Bedtime routines.

M was at a conference in Sydney last week so I was getting my single parent on.

OK, ok, so maybe I called in the help of my mother, like the sook that I am.

No mum is an island, right? Certainly not I.

Even, I, super bedtime routine person, become challenged in the face of flying solo during the witching hour.

 Despite being a naturally scatterbrained individual with a virtually routine-free (aka disorganised) child rearing habit, I have always maintained a strong commitment to a finely tuned bedtime routine.
These days, mostly it works. Except when it doesn't, if you get my drift.

Anyway, this is what I do.

1. Cook dinner while kids are watching TV. B still doesn't really watch TV, I am trying to encourage it. For a while there I got excited about the concept of sending P to a Steiner school, until I read that they discourage television viewing because it discourages imagination. They can shove it. Imagination is not something my girl lacks *gets bossed around by 4-year old, wears costume, plays Kangaroo mummies*.

2. Serve dinner at 5pm. Kids eat/throw/smear it.

3. 5.30pm. Bathtime for B. It took me freaking ages to develop a proper bathing system for both of the kids when B was born, but now they are a bit older I tend to do them separately. P watches more ABC2. God bless it.

4. 5:45pm. Get B out. Jammies on. Goes out to say goodnight to P. She ignores him because TV!

5. I read him a story. He has three that he chooses from every single night, sometimes we read all three. They are "Each Peach Pear Plum", "Peepo", and one called "Toddle Waddle".

6. Then he has a drink of water, I turn the light off, and I stand rocking him and singing his regular lullaby which is this song that Dad used to sing - it goes like this;
                    
                       Ally bally, ally bally bee
                       Sitting on your mummy's knee
                      Waiting for a wee bobby
                      To buy some Coulter's candy....

This is B's favourite lullaby, but some of our other classic bedtime hits also come from Dad.  Here's one old faithful;

                    Well me Ma, she said to me
                    Would yer like a cuppa tea?
                    I said, no no.
                    I want cocoa
                    Down in the glen...

I have argued with him that the last line seems incongruous and that it sits uncomfortably with me. Surely it should be something like "Down by the sea", which would rhyme with "tea"? But he asserts that his version is correct, as his father sang it to him.

Another chart topper is;

                Wee Johnny's lost his marleys
                Wee Johnny's lost his marleys
                Wee Johnny's lost his marleys
                Down by the Linfield Way.

               He lost them down the gratin'
               He lost them down the gratin'
              He lost them down the gratin'
              Down by the Linfield Way

And so forth. Mum says that when Dad used to sing this to us as children, it was Wee Sammy who had lost his marleys, but Dad denies it. Also, he didn't lose them in a potato gratin, rather down the GRATING, but with the G cut off. That is very important for the FEEL of the song. Also, marleys are marbles. Obviously.

OK, back to the routine.

7. 6 - 6:30pm. After singing the song, I put B down in his cot and say "Night night, love you." These days he often say "Nigh, nigh" back. Sweet.

8. 6:30pm - P in bath. Usually have to drag her screaming from the TV.

9. 6:45pm. Jammies on. Read her a story. She takes about twenty years to choose one. She doesn't have a particular favourite.

10. I lie on her bed and sing her a lullaby. Since she was a newborn baby I have sung Edelweiss to her. I suppose this is probably a weird choice, what with its associations with the Anschluss and the von Trapps escaping Nazi persecution and what not but it was the first one that came to mind back in the day when P was tiny.  We have done the hardcore hard yards with P. She has been an erratic sleeper and has gone through stages where I had to hold her door shut while she screamed and yelled at me at bedtime. Calming. These days we have it down pat. Yay. That's not to say she doesn't creep out a few times and scare the life out of me when she's supposed to be asleep, but truly she is mostly pretty good. TOUCH WOOD OMG!

What does your bedtime routine look like? Do you keep the kids up til 10pm and go to sleep on the couch with them? Do you lie on the floor until they drift off to sleep, waking stiff and uncomfortable hours later? Do you all pile in together? It's a broad church. What's good for the goose ain't necessarily good for the gander. Many hands make light work. A bird in the hand is worth two in the bush. I could go on with the meaningless idioms, but I won't.

Bon nuit fair readers!

Lazy mother tips. Music.

I'm a pretty lazy person, when all is said and done. Motherhood has challenged my natural lazy instincts like you wouldn't believe. No more lying on the couch for a whole weekend reading. Unfair.

Anyway lazy mothers still have to try and come up with shit to entertain their kids with so I thought I would prepare a series of Lazy Mothering Tips.

Here's the first one.

When the kids are doing your head in, crank up some tunes and dance maniacally at them until they stop whinging. It really freaks them out. I just go for it and pretend it is the year 2000 and I am cutting moves in Super Delux in the Valley. ANyone remember that place? If you ever read this post I wrote a little while ago you will remember that I had years of training in this particular technique. I used to use it as a way to torment my younger brother.

Hahaha.

As well as being lazy I am also prone to obsessions. Particularly with songs. I play them over and over and over until I never want to hear them again. Many of my former housemates can attest to this irritating habit.

Currently these are the songs I am obsessed with. Feel free to copy my playlist and let me know if my technique of bamboozle and distract works for you too.

P's favourite is the last one. Fo' sho'.

Sick Kid and Motherlovin' Mindfulness.

Hello my pretties. Hope you are all well.

We have been hardcore in the trenches over here with one uber sick child. P has been as sick as a bloody dog. We have had vomiting, we have had wet beds, we have had terrible tummy pain, we have had a trip to Emergency, we have had trips to the doctors, days home from work, endless washing of sheets and doonas and spot cleaning of vomity carpet.

Upshot is, says the GP, that P has an inflamed stomach lining from a vomity virus. AKA gastritis.

The poor little mite.  I am supposed to keep her meals to a very basic minimum....broth, water, gastrolyte icy poles. 

She is so starving, this morning she was weeping and saying "Mummy, but all the food will MISS me!".

Very empathetic is my girl, just like her mother really. I often feel sorry for food too. I am constantly ensuring it doesn't get lonely by inviting it to the party in my stomach.

Anyway needless to say in my current state of excessive mentalness I have been taking this as calmly as a Buddhist monk. Buddhist monks spend most of their time crying and rocking in the corner right?

In the midst of the high drama I am supposed to be getting my Cognitive Behavioral Therapy on and embracing motherlovin' mindfulness and being as grateful for small blessings as...well, as I don't know what.

I think one of the things I need to work on is my ability to ask for help, as exhibited by this conversation I had with Mum on Thursday night.

"Hi Mum,"
"Hello darling how's things?"
"Um....ok." (Meaning: Everything is shit and I am worrying myself sick)
"What's wrong?"
"Um. Well we've been up at the hospital with P. I'm home with B now but she's still there with M."
"Oh no! That's awful. Do you want me to come down there do you think?"
"No, no. No we are fine. Definitely." (Meaning: Yes. I am losing it. Please come down)
"Are you sure?"
"Yes you have to go to work, it's fine we will be ok." (Yes please come down.)
"Are you sure? I only have one class I am sure they can cover it."
"No we are ok." (I am not ok please come down and help me).
"I think I will come down."
"Well if you think so. Only if you want to". (Thank God. I am dying from worry and crying and rocking in the corner).

It's not easy being my parents.  Mum did come down and thank fucking fuck she did because LOSING IT WITH WORRY AND VOMITY SHEETS.

On the topic of rocking in the corner, I've been to see this new psychologist and she's ok I suppose but I don't know if she is The One. She says things like "Now what do you want to get out of counseling?". And I'm all, Shit, I don't know lady, to stop feeling like a mental? What am I supposed to say?

On Saturday she was flustered and running late and she said, "OK, what do you already know about CBT?"
I answered, dutifully rattling off the usual ,"Oh, well you know, challenging your thoughts and expectations, being objective... .blah blah blah...", to which she added;
"Well it sounds like you already know a lot about it that's great!".

This was then followed by an awkward silence as she looked at me expectantly. I shifted uncomfortably on my seat.

"Um...." I said, "Well, I've been reading about mindfulness. Like, maybe we could do some of that? You know, like that thing where you concentrate on what you eat instead of shoveling it in mindlessly?"
"Good idea!" she exclaimed. "I was just going to say that too! I've got some WORKSHEETS on that somewhere here."

Ugh. Anyway I'll give her a go.

Something I have been thinking I should do is channel Pollyanna and, as suggested by my wonderful colleague R, write down some shit that goes well or that is lovely and enjoyable every day.  My very own freaking Glad Game.

So here's today's shit that makes me happy.

The "I am so Freaking Glad I Am Practically Exploding From It" Game

1.  I broke my self-imposed shopping ban and bought two pairs of colourful fat pants and a floral blazer. I've obviously been watching Paper Giants because I am dead set channeling Nene King at the mo. Anyway embracing a couple of pairs of cheap fat pants has actually made me feel thinner. Nothing like squeezing yourself into your ill fitting pants to make you want to eat everything that isn't nailed down. So compassionate. Poor lonely food.

2.  My beautiful happy baby boy. He is just a delight at the moment. Every single thing he does is adorable and squee worthy. I want to squeeze him. He has been cheering us all up in our time of need. Even sad little P.

I don't know why this photo is sideways. I tried to fix it but I couldn't. Apparently you can't be a blogger unless you can take good photos. I am rocking the boat yet again with my crazy freestyle imagery.

3.  My wonderful mum and dad. Mum just took over and did all of the things the whole weekend long while M and I paced and worried.  Dad is here today providing companionship, which he does like a boss.

4.  Sympathetic work colleagues. I feel utterly shitful at work. I am always away, sick or with sick kids. I am always late because KIDS and COMMUTE and because I am only there 2 days a week I feel like I never do anything useful. Sometimes I think I am on freaking thin ice but what do you do.

5.  Our new washing machine. The entire time we have had kids we have been existing with the worst most hopeless washing machine ever. Only a few weeks ago we paid CASH for a new top loader, which frankly wasn't a moment too soon because it has changed my LIFE. And coping this fortnight with the old one would have meant institutionalization for me I AM SURE!

6.  Our garden. It is looking bootiful and is cheering.

Some crazy voodoo shit is happening with the photos in this post. WTF. Anyway this is meant to be a picture of one of our almost blooming sunflowers. You will have to look at it side on.

7. My husband. M never hesitates to get up to sick kids at night, never shirks from taking sick leave to look after them, washes clothes, puts suppositories in small bottoms, makes porridge, calms me down. Honestly I don't know what I would do without him. Things aren't always smooth sailing round this joint marriage wise but he has been doing a pretty freaking good job at being almost perfect recently. I know, sickening isn't it?

So there you have it. I am so Pollyanna that I am MAKING MYSELF NAUSEOUS!

What are you just so effing glad about you have to SHOUT IT FROM THE ROOFTOPS? Tell your old friend. Distract me from my rollercoaster ride of worry/relief/worry/relief/worry/relief. PLEASE DISTRACT ME.

Guest post from me.

Hello friends,
This week I am embracing slow blogging cos I am sick and the baby is sick. You know how it goes.

He and I are home again today. My throat is as raw as a raw throat.

But luckily here's one I prepared earlier! I done a guest post on my bloggie friend Mez's blog Listen Sookie.

She's doing a series called The Mama Files and asked me to bring my VERY SPECIAL AMAZING expertise to the topic of motherhood*.

I'm getting braver about putting my mug up on the internet too. I don't know if this is foolish or wise. I suspect foolish.

Anyway, click here to read the post

 

*I know! I have everyone fooled.

Destroying the joint - what not to do.

Baby B was somewhat better Saturday so I went ahead with a plan I'd made earlier in the week to take P out for a Mummy/Daughter day of fun.  I don't get much one on one time with the little mouse these days and I think she needs it.  My big idea was to leave M at home with Baby B, and to take her to swimming class and then straight off to see a movie.  I'd noticed they were doing classic Disney childrens movies on Saturday mornings at Robina so thought that sounded good.  This weekend it was Pocahontas, so I thought it would be perfect. G rated movies are a bit thin on the ground these days...

So after swimming we headed off.  When I had mentioned to a friend the day before that we were seeing Pocahontas, they remarked that they thought it was part of a sort of princess film special event, but I hadn't really given it much thought.

When we got there, a million tiny girls all wearing tizzy fairy princess costumes were milling round in the lobby.  I could see P, in her ordinary clothes, eyeing them off.  She said "Mummy why are they all wearing their princess dresses?". I made up some bland response but I don't think she was fooled.

Anyway I was a little bit blargh about that, but we bought our tickets and got given our Disney Princess Passports (ugh).  I was still more or less ok at that point, and the ticket person said afterwards there would be craft and face painting, so P and I thought that sounded pretty ok  and we bought our Malteasers and headed into the theatre.

When we found our seats, we were soon joined by throngs of little girls attending a couple of birthday parties, closely followed by two young women dressed up as fairies.  They went up the front and announced a few lucky door prizes. I was still all good with things at that stage generally speaking.

What happened next still makes me feel yucky.  The fairy ladies asked all the little girls to come up the front of the theatre.  I was a bit suss already about it and said to P "Oh we don't need to go up darling", but she looked so disappointed I changed my mind and went up with her.

Then the fairy ladies got the audience to vote on who was the best dressed by clapping their hands.  I am not joking.  They actually went down the line of little girls and held their arm over each of them, one by one, and the audience clapped and hooted if they liked her, or didn't clap and hoot if they didn't like her.

A mother standing next to us exchanged glances with me as they inched closer to our girls.

"I don't like this at all," she whispered.

"Me either. I didn't sign up for this," I answered.

I felt sick as they came closer to P. I looked at her waiting patiently in line, and I knew nobody would clap for her. The little girls with the parties had cheer squads and she wasn't wearing a princess dress.  When they reached her, I tried to cover up the lacklustre applause by clapping and woohooing loudly myself.

Thank goodness they moved quickly onto the next one, and P is just little enough that the whole thing was pretty much lost on her.  Any older and the shame of standing in front of strangers and being judged unworthy would have been unbearable.

The next event was a twirling competition (ugh!), but I managed to hustle her back to our seats before getting sucked into it.

I was so angry.  HOW DARE THEY force this veritable beauty pageant on these tiny girls.  The whole world has gone absolutely fucking apeshit crazy.  I wanted to yell "Fuck you Disney princess bullshit world and your dominant paradigm, fuck you and the horse you rode in on!!!!".

But I didn't of course.

I felt hot tears prickling my eyes.  I was so bloody strung out and exhausted, and felt so terrible about taking P to something where that would happen.  As the movie started, I remembered how tragic the whole Pocahontas story actually was, and as the first rat scuttled on board the ship bound for the New World the tears rolled down my face.

Oh God the TRAGEDY of it all was too much for me and it all got mixed up in my head as I wept silently in the dark - colonialism, smallpox, lost love, the degradation of Mother Earth, the oppression and princessification of all the tiny girls in the world by Disney, John Smith's bad English accent, the guy in front of us and his bad body odour.  The bloody shitting tragedy of everything.  I know. Just a bit over the top I guess.

I felt deadset sorry for the nice man and his two little girls sitting next to us as I clutched P close and sobbed quietly into her hair through the whole film, while she asked things like "But who is John Smith, Mummy?!" and "Who is Pocahontas?" and "Where is Pocahontas' daddy?" and so forth. I can only imagine how maniacal I looked in the reflected light of the big screen.

Frankly the whole thing left me feeling like I'd been through the wringer.

I trailed out after the movie ended and dutifully lined up with her to wait for the face painting. She must have absorbed my gloom because when it came to her turn, she sat silently and morosely staring at the face painter until it was all over.  The saddest face paintee in all of Christendom.

One of the fairies and P sitting as still as a statue.  

I had to ask the fairy not to press on P's black eye.  We must have looked quite a sight, my tear streaked face and her sad rainbow annointed, black eye sporting one.

I made myself feel better today by writing a letter of complaint and emailing it to the cinema.  I bloody hope they listen. I can take expensive popcorn, overflowing bins in the toilets and rowdy children in the theatre, but a surprise beauty contest for toddlers I will not stand for.
The #destroythejoint peeps would be disgusted.

Linking up with Jess for...

The really, really, really Slapdash report.

This is an update from the front line.

I am reporting a really bloody sick baby, a toddler with a black eye, constant rain and an AWOL cleaning lady.  This has resulted in dangerously high levels of unwashed laundry, dangerously low levels of sleep and a correspondingly low level of engagement with the outside world, rendering the Slapdash Report even more inaccurate and dangerously  anecdotal than ever before.

Your trusty reporter snuggling said sick baby.

There's casualties left, right and centre, citizens.

For my previous reports go here.

Anyway. I promised to deliver every Friday so here it is. Nobody can say I'm unreliable.  The news waits for no stressed out mummy.

-  Australian swimming team have been taking Stillnox and exhibiting dodgy behaviour.  Drugs in sport, eh? How novel. Tut tut.

-  The Greens party have got the huff with the Labour government in a big way over the mining tax not bringing in as much dough as they promised. So the Greens won't sit with Labour at Little Lunch any more and are hanging out in the school library. Or something.

-  Gillard is cross with the states about how they spend their health budgets.  So she's threatening to cut off their pocket money.  But this is deadset NOT blame shifting.  Nope. Not at all.

-  Everyone watches My Kitchen Rules except me. So out of touch.

-  Something something blah blah leadership debate Labour party Julia Gillard and Kevin Rudd.

Can't be bothered thinking of anything else.

Today started off ok when I dragged the sick baby out with me to P's new dancing lessons but has progressively degenerated.  I woke up this morning and said "I'm thinking of going a month without sugar!", and by the end of the day I'd had a trip to the doctor, the pharmacist, watched the baby vomit up his whole dinner plus a whole tummy full of snotty mucus and then try and eat it again like a dog, and I'd eaten a whole packet of these little bastards.

Red frogs, for the uneducated amongst you.

Exhausting to the max.

I'm in the freaking trenches over here people and it ain't pretty.  It's like an episode of MASH but without the comic relief of Radar's teddy bear and Klinger's frocks. Just helicopters full of dead soldiers.

OK maybe not that bad. But still bad.

Over and out.

On the occasion of his first birthday.

WARNING: Slightly emo parenting blog post alert!!

Baby B turned one on Sunday, and frankly I'm in a glass case of emotion about it.

We're only having two babies, and every time I look at him I realise he is the last baby who will snuggle into me, babble at me, chuckle at me.  And now he's one, he's getting that bit closer to stopping all the baby stuff.

I didn't remember to write much down about P when she was a baby. I did find a Word document saved somewhere on the computer yesterday that contained lots of her words and phrases from 15 months onwards thank goodness, but nothing from when she was one.  Silly me.

But I can write some stuff down about B.

B can say "Mama", "Dada", and "nana" (like "banana").  Nana is his favourite thing so that he seems to call everything he wants "nana".

He can play "peekaboo" with us, clap hands, and babble long sentences that I feel I can almost decipher sometimes.

He can pull up to stand, and crawl as fast as any baby I've seen.

If I ask him "Kiss for mummy?" he sometimes plants one on my lips, but sometimes he frowns and shakes his head vigorously instead.  Cheeky.

He bops along to music like a maniac on the dancefloor.  His favourite is La Roux "Going in for the Kill" or whatever it's called.  How hip am I?

He sleeps like a log all through the night, alone in his room, with the door shut, in the pitch dark.  I know!  God bless second babies.

He laughs all the time, but nobody can get quite the belly laugh out of him that P does.  He adores her.  P has a special teddy called "Beanie".  It's a pink one of those weird Beanie Baby things (Google it).  She asked if we could buy B a blue Beanie for his birthday, so I took her to the shops and she chose one.  She called him "Jack Beanie", like Jack and the Beanstalk.  Naturally she is monopolising both Beanies but B doesn't mind.  Yet.

He is a dear, sweet, cuddly, loving and lovable baby boy and we adore him.

Happy birthday to our darling boy, and may he always find life as easy and full of joy as he does right now.

Me and P on her first birthday.

Me and B on his first birthday.

The Slapdash Inheritance - Guest Post!

Hello my homegirls and boys.

Do I have a treat for you!!!

You may have read my recent post about  the Slapdash Ideology. If not, why not?? Call yourselves fans.  Do yourselves a favour and read it NOW.  It was received well by the critics if I do say so myself.

Anyway, further to this dissertation, I thought I'd ask my mother, my mentor, to elaborate on the history of the Slapdash method.

So here she is, the woman herself, the very person from whose loins I sprang all those 21 (ahem) years ago.

Generations of corner cutting.

Take it away Slapdash Nanny...

As a parent, few things are more gratifying than realising that your beloved child has decided to embrace her heritage and follow in your footsteps. Young Hugo announces that he is going to join Daddy in the family law firm. Persephone wants to be first violin, just like Mummy. Little George W is going to be leader of the Free World.

So imagine my pride when my dear daughter began writing this blog and celebrating the family heritage of slapdashery. Oh, the warm inner glow.

The tradition of slapdashery in our family is a proud one. Certainly, my mum (Slapdash Great-Nana?) was a great exponent, but I wouldn’t be at all surprised if the trait dated right back to our bog-trotting Irish ancestors.

I first heard the term applied to Mum by her elder sister, Mary Magdalene. (I know! We thought it was silly too. So we called her Aunty Mamie.) Mum was a passionate amateur dressmaker and clothed female members of the family in stylish frocks for almost her whole life. She had a great eye for colour and design, she loved fashion and she had been honing her skills since she was about twelve. She was terrific. What she wasn’t, however, was pernickety. She never basted. She rarely pinned. Make fussy markings on the fabric with dressmakers’ chalk? Phooey! In fact, she epitomised the bull-at-a-gate approach to dressmaking. The end product would be fabulous but the journey could be extremely circuitous and fraught with wrong turns and stuff-ups. The little understanding I have of dressmaking I gained as quite a small girl, laboriously unpicking Mum’s mistakes.

Aunty Mamie, on the other hand, had been a professional dressmaker all her life. She was pernickety. She was also an Eldest Sister and I’m sure you know what that means. I was present at a conversation where Mamie informed her much younger sister that she could have been quite a good dressmaker, “if only you weren’t so slapdash”.

Ah-hah! Slapdash! That’s it! From that day I embraced Slapdash as my motto.

The thing is, some people seem to see the term slapdash as pejorative. Not me. Slapdash people get things done. Slapdashery means you know what’s important and what can be kicked under the rug. Slapdash works!

Like my daughter, I was a slapdash mother. Sarah has already revealed that I made her exactly the same pink heart-shaped birthday cake every year. This at a time when the Women’s Weekly Birthday Cake Book ruled and serious birthday cake competition was rife – much like the present, in fact. I refused to participate. And the thing is, Sarah loved those cakes! All her friends loved the cakes. She would have been sad if I’d changed the cake.

So great was the success of the pink heart cakes that, for her brother C’s first few birthdays, I made him identical cakes, but (here’s the clever bit) blue! Later, though, it was suggested to me that a love-heart cake might make him the subject of mockery amongst his little macho mates so I changed to a round clown-face cake and then that was his staple for the rest of his childhood. Easy and effective. Slapdash and good.

I was also a slapdash housekeeper. In my youth, it was fashionable for young mothers to say righteously “I don’t care whether the house is tidy as long as it’s clean”. Were they kidding? Untidy shows! Untidy looks sad and unhomely. Dirty is so easy to hide! What right-thinking person will notice sticky patches on the floor or fingerprints on the walls if the toys have been hidden under the beds, the cushions plumped up and placed over the stains on the couch and there’s a bunch of flowers on the table?

I remember a conversation I had at this time. This woman was saying of a friend: “You know, I don’t think she ever cleans the tracks of her sliding doors!” I was dumbstruck. I had a houseful of sliding doors. People clean the tracks? How? How often? Why??? That was one acquaintance that never deepened into friendship.

I am a slapdash gardener: weeds show that you are a chemical-free friend of the earth who would never sully your hands with poisons. The same can be said for a lawn full of ant-hills. I am very, very slapdash in the kitchen. I read countless recipe books but almost never use one. When I do, you can bet there’ll be modification and substitution galore. All right, the results are occasionally less than optimal but mostly pretty darn good. Why stop in the middle of preparing a meal to rush out for balsamic vinegar when a slosh of soy sauce will probably do? Or a glug of plonk? At least I get it done, OK?

Mind you, I haven’t achieved these heights of slapdashery without help. In addition to my mother, I have had several slapdash gurus along the way. One has been my sister-in-law, Linda (Slapdash Great-Aunt?) A highly successful professional, community member, wife and mother, Linda makes slapdash glam. I remember once, in our youth, Linda suggested to me that a lick of paint would brighten up some of our dreary hand-me-down furniture. Linda’s house was always bright and cheery as the result of her paint-brush. I replied with a groan that I couldn’t be stuffed with all the sanding-and-undercoating drama.

“Oh, I never do that!” she replied.

“But you have to!” I gasped. 

“No, I never do, I never have and I never will,” my mentor stated firmly.

And do you know what? She was dead right. I also have now slapped more licks of paint and estapol around the house than you could believe and I never sand or undercoat. And it’s fine. Thank you, Linda!

So I say to the lovely Sarah, AKA Slapdash Mama, and to all her followers, embrace Slapdash! Do what gets the job done, what looks good, what makes you happy, and if you can cut some corners on the way, go for it!

Thanks Mum.  Your crone-like wisdom is sage and crone-like.  I actually didn't know about the whole not sanding or undercoating thing.  I'm not sure I'm ok with it.

Kidding!  As if I would care!?

See you round peeps.

Slapdash parenting.

So I've been writing this blog for a while now. A few months.  In case you hadn't realised the main THEME of the whole blog is Slapdashery, or "Near enough is good enough", and in my loveable, endearing, cheeky and adorable way, I gently mock myself and my parenting for the amusement of all.

And frankly the public can't get enough of it. And by public, I mean my Mum. Hi Mum!

For a more detailed treatise on Slapdashery and Self-Deprecation please see this post or the guest post I did for Redcliffe Style.

But on a more SERIOUS note, sometimes I do feel a bit down.  I worry quite a lot about my parenting and feel inadequate.  I also worry about my own identity, and my own personal faults and flaws.  I wonder, what is my gift, my particular talent? I sometime feel like I'm not much good at anything.

I look at Instagram and crafty mummy blogs and feel like a big losery poo head, who is lazy and losery and pooey.  I feel jealous of them. I feel like I should be sewing and crafting, organising the house, and planting an organic vegetable garden, whilst commuting to my part time job and GIVING IT MY ALL and then I try to, and I get all stressed and upset because I find it so hard.  And then I get cross. And then just want to have a lie down and watch Game of Thrones on DVD (that's a whole other blog post yet to come people, stay tuned) whilst drinking a gin and tonic and fanning myself with a squashed origami crane.

The thing is this, I think.

I absolutely, truly believe that everyone is different.  You've just got to do shit your own way.  If you are a crafty old fox, then craft away.  If you are a green thumb, then dig the shit out of that garden.  If you can't relax unless your underwear is colour coordinated, then knock yourself out, you are awesome.  If you are like me ie. easily stressed out, anxious, and critical of yourself, then LOOK AWAY FROM THE TALENTED PEOPLE NOW and just  DO IT YOUR OWN WAY.

I read this article from Mrs Woog of Woogsworld fame on the Hoopla website and it made me think long and hard about all this "comparisonitis" that sometimes does my head in.

Another article that speaks to me and my natural tendency to worry and fuss is
"How to be an idle parent", by Tom Hodgkinson.  Dude has written a whole book on the topic. Haven't read it but the article is the shizz.

Also my friend JJ sent me this once when I was a bit down in the dumps.  Also excellent reading.

Anyway, what I'm trying to say is I that think the best thing to do is recognise your limitations people! If you are constantly full of energy, positive and have natural talent, then ignore me, because I am not.

But if you feel stressed, a bit over stretched, a bit devoid of talent, a bit uncreative, I'm about to do what I never thought I would.

And that is GIVE YOU SOME PARENTING TIPS!

I said in my "How to be a Slapdash Mama" post that "lowering your standards is the new black".  I am not joking.  The only way I can ever feel relaxed and actually live in the moment, like all those freaking memes are telling me to, is to CUT ALL OF THE CORNERS and only do what I want to do.

Well, I try anyway.

So, here we go.

MAKING FOOD FUN!

See this cup of water? SO BORING! If I presented this to P frankly she'd chuck it in my face, and be right to do so. Nobody should be forced to drink such a boring drink, it's a human rights abuse.

Now, see THIS drink!? See what I've done here? I've taken a straw and shoved it into the cup of water. INSTANT PARTY! P thinks this is the bees knees.

And if I'm really feeling crazy, not only will I shove a straw in, but I will also put some ICE CUBES in there.  I am actually not kidding when I say P goes crazy for this shit.  They enjoy simple pleasures, your three year olds.

Give this totes boring plate of eats to a jaded three year old and feel their wroth!

But shove it into a fancy lunchbox, and you've got yourself a CLEVER and INTERESTING SNACK PACK. Clever, no? Easy, yes!

BIRTHDAY CAKES

OK, I actually like baking.  But basically if you do not like baking, just buy a cake already.  As Mrs Woog said, kids don't care where it comes from, cake is cake.

So working on the assumption that I already like baking and making cakes that taste yummy, I also know that I do not like having to assemble things or dick about with fiddly shit.

Basically I make the same cake every year. As did my mother for me.

P's 1st bday cake. Melt and mix butter cake recipe.  In a big heart shaped tin.  With pink icing.  Bob's your uncle.

I did it again for P's 2nd birthday. Here's the photo of the 1st birthday cake again, I couldn't find one from her 2nd. But picture this one. With pale yellow icing. And marshmallow daisies. EASY AS SHIT.  

I did it again for Baby B's christening, but I also seem to have cut corners with photo taking cos I can't locate one of that either.  It was a heart shape. With white icing.  Boo-yah!

I do admit to sometimes mixing it up with a rainbow layer cake.  BUT it's the SAME RECIPE. And it is freaking easy.

Looks good but is EASY. But if the idea stresses you out, DON'T DO IT! ALSO if you want to bake a huge crazy Women's Weekly cake book recipe, go ahead, I think that is awesome. DO WHAT YOU FEEL!

I went a bit off-theme for P's third birthday and did the layer cake again instead of the heart. But the layers were pink this time.  CRAZY I KNOW!

 I could go on at length.  Perhaps I'll make this a series too. Slapdash Parenting?  I'll think about it.

Do you cut corners? Or are you energetic and positive with colour coordinated undies? Does the idea of origami with toddlers bring you out in a cold sweat?  It's a rich tapestry my friends, with room for all!

Linking up with Flog your Blog Friday again.  I know, no button. Maybe I'll work it out this weekend.

Break in the Weather. Sweating the Small Stuff.

Ma, the rains are here! [Insert obligatory comment about the weather, Crikey she's a harsh country of extremes, she is, and drought and flood and fire and pestilence and so forth].

Readers, I've got a bit of STUFF on my mind.  Yes, yes, of course we all know that I spend most of my time contemplating Art, Literature, Philosophy, the Downfall of Western Civilisation As We Know It, and my navel.   What time I have left over after I've finished that I mostly dedicate to Keeping it Real, Championing Feminist Issues and Making Benevolent Gestures to the Poor and Unfortunate, but look, sometimes even MY superior intellect and over-developed moral backbone strays into the mundane territory of worry and stress about the "small stuff".

Sometimes the small stuff is actually the big stuff, in a way.  So I've been sweating it. The small stuff, that is.

My comfort eating is back with a vengeance and my nails are torn and bitten.

I need to make a big decision.  But I can't manage it. So I just complain and poor-me about the same stuff endlessly and never change the thing that is really wrong.

Apart from that particular small stuff, there are other smaller, small stuffs that I've been wasting time worrying about.

So, in the words of Alan Partridge, let's just throw them all in the air and see where they land, shall we?

- We can't get the baby to sleep and he's screaming in the background as I type. Relaxing. Like fingernails on a blackboard. Who needs whale music when I can listen to that as I GET CREATIVE BLOG-STYLE.  My muse (or my A-Muse as I like to call her) is laughing at me while she lies on the couch and eats bon bons, I just know it.

EDITED FOR CLARIFICATION JUST LIKE THEY DO IN HANSARD: Don't worry loyal Slapdash Army, he's usually a great sleeper, just bad this evening which I thought added an amusing soundtrack to my Whining Blogging. Apt, even.  Carry on.

My A-Muse. She's laughing hysterically and saying "Don't worry about the bay-by Sarah! Here have a bon-bon!" [Source]

-  I don't want a smartphone any more, I think it's making me dumb.

- As mentioned, my comfort eating is back and my exercise habit is broken. How many months into the New Year was that, some kind of record? Gah.

- I'm worried that P is getting too much exposure to tizzy fairy princess ballerina tizziness mctizz shows/books/general stuff.  She is basically a very imaginative creative little thing and she loves to dress up and so forth, and it's not that I don't like princessy fairy ballerina ness in itself, I just feel that's kind of all she's into.  Anyone got some good suggestions for non tizzy stuff I can show her? Books/movies?  I bought her the movie "Brave" which is fantastic but it's a bit too scary really.

P performing an interpretive dance for a small admirer. With requisite tizzy mermaid style getup. Tizzy.  I like that word. 

So peeps, what are you worried about? Do you like bon bons? What are bon bons anyway? What issues do you champion? Do you like to dress as a mermaid? Or Cinderella? Anyone seen my moral backbone? I think I left it at Woolies.

EDITED AGAIN: To link up with Grace for Flog Your Blog Friday. One day I will work out how to put buttons on my blog. Anyone who nows how to do this feel free to explain in the comments. Grace did once but I still can't work it out. Blargh.

How to be a Slapdash Mama.

Hello loyal minions,
Rachel from Redcliffe Style has kindly given me the chance to do a guest post on her blog!

Exciting!
You can see it over her way today -  http://www.redcliffestyle.com/2013/01/guest-post-how-to-be-slapdash-mama.html

Pip pip!

Sarah

Back to work at the Dream Factory, where Dreams are, um, Made. In the Factory.

Hello dashers. Before I get ranting I want to say HELLO to you all, I know you are out there. Please, if you are reading, feel free to follow along by liking the Slapdash Mama Facebook page or joining up with that Blogger followers thingamajig. And ploise comment, I love to hear from you.  Feels less like I'm talking to myself.  Don't be shy!  When I'm really rich and famous, you'll be able to say "I liked her WAY BACK WHEN SHE WAS KEEPING IT REAL, BEFORE SHE GOT UP HERSELF".

So I guess you are all on the edge of your seats waiting for my return to the Dream Factory story.

Thanks N, husband of Cousin B, for your amusing reference to my erstwhile place of work as the Dream Factory. It shall henceforth be known as this. From hence. Forth. Um, from now.

Well as is usual for these sorts of things it was quite the anticlimax.

M took yesterday and today off work to make sure Baby B had short days, just to ease him into the whole daycare thing.

Turns out B has so far taken to it like a duck to water. Yay! Sort of. Frankly I feel a bit shocked he was so chilled out about the whole thing. I mean, didn't he miss me AT ALL!!!??? Weird. The daycare ladies were apparently all very impressed with his relaxed attitude. This has actually freaked me out more than if he had screamed and cried. I guess P was more or less the same, pretty ok with the daycare situ from day one. Are they really that desperate to get away from me, Mommy Dearest? I mean, I only make P practice the piano 6 days a week and only for 2 hours a day, that is hardcore peanuts if she want to MAKE IT ON THE CONCERT CIRCUIT, and frankly who wouldn't want to? She'll thank me one day.

Back to daycare though. P has been a bit sad because she's moved up to the big kindy room and it turns out her little friend S has moved away and won't be coming back to kindy. P tried to tell me this a few times and I kept saying "No, no darling that's not right, she must be on holidays still" but actually she isn't, she's gone. I am really sad that no one thought to tell me that this was happening, P and S were inseparable. When we finally realised what had happened, I had tears in my eyes! P hasn't really cried but seems so lost which is unlike her. Gah. The start of the heartbreaking friendship sagas of school.

I just read that paragraph back to myself and it comes off like the confusing rundown of an episode of Heartbreak High using only people's initials. Too bad, my blog, my rambling prose.

So that's the deal with daycare.

As for the Dream Factory return, I was VERY NERVOUS on the drive in.  I've totally lost my chops regarding suitable work attire so wore the same outfit I wore to the opera that time. Who knows if that was appropriate but part of me doesn't really care any more anyway.  

Anyway so when I did end up getting there I realised more or less that it's the same shit, different year. Sorta. Kinda.

Highlights from the first day include - 

• Trying to swipe myself into the carpark but my pass doesn't work.  No worries.  They let me in anyway. What a relief.
• Trying to swipe myself into the building but my pass doesn't work. Oh that's right, dur. No worries. They let me in anyway. Guh.
• Turning up to the HR office only to be told that I need to go and see my section manager who was definitely in that day. Shuh. Whatever.
• Going up to said manager's office only to be told he's away on holidays still. Whatever.
• Wandering back to the office that used to be mine, and will apparently be again, only there's something missing. Whatever.

I must have been a very naughty, naughty girl. Bad girl! In the corner! NO DESK FOR YOU! I'm thinking about asking them to put a treadmill in instead.

• Finding my direct supervisor who gives me a form to sign to get my internet/computer access back.  I sign it. It's the wrong one. Admin assistant gets the right one. I sign it. Take it to IT. They look blankly at me and then I wander off again. 
• I ask supervisor about the whole NO DESK, PHONE OR COMPUTER issue.  He wanders around with me and we find a temporary possie in my work friend A's office so that's ok.
• I turn computer on, still no access. Have meeting with supervisor and other staff where he gives me jobs to do despite NO COMPUTER ETC yadda yadda. [5 hours elapse. I roam the corridors greeting my former colleagues and vaguing out a bit]. IT calls. Internet now working. Shuh. Whatever. Home time now.

 So, you get the picture.  I was totally feeling the love.  I don't think.

Anyway it was great to see some of my old comrades and we chewed the fat about, you know, office politics (urghhhhhh) and so forth. Hello those of you who read this blog xx


The crap that goes down at my work is totally unbelievable and would make the most awesome, hilarious and outrageous blog ever but the Dream Factory is a place of secrecy and intrigue and we are all held in thrall to that frightening document that is the CODE OF CONDUCT. Otherwise I would be blabbing that shit out on this blog quicker than you could say DEFAMATION!

So there you have it.

I'm sure it was as exciting to read as it was to live.

Anyone else really valued and respected at their workplace? Are you on the road to success? Or are you tasting the BITTERNESS OF DEFEAT? Do tell.

See you round, chaps.

EDITED TO ADD - I just reached 7000 page views! Cool. As you were. EDITED AGAIN - to take out some unnecessary details where I sounded a bit too cross about P's daycare stuff.

My week, a synopsis in photographs

I'm finding it difficult to get a moment to myself to write this blog.  So here's a speedy update on my week in photographic form, for those who are interested, although why you would be is anyone's guess!  I tried to start it twenty million times with P and B at my feet "writing" Christmas cards and so forth but not a moment's peace was to be had. I usually do as much as I can on my phone in any snippets of calm I have, but I still have to tweak it properly on the ole fashioned desktop computer.

I cannot work under these conditions people I AM AN ARTEEEESSST!

Also, I've been shamelessly flogging the blog around the traps and have successfully ensnared some new readers.  Hello to you all my new friends!

OK so here it goes for what it's worth.

• I invented a new word, sangry. You're sangry when you feel like this - 

Oh woe is me, I'm failing the kids, I'm an awful Mum, I'm never going to have a meaningful career, my daughter hates me, boo hoo hoo hoo 

        And then immediately feel like this - 

Grrrrr the house is so MESSY no matter what I do, I may as well be a frigging char lady, all I do is argue with the toddler and wipe arses, it makes me so MAD I WANT TO KICK A SMALL DOG BUT I CAN'T SO I'M JUST GOING TO SCREAM LIKE A BANSHEE AT MY HUSBAND!

 And then like this again -

Oh the world is so full of cruelty and horror, global warming, war, Tony Abbott, famine, misogyny, it's all too much, {sobs into pillow}.

Closely followed by - 

If I hear one more word about RADIO BROADCASTERS ACTING LIKE ARSES or if one more person bags out Julia Gillard JUST BECAUSE SHE IS A WOMAN WITH RED HAIR or if P does ANOTHER wee on the floor I am going to go OFF LIKE A FIRECRACKER OR AT THE VERY LEAST SCREAM LIKE A BANSHEE AT MY HUSBAND!!!

Sound familiar anyone?  We all get sangry from time to time.  Let it all out folks, breath out sangry, breathe in love.

• I remained more or less committeed to Fox in Flats #darecember. Get ready for some hardcore selfie action you guys.

Dress

Neck party

Red nail polish

Animal print

All black

Curls

•  This happened - 

Then this happened - 

Then this happened again - 

See "sangry" entry above for further details.

• Cute baby crap went down

Hee hee

Bless

•  This happened. For ages. WTF.

Sharpness of mind and clarity of thought, I has it.

•  I had a Tupperware party.  I know.

Wore this.

Baked this.

Scored free shit.

What have youse guys been up to?  Get about in mismatching clothes? Yell abuse at your husband?  Score some noice free plastic gear? I want to hear it all.