Tag Archives: crazy kez

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The (not really) Yummy Mummy’s Guide to Preparing for a Big Night Out.

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…results not guaranteed.

When preparing for a girls’ night out, a mummy must start planning months in advance. Not kidding. If you’ve got other friends who are mummies then you need to maybe just make it a year in advance. Then tell your husbands/partners/parents/in laws to Lock. That. Sh*t. Down. It’s going in the diary and you WILL have babysitters. ALL of you. Determination is the key.

Give yourself ridiculous amounts of time to become human again. Save money for a dress/outfit far in advance with the financial planning precision you would use to save a deposit for a house or something equally as life changing (tip: your outfit shouldn’t actually cost the same as a house deposit or I might need to give you better advice). Book a hair appointment. Let’s face it, girl. Your hair is a mess. Is that a toddler’s meal I see in there?? Again, things like outfit shopping and hair appointments involve having a small amount of time away from your precious bundle/s of joy. Book these further in advance than you booked similar services/shopping trips when you planned your wedding (or that of a friend’s should you not have had the urge to tie the knot yet).

Life changing.

On the day:

Before…

Paint your nails frantically while your toddler cries from behind a safety gate and your co-parent figure tries desperately in vain to pull them away. It’s a nice, peaceful activity for you to indulge in and the sound of a sad, guilt inducing child really enhances the experience. Nothing like taking some time to pamper yourself.  When you inevitably smudge your nails, trying to be everything to everyone, just put some glitter over that sh*t.

Remember at the 11th hour that your eyebrows look like little hedgehogs saying hello to each other on your face (seriously – one of them is literally waving to the other overweight one). Break out the tweezers and in a desperate rush, almost take an eye out. It keeps the excitement alive because in all honesty, you feel like collapsing in bed for a very long sleep. Like a Sleeping Beauty/Snow White kind of epic sleep.

When blow drying your hair, you must also pretend to blow dry your toddler’s hair. You won’t be able to finish the job because your toddler will start raiding the bathroom cupboard and trying to climb into the bath. Never mind. You still have straightening and a plethora of hair products to get to. Also, your toddler now looks AMAZING.

Put your dress on last. Seriously. LAST MINUTE. Must avoid toddler snacks, drool, the pulling and tearing of fabric. Who cares if you’re running around the house with your boobs hanging out of your dressing gown, while the family stares on, because you’ve misplaced the sash for it?

When leaving the house, say “bye bye” to your child while they cry and repeatedly mention the car…because they want to get in it and ride around with you and never be abandoned by you ever ever again. Never. Brush off the guilt and turn up the car stereo so you can’t hear the crying. Aargh.

Sing along to your favourite songs (the ones with rude words in them) really loudly in the car. You’ve reached a stage in life where you just don’t give a damn what people think. You’re a mummy. On a mission. Also, you’re trying not to cry because you have so many feelings. SO MANY. You’re alone in a car, you just left your child behind so you could booze it up, you are going to see your friends, you’re exhausted on a whole new level you didn’t realise existed. The little hook on the zip of your dress digs in a bit.

During…

Arrive at your friend’s house for pre-drinks. Pour yourself a vodka and soda water, because it’s “healthy” (bahaha!) and then drink a couple of shots, exclaiming loudly about how strong they are. It will make you feel like you’re being really wild and not a light weight at all, because at home you get drunk off one standard glass of wine, before passing out on the couch at 8pm.

Hug everyone and squeal. It’s a girl thing.

When the bus (yes – party mini van – woo – not to be confused with a mummy’s people mover) arrives, jump in and warn the driver about your loudness. Take selfies while inexpertly trying to figure out how to use the flash on an iPhone, sing along to rude songs and secretly feel satisfied that you are much more fun than the boys are when they hire the party mini van (who do you think recommended the service?)!

Talk about your child for a little while at dinner, but then have a couple of cocktails and start saying much more inappropriate things that involve scoring things from 1-10 and generally hypothesising about the kinds of things you might see in those awful men’s magazines.

The drinking must slow down eventually, because you plan on (legally) driving home from your friend’s place later in the night. You want that damn sleep in – in your own bed! Also? Your friends are that hilarious that you don’t need an alcoholic buzz – seriously.

Visit somewhere that proper ladies (especially the married with kids types) should never enter. What happens on girls’ night, stays on girls’ night. Kind of.

Head to the casino. Wait in line for the night club. Don’t worry. Times have changed. You have to show your ID, have your face scanned by facial recognition software and still remember to pay the dude at the desk a cover charge. It’s like waiting in customs at the international airport. Note that the dress code mentions you can wear 3/4 pants on Sundays. Damn. It’s Sunday and I left my mummy pants at home. Hear that?! I left my mummy pants AT HOME! I’m in a party dress! Let’s goooooo!!!

When leaving the night club, “Beyoncé and Jay-Z” (verb) the f*ck out of there with two of your girlfriends. Someone must sing back up vocals, someone must be Beyoncé and another must rap like a motherf*cking Jay-Z. ALL the way out of the club and down the stairs. You can’t sing high notes. But you try anyway. You are glorious. Again. You get to a stage where you just don’t care. People might look, but you’re not sippin’ on that Haterade.

Complain your feet hurt because you don’t wear heels anymore. Buy MacDonalds.

After…

Eat your cheeseburger in the bus while your seat buddy changes completely into a onesie and pulls a sleeping bag over her (from her massive overnight bag). Look to the left. Your other friend has her dressing gown on. Eventually, everyone falls asleep. Yeah…

Wish you brought a onesie.

Drive a couple of friends home in your family car. You don’t want them to die walking home. Now that you’re older and wiser, you really start to care about that stuff.

Get home. Park outside the garage because the door clunking up and down might wake your child. Tiptoe into the house to hear nothing but silence. By now you’re wearing flat shoes, of course. Relish the feeling of unzipping your rather tight dress (thanks a lot, cheeseburger). Climb into bed with a full face of make up and overly styled hair.

Wake at 7am on the dot, despite being allowed a sleep in. Turns out your body clock doesn’t know you weren’t a mummy last night.

ZOMBIE.

Any questions?? 

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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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Soundtrack for parents of toddlers.

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I think every moment of a person’s life needs a soundtrack that reflects what’s happening at that time. I seriously love the idea that life is a movie (not so much a nice, tidy Hollywood film…maybe more of an artsy foreign film with subtitles that you can’t keep up with and a plot that doesn’t seem to make any sense until the end). I listened to Nirvana, Silverchair, Rage Against the Machine and Hole when I was young and angst filled in the 90s. I became a bit of a rebel with a love for four chord wonder punk rock songs later in high school (there’s nothing like a private high school with strict uniform rules to make you feel all uprise-y and rebellious…but only on weekends and after school because you’re not really a bad-ass kid at all). Every summer of my adulthood has somehow been influenced by Aussie hip hop and cruisy acoustic tracks that remind me of the coast. Let’s just forget that time in primary school when I listened to Alanis Morrisette’s album Jagged Little Pill on repeat (rewinding that cassette over and over and over).

Now that I’m a parent (of a toddler no less), I’ve decided to create a soundtrack for life with a little one. Songs (or at least some selected lyrics) that really capture the essence of parenthood.

1. Powderfinger – Pick You Up

Relevant lyrics:

When you are far from home …

When you feel outgrown

I’ll be the one to pick you up again

When you decide you’ve had enough of it

I’ll be the one

…When your speech is slow

When your eyes are closed

I mean, how can this song not be written about a grumpy toddler who doesn’t want to walk anymore while you’re out and you just happen to not have a stroller with you or the upper body strength to deal with this sh*t? Toddlers are heavy!!

2. Rudimental – Not Giving In

Relevant lyrics:

I’m not giving in,
Not giving in,
Ooh I’m not giving in, yeah.

This time, I’m gonna be stronger I’m not giving in,
This time, I’m gonna be stronger, no, I’m not giving in.

Hello. Toddler tantrums? Discipline gone awry? At least have a really cool song to make you feel better. No, Little Mister. You can’t have your dummy or 50 snacks today. NO!

3. MC Hammer – U Can’t Touch This

Relevant lyrics:

I told you homeboy (You can’t touch this)
Yeah, that’s how we living and you know (You can’t touch this)
Look at my eyes, man (You can’t touch this)

…

Yo, I told you (You can’t touch this)
Why you standing there, man? (You can’t touch this)

…

You can’t touch this [x4]

OK, so many of the lyrics are wildly inappropriate for dealing with a toddler, but I find that I spend all day like, “Stop! Hammer time (OK I don’t say “Hammer time” but I think I’ll start just for funsies)! You can’t touch this! Or this! Stop touching this! No touching! You can’t touch this!” Just let me have this one, OK?

4. Faithless – Insomnia

Relevant lyrics:

I gets no sleep
I can’t get no sleep

I can’t get no sleep
I can’t get no sleep
I need to sleep, although I get no sleep
I need to sleep, although I get no sleep

So I’ve just discovered that there’s such a thing as an 18 month old sleep regression. And when that’s not rearing its ugly head, I still can’t get no sleep. Need I say more?

5. Meatloaf – I’d Do Anything For Love (But I Won’t Do That)

Relevant lyrics:

And I would do anything for love, but I won’t do that
No, I won’t do that

Anything for love
Oh, I would do anything for love
I would do anything for love, but I won’t do that
No, I won’t do that

Again, the song’s theme and most of the lyrics don’t apply – at all – to having a toddler, but the relevant lyrics…ever been offered a handful of very soggy, half eaten food or something that’s been on the floor and is now crusty and unrecognisable??? Given out of love – an attempt to share nourishment with you?? There are many things I would do for love, but I won’t be doing that. Seriously. And that’s only one example.

6. Lady GaGa – Teeth

Relevant lyrics:

Show me your teeth
Just tell me when
Show me your teeth
Open your mouth boy
Show me your teeth
Show me whatcha got
Show me your teeth teeth teeth teeth

It is reeeeeally hard to get a good look at a toddler’s teeth. I think he has almost all of them. But how would I know? He won’t open his mouth. Clams up as soon as I want a little look-see.

After compiling this list of songs for you guys (you’re welcome), I have realised just how many ‘adult’ songs are really really inappropriate for children. So maybe just take the fun part of the lyrics I’ve selected and ignore the fact that the themes of the original songs are quite…well, not quite right. Kind of like when people select songs for their wedding waltzes that are about really weird things like break ups or death or getting married in Vegas when you’re really drunk and don’t know what you’re doing (I’m lookin’ at you, Bruno Mars). Don’t worry, I know these songs are not actually about toddlers. Or at least I hope they aren’t.

What songs would you add to the soundtrack of Life with Children?

 

Kez takes no responsibility for any of these songs that become stuck in your head all day…

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How to run the perfect household (yes this is a joke post).

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I find that all households (especially those with children inhabiting them) benefit from some good organisational systems. As the perfect housewife *cough splutter* I am about to share with you my amazing, foolproof secrets to success. I am not even going to charge you for accepting my life changing advice!

WHAT A DEAL!!

Let me start by saying that there are so many ways in which you can make your inner domestic goddess shine, despite having a busy lifestyle. I know this is controversial, but did you know that I can show you how to train your offspring from the age of 1 to assist you in your daily housework?

I KNOW!!!!!!!

Keep reading to find out how! I’ll give you step by step guides on how to transform various household tasks from dreary chores to happy housework!

THE SUSPENSE!!!!!!!!

Sorting clean laundry.

Step 1 – Remove items of clothing one by one from the washing line/clothes horse.

Step 2 – Hand each item to your child labourer to place in a basket.

Step 3 – Retrieve clothing items from the tupperware cupboard/playroom/couch/child’s mouth.

Step 4 – Place clothing items in basket.

Step 5 – Repeat steps 3 & 4 a few more times.

Step 6 – Have a glass of wine/nap/meltdown/call a friend/give up.

Voila!!!! Clean laundry, ready to sort!

Putting clean dishes away.

Step 1: Remove dishes from drying rack/dishwasher.

Step 2: Open appropriate kitchen cabinet with complicated child proofing device key thingy you installed a month ago and still cannot get the hang of.

Step 3: Remove toddler from kitchen cabinet.

Step 4: Swiftly place the dish/es in the cabinet.

Step 5: Repeat Step 3, Step 4, Step 3, Step 4 several times.

Step 6: Close cabinet.

Step 7: Comfort crying, broken hearted toddler.

You’re doing great!!!

Cleaning the floor.

Step 1: Wait until you notice your child eating assorted days old crumbs/fluff/dead insects. Decide if you will just let that take care of itself or move to Step 2.

Step 2: Well done for making it this far – someone got some sleep last night! Hurriedly run for a dustpan and brush (or dustbuster if you are rich and live in a filthy big mansion).

Step 3: Spot clean and leave until Step 1 presents itself again.

Housewife of the year!!!!!

Taking out the rubbish.

Step 1: When your child approaches the bin, say firmly “NO TOUCHING.”

Step 2: When your child puts their hands in the bin, say firmly “NO TOUCHING THE BIN. IT’S DIRTY AND ICKY.” and then make a grossed out face to demonstrate.

Step 3: Watch your child laugh in your face, before repeating steps 1 & 2.

Step 4: Put bin in garage/outside the house and shut the door.

Step 5: Forget about it.

You’re a star!

Visiting the supermarket for groceries.

Step 1: Think about it.

Step 2: Say, F*CK THAT.

Step 3: Order online.

You’re welcome!

So there you have it, dear readers! A few easy steps and you now have domestic bliss on your hands (or some other substances you can’t quite identify).

Ta-daaaaaaaaaaa!

And I’m out.

 

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The importance of me-time.

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Life can get pretty hectic these days (and I’m not just talking about the Christmas silly season). Everything’s a fine balance (where possible). Gotta have quality mum and bub time, every day getting sh*t done (usually with toddler in tow) time, couple time, being with friends and family time, me-time for the husband and me-time for the wife lady (that’s me). I think you can guess which items usually get left off the list (hint: it’s not the mum and bub time one or the getting sh*t done one).

Sometimes achieving this balance can seem easy. The social opportunities come rolling in, things just seem to fit in with our crazy daily schedules, everything just feels right. Other times it’s just go go go. Hitting the daily grind. Add to that a lack of quality sleep and it’s nutso zombie lady time.

For most of us, me-time can be a massive luxury, but every now and then we really need to take a stand and ask for it. I usually see the red flags not long before me-time becomes not just a luxury but a necessity. It can be a slow burn (sometimes even months), but eventually everything catches up with me and there is no denying that I am *this* close to taking a one way trip to Crazy Lady town.

What are my red flags? Insomnia. The kind where you have been so busy that the only time your brain has time to process anything is that moment after you’ve woken up for a middle of the night toilet excursion. I can be awake for hours thinking about the day I just had, current world events, the days ahead. When I haven’t had time to think (or even feel) during a day, this becomes my nightmare because then I start the next day feeling exhausted, unable to think straight and the cycle continues. It can take about a week for this to become a massive problem!

Lack of enthusiasm/energy. I hate this one the most. It makes me feel like a terrible mum and then the guilts just eat me up inside. I usually find a lot of joy in being a very hands on, interactive parent and when I find myself flopped on the couch just staring into space, while the Little Mister plays around me, I know it’s time to do something about it. I’m all for him playing independently (and he is getting really good at it), but sometimes when what feels like a whole day has passed and I realise I didn’t read him a book, take him somewhere or even just sit down with him for a while, soaking up who he is and where he’s at, I start to feel bad. The whole point of me being lucky enough to be a stay at home mum is to be able to be there for him. This is probably my biggest red flag of all. I hate knowing I went through the motions of the day, staying vigilant, feeding him his meals, changing his nappies etc, without actually being there.

Withdrawal from the world. I am usually the first person to jump at any opportunity to head out and do something each day. If there’s some task that involves leaving the house, whether it’s a lovely opportunity to catch up with friends/my mum, an activity for the Little Mister to participate in, or even a trip to the shops, I am all for getting us out of the house at least once a day if we’re able to do so. It’s when I start to feel overwhelmed, like it’s all too much to just drive five minutes down the road, that I have to tell myself that something needs to change.

Getting stuck in my head. These are the days when I start to feel a bit down or a bit anxious. I’ll find social networking (usually such a great support and connection to the adult world) too much to bear. I’ll start worrying about things that I shouldn’t waste my energy on and I’ll generally just be doing a bit too much navel-gazing. Luckily, over the years I have learnt how to recognise this and I don’t let it spill out into my relationships (except the occasional slip up where I have a little bitch to my husband about the silly thing that’s bothering me – that’s usually also a red flag for him to give me some space). I know that the things I am worrying about are just me getting stir crazy and I just need to get out for a bit (by myself). Regain some perspective. It’s important to not let molehills become mountains.

Anyone recognise these red flags????

Often, it can be hard to use opportunities to take some me-time. I will either feel guilty and start ‘doing stuff’, while my husband protests (he knows how much nicer I am to be around when I feel energised and inspired – the same way I feel about him having some space for himself too), or I will feel like I’ll never get an opportunity to just feel some quiet. Sometimes I fill my ‘me’ time with friends (trying too hard to capitalise on free time), and while I have the kinds of friends who make you feel amazing after being with them, I find it doesn’t fill the void in my life where true me-time should have occurred.

I know when people think of ‘me time’ they can have this vision of a selfish lady of leisure being pampered all day in a spa type situation. That can be totally awesome on those (rare) special occasions when you have the time, cash or a gift certificate, but sometimes it’s the little things. Sometimes we can only grab an hour here or there. I find that if I use that hour right, and have the right support (read – care of the Little Mister) during that time, it can make a hell of a difference until that next spare hour.

Recently my husband has been working his butt off. He’s been on a wonderful work roster where he gets to see the Little Mister every single day, but he hasn’t had much time off (last minute extra shifts etc). It’s been almost a month of him working non stop, with me negotiating the silly season, and dealing with a little bout of PMS and we are both exhausted! Yesterday I had to put my hand up and let him know that I felt really selfish, but I was struggling (obviously I recognise he’s not had me-time either for a long time). I was willing to soldier on (just one more day to go until he has time off), but I just had to let him know where I was at.

He was amazing. He took over all the late afternoon/early evening chores, played with the Little Mister (this warmed my heart to hear them hanging out together – just the two of them having a giggle) and ordered me not to lift a finger until the Little Mister was in bed. At first I emptied a few bins around the house and took the rubbish out, before attempting to put some dishes in the dishwasher…but then my husband said, “Get out of here! You need to do NOTHING. Just do something that makes you feel nice. It’s obvious you need this time. I can’t have you feeling mental for another day!”

I’m sure his motivations were partly selfish (hello – who doesn’t want a sane wife to deal with?), but in that hour or so I was able to paint my nails, watch Ellen and read all about Hamish Blake’s wedding to Zoe Foster in Woman’s Day magazine (I’m soooo embarrassing). By the time the Little Mister was out of his bath, I was in his bedroom wanting to give him his night time bottle, despite my husband offering to do that for me.

I felt a little bit more relaxed, but wondered if it had made that much of a difference. Turns out it did. I slept better last night (despite my husband’s erratic snoring habits). I woke up this morning feeling inspired, rather than hit-by-a-bus. My brain actually feels like it has room in it again! A day in with the Little Mister feels like just what the doctor ordered (rather than a prison sentence). Housework feels like an achievable undertaking! I put it down to this: I had been staring at my nails for weeks as they got all raggedy and the remnants of a month agos’ home manicure looked sad and trashy. I felt like crap that I hadn’t been looking after myself. Having bright, red coral nails that are all the same shape as each other, looking kind of festive has made me feel like a woman who’s got her sh*t together. Such a small thing can make a huge difference. Also? My husband was so kind to me that it made me feel happy about our relationship (we’ve come a long way over the years). That’s always something nice to be feeling.

I am still tired, but I am now feeling re-energised and able to take on the next few days before Christmas. I will be reminding my husband how important his me-time is too (he really does need it as he’s very helpful around the house and hands on with the Little Mister when he can be).

I hope that everyone who reads this will be able to find just a little bit more time for themselves (guilt free). Perhaps it’s a good New Year’s resolution? xo

What is your favourite me-time activity?

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It’s that time of year again!

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So last Christmas was the Little Mister’s first Christmas ever. So that was really cool. I dressed him in a cute outfit (it was wrecked by lunchtime probably) and everybody clucked over the new addition to the family. He was probably around one and a half months old then (I’m no mathematician). He slept and had his milk. Cried occasionally. The usual newborn baby thing. You know how it is (or not – how would I know) haha.

I like to think of this Christmas (2012) as his second first Christmas. This year the Little Mister is a toddler! He is moving around by himself (when he’s not crash tackle hugging people), he’s eating new foods and he’s ‘talking’ a lot. He understands when something exciting is happening (cue clapping and smiling and whole body wiggling) and he can take in so much more of his surroundings! He wants to know what the world is about and he’s so curious. This has really brought out my Christmas spirit. Last year I felt the excitement of our first Christmas as a little family. This year is all about sharing it with the Little Mister :)

I’m really excited about the fact that he can stay awake (sometimes painfully so – but we’ll look at the positives) more, feed himself (my husband and I may not have to take turns not eating on Christmas day this year – a true gift), and run about exploring and playing. SO COOL.

OK, so I haven’t really bought many presents yet (despite the usual good intentions to start earlier – we all know how that works out), but I have really enjoyed decorating the Christmas tree. I might have bought over 150 new baubles this year. Despite already owning a full set. I’ve become a little bit more nuts than I already was last year. I’m starting to get delusional ideas that I might be able to change colour themes EVERY YEAR. However, the storage space in my house (and probably my husband) say “not so much”. However, I am pretty sure this problem will take care of itself, because so far we have lost a few baubles to the bin fairy on account of *ahem* vigourous handling…who could be responsible for that? I don’t know…

The Christmas tree is encased in a big, colourful play pen. Next year we need a bigger play pen. The branches stick out a bit at the bottom and I’m not entirely sure there’s enough room in there for all the presents. The tree looks AMAZING (if I do say so myself) …well, until you glance about half way down, where the decorations suddenly become very sparse. It is the epitome of a childproofed Christmas tree. Maybe someone should invent festive tree decorations that also double as child safe teething toys (BPA and chemical free blah blah blah). Problem solved. SERIOUSLY. SOMEONE SHOULD REALLY DO THIS. DO I HAVE TO THINK OF EVERYTHING?!?!?!

tumblr_me09wqoOGH1rlf48uo1_500_largePic: That kid is about to eat or break something. I just know it.

On another note, it turns out that Santa is just some scary individual who hangs out at the shops tormenting toddlers and babies. His big fake beard and glasses ensure that your child cannot tell if he is friendly or not, so worrying about whether you want the cute photo package that includes wallet photos and a keyring vs just the standard six photo prints becomes the least of your concerns when the bawling begins!

Also turns out that the jolly sounds of “Ho Ho Ho – Merry Christmas” are actually a deep, intimidating boom to a toddler and doesn’t actually make them feel any more joyful. In fact, picture the opposite result.

While other sensible parents might just say, “OK, let’s just avoid Santas from now on”, my husband and I (after awkwardly abandoning the photo shoot with shopping centre Santa) decided that it’s time to desensitise the Little Mister. You know, because we’re totally child psychology experts (don’t ask me about my actual real life degree in behavioural science and my half a degree – totally counts – in childhood education because I’ve just blown all credibility by writing this blog). He clearly hasn’t had enough Christmas-ifying yet! We started saying “Santa” repeatedly while looking positively, dementedly could-possibly-be-smoking-crazy-drugs-but-we-wouldn’t-because-we’re-responsible-parents happy (hoping it will create a positive association). We bought a Santa hat at the supermarket and started saying, “Ho Ho Ho” in various voices and tones to him, while wearing the hat. This brought mixed results. As well as the sight of us being ridiculous.

We started saying “Merry Christmas” a lot and clapping, because clapping means you’re happy. I started showing the Little Mister Santa movies (still waiting for Elf – my FAVOURITE), even though I’m a perfect parent who NEVER lets my child watch a television (hahaha I’m hilarious).

May I add that my father in law wants to dress as Santa for Christmas this year to hand out the gifts?

I’ll let you know how it all works out.

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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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Dear 2am…get outta my life.

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Dear 2am,

I see we’ve met again and I can’t say it’s a pleasure. I just wish you’d grow up. I’ve moved on. Why can’t you? We used to have so much fun dancing together in ‘da’ club, lining up at the 24 hour McDonalds drive through after an evening of dancing, sitting in a beach carpark – you, me, a best friend and a meaningful late night chat. I didn’t even mind you too much when you signalled a wake up call so I could tend to the Little Mister who needed a late night feed. I’d hear him crying, I would see that you had arrived again and I would just do what I had to do. You kept me company. But, 2am, things have changed. I’ve changed. Even the Little Mister has changed. He’s now 11 months old, but you never seem to care what’s going on in my life. You just drain me of my energy, regardless. That’s not something a true friend would do.

Anyway, what I’m saying is that the Little Mister no longer needs you or me. He (mostly – don’t want to jinx it) sleeps through the night all by himself now, and has done for weeks. This means that I have the opportunity to finally do something for myself. Something selfish and nurturing just for me. SLEEP.

No-one told me about the insomnia a parent feels when their child first starts sleeping through (after a long stretch of crazy teething and anxiety filled nights). WHY DIDN’T ANYONE TELL ME?!! When the Little Mister would wake constantly I just fell into autopilot and did what I had to do. I’d get up, deal with the problem and when I got back into bed I would sleep so hard. Until the next wake up. I adjusted. I just dreamed of the time when you would no longer be in my life, 2am and thought that my 8 glorious hours of sleep per night would magically return to me once the Little Mister figured out how to last the night without intervention. I mean, I was tired enough to sleep forever, right? Wrong. You, 2am, made sure of that. Turns out I had to re-learn how to sleep through, just like the Little Mister.

Now when you selfishly wake me from my slumber, I cannot get back to sleep. You’re like that crazy, cursed time of the wee hours when I just cannot help but stay awake the rest of the night. It’s funny but 1:59am and 3am never give me grief. You’re just that hour of ridiculous. You put thoughts in my head that should only be dealt with in broad daylight. You make me ask questions of myself that no sleep deprived person should have to answer. You create worries, where at 1:59am there were none. Everything from how I feel about my relationships, to how I need to structure the week ahead. Like the entire week. Every hour of every day and how to work everything around the Little Mister. Then upon thinking those thoughts, I ask myself if I’m doing the right thing. A first time parent asking themselves if they’re doing the right thing is a dangerous path to walk down at 2am. I hardly ask myself that crap when I’m awake and thinking straight. The 2pm me and the 2am me are very different people.

I tried to ignore you. I tried to avoid checking the time when I woke up at night. Sometimes it worked – I just blocked you out. Other times it’s not so easy. The Little Mister might temporarily cry before settling himself and I can’t help myself. I check the time, because I want to see if a pattern is emerging and then BAM! You hit me. I don’t need your abuse anymore. I’m better than that.

I know you can’t control other variables, like a full bladder after a bit too much water, my husband snoring like … well, something that is loud and annoying, and the Little Mister occasionally having a little late night babble in his cot (the only downside of having a baby monitor), but you need to take responsibility for all the other times you wake me. It’s unnecessary and it’s quite frankly, immature. I won’t get up to play. I will hunker down further under my quilt and I will have nothing but bad words to say to you. We are no longer friends.

I know that I cannot just wish you out of existence. If that was so, then we’d skip straight from 1:59am to 3am and I would potentially lose an extra hour of sleep. I need all the sleep I can get – that’s the problem! I just want you to stop harassing me. Leave my body clock alone and go hang out with those young(er) childless folk we know. They need you. They need to appreciate your existence before they too join the world of parenthood (I know this all too well). I just cannot be that person you want me to still be. I’m sorry, but we’re over.

Love From Kez.

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What are your RIDICULOUS lottery win dreams?

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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.

BORING!

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.

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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?

Click to like Awesomely Unprepared on Facebook x

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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