Newsflash: Girl who falls face first stands up

I haven’t written a blog post in 4 months. This feels like the confession of a girl who’s not Catholic. I REALLY feel like writing today though. I’ve got the mojo, but I don’t think Falling Face First is my home anymore. Let me explain.

I feel today like writing my usual type of post. My usual ‘my husband talks in his sleep about putting barcodes on the dog’ -kind-of-post. A men baffling me kind-of-post. About them having bucks’ parties that last longer than most weekends. About them going emotionally AWOL with work then LITERALLY bringing home the bacon. About not being sure if I want any answers, or if I like them better shrouded in mystery and a misting of beer. Because I like bacon, and bacon is better than answers. But instead, I’m not writing that post.

I’m wrapping up this blog, and moving to new premises. Here’s why.

Sometimes laughing at yourself and at things isn’t coping, but hiding. I’ve been doing a lot of it over the last couple of years. When I get hemiplegic migraines that make me lose half my body for a day or two at a time, I laugh at myself afterwards. I crack jokes about Weekend at Bernie’s while my kids put stickers over my frozen face. It doesn’t upset me anymore because it just is, but it’s a huge mess in our lives. I’m trying to fix the mess, slow down, and take as many stressors out of my life as possible. I needed rest, food, a different job, to gain weight, and to be present with my family without taking photos and jotting notes. So no posts for the last 4 months.

Tinygrass is dreaming

I got a better job, 4 days, closer to home. I’ve rested. I’ve laughed with my girls and watched Frozen 50 ten million times (not a typo. It’s a real number). I’ve napped on Saturday afternoon. I’ve read blogs and commented on Facebook cos commenting the other way is too hard right now. Had no hangovers instead of 5. Gone to bed at 9pm on many of those Saturday nights. Didn’t manage to gain any weight. Drank an amazing martini last night. I’m feeling happy and relaxed.

My just 7-year-old Little L, with Type 1 Diabetes, is sunshine. The diabetes is not. I make light of the coping, because we just do, partly because I haven’t had a spare moment to take a look at my unacknowledged grief. Somewhere under here I am very sad about the loss of her carefree childhood. The worry, stress, and the fact she will NEVER eat a mouthful without checking and considering her blood sugar and insulin balance and entering the carbohydrate content into her pump. Sometimes there are tears that catch me completely by surprise – I am so caught up in managing the day-to-day of her condition.

Pocket-sized package of wiseness.

Pocket-sized package of wise old woman. 

Instead of cracking jokes to cope, I’m dealing with the shit. I think it’s called being a grown up. It’s pretty boring and bullshit on the social front, but on the personal front, connecting with my kids, getting to know my husband between our Outlook appointments, and reading good books and having beautiful dreams, it really rocks. I didn’t really want to grow up, but now I think I am, I can’t be Falling Face First anymore.

I also have a pretty big project in the works. 

This is our logo. Do you like it?

This is not the last post. There are too many awesome people I have to yell my love to before I go. I just don’t know if I can hang out here very much anymore. I’m done falling on my face.

Watch this space for directions to my new place. You didn’t really think I could run away and just not write anything anymore did you? xx


Book snacking on The Lounge

Zemanta Related Posts ThumbnailDo you ever eat your books in three courses? Have one on the go as your entree (like a biography), one as main course (like ‘literature’), and one for dessert (like trashy chick lit)? Or is that just me? Sometimes I even eat them like Maccas Happy meals.

I get that it’s the usual way to eat your books like noodles in a box. You start at the start, and stop when there’s none left. I have never, ever finished a box of noodles. I get bored partway through, and just stop eating. With books, I sometimes like to mix up the flavour depending on my mood too, and have a few on the go at a time so I can munch on the right one at the right time of day. So I’m not eating figurative dinner books at figurative breakfast book time. Yep. I know. I’ve been told I’m crazy already. Too late to change now.

Over summer I snacked on the hard copy Hunger Games while on the beach (sand – you know. Ate some of that too. Crunchy.) I reserved the main meal books for the Kindle back at the ranch (aka the beautiful beach house de friend I love dearly). I’ll outline my course choices for you below, and explain why the flavours complement each other so beautifully.

The breakfast read:
An area I’m fairly sure I could excel in 2014 is as trash mag rogue photo editor. This is not even a book, but I need to read something while I eat cereal. A trashy mag sits in front if me? I’ll read it. Beats the milk carton nutrition information. Perfect for the slowly unfurling brain. Now, beware… I’m not sure if you want to copy this look as they suggest, but I sure as hell don’t. No extra appendages for me this year, thanks.

What's wrong with this picture? Look closely. Is Kate sporting an extra appendage?

What’s wrong with this picture? Look closely. Is Kate sporting an extra appendage?

The mid-morning entree
The Princess Bride – William Goldman. A classic. Hilarious, light, funny. It has adventure, swords, princess Buttercup, and razor-sharp narration from William Goldman that you miss out on in the movie. And bonus? It was only 99c on the Kindle store. Read. This. Book. If you need any more convincing, do I need to remind you? “My name is Inigo Montoya. You killed my father. Prepare, to die.”

I’ve quoted this line with such glee so often over the years, completely randomly and out of context, it’s been really enjoyable seeing it in its true home.

Main course
The Elegance of the Hedgehog – Muriel Barbery. This is LITERATURE, people. But also very, very good. Smart and funny, brilliantly witty writing with an intriguing and unusual story about  interpersonal relationships and hidden identities slowly creeping to the surface. I love the nuances in this book. It takes time though, to soak in the words.

Afternoon tea
Me talk Pretty One Day – David Sedaris. Cheese and biscuits. A light snack for me. He’s very witty and amusing, but this is real life, and I don’t like too much of that. Reality? Pah. He is clever though.

No-one ever Has Sex on a Tuesday – Tracy Bloom. This one is pretty obvious. Marshmallows with Persian fairy floss on top. My tired tiredy-pants brain is often skipping straight to dessert at the moment. This is fun fluff about a woman accidentally getting knocked up. Token gay bestie, two men fighting over the same woman, etc. It’s a good larff, with an ff. Can’t remember much else about it but it’s funny. Oh, and it was only 99c at the Kindle e-store.

I think you can probably understand the benefits of my literary nutritional style. I get all the value, without the bloat. I should point out though, that I haven’t actually finished ANY of these books as yet. The concept kind of assumes I have vast uninterrupted barrowfuls of time to gorge myself on these book meals, rather than having, say, CHILDREN. So I eat them like fast food. Munch on a cold chip here and there, for about 3 months. Eventually I finish them. I enjoy them just the same.

Mmmmmm books. YUMMY.


Bridesmaids Revisited

A Surgeon, a Lawyer, an Accountant and an Editor walk into a bar. The Editor slips over. Not the beginning of a joke, but the story of my weekend just past. No, seriously. (Cut me some slack. It was raining and the ground was slippery.) We remade the movie Bridesmaids, without a bride. We re-enacted Hot Tub Time Machine, without a hot tub. We flew from Brisbane, Melbourne, Canberra and Sydney (oh, wait. The Melbourne one just walked from her office) to reconnect, relax, escape motherhood and remember who we were in high-school, before adulthood brought us our responsibles and other licorice allsorts of shit.

This is what it was all about. Reconnocting.  With arms, not phones...Nokia or otherwise.

This is what it was all about. Reconnocting. With arms, not phones…Nokia or otherwise.

Friday. Champagne. Real stuff. Pimms cocktails up a lift in a strange bar where people were dressed for tennis, on cast iron chairs on astroturf, outside in 12 degrees…. an interesting combination of choices… But Pimms! Yes to Pimms! Amazing dinner at Anada in Smith St, with Spanish Cava, wine, oysters, jamon, and 10,000 other degustation courses (approximately). I got my freekeh on, not on the dance floor, but in my mouth. Yum. Same same as quinoa but different. More wine was drunk. Eyelids were closed at the table.They may have been the eyelids of the Editor. C’mon guys, cut me some more slack. 11:30 on a Friday night for a full-time working mamata is LATE. My time machine had stalled.

Mess Hall for breakfast Saturday morning is a misnomer. It’s not in a hall, nor is it messy. It is practically perfect in every way. The coffee is the best I’ve had this year, and it’s NOVEMBER. Bourke St. Go to there. Eat all the bacon.

Not messy, or in a hall.

Not messy, or in a hall.

Shopping. Like a woman released from a 15-year gaol term, I was on a mission. A kamikaze smash and grab shopping mission (complete with polite pleases and thank yous, exchanges of funds, and no actual violence.) So, not really actually very smashy or grabby, then, but MISSION nonetheless. We walked past an op-shop. I allowed 10 minutes on the clock. GO. The Surgeon emerged, triumphant. I, too, emerged victorious, $13 down.

Thirteen big ones baby. Winner winner, wine for dinner.

Thirteen big little ones baby. Winner winner, wine for dinner.

The Accountant, a shopping knight, plunged on like a true warrior in Zara after facing earlier defeat. She won Excalibur; not one, but TWO pairs of jeans. And tops and shirts and SO MUCH STUFF. Bags and bags later we kneeled down before her to worship. I had but a paltry pair of (resin and laneway-found) earrings to console me in my darkest, shopping-bagless nights. They will do though. I love them with passion and fervour.

These'll do, pig. And the 50% off Oroton sale this week is also quite consoling.

These’ll do, pig. And the 50% off Oroton sale this week is also quite consoling.

Then, there was napping. PLEASE NOTE: this was not, I repeat NOT a nanna nap. This was beauty sleep. Bernard Fanning needed to see us in optimal condition.

Do you know how far it is to the Yarra from Melbourne? Me neither, but it’s further than a bladder-ride away. Distances are not in kms, miles, or furlongs these days. They come in units of bladders. The Editor was looking for a plastic bag with no holes to contemplate peeing in (best to assume the 3rd person at this point, dont you think?) when the bus decided to arrive at the green, green, very very green Day on the Green, being made extra green by the torrential rain pouring down.

This is kind of long. Lots of words.

You probably want to make a cup of tea or go to sleep or something. How about I do you a kindness and draw this out into TWO LONG SAGA-LENGTH INSTALMENTS? You can perch with bated breath on the edge of your picnic rug to find out what happens in Part 2 of Bridesmaids – Revisited, coming next week to a Face First webpage near you.

I warn you – things may go downhill in Part 2. Rain and wine and mud and stuff.

Nighty night pumpkins!



Is your glass half full?

If your glass is half full, or even half empty, then hurry up and drink it. Cliches piss me off.

I don’t think anybody can be ‘glass half empty’ or ‘glass half full’, or either positive or negative in their outlook all the time. Some days my cup overfloweth with sparkling wine that magically refills when I turn my head to make tinkly musical conversation in the sunshine. (I’d have said French champagne, but come on. Reeality, Puhleeease.) Other days I don’t even have a glass. I have a stupid plastic cup with a split in it. It leaks watered-down orange cordial up my arm. I’m not all of one or another. I’m a grey area.

Nerdy pedants. Possibly even worst than those who live and die by the cliche.

Nerdy pedants. Possibly even worse than those who live and die by the cliche.

With the grey area, though, comes so much exhausting thought, analysis, should I or shouldn’t I, what should I wear, will they mind if I say no, what’s the appropriate thing in this situation, I hope they’re ok, god I have a lot of pimples on my back, where is my goddamn wine, my feet really hurt I wish I could just wear flats, that sometimes I wish I was more like THAT MAN.

That Man is an All-Or-Nothing man. Than man has a full glass. Or he has an empty glass. If the glass is full, he drinks it. Then it’s empty. Then it’s full again. It’s an approach I think I should try. In fact, I think I am sort of trying it, inadvertently. Lately, I’m just living. Not thinking too hard. Working very hard (out 11 hours a day), home to the kids, being a mum hard, then relaxing hard (for half an hour). Then sleeping hard. Weekends are full of the girls, working on the garden, being with my family. Sleeping. Not blogging, as I’m just not sure when to do it. My girls are like saplings, turning into little trees so quickly I don’t feel I can look away for a second at the moment or I’ll miss something.

Yeh, OK. I'll accept this is officially full. But shots of MILK? Get. It. Gone.

Yeh, OK. I’ll accept this is officially full. But shots of MILK? Get. It. Gone.

I like That Man’s approach, in many ways. If my glass veers towards empty, or yours or someone else’s definition of ‘empty’, fill it up, bitch. (Sorry. Breaking Bad. Seeping into my vernacular.) If you’re jumping out of a plane, I see how it’s useful. Suspend all thought, throw your body out of the plane, then toss your brain out after it. Oh yeah. Pull the parachute too. If he’s exercising, he’s doing it 4-5 times per week, eating no carbs, and dropping weight like, well… like a pregnant woman becoming un-pregnant. But when he’s not exercising? He’s not all ‘errr, no. I won’t have chips, I haven’t exercised this week. I’ll skip dessert. I’ve only been to the gym once.’ He’s just not doing it. At all. But he’s eating, and enjoying it, and not thinking about it. Then he’ll get back to it again. And he’s happy. It’s not very healthy, but he’s not torn up about it either.

Better. Much better. This is almost full enough.

Better. Much better. This is almost full enough.

I think All-Or-Nothing types are subconsciously living a bit Matrix-style, inside the program, as Mumabulous was discussing the other day in her awesomely mind-bending post. I love the idea that we’re living inside a place that has no real consequence, though I don’t believe it. The All-Or-Nothing kids seem to have this sort of mentality, that the consequences aren’t there. Flying by the seat of their pants, so to speak. It would be a whole lot easier to say no, living in this world, and do what works for you. Perhaps the opportunity for personal happiness and contentment would even be greater. Woah. I’m getting a bit philosophical now for a (what day is it?) morning.

But now. The drawbacks. It’s not all fun and games in All-Or-Nothing land. Saturday night That Man went to see a show in Asquith, about 6 stops up the train line (to the north). At 2:30 Sunday morning, a text came through: ‘ah duck. Penriff. Sere u when I getting there’. Instead of having a snooze on the way home, between stops, he went to sleep All-Or-Nothing style. Like there was no tomorrow, and he was tucked up in his bed. And caught a train almost to the Blue Mountains (due west), about 1.5 hours away. Poor petal.

I see dragons...

I see dragons…

I will dip my toe into All-Or-Nothing land, but I don’t think it’s for me. Consequences. They suck. And sometimes half a glass is elegant sufficiency.


Wine, books, and something about a cockatoo

Did you know I review wine bars? Neither did I. The poor folk at Two Stews and a Cockatoo thought it was business as usual the other night, until I put on my new hat and reviewed all the wine. Oh… I was reviewing the BAR? I guess I’ll have to go back and try again.

Once upon a time, on the sleepy North Shore of Sydney, thirsty workers and suburbanites growing weary of pizza and movie nights at home could go to a restaurant (Chinese or Thai, anyone? Snooze), or to one of the few pubs, to steak it out with the pokies. Entertaining at home was the only option for chatting, drinking, nibbling and socialising with friends. Do you have a friend who only drinks sauvignon blanc and you’re a chardie girl? You’d generally agree to meet somewhere in the middle with a pinot gris, neither of you particularly satisfied as you share the bottle over the olives.



Now? I could kneel down and cry tears of happiness, for the day of the wine bar has returned. They’re popping up not only in the city, but further into the depths of the North Shore, and the locals are flocking.  What makes me most happy is the fact I can have my big fat oaky glass of French chardonnay by the glass, while my friend has her glass of Sancerre. We share the edamame, and the slow cooked beef and the lamb tiramisu. NOBODY CLEANS UP. And the boys are at home with the children. What’s not to like?

Hats on the wall for decoration. Kim on the lounge taking liberties with said hats.

Hats on the wall for decoration. Kim on the lounge taking liberties with said hats.

Last week we all hat a fabulous time, and decided to go back in a month for ‘book club’. It’s a very serious book club you know. There were some books there. My friend J will be reading ‘The Very Hungry Caterpillar’ this month, while L is reading something about a great big train. I thought I’d have a more in-depth read of the menu.

J getting up close and personal with Ghandi

J getting up close and personal with Ghandi

There really is a cockatoo. Stuffed, apparently, by a Melbourne taxidermist. See? I found out ONE REAL FACT!

Helloooooooo cocky!!

Helloooooooo cocky!! Dead. Really.

There’s also a wine ‘flight’ (geddit?) – a taste of three different wines of your favourite varietal, so you can settle on the one that you really want to DRINK. Or, you can be a fleety flighty flibbertigibbet, and go from flight to flight sampling them all. I would not do that. Noooo. Not me. I drank a French Chardonnay, then a lovely Sancerre (because there was still some in the bottle), and then we chose a riesling called Dr Loosen, for the same reason you choose your horse in the Melbourne Cup. It had a funny name. Not, of course, because we were getting a bit loosen ourselves.

You can tell the owners and staff genuinely enjoy their work there. I genuinely enjoy my new hat as an eater and drinker. I think I will take myself very seriously indeed.

Details: Open Wed-Sun noon-midnight

GPO Building 741 Pacific Highway, Gordon NSW

Telephone 02 9499 8698

I used to be a round window girl, but now I’m not so sure.

Time changes all. As a girl, watching Playschool, I always chose the round window. Who would choose the square one? We had them at home. The round one had nice soft edges that appealed to my childish sentiments. The arch? Too many places for a bird (me) to get stuck on the way out. Looking back on the girl I was later, as a late teen embarking on her 20s, she seems like somebody I used to know. Gotye would have broken up with her too.

You can get this on a T-shirt. I think I want one.

You can get this on a T-shirt. I think I want one.

Who was this girl that thought those thinks? That wore those ways? That said those words?

I used to think that marriage was the end of the line, like death. I believed a relationship must become so snoozy once you were married, with nothing new once you’d been through the excitement of being young and engaged then travelling and working, that once you had kids you may as well just lie down and stop breathing, to mimic the excitement your life was likely to bestow. Hilarious! Slap that girl silly. I am knocked down with a fresh (albeit not always pleasant) surprise each and every week by That Man, and by my kids. The intricacies of a human relationship are ever unfolding. Try explaining that to an 18-year-old who is, like, so bored.

I used to think the Lotto girl on TV had an awesome job. There is still some merit to this theory. She turns up for a 5-minute stint on TV at 8:30pm, has a locked-in contract that likely pays quite nicely, and has no need to do her own hair, makeup or wardrobe. In the day she needs to focus on going to the gym or the hairdresser, or perhaps the beach. In the depths of winter on a rainy night as I type this after having just put kids to bed, this idea is now quite revolting. Having to get out of my yoga pants, smile, and say the SAME thing to the camera, night after night, when you may be missing out on a birthday, a wedding, or a family illness because LOTTO WILL WAIT FOR NOBODY would suck. Big hairy balls. (See what I did there? So subtle. Maybe I could do standup… in yoga pants).

I used to think my dream job was in a publishing house, editing fiction novels by big-name authors. Now, I am Amy Winehouse’s protegee, singing NO, NO, NO. Fiction editing in publishing houses is a tough gig. Long hours, small pay. And big-name authors? Must be treated with big-name kid gloves. Editing content where writers are less vested in the placement of their apostrophes and commas makes things calmer for me.

I used to think people over 35-40 were sad/washed-up/had stopped trying. Now, I understand they (OK FINE WE) are relaxed. Comfortable in our (snake) skins. Know there’s a time to live (summer), a time to die (winter, where we curl up in balls of ugg boots and wine). A time to turn, turn, turn, or something something something (I think there was a song my parents liked). It is the time, anyway, now, for drinking wine. That is all.

I used to freak out each year I discovered a celebrity or tennis player was younger than me. Say, when Britney hit the big time at 16 and I was 19. This is not strictly factual. I’m certain our age gap is wider… I am just too lazy to look her up right now, and also a little scared of what I might see of Britney on Dr Google. I’ve seen a dog use carpet as toilet paper today. My eyes can’t take much more. The source of this aging fear at NINETEEN (!!!!) was somehow that I was running out of time to be significant, make my mark and rule the world. Amazing, shocking fact coming … I grew up to NOT RULE THE WORLD. Horrendous. But not, actually.

Sadly not my place. This is Macedonia. One day.

Sadly not my place. This is Macedonia. One day.

Because I rule my world. My small, insignificant world. And now I choose the arched window, because it’s the most interesting of all. Who knew?


[Image source:]

Linking up with The Lounge, hosted by the glorious RACHEL at The Very Inappropriate Blog the-lounge-logo


Oh what a night …

And a day, and a night… I’m sorry for the silence on the Face First front (if you’ve noticed?) but I’ve been living large IN THE REAL WORLD what!? It seems June is the festival month of births. Everyone who is anyone (i.e. my husband and friends) is born in June.

There has been a June bonanza of birthdays, and upon waking on Tuesday morning, I was slapped with the rude realisation that we’ve not all just turned 21. Thursday night – 1am. Friday work from 6am. Bed -10pm. Saturday night – 12pm. Sunday – BBQ at ours from midday – 1am. Monday – husband’s ACTUAL birthday, start-time, 7am with BOUNCING CHILDREN. I have learned something from this experience. Celebrations are bad for your health. This week? I will be holed up in my monastery, behaving like a monk, doing monk-like things. I will be drinking water (broth? holy water?), making friends with salad (gruel? vittels?), and going to the gym (err… kneeling for 5 hours? Ugh. I’d pick the stairmaster over that). I will sleep. And sleep, and sleep. (But it won’t be fun, cos I’m a monk).


Oh what a tangled birthday web That Man weaves

It seems most of my friends are born in June. Why is that? What is it that happens nine months before June? Is it the springing of spring? Couples, walking around, see a baby lamb and a daffodil, and say ‘Oh! New life! We must procreate! QUICKLY! Give me your SEED!’ Or was it the irresistible music topping the charts in September 1976, when most of these friend-babies were conceived? In late August, early September the Australian no. 1 single was ABBA’s ‘Dancing Queen’. Ah. It all becomes clear. Young and sweet, only 17. That’s the music of LOVE, right there. Are you cringing yet, friends of mine?

In any case, preceding the festival of husband on Sunday, we went out in Manly Saturday night to celebrate a close friend’s birthday. It was a quiet and sedate night. In the cab on the way home one unnamed male party offered the cab driver a cheese stick from his pack of 12 he’d picked up from Colesworths, and the other asked the cabbie what he does for work. It turned out there were in fact TWENTY-FOUR cheese sticks. They were on special, so it made sense to buy two packets. We ate them all by the time we were home.

Girls out in the the REAL WORLD drinking … water.

Girls out in the the REAL WORLD drinking … water.

The lunchtime BBQ Sunday was a day full of friends, family, and kids going crazy. A wonderful fun day that ended in the night with a bonfire and toasted marshmallows. That Man is SMART, I tell you – having his party the day before. I awoke to excited kids, tiptoed away from Sleeping Beauty, and faced wine glasses that had procreated and had wine glass babies while we slept. Wrapped presents, blah blah YAY YAY IT”S YOUR BIRTHDAY  YOU’RE REALLY OLD YAY YAY then I crashed out and slept on the couch for two hours. AHHHHHHHH. Job well done me. Then I cooked a gourmet seafood dinner. The only thing he said that was missing from his birthday? A cake with candles. SERIOUSLY. I’ll give him candles.

This is how you occupy kids for HOURS. My technicolour  chalk path and bricks look gorgeous.

This is how you occupy kids for HOURS. My technicolour chalk path and bricks look gorgeous.

In any case, I had fun too. My festival of living in the real world was wonderful, connecting with friends and spending proper quality time with them. If you need me this week though, you’ll find me asleep on my stationary bike in my monk cell at the gym.*

*An update: it’s raining, a LOT. I can’t possibly go to the gym. Therefore I’ll just sit quietly and think repentant-type thoughts.

Do you still ‘do’ birthdays? Or do you let them slip by quietly like I do? 


Mumbot Version 2.0 – an update

Mumbot’s home!

She’s here! She’s arrived! Well… not the complete Stepford version, since I’m wearing gym pants and a sweat shirt, but I’m feeling, strangely … serene. I wrote previously of my frustrations at home with the girls, and my lack of patience. Lately something’s changed, for the better. I’m really enjoying my girls. They’re not driving me crazy, and when they’re slow or non-responsive, the banshee is not coming out. My care factor is lower. Why????

They are cute and fun. Little A told me on Good Friday that poor Jesus was hung up on the clothesline, but that on Sunday, he’d come back up to life and we might see him walking down the road. Woah. Interesting stuff going on in that Sunday school class she visits sometimes with her grandmother.

Even diabetes played nice over Easter. I’d like to personally plant a big sloppy smushy kiss on the inventors of the insulin pump. Last Easter for Little L was a horrorshow of insulin injections, sugar-free easter eggs, the after-effects of sugar-free easter eggs (have you read about the delightful laxative effect from artificial sweeteners? Don’t leave your kids alone with a container of Eclipse mints, EVER), and some head-spinning rocket-launching tantrums as her blood glucose levels went through the roof despite carefully meted out chocolate hits. This year, however? You want two eggs? Sure. I’ll put the carbs in your insulin pump, then you can eat it. Another four little ones after lunch? No worries. I’ll add up the carbs then it’s all yours. She went high, but we could correct it straight away with another boost of insulin delivered through the pump. I LOVE YOU MR AND MS INSULIN PUMP INVENTOR PEOPLE. And so does the Easter bunny.

The whole long weekend they’ve been gorgeous, and I’ve been trying to pinpoint what’s different. I think they’ve changed because I’ve changed. I’m trying to turn off the trigger mum yell response (which is THERE, believe me) and listen to the need underneath the annoying whinge or refusal. I’m taking two extra minutes to squat down and cuddle and talk quietly, and though it’s taking practice, I’ve found it’s saving me 10 minutes that would have been spent in time outs and escalated crappy behaviour while we head butt like goats.

I am the brown goat. Cos I am bigger, obviously.

It’s far from perfect. It’s taking A LOT of time. I am running late. My parents’ cat, aged 21, died over the Easter weekend and the girls are really sad, and need extra cuddles and talks while they spontaneously pop out with questions about death and wishes that he come back to life (WHILE GETTING READY FOR SCHOOL). Add some rain and the fact that kids turn into frozen confused statues as soon as you add a raincoat (until PUDDLES! Oooh now they’re all Peppa Piggish), and we have a record for school lateness. 10 minutes after the bell! Whoops. But they are happy. And, I didn’t yell.

There’s much refining to be done. It’s not like you can get everyone out of bed 20 minutes earlier in case someone needs some touchy feely time. If you’re anything like me, that’s not enough to stop you from pressing ‘snooze’ on your alarm button. I wonder also whether my new ‘zen’ state has anything to do with the new epilepsy meds I’ve recently started in addition to the ones I’m already taking for migraines. I’m feeling a little whacked, I have to admit. It’s quite dizzy-making at times, and I’m tired, but I’m also feeling really chilled. Hard to work yourself into a frenzy about something when you’re a floating fairy.

As always, I’ve got to find a balance. Tips for being nice, and also being on time please? Punctuality is my nemesis. I suspect you’ll tell me we need to just turn all the clocks in the house back an hour before the real time, but then I’ll have to come around and punch you. Sleep is perhaps more important than food.

See? I’m still me. I still have the energy to punch people when it’s absolutely, completely necessary. Threaten my sleep and I’ll take you DOWN. Nicely, in a quiet voice.


Shaking things up. Rage, rage against the comfort zone!

I’ve embraced it. We are one, this midlife crisis and me. But we will not go gentle into that good night. Instead it seems, somehow, that I’ve lately acquired a taste for adrenalin, through fairly unexpected channels.

Mumabulous, while I respect and admire your comfort zone perimeter (with all those hot men living inside) and commitment to thinking inside the box (since I’m a big fan of things that come in boxes myself), I’m going to have to contradict your ‘hit the ground walking’ theory. Lately I’m kind of in the mood to run before I can walk. Like a baby. Maturity has never been such a strong point for me. This mood is quite lucky, since I somehow landed on the radio today, in an interview on the ABC Afternoons radio show in Adelaide with Sonya Feldhoff. WHAT? I know. Random. And I LOVE randomness.

Swinging upside down on the parallel bars at the local YMCA where little A does gym, like some kind of hairless orangutang, I flipped down this morning, red-faced, just to check my emails and found one requesting an interview 4 hours later. Sure? Why not? I had a head full of blood so I was sure to be thinking clearly. It was to talk about the stupid things we do when we’re tired, and I am clearly an expert on the subject matter. I was the perfect choice.

I’m glad I did it. Sonya was lovely and the buzz!!! I’d forgotten how much I love adrenalin (especially when preceded by abject terror and stage fright). No, actually, I hadn’t. Only two weeks ago I stood up on stage (hmmm… ok, that time slightly more immune to the pitches of my nerves, numbed by the dulcet thrums of alcohol’s music) to sing to a packed bar, with my knees knocking. Climbing down from the stage? The SAME BUZZ. Knees shaking with adrenalin, and grinning from ear to ear.

I’m finding the pinky purple hair I’m sporting this month (read, post-birthday) is more a mindset than a hairstyle. It’s impossible to get into a tracky-pant wearing mummish slump when I catch sight of myself in the mirror. I can pretend to myself I’m still bucking some trend, of what? I’m still not sure. Enough people go ‘woah, what happened to your hair?’ and ‘that’s a bit wild’ for me to get shaken out of any funky mood I might be slipping into. You can’t walk around all droopy-faced with pink hair. So I don’t, even if I want to. It’s the nicer version of someone saying ‘Hey, smile. Life’s not that bad.’ Except I said it to myself with an inconsequential little stripe of hair dye.

Does trapeze also throw in upside-down men like these? Sign me up.

Shaking things up is FUN. If this is a mid-life crisis, I think I’ll keep it for a while. I’m not sure what’s next, but I think I’ll have to give trapeze a go. I really, really like hanging upside down. And falling? I reckon that would be even better.


Schmalentines Day

I don’t go in for it. It’s not that I’m not a romantic. In fact, it’s quite the opposite. That’s why That Man is going on a Schmalentines date with his best mate to the gym tonight, and then to the pub. Of course. That’s what boys in a bromance do, right? And I’m fine with it. Let me explain.

My high-school years weren’t spent swatting away boys with my fly swat, their bunches of supermarket flowers wilting; nor did I receive the requisite blunderbuss of long-stemmed roses in my early 20s on Valentines’ Day. Actually – perhaps I did, but I classified them as ‘sorry flowers’, as all flowers from this boyfriend were, designed to make up for such abominable misdeeds that I seared their heads off with my upset laser eyes. They don’t count.

So, I get it. Valentine’s Day can be a lonely and sad place when it seems everyone’s loved up except you. It’s natural to look inwards, and ask what it is you want, and whether you’re where you want to be. I’m not complacent and so showered in love and gifts that I’ve become jaded. In a relationship though, it can be a kind of dumb day. Early on, it can be an awkward ‘are we doing this yet? Are we ready for big red cards? Are they? Do I?’, and then later on, it can be pressure-filled as women hope for jewellery or proposals while men just try to make it through without crushing too many unmet and unimagined expectations. In a marriage? It can be a time for reflection too, partly because some bitch in the office was delivered a massive bunch of flowers in an ostentatious manner by her fiance. Just rude. To all the single people, I mean.

What do I want? Why don’t I care if That Man’s at the gym tonight? Because I want my romance to be unique, and not a one-size-fits all happy meal that’s instead served in a restaurant, cheek-by-jowl as couples are told which three courses to eat from their set menu. You must drink champagne. You must love chocolate. (Is it strange that I’d rather eat cheese?) It’s very difficult to have a real conversation under such circumstances, unless you’re fond of speaking like mice and have naturally smiley faces. My resting ‘bitch face’ can present a problem, at times. So that kind of Schmalentines Day is not for me.

The flowers that come these days from That Man are surprise flowers, often delivered from the hand of my biggest, and they’re the best kind. The dates we have are often of the takeaway sushi and DVD on the couch type, where we can even end up having a fight, loudly if we feel like it. Which is fine by me.

Wine, dinners out, being told I look hot, getting dressed up, and all that other stuff is definitely on my radar. In the bullseye. (Do radars have bullseyes?) But not today, cos everyone else is doing it and that’s no fun. And FUN is what it’s all about, when everything else gets tired, I suspect. When I’m saggy and my boobs need tying around my ankles so I can run down to the shops without tripping over, I hope I’m not the only one laughing.

Before That Man went to bed last night, dead tired, he did the dishes. He also contacted a school book cos he knows I hate it. (Covered it in contact, I mean. He didn’t ring it up. That would have been strange.) Looks like Valentine’s Day was yesterday, people. That’s love.

‘See you in another life, when we are both cats’


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