Jingle Bells

Every two years for the past four years, I have found myself suddenly and unexpectedly pregnant. Ok, so that last bit is a lie. But perhaps the suddenly bit is kind of accurate.

I have discovered the existence of both of my womb raiders existence on New Years Eve – meaning The Festive Season has been rather productive at least twice. And I have some extremely fertile slash genius slash cocktail-ruining slash lady egg laying thing going on during December.

It’s well known that Christmas is a time for giving. And nobody takes that more literally than The Husband. His gift wrapping might not be all that fantastic, but he knows how to jingle his bells, if you are catching my drift. Too much? Wiggle his candy cane? Trim my tree? Ride my sleigh? Get up under my mistletoe?…. I’ll stop.

Now that the second Womb Raider is 1 and we are onto the second year since the last time I was pregnant, I am scared. Really fucking scared. This year I can vouch for the fact that Mrs Claus has shut up shop. The kitchen is closed. The ship has sailed. Etc. There will be no more baby Birks joining the clan.

This means I need to remain vigilant around this festive period. I need to keep my guard up, so as to protect my womb from any future raiders. It should be fine. After all, it has been a hectic year and my energy is lacking somewhat compared to years gone by. In fact, I would say nothing could be more of a miracle since the young Virgin Mary giving birth to baby Jesus than me finding myself up the duff again.

If you are in a similar position, and find yourself  suddenly and unexpectedly pregnant every couple of years and wish to curb the flow of small humans populating your house, I suggest you follow my tips below.

1. Eat a lot. I’m talking  obscene amounts of food, preferably containing a shit load of garlic. This will make you so tired you can’t move, but don’t let that lull you into a false sense of security. A randy husband won’t take that lying down (har har) and you will need the double whammy of being stinky as well as comatose to truly fend him off.

2. Avoid all eye contact or anything that can be misinterpreted as an invitation. Definitely don’t decorate the Christmas tree together. All that reaching for balls can become very complicated. It just sends mixed signals. Trust me.

3. Avoid alcohol. This one is tricky, but shit starts to get real when you begin free pouring the cocktails. I fancy myself as a bit of an athlete when it comes to imbibing the devil’s brew, but really I’m a bit of a one glass wonder. My guard drops faster than you can say cock sucking cowboy.

4. Pretend to be really happy to see the long lost Aunt, Uncle, random neighbour or other Christmas guest you never see or don’t even know. Preferably the one you don’t even know. Because then you can give convincing eye rolls in your Husband/Boyfriend/Partner’s direction to prove you are simply unable to get away from the riveting discussion. Nod a lot. And be sure to drag out the long, intense conversation that’s hard for an outsider to penetrate. But don’t say penetrate. Because that can send mixed signals.

5. Get your husband, partner, boyfriend a really shit present with absolutely no thought process behind it. Like a gift voucher for something crap bought on Christmas morning. Highlight the date. Then pretend that was to remind them to redeem it before it expired, not bring attention to the fact that you bought it on your iPhone on December 25th. You don’t want them to think you hate them, but you want them to be totally disappointed and wanting to get away from the gift pile to mist up in private. Let them grieve. Go full Jon Snow and pretend to know nothing.

6. Surround yourself with Christmas housework. There is nothing more unsexy than a woman who is laden with dirty kids clothes, guest towels and old sheets. Or one who is up to her arm pits in filthy plates from hosting family and friends. Perhaps you could try leaving the prawn heads in the kitchen  bin for a couple of days before taking them outside, making sure you waft that rotten prawn scent in his direction as you carry the bag outside. If you can go bra-less while performing any of these functions that will also help.  Just keep your knickers on. Otherwise you could send really, really, REALLY bad mixed signals.

7. Bring in the cock-blockers. AKA The Kids. This one is easy and will probably be a self-fulfilling prophecy, because those little fuckers will find a way to cry, open the door, cry, need food, cry, shit themselves or cry whenever you may-or-may-not be having a “special cuddle”. Instant Mr Floppy.  So when things get desperate and you see The Husband/Boyfriend/Partner giving you the sly face, you will need to roll out the big guns. If you’ve got no unexpected guests to knock on the door or some well meaning Jehovah’s Witnesses trying to stop you from wasting your time on Christmas, get the kids to hang around a bit more often. Break out a game of Lego or some hide-and-seek or even some painting activities. Make sure it’s something really time-consuming and of high value to the kids so they will want to go the distance.

I’m fairly confident if you follow these tips you’ll have a pregnancy free Christmas, and it will at least get you past New Years where you can drink away the stresses of the year raising kids and give you a window to reflect on your life. Then, and only then, can you really decide if you want to go another round.

Me? I’ll be sitting this one out thanks.


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Call the Doctor.


Throughout this pregnancy the Home Invader has brought home every disgusting germ you can imagine, and I have caught nearly all of them from her. The giant cesspit that is daycare is losing it’s shine towards the final stages of this pregnancy. We’ve had colds, coughs, hand foot and mouth and conjunctivitis to name but a few. “It’s normal” everyone says, “It gets better” everyone says, “Try a probiotic” everyone says. I want to cause damage to these people. 

There have been days where she has woken up a bit under the weather on a daycare day and I have fed her breakfast and a cocktail of drugs to mask the symptoms. Does that make me a bad mother? Hell no, you do what you have to do to survive, and I have to work! You cross your fingers that they don’t get sent home with a temp and usually they bounce back really fast. I’d never send her if she was acting really sick, but if you kept them home at every sign of a snotty nose then you’d never get anything done at all. 

Looking after sick kids is the worst. When you are sick yourself it’s even worse, and when you are sick yourself and 38 weeks pregnant it’s even worse. Well that’s me right now, in the trenches and ready to murder someone.
You see, today marks the 5th week of me being sick. That’s right, 5 entire weeks of feeling like complete and utter crap.

It started the night before my birthday. That tell-tale itchy throat and general feeling of being unwell. The calm before the storm I guess. I said to The Husband I wasn’t feeling flash, and that I had a feeling my birthday was going to be a fizzer. In typical Husband style he tried to talk me out of it, assuring me I’d feel just fine by the morning. The day of my birthday also coincided with the return of the in-laws (and kids) from the USA. They’d migrated there 8 months before to live for good, but it hadn’t worked out so they were moving back. Their flight back landed in the morning in Sydney and there was an hr or so between the connecting flight to Melbourne and we had agreed to meet them for a coffee so they could see us and the Home Invader.

In order to get there on time we needed to wake up at 5.30am and I’ll be honest and say I was not too happy to hear that alarm going off. I was stiff, achy and sore. Definitely sick. But I lay there thinking about what I was going to do.

I eventually hauled my arse out of  bed and committed to the trip. Mistake. During the journey I went downhill and by the time I was in the airport after a 2hr drive through peak hr and half and hr of parking I was feeling quite awful and coughing up a lung.  By the time we bid farewell again and got home it had been a 7hr round trip in the car and was well into the afternoon. I hopped into bed to try and sleep but the Home Invader was buzzing round the house making a huge amount of noise, so I just hobbled around hopelessly waiting for 7pm so she would go to bed.

After this epic adventure and the utter failure of a Birthday, I decided to book a “mystery” hotel on Wotif for the night and plan a bunch of fun in the city with The Husband. It would be great! We arranged to ship the Home Invader off to Nanna and Poppy for the night, and we would dine out, do some shopping and pretend we were normal people for the day.Being 5 days away I figured I’d be better by then and was confident making the plans.

Well, Sunday rolled around and it became clear we would not be making this trip alone. The Home Invader had woken up wearing a green mask of boogers and both of her eyes were glued shut with conjunctivitis. It was horrifying, the kind of sight that makes you question your ability to handle things. This sort of snot and the sheer quantity of it requires a lot of technique to remove, as it’s like a sort of tar that adheres to the skin and grips on so tightly you’d swear it were superglue.

We all piled up to the 5 star hotel and instead of prancing round the city buying me a birthday treat or two, we sat inside the room sleeping, bathing and calling room service for $80 worth of dinner. 2 hamburgers and a plate of vegetables. $80. Wowsers. The poor Invader passed out on The Husband after her bath before her clothes had even been put on, a sad sight indeed.
The Husband has by this stage succumbed to the evil lurgy and we are all a pathetic mess of snot, coughs and lethargy. We spend a restless night coughing our holes up and begging for morning. The Invader was limp and listless, nothing like her usual self…and as much as I pitied myself, I felt terrible for her as she fell asleep 15 mins after waking up.
The usually decimated breakfast buffet was picked at miserably by us all and we decided to go to the CBD medical centre for some professional help. 3 courses of antibiotics were served up and it was declared we all had the flu.

In a few days The Husband and Home Invader are feeling much better but I am sadly not. I drag myself to the Dr again and get put on yet more drugs, but what happens next is just cruel. I’ve coughed so hard and for so long I’ve started to damage the muscles in between my ribs. I can hardly walk and I definitely can’t pick up the Home Invader or do much at all.

By the time I’ve spent half the day between the daycare drop off, Dr’s surgery and chemist for the drugs, I come home and make a desperate call to The Husband and tell him he has to come home and help me. The ribs are getting worse by the minute and I am in some serious pain.

In a hilarious twist (not actually that hilarious) we had booked a weekend away to a farm with some friends which we thought would be a great thing to do before the baby arrives. It had been booked in advance so there was no way of knowing we would not be in tip top shape for this little jaunt to the countryside.

I’m worried I won’t be well enough, but again I stay positive and chow down on the cocktail of supposedly pregnancy safe antibiotics I’ve been given and hope that things will improve before the weekend. We set off on the drive and actually have a great time. The dogs came with us and enjoyed their free reign on 70 acres of farmland, and delight in rolling in piles of cow poo and generally just running wild and having a ball. I have a hot spa bath and amuse everyone with my physique in some fetching lyrca hotpants and singlet top, the only thing resembling swimwear that will fit me right now.

The day we are meant to leave I have a coughing fit so bad I have to run outside as I think I am going to throw up. I cough and cough and cough some more, until I feel something “pop” in my ribs. I can’t sit up or breathe. Oh dear….. This is very bad, I instantly know I have to go to hospital and cry out for The Husband to help me. Our wonderful friends look after the Invader while we drive to the Country Hospital with me yelping in pain over every bump, of which there were many. I got wheeled into the Maternity Ward in a wheelchair and hooked up to a monitor so they could check on the baby who appears to be having a fantastic time inside me. I can literally not move much at all and every single movement has me yelling in agony. Many tests and hours later they ask me if I’d like some pain relief….. Come on….are you serious? They dished out something called Endone, and assured me it was safe for the Womb Raider. This is some serious shit, they give it to people for post operative pain. I take two tablets while they write me a script for Panadeine Forte and they tell me I am free to go home.

The next few hours are a complete and utter blur, apparently I talked a lot of shit in the car ride home, but at least I wasn’t yelling in pain anymore. It still really hurt, but I felt drunk so I didn’t care as much. I spent the afternoon sleeping under a tree and drooling into some couch cushions. We have to stay an extra night as I can’t handle the car ride, and once we do finally get home the same thing happens again on the other side of my ribs. The Husband had dropped the Invader off at daycare and came home to me doubled over on the couch unable to breath properly and in an absolute state. This time we go to our local hospital and they admit me straight away for the night. More tests and checks on the baby and hours before I get offered anything for the pain. Then they give me more Endone….this time only one tablet at a time so I am actually coherent for the Dr’s who are trying to help me. They talk a lot of Dr speak and are throwing around things like chest X-ray, pneumonia, pleurisy and I am listening as much as I can whilst trying not to miss the riveting infomercial on the TV. I decide I really need a Nutribullet. Sleep comes in little chunks, and I have to stay in a completely upright position as anything else is far too painful. I still can’t really walk. I spend the next two weeks an absolute cripple to the point where I have to sleep on top of a pile of pillows and cannot pick up the Invader or do much at all. I also catch another cold and get conjunctivitis during these 2 weeks. Awesome. Is this a joke??

Anyway, this has gone on for a while and I am pretty much over it. The ribs are almost healed, but not 100% and I am now 2 weeks away from my due date. Thank. Bloody. God. You couldn’t pay me to have another baby after this pregnancy, it’s been a rough ride indeed. 

Now the countdown begins to the birth…..


Feeling sorry for my selfie. 5 star hotel goes wrong.

Feeling sorry for my selfie. 5 star hotel goes wrong.

My poor little Home Invader AFTER the green mask of boogers has been removed.

My poor little Home Invader AFTER the green mask of boogers has been removed.

Hooked up to monitors in the country hospital.

Hooked up to monitors in the country hospital.


Thumbs up. Looking seriously classy in my Pj’s and no bra.

The Endone and confusion sets in.

The Endone and confusion sets in.

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Exit strategy.

So much for Womb Raider Wednesdays where I promised a weekly update on all things Raider and Home Invader. No time! I am now almost 29 weeks pregnant with Womb Raider # 2 and things are progressing with alarming speed.

A few weeks ago The Husband, Home Invader (artist formerly known as the Womb Raider #1) and I went to meet up with some friends for a lunch of gourmet burgers at a nearby restaurant. It was a casual affair and one that we had both been looking forward to. I hopped out of the car to get the Home Invader out and I felt a weird punch “down there” followed by a cool breeze. At first I wasn’t sure exactly what I had felt, so I fumbled around in the car and made it to the table without really giving it too much attention. Lunch provided a welcome distraction, but I couldn’t help thinking about the strange sensation I had felt in my nether regions. Was it some kind of autumnal gust of wind making it through my thick denim jeans? Unlikely. Vaginal flatulence AKA a Vart? Potentially, but doubtful. Some kind of hideous prolapse? Hopefully not. Was it the Womb Raider trying to escape? Hmmmmm. Whatever the case, I was left disturbed and whispered the details briefly to The Husband just to get it off my chest. His response was comical to say the very least and I wished I’d kept my mouth shut.

Over the next few weeks it started happening more frequently, and not always accompanied by the breeze. It became clear that it was in fact the Womb Raider and their desperate, attention seeking ways. When I was pregnant the first time I don’t recall getting these unwelcome punches in the vagina, they were mainly in the ribs and abdomen and were a welcome reminder of the tiny life growing inside of me. This is different, not at all pleasant and in a weird way feels like some kind of internal violation of sorts. A friend asked me if it was like “backwards sex”. No, not really! Sometimes it’s a swift “one, two” punch, other times a deeper blow making it feel like something might burst at any minute. Not a sensation any pregnant woman wishes to have! I’m convinced I have a ninja baby that is happy practicing its moves at all hours of the night and day, leaving me to weather the storm.
Sometimes I start to worry that I might go to the toilet to pee for the 40,000th time and see a tiny little hand sticking out and waving at me. It really does feel like the little creature is trying to escape early!

I’ve done some google searching and it didn’t really help. In fact it made things more confusing, but I did learn something about the eradication of armadillos. So there’s that.

There isn’t much to do now I guess apart from wait until the little bugger starts running out of womb….


photo 1photo 2photo 3


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Death to Hipsters.

Personal grooming takes a back seat once you become a mum. Gross understatement of the century? Perhaps. But true none the less.
There is simply less time to maintain appearances when you have kids to look after, and so the upkeep gets a bit neglected.

I shower at least once a day, sometimes twice depending on what I have been doing throughout the day and also depending on what manner of foulness has been wiped over me. Occasionally I will take a look at my arm pits to see if they need a shave. This week I peeked under there only to find what looked like a small gathering of Bondi Hipsters. WTF? I swear I shaved only a few days ago, and now we have this? They’ve obviously congregated there because it’s not yet discovered by the mainstream population and therefore considered “cool” to these types. Well, the secret is out you little pricks, get the hell out of my pits!

I look further south and discover yet more hairy hipster problems to attend to. The lady garden is out of control, and my legs are heading in the same direction. Hormones suck!

It’s worth mentioning that before I was pregnant with the original Womb Raider I had spent approximately $1000 on laser hair removal to rid myself of any unwanted hair in two important regions. V Jay Jay and arm pits. It was amazing. Over about a year I watched the need for a razor simply disappear altogether, and I proudly enjoyed my racing stripe and bald underarms.

Once I got pregnant however, the hair slowly started growing back. It was terrible, I grew more on my thighs and an ugly, unwanted snail trail. It was faint, but really unpleasant. Bye bye laser smoothness, hello hairy hipsterville. Is this actually hipster cool to have hair “there”? I don’t care, I want it gone!

Now I’m back to my hair growing a metre a minute (as seems to happen in pregnancy for me) and I am unable to zap it away until the Womb Raider is out. I’m only 14 weeks into this pregnancy, so if my calculations are correct I could have 26 metre long hair if I leave it and don’t shave at all between now and the birth.

Dare me?

Ned Kelly – The original hipster.

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A slight imbalance.

So, apparently, I am a nasty bitch. Well, according to The Husband anyway, most other people who know me think I’m wonderful.
You see, these past 12 weeks of being pregnant with the new Womb Raider have been a little bit challenging, and The Husband has unfortunately borne the brunt of it.

Pregnancy can make even the calmest woman go completely insane (although truthfully I am a little closer to the insane side than most people to start with), and its a true test of a marriage if you can stay together through the crazy mood swings that will take over.
It’s worse than PMS. Much worse. I am not going to deny that right now I am like a Jekyll and Hyde wife from hell, and its showing no signs of letting up.
For instance, The Husband can ask a simple question and I may misinterpret his request ever so slightly. BOOM. I’ve gone mental and it’s hard to stop myself from grabbing him by the throat and ripping out his eyeballs. I feel fury like I’ve never felt before, and its actually difficult to stay centred and rational during every day life.
Everything will piss me off, but mostly everything and anything that The Husband says or does. Unfortunate.

The Husband: “Good morning gorgeous wife.”
Me: “Fuck you.”
The Husband: “Would you like some toast?”
Me: “Are you saying I’m fat? I’m pregnant you bastard!”
The Husband: “What shall we do for dinner?”
Me: “Oh right, so this is where you start critiquing what’s in the fridge and deciding we need takeaway, well I’m not bloody cooking ok? Make your own god damned dinner you tool. I’ll have toast.”

How do you explain to someone you love that you want to kill them? Is this even a reasonable thought to be having in the first place? Or do I have a screw loose? Wait….don’t answer that.

I’m hoping that soon this will pass because I’m kind of over being a crazy bitch. It should be fun but it’s not really, and I am sure The Husband could use a break. He’s going to have to conserve his energy as we still have 6 months left of this pregnancy before the fun really begins.

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The Womb Raider 2: Return to the Temple of Womb.

I’m pregnant again. Holy shit!
This means another Womb Raider is on it’s way with a due date perilously close to the original Womb Raiders 2nd birthday. In fact, it’s due 2 days before!
Some might say this is very clever timing, pretty much bang on two years is quite a lucky coincidence wouldn’t you say? Others may argue that The Husband and I are completely insane timing this new Raider with the onset of the “Terrible Twos”.
Which brings me to thinking about timing. Can you ever pick the right time to have a baby? Honesty, if you think about it logically you’d probably never have any at all (and there is nothing wrong with that!). It’s a massive undertaking, and now I know it’s for the brave or insane.

Right now I have little brain power to worry about much at all. The early weeks of pregnancy for me are a haze of narcolepsy, extreme hunger and volatile mood swings which have left The Husband quite damaged. Let’s say I don’t breeze through pregnancy with grace and dignity…..

We’ve reached that 12 week milestone today which is always met with a sigh of relief.  We saw little legs kicking around and hands waving, it’s all pretty amazing what you can see at only 12 weeks gestation.

But I am still in shock.

The first time was different, I was oblivious to the reality of parenting and blissfully unaware of the changes motherhood would make to my life. For example privacy. A thing of the past! No more can I go to the toilet or even brush my hair without a little face peeking round the corner, sometimes even the dogs make an appearance. Hot meals and drinks are also a thing of the past, although to be fair that is getting a little bit better. But not for long…

Also different this time around has been the reactions of friends to the news. We’ve told a few people already, but only because the news broke right on NYE and it would have looked mighty obvious to my friends that I didn’t have a bucket of wine in my hand. Festive pregnancy is really not as fun as it sounds!

The first time around everyone was hideously excited, the second time? Not so much! It’s quite amusing to watch the diluted reactions.

It’s not unlike a friend announcing a holiday.

“I’m going to Fiji!”

Me: “AMAZING!! You really deserve it! You never have a holiday, fabulous news – enjoy yourself! I’m thrilled for you! Can I mind the dogs? Want to borrow my luggage? Oh my god I’ve got so much to tell you about Fiji, you are going to just LOVE it. Let’s go bikini shopping! YAY!”

Then two years later… “I’m going to Fiji again!”

Me: “Oh really? That’s great. Want some tea?”

Of course this new Womb Raider is very much wanted and already loved, but I am petrified of how I am going to cope with two. Maybe I need a trip to Fiji to let it all sink in a bit and make a game plan?

The original Womb Raider checking out her competition.

The original Womb Raider checking out her competition.

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Let’s talk about Poo Number 2.

Now that I have gotten my head around this blogging thing I’ve been fascinated with what has struck a chord with my readers. It seems the most popular topics are poo, my dubious parenting skills and the horror of birth. I guess it’s like a car crash, you just can’t help but take a look. Perhaps you are making yourself feel better about your position as a parent by reading about my unfortunate run-ins with excrement, household accidents, vomit and less than friendly hospital staff.

Whatever the case, I’d like to present to you another post dedicated to poo in all it’s brown and smelly glory. Times have changed since the last one. No longer am I dealing with mustard coloured rivers of shit and tidal waves of turd, I have fully delved into the world of proper solid-meal poo which brings it’s own set of hurdles.
For instance this mornings treat. The Womb Raider usually wakes between 7.30-8am (don’t hate me) with a chorus of chats which is undeniably cute. The Husband and I let her sing, coo and babble for a bit and then go in there to start the day. This particular day started a little differently in the aroma department. I knew something wasn’t right as soon as I opened the nursery door as I was hit with a stench so foul it made my nose hairs curl.
I picked her up and the situation turned desperate. My hand had unfortunately made contact with a wet and brown stain on the outside of her sleeping bag and I knew then that things were going downhill fast.
Once the sleeping bag was unzipped I was faced with a natural disaster. Poo had come out of both sides of the nappy, up the back of the nappy and had soaked through two layers of clothing and the sleeping bag. And this is all before I have even opened it up.
I guess I could liken this one to the famous Poonami, but now solids are involved its a whole new ball game. When you are talking chunks it’s a lot harder to clean, and it’s also more gag-worthy with
the smell factor too.

I’m going to make a new list now for the parents of toddlers, as these shits deserve their own category.

The Same Same but Different Poo

This one happens when your kid is addicted to Edamame. You know, those little green soybeans that are boiled up with salt at Japanese restaurants. Kids love em. A word of advice is they don’t chew them before swallowing…they come out exactly as they went in. Same goes for sultanas, only these come back out looking like grapes. You have been warned…

The McShit.

A poo good enough to eat. Well, for your child anyway. Happens when you empty the potty and they are not finished! A few McShit nuggets drop to the floor and are gobbled up before you can scream.
“I’m Lovin it?” Not really.

The Back, Sack and Crack.

This could be the most evil of all the toddler poos because it takes no prisoners. It’s a poo that snakes it’s way up your babies back, covers the sack (if you have a boy) and weaves it’s way into the crack, both front and back if you have a girl. It’s a sensational mess that will take at least half a box of baby wipes and is not recommended for those who have a hangover. You’ll most likely have to take a bath after dealing with a Back, Sack & Crack. Oh, and the baby will need one too. Messy.

The Dentist.

This is for the parents of teething babies. You will know when it’s hit as it will come on all-of-a-sudden and resemble greenish, yellow, snotty slime and smell like poison. I’d say it’s breathtaking, but for entirely the wrong reasons. If you have one of those white masks handy or at the very least an old tea towel, I recommend you go into battle prepared. The wee will smell equally disgusting.

The Mixed Grill

If you have started to tackle potty training you get to see the whole offering from your little cherubs rectum all in one go. It won’t be smashed into a nappy, but will be arranged artfully in the base of your childs potty. You will look at it regardless of if you want to or not. It’s just what parents do. And when you see it you may be surprised to see that it is many different colours, textures and shapes. If your baby ate corn 5 meals ago you will see that at one end, and perhaps a sultana snack eaten for afternoon tea at the other end. If your toddler is on the adventurous side you may find parts of toys, old receipts, glitter, or bits of crayons. No two mixed grills are ever the same, this one is quite exotic.

The Shitzicle

Depending on your young ones bowel habits you may find that they have been a bit blocked up, and spend some time evacuating whilst catching up on Hairy Maclary or The Gruffalo. Potty’s being made for small people and tiny little bums are understandably quite compact. If you add in a couple of days of 3 meals plus snacks, you will probably get a Shitzicle. This is a mountain of poo that ends up forming a little peak and connecting with your little ones bum. You might need a Sherpa to help you tackle a Shitzicle, especially if you need to clean up and let them go for round two. Epic.

This past week has been particularly challenging for The Husband and I as we’ve been dealing with explosive diarrhoea caused potentially by a switch in Toddler Milk. A parenting fail that has had catastrophic consequences. The Womb Raider has been a champion throughout the ordeal, but the scars for me will take a while to heal. As will the mental image of this nappy pictured below.
We use Modern Cloth Nappies which requires a full explanation in a separate post, but to put it simply they are reusable nappies which we wash once they are soiled. For 99% of the time it’s super easy, environmentally friendly and cool, but for the other 1% I question my decision.
You will see why in a moment.


Please let me know if you think there is something that needs to be added to the list above. I know this Poo journey is not over yet, but why don’t you help me prepare other parents by categorising your child’s worst dump. C’mon! A problem shared is a problem halved right?

I WARNED YOU……………………………………………………………………………………..





































OK YOU ASKED FOR IT……………………………………………………………………………………..


















Categories: 12-15 months | Tags: , , , , , , , , , , , | 2 Comments

The avocado Power Spew.

For the first 6 months of the Womb Raiders life I had bragged about her iron constitution. I’d put it down to her diet of breast milk from the famous overworked cannons and the occasional organic solid meal now that she’d reached weaning age. Never had we so much as a snot or a snort from the young Raider, but many a friend had suffered colds, coughs, bugs and bacteria, some multiple times. But back in March this year we experienced our first lurgy.

She had sounded quite congested, but seemed happy enough so we headed out to Manly Beach in Sydney to meet up with a couple of friends who were visiting from overseas. It was just a little sniffle at this point, so nothing to be concerned about. We all settled down in a funky beach-side cafe to have a light lunch and catch up on old times. One of us had some toasted sourdough and offered a crust to the Raider to chew on whilst we got down to eating. She was merrily munching away on the crust and being doted on by one of my friends, even having a little nibble of some fresh avocado, life was good!

Moments later the Raider was handed back to me as she’d become a little wriggly – and what timing …! Just as soon as I’d sat her back on my lap, a torrent of green puke cascaded down my arm, leg and onto the floor. It was incredibly powerful and coated me thickly as it rushed out and splattered everything within a half-metre radius. Being a first-timer, my response time to this unfortunate mess was somewhat delayed. I sat there staring at the scene wondering what the hell I was meant to do. This was no ordinary vomit. It was a fetid mixture of breast milk, avocado, toast and snot. Lots of snot. I was also alarmed at the amount that came out of her. She was only a tiny little thing, and I was looking down at what appeared to be several litres of lumpy, green, slimy, stretchy, wet and evil stomach contents.

There was no warning either! I couldn’t really lay blame on the Raider here, it’s not like she could have tapped me on the shoulder politely and said “Mum, I’m feeling a little off….might nip to the loo”.
But still. Maybe a tinge of green, a few dry wretches, perhaps even a couple of heaving convulsions would have been nice. Hell, even my dogs put on a dramatic display before they barf on my rug. Sometimes I’ve even had time to catch it!

One of my friends jumped up and took control, declaring “Don’t worry! I know what to do!” and she set about grabbing any cleaning items she could find, including napkins, water and paper towels from the bathroom. Thank goodness she was there as I sat frozen, still in a state of shock, not able to move for fear of the avocado power spew rolling off me and depositing more on the floor of the fancy establishment.
Once I’d gotten over the intial shock, I began silently cursing the Raider for chucking all over my nice new non-maternity jeans which I had squeezed my shrinking new body into for the first time. Then I was rejoicing the fact we were staying in a hotel that night and I had a change of clothes in the car! There was a silver lining to this green and goopy cloud.

Once I’d managed to clean myself up as much as possible I thrust the Raider into the slightly unwilling arms of The Husband and made a dash to the car for my spare change of clothes.
Unsurprisingly my visitors were not that keen to hold her again, and who could blame them?
These babies are unpredictable. One never knows when they may explode (or implode) and deposit all manner of foul contents all over you. All you know is that it’s probably
going to happen when you are wearing something new, or are drastically underprepared.

So if you are smiling as you read this thinking avocado power spews only happen to other mothers (yes I am talking to you Karla) just wait your turn. There are no guarantees in this gig, just lay off the toast and avocado when your baby has a cold. I’m going to chalk this one up to (in)experience.

Categories: 3-6 Months | Tags: , , , , , , , , , , , | Leave a comment

The Human Napkin

Toddlers are messy.

“No shit.” I hear you say? Well, actually, there is quite a bit of shit. But the mess I am talking about is not strictly about bodily excretions.
Now that the Womb Raider has turned one and is missioning around the house, crawling and cruising the furniture, things have become a lot more messy at our place. She’s single-handedly responsible for destroying the house on a daily basis, and keeping our new cleaners very busy.

A typical morning begins with a bottle of milk, followed by breakfast of either porridge, toast and eggs or yoghurt and fruit. All of which get wiped all over the high chair, me, The Husband, the floor and in every orifice of her tiny little body. We are talking up the nose, in the ears, through the hair and everywhere else she can reach, including the furniture. I’m never sure how much actually goes into her mouth, but having a wild stab I guess 20% at the maximum. The dogs wait eagerly beneath her high chair waiting for bits to fly over the side or get offered from her chubby hands. We do try to discourage this, but its far too entertaining for her and practically impossible to stop. Once finished, they relish the opportunity to lick her high chair clean and the floor below before I come charging with the cleaning spray and a million wipes.

Then comes a nap.

Lunch time rolls around after an entree of more milk and might consist of chicken and veggies, risotto, pasta or a sandwich. Depending on her mood we might get some of that in the mouth, but the majority gets flung around the room, rubbed into the rug, fed to the dogs or launched like a missile at myself and The Husband. All the while the Raider is squealing with delight and grinning crazily. It’s cute. We take pictures and film it, but pretend to be cross to discourage the food flinging. Of course we fail.
Again she manages to fill every orifice with the carefully prepared, perfectly balanced organic food. I start to wonder why I didn’t just give her toast, which I know she will always eat with no complaints and minimal flinging. Or cheese. Can one live on just cheese alone? I’d certainly give it a red hot go if I didn’t care about my weight.

After some play comes another nap.

Dinner time arrives at 5.30pm and we are on the home stretch. That 7 o’clock bus is inching closer and I’m starting to get excited about some time to chill out, perhaps even with a glass of wine as a reward for my motherly stamina.
But there’s one more meal time to get through first!! Dinner lately has been frittata, veggie pancakes, pasta, risotto or chicken and veggies. All as organic as possible and as home made as possible.
It baffles me that the more effort I go to, the more she seems to throw it around the place. Why would she rather suck a pouch of baby food than eat some delicious meal I have made with google love? Or eat bloody toast and cheese?! She used to eat anything you handed her, and now it’s getting worse and worse with every meal. Dinner seems the most challenging, but maybe that’s because I have less patience towards bed time! This is meant to happen to other mothers……

My. Child. Will. Eat. Her. Veggies.
Or not, mostly not.

A bath cleanses the Raider and rids her of all the sticky, stinky bits of the day’s cuisine, but I am not in great shape.

Actress Tina Fey was quoted recently saying she has become a human napkin for her two kids and I couldn’t agree with this description more, as by the end of the day I am resembling the Pro Hart masterpiece from that carpet ad. I’ve got smudges and smears on my jeans and top, dried food in my arm hair, gunk under my nails and bits of shit (may not be actual shit) resting on my eyebrows.
It’s a dirty job being a mum!
But as I kiss her face and tuck her into bed with a lullaby, it’s all forgotten. For a moment she is perfect, a sweet smelling angel. Not a whiff of poo, wee, smooshed up banana or crusty dried up lunch taints the air. Just baby fresh skin, a faint tinge of lavender bath wash and clean sheets. Aaaahhhh.

Until tomorrow. When it all begins again……


Categories: 12-15 months | Tags: , , , , , , , , , , , , | Leave a comment

Happy Birthday

Today marks one year since the birth of my little Womb Raider. I can hardly believe it as I type this because it’s gone so incredibly fast! Over the past year I’ve written all kinds of stuff about us, but never really delved into how she made it into the world. So here goes…… *WARNING – GRAPHIC IMAGERY AHEAD*

Pre Labour. It was a sunny Monday and The Husband needed to attend an important meeting in town, so I decided to go along even though I was fairly sure today would be the day. I just had an inkling. I waddled my 80kg self around the harbour side of Sydney looking at birds and feeding my face with an ice cream sundae bigger than my head. I was fat, swollen, sweaty and actually quite content. At one point I thought my waters may have broken, so I just refused to move in case I dribbled a trail behind me in full view of Sydney’s corporate crowd. False alarm. Bits of my mucous plug started coming out and scaring the beejebus out of me every time I visited the toilet. I had been warned of this in a Calm Birth course I did with The Husband (in fact it was described as a slug in your pants – not far off really). The Husband finished his meeting and we started heading towards home. During the drive The Husband and I nervously laughed as the radio announced major traffic problems on our route home, but thankfully we managed to be a few moments ahead of the issues and made it through with me experiencing my first contraction about 15 mins from our front door. I went upstairs and finished my invoicing (yes I am crazy) until about 10pm, then get out the TENS machine I’d hired and start zapping my back and giggling as the contractions start becoming more regular. I took a warm bath while things were still entertaining and exciting.

Labour. Things started getting really painful so The Husband and I decided to take the hour-long drive to my mum’s place near the hospital at 4am so we could avoid potentially having to drive through peak hour traffic later down the track. The last thing I wanted is morning commuters to see me grimacing through my contractions! There had been little sleep despite the suggestion by the hospital midwife to just sleep for a while…. yeah right. I was wearing a blue fluffy nighty my mum gave me, 5 year old Ugg Boots and baggy pyjamas. I looked sharp! Each speed hump made me howl in agony and clutch the handle of the door, begging for the journey to end. Once at mum’s I spent several hours moving from the rocking chair to the shower to the kitchen. This was where I stamped my feet whilst yelling and watching mum’s 6 cats dive for cover. The Husband took a nap. Something resembling a cross between a purple jellyfish and a huge lump of snot landed in my pants while he dozed, and suddenly the pain started becoming extremely hard to manage. So we got ready to leave for the hospital and I screamed “This baby had better be cute, or I’ll be f**king pissed off”. Priorities.

We arrived at the hospital after another terrible car ride and as I hobbled towards the front doors of the Maternity complex I leaned on someone’s SUV to have another contraction. My waters broke into my Ugg Boots. A female passer-by wished me luck with a knowing smile. In the lift on the way up I had another contraction and my Ugg Boots overflowed with amniotic fluid. Squelchy. We waved down some nice man with a bucket and mop who came and swiftly cleaned up the lift. This entrance was witnessed by a bunch of pregnant women waiting for their antenatal appointments and the looks on their faces I will never erase. I had a bag packed with an iPod, exercise ball, aromatherapy oils and other creative ways to get through the pain, but none of it got unpacked. I just stripped off and leaned against the wall in the shower, that was about the only thing I could cope with. It had been more than 24 hrs since the first contraction and I was starting to lose patience with this birthing crap. I was becoming acutely aware that this is not how it went down in the videos I watched in the Calm Birth course. I was not smiling, crying, hugging The Husband or looking adoringly down at my massive hooters and embracing Earth-Motherness. I was angry, tired, HUGE and I want this god-damned baby out of me already.

Many more hours passed with me naked in the shower leaning against the wall while each contraction took over. Each time a contraction came, I dumped another 5 litres or so of amniotic fluid on the floor. I told The Husband that I was dying and we decide to try some gas. It made me feel sick so I gave up on that very quickly. At this point I had been in labour for 30 hours and my legs didn’t work anymore. Screw the Calm Birth – it’s epidural time. On cue, a bitch-from-hell midwife and anaesthetist walked in, turned on all the lights and started yelling at me. I curled up with my head in The Husband’s chest, biting his arm and losing my breath with each contraction. For an hour, they tried – and failed- to get the epidural in. Eventually they succeeded and I was given a huge bottle of apple juice to drink as a reward and nice lie down in the dark for some rest. An hour which turned out to be 20 minutes in doctor speak. Then they turned off the drugs and told me to start pushing. I wanted to kill everybody.

The Birth. I was ordered by bitch-from-hell midwife to start pushing. She had the student midwife wheel a mirror to the end of the bed so I could “get inspired” to push. I took a look and all I could concentrate on were the elephants painted on the edges of the mirror. I thought that this was a bit odd. From time to time between pushes I would catch a glimpse of my huge swollen v jay jay. And I would vomit into a bag that The Husband was holding. It tasted of sour apple juice. Which made me vomit again, and again until we had to replace the bag. This happened several times. Short of my head spinning the scene looked not unlike The Exorcist. The floor was covered in amniotic fluid, and the place looked like the set of a bloody B-Grade Horror film. I was not really ‘with it’ at all. Finally, after 2 hours of pushing I could see the baby’s head. I could feel myself ripping but I knew from enough documentaries that once the head was out, my job was done. I gave another push and The Husband caught the Womb Raider. 3.20am… 34 hours later… job done. Holy shit.

After a few checks I was handed the warm, slippery, grey-looking baby. The Husband said “You look like about as excited as if you’d been handed a pile of junk mail.” I felt nothing because I was so exhausted. The important thing was that I hadn’t died and I finally had a baby. No tears, no emotion, just….nothing.

The Husband snapped a few pictures of the hour following the birth that are now so horrifying to look at I still get anxious when I see them. Over the years, I have seen many friends post pictures of themselves on facebook – allegedly of them right after the birth. Most of them look serene and beautiful, with the odd couple looking akin to some Hollywood stars post birth. Amazing. Well there was no way I was going to post the picture of me vomiting juice into the plastic bag. Or the charming one The Husband took of me attempting to breastfeed the baby, legs spread on the edge of the bed splattered in blood. Or the trail of blood leading to the bathroom, or that fucking elephant mirror.


Let’s just say I looked like shit and avoided that facebook update, instead posting a picture of my Womb Raider looking cute in her first onesie.

But now, exactly one year later I feel like it’s fair to women out there to see what you really look like after 34 hours of labour. Not good. Vanity aside, here it is. I have 8 chins and 20 extra kilos, but that’s the real deal. And I am one proud mamma to have made it to 1!

Categories: 12-15 months, Uncategorized | Tags: , , , , , , , , , , , | 3 Comments

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