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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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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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My baby boy is seriously small

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My boy's birth weight was very standard; 3.26kg. He latched on to the boob extremely well. In the first three or four months, his weight gain was fine, even great. And suddenly, at around the five month mark, maternal health nurses started tutting and looking sorry for me and lowering their very silly lower lips as though they might cry like a baby. On one such occasion I said: "Look, do I need to panic or can we dispense with the amateur dramatics?" She carried on with the performance and in a baby voice said: "We get a little bit sad when the dots go down the percentile curve." I nearly slapped her.
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