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Do I wash that gray right out of my hair?!

I'm going grey. I thought this was ok with me. It turns out it isn't.  After I had Miss 5, I noticed there were some white and silver bits of hair appearing on the old noggin.  I thought it was charming.  Fool.

Some 3 years ago, I made an outlandish (hindsight is 20/20) statement to the only person ON EARTH who would remember or care. Yes, I told The Groom that I thought folk who attempted to hide their age by dying their hair various shades of brown and black were RIDICULOUS. I made a vow, yes, a vow, that I would NEVER join their ranks. I would, so help me God, never dye my hair again.

Jesus, there are times when I would just shut the hell up. Flash forward to 2015, and I'm in a fair bit of deep shit on this one. It's been an unusually stressful couple of years. Like, really soul achingly, brain ouchy full on.  And, you know, the body can only take so much stress before it shows. In all manner of ways. Including...white and silver. As a gold girl, this is stressful on so many, many levels. I'm all metal clash. Now I just need add some rose gold into the equation, and I'm a goddam Russian wedding ring. Ripper.

So the question is, obviously, do I go back on my word and wash that nasty shit away with a bit of Clairol magic? Do I continue what appears to be a very freaking slippery slope into graydom? Is it grey or gray? Why is this happening to me? When will my pubes follow suit? I've already noticed some silver bastard hairs in my eyebrows. This can't be a good sign.

Fuck me and my outlandish statements, how old do I have to get before I learn to THINK before I speak?!?!?!

School Holiday Fun Times

Hello my friend!

It’s always so lovely to receive one of your emails, they are both informative and witty – as one ought to expect coming from a man possessing these same attributes.

All is travelling along nicely as we count down the days until school returns for the almost 8 year old and begins for the 6 year old, late in the week. We had a deliberately quiet start to the holidays, as both boys were utterly depleted after a full year of learning and growing. It really takes it out of them, the whole school thing. Pussies, really. We had grand plans for the second half of the holidays, however two unexpected events nipped that in the bud. The first was when, in an uncharacteristic outburst of physical output in the garden, I upset my spinal applecart, as it were, and ended up out of action for 4 days with something called a sacral shear. Look it up, you’ll recoil in horror. Imagine your sacrum is twisted so that it is likened to two wet panes of glass rubbing together, and you will start to get the idea. That will teach me for not strengthening my ab region after carrying three babies in 6 years. The swelling was unsightly. The spasming painful in ways that literally took my breath away. It was fucked up.

So I recover from that horror with strong support from my sister and mother, and put into action Operation Holiday Fun – Phase 1. This involved a treck down to the Home Town, staying a night at Mum’s and a night at my oldest and dearest friend’s house. You met her at the races. She wore grey. Anywho, the drive down was seamless which is no small thing given the car full of children, push bikes, luggage etc. I put in down to the built in DVD player that we wisely optioned up to when we purchased the Kluger a couple of years back. We only use it on trips of 2 hours or more, but sweet jesus it was worth it. We arrive in the Home Town at half past five, and decided to have a play in the local park for half an hour before making our way to Nana’s, as she is on her way home from work. As we pull up to said park, which features a skate bowl, wide open spaces and brand new play ground, I get a phone call from my a friend. You may recall her from my former life as my bestie, with whom I would go out and drink etc. So, she calls me to let me know that she has finally graduated from rehab, a first for her despite half a dozen previous attempts and several facilities. Obviously, this was joyous news, and I chatted with her for 15 minutes or so in between getting the bikes and scooters out of the car for my children and making my way over to the play ground with the 2 year old (a major swing fan). As I am winding up the chat, a figure appears in my periphery, and it turns out to be an old school chum. We hang out, her with her three sprogs and a ring in, me with mine, and we arrange to catch up for morning tea on Friday morn at our other friend's house, where we will be staying Thursday night.

So all good thus far. I drop the children off to Mum at 6, then head out and order pizza for everyone. A pleasant night is had by all.

I awake to the disconcerting awareness that my eyelids are itchy and swollen, and quickly diagnose a mozzie attack. I am not impressed. There are about 5 individual lumps on each eye. This does not make for a good look. As the day wears on, further “bites” emerge throughout my scalp, neck and ears (inside & out). I arrive at my friend’s sprawling family home scratching the living shite out of my general head area. We diagnose an errant flea. As the itching and burning worsens through the day into the evening, we investigate how one rids oneself of a flea in the scalp, and conclude the ol’ vinegar shampoo followed by a leave in vinegar rinse is the go. We apply these and feel very good about our aceness. Mum pops over in the evening with some antihistamine. She warns in an ominous tone that the raised itchy burning welts and lumps appear, to her, to be an allergic reaction rather than bites. I roll my eyes in typical daughter fashion. She leaves. I drink wine with friends and go to bed.

I awake to find the situation has, in fact, worsened significantly, and that the rash, as we will now call it, is appearing either side of my “fun bits”, down my arms, between my fun bags and further down my neck. I look like a right freak show, and scratch with unbridled abandon despite my friend's screeching in her best motherly screeching voice that I should stop. Mum, meanwhile, has made an appointment with a GP in Leongatha for me at midday. Our other friend arrives at around ten, and I make my apologies and leave for my appointment at half past eleven. The kindly old GP takes one look at me, asks me a few questions and then snickers that no flea ever made such a meal of a person, I have indeed had an allergic reaction to something and the “bites” are actually hives. Hot, burning, itchier than the itchiest itch EVER, hives. I had begun taking a dose of magnesium vitamin supplement in order to attempt to combat the severity of the PMS I had been experiencing. The dose suggested on the label was, specifically for PMS, take 3 x 150mg tablets daily. I had done so twice. This, in hindsight, exceeds the recommended safe dose for adults by some 200mg. To cut a long story short, the GP was right, I was wrong, my chiropractor agreed and I feel like a fucking imbecile. Our chiro explained that what I had, in fact, done, was to chelate my blood, and the hives, which had started to turn black in some areas, were actually pools of blood being pulled from deep inside my muscle tissue and organs. The only thing more traumatic, he continued to inform me, that I could have done to my blood system, would have been to got the blood transfusion option. Righto then.

It is taking a loooooooooong time for my body to right this massive imbalance, and I am getting the odd hive break out a couple of times a day but the severity is easy to cope with in comparison to a week ago. In between all of this was a visit from our mutual friends, which was lovely but marred by the discomfort I was in. Given the rareness of an audience with the wonderful red headed chum, however, there was no chance of my cancelling so it was a matter of suck it up, soldier on and drink plenty of wine in a vain hope of rendering myself numb. It didn’t work but I’d have been foolish not to give it a red hot go, I’m sure you agree.

So that’s been my couple of weeks. Fun, huh? The children are looking forward to getting back into the swing of real life, and I suspect equally looking forward to getting the fuck away from their cranky pants mother. Being vaguely handicapped and physically deformed by hives, it turns out, doesn’t really agree with my personality type, and I’ve behaved like a right fucking bitch. Something for them to serve up to the shrink when they reach that stage of life, obviously.

I must now away, my lovely friend, I trust that the days consisting of therapeutically painful foot rubs and the like wont drain you too much of your joie de vivre, you poor pet. Don’t know how you stand it, frankly. Rightio, off to the washing, change an arse and put a 2 year old to bed, wash the dishes AGAIN (did I mention that our dishwasher packed up? No? It did) and get stuck in to the ironing.

How to Dislike in These Politically Correct Times

Now, let it be said that I am almost without exception, a liker of people. I like that they are not all the same, that they opine - at times wildly and without actual thought - in a manner different to moi.  Or not that differently, if that example is anything to go by. I like that they wear different clothes, hair, make up, facial expressions. That they smell, feel and experience all things in their own way. I don't always agree with other people, sure, but it's all good.

So why is it, that every now and then, one comes across a person who immediately and without much provocation, one simply cannot abide? Let's just say, for example, you meet a person via your local school, as often happens. For all intents and purposes, another of the sisterhood doing the best she can by her offspring and those in her world. Except that she pisses you riiiiiight off. It's nothing that one of your friends hasn't said before, but somehow, it gets stuck in your craw. In fact, you may not have even known that you HAD a craw, prior to this interaction.

And don't misunderstand, I am friends, close friends, with many people who are, frankly, not very nice. Not you obviously. But a handful of my other pals. You know, they are persnickety, they do not like other humans and tell you all about it, they are alcoholics, they despise small children AND animals and are very rich. I put that last bit in so you would know for sure I wasn't referring to you, so get over yourself.

So clearly, pricks don't bother me. So why, WHY does this chick? I don't really care enough to put it to her and hash out the whys and wherefores. No, as well as having bits stuck in my craw thanks to this...person, I also have apathy. So, I kind of care that I don't care, but not enough to actually care, you know what I mean? Maybe she reminds me of myself? Actually, that may be true, so I'm going now, that just made me puke a little in my mouth and I still have to feed and bathe the cherubs. Need my energy for the people I love but at times do not like, especially when they are kicking me in the tummy while I attempt to put a poop catcher on them.



The Nothing That I Do

So the day prior to Mother's Day, our annual celebration of mothers an all that we do, The Groom and I had a "heated discussion" regarding what, if anything, I actually DO all day. The poor pet drives to work and back each day, suffering through countless meetings, luncheons and time spent on the computer. I don't know how he does it, but bless him, he just keeps on trucking so that we can continue living in the manner to which we have become accustomed. He has recently become interested, nay, suspicious, about how it is that I have come to know what goes on in television shows such as Young & The Restless, The Real Housewives of New York and various other distracting programs that provide blessed relief from the drudge as I dare to sit while shoveling food into my mouth.

At the conclusion of our "discussion", The Groom requested that I provide minute by minute accounts of my day, and suggested that I spend the day at his place of employ while he undertook domestic duties. After spending the most miserable mothers day EVER home in our second living area flicking through 900 television stations from dawn until dusk, Monday was finally upon us. He left the homestead to knuckle down to his work, leaving me to dither about doing, well, nothing, allegedly.

After burning my throat on scalding hot coffee and swallowing whole two pieces of toast, I made the 7 year old's lunch for his school day. Cracking the whip that gets him dressed in his uniform, fed, teeth brushed, bag packed, readers marked off, I load the three darlings into the car and hoon off to school, getting him there on time. I return home thereafter, surveying the post-mother's day "I am not doing one stitch of housework today" disaster that awaits. Where to begin? I decide to tackle the linen cupboard, so that I can fit the towels, doona covers, sheets, towels etc that belong in there, in there. I take out the napkins and put them on the kitchen table, awaiting my attention for the next task. Linen cupboard complete, I get to the hutch. As part of my Year of the De clutter, and have determined that we shall reduce ourselves to only one single junk draw in the house, rather than seven that we currently have. I am 3/4 of the way through this transition. The next phase, Operation Hutch Draw, is upon me.

I take out both draws, removing an unfathomable amount of what can only be described as crap. Old birthday cards, receipts, drawing pins, instruction manual for a chainsaw, badge making kit, batteries (flat?working?whothefuckknows), bits of stuff, and things. I reallocate a small amount of these items to their rightful homes, throw most of it in the bin and marvel at how much space I know have. One draw is not home to the aforementioned cloth napkins & place mats, the other houses envelopes, pens, batteries (in a snazzy battery storage container that really has to be viewed to be fully appreciated - thanks Howard's Storage World, how I love thee).

I sense that it may now be a good time to shower, after catching a whiff of what can only be described as "something yucky" coming from my person. I get the baby a bottle of milk, feed it to her while watching 7 minutes of television, and put her into her cot. She screams, thrashes, throws her dummy and stands up, suggesting that perhaps she does not wish to comply. I really want that shower, however, so I force the dummy back into her resistant mouth. She then lays down and immediately closes her eyes, as though she had just been waiting for me to do this the whole time. I resist the urge to pull her hair.

I tell the 5 year old that I will be in the shower, and to keep up the non-baby end of the house as said baby is asleep. I get into the shower, wash all relevant bits, and then set about Enjoing the shower. I'd like to report that I get a certain thrill as I scrub down tile and grout, the micro fibre revealing whiteness where there had moments ago been orange grunge. But I don't. The 5 year old enters, expressing his utter boredom. He then sets up camp in the bathroom, watching me as I finish the cleaning phase, alight from the shower, and dry off. I dress while fielding questions pertaining to the difference between menstrual pads and nappies, and set about cleaning the basins and bench. It is then that the 5 year old leaves the room momentarily for god knows what. Upon his return, he thunders up the hallway, waking the baby and shattering any illusion that I had pertaining to doing anything else in peace and unencumbered.

In the meantime I have loaded the dryer and washing machine with loads and fielded countless questions from the 5 year old, and had my leg taken hostage by the 16 month old, who clings to it like a cute but unwelcome tumour. Having completed a task, I note that it is lunch time. The 5 year old asks me to do some craft with him, and in my attempt to avoid more motherguilt at neglecting his needs, I pull out the beedos from the craft cupboard. We sort colours, and off we go. We both forgot how annoying beedos are, the small balls REFUSING to stay in place and fucking up the design that we have worked tirelessly to emulate. Both of us make comment on our feelings of irritation, and plow on. I end up finishing the project for him, and he gets to spray the lot with water, which is all he really wanted to do in the first place.

I make the 5 year old a sandwich and defrost some minestrone soup brimming with vegetables for the baby. He eats his, she all but instructs me to go practice procreating. She shits me. I clean up the kitchen, including the beaters, bowls etc that made my Mother's Day gift, two self saucing puddings, one chocolate, one sticky date with butterscotch sauce. The irony is not lost.

Kitchen gleaming, I get myself some lunch and scoff it down while sitting on the couch watching  a 10 minute snippet of Young & The Restless. The offspring clamber all over me during this time, attempting to get my food, pat my head, fleece me of the remote and ask me to bake some biscuits. Having completed the eating lunch portion of my day, I place my bowl in sink, and decide to give myself a full hour lunch break so that I can blog about my happy day doing Nothing. I am now off to attempt to feed the baby her lunch again, as she is whining and chewing on a Mr Men book while crawling around with a photo of her 5 year old brother. A multi-tasker already, bless.

I feel SO RESTED, I may just go and skip through the yard in search of any outdoor chores that may require attention...if not for the beds that need making, lounge that needs a good tidy, clothes that need ironing...

Ahhh, the holidays...

Well, what a lovely holiday we're having here at the Homestead. First, we have a massive lice outbreak, featuring largely in the head of our 7 year old. I removed at least 40, yes FORTY live adults from his scone in one sitting after he wouldn't go to sleep the first night of our holidays and I noticed him scratch his head. Next morning, I checked the 5 year old. Thankfully, he only had 2. I had 1. The baby and the groom, 0. I have been raking our hair and scalp with a lice comb twice daily ever since, and while I can safely say that none of us have lice, nits or flakes of any kind, we are all but bald. Small price to pay, methinks.

Next stop, Hand, Foot & Mouth Disease. I think it's the "Disease" portion that makes me feel so blah. The 5 year old presented with what looked like some small bites or pimples on his wrist and hand not long after we had had a play date at, you guessed it, a play centre. We had avoided most icky childhood diseases at until now, due to my children throwing pink fits when I had attempted to introduce them to a few hours of childcare in the past. Most kids I know who have broken out in HFMD, lice, the delightfully named Slapface, had contracted these from creche and the like where many small mouths, hands and snot purveyors carouse.  Well, now it seems I am attempting to fit all of these in on the one two week break.  Any small semblance of smugness I had regarding my children avoiding such illness' has now been eradicated.

The poor baby,meanwhile, is not so lucky as to have come down with only a mild case. She is covered in blisters, around and most likely in her mouth, on both the tops and soles of her feet, palms and tops of her hands, all over her nappy region and would you believe, her knees. Poor moppet barely knows what to do with herself. She really just wants to be cuddled by yours truly for a good part of the day, however given the Groom has just unexpectedly and somewhat miraculously installed shelves into our wardrobes, I am obsessed with rearranging our bedroom. Not very conducive to lap time, that. I must be content with being one third of the way through my bedroom re-vamp revolution, and try not to resent the needs of the Blistered One. I'm sure if she could only grasp the excitement that I feel at the prospect of buying baskets for the new shelves - creating a system of neatness as yet unseen in this house - she would forgo her whining and neediness.

So, think of me fondly, wont you, as those of you with school & kinder aged offspring gallivant about the place, signing up for Bunnings workshops, taking your kids swimming to the local indoor pool, and many other such fun school holiday type activities. No really, we're fine here under lock down conditions, can't have us passing anything on to the rest of you, can we? Happy freaking Easter.



Angry Bird

If you'd wandered into my home a 1/2 an hour ago, you would have witnessed a five foot five mixed breed former country chick apoplectic with rage. Those of you who knew me in my younger years may not quite be quaking with shock at this revelation. These days, however, I have mostly overcome my natural bent at displaying mind-blowing anger over the little things that life doth present on a regular basis. Today, I regressed, and then some.

Having only last night received my loving spouse home from a 4 day interstate business trip, one could be forgiven for expecting something from the "nice" spectrum to be pumping through my veins. Alas, this is not to be. Said 4 days spent sans husbandly support with a teething 15 month old, belligerent 5 year old and worn out 7 year old left me a touch irritable.  Coupled with what one suspects is a savage case of PMS, the results are less than happy.

What, then, possessed me to climb up on top of a dining chair, replete with two foam mattress inserts for extra height, attempting to drill a battery powered flying Airbus A380 to the ceilings of my two male spawn? I put it down to Mother Guilt. After displaying Angry Mother characteristics for a couple of days, I was keen to provide a gesture of niceness to my sons. It began pleasantly enough. I got the cordless drill from the laundry, and told my youngest son that he could hook the plane on when the base was drilled in. Easy peasey, Japanesey. Ever tried drilling teeny tiny screws while standing on a dining chair upside down with a spastic left hand due to a childhood accident involving glass?!?! Yeah, well I have, and I am telling you, the rage was almost justified.

As my fairly useless left hand began cramping up under the strain of holding the smallest screws even produced straight so that drilling could commence, I felt the molten lava of rage ascend from the pit of my premenstrually rounded stomach. I attempted some Nancy-Boy "self talk" as prescribed by many and various so-called mental health professionals. Bastards. After my twelfth attempt, when the screw popped out of my gnarled digits and bounced onto the floor, I could contain myself no more. The sound I emitted was both loud and primal. My five year old was advised with as much calm as I could muster that leaving the room and popping on some cartoons may now be a good option. For a kid whose general response to my suggestions is to defy me, I must say I was impressed by the speed with which he staged his exit. That would be the survival instinct shining through, I suppose.

I came down from my rickety position atop the chair loaded with height-giving cushions, and located the all important miniature screw. I called it very bad words. Words starting with "C". And no, not crap. Determination to assuage my Mother Guilt was strong in me, however, and thus I would not rest until the goddamn Airbus A380, $25 from your local airport, was whizzing around in a wizzy circle from ceilings of both of my lads.

Dear Reader, I am pleased to report that I achieved this goal. I roared. I cried. I kicked inanimate objects. I stomped my feet like a pissy 3 year old not allowed to chew gum while my older sibling gleefully blew bubbles in my face. Frustration, lack of co-ordination and hands weakened by childhood tendon damage were no match for my need to follow through on my promise to my sons. The goddamn planes are attached firmly with all three screws, and spinning gleefully with no place to go, and no hope of landing. Excuse me now, wont you, while I go and stuff my face with chocolate, shortbread and the odd nip of gin, I need self medicating STAT!