Social Truths

It started with homemade pesto. 

My son Alfie and I had collected, well I collected while he yanked, the delicate spicy smelling leaves off the plant in our front garden. I smashed the greenery together with some pinenuts, some parmesan, some olive oil and whizzed it around in the food processor. Then I gracefully heaped a few spoonfuls in with some cooked pasta and put a warm bowl down on the table next to a Lightning McQueen cup.

My kid ate it all and asked for seconds. I posted a heavily filtered pic of the pasta dish on Instagram and shared it on my blog. I’m a champion.

But actually I’m not. I failed to mention that my son had ONLY been eating pesto pasta or ‘green pasta’ as he likes to call it, for almost two weeks. Straight. He refuses to eat anything else except apples. Whatever. But I didn’t mention that.

This is the absolute joy of social media isn’t it? It hides all of our secrets. And we all know that we have those little secrets, no matter what your social media pages say.

I’m ready to come clean. Remove myself of the guilt.  Shake it all off Taylor Swift style. Reveal it all in the hope that someone else comes clean or throws shit at my car.

Ok. Here goes.

•          My three year old can ride a bike with pedals like a champion but still wears a nappy and has a dummy.
•          I bribed my son with a jelly snake last Saturday night to get him to get in the car in his pyjamas so I could go to the shop to buy chocolate. My hubby was working and it was the only way. I was desperate.
•          I lie to my husband saying that I have diarrhea and secretly play Tetris on my phone in the toilet.
•          I hide snacks in my house.
•          Sometimes I rummage through the Lost and Found box at daycare to see if there is anything good that has been left behind.
•          I choose new Lego based on my own capabilities and enjoyment, not on my son’s.
•          I’m still wearing maternity leggings. And there’s a hole in the crutch. And I need to throw them out. Tomorrow.
•          There’s fish fingers in my freezer and sometimes I wedge a few in a white bread roll with mayo and eat pretending I’m hungover so I can whisper to myself that it is a ‘one off’ and that I will never do it again.
•          I had a skiddie on my pants from my kid and didn’t realise it until 11am when I was at work. I cleaned it up with a wet paper towel in the work bathroom.
•          My kid farts and I think it’s funny, so I laugh. I know this is not what I’m meant to do, but I can’t help it. It’s funny.
•          I like to dress like a toddler.
•          I let my son watch Jurassic Park and it was the worst decision of my life (I forgot how scary that movie is). I didn’t tell anyone in case they judged me for being a bad uncaring mum, which I was for letting my 3 year old kid watch that film.
•          My son was yelled at by another mum in the park for kicking sand. I was too busy hanging with my mum pack to notice, but turned when I heard her yelling and calling him a brat. I called my son away quickly and stopped him from kicking sand but secretly wanted to pick a fight with this lady, which would not have helped the situation whatsoever (I would, however, have had my mum pack back me up).
•          I was once so tired I put the film Cars on for my son while I dozed on the couch, ever since this day I’ve had a creepy fascination with Owen Wilson and his purring voice.
•          My son is three and cries for his dummy.
•          I cried during the film 27 Dresses a few nights ago. It had been a tough day that seemed to never end. It started with the bmx track at 7.30am and ended with a nudie run through the house where my kid slipped and scored a giant egg on his head. I don’t know what made me cry more during the film – my parenting skills, James Marsden’s inaccessible self or simply the out of reach love scene, so far removed from my house complete with a dog walking around with a pair of jocks caught in his collar, that just made me bawl into my lukewarm beer. But fuck it felt good.
•          My kid drinks more milk than a potty calf. I’m sure it’s an addiction.
•          Sometimes I pretend to cry when my kid is too rough so I can get a cuddle.
•          Sometimes I pretend as though I’m three and it’s so much fun.  Sometimes Alfie and I call each other ‘best friends’. Then I realise I’ve got to be a responsible parent and I stop building the ramp that was to be used as a bike jump.

That’s just the surface. I’d love to hear your secrets. Or maybe you just want to check out my pesto recipes. 

Whatever you do, keep it real.

Peace.

Ali

This story first appeared in BubbaWest magazine. Since I wrote this over a month or two ago, I have to totally come clean and say that MY SON NOW WEARS UNDIES AND DOES WEE AND POO IN A TOILET NOT BEHIND A CURTAIN.

Thank you. 

Creepy, kooky and Krooked Kebabs: Ali Webb's Friday night

Hell. I'm so creepy.

I've just spent the last hour creepily stalking these two blogs, both of which delve inside people's houses and the spaces they live in.

It's Friday night and my kid went to bed at 9pm. I've just smashed a block  of Kit Kat chocolate whilst wearing a Hello Kitty nightie and I shed a tear watching Notting Hill on Seven (it followed Better Homes and Gardens - classic Friday). I'm thinking back to the days pre-child when I'd be sinking beers with a mate somewhere, probably in some laneway in the city and on my way home in a taxi, I'd stop by Krooked Kebabs, a crusty caravan of meat horrors on the corner of Francis & Willy Road (no longer there thanks to health standards) and grab myself a falafel.

Random boat in the bathroom sink

To be honest, I kind of prefer the Hello Kitty and Notting Hill nights a little more. Staying in on Friday night is great. The books and magazines are one thing, but the blogs... wow, I'm like a professional creepy stalker person who reads blogs on Friday night.

I love it sick.

Local lass Narelle Dunn of Someone Who Lives Here blog has recently started a rad project taking camera phone pics of houses. I love that they're not styled pics, just awesome snaps of real life spaces: wet towels on the ground, jocks on the floor, cups half filled with milk sitting on a bedside table. I love it sick.

I'm a massive sucker for the sensational pics of Bri Hammond of Sharehomes project who sneaks into share houses filled with superbly artistic (and way so much cooler than me) people and takes photos of their space. Love. It. Sick.

Thank fuck there's some ace people out there who can make you feel normal. Our home space is normal - the day after our cleaner comes, we tip toe around trying our darnedest not to wreck or dirty anything. This lasts about 12 minutes, and then, our house is trashed and filled with dog hair, mud, wee on the floor and beard hair (seriously, why can't hubby trim  the day BEFORE the cleaner comes?)

I've been privy to seeing those fully styled photos of kid's bedrooms - you know those spaces... a place where the word 'skid mark' would not have even been whispered. Decals on clean white walls shouting words like 'Life is beautiful' unlike our special 'art wall' which is where we showcase Alfie's paintings, gallery style (the art also hides the brown stain of a poo smear which spelled 'REDRUM' - well almost).

Random Paw Patrol undies in the hallway

Our house is filled with second hand treats. Alfie and I love scouring the local op shops for toys and books and clothes. The local Buy, Swap, Sell group offers so many treasures that it's sometimes so hard to resist and being garage sale season, far out... it's all just too much.

Dancing pantless while Cheef Dog eats off the kitchen floor

So while our house might not look like a Freedom catalogue filled with neon pops and chevron designs, I love walking into our space every freaking day and seeing all the little bits and pieces that we have chosen to make our pad a really ace home.

Every space is a trampoline

Tomorrow is Saturday which means a day of adventure to the country or the coast. I'm already excited about the bric-a-brac stores we will discover on the way. If we don't find anything, then a classic jelly slice will do.

Hope you have a jelly-slice-creeping-on-everything-nice weekend.


Ali xx

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.

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.

Undies

I’m well rehearsed in the act of taking day care calls at work. You know the ones: Your son has hit his head, he has an egg. Your son has been

bitten, he is missing half his ear. Your son won’t settle when he’s wearing pants, are you ok if he goes pantless for the afternoon? Yep, all fine.

However recently, I was hit with a doozy.

Day care: “Hey Ali, ummm… did you pack Alfie’s bag this morning?”

Me: “Sure did. What did I forget?”

Day care: “So there’s a pair of men’s undies in Alfie’s bag, but no

t-shirt.”

Me: “Fuck. Ok. Can he wear the undies as a t-shirt?”

Day care: “Probably not, because that would be inappropriate. Don’t worry, we can find something in lost property for him to wear.”