I can make people

Adulthood doesn’t present many opportunities for achievement. I’m not too sure what it means anymore. It was a simple concept in childhood, defined by good marks and smiling teachers. By uni, it simply meant finishing the bloody degrees. These days I wear so many hats, as worker, mother, friend, sister, daughter, and wife, that it’s more likely I’ll feel able to tell you about my ONE BEST FAIL rather than my biggest achievement.

But then I remember, I have an extremely special talent. I can make people. I know nearly all of us can, but in the humdrum and cacophony of daily life I’m quick to forget the miracle of this, my best achievement. It didn’t come easily. Making humans is bloody hard work.

Just two for me, thanks.

Just two for me, thanks.

The first human I made was 6 years ago. I was told to try and make one soonish since I was all endometriosis-y, and had had surgery and a short delightful jaunt through drug-induced menopause. Fun for all! Luck was ours, and the human put herself in my very cranky womb quickly and happily.

After all the usual retching and fainting, and a couple of good migraine months, things became more challenging. Commuting daily became a game of ‘catch the guilty shifting eyes’ as the wheels on the bus went round and round and the preggo lady tried not to fall over. Then the techtonic plates shifted, (or the joints in the back and pelvis anyway) and I effectively fell apart. I saw a physio every week to put me back together, and she gave me a super sexy belly band in ‘nood’ to hold me in one piece and to funk up my outfits all at once.Winning!

I started contracting around 35 weeks – with an ‘irritable uterus’. Medical descriptions are so cool in their suckiness sometimes. I’ll say it was irritable. It was saying ‘Eject! Eject!’ The contractions were painful, pant-worthy and regular, so I stopped sleeping and was put on meds to stop labour.

Luckily I produce ENORMOUS babies, so Little L being born weighing almost 4 kg at 38 weeks was not a moment too soon. I just had no idea I was in labour, since the pain had felt the same for the last 3 weeks nonstop. Do you think I want an epidural? Do you think there’s a reason I’m laughing like a hyena when you ask me that question?

Did you know babies also decide to come while you’re sick with the flu and have a fever and chest infection? I stupidly thought they would just wait until it was a good time. Ten days later I’d cracked a rib from coughing and had my first round of pneumonia (with a couple more to come over the next few years). Good thing I make sturdy babies, hey.

I still find it fairly unbelievable that only nine months later I went back and chucked another human into this very cranky womb. Of course it was very cranky again, and tried much harder to chuck its goodies out. Little A, the fighter that she is, just kicked back of course. A story for another day.

So while I’m not very GOOD at cooking people, the fact that I can and have made two of them, who I’m very, extremely grateful and proud to wrap in my arms each day, is more than enough life achievement for one me.

A rave, a rant, and how to look jaunty in a tie.

Have you got my goat? I’m sure I left it around here somewhere. No, really. It’s the perfect day for a rant by the stark-raving mad, as I was caught having a little chat to myself this afternoon while working away in my home office. After putting in a 30-hr week by Wednesday night, I no longer seem be able to keep my thought processes contained inside my brain or confined to the keyboard. It is FALLING OUT. So I’m glad I’m here, blurting and bleating in the Lounge with REAL EARS to listen. Don’t cut them off ok?
The unhappy thing is though, I’m zen. I’m trying on a whole calm, unbothered, glass-half-full persona full of positivity that tries not to indulge in negative thought processes. It’s working out really well. I’m completely exhausted by it. Oh, what the hell. You asked, right?

Because it’s been a long week already, here is my list of things that get my goat, in no particular, or indeed remotely sensible order.

1. Why is Eloise peeling Patrick’s sweet potato?! (Sorry. One for the Offspring fans only) Oh. Ooooooohhh. It’s ok. It’s all ok. We don’t have to worry about that one anymore.

2. Ties. Not generally, obviously. They are very practical accessories, and add gravity and jauntiness to any outfit, particularly in yellow. I rock a tie. Want to see?

You have important business thoughts to tell me? OK. I'm listening.

You have important business thoughts to tell me? OK. I’m listening with a business-like point of face.

Hmm. That's a very interesting business point you make. I will go and give it due and grave business thought.

Hmm. That’s a very interesting business point you make. I will go and give it due and grave business thought.

 

 

 

And a tie on a man? Mmmmmmmmmmm. One more time. Mmmmmmmmm. But, and I REPEAT, but, on a 5-year old?? Girl? School, excuse me, are you trying to ruin my every day, EVERY MORNING? I notice the boy on the UncleToby’s porridge sachets ad isn’t wearing a tie. I bet he’s on time, too.

I’m a good tie tier, (because I’m awesome – see important further point below), but 5-year old necks are not good top button wearers. These sloppy floppy top buttons are incompatible with the wearing of ties. Whatever, details. STOP THE TORTURE! JUST STOP! Tracksuits for all! (Me too – please?)

 

3. Tuna. You taste nice. You are a good fish. You’re a spectacular swimmer. You are really best raw. But why do you keep smelling afterwards, forever? I like to eat you, even out of tins, so I have no untoward bias. But truly, you should never go to work or school. Ever. Know your place please, and stay there.

 

4. Pants. Pants in pants. Washing inside out pants inside inside out pants. Even the big man person thing here does it. Then extricating the whole mess. Oh ho ho! And even better? If someone wees inside the pants inside the pants. JUST STOP WEARING PANTS OK? Wow. That feels so much better.

 

5. Goats. Goats get my goat. For sounding like real children. And for letting their small versions be called ‘kids’. Have you ever been to a ‘farm day’ with small kids (yours, not the goat version) and spent the whole day in a panic thinking they were crying out for you because of the stupid goats? Oh. Just me then.

 

6. Earrings. What’s wrong with this picture? It’s one of those tricky ‘spot the difference’ ones. I didn’t know I’d lost it until I’d walked around all afternoon like pirate Captain Jack Sparrow with just one. Nobody told me, which makes it a bit worse. I really liked these ones. Not sure what to do with just one. Grrrrr. Arggggh.
Exhibit B. Embarrased ear, sans earring.

Exhibit B. Embarrased ear, sans earring.

Exhibit A. Ear avec earring

Exhibit A. Ear avec earring

 

 

7. Me. I get my goat. For being so very extremely awesome and able to do everything. I’m so capable and amazing I can work, cook, look after kids, wash, cook, shop for food and do double pickups and dropoffs. I hate being this amazing because the more I do it, the more I need to be able to do it. Inside, I would like to eat marshmallows and have a bath, inside a bath shop, because we don’t actually have a bath. I really make myself mad for doing this. I must stop. IMMEDIATELY.

 

8. People that say ‘you look really tired’. If you’re not also saying ‘are you ok?’ or offering to help, then keep your interesting and CAPTAIN BLEEDING OBVIOUS thoughts to yourself, and your unthinking mouth inside the vehicle at all times. See the point re awesomeness above. Awesomeness requires superpowers. My eyes also have superpowers, and I may sear your mouth off with my extremely tired laser eyes. They still have super stinkeye powers, you know.

 

8. Fairies. You piss me off the most. You make me mad as hell. Where are you? Here I am, working my hardest at being totally completely awesome, while children are raised with the expectation that you exist to plug all the gaps, and YOU DO NOT EXIST. Why not? I need you! I asked for a twitchy nose like Samantha on Bewitched and wasn’t given one, so I need to delegate. I have pets, but they are good for nothing. In fact, they’re worse than that. The rabbit needs antibiotics, twice per day, plus wrapping in a blanket at night, in case giving food and water to a fish and cat and dog weren’t already enough. Shoosh about the fish. I don’t know if they drink water. Do they?

 

I don’t know. I’m tired. And we had tuna for dinner, and I can still smell it. And I don’t have fairies to do the dishes or fly my covers up to cover my weary body. Grrrrrrr. Goats.

 

Ahhhhh thank you, Lounge, for listening. That feels so much better. A little bit like after a migraine, when it’s as though the inside of my head has been superjet sprayed out by a guerney. Clear and fresh. I’m going to go and fill my glass half full again now.
Xx
┬áLinking up with The Lounge at Robomum’s place, and Grace for FYBF.
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Groundhog day

It’s happening again. I get out of bed, look at the house, the crap, the mess, the kitchen, and just want to hide. Is it just me that thinks there’s nothing cute about a Groundhog? I’m waiting for Bill Murray to walk past with his toaster on the way to the bathroom. He’s going to be disappointed. We have no bath. It’s a constant source of disappointment to me, too.

I sigh, start in on the kitchen, the nagging to get dressed, to eat the breakfast, and then wonder why? It’s going to look exactly the same tomorrow. They don’t want to do it, and I don’t want to do it. I know, I know. It’s all in the attitude. When I’m upbeat, kids sense your mood and are much more compliant and willing to be helpful. But sometimes it’s just so bloody HARD.

My husband won two POPAI industry awards the other night. They look like Oscars wearing Native American dress. I’m stoked for him. He’s great at his job, and he’s been working insane hours, and weekends, and we pretty much never see him. I really pleased the industry can recognise that he’s a brilliant designer, and that he’s doing the right thing running his own business. This is the ego boost and adrenalin shot in the arm he’s been needing to keep him powering through those long hours. At the same time though, and I feel crap even saying this, I WANT AN AWARD TOO DAMMIT!!!!! Just something to legitimise what I’m doing, especially when all I do round the house gets undone again, so it has to be done over again afresh the next day.

I’m not a career mum. No judgment there – it’s just not me, because it doesn’t fulfil me personally, and I need other stuff happening in my brain, like work, so I don’t go crazy. I need my job as an editor to feel like I exist as a whole person (whether it’s true or not), and things on the freelance front have been quiet lately. So, I guess this is that time where this is meeeeee beeeeeeing craaaazeeeeeeeeeeeeee. I’m going down, down, down, to CRAZY TOWN!!

I need some ideas to break the monotony of groundhog day. We went indoor scootering the other day. That was kinda fun. Any other ideas? Anyone? Anyone? Bueller?