I left my kids in the car

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...I signed the paperwork and dashed out of the store to see my car surrounded by two police officers. I rushed across the street carrying only my wallet, car keys and two pairs of glasses yelling “they’re mine!”…meaning my children. Five minutes had passed since I left my kids in the car. Enough time it seems for me to come face to face with the law....
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Pinworms – a squirmy story

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I’ve just been googling poems about pinworms. I hoped for something light and funny to quote in this post because I’m not sure this topic can be anything but cringy (though it’s early days and one never knows how the words may weave). I didn’t quite feel up to writing a pinworm poem myself you see. All the poetry left my body at 11.30pm last night when I shone a torch up my daughter’s bum to investigate the cause of her serious distress. The poetry left my body.
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A return from the land of Lost Perspective.

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And then I saw some selfies on FB (a pet loathe) and I almost unfriended a couple of folk but I got my period again for the millionth time this year (see previous post about the Mirena situation) and saw some sense. Then it took forty-five minutes to get the kids out of the house and I found myself losing my cool and failing to summons the strength to suppress the imminent explosion. And then there were no parks on the high street when I wanted to drop off some huge bags of perfectly decent hand-me-downs to the Salvos. Right out the front there was a half hour loading bay with no mention of commercial vehicles so I parked, grabbed the bags, left the kids in the car, bolted in to the Salvos with the bags, bolted back outside again to find a parking attendant calmly printing out a parking ticket and pinning it to my windshield. I begged. I pleaded. I explained the entire affair.
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M-M-Mirena. Contraception or chaos?

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Let’s talk vaginas. Let’s talk sex. Let’s talk about not having any more babies. I love my kids. I can say that without twitching or second-guessing myself. This is a deep, dark, unwavering, unfaltering truth. But it ends here. Two vaginal births (I don’t mind the word “vagina” at all but sometimes it really does reach out and slap you across the face doesn’t it? I used to flinch when they used this term after my two children were born via that very beautiful orifice. Why? My vagina was vitally involved in their delivery. It required stitching and was a no-go zone for a bloody good while thereafter. It was a point of conversation. Vagina this, vagina that. Vaginal birth? Still doesn’t slide off the tongue with ease, but I’m trying it on here. Yes maam.) no pain relief, four years of breastfeeding with a three month break between bubs (and still counting) and I’m all theirs. But it stops here. Or there. I am definitely done and dusted. The fat lady sang. She gone sister!
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Thirty-three Things I Want my Daughter to Know.

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Thirty-three Things I Want my Daughter to Know…in due course.… Continue reading...

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I can do this

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I have learned that mothering is often synonymous with self-reprisal, self-loathing and self-whatever else. Sometimes followed by clarity. Sometimes a big glass of claret...
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Waiting for the bombshell

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The pediatrician momentarily glanced at him but didn’t seem to notice how his little fingers dexterously pieced together bits of lego and how he pointed out the window hollering “tram mummy, look. See it? See it?”, commenting on everything that passed. She had already decided on the path she thought we ought to take. And here came the bombshell: “There’s a rare genetic syndrome called Williams Syndrome. I think Zephyr should be tested for it.”
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I could do better.

Penguin doing a poo

Penguin doing a poo

Hmmm.  I need another weekend please.  If I could have another weekend I’d do a whole lot of things differently. I wouldn’t waste two hours watching ‘Gravity’…sadly I didn’t see it in 3D, though I’m sure that spared me a different type of chunder.  When we were at the zoo and my daughter was being thrown about like a doll by two older girls, carried and dragged about like a play thing, I would have created a diversion and whisked her away for some quiet time…before she lost her marbles…I would have sat her down and said “I understand that this is doing your head in, I know that you need to run your own show, I was sooooo like you…we can deal with this without rudeness…can’t we?…let me help you…”  (Other kids might cling to their parents to get away from unwanted manhandling but my daughter becomes defiant and bolshy so it aint so much fun).  When we went swimming and I bumped into someone from many, many moons ago and she said “oh my god you’re son is sooooo tiny.  My daughter’s only three months younger and look at the size of her!”…I would have landed her a great big dunking under the water and swum off.  When I went to Aldi and the checkout bloke hurled a week’s worth of shopping at my trolley at break neck speed (which, incidentally, I now see as a personal challenge) I would have yelled out “Game on!” and treated the stacking of my trolley as some sort of fight to the death (it kind of is).  When we all went as a family to the garden centre and the kids saw it as an indoor play centre and went properly mental around the store (yes, we were that out of control family…yes we were) I would have loosened the leash a little and cared less about how this might be impacting on other shoppers.  Actually, if I had the weekend again, I’d slow things down.  I’d forgo the filling of every moment with things to do (though now the garden has irrigation, veggies are planted, fresh grass seeds are germinating and the wood and paint for the outdoor blackboard has been bought…somehow these things have to get done with a four year old and nearly two year old in tow) and I’d sit on the floor and let the kids climb all over me.  I’d read as many books as they brought to me.  I’d oooh and aaah at every scribble and glued up piece of paper.  I’d entertain the “mummy, I’m Elsa not Maple” for the umpteenth time, with greater enthusiasm (some enthusiasm).  I’d bring out bowls to be filled with sweet-making ingredients and sit on the kitchen floor and get covered in muck.  I’d care far less about the mess.  I’d care far less about the time.  And there would be even more music.  But I did cook the best carbonara in the history of carbonara and a couple of South Indian curries from scratch (we miss you Rasa), we did laugh our heads off at Louis C.K., we did drink wine in the late sunshine in the newly planted garden, we did question whether we are phuquing up this parenting lark and decided that we’re doing ok but there is room for improvement, and we did fall more in love with our children and each other.  And there are plenty more weekends to come.  Note to self.

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Boob or Bust! I’ll breastfeed my son until WE are good and ready.

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MY GP recently launched into a rather accusatory tirade about how my son was clinging to his role of the baby of the family, and that I was facilitating this by continuing to breastfeed, that I should take more control and give up breastfeeding immediately as only then, she believes, will my son start taking eating more seriously. She also suggested that I was just breastfeeding Z now at the ripe old age of 21 months out of self-interest, because I can not let go, and implied that I was complicit in retarding his skeletal growth and brain development. She managed all of this with a smile and a sense of "I'm here for you, but this is your only option".
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Gluten Free Food

This may be of interest to some. None of my … Continue reading...

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