddler in tow?

We left Melbourne on Christmas Eve at 8pm. My hubby Reggie had a huge hangover from his work Christmas party the night before and he had had to work the whole day, leaving me to pack (probably a good thing in hindsight). During the day, Alfie had a massive stack, scoring a huge egg on his forehead. To calm down the tears, I decided to get him to help me pack.

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.

Chicken Crimpy

Our car is such a tip. Which is strange, as my house is somewhat clean because I keep it that way. I wash a gazillion loads of clothes every week, I wash the floors all the time, I wipe down surfaces, I even polish my stainless steel appliances.

So why is it that my car smells like banana, even though I can’t for the life of me find one in there? That the floor of our car is covered in millions of sultanas which could easily be taken for an invasion? There are wrappers, tissues, sticks, rocks, dinosaurs, mandarins and other fruit-like matter, old balloons, balls, an umbrella stroller, a plastic motorbike, other peoples picnic rugs, an esky I’m too scared to open, a random backpack, crumbs, coffee cups and for the love of God, a goddamn Chicken Crimpy biscuit sitting on the dashboard. I hate that biscuit. We don’t even eat Chicken Crimpy’s in our family.

I see the Chicken Crimpy every morning as I drive my kid to daycare. It annoys me but I don’t do a thing about it. I promise myself that I will, the next time I leave my car with nothing to carry. Ha!

The Chicken Crimpy has been on the dash now for weeks, maybe months. Last week it brought me to tears.

Someone had parked outside of my house meaning I had to park 50 metres down the street. Now I know 50 metres isn’t much of a walk, I’m sure my son being the size of a teenager could probably jump it in three go’s, but walking from the car to my house in work clothes and heels with a busy toddler, two bags of dairy groceries, my laptop, my backpack, my son’s backpack, Blah Blah, and a Big M was no easy feat. It was hard. I struggled. I held the tears back for that whole 50 metres. It took me 10 minutes to walk that small distance with the plastic bag bursting along the way, 2 litres of milk pouring into the gutter. Milk that I needed for my son. I got to my house, dropped off everything then walked the 50 metres back to my car, put Alfie back in his seat as he struggled and fought, and drove back to the supermarket to get more milk.

The Chicken Crimpy stared at me in the car.

This wasn’t the time to remove it. I arrived back home, this time having to park further down the street than before. My hands were full with Alfie and milk, so I couldn’t remove the Chicken Crimpy. I swear it stuck its little crimpy bit up at me.

My husband walked in from work just after Alfie had gone to bed. I’d been fighting off tears the whole time, through Alfie’s tea, his bath, his story. As soon as I saw my husband I sat on the ground, still in my work clothes and cried.

He asked me: “what’s wrong?”

I cried: “It’s that f#$king Chicken Crimpy. It’s ruining me.”

My husband looked confused. “Why are you crying about a biscuit? Do you need me to get you a biscuit? Is that what’s wrong? Is it Tim Tam time?”

No. I didn’t have my period. No. I didn’t want a Tim Tam. No. The Chicken Crimpy represented so much more. The Chicken Crimpy represented time and how hard it sometimes is to do everything and be everything. Why do I always have to carry ALL the groceries from the car to the house? Why don’t I do this in a couple of trips? Why do I always say yes to everything and find myself over committed that I have no time to sit and fart and cut my toenails and look at YouTube? Why am I always carrying so many items that are awkward and misshapen?

So after my Chicken Crimpy meltdown, I tuned out of social media, turned off electronic devices, said yes to only two social outings for the week, caught up with my girlfriends, cut my toenails, read a book, hung out with my family without a phone stuck to my face, patted my dog, tended to my roses and cooked. It was heaven. It lasted a week.

Alfie and I were heading to Williamstown in the car. On our way to the beach to watch the boats, I stared at the Chicken Crimpy while waiting at a traffic light. I turned off at the car wash before reaching the sea and Alfie and I washed the car together. It was the best, we both got satched from the hoses. We laughed at the vacuum sucking up the sultanas, and when we found the banana, I giggled remembering the time I handed it to Alfie mid-car tantrum on a trip to the country.

We finished the epic car clean and continued to the beach. When we were back on the road I smiled at the clean car, sparkling and smelling like faded banana. I parked out the front of MY HOUSE and sat in the clean car for just a few minutes. The Chicken Crimpy remained on the clean dashboard. I kept it there to remind me that every now and then, I need to stop and smell the banana.

Mums and dads: Don’t forget to every now and then, Stop. Collaborate. And Listen. Find your inner Chicken Crimpy.

This post first appeared on Bubba West.

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.

Swimming

I work four days a week. Monday to Thursday. It’s busy, but I don’t mind. It’s life. We deal with it daily.

I can’t wait until Friday comes along though. I get to hang out with my son Alfie who has just turned 15 months old. He’s an absolute nugget. He’s built like a tank, eats like a teenager and has two speeds: on and off.

So come Friday, we head down to the local pool for swimming lessons. I love it. I get to catch up with a small group of parents and their kids. We laugh, we might occasionally swear and we do the same hokey-pokey / jelly on a plate / this is the way we wash our face routine every week. Brilliant. It’s the only routine Alfie and I have.

Last week I was in a bit of a frazzled state. My son didn't want a morning sleep so I was busy trying to play, pack a swimming bag (and we all know I’m not the greatest with this [Ed refer to Undies piece]), monitor the hyper dog and find my togs.

I couldn't find my swimming lesson togs – you know the ones, plain black, boring, racer back style, non statement, non bikini. I was running late as per usual, and the only pair of swimmers I could find were resort-wear style aka they were cheetah print with gold baubles down the front, low cut, halter neck and, god-forbid, sexy. Not appropriate.

I rock up to the pool, get in the water up to my shoulders hoping the gold baubles could hide under the waves. The lights kept reflecting off them. Eep. Another parent rocks up, a dad, he’s cool and I’m hoping he doesn’t notice. He does. I apologise for wearing inappropriate ‘sexy’ swimwear and make a joke about how I thought I could pick up the Friday dads by doing so. He looked uncomfortable and found a distraction.

The teacher rocks up. She’s great and we get along like sisters. She says: “Wow Ali, you’re heating up the pool today!” I’m red cheeked.

Alfie gets fidgety and starts playing with the gold baubles. My halter comes undone and my boob is flashed. I get panicky and hand Alfie to the teacher trying to do up my inappropriate resort suit. I’m dying.

We do the lesson. All the kids want to play with the baubles during hokey-pokey. I’m mortified. Boob pops out again.

The lesson ends and I stand with Alfie in the shower feeling self conscious in the cheetah print. He wants to walk everywhere so I walk him to the dreaded change room where the logistics always get tough. It’s bloody difficult trying to get a kid changed out of wet clothes into dry clothes while you are standing around in soaking cheetah lycra, freezing. I manage to get him changed and I give him a snack to distract him. I do that weird changing room change where you modestly try not to reveal anything.

I manage to get my underwear on and a t-shirt. Then I look around, Alfie has disappeared in the 20 seconds it took me to get my t-shirt over my fat head. I run out of the changing room and he is headed for the automatic doors. He gets through them and is running out onto the footpath. I run outside, wearing just a t-shirt and my undies and grab him and take him back inside. A truck beeps its horn.

Standing at the counter are the other parents looking at me, standing there holding my kid like a surfboard, pantless and cold.

I head back to the change room, put my pants on and grab the swimming bag. I go to leave and the teacher shouts to me over the top of the other parents: “Yo, cheetah. See you next week. Bring those togs again. And some pants. It all adds to the excitement around here.”

This post first appeared on Bubba West.

Pressure

I recently stopped myself during another hardcore clap-slash-high-kick-hip-shaking-sing-songy-wiggly-giggly dance move in front of the high chair.

What on earth was I doing?

I was dealing with pressure.

We are not talking about the pressure that comes with working in a busy press office that I deal with four days a week. We are not even talking about the pressure involved in creating an awesome PowerPoint presentation for important people using Microsoft two-thousand-and-still-no-idea. We are certainly not talking about the pressure involved with making VERY important decisions VERY quickly using other people’s budgets and money. And we are definitely not talking about the ‘just give me five seconds to do a wee’ pressure.