Let me tell you a SHORT story.

Pic: “So. I’m short. What’s your problem?”

OK, so there’s no other way to say it. I’m a midget. Not a politically correct, medically diagnosed person with dwarfism. I am just a short-arse. At exactly 153cm (or about five feet) tall, I am not a very menacingly, intimidating figure in a dark alley way. Not that I hang about in dark alley ways. I’m much too old and scared for that sh*t. It’s been suggested to me before (on more than one occasion) that I should consider a part time gig as a human cannonball in a circus. I would have been all for it, but the travel wouldn’t fit in with my current lifestyle and I can’t find that old, pink Stackhat helmet that I used to own. Safety first, kiddies. No helmet? No flying midget. Yeah, I’m a party pooper.

There are some good things about being short (I’m still trying to think of some other than tall girls are jealous of you – grass is always greener yada yada…), but there are also a few drawbacks.

You can never find your stepladder at home. You need it for everything, but you can never remember where you stored it last. Is it in the carport, the spare room, the shed, the last place you had to use it? I’m forever yelling out to my husband, “Where’s the stepladder?!!” I can’t change lightbulbs with ease, paint the top half of any room, see my favourite bands playing live unless I’m in the front row of a dangerous moshpit, or hold my ten month old Little Mister without looking like I jumped up onto him (he’s verrrry close to half my height already).

Everywhere I go, everybody says “Wow – he’s huuuuuuuuuge!”

Unless my husband is holding him. Then he’s apparently seemingly less gargantuan.

Last month when my husband turned the big 3-0, I…er…had to call my brother on the day of his family birthday barbecue, because I hadn’t got any candles for the cake and everyone was supposed to turn up at our house in a few short hours! My brother was all like, “What? You haven’t even got candles yet? Surely that’s a basic task to master for a birthday party!” (but not in so many words – it was more the vibe of it).

My reply?

“Um…I tried already three times at the local supermarket – no joke – I went back on three separate days, but the candles I wanted (those big-arsed embarrassing 3s and 0s) were on the top rack and there was nobody to help me get them down. I tried jumping and even contemplated climbing the flimsy bottom shelf, but it just wasn’t happening! Help!”

By then my brother thought I was an imbecile, but that’s besides the point. Being vertically challenged is tough!

I’ll admit that it’s great always being able to wear heels without towering over all of my friends, but it’s difficult if I just wanna dress all casual in my flats. I turn up to an event and all I can see is stomachs or chests. Ever spent a whole evening trying to converse with tall people at a cocktail event? You have to pack painkillers for your neck. And everyone wants to use you as an armrest (so hilarious – it’s almost as hilarious as when someone asks a tall person how the weather is “up there” or if they play basketball). I mean, no-one’s ever made that joke before…

It’s also apparently some kind of stupid pick up line. The amount of times (OK, 2) that I’ve been told, “You’re so short – can I buy you a drink” or “You’re too short for a place like this”… is ridiculous. I mean, really?! It’s not like I was hanging out at the Big ‘n’ Tall shop! Also, STOP LOOKING DOWN MY TOP. OK, so no-0ne looks down my top anymore, except my husband. Partly because I am not as well endowed as I was pre-baby (I can hardly even be bothered with false advertising) and partly because I’m wrapped up like a babyproof eskimo this winter! But you other short people know what I mean. That used to be the worst. THE WORST!

Clothing is annoying too. 3/4 pants are full length. 3/4 sleeves are full length. Arm holes are too…holey. ALL TROUSERS AND FULL LENGTH SKIRTS MUST BE SHORTENED AND WE ALL KNOW I CAN’T SEW FOR SH*T!!!

Also, I found out that you start to slowly shrink from the age of 30. Luckily I’ve got a couple of years (unlike my husband bahaha), but it’s not looking good for me. I also heard that your feet and ears slowly continue to grow all your life. I am going to look like a hobbit by the time I get a seniors card. You can call me Bilbo Baggins. Meh. I haven’t even read that book or watched those movies. I just “get” popular culture. That’s how cool I am…

Anyway, that’s my life. I guess I’ll just keep wearing short shorts, travelling short distances and enjoying short films.

As it’s the end of my post, I will wave goodbye to you. But you won’t even be able to see me. LOOK DOWN! I’M DOWN HERE!!


I have some very bad news…

OK, guys. Something really wrong has been brought to my attention. I have some bad news.

I’m not going to New York in a few days. I mean, I kind of knew I wasn’t because I haven’t planned to travel or anything, but I’m not going. And this is wrong. Want to know what else is wrong(er)? My brother is. Which might be fair enough, seeing as he planned an actual trip to New York in the first place, but I’m not going and therefore I’m feeling a little bit miffed. I HAVE TRAVEL ENVY.


Being the great sister I am, I will share with my brother my broad knowledge of New York and its attractions.


…and that’s about it.

You’re welcome, bro. Bring me back a t-shirt with an apple or something on it.

Proper posting will resume when my brain kicks back in x

Today is brought to you by the number 30 (and some very bad Wikipedia facts).


This post is dedicated to my husband. Great gift idea, right? He’ll thank me later, I’m sure. Well, pretty sure…

The reason? Today he turns the big 3-0. That’s right. He’s been alive for three decades. He’s halfway to 60, so yeah, that’s pretty impressive. Also, he will always be 2 years older than me and I quite like that. He breaks in all of the scary ages before I get there so it’s not so scary. OK… also I like it because I get to make fun of him forever. Old fart.

I like today because for all of 2012, he has been very quick to point out, “I’m not 30 yet! STOP SAYING I’M 30!!”
Even yesterday and the day before he held onto this for dear life.


Anyway, I googled the number 30 (what the hell did we do before Google?) and it came up with some very very scintillating boring facts (as well as a ridiculous number of hipster photos of Jared Leto from the band 30 Seconds to Mars). Anyhow, Wikipedia did say that 30 is a stage in young adulthood. YOUNG adulthood. That should make my husband very happy. You’re welcome, dear! Haha, only old people call other people “dear”. Oops. I’m supposed to be the young one! Um…You’re welcome…man guy.

Also, Russell Crowe had a band called 30 Odd Foot of Grunts. And they were…well, they’ve broken up now. So, I guess that’s quite an average fact. Woo. Hoo.

Apparently in the 1960s there was some kind of rally/protest/movement to do with students and young people. Their slogan for the movement was, “Don’t trust people over 30“. That’s very wise advice. I mean, because all of the people I know who are under the age of 30 are just so responsible and levelheaded…

As my now 30 year old husband would know, the NBA has 30 teams. I don’t really know much about them. I only know the players who are married to, were married to, or are going to be married to Kardashians. Sometimes I even know which basketball stars are guilty of breaking the law in their personal lives – because it’s totally my business. My husband has some kind of phone app which actually tells him proper game stats and player facts that are actually relevant to the sport of basketball. He likes to scroll through these while I’m watching terrible reality shows which I know are terrible, but cannot tear myself away from.

So now that I’ve bored you tremendously (and I didn’t even mention that 30 is a magical number full of mathematical qualities that I don’t even understand) and if you’re over 30, you probably need a nap now, I’ll regale you with some facts about my husband’s birthday. You know, because 30 seems to be quite a boring number… 😛

On this day in:

1938: English cricketer Len Hutton set a world record for the highest individual test innings of 364 while playing a test match against Australia. Yes, this fact really does bore me to tears, but my husband quite likes the cricket. Perhaps I should have shared a fact that portrayed a cricketer having success over the English, rather than an English cricketer having success against Australia…but never mind.

1996: Osama Bin Laden declared somewhat of a war against America. Well, that’s cheerful.

…and a whole lot of other military/war related sh*t happened over many many years. As with any date in history you could probably pick out of a hat.

My husband shares his birthday with:

– King Louis XVI of France (and is almost as old as him by now bahaha)

– An American rapper called “BoneCrusher”

– Scott Caan (that hot guy from Hawaii Five-O)

– Kobe Bryant (NBA FACT – NBA FACT – are you impressed???)
Also, today is the day of the annual traditional Umhlanga ceremony in Swaziland. It’s lucky I’m letting you all know this, because let’s face it, last year you guys totally forgot about it and I turned up with my reeds and everything and no-one was there. I mean, geez, I spent forever cutting those things down and bundling them up…and for what? Just put it in your bloody diaries this time, will you? I refuse to repeat such a shamozzle this year. Sure, I’m married and I’m not childless…so maybe that has something to do with it, but dammit I was hoping the king would choose me as his wife anyway. Sheesh. I had my boobs out and everything.

Anyway, this crazy post is my weird way of wishing my husband a very happy birthday. I hope that your 30s are amazing and bring you all the good stuff that the world/universe has to offer. I love you (even if this post doesn’t really portray that in the most effective way).

I shall sign this post off with –30– because that’s the way that journalists signify the end of a story in shorthand. I don’t know why this is, but perhaps it’s like they’re saying that 30 is the end of everything. Like, your story’s over now, man. You’re –30-.


What are your RIDICULOUS lottery win dreams?


OK, so this past week a couple in the UK won the equivalent of $221 million Aussie dollars in the lottery. Lucky buggers. As a parent, I couldn’t help but giggle when I read that the bloke turned on a bright light while his wife was trying to get the kids to sleep to announce that they’d won a sh*t ton of money and she told him to shut the hell up…


Anyhow, this got me thinking (as any mention of the Lotto ever does) about my lottery winning dreams. Of course everyone has those sensible ideas. Place in a high interest bank account and only spend the interest, give to charity, invest in property, help out family, pay off the mortgage, buy a sensible new car, live a normal life in which you still teach your kids the value of earning a living, and splash out on a bit of travel.


No-one EVER admits to their REAL Lotto dreams. The ridiculous things that pop into their heads. It’s kind of like a beauty pageant. If you’re asked what you wish for, you don’t say designer handbags, a boob job and to only ever have to look at beautiful people. You say smart, compassionate stuff like, “World peace”. Don’t want to seem shallow and what not.

I’m not gonna lie. I have proper Lotto dreams (which will come in handy if I ever bother to actually buy tickets), where I would help people out, set my child (and any subsequent sibling) up for the future and manage my money in a sustainable way (I mean, it’s enough to run a small country or you know, your own little tropical island oasis).

However, I also have ridiculous, outlandish ideas that are The Best Ever.

Hire the Streets Ice-cream factory for a day…
Hello, have you ever seen those amazing Vienettas? Well, I would hire the factory just for the purpose of standing at the end of the Vienetta assembly line with my mouth open. Enough said. Totally worth the cash. I may or may not have accidentally watched a documentary about such things on the telly the other day. It was very educational and now if I don’t win the Lotto I will actually just dream of being an ice-cream test taster.


Hire someone to give me that crispy clean sheets feeling.
Who doesn’t love that feeling you get when you’ve just put fresh, clean sheets on your bed and you fall into that soft, slightly crisp, cool surface? You sleep so well knowing that you’re not wallowing in enough dead skin cells, grains of sand (just me?) or bits of fluff to create a whole new person who wears fur coats and has their own private beach. So, my dream is to have someone employed simply to put fresh, clean sheets on my bed EVERY SINGLE TIME I WANT TO SLEEP. Awwwesooooome.

Pay myself to be a stay at home mum.
Everyone’s seen those blog posts, news columns and diagrams on the internet about the multitude of roles that every day stay at home mums and dads do daily. Personal cook, driver, events coordinator/planner, full time support worker, occupational health and safety officer, cleaner, comedian/entertainer, teacher, night shift, day shift, on call, you name it! People seem to complain about never really feeling fully appreciated by society as stay at home parents. If I won the Lotto, I would figure out how many roles I play daily and for what hours, then I would “pay” myself accordingly. That’s living the dream, right? I could get paid to do my awesome job and I’d be employee of the month every month! Must get a trophy prepared…

Use a private jet to travel with the Little Mister…
Until he turns 5 (at least). Then all those long haul travel ideas I have wouldn’t be held off because of my fear of offending other commercial passengers with my restless little man on a plane. We could go anywhere in luxury and have as much leg room as we wanted! Of course, some might say that doing such a thing might spoil the kid or not teach him how to act responsibly in such situations, but this is my fantasy. It’s just that! A terribly selfish fantasy! Also, any of you who have been stuck on a plane with a toddler might enjoy this idea anyhow. Just imagine. One less potentially annoying child to travel with or be seated next to!

Have my very own snail mail helper.
Look, it’s probably no secret. I lack the ability to embrace the charm that snail mail embodies. Who doesn’t love getting a beautiful invitation or thank you note among all of the junk mail and bills? I suck at it. I’ll design something, buy all the supplies and then take forever to remember to buy enough stamps and get the mail into a letterbox (despite them being everywhere). I feel dreadful about this, but if I had my very own snail mail errand runner everything would work out in a timely and efficient manner, leaving less people disappointed underwhelmed! I think I would also love to have someone who stocked a big cupboard in my house (note to self: use some lottery winnings to actually get a big cupboard installed in my house) with all the wrapping paper, gift tags, birthday cards, stick on bows, gift bags, sticky tape and scissors you could ever imagine – all year round. Like my own mini newsagent/stationery supply store! That way I wouldn’t freak out last minute and have to do a mad dash to the shops because I’ve realised I’ve only got five year old Christmas wrapping left AND THE BIRTHDAY PARTY IS ONLY AN HOUR AWAY.

If I had this, I would probably be the perfect person. Sigh.

So, what are YOUR ridiculous Lotto dreams?

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Clomp! Clomp! Squeal!

As soon as my husband and I were wed/tied the knot/got our matrimony on, the questions started. When are you going to have kids? When are you going to reproduce?! START HAVING SOME DAMN BABIES ALREADY! DON’T YOU WANT TO HEAR THE PITTER PATTER OF TINY FEET?!!!

Which is totally a great thing to say when they won’t be your own kids. Joke was on everyone else, though, because we waited four years.

Anyhow, I really want to communicate the fact that the whole “pitter patter of tiny feet” thing is a sham. Who made that saying up anyway? Firstly, newborns can’t pitter patter their feet because, duh, they can’t walk yet! Also, when they can move about for the first time, it’s more of a CLOMP CLOMP PAD PAD SLIDE SLIDE SQUEAL BANG CRASH CRY CLOMP CLOMP SQUEAL BABBLE HUFF PUFF CLOMP CLOMP…followed by an eerie silence in which you wonder what’s happened and run around the house like a mad person looking for your clumsy, grabby offspring!

Right now the Little Mister is enjoying his freedom. He explores our house like a cute little walrus pup. I think he is a very careful driver too because he stops at every intersection and looks both ways. I hope he remembers this skill when he goes for his driver’s licence. It’s actually pretty cute, seeing a little head pop around a wall or piece of furniture as he checks that the coast is clear and ready for some bubba action.

I was reading about childproofing last night (you know – right before bedtime – very relaxing as you peruse the resources for poison control and first aid) and it turns out my house is about as safe as an old, abandoned mine shaft in the middle of nowhere. Or as safe as a swimming pool filled with sharks, piranhas and crocodiles. Or…you get the idea. Apparently my house is a death trap.

We’ve installed a couple of baby proof gates and have systematically removed some dangerous items from the Little Mister’s environment (it’s a sophisticated procedure where we watch him almost do something scary and then remove/secure the offending item/area after having a minor heart attack). I’m getting in the habit of closing doors constantly and following the Little Mister around when I’m not sure if he’s headed for trouble (he likes trouble). It’s always a learning curve and we’re getting there, bit by bit, child proofing product by child proofing product! A lot of it is up to us to be vigilant. Besides, according to the information I read last night, reading a magazine, watching TV or answering the phone could spell disaster. Eek!

The Little Mister is a bit spoilt, because he has a huge, open playroom (99% childproof – I’ll leave 1% off because I’m sure he’ll surprise us by finding that 1% at some point), which is only restricted by a childproof gate. When he wants to leave that area, he will wait by the gate and mew/howl loudly like a kitten/werewolf. Then, much like a kitten, once I open the gate for him to crawl through, he will take his bloody time! Will I or won’t I? 😛

With the Little Mister on the move, it definitely makes life more exciting. Like when he vomits from all his activity after a meal and then slides over the top of the nice, smelly puddle! Or when you didn’t realise he’d done a poo and the smell reaches you before he does (before, you were always there and could start the changing process immediately before it had time to stew a little or become a gross poop pancake in his nappy).

And the squealing. Oh my goodness. He’s found his voice. It’s like Mariah Carey hitting random high notes at inopportune moments (imagine if she followed you around and only hit her highest notes in the supermarket or out for lunch). He’s usually expressing excitement or looking for interaction and he is learning how to manipulate his pitch and volume (which is high and loud). He likes figuring out the sounds he can make and it’s not always easy listening! I’ve found that over the past few months he will alternate in phases. For one period he’ll be squealing and loud. This will be followed by a phase where he learns how to make great new “word” sounds, followed by another period of squealing. Life sure isn’t boring! Bring on the next cute, babbling phase – soon!!!

Pitter patter of tiny feet! Bitch, please!

Are you a boofhead?


I’m concerned because I think that a condition I had as a child may in fact be genetic and my Little Mister may have contracted it. I don’t know the scientific name for it but I think it translates to “Gets Head Stuck In Things A Lot” or “Boofhead Syndrome”. Chances are you know someone who has the condition or is related to someone who does.

When I was a child, I almost became an orphan (again – it’s OK you can laugh this time). I would have had to spend my life wandering the zoo, only having animals to talk to and having to eat leftover hot dog scraps and home made sandwiches from the zoo bins, left there by kids who were disgusted that their parents had tried to save money by packing a lunch, rather than pay the exorbitant kiosk prices for food that was probably not as nutritious as the multi grain salad sandwiches that had been made with love by mum and packed in clingwrap where the sogginess could nicely stew away…

Well, that was a long,  kind of irrelevant (and badly constructed) sentence.

Anyhow, long story short, I am the only person I know who has got her head stuck in between the bars of the elephant enclosure at the zoo as a small child.

It was a sunny day. The bad 80s photographs my mum has kept of that day (luckily none of my actual predicament) prove it. I was interested in having a closer look at the elephants, so I stopped and pushed my face against the thick, bamboo enclosure bars as enthusiastically as I could. POP. My head slipped through and my view improved! I must have stared at the elephants for a while because I seemed to have drooped a bit in my standing position. Turns out the bars got closer together the lower you went.

Obviously you know how this turned out. I showed my distress and everyone came running to help. Um. No.

Everyone kept walking. Which just proved my mum loved my new little brother even more than me (I was a jealous monster when he arrived and this phase continued until I reached the age of…18 or so – no biggie). I mean, she didn’t even do a headcount. How can you not notice that 33.33333% of your zoo attending family was not present as you strolled around the African Safari Animals region (not sure if this is what it was called exactly)?

OK, so they did come back eventually. It felt like a really long time to be contemplating your forever as a Boofheaded Elephant Entertainer, but admittedly it was probably only a few minutes. I was lifted up and POP my head was free again to think non elephant enclosure related thoughts and follow my body everywhere it went.

My friend told me a few days ago that this is a pretty crap story because it doesn’t involve someone rocking up with an industrial sized tub of butter, greasing me up and removing me from the bars. That’s not very supportive.

As you can see, Boofhead Syndrome is a very serious condition. This “friend” is just one of many who mock the disease in an ignorant fashion. I am working to combat this (not really) with my (non existent) organisation BIGHEAD (Boofheads’ International Group for Healing, Education And…oh, crap. What starts with D?).

I am an anomale. I do not actually have a big head. Unfortunately my son is starting to show signs that he has inherited a larger skull circumference from his father (trust me). This combined with the Boofhead Syndrome obviously makes for an unfortunate situation.

If you’ve ever wondered what this condition looks like, I have attached some photographs below:

Boofhead Syndrome has often been described as a faceless condition…

I only hope that like me, my Little Mister will be able to outgrow this disease and be able to live a happy, (somewhat) normal life, not worrying about what part of his environment his head may become trapped in next.

Edit: My so called “friend” (same one who mocked me above – feel free to tweet her about it) has informed me that the African Safari something something area of the zoo didn’t open until I was about 12. It was just a frickin’ elephant enclosure then, alright?! I was a toddler – how would I remember? Since when is this blogger a researching fact machine? Gawd 😛

I’m saving these for his 21st birthday.

There are lots of great parents out there who decide that they will spare their children the humiliation that they endured as innocent, trusting babies. They vow never to give them dodgy haircuts (mullets, anyone?), dress them in embarrassing costumes, make them and their siblings wear home made matching tracksuits specifically for wearing on family holidays (Mum, I’m looking at you)…all of which will be photographed to death and brought out when they turn 21. Never will these wonderful parents allow their children to suffer in such a way. Such good people.


I am not one of these parents.

Ever since I found out I was pregnant I have been plotting evil deeds against my poor Little Mister. Also, I am yet to find a Mister T costume for him online that I really like.

Pic: I pity the fool!

Just in the past week, this has happened:

Pic: Panda on the move!

In my defence, I did not actually purchase this outfit myself. My friend aka sister from another mister did. Although, I may be incriminating myself a little by admitting that I did in fact enthusiastically go along with the idea prior to its purchase. I do not know what the Little Mister actually thought of this outfit himself. He just went about his usual business and eventually stopped to have a little vom on it. Hmm. Maybe that’s what he thought of it!

I am fairly sure I’m going to get in massive trouble with him for this later on, but I’m a “live in the moment” kinda gal. Or at least I’m choosing to be in light of this latest costume development.

It’s OK, though. Want to know why? Because whatever amount of trouble I get in for dressing my son up like a panda will pale in comparison to the trouble my mum will get in for this:

Yep. That’s right. My mum lovingly made my Little Mister some pants to wear around the house for winter. A nice gesture which is really helpful as he’s now crawling about and it gets cold on our floors. Some discounted fabric came up alright and will save his “good” pants from being worn out when we’re just hanging about at home.

Only thing is, my mum + leftover fabric + bit of spare time = trouble.

Sooooo… now there is photographic evidence of my son and her cat wearing matching outfits. I don’t know what that might do to your psyche if you grew up to discover this about your baby self. Guess we’ll find out! Can I just add that my mum is an empty nester who thinks it’s amusing to send me photos of her and dad posing with their cats (plural) on a Friday night? WHO GAVE THESE PEOPLE A PHONE WITH A CAMERA IN IT?!

So I told her that one day the Little Mister will be old enough to ask questions. And when he asks about the panda suit, I’m showing him the cat photo and I’m taking her down with me.

So far he’s dressed up for Christmas 2011, a friend’s wedding (tuxedo onesie – hello!), Australia Day 2012, and a host of other fun occasions.

Basically, I plan on getting the Little Mister into as many embarrassing outfits as possible before he’s old enough to understand what’s going on. That’s good parenting, right?

I dedicate this post to my mum who is turning *mumble mumble* this coming week! Happy birthday! Also, this is a good way to check if she’s really reading…love you, Mum!

Who’s your daddy…blogger?


Look, I still have trouble admitting this to myself, but if you were to label me as a blogger, I would definitely be a “mummy” blogger these days. I am a mummy who blogs. About being a mummy. I try to think of other things to blog about, but being the biggest job I’ve ever undertaken, all the “mummy” stuff seems to dominate! I guess I’m reluctant to label myself (or be labelled) because I worry that I’ll just be one of the million bajillion parents out there who is trying to make something of themselves in the blogosphere (is “blogosphere” a naff thing to say?) and it’s not exactly an original or unique idea. I want to show that I have more than one dimension, I suppose. I feel like I’m a happy new parent, but I am also more than that. In saying that, there will always be mummies (not the toilet paper wearing zombie ones – no wait…) in the world. Billions of them. Reaching out for support, advice, sharing of funny stories and enjoying new perspectives on parenting. Each parent is a different person who offers something slightly new, with their own back story to tell and build on. And gawd, it’s therapeutic to blog about the experience. Who am I to stand in the way of myself and millions of others who stay sane this way?

I guess I can live with that. I shouldn’t try to be a total wanker about it.

Moving right along…

I love reading mummy blogs (or posts about being new parents). Let’s face it, I belong to the right demographic. However, I also really, thoroughly enjoy a good daddy blog. It’s fun to find out about the “other” sex’s perspective on parenting. Also? I kind of secretly think it’s cute that these days dads can write all about their parental exploits and it shows how far we’ve all come in sharing parenting roles and experiences. It sure ain’t the 1950s anymore and aren’t we glad?! Also, I like to email all the good daddy posts to my husband. Not sure if he enjoys my forceful sharing of dad experiences with him (he doesn’t have the same non-sports related blog reading addiction I do), but I haven’t yet received any criticism for it…unlike the backlash I get for sending celebrity baby gossip to him…he’s not really that fussed about Blue Ivy, I must say. I also get a lacklustre reaction when I send him NBA news. Not NBA sports news. Just gossip about Kardashians and stuff, which he really says doesn’t count as NBA news. Then I reply that I was being thoughtful keeping him up…with the Kardashians mostly. I really am so amazingly thoughtful. Oh and any cute pictures of labradors being cute (as labradors tend to be) are also important email correspondence between us. For me. Well, I have fun.

Also, I must add that he’d rather chew off his leg after a freakish bobsledding accident than write his own blog (a real tragedy I say). He doesn’t actually bobsled, but I thought that was a fun visual. Also, he’ll read this and I think we can agree that it will get a good reaction. Also, I watched a bit of Cool Runnings on TV the other night…

Unfortunately, daddy blogs are in the minority these days. For every gazillion mummy bloggers, you will find one daddy blogger. That figure may or may not have resulted in me doing guesswork and not any actual research.

I just finished reading a guest post that Aliya from Double the Fun commissioned from her husband (the ‘Hubs’) and thoroughly enjoyed his dabbling in a bit of daddy blogging. It made me think of the other dad blogs I enjoy. I shall share them, shall I?

How To Be A Dad
Follow Charlie and Andy in their day to day experiences as dads “in the field”. They claim vehemently to not be parenting experts but rather to provide a humourous “how not to” guide to being fathers. They aim to entertain, and I’m certainly entertained 🙂

They share lots of funny parenting anecdotes (but only the ones their wives will allow). It’s all in good fun!
As another parent who also claims adamantly to not be an expert, hence my blog title, this is a blog I relate to (as much as a non-dad can)!

Also, every time I’ve ever commented, I’ve received a comment reply which makes me feel warm and fuzzy like my visit means something to them. I think I should probably start doing that more on this ol’ blog.

BIG FAMILY, little income
Ah, Bruce. That’s this dad’s name. Which is also the name of my late goldfish. Don’t ask. Moving right along…

This guy cracks me up. Also, just quietly, he’s nuts. He has SEVEN CHILDREN. Which as you can imagine makes for a LOT of great blogging material. I usually find funny stories about his kids (or his parenting skills) and he shares tips on saving the moolah so he can feed his MASSIVE brood!

Busy Busy Busy
I’ve been reading Jacob’s blog since before he was a dad and now that he is, he is just as funny and lovely to read about! He draws really hilarious little pictures to go with his posts and his experiences as a first time parent to a little boy make me do that whole, “I totally get this.” thing while I’m reading. He’s a few months ahead of me in this whole parenthood thing, so I like to see what I’m in for.

He’s one of those bloggers who make me get excited when I see a post pop up in my googlereader and I always make time to read everything he writes.

Well, those are my favourites. Know of any more I can read or share? x

It’s messy and it’s moving!

Pic: My house after a meal with the Little Mister

So the Little Mister is almost eight and a half months old. Where the hell has that time gone? How can each day be so long, but the weeks (and months) so short? Each time he reaches a new milestone I feel torn between grieving the gorgeous little baby ways he’s moved on from and shouting to the rooftops about how amazed and impressed I am with how he is growing and developing before my very eyes!

This seems to be a crazy time of his little life! He’s developing so fast it’s all a blur! He’s less like an infant and more like a toddler (who can’t toddle yet)! He’s a boy and not just a baby! Aaaargh!

He’s commando crawling, making “Mum” and “Dad” and “Nan” sounds, waving and clapping! He also has two teeth now, with a horrible third one on the way. What a champ!

Also? It’s getting really messy around here. I started introducing the Little Mister to finger foods and he really loves the concept of feeding himself. He already loves his food so much that he’s become all empowered and wants to try spoon feeding himself too. In other words, grabbing the spoon from me while it’s full of food, shaking half the food off so it splatters onto the floor/himself/the highchair/me and then shoving it in his mouth forever until he decides it needs reloading at which point he will drop it on the tray or pass it to me. Which is really cute and makes me think about how smart he is and how my baby is the smartest baby there is (biased much?), all the while trying my hardest not to stop the whole world and clean everything up every two seconds.

As food flies through the air (literally), I have to take a deep breath and repeat to myself, “Mess is OK. We can clean this up later. Stay on track and don’t interrupt his learning. Breathe. Breathe again. Mess is good. This is constructive mess. CONSTRUCTIVE MESS. MUST NOT INTERFERE YET. OMFG. THE MESS. I HAVE TO DO THIS THREE MORE TIMES TODAY?!!!”

I’m not even a neat freak and it gives me the shakes! My favourite part is when he grabs a chunk of food in his hands and rubs it through his hair as if it’s hair gel. He only ever rubs his hands through his hair like that when he’s eating. So weird. And inconvenient. He also likes to grab a chunk of food in each hand and laugh while he waves it dangerously close to me, all squished up and soggy! Sometimes his spoon is the best drumstick, used to beat his tray. It’s also fun when he fills his mouth and then sneezes…on me.

When he’s getting about the house he drools on everything. The floor, his bib (until it’s soaking wet), the couch, his toys (fair enough – he is shoving them in his mouth after all), my legs, my face, my shoulders, my clothes, his clothes. EVERYTHING! Even more fun when he shakes his little body up after a meal (all that time scooting about on his belly ought to do it) and has a bit of a vom! Everyone loves that bitter smell, right?

By the end of the day, I am so relieved he’s getting a really good bath. I look at him all soggy, crusty and smelly (not in that amazing soft, milky newborn way anymore I’m afraid) as he grins at me…trying to climb out of the bath or stand up in it (he loves to live on the edge) and feel nothing but love. They say that babies are the most beautiful when they’re sleeping (which is SOOOO very true) but I would like to add that they are also the most beautiful right after a bath. Or first thing in the morning before they’ve drooled on anything or eaten anything. So fresh and so clean clean!

Honestly, I am finding my workload is increasing by a million bajillion times, but I’m adapting and I choose every day to laugh about it all. He might be noisy, messy and on the move but he’s also hilarious, sweet and surprising me every day with what he’s learning. I wouldn’t have it any other way!

Also, something tells me that I ain’t seen nothin’ yet. What’s that saying about boys? Something something, snails and puppy dog tails? I seem to remember photos of my brother and I eating dirt at some point. Don’t even get me started on what adolescent boys smell like. I went to a co-ed highschool. I know my stuff. The Little Mister’s feet already smell a little bit sweaty after a day in socks. I’m screwed!

But I have NOTHING to wear!!!

Pic: I think the key is to avoid this.

Lately I’ve been feeling a little fashionably challenged. I swear that no matter how many items of clothing sit in the bottom of my wardrobe on the floor, I still only manage to rotate between the same three damn outfits day in, day out! I’m starting to feel a little bit depressed about it! Literally months ago, I decided to start clearing out my wardrobe, with the purpose of only keeping the things I will actually wear (and that will fit me). I am yet to actually finish the mammoth task! Or at least it feels like a mammoth task when you have an 8 month old baby hanging from you constantly! I feel like I’ve been through so many changes in the last year, physically and lifestyle wise, that it’s impossible to maintain my old way of dressing!

Necklines get pulled down until you could be arrested for indecent exposure, shoulders get dribbled on, jeans fall down when you’re constantly bending down to lift a baby or something they’ve dropped on the floor (plumber’s crack anyone?), maxi dresses can be tripped over while carrying a 10kg baby, fancy short skirts are dangerous (and cannot easily be pulled down to a proper length while holding a child, meaning constantly looking uncomfortable).

Maybe I’m just incapable of wearing clothes properly anymore and all the other mummies are doing fine…but I really do have issues. While it is tempting to become one of those bedraggled mothers who wear old men’s tracksuits every day (in private or in public), like the ladies on Oprah who got free makeovers all the time, I am determined to not do that whole “letting myself go” thing.

My wardrobe is filled with I Could Never Leave the House in That items that are strictly for housework or painting in (neither of which I’m very proficient at as of late), party dresses, and clothes that remind me of my pregnancy and threaten to give me nightmare flashbacks when I put them on. I get paranoid that certain items of clothing will make people speculate that I must be pregnant again, when really I’ve just been comfort eating a bit too much…

I really would like to win the lottery and start over again. Nothing feels like it fits in with my life as it is today! I need a fresh start! Or Oprah (she’d bring her show back just for me, right?)! I want to be fashionable, practical and my clothing needs to be classy but casual enough that I can meet a friend for lunch, grovel on the floor at several baby friendly venues (the library, friends’ houses, parks etc) without getting arrested for public indecency or scaring anyone and I want to look like me! I want to not look like a cookie cutter mummy who had to wear everything everyone else has because there was simply no choice available! I don’t want to look like a slob either!


Pic: Easy, casual, practical and fashionable!

Pic: I would add a scarf to disguise any pulling down of my neckline, but that’s the basic idea!

The key here seems to be simple dresses, scarves, opaque tights or leggings, stretchy blazers, oversized tee shirts and well fitted jeans (unlike the ones I am currently wearing which fall off my hips no matter what I do and I am only wearing them because I have nothing else). I am thinking accessories can mix it up too 🙂

Besides spending a while googling “celebrities with babies” to see what they’re wearing (I’m totes good at research), I also consulted the most fashionable, hip population of 20 something bloggers on what the “don’ts” of fashion are today (just to make sure I’m on the right track) and here are my top findings:

Leggings are NOT pants (unless you have Barbie doll parts in your knickers which will NEVER ever reveal camel toe from ANY angle on any day in any location guaranteed). Leggings should be worn with tops or dresses that cover both camel toe (comprehensively) and possible cellulite. I agree wholeheartedly.

Crocs worn by adults – don’t. I can’t even.

Pic: No. Just no.

Leggings with shorts are apparently a hot topic of contention. I have always wondered if I could, during my desperate moments, but never went through with it. According to some of my blogging peers I seem to have made the right move?

Ill fitting clothes of any description. Which is why I am so at odds with my wardrobe right now! Basically, what I think everyone is saying is be real. Accept your real clothing size, wear something that flatters and save everyone’s eyeballs.

With all of this in mind, I think I’m gonna be OK. Now all I have to do is find some moolah, some time and some energy! Piece of cake….right?