nothing knocks that new car smell out quite like projectile vomit..

vomit If any of you follow me on facebook, (ok, so you all do, that’s why you’re reading this right?) you will already be aware that yes, I did just purchase a shiny new car yesterday. Not only did I purchase said car, but I fell in love with it the minute I saw it. I love this car like my own children. And on really bad days I will love this car even more than I do right now for the simple fact that I can get in it, and drive AWAY from my children, my husband, and my perpetually messy home. Anyhoo, I digress. So the day came to collect my new car, an hour and a half drive in peak hour, gridlocked traffic, two children who despise and form of road trip that lasts longer than the drive to our nearest McDonalds, and a busted car dvd player, all made for a wonderful late afternoon family drive. Needless to say, we arrived unscathed and it seemed for once I was going to be able to present my children to the general public without being asked to leave a certain place of business for some reason or another. (usually happens at least once a week)

Well I was wrong.

Firstly, let me give you a little back story on the kid in question. Adorable child, very friendly, love him more than words can say. But this child has the uncanny ability to go from bouncing off the walls to vomiting in his mothers mouth as she picks him up, in literally 2 minutes. I mean, when he gets sick, there is no warning, no fever, none of the ‘normal’ signs that he’s about to paint your living room with diarhorreah, vomit and snot simultaneously. Nothing. It just happens.

So we have arrived, and as we pull up I turned and give them all ‘That Look’, you know, the one that means ‘please, for the love of god, just once, do not fart in any new cars and get out and shut the door, do not wipe snot on anything, do not pick your nose and ask the salesman if he wants to taste it, do not drop your pants in public and pee on the grass’ do not poo your pants, dig in your nappy and wipe it on anything (see previous post), and so on and so on. (all the usual warnings for my boys) Assured that they have all taken ‘The Look’ into account, we walked in. Literally two steps into this car yard I happened to notice Mr 3 had turned a peculiar shade of green (it really complimented his red hair) his little cheeks had puffed out, and he had started furiously shaking his head. ‘no no nooooooo’ I moaned and I must have sounded like a laboring cow because my husband turned with a horrified look on his face and started jogging towards us which in turn prompted Mr 3 to turn and run in the other direction.

‘NO CHILD DON’T RUN, DON’T RUUUUUUNNNN, HOLD IT IN HOLD IT IIIIINNNNNNNNN!’

too late. as he ran he swiveled from side to side, spraying every car he passed with what seemed like 4 bags of twisties (yep..the orange ones) and with every target he hit he kept going, circling this car yard, spreading his ‘joy’ and by now every person in that place had stopped to stare. My husband and I are doing that crouch run ( you know the one you use to catch a speedy preschooler who corners better than you because they are lower to the ground?) round and round this car yard, with Mr 2 following, thinking we were playing, ( why, child, would you think mama wants to play catch in the middle of a busy car yard while your brother redecorates?) cackling histerically at the top of his lungs. We couldn’t catch the kid. He just kept going, zigzagging around until finally after a good five minutes of this, he ran up to me, wiped his face on my new leather leggings, smiled and said ” I feel muuuuuch bedda now mumma”

Really child? do you? well that’s JUST FREAKIN GREAT ISN’T IT??!! ( I didn’t really say this but I wanted to scream it, well actually, I wanted to climb inside one of those cars and cry)

And still no one came to offer any assistance. Every other time I have gone to a car yard, I have been swarmed by salesman, but strangely not this time. I was guessing the fact that my son had just defiled at least 15 cars, and we were all dripping with orange half chewed vomit, was a bit of a turn off. Meh..who knew?

So, boring details aside, my shiny new car was in my hot little hands and Mr 2 and Mr 3 had requested we change their car seats so they could ride in it with me. ‘Sure!’ said hubby, smirking at me. Second mistake.

Now Mr 3 assured me he was feeling ‘much bedda’ so we have piled in and set off. By this time, peak hour traffic had begun, it was Thursday afternoon, with Good Friday being the very next day so you can imagine the sinking feeling I got when, stuck in a line of at least 50 cars, all at a standstill, Mr 3 once again went that gorgeous shade of green, puffed his cheeks… and blew chunks all through my new car.

“NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO CHILD NOOOOOOOOO!!!”

I couldn’t move, I was on a freeway, my kid had spread what I thought was the rest of his stomach lining through my car, and I couldn’t move. Mr 2 was now hysterically giggling and mimicking his brother. ‘Mama he went bleugh mama, he went BLEAUGHHHHH like that mama’ The sickie in question had then started freaking out ( you know when they are so violently sick they scare themselves?) and was now flailing wildly, still erupting like some disgusting orange coloured fountain. He had sprayed his brother, had launched a liquid attack on the back of MY head, he had sprayed the windows, he had it all through my nice new power window buttons, the upholstery was saturated, the car reeked of it and here I am, not an emergency lane in site,, hanging out the window screaming ‘EMERGENCYYYYYY THIS IS A FRICKEN EMERGENCYYYYY HEEELLLLP MEEEEEEE!!!! MY CAAAARRRRRRRRRRRR!!!” tears streaming from my face, one kid crying, the other one still yelling “He went BLEAUGHHHH Mama, BLEUGHHHH!!”, other cars beeping and laughing at us, pointing like we were some kind of freakin tourist attraction, doin 15 kmph, unable to do a damn thing, and I look up… and there is my husband, in the lane beside me, PI**ING himself laughing, like really cracking up, and waving!!! ‘Hi guys..everything ok?? ( WTF!!!???)

WHAT AN A**HOLE.

I was a broken woman. My car stunk, my kids stunk, we were all crusted with dry pre chewed twisties and Ben 10 juice, I had done the ugly cry,..in fact, 2 hours later by the time we made it out of the gridlocked traffic, we had ALL done the ugly cry, the second child had finally succumbed and emptied his stomach contents in my new car also, ( can’t beat ’em join ’em right? ) we pulled into the driveway, hubby was already home, he opened the door grinning his a** off and said the last thing he probably should have if he valued his nuts at all..

“Did you stop for beers??”

no honey you’re not fat..just chase this frisbee a little

runHas anyone ever fallen victim to what I like to call ‘no honey, your weight is fine, just chase that frisbee will you?’ In a moment of clarity one can only have whilst standing on their bathroom scales at 6 am, it has dawned on me that I have indeed fallen for that very trick myself, that my husband has been sneakily swindling me for the last two weeks, under the guise of ‘good, active, family fun.’
Now, usually I prefer to live in sweet, chocolate covered, denial about my weight, but in the last couple of weeks my own personal aging process is becoming more and more apparent,( my husband turning into one of those bobble heads you get for your car anytime a good looking woman passes him doesn’t help) so ive embarked on yet another boring diet that seems as if i’m eating nothing but cardboard and air. Most of the time I bomb out with these diets, I have the self control of a toddler, and portion control, to me, usually means only half the tub of ice cream with that Twighlight movie, but this time it seemed like I was getting there. I was actually losing a little weight! Surely I could celebrate with a box of shapes and a tub of French onion dip couldn’t I? oh wait.. HALF a box of shapes and a tub of LIGHT dip.. (portion control woman, portion control) So anyway, Im standing on the scales, and my husband rolls past, shirt off, not an inch of ‘extra padding’ on him, smirks at me and says ” I knew all that running round the oval would help..i got you exercising and you didn’t even know it”

Wait. What??!

The last two weeks flashed back through my mind. Every afternoon and each weekend, hubby has been suggesting that the kids and I head down the local oval, footballs, soccer balls and Frisbees in tow. “What a great idea, what a sweet man to want to spend time with his family like this.” Off I trotted, happily frolicking with the kids around the park, leaping the dog turds with the light footed grace of a ballet dancer,(seriously people, pooper scooper already) enjoying the sunshine and praising my husband for my children’s exceptional sporting skills, because any natural talent they inherited for anything sporting or slightly physical, surely came from their father. I was puffing and blowing like a thoroughbred on cup day, you know, from all the turd leaping, and was heading off for a ‘sit down’ when hubby has ever so sweetly tossed a Frisbee in my direction. And so began our afternoon ritual of Frisbee. Or ‘lets see how much he can get me running before i go down gasping like a drowning rat'(ok, so i’m not the fittest of women) I ran and ran and ran chasing that damn Frisbee ( how can this man who once played elite, national level sport have such a s**t aim???!! ) Each time it would go sailing past my outstretched arms and I would run. Back and forth like this for days..it got to the point where I even started instructing dear husband how to throw said Frisbee correctly, flicking ones wrist ‘just so’, claiming my impending heart failure was surely a good reason to learn to throw properly. To no avail. My althetic, fit, and highly coordinated husband continued to drastically fail at a basic skill that our 3 year old had mastered by then, ( this man defends our country, but cannot throw a damn Frisbee?? wrong! but how dumb was I not to pick up on it? ) and I continued to barely keep from blacking out each afternoon. Two weeks of this passed and as I stepped on the scales, all I could attribute my weight loss to was my absolutely awesome dieting skilLs. Apparently I was wrong.

WHAT. AN. A***HOLE!

I felt like smacking him right in his smirking face. Like, really flogging him. I really did.
But it worked right? God I hate it when he does something that really pi**es me off, and it works.
Never tell a man they are right though..never. Especially your husband. You will never live it down.
So that afternoon at the park once more with my sweetheart, I smiled sweetly, said ‘catch honey’ and threw that damn Frisbee as hard as I could right into his grinning face. That’ll learn him.

So for all you ladies out there..if your husband or partner ever claims athletic incompetence, which has been now proven to be a cunning scam, remember this story, walk away, find yourself some wine and some chocolate and screw the diet.

no son, you weren’t meant to see mama giving you the finger

(not my kid)

(not my kid)


So as the title of this whinge..ahem, post… suggests, sometimes I am guilty of being THAT mother who sometimes is spiteful enough to flip her 3 year old, or both of them for that matter, the bird, (when their not looking, of course) Yes it’s childish, and no it does not set a great example, but it sure does make me feel good and laugh a little. We have all been there, spent what seems like 37 hours straight disciplining, made a thousand trips to the time out step, spent all day threatening ‘hard room time’ and taken away every toy they own until the top shelf of your closet looks like a ToyWorld warehouse, and still they continue to laugh in your face. Now, I know we, as parents are all supposed to be pillars of morality, and practice what we preach (and so on and so on, you know the drill) but the truth is there are times when I’m not, and times when I don’t. Sometimes, i’ve exhausted every possible parenting technique that Super Nannny has to offer me, the kids are STILL trying to choke each other with the chords on their toy phone (yes they have landlines) and I feel like pitching a fit.Now, I’m not immune to the occasional tantrum, but in this instance my immaturity took the form of waiting until my backchatting 3 year old had turned his back, and I did it. I sunk to THAT point, I stuck my tongue out and gave my own son the finger. Was I proud? No. But, strangely it did feel a little satisfying. That is, until he spun on me mid gesture. Now to most people this would be ok, but both my sons seem to be intellectual freaks who will pick up on something if it is done in front of them in just one instance. ‘Pretend you didn’t do it’ I told myself ‘Just like when Mum used to catch you doing it to her, pretend you were scratching something.’ So that’s what I did. To no avail. Mr 3 then spent the whole afternoon teaching Mr 2 how to manipulate his fingers ‘just so’ and then both would stand at the window waiting for people to walk past our house (I didn’t dare take them out) and simultaneously flip the bird at anyone who looked. Some thought it was funny, but we live in a neighourhood with quite a lot of elderly walkers and most just seemed disgusted. ‘Now we are THOSE people with THOSE kids, great just great, I only did it once, how do these kids learn THAT so quickly, but the word ‘No’ means nothing after hearing it possibly 375,000 times in their lives.’ So their ‘greeting of the neighbourhood walkers’ continued, and I wondered what I could do about it. Can I really discipline them for something I unwittingly taught them? Well..here’s where the fun of being the parent comes into it. Yes, yes I could, and pass it off under the ol’ ‘do as I ask not as I do rule’..right??? Wrong. See, as I mentioned before, my boys seem to be intellectual freaks who apparently have learned their mothers highly coveted skill of justifying their every action, right or wrong, by claiming precedent. So, as I was politely explaining to the little cherubic angels that no matter how big the smile on their face and no matter how cute they were, that it was very very rude to give our new neighbours the finger, that they didn’t like it at all, even if you waved too, Mr 3 (quickly echoed by MR 2) came out with the words every mother dreads hearing.

BUT.YOU.DID.IT.MAMA

the juice..it’s like crack to them.

 

Image So recently my husband and I have noticed our boys are becoming addicted to apple juice, of all things. Now usually I’m pretty anal about their intake of ‘crap’ but they seem to have this way of getting you to give them things without you even noticing, say.. while on the phone for instance. (The Ferals are experts at taking advantage of a distracted Mama) Anyway.. I was asked quite politely one day by Mr 3 for yet another glass of juice ‘No honey, you may not have anymore juice’ I said, expecting him to just accept this and walk on. (Although if someone said to me ‘No you may not have another alcoholic beverage on this warmest of Friday afternoon’s, im certain my reaction would be the same as his) He did not just walk on by. He looked me square in the eye, clenched his midget fists,  turned bright red, and threw himself down, arms flailing, legs kicking and spit flying. ‘HELLLLLLLP MEEEEEEEE, HEEEELLLLLLPPP MEEEEEE MAMAAAAAAA!!! OHHHH WHY WONT YOU HEEELLLP MEEEEE!’ ( bear in mind he was asking for juice, not for me to save him from an attacking animal) He was shrieking and writhing on the floor of our kitchen for a good 5 minutes while I stood there doing everything I could not to laugh, and then suddenly he stopped and stood up, wiping his snot covered face on the legs of my jeans, (nice son, real nice) sucking back a line of drool,  and said once again ‘ Please Mama may I have some juice?’ ‘ Uh..no child you may not have some juice, but lovely manners, thankyou.’ Once again, his sweet little face turned an alarming shade of red and he screamed at the top of his lungs for his brother to join him ( i’m guessing he were assuming safety in numbers or perhaps that many tiny fists of fury make for more juice..i don’t know) so Mr 2 comes charging into the kitchen like a pissed off garden gnome, apparently ready to fight me, and Mr 3 prattles of a stream of what I could only assume was a run down of what I was not allowing them to do. Now I had two of them screeching like banshees and writhing on the floor. God knows what my neighbours thought ( sometimes im afraid to show my face) so I let it carry on for a while, enjoying their theatrical display, and then they turned on each other! The youngest (who is the heavier of the two) had the oldest by the hair and was attempting to smash his brothers face into the kitchen cupboard. The eldest was kicking and flailing and screeching while trying to bite his brothers feet. I saw toys being used as weapons, alphabet fridge magnets were flying every where, teatowels were ripped down and shoved in tiny faces, the bottom shelf of the pantry was completely taken out, a bundle of white hot preschooler hormones was whirling through the kitchen and all I could do was stand there smirking. Well… i’m sure im not the only one who secretly enjoys it when the tables turn am I? Im not the type to smack my kids ever, but sometimes they drive me nuts, and yes I do get a little smug satification out of watching a miniature riot go wrong 🙂 so, being a horrible mother, I let this fight continue, as they were giving as good as the got, and eventually it ended, they were crying, exhausted and needed a cuddle from their mama after some time out. I scooped em up, took each to their room, let them cool down, snuck into my room and pi***d myself laughing for a good 3 minutes, pulled myself together and set them free. Mr 3 apolOgised to me for sicking his brother onto me, Mr 2 apologised to his brother for beating him with a letter P fridge magnet, they both cleaned up their mess in the kitchen, held hands, smiled sweetly and said ‘ Please Mama, can we have some juice now??’

ARE YOU FREAKIN KIDDING ME???!!!!

the illusive and ill fated ‘date night’

ellie_ugly_3_1_-457x298so my first date night since I was married loomed. in fact, it was my first date night in 2 years, and I was more excited than a pre pubescent girl waiting for a Justin Bieber concert. I was prepped and plucked within an inch of my life. ‘Lets go one step further and get a spray tan and a brazillian wax’ First mistake. ( why in god’s name, woman, would you do that for a date with your husband…you have kids.. HE’S SEEN YOU NAKED!!!’ ) needless to say.. the deed was done.. I was booked in. I arrived at said beauty salon awaiting perfectionisation ( yes I made that a word) and took a stretch on the bed that was so professionally pointed out to me as a place to relax. ( sure, if you don’t mind calling lying with your legs spread awaiting another woman to pour hot liquid on your most private areas ‘relaxing’ ) so I’ve taken my place, sans pants, not sure what to do, and ended up twiddling my thumbs, I must have looked like an idiot.. anyhow, my most professional of beauty therapists woked her ‘quite painful magic’ and I thought all was well until I realized everything below my waist was ON FIRE!!!’ then came my spray tan ( as if I wasn’t feeling like icing my genitals and crawling into a hole) ‘Stand with your amrs up and legs spread ( what??!! again??!! ) this will feel a little cold ( ahh..relief!) again..my beauty therapist worked her magic and I felt ok leaving the salon. Then I got home and had a look in my ‘real mirror” (ladies, you know what I mean) Blistered ‘bits’ uneven smudged tan, I wasn’t impressed but I could deal.. some attempt at beautification was better than none right?..as long as I stayed in the dark corner, id be fine, right? so I got on with my ‘date night prep’.. shower, blow dry, picking the right outfit ( which i’d shopped for days for) heres where it went wrong.. I though I would curl my hair, the ferals got into a fight which needed intervention.. I ended up with a smouldering barrel curl and an awful stench filling my house.. hair still smoking, I threw in some heat resistant spray (too little too late) and kept on ‘trucking’ .. four more punch ups and four more ruined curls I gave up..scrunched the s**t outta it and left it. Now for make up..turns out im allergic to the eyeliner I bought and also discovered the foundation I bought makes me look as sweaty as a stoned Snoop Dog on stage at a concert, huge FAIL!.. my ‘big important date night’ turned into me walking down the stairs I leather pants that gave me the hugest camel toe (ooh can I say that?) burnt smelly hair that looked like Idian Minahs nested in it, snot running everywhere from the sneezing they eyeliner caused, bright red stoner eyes, and a sweaty dripping face… ‘READY FOR OUR DATE NIGHT HONEY, DONT I LOOK PRETTY???!!'( see above picture..this is what I felt like) moral of THIS story…stick to what you know..and what HE likes

roll over and pretend you dont smell it!

Poop-floatsIf any of you have a young child who has just learnt to take his/her own nappy off in the early (by early I mean still night) hours of the morning, then you will personally know the fear that runs through you when sneak past your childs door on the way to your early morning shower, only to smell poo. And not the “oh maybe hes just been farting all night’ kinda smell, nope its the ‘Oh.My.God. what am I feeding this child and please god let him not have painted the walls with it!’ So..what do you do? Do you continue sneaking past, covering your nose, mouth and eyes from the burning rancid stanch, telling yourself he’s still quiet so he might be asleep? Or do you brave it, silently congratulating yourself for not having eaten yet. Well..this morning I did it, I opened the door. I was assaulted by a stench that smelled something like road kill, and a smiling toddler. ‘ok, this aint to bad’ I thought…. and then he smiled and waved. His teeth were covered in s**t, his hands were covered in s**t, his bed was covered in s**t, in fact the only thing within a 2 meter radius that wasn’t covered in s**t, WAS HIS NAPPY! ‘God, how could one child spread one poo so far?! My little Michelangelo must have been in here for hours painting this masterpiece.’ I wanted to cry. I raced to the bathroom, gagging all the way ( vomit and snot I can handle, but feces paintings are NOT my fav thing) turned the shower on ( no way I was putting him in a bath to swim in his own poo water) and headed back into his freshly painted lair. ‘Oh god Oh god Oh god, now I have to touch him’ On closer inspection, it was every where, in his ears, under his nails, all through his hair ( seriously..what the hell was this kid doing? and how much fun could it be??!) and the only thing left to do was pick him up. By now my 3 year old had surfaced from his room complaining about said stench and was currently standing at the door of the culprits rooms, commentating. ‘Awww Mama what is dat?’ ‘Is dat poo?’ ‘Is it? is it?’ ‘Was he eating poo?’ ‘why was he eating poo?’ ‘is it yummy?’ ‘is it? is it?’ ‘YES SON ITS S**T AND YES HE ATE IT AND NO I HAVE NO FRICKEN IDEA WHAT WOULD POSSES A HUMAN TO INGEST THEIR OWN CRAP, BUT YES..YES IT IS S**T!!!’ i was silently screaming in my head. So i grabbed the culprit, ( ‘don’t let him touch me, don’t touch me, don’t touch me’) dunked his smiling self the shower, scrubbed him up, brushed his teeth, threw away the washer and the toothbrush, bleached the shower, spent half an hour cleaning linen, aired his room, had a second thought and aired ALL the top floor rooms, rubbed him in any smelly cream i could find, ignored my eldest histerical laughing when he discovered poo on mamas face, and now, finally, i am here writing this watching two adorable, clean, crap free kids eating their breakfast happily. Moral of this story… if this happens to any of you, and it’s ungodly hours of the morning, the child is quiet, and you’re yet to have your first coffee, roll over and pretend you don’t smell it!

What Can Toddlers Do On Their Own?

If any of you are like myself and ‘smother with love and good intention’ (whilst silently screaming for 5 minutes to yourself to hide in the bathroom) then have a read of this. I found it to be a very insightful kick in the butt, we ll need to take a step back at times and let our babies grow up, as sad as it is to not be so needed. All this written while my preschooler is ‘helping himself’ to a drink of milk which is currently pouring over the floor while he grins at me with glee.. ‘look mama me do it my-teelllf!!’

Shannon Philpott

Screen shot 2013-03-12 at 9.46.28 PMPublished March 2013: Mom.Me

What Can Toddlers Do On Their Own?
Tips to help you figure out when to let go

Article Excerpt:

If your toddler is constantly uttering “me do” and “I want,” it’s likely that she is asserting her need for more power and freedom. “Although this may feel disconcerting and unbalancing for parents, remember [that] it is vitally important that your child learn to be independent, seeking a greater sense of power and control, as well as asking for and getting more freedom,” says Nancy Buck, developmental psychologist with Peaceful Parenting in Denver.

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