Parental Parody: March 2012

Friday, March 30, 2012

FFS!? Friday : Becoming my Mother

Linking up again with Wife Of Awesome DearBabyG for my weekly whine. She is my proxy W.O.A. this week, as we tour Melbourne together. HB and #1Hubby are wallowing back at home, tending the children, keeping the home fires burning, etc. etc.

And so it goes without saying (but, as always, I’ll still say it) that I don’t have anything whine-worthy at this very moment. As you read this, I am likely sleeping, eating, drinking or shopping. Or preparing to do my speech in front of a room full of awesome blogger’s whose opinions I value above almost all else, and so in actual fact, the safest bet is that I’m probably drinking – covertly – before I take to the stage.

What could I possibly have to complain about?

So instead, I wrote this FFS!? Friday post as I was packing and preparing for today’s Digital Parents Conference.

At some point I have morphed into my mother, #1Nana. FFS!?

To be clear, she is the epitome of awesome, it’s just that she is also four decades older than me.

Before jetting over to Melbourne, I assessed my wardrobe with much dismay, many wrinkle-inducing frowns, and the odd tantrum to rival any thrown by The Feral Threesome.

It took all my strength and willpower not to pack the maternity jeans that I got from an Op Shop….approximately 2 years after my first pregnancy and 1 year prior to my second. The same pair I regularly wear to this day. I will almost certainly be cremated in them when my time comes to meet the Vodka Gods up in the sky. FFS!?

I have an extensive collection of flip-flops and sandals, but nothing by way of “grown up shoes”. Shoes that have a heel. I do have a fetching pair of old lady slip on’s that I bought at the CHEMIST. The kind that little old ladies get around in, teamed with knee high stocking socks which are always falling down below the hem line of their billowing faux linen skirts. Yes, that’s right. I nudged one of those sweet old ladies out of the way to get to the last pair of black size 8 ORTHOTIC NANA SHOES. FFS!?

I own two dresses. One purchased in 2003. The other copied from that dress. I’m living in firm hope that one day the fashion life cycle will see them considered in vogue, before I’m too old to wear them out of fear my hunched over old lady stance will expose my wrinkled cleavage. FFS!?

I have a pair of black linen pants that I bought at Myer in 1995. They still have the tags on. Never worn, because they never fitted me – but they were MYER LINEN PANTS and therefore I had to have them, because one day they would fit. And they pretty much do now, but it appears the floaty culottes look is passé. Again. Never mind, I’ll just keep them until that trend cycles back into fashion. Again, here’s hoping I’m not so old I’ve shrunk to proportions that see me yanking them up to my armpits. FFS!?

A lot like these, but black.
Expect I could take flight while wearing these, given the right wind conditions

Fashion victims pity me. Nay, they sneer. FFS!?

And so I turned to my mother’s wardrobe for chic, Melbourne-worthy attire. In lieu of an impressive budget affording me a new, modern, age-appropriate wardrobe of my own. FFS!?

I bypassed the collection of white ladies’ bowling dresses.

I even managed to resist the collection of bright, loud print shirts (seriously Mum, WTF is up with ALL that?)

I have instead pilfered shoes, jackets, and a few tops. After gleefully pointing out all the items that were simply too big for my ~~totally non~~ girlish figure.

Then we went shopping together for lipstick and chose the same one. Then she showed me the best anti-wrinkle moisturiser that I should start using. (Bitch was just getting me back for the taunts about her clothes being too big). FFS!?

Then she pointed out ANOTHER WHITE EYEBROW HAIR. FFS!?

MINE. NOT. HERS. FFS!?

If I keep plucking them out, I’m going to have to have my brows tattooed on when the white hairs have completely taken over the exceptionally dark brown ones that I should have, FFS!?

Same lipstick. Same anti-wrinkle cream. Shared wardrobe. Orthotic shoes from the chemist.

I have officially morphed into my mother. FFS!?

I can’t be more than a few years off reconsidering the white bowling dress, grabbing a set of lawn bowls, and joining her for a few ends (OMG I EVEN KNOW THE LINGO!) while we discuss our mutual contempt for the youth of today and which breakfast cereal has the best fibre content (it has to be All-Bran). FFS!?

Room for one more?

I can feel the grey hairs breaking through. On my scalp this time. FFS!?

I’m not kidding. FFS!?

And did I mention I have a bad hip? FFS!?

Edited 1 April: What's up with nobody advising me of the typo on my labels - MORPHINE into my mother? Seriously? FFS!? Clearly I meant MORPHING into my mother. As if I'd share with her otherwise...

Posted by Parental Parody at 5:00 AM

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Wednesday, March 28, 2012

How to get a man to clean without asking/nagging (includes giveaway)

As previously mentioned, I have created a #1Hubby-proof plan for getting said #1Hubby to carry out his fair share of the household cleaning. And then some.

It is genius. I am a genius.

And no, it does not involve offering up explicit favours.

Or promising not to speak during the cricket.

In my wifely experience, all 12.5 years of it (because when you've done that much time, even the 0.5 matters), I've found that the best form of persuasion is passive coercion.

Where did I learn this? Not from my mother as you may expect. She left me hanging high and dry on the husband wrangling tips. Perhaps because she's still trying to conquer #1 Pop.

It was actually #1Hubby himself who taught me how to convince him to do stuff he'd otherwise hate, without a single suggestive hint, whine, loaded comment, or withdrawal of any services on my part.

You see, we'd been together for around 6 years when I found out, via overhearing him offering marital advice to a couple of newlywed friends, that way back in ye olde worlde times when we first shacked up together, he deliberately mixed colours and whites in the wash to create a couples uniform of pink and/or grey clothing. He also deliberately - to this freaking day - hangs the clothes as if they've been spat out by a tornado and tossed on the line.

This makes me stabby

The result of his supposedly innocent actions is that I now insist on doing all the washing and hanging all the clothes on the line myself. It has nothing to do with my extreme need for symmetry, even on the clothes line.

He is an evil genius, and while I was the one on the receiving end, I don't think I've ever loved him more than when I found out about this scheme.

It was a pure coincidence that I singed water stains into his work shirt while ironing it the very next day.

I have not been allowed to touch the iron ever since, 10 years later.

And so, I give you my #1 tip on how to get the menfolk to do their share of the cleaning and other household chores : passive coercion via human error..

Floor needs vacuuming

Only do it while sport is on TV. Make sure you have valid excuses not to do it any other time. If possible, let the vacuum butt up against the TV cabinet a little and jiggles it, so he panics that it will all come toppling over and break his beloved TV.

Kids have lessons to be ferried to and from

Take them the first time, let him stay home. Go shopping after the lessons, and buy something for yourself that you don't need. Shoes, clothes, make up. Anything he can't use and will see as a luxury item. If he isn't scared into action the following week, repeat. Trust me, after a few weeks he'll insist on you staying home while he takes the kids to their lessons.

Windows need to be cleaned

Use his best Tshirt, claiming it leaves the windows streak-free. And if that isn't enough, bust out his jocks too. After cleaning them, lightly spray with window cleaner so that the next time he pulls them out to wear, he can smell the cleaning product on them.

Sick of ironing his uniform / work clothes / business attire?

A few singe marks and water stains will see him insisting on doing it himself.

Sick of ironing your own stuff?

A few singe marks and water stains requiring you to go out and purchase new clothes will see him offering to iron your clothes too, rather than fork out for a new wardrobe.

You're welcome...and on to the point of this post, besides sharing my domestic wisdom:

It's no secret that Chux are a Sponsor of Awesome and, coincidentally, creator of awesome products. Just ask ~~#1Hubby who does the bulk of the cleaning~~ me.

#1Hubby and I have put together a list of our top 5 Chux cleaning products, the must have items:

Chux Kitchen Wonder Cloth
For those who have a severely unco-ordinated wife, prone to spilling stuff. This will soak it up before the ~~wine~~ coffee reaches your mobile phone, laptop, or other vital equipment that she insists on drinking/spilling near.

It's true. It really is the every-man cloth of the cleaning market.

Chux Non-Scratch Scourer Sponges
Removing baked on food, the result of hours of blogger neglect. I know I've mentioned this one before, but it's still happening, it's still an issue in our household.

It's true. I can't seem to commit to cooking without a sneaky Tweet or 20 in the middle and suddenly I'm totally lost amongst Ebay auctions ending soon, blog posts and Facebook (oh my).

Chux Magic Eraser Hard Surface Cleaner
The kids like to go all Pro Hart on the walls and tiles. You wouldn't know it, thanks to this. Now if only they'd make one that filled the cracks and holes and reapplied the paint. That would be impressive.

Ladies, he likes to flex his biceps while scrubbing the walls. It's a mix of alluring, fetching, hilarious and desperate. Mostly alluring and fetching, on account of the fact that he's cleaning and I'm not.

Chux Magic Eraser Bathroom
Brace yourselves peeps - this one is my recommendation, not his. I do the bathroom cleaning, for the most part. This thing is awesome. Considering I hate cleaning, this thing manages to cut through the ~~months~~ weeks of soap scum and crap built up around my shower recess with ease.

He has no Peanut Gallery style remark. He was too busy laughing at me claiming to clean the bathrooms every few weeks.

Chux Kitchen Super Scrub
Again...this is my recommendation, not his. Occasionally, I get a bit over hearing #1Hubby whine about my burning the bottoms of pots. While he swears by the Non-Scratch Scourer Sponge, I swear by this little baby. And despite what he says, I do my share of dishes.

He made some totally false and derogatory comments pertaining to my claims of regular dish cleaning. Comments I simply could not publish *ahem*.

But don't just take ~~#1Hubby's~~ my word for it. For your chance at winning this plentiful Chux bounty:

Excuse me while I hold #1Hubby up as he goes weak at the knees over the sight of all this cleaning awesomeness

1. Follow this blog, here there and everywhere (AKA subscribe, Facebook and Twitter)

2. Follow the Chux Facebook page

3. Comment below with your one single must-have cleaning item.
Can you guess what mine is? *cough* #1Hubby *cough*

Entries close Tuesday 3rd April

Winner announced here Wednesday 4th April

The fine print :

Entry open to Australian residents only (unless Chux want to pay me to escort the prize to another country, to personally deliver it to the winner...they may be awesome but I don't like my chances)
One entry per person
Entries close midnight (WST) Tuesday 3rd April
Winner announced on the blog Wednesday 4th April
Winner has one week to respond before I plunge into the depths of despair and carry out a re-draw

Goodluck!

Posted by Parental Parody at 5:00 AM

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Monday, March 26, 2012

25 things I'm going to do this week

So I've been making a list of things to do while I am without children in Melbourne for DPCon12.

My list currently includes:

Sleep
Drink
Shop
Eat
Drink
Sleep
Play some pokies
Clean out email folders
Drink
Go to Vic Markets and moan about the awesome produce I can't bring home to WA
Sleep
Nothing
Contemplate my enormous pores
Drink
Visit bars and restaurants that are not kiddy friendly
Watch some TV
Shower alone multiple times, in hot hot water
Sleep
Try not to think about The Feral Threesome and get all misty eyed (MAN UP, WOMAN!)
Drink (helps with the previous point)
Make a list of awesome shiz to do before I'm 40 30 and then laugh hysterically at the likelihood I'll achieve any of it
Make lists. About anything. Love me some lists.
Take my time in the bathroom without fear of invasion
Sleep
Maybe squeeze in a drink or two if I have time

It's going to be awesome. Even if I do sleep ~~off~~ through a large portion of it.

Posted by Parental Parody at 5:00 AM

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Friday, March 23, 2012

FFS!? Friday : The Tooth Fairy

Linking up again with Wife Of Awesome, DearBabyG, for my weekly whine.

Miss6 has had one lone wobbly tooth for at least a month. She has been obsessed with it. Every day she asks me, "When is it going to come out, Mummy?"

Every. Single. Day. FFS!?

My answers have included the following:

Soon
Next month
In a few days
After Easter
When I tell it to
After you eat your broccoli
Never
Ask your father

None of which have adequately answered the question, because she keeps asking. At least once a day. FFS!?

Finally, it happened.

Monday night she was beside herself. The event which she had been waiting for suddenly scared the living crap out of her. She refused to believe that it would be okay, that there would not be a bloody gaping hole in her face forever, and that it was completely normal for teeth to fall out.

Sure, sure, better parents than I ~~so, pretty much everyone~~ would've known the correct way to handle it, and probably have a Tooth Fairy related book to read to their child to make it all airy-fairy and happy again.

I did not.

What I had was a pair of sick twins, an ailing self, Not a Mini Van on its death bed and seriously threatening our Bali funds, an absent #1Hubby who was kicked back in a hotel room watching TV and eating room service (MOFO JUNKETS), and a shitload of work to do. FFS!?

So I sympathised for all of 20 seconds before telling her to man up, and referring to her beloved best buddy Aaliyah, who has miraculously survived the loss of her first couple of teeth without incident.

All good.

Patted myself on the back for such stellar parenting.

The following morning Miss6 came bursting into my room at the ungodly hour of 7am.

She's all dramatic tears and high pitched voice, holding a tissue to her mouth.

The tooth, it has left the building, so to speak.

I congratulate her, the twins yell a supportive and enthusiastic "BULLSHIT!" and I ask to see the tooth.

"IT'S GONE MUMMY!"

It fell out while she was asleep, and when she awoke it was gone.

Holy. Mother. Of. Vodka.

I'M GOING IN

I am envisaging sifting through her shit (sadly, not a metaphor) in order to find the tiny tooth that she has obviously swallowed in her sleep.

So that we can keep it in an album or a ceramic trinket box or something, never to be thought of or viewed again. FFS!?

Then I stress about what to do if she craps at school? The tooth will be gone forever. FFS!?

What didn't occur to me, is to write it off, forget about it, and just save the next tooth to fall out and call it the first one.

I was too preoccupied with shovelling shit (again, not a metaphor) to think logically.

Anyway long story slightly less long, I found the tooth. On the floor of her bedroom.

Thank the Vodka Gods for dodging that bullet. Shudder.

One down, 19 to go

Posted by Parental Parody at 5:00 AM

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Wednesday, March 21, 2012

Vice President / President / Prime Minister : What's in a name anyway?

Thanks B, JG. My first act as Vice President is to make wine hats mandatory for all parents. It will make the harrowing pick up / drop off car rage all the more sedate and bearable, am I right?

Me: "Guess what, Miss6?"

Miss6:

Me: "Hey, Miss6!"

Miss6:

I turn the TV off

Me: "GUESS. WHAT. MISS6?!?!?!"

Miss6: "Oh hi Mummy!"

Me: "Yes yes, hi. Now. Guess what?"

Miss6: "What?"

Me: "Mummy's the new Vice President of the P&C"**

Miss6: "....A girl?"

Me: "Umm...yes. Don't you know who our Prime Minister is?"

Miss6: "Obama?"

Me: "Umm...no. It is a girl."

Miss6: "Ohhh. Julia Gillard?"

Me: "Yes!"

Miss6: "Julia Gillard is the Vice President of Australia?!"

I face plant the table. Like, for reals.

Me: "No, she is the big boss. She is the Prime Minister."

Miss6: "But you're not the boss" (statement, not question)

Me: "Yeah, anyway get dressed. It's time for school."

**P&C for those of you not within the confines of Aus, is Parents & Citizens Association, Parent Teacher Association - whatever they call the group of parents who get involved in schooling in your location on planet earth.

It is normally associated with go-getter, committed parents who are full of enthusiasm and energy and time and love for their school community. They are people who get shit done.

In our case, they had a vacancy that needed filling, and so I stepped in instead, in lieu of any of those sort of people being available.

Posted by Parental Parody at 5:00 AM

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Monday, March 19, 2012

Hands off my shit

Miss3 rules the roost like a tyrannical mini-me.

She is me, but far more cunning and evil.

Me2.0 : the new and improved, and far more calculating version.

She is going to be the death of me, even if it’s when I’m 86 and she’s sick of changing my Depends and gagging on my old lady farts, and so she smothers me in a loving and merciful fashion.

And then proceeds to suck the jewels off my still warm fingers so she can have first pick and use the remainder as bargaining chips with her siblings.

I'm going to take up professional smoking, to ensure that the jewel-extraction process is as unpleasant as possible for Miss3.

Other than that, I am at peace with all of this.

I draw the line, however, when it comes to my stuff.

My food, my drink, my make up, my laptop.

We go out for coffee. In the time it takes me to put my purse away, she has consumed the cookie that came with my coffee and half my cake. She literally growls if I go near her babycino marshmallows.

I go to use the laptop, but she’s already on there. She has no idea what she’s doing, she just presses the keys as fast as she can and laughs like a maniac. But she also refuses to get off until she’s finished what she’s doing.

In the time it takes me to shower in the morning – and with 3 kids, it’s little more than a millisecond – she has parked herself at the basin and started Drag Queening herself up with my make up. I have been without mascara for weeks after she liberally coated her leg hairs in it. When I say my mascara was running - I am speaking in the literal - it was running out the bathroom door, screaching and laughing as I muttered "shed words" and sped after it.

I suppose this is to be expected, as Miss3 received extensive training in the use of Mummy's beautifcation supplies from her older sister, Miss6.

This one-way sharing all came to a head a few days ago.

In desperate need of wine or chocolate, and being too early for wine, I went in search of my secret chocolate stash. I actually have 3 of them.

The first one, empty. Which surprised me, but I figured I’d cleaned it out and forgotten to re-stock it.

No matter, on to the second. Also empty. Now, slightly panicked and chastising myself for letting my supplies get to such critical levels.

Third stash…also completely empty. I am as close to hysterical as I can admit to being without sounding pathetic. Now I know it’s not just me.

So I go to #1Hubby and rant and rave at him a bit. But it wasn’t him.

So I head for Miss6, sternly warning her never ever to touch my chocolate again. Only it wasn’t her either, and she’s now in the depths of despair over the fact that I had chocolate in the house and didn’t share it with her.

Mstr3 is following me around, concerned look on his face, saying “What’s wrong Mummy? Chocolate gone? Oh shit Mummy”.

It wasn’t him. He’s not capable of hiding it or cleaning his face afterwards. Plus he likes to come to me to show off, so he would’ve outed himself at some point by showing me what he’d found.

Miss3 is strangely absent. She’s sitting in the corner with a sly smirk plastered all over her face.

She’s quite clearly having trouble containing herself as she watches me lose my shit over my beloved chocolate.

She slinks over to me, laughs, and says “come on Mummy!” and runs upstairs to her bedroom. There, she pulls open her pillow slip cover and proudly displays at least a dozen mini Twirl wrappers, before letting out an evil "HAHAHA!" and running back downstairs.

She is awesome. She is evil. She is trouble. She is me but so much better.

She is going down.

Posted by Parental Parody at 5:00 AM

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Friday, March 16, 2012

FFS!? Friday : Shit happens in 3's

Linking up once again with DearBabyG for my extensive weekly whine. Seriously, you have no idea how hard it is to hold back on the whine factor for this one single post each week. It takes quite a bit of wine to control the whine.

And so moving on very quickly from that pathetic attempt at a play on words, I give you the top three things that have had me face-palming and muttering FFS!? this week....

YES! Just...yes.

Insurance Companies

I could leave it at that, because everyone knows how useless and shit they are, right?

I have been without mobile phone for almost 2 months.

Thank you for your concern, it was indeed an awfully traumatic time, and I did regularly find myself absently swiping my palm in lieu of a mobile phone screen.

They have finally paid up. I have a nice, shiny, brand new Samsung Galaxy SII and I am in lurve. I may take it to bed with me. But not like that, yo.

Of course I'll have no clue how to use it after TWO. MONTHS. I may require extensive retraining on the ways of modern technology, FFS!?

Total first world whine, but nonetheless - FFS!?

My car

Ye olde Holden Commodore Station Wagon, AKA not a mini van. I fear she is near the end. Yesterday afternoon she deposited me safely into the sweetest parking spot right outside the school gate. And there she stayed for 2 1/2 hours, FFS!?

Cue #1Hubby brushing off my requests for a new battery, so he could tool around under the bonnet for 20 minutes, pretending he knows shit about shit when he doesn't actually know shit.

Cue TWO FREAKING HOURS of trying to keep the over-tired, over-heated, and over-it Feral Threesome's whining tantrums to a dull roar. In a now silent school, deserted except for the teachers attempting to get some school work done in child-free blissful silence. Except for my kids, two of whom were yelling various swear words across the entire playground at each other.

I hoped and preyed the teachers did not understand toddler dodgy pronunciation.

Then I remembered I was standing in a school yard. Surrounded by Early Childhood classrooms.

Who other than a mother is going to be more qualified and likely to understand exactly what they were saying, if not an Early Childhood teacher? FFS!?

And so now I'm suffering from multiple mortification:

I drive the dodgy old feral mobile that broke down outside the school gate.

I am the dodgy old feral parent whose 3yr old twins swear like troopers.

I had no make up on and wild woman hair, as I hadn't expected to be making small talk with various teachers while elbowing my swearing toddlers, for TWO FREAKING HOURS.

I really needed a wee, and so I went in the kiddy toilets attached to the classroom. Without checking and realising that the doors were toddler sized, and therefore I was quite likely largely visible in the enormous mirror opposite the toilets. Not my Britney Bits, thank the Vodka Gods - but it was quite obvious that I'd snuck into the kiddy loo - and as I finished my poorly attempted covert wee, I noticed the adult loo right next door. So now I'm the freak who chose to use a kiddy loo for no apparent reason. I'm sure there are flags being placed on our family file at the school as I type this, FFS!?

Room Service : Over-priced and over-rated, but damn it's good to have someone serve you in bed

#1 Hubby's Junkets

It is so freaking unfair that he gets to escape The Feral Threesome regularly. Yes, sure, it's work. But he is responsible for 50% of their feralocity, so it's only fair that he should be subject to 50% of it, right?

This week he was away from the wee early hours of Monday, until after the kids went to bed on Wednesday. Next week, same thing.

The resulting impact on me is vast and serious and requires immediate rectifying:

I didn't have time for any wine or vodka. Seriously shocking.

I didn't have time to eat much, but do you think my tuck shop arm wingspan has reduced even slightly? Hells no. FFS!?

I missed all my important TV shows. Now I have no idea where the smarmy little wanker has gone from My Kitchen Rules? He made me feel superior and now he's gone, and so I have to revert back to feeling superior and kinder than...nobody. FFS!?

I didn't sleep well. Not because I missed #1Hubby, because I was consumed with thoughts of the comfortable plush hotel room, clean sheets on the bed, restaurant and room service meals, and uninterrupted TV viewing that he was enjoying while I struggled to maintain any degree of authority and order back home at Parental Parody Palace. FFS!?

It is completely appropriate that the Twin Tornado have started turning on me this week, pointing and gleefully shouting

"SUCKS TO BE YOU, MUMMY!"

Damn straight you gorgeous little mini-bastards, damn straight. FFS!?

Posted by Parental Parody at 5:00 AM

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Wednesday, March 14, 2012

Why yes, I am that shit mother!

I’m in the midst of a black hole of crap parenting. Here’s hoping I find my way out soon. At least before The Feral Threesome are old enough to emancipate themselves.

Ways in which I have failed my offspring of late:

Miss6

Commenced Year 1, commenced homework. I sporadically remember to ensure she does her reading. I did not read any of the homework instructions, and 4 weeks in to the school year and my child is now 4 weeks behind in her WRITTEN homework, but doing super great at reading. My bad.

Rather than exposing my shit parenting, I lied to her teacher. I lied and said I’d simply forgotten to bring the homework book in. To which she replied with “you mean both books?”.

Erm. Yes. Yes I do.

And so I high-tailed it out of class before I could be further interrogated by a school teacher and exposed for the motherly fraud that I am.

I’ve just spent the entire weekend trying to catch up (her and me). I’ve begged, bribed, threatened, pleaded. All because I was the crap parent who didn’t read the enormous volume of school notes properly. Or, you know, at all.

Why yes, I am that shit mother who doesn’t appear to take an interest in her child’s education – which is in fact totally false, because I am totally committed to her education, I just forgot to read anything that came home from school over the past 4 weeks.

Mstr3

He’s unco-ordinated by design. It’s in his genes. When he runs, his feet flick out at the sides. It is hilarious, and only topped on the visual comedy scale when he inevitably face-plants the ground and launches into an outraged ranty tanty rave at the ground, for daring to summons his face towards it. There is nothing funnier than a toddler screaming at the ground in total and utter contempt, before feeling around for his newly discovered boy bits (just to make sure they weren’t harmed), and stalking off in disgust.

Why yes, I am that shit mother who takes great joy out of the mishaps of her children, almost as much as their successes. Almost. It's a very close second.

Miss3

She’s already superior to me in every conceivable way, so I feel that there’s not really anything I can do to help her personal growth and development. In fact, I should probably just start sending the other two to her when they need assistance, advice, parenting.

I put this to the test yesterday by leaving her in charge. I sat back and watched her bark at them if they dared go near the toy room, AKA her own personal toy monopoly. I was highly entertained as she body slammed her siblings into submission if they refused to eat sand after she demonstrated how it should be done. I took note as she berated them with a menacing “BULLSHITTTTT!” because she knows it’s a “shed word” and she’s not meant to say it, and therefore without knowing the correct context in which it is to be used, she simply lets rip with it whenever she feels the need for attention. So, frequently.

Why yes, I am that shit mother who laughs at her swearing 3 year old, thinking “thank the vodka gods she is cute and can get away with it”, rather than reprimanding her and teaching her better language. In my defence, I do tell her she’s only to use “shed words” around me and #1Pop, because he finds it equally as hilarious and endearing as I do.

If anyone out there wants to create a parenting manual or instructional video, I am available to be the "this is what you don't do" example of utterly shit parenting. For a small fee.

Posted by Parental Parody at 5:00 AM

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Monday, March 12, 2012

Yay for Junk Mail!

Alternatively titled : Has anybody seen my life? I seem to have misplaced it.

You know you’re a sad, pathetic loser when even your junk mail seems interesting.

Every day, my hotmail junk folder is filled with craptastic shit. Every day, I delete said craptasticness without a second though.

Because I have way more important emails to focus on, like my long distant but closely related second cousin’s uncle’s step brother’s offspring to whom I have no genetic link, but they loved me enough to leave me $127,000,000 EURO…Euro people, not dollars.

Thanks to the targeted ad placement, I now receive a whole other level of junk mail.

Just last week I received these emails, all of which interested me enough to actually open them…also, I’ve had a slow week and would’ve opened pretty much any email if it promised to distract me from domestic duties for any length of time:

Find a maid in your area

Oh. Yes. Please.

One question : Will they work for free, for love, for appreciation and praise, or for faux jewels?

Home delivery alcohol

So you mean I don’t have to leave the kids in the car, with the window down just a little bit?

Family friendly, affordable holiday destinations

As long as they’re affordable, I don’t mind if they’re not family friendly. We can leave the kids at home with the free maid if we promise to arrange for her booze to be home delivered while we’re gone.

Your perfect match is waiting! What are you waiting for?

Just waiting for them to come up to speed on the three attached children, and come around to being referred to as “Step Daddy / Papa #2 / Father Mach 2 / Yo, Big Daddy”.

Do you know what your partner is doing tonight? We can tell you.

Probably checking my browser history for my apparently alcoholic plans to run off to an affordable family friendly holiday destination with my perfect match, leaving him with the kids and the maid.

Improve your writing. Online English courses now available.

Say what?! Y’all be trippin’ fo sho coz I gots tha sickest language skillz out, yo.

But seriously, I'm trying not to take offence at this last one.

It’s been a great week on the junk mail front. Coincidentally, a not so great week on the social life front…

Posted by Parental Parody at 5:00 AM

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Friday, March 9, 2012

FFS!? Friday : The 'MAN DOWN!' Edition

Linking up with DearBabyG again for my weekly FFS!? Friday whine.

MAN DOWN - possibly one of the biggest FFS!? scenarios around.

#1Hubby has always been athletic. The speed with which that man can go from keg to 6 pack disgusts me. Lucky bastard.

As previously lovingly blogged, he's also super competitive. And it's safe to say he's a fairly fit individual. Only, he's getting older now, and while somebody told his body, nobody told his brain.

Last weekend #1Hubby casually mentioned that he'd been asked to play in a friendly, non-competitive, cricket match on Monday.

After snorting in a ladylike fashion, I composed myself enough to ask if he was planning on participating, or wisely and safely spectating.

Alert all medical facilities within a two suburb radius : he's participating, FFS!?

Dr Ross is for me. #1Hubby can get his own doctor.

Now, some of you may call me a pessimist. Some of you may call me negative. But if you knew #1Hubby, you would understand that I am in actual fact a realist.

Last time #1Hubby played cricket, it was of the indoor variety - which meant a nice semi-soft ball, a much smaller playing area, and a game suitable for CHILDREN. Minimal risk to one's personal safety. Unless you're #1Hubby.

He was positioned behind the wickets and caught someone out. Cue 2 weeks of whiny girly-man "woe is me...I hurt my finger" dramatics, FFS!?

Now I'm not without genuine concern and sympathy. I provided the ice pack, I slapped on the Deep Heat and the Voltaren Gel. I changed all the crappy nappies since he wasn't able to bend his poorly finger in the range and scope required for wiping toddler bum's...apparently.

I suggested he get his totally broken and useless, excruciatingly painful - but not bad enough to warrant treatment - finger looked at.

Then I begged.

Then I threatened.

Then I just made the appointment for him and told him to be there or I would slam said finger in the car door. All said with the loving concern one would expect from a spouse.

I was convinced he'd dislocated something and it'd be fine with a quick visit to the GP, thus ending his bloody incessant "woe is me and my poor hurty finger" whining.

Turns out it was spectacularly broken. So broken it required complicated surgery, and is now dubbed robo-finger on account of all the metal that was inserted to put it back together.

The 2 weeks of "woe is me and my hurty finger" turned into SIX MONTHS of "woe is me and my hurty seriously broken and possibly never to be the same again finger with crap loads of metal in it holding it together so can you please open my beer for me?".

FFS!?

A few things about this shit me, shat me, shited me, still currently shit me when I think about it :

I was wrong
He was right
As a result of 1 and 2 I felt guilty and bad and mean and like a wifely failure
Thanks to his insistence on being a semi-tough bloke (no treatment, I'll be fine - but by all means listen to me whine on and on about it), it was far worse that it should've been.
To this day he still suffers pain and stiffness, and almost always at suspicious times (bringing washing in, when sport is on TV, doing dishes, ironing my clothes, cleaning up toilet training mishaps and the like)
I was wrong
He was right

Since robo-finger we've had more than 12 incident-free months.

I feel like we should've marked the occasion and celebrated, in a safe and zero-physical-risk manner. Maybe bingo.

The most athletic #1Hubby's been is running and lifting a few weights.

Being lulled into a false sense of security, I not only supported his participation in the cricket match - I encouraged it.

I am a moron, clearly. I do not learn, obviously. FFS!?

#1Hubby returned home from Monday's 2hr mini-match in one piece.

Within an hour he was slightly limping and making the odd whiny noise about how he probably should've warmed up first.

Within 2 hours he was limping like a mofo. Complete with ramped up whining.

At which point I hit him with my usual anti-whining device/comment :

I'm sorry, but did you birth three children? No? Then don't you talk to me about pain. You know not what true pain is. Now shut the hell up you big sissy boy girly man, darling.

That night I noticed his BLACKENED foot. FFS!?

All week, he comes home from work and immediately lurches to the lounge and flops there dramatically. Foot elevated. Poorly little man child look on his face. The odd whimper, whine, groan.

Don't worry about me love, I'm fine. You sit down. I'll just hop over and get the ice pack.

Each night I've tried to manage ice packs in a bloody Autumn heat wave, the kids, blog posts, work articles, extensive Bali Xmas hotel research, a heavy TV viewing schedule, dinner, domestic crap - and a whiny man child who is of no use or assistance to me. FFS!?

This has totally enabled his armchair style of parenting - whereby he sits on the lounge and directs the kids, who ignore him, and he then ignores them ignoring him because he's so engrossed in whatever sport is on TV.

As an ad comes on TV and he is roused from his televised overt sporting stupor (TOSS for short...should absolutely be on the PBS as a Medicare funded condition, am I right?), he proceeds to direct me in directing our children. From the lounge. In-between goals, runs, points, tries, whatever. FFS!?

And so we are now doing that familiar dance where he bitches and moans but claims it's not TOTALLY life threatening. Yet. I refuse to mother him any further than I already do, so I ignore him and occasionally remind him that he's solo-parenting in 3 weeks when I go to Melbourne, so he'd better literally be on his toes by then.

He's well aware that he needs to go to the Doctor, but he knows I will be the first to crack and make the appointment for him.

Until such time, I am the parent running up and down the stairs to stop the kids enacting natural selection upon each other, eating my make up, launching themselves off the banister, or poking their father's sore foot, just for shits and giggles (because they find his high pitched, panicked, girly-man squeal totally hysterical...and who can blame them?).

I dole out ice packs and Panadol, and in lieu of Voltaren tablets, something from the bottom of the medical cabinet that I'm fairly confident are old, budget, faux anti-inflammatories from a recent trip to Bali. Recent as in some time in the past decade or so. To save time and whine, I just tell him they're Voltaren.

It is just exhausting, FFS!?