Tag Archives: awkward moments

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Things that make me uncomfortable.

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A lot of things make me uncomfortable. Budget airline seating. Running. Too much ice cream. Holding the not so Little Mister in one arm for five minutes while trying to pay for something at the shops. Anybody else’s pillows except for mine. Kneeling beside the bath each evening, trying to be close enough to make sure the Little Mister doesn’t fall over and sustain an injury (or overdose on the consumption of a random bubble bath brand that you found in the cupboard because he ran out of his normal type and you couldn’t be effed going to the shops that day – parenting fail win).

I mean, those are the physical things.

But what about my social foibles?

Small talk in the supermarket/doctors’ surgery/anywhere.

I suck at it. I’m not talking about small talk at parties, bars or places you go to socialise and stay a while. I’m talking about the places you go in your every day life. The places where you have a task to complete, before moving on. Don’t get me wrong, nine times out of ten I really do like running into nice people that I know. I just don’t know how long to talk for and when to exit the conversation politely (or how)! It’s like you say, “Hi! How are you today? Yes, the Little Mister has grown and yes he is cute. What have you been up to? Oh, not much? Just working and stuff? OK, good to see you…um…”

I know I’m not the only one. Almost all of my conversational colleagues display a similar awkwardness. Maybe there needs to be some universal code/signal where everyone bows out gracefully at some kind of socially pre-approved moment. So no-one has to do the…”Well, I’ll um…let you get back to your shopping…” or the, “Well, I had better keep moving, I suppose…” thing. No matter how nicely put that is, it never feels entirely comfortable. Am I right or am I right?

It’s particularly uncomfortable when you keep running into the exact same person at the supermarket every time. Do you say something? Do you not say anything, just smile or wave? AWKWARD. Just awkward.

Walking onto an aircraft with a small child.

As you look for your seats, you can feel eye balls on you. Just following your every move. Are they going to sit near my seat? Are they not? Oh, phew/dammit they are/not. Suddenly, you’ve become the enemy of air travel society. Public enemy number one. You know this, but you’re trying to act all nonchalant as you panic on the inside. WHAT IF THEY’RE RIGHT? WHAT IF MY CHILD IS AN AWFUL LITTLE CRETIN? PLEASE DON’T BE A LITTLE CRETIN TODAY!! You sit there tense, until the plane takes off. The only relief you get is when there is a child fifteen rows up who is much much worse than your own. You feel the spotlight shift and you start counting down the hours and minutes until you land.

Speaking up when there’s something wrong with my food.

Having worked in customer service for a number of years (you name it I’ve done it – well not anything illegal or…sexy but you get what I mean), I know what it’s like to have b*tch customer after b*tch customer. Some have valid complaints, and others…well, there’s a special place in hell for those people (they are the same people who write weekly complaint letters to the local papers). While I realise the avocado in my pasta dish is brown and the prawns seem a little…off…I will still say, “Yeah, no problems here. Thanks!” when asked if my meal is alright by the waitstaff. Yep. I’ll risk food poisoning in order to be the nice customer. Idiot.

Driving the Little Mister to his immunisation appointments. 

For some reason these appointments always end up being in the late morning. That gives just enough time for the Little Mister and I to go through the normal motions of life at home, before I have to bundle him up and into the car for our ride to DOOM. It’s not really doom. It’s a few little jabs in the arms/legs which could ultimately save his life and the lives of all others in the first world, but at the time I feel so much dread. Will he cry lots? Will I then want to cry lots? How many heartbreaking days/nights of grumpy, irritable, feverish side effects are we both in for? Why does he always seem to be extra well behaved, affectionate and cheerful and smart RIGHT BEFORE HIS NEEDLES? It makes it seem all the more cruel. I get that whole, “Why am I stressing? It’s just his needles. Can he tell I’m stressing? Stop stressing!” mindset. I know. It’s dumb. But I find it very uncomfortable.

Public transport. 

WHERE DO I PUT MY EYES?? WHY IS THAT GUY LOOKING AT ME??

Thinking too much in hotel rooms. 

I don’t mind a nice getaway in a reputable hotel. A great treat. A touch of romance? An escape from the housework and routine at home? Celebration of an anniversary, maybe? Room service and pay TV, anyone?

It’s only when I think about it too much that I get very uncomfortable very quickly. I used to watch a lot of CSI. I’ve seen all those episodes where they spray that stuff on everything and then shine one of those blue light things on the bed and the toilet. All the human bodily fluids lighting up like a pretty neon artwork. I start wondering how many people have stayed here before me. Whether the sheets have been washed properly. Did the cleaners change the blankets out? What is that white, crusty stain on the chair in the corner? God, I hope it’s yoghurt. Do you spell it yogurt or yoghurt? Oops. Got distracted…

OMFG SOMEONE HAD SEX IN THIS HOTEL ROOM BEFORE I GOT HERE.

Well, duh. But still. Makes me uncomfortable. Don’t even talk about how I feel about the spa tub or the occasional pubic hair found between sheets or on the carpet.

AAAARGH!!!!!

People complimenting me on my dodgy DIY manicures.

I can’t often afford to get my nails done professionally. I also like Pinterest. I guess you can see how those two factors fit together. I try different things all the time (usually as a little Friday night pick me up), before showing my husband and having him give the “Is this a trap?” face when I ask if he likes my nails. I admit, it’s pretty hit and miss, but it’s fun to do.

People often notice my *ahem* unique nail designs and say, “Oh wow. I love your nails.”

I then awkwardly try to hide them and mutter, “Thanks…I was just messing about…”

I get scared people will look too closely and discover just how bad they are. Inconsistently placed nail art. Chipped polish. Amateurish shaping of my nails. Eek!

Uncomfortable.

Having tradies working at my house.

I never know the etiquette. Do I offer them a drink? Am I supposed to make small talk? Do I leave them to it? Is it OK to disappear into another room – what if they need to ask me something? Do I act natural? Of course I realise that they (hopefully) have better things to do than analyse what I’m doing, but nonetheless I feel awkward. If I go about my domestic duties, I feel weird. If I don’t and I’m just on the computer or have the TV on, I feel like they think I do nothing all day, every day. I have no idea how to act. What if they ask me a question and I don’t know the answer? What if there’s a chance I’ll say the wrong thing and then everything goes all pear shaped? What if I don’t notice they’re doing a bad job until it’s too late and they’ve gone home?

Maybe it’s just the idea of letting strangers onto my property or something. Gets me all weird. I am just not that cool.

That moment I click “pay now” on an online purchase. 

The discomfort only lasts for a few short minutes, but immediately upon committing to an online transaction, I feel this crazy rush of adrenaline and freak out. I think I’m still a kid inside. The kid who shouldn’t be allowed to use a credit card or make decisions on the internet. I feel like I’ve done something naughty and OH MY GOD, WHAT IF I REGRET THIS?

I probably need therapy or something.

Chill out, lady. It’s just a book or something. Hmm. Better make that a self help book. Sigh.

When everyone wants to share their meals in a social situation. But I don’t.

Because I am a hungry, greedy woman who DOES NOT WANT TO SHARE, BUT CAN’T TELL ANYONE BECAUSE THAT’S SELFISH. I am a horrible person.

Please tell me I’m not alone…or let me know where I can get help haha.

This post was a part of the Blog Every Day in May challenge.



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FAQ: So what have you been up to lately?

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Hmm. Whenever somebody asks me this question in person, I get into some kind of brain fart situation and I can’t think of a thing. Anyone else do that? My answer just ends up being something awkward along the lines of, “Not much. Just parenting and living and stuff. Y’know.”

Yeah. I know.

So I am going to try to summarise it all in writing for you, because I’m sure you really really care, and also I can’t think of anything else to write about this week that actually makes sense.

So…
I spend a lot of time walking in circles around my house. Seemingly aimlessly. So there’s that. Besides my usual insanity, this is often done with my pinky finger attached to a chubby little toddler hand. The Little Mister has decided that he loves long strolls with the lady of his choice (until some time around puberty I imagine that’s me). He hasn’t figured out where it is he would like to go, but it’s all good as long as he has his walking buddy. Each time he takes a break by plopping onto his nappy padded bum, he then reaches up for my hand and it starts again. So that’s about an hour of each day (at least) accounted for.

I have also been very busy planning each trip I take to the toilet. I’m surprised I haven’t had to write it down in my day planner, along with a long list of reminders of the very detailed process. If my husband is home it’s slightly easier. It involves loudly announcing, “I’m going to the toilet. ALONE.”
This is my husband’s cue to intercept the Little Mister before he catches up to me and busts through the door action movie hero style, to catch the bad guy (that’s me – guilty as charged for not inviting a toddler to watch me do my business). If I am alone, I have to announce subtly that I am leaving for the toilet. I then have to gently walk away down the corridor. I have to shut the door, jiggling the handle just right so it’s harder for a little monster to open. I then have to pee, wipe and flush in record time before I am caught up with. If I want to do number 2s (sorry for the TMI but I poop just like everyone else), this process involves me turning on the kids’ TV channel, praying it’s a bright, colourful show that will keep the Little Mister’s attention and sneaking off like a ninja. Whoever says that letting the TV babysit your child for even a minute is evil, because it will rot their brains, can look after my child when I’ve gotta ‘go’. Seriously. I just have to do what works. Although, occasionally it doesn’t work. Sometimes I get a crying child outside the toilet door. I have been known to spend time doing my business and singing kids’ songs at the same time. I’m glad we have no neighbours on that side of the house, because I can tell you, they would think I was a lunatic. I mean, we know I kind of am, but SHHHH. IT’S A SECRET. I once sang “If you’re happy and you know it, clap your hands…” (that’s multi tasking for you) and when I finally emerged from my hidey hole, I found the Little Mister, tears streaming down his face (all that awful parental rejection does that to you) while pathetically clapping his hands. Aw, it breaks your heart.

Hmm, what else can I tell you? I actually occasionally do do (haha I said “do do”) something interesting, but I usually forget this when someone asks me what I’ve been up to lately. I give my standard awkward answer and then everyone (including me) thinks I’m boring. Last Thursday I was lucky enough to attend a luncheon where Mia Freedman was the guest speaker at Bistro Guilluame. Mia (Ha! Look at me acting like we’re on a first name basis!) was everything I hoped she would be in person. Bubbly, candid, inspiring and so down to earth that for a split second I honestly thought we could be friends if I just spent a few minutes stroking her hair and talking about motherhood with her. If you haven’t heard of Mia (Shock! Horror!), then you should first reassess your friendship with me, and after you and I agree that we will overlook that transgression, you would know that Mia has been editor of the Australian Cosmo, Cleo and Dolly magazines. She now runs a very successful website called Mamamia, which features amazing blog posts by a diverse bunch of contributors who really get me inspired and inform me about the world around me (outside of my Living with the Little Mister bubble)! It makes me laugh, cry and really think deeply about topical issues. Have I raved enough yet? So that was really really fun. I now want to be a power blogger…or a lady who lunches. Can’t decide. Either way, it was a great day out with my friend Bec where I could eat with both hands and concentrate on full conversations. Hooray!
Check this out, y’all:

I’m a little embarrassed by how excited I was to have my tweet replied to. I sound like such a tragic fangirl. I just have to put it out there: Mamamia and Mia’s work have really been a sanity saver since I became an Awesomely Unprepared Mummy! I’m not too cool to admit it ;)

We had weather again in these parts. Last night I was very outraged when I couldn’t hear the television over the wind and rain. I spent ages thinking deeply about the bad acoustics in my living room (our backs to a big window which lets in outside noise) and frantically adjusting the volume up and down. My husband had to almost remove pry the remote from my hands because I kept pausing the live TV (my new DVR IS AMAZING) each time a gust of wind passed by. However, things got a little worse when we went to bed (it’s always just as you snuggle down and you’re almost peacefully slumbering) and the fence started flapping about. So there’s something new for my poor husband to fix. He had to dismantle the flappy bits (haha flappy bits – I’m juvenile) while only wearing a pair of boxer shorts and an old work shirt. Well, he didn’t have to only be wearing those items, but the point is, he volunteered himself for the job and I couldn’t be more grateful. When he returned to bed it was like sleeping next to a very dejected ice cube.

Other than that, I dressed the Little Mister up as a cowboy for one of his friends’ birthday parties. He drank half the pool at swimming lessons (he gets really excited when his face gets near the water and opens his mouth really wide in a look of enthusiastic awe – EVERY TIME). He’s been teething. He points at things so I can tell him what they are, but sometimes I think he just points at one thing when he’s looking at something else and it’s all really just a big confusing game – he’ll probably spend the first few years of his life thinking that a dog is called a wall and a light is called a sippy cup.

It’s not the most glamourous, high powered kind of life, but I like it :)

What have you been up to lately?

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So I didn’t really think that through…

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So on Wednesday, we took the Little Mister to have his 12 month immunisations (having a birthday isn’t always that fun). As usual we rocked up to the local family health clinic where we waited to have his name called out. Of course, just like every other time, the little man was super happy, talkative and cute. I was feeling guilty (and dreading the days ahead) and my husband was…well, he was there. He knows I need my support person :)

On that day, three needles were to be administered.

“Would you like two in the arms and one in the leg, or two in the legs and one in the arm?” the nurse asked.

My husband and I looked at each other, like “WTF? It’s all bad.”

But we muttered something like, “Um…you decide?”

Two in the legs and one in the arm it was. The Little Mister was such a good boy. I distracted him with a rattle and a maraca (why do nurses always have maracas?), and he only cried a little. We gave him a dummy and big cuddles, which he responded to very well as the nurse reiterated what the side effects might be. Mostly that he’d be grumpy as f*ck for a couple of days and that we would be waiting in complete and utter suspense to find out if he would get cold and flu symptoms anywhere from 5-12 days later (it’s been 2 – I’m still waiting and hoping we’ll sail through it). Fun times.

Fast forward to today and the Little Mister was (over)due for a haircut. That kid has won the hair lottery (he probably won’t thank us for it later). He has two parents with very fast growing hair, the volume of his dad’s hair and the straight, softness of mine. This all equals a massive head full of voluminous, but straight hair that goes in many directions. Until today, I had procrastinated about getting his hair cut. I had felt like I had all the time in the world, but it all caught up with us. I knew that the day it started to look a bit like an 80s mullet, something had to be done.

So…what did we do? Here’s my first mistake: Taking the Little Mister to sit in a chair while a lady he doesn’t know stood behind him with a sharp implement. Yeah, I’m thinking big time flashbacks. He started crying and looking so sad. He spent half of his haircut gripping me around the neck in a hug that said, “Don’t let me die!!! I’m tooooo young!!! Not again!!!!”

The hairdresser was a lovely lady and she did a great job. She mentioned that she had three sons, so I guess she knew the drill. She kept her cool and got the job done as calmly and quickly as possible. I kept telling the Little Mister that she was nice and she wouldn’t hurt him, but he was reliving his own little nightmare. That kid was back in the trenches, man. It was tough!

My second mistake?

Trying to distract him with a rattle. Yeah. You can see where that’s going. Same thing I tried when we TRICKED HIM the other day so a strange lady with a sharp implement could jab at him THREE TIMES. His accusatory/terrified face said it all.

Sigh. I feel like I wasn’t quite on top of my parenting game today.

I backed out of the salon saying, “Sorry! He’s normally so great in these situations! I don’t know what happened.”

Of course it dawned on me as soon as we were back in the car. Picture the biggest face-palm EVERRRRR. DUH, KEZ!

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So, learn from my mistake. Do not take your child for their first proper salon haircut two days after immunisations.

You’re welcome.

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My brain: Making not-weird things seem weird since 1984.

Pic – Yep, that’s me!

I have this…thing where I think about stuff (haha keep the jokes to yourself). Stuff that no-one else seems to think about. I seem to stop and notice things in my life that are there every single day and freak the eff out. Like I’ve never seen or thought about these things before – ever. Are you confused yet? These could be the ramblings of a very tired semi-insomniac or they could be the thoughts of a brilliant mind. You decide.

When I was a kid, I kept asking the adults in my life WHY DO WE YAWN? Everyone kept saying, “Because you’re tired. Duh.”
This frustrated the hell out of me. I wanted to know why our bodies function the way they do – what is my body actually trying to do when I yawn? It took me a long time (this was before google was the go-to research machine) to finally get the answer I wanted. We yawn because that helps get oxygen to the brain or lungs and expels excess carbon dioxide. Which makes sense that if we’re tired, an extra push of oxygen might help us stay awake! I don’t know. I’m no doctor. Anyhow, I asked the question because I have a (selectively) inquiring mind. I didn’t want the stock standard answer everyone gives without a moment of thought. I wanted the real answer. The physiological explanation!

I still think weird things all the time. These thoughts will just pop up out of nowhere and I drift off into Crazy Kez Land where it’s always weird and no-one cares. Like, the other day. I was driving the Little Mister to Officeworks to look for just the perfect colour selection of Sharpie permanent markers (I am a bit pedantic with my stationery), when I suddenly thought (brace yourself for the geniusness), “Wow. I drive a car. Isn’t it strange that I get into this piece of technology from the ‘future’ and control this machine with my hands and feet (well I’m sure it’s a bit more complex than that but take in all of my weirdness please)? I mean, wow! Society is AMAZING! I DRIVE A CAR!”

You would think I was a cavewoman or something. I guess I was just appreciating something that we all take for granted. I’m kooky like that. I mean, no-one else thinks it’s weird. I can’t say this stuff out loud.

I have also been known to question domestic housepets. In particular dogs and cats. I mean, don’t you think it’s AMAZING?! WE LIVE WITH ANIMALS. WE TAME ANIMALS. This is blowing my mind!!! Like, there are animals in my house/yard that live with me and walk around with jump on me and EXIST beside me. Isn’t that wild?! Like, a bajillion years ago (figure may not be correct and is based on no research whatsoever) we found wild animals and we kept them in our homes/caves/whatevs then bred them to be domesticated. I mean, WHOA.

You can only imagine how I feel when I see the Little Mister hanging about in my house. I LIVE WITH A TINY HUMAN. A tiny human made up out of myself and my husband’s DNA. A real live, human person. We made a human. And he hangs out with me. HOLY SH*TBALLS. I HAVE A KID. I’m still not used to the idea that I have a child, even 11 months in. I am still processing the fact that I am a parent, even though I live it each and every day with all of my being!

You’re not impressed? You seem underwhelmed. Sigh.

I don’t know why I have to marvel at stuff that no-one else does. It’s like I’m the hipster of not cool stuff in a non ironic way. What???? I don’t even know what I just said.

Is anyone on the same wacky page as me (and not on mind altering drugs)? Anyone…?

*crickets chirping*

I need more sleep.

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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!!

 

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Are you a boofhead?

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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 :P

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I have become what I always feared.

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In my 33rd week of pregnancy, I am certainly not the same person I was before I got knocked up (sorry Mum – I know you hate that expression – I use it entirely in jest)! I am sure I will return to being that pre-pregnant Kez (but hopefully with a little more experience and wisdom) at some point…maybe in 18 years…but for now I’ve had to accept that some things just aren’t as simple as they were before! Honestly, sometimes I feel a bit like a Douche-Bag these days!

I am late to everything ALL THE TIME. This (yes – this person right here who you’re reading about) is usually the most punctual person you’ve ever met. I used to rock up at events half an hour before they even started and have to wait awkwardly in the car or make weird small talk with the people who were setting up (if I knew the host well enough to just wander on in a bit early) while I offered to assist them with anything only to have them refuse my offer…wait that sounds like I was annoying…Well, you know what I mean. I always had it drummed into me that turning up late is not indeed fashionable or polite! That being early is better than being tardy! I feel really bad about it. I know plenty of pregnant women are able to get their arses in gear and turn up somewhere at the right moment, but I’ve just become one of those hopeless zombies I swore I would never be! I even struggle to get out of the shower…which brings me to another point:

I am not environmentally friendly. I use a hell of a lot of water. Sure, I was never super keen on getting out of the shower in a very small amount of time, but I did have my limits. Now I just stand in the shower staring gormlessly into… nothing. I don’t see the shower curtain or the soapdish. I see…nothing. My brain becomes blank and the water feels soothing. At the very least, before I was pregnant I was at least solving the problems of the world in there.

At least I’m using “organic” shampoo and cleaning products for the house? And when I say I’m using those cleaning products, I just mean I have them stored in the cupboard and one day I’ll get back to that whole nesting thing…you know, probably on the day I go into labour or something…

I have lost my ability to plan ahead. I get as far as around-about-ish my due date (a little bit before it and a little bit after it) and then I get stuck. People send out invitations and I’m like, “Um I don’t know. I might have an extra little person in my life or I may not by then. I may have a C-section to recover from or I may not. I might feel ready to attend major social events but I may not. This might disrupt the baby’s routine or he may be super cruisy and almost anything will go. Can I get back to you later and be a total turd and ignore your RSVP requirements?”

“Um, sure Kez. You douche-bag.”

Seriously, most people (if not all) are really accommodating to my situation but it makes me feel horrible. I am an RSVP ogre at the best of times and here I am disregarding everything I’ve ever believed about being an excellent RSVPer. Who am I?!

I’m an annoying diva at restaurants/social events too. Ever since my diagnosis of Gestational Diabetes, I’ve had to watch every single thing I eat. When I’ve had to dine out, I’ve had to become really picky. I can look at entire restaurant menus and not see a single meal I am allowed to eat without asking the waitstaff/kitchenstaff to change something for me. This is really hard for a person like me because I will always say, “Oh yeah. This is really delicious!” when a waiter/waitress comes around to check we’re satisfied with our meals, even if what I’m chewing on tastes like someone’s dirty old socks dipped in garlic.

Having to ask someone, “Can I have the sauce/dressing on the side and can I replace the fries with seasonable vegetables and can I have the steak well done and can my bread please be multigrain or wholemeal and can I basically change your entire menu to suit my needs?” is very challenging for me! I always explain that I’m not just a diva or an allergy faker. I always smile a lot and say I appreciate everything they’re doing for little old me and if I have a few extra coins, I’ll hope I can tip the staff…but I still feel bad!!

I just can’t risk high blood sugar readings or I’ll be forced to take insulin and deliver at a hospital an hour and a half’s drive away from my house! SCARY! Not to mention the baby could become unfathomably big – that’s gotta come out of somewhere, people!!!

Worst of all, I am one big Flakey McFlakerson. I can never predict which days I will feel well and which days I will feel under the weather. I can have a day where I have amazing bursts of energy and I can travel far, have the productivity levels of Superwoman, but then suddenly I can spend a day feeling like I’m fighting off a coma while aching and suffering like a sad little invalid (you know – as opposed to all the tough invalids out there who have things worse than me – the shame).

This means that I can RSVP to an event (formal or casual) and then on the day have to change plans completely…yep. Douche-Bag. I was able to soldier on earlier in my pregnancy but now I just know my physical limitations. It kills me when I have to send a stupid apology text or make an apology phone call. Especially if it has to be at the last minute, despite the fact that I’ve actually showered myself in record time and I’m wearing “OK for public viewing” clothing. That takes effort and you know I’m serious about pushing on through like a little trooper if I’m wearing earrings and lipstick!! It’s just that sometimes it’s not enough to want to be somewhere. I’ve got to be confident that I won’t feel like passing out or throwing up. Not that I have actually gotten to the throwing up stage, but my body has threatened me many a time and it is kind of…distracting when you’re trying to have a conversation.

I feel like I am not doing this pregnancy thing as gracefully (or efficiently or as competently) as some of the other yummy mummies I know, but things haven’t been as easy for me as I had once naively dreamed. I could have it much worse (just knowing my baby is OK says I’m lucky), but I think I’ve had to sacrifice exercise earlier on in the piece due to my rash and now I’m feeling the effects of being not-as-fit-as-I-could-be combined with the shortness of breath and the lack of stamina any woman feels when they’re carrying a baby the size of a large jicama (which I had to google because I had no idea what it was – it’s some kind of massive fake potato if you really want to know). I’ve also had to change my lifestyle (ie restrict it more) with the diabetes and sometimes with all the finger pricking, recording of food, and preparation of special meals, I wonder how I’ll fit anything else in a damn day!

It’s funny because by the time I get a handle on it all, I’ll probably have the baby!! Ah, pregnancy. What are you doing to me?

So please bear with me, real life buddies. I’m working on all of this! I haven’t been abducted by some kind of alien that steals your usual personality…or maybe I have…it’s the probing I’m worried about…

Either way, it’s a bit disconcerting having to accept that you no longer have control over your life and that your decision making habits sometimes get disrupted. And parenthood hasn’t even “officially” started yet!!!

I’m adjusting as best I can. Promise!

PS. I know I’m being a big wuss bag, but I’m trying to be as honest about my personal experience as I can. Maybe I’m not the only one out there? x