On rage, passion and the contacting of books

It’s just an ornery Sunday. No birds singing because the dog has tried to eat a couple of them and they have fled. (Flewd?) I am looking at my pile of homework for school, the pile of lovingly drawn upon exercise books x 13, and the Contact (I believe a registered TM shoud be inserted here, but I’m not doing Mr Contact any favours in this post so I’m taking the ballsy rage-filled move of leaving it OUT).

Not only am I filled with rage, but I’m also filled with the remnants of 2 magheritas, a caipiroska and an unquantified amount of French champagne from a hen’s bash last night. I could tell you I’m hungover, but my mother reads this blog, and a hangover happened the other weekend. Since I’m grown up now and Ive got responsibles, this time let’s just say I’m tired and thirsty. Come on. It was French!! It was important I compared and contrasted the nuances of Mumm vs Moët vs Salmon-billecart. Guess who wins? They ALL do! The French are the winners! Yay for the French!

I suspect Mr Contact, the inventor of The Stuff What One Uses to Stick Stuff On Books, does not come from a country as pleasurable as France. I think he comes from somewhere cold, where they like to stick things to other things, like tongues to telegraph poles, and hands to frozen taps, just for shits and giggles. I wrote him a letter since I don’t know how to whistle and I had to do something in my head while Tinkerbell was on and I contacted my day away.

In my madness, I discovered the stupid stuff is actually useful for non-surgical facelifts.

Check me out. No forehead wrinkles, and cheaper than Botox.


Dear Mr Contact,

I hate you. Your product fills me with a degree of angry passion I reserve generally for things I feel passionate about in a positive way. You have made it on to my passion see saw. On one end, live men, words, beaches, wine, and cheese, and on the other end lives your stupid sticking on books product, and all the cold places in the world. Oh, and tinea.

Your product presents like a test. Why is there a grid? This isn’t help. It looks like some massive freaky maths test. Ugh. And why do all the hairs stick to your product? My daughter tells me she doesn’t like having hairy books. You and Mr Velcro need to sit down and have a little brainstorm about your shortfalls in this particular follicular area. I CAN’T KEEP FAILiNg LiKe THiS! I can’t keep feeling like an inadequate mother every time I put more bubbles on the surface that no amount of skewer-bursting will remove. My tears just roll off your uncaring plastic surfaces like they mean nothing.

It’s possible I’m feeling so intense about you today because of serious cheese withdrawal. Cheese is my crack. If I saw a cow right now there’s a chance I’d roll her for a good bit of milk. Going Dairy free is BULLSHIT Mr Contact. Did you know ice cream and chocolate is dairy? My life is basically over.
Freight now my luft hand and my faughter’s ice cream wrapper are stuck to the front of the book I’m covering in your product. What’s your remedy? How will you help me face a world with you stuck to me but no cheese in it??? Well??????

Hostilely yours,
Dairy-free Kim.

The dear Contact man has made it all ok. He sent me back this completely gratuitous photo to take my focus away from all the ice cream I’m not eating.

Dear hungry Kim,
I hope you like Beagles.
Mr Contact


I remain on the fence. I understand his existence is a necessary evil, but I’m going to have to outsource all the contact work to That Man next year. He’s gone to China, AGAIN. He must pay.

‘Auspicious’ dates – heralding a load of crap?

The 12th of the 12th of 2012, what have you done for me lately? Apparently you were supposed to be some mystical karmic oooh-ahhh date of significance. All you brought me was a day of shitpoo.

I’m sorry I can’t express it more mature terms. I could try, but it would sound like ‘on this day of December, in the 12th year of the 21st century, I was arraigned with torrents of excrement, metaphorical in origin, which may or may not have been borne of a cosmic nature, heralding impending doom and the end of our time, or in fact may just have been another ordinary day worthy of flushing’. Utter rubbish.

So the Mayans stopped making their calendar. Maybe they just got bored. Seriously, if you just had to keep writing down numbers, over and over, wouldn’t you find something else to do and stop? Just because the calendar on your wall runs out at December 31, 2012, doesn’t mean there won’t BE a New Year’s Day. Of course there will be, full of headaches and regret. You just need to go down to Westfield and buy your 50% off 2013 calendar, as soon as your vision clears. It’s not the Mayans’ fault they didn’t have Westfield.


This was my flushable day. It started with the dentist (again. If you want to see why this is AGAIN – see here). This is something of an ongoing saga for Little L, so some backstory: I hauled little L away from the last dentist who was about to extract the hurting tooth that had recently had baby root-canal, in the chair, telling me ‘every anaesthetic takes your child one step closer to the grave’ like she DIDN’T HAVE EARS. She was so traumatised from his treatment and ‘tap tap – yep I have to pull it out – here 5-year old girl, swallow a tablet goodbye’ I had to carry a sobbing child into this gorgeous children’s dentist last visit, while they gently coaxed her trust back. Too scared to be treated, we had to go back again today, while they did some safeguarding of some early decay on the top and had to put a filling in. Diabetes can TRASH your teeth. Who knew?! Not me.

Anyway, that done gently and nicely, we got on with the day. It went on in the usual as can be sometimes crappy fashion. Mini-fights, complaints, Mexican standoffs, whingeing etc. but then this afternoon playing up the road at a neighbour’s house WE LOST THEM. Little L and her friend took off out the front door which I hate them doing but they’ve done before to be cheeky, not telling us before they took off. I grabbed my bag and went to follow, knowing they are pretty careful when they cross our quiet road, but prepared for my ‘don’t do that!’ rant when we caught them up. We were chatting, saying goodbye while they had gone at 5-year old speed, so by the time we’d arrived in my front door and found nothing, and no answer, then raced back up the road to their place to see if they’d ducked around the back to trick us, hearts were pounding and parents were yelling. We were asking neighbours, yelling in the vacant lot, looking down the easement, and running breathless, of course thinking the worst… There have been reports before of cars trying to lure kids in the neighbourhood.
More frantic yelling, and they emerge, blessedly, sheepishly, from my house where they’ve been hiding in my bedroom. Hilarious. Starting to yell, instead we hug, so very relieved.

Recourse came later, and remorse, but little L’s remorse was extreme, and hysterical, with sobbing and screaming. Emotional outburst? Blood glucose check. Sure enough, she’s quite hypoglycaemic (very low blood sugar), and forgot (again) to mention she was feeling bad. Yay. Diabetes strikes again. Topping off a great day!

Just as she’s slowly climbing back towards the safe zone, above 4 and safe to leave unattended, a holler comes from the bathroom from little A: ‘muuuummmeeeeee the bath’s overflowing! Quick!’

Blessed I am. My cup overfloweth, as does my bath. The river in the bathroom was not too dire, and finally, all is peaceful as I lap my gin. I’m a spectacular human specimen today, and I’m high-fiving my superior and intelligent mothering skills. Not. Which is probably a good thing in light of what follows.

I watched a Stephen Hawking doco the other night suggesting that it would be a super-great idea (he didn’t use those words obviously, he’s a bit smart and sounds like a computer) if we looked for somewhere else to live other than Earth, what with the likelihood of it being smashed to smithereens by an asteroid, or being nuclear irradiated.  As he sensibly pointed out, INTELLIGENCE is not so important to survival, and may in fact be the key to our downfall. Amoeba and microbes have been getting by just fine for millions of years without intelligence, and yet dinosaurs with their tiny brains couldn’t make it through a little sauna time.

Potentially the key to our survival on this planet.

I think there’s something in this for all of us. Perhaps we need to get back to our petri-dishes of gin, and soak away our intelligence. Maybe then we’d stand a better chance of survival? I don’t know about you, but I’m not keen on a red-hot life on Mars in a spacesuit, living in a bunker on dehydrated peas. As far as theories go, this is probably not quite SBS-standard, and I suspect Stephen Hawking may poke a couple of holes, but it’s good enough for me after today, and I’m off to soak it away with a tonic or three, splashing in gin.

A woman of no virtue

Also useful as a wake-up device when boredom rears its ugly head

Because patience is one, right? And I seem to have misplaced mine, quite thoroughly. I’m not sure if it’s something to do with the fact that I’m a fairly controlling, perfectionist type of personality to begin with, or if it’s more to do with the fact that my daughters and I are quite similar (in the strong and the will departments). Either way, I’m finding mothering at the moment is making me take so many deep breaths I’m close to passing out from hyperventilation.

Discussing patience as a notion over a few wines the other night, a very wise friend of mine described it like a rubber band. Sometimes it’s really stretchy, and those little things the kids do that push those buttons just bounce off. Other times, however, the band is short and stretched tight, at capacity, and one more ill-timed wail of ‘Mummeeeeeee’ or melodramatic display of crocodile tears is enough to snap the band.

I know that staying home and mothering is a noble and incredibly important job. I just feel like I’m utterly crap at it unless I can re-stretch my band by engaging my brain in a way that feels meaningful to me. I am not a naturally patient person, and have to work really hard to bend myself into being her, because that’s what my kids need from me. I’m finding it tough.

This wise woman I know is naturally more patient, but equally, she knows what she needs to do to keep her rubber band stretchy. She always stays one step ahead of her kids, and doesn’t allow herself downtime, because they’ll catch up and overtake her. A very smart approach, and one I’d like to follow. Whether through laziness or extreme tiredness, I’ve so far found myself unable to follow in these footsteps, possibly because I abhor schedules and waving away the daily monotony of catching the 7:14 bus, with the same grey and unsmiling faces, was one of the most victorious things about leaving my full-time job. Flying by the seat of my pants is in some ways what keeps me sane in the groundhog dayness of mothering, but at the same time what engenders the insanity, because I lose the control I’m so fond of.

So where’s the happy medium? Where do I find my patience? It’s the main thing I need to work on in Me Version 2.0, because I don’t want to be Cranky Mummy anymore. I suspect the key is organisation. I’m probably going to have to go back to basics and draw up a timetable, building in 15 minutes before every engagement to allow for infuriating child-isms like changing into different outfits instead of just going to put their shoes on, or deciding to rip off a complete set of clothes to jump in the shower with me, because I feel too mean to hold the door jammed shut and say ‘NO’ for the 50th time after we’ve all only been awake an hour. Then there are the exactly right princess bandaids to be selected and applied for the little clumsy one who somehow manages to injure herself at least ten times per day. It’s all the small stuff I’m sweating which brings its own healthy dose of guilt.

I’m pretty sure, though, if I could be an ethereal calm-mama who still somehow managed to turn up places on time without half-naked children, my kids would not only appreciate my patience and serenity, but I’d feel more in possession of virtue.

If there is any advice on which rock to turn over to find the stash of patience, I’d be most grateful for the map. Anyone?


A spectacular mid-week face-plant. Scorecards please.

I, Kim Frost, am a dufus.


So – in the spirit of Falling Face First, I outdid myself on some of my best mothering fails this week. The ironic part is, I was doing my best supermum salsa (the dancing kind, not the sauce kind), all chirpy ‘come on girls, let’s do a toy drawer cleanup project, so you can find all your toys again and give away the ones you don’t want anymore. YAY.’

I know – vomit.

It was awesome. The kids were playing with the stuff I’d put aside to give away, unpacking the box I’d packed up while yelling at me for food. I was yelling at them for being unhelpful and to STOP touching and playing with all that stuff they’d shown no interest in for ever and to stop dropping food all over the floor and to get out of my way. There was a lot of love in the room.

Then little A found a baby doll and started tenderly feeding it brocolli, and Lauren started helping me and it got kinda nice. So I went to make lunch, glanced at the calendar, and realised I’d completely missed Lauren’s kindergarten orientation day for primary school. Her very first chance at meeting kids and making friends at big bad scary school, and I FORGOT. I had a little guilty cry, then sucked it up and called the school. I told them there was a calendar malfunction (in that I forgot to look at it so it didn’t work).

Luckily there is an early bird program with three morning visits later this year, so Lauren will get her chance. And I’m sure she’ll be fine cos she’s a tough cookie with a sweet sociable nature. I haven’t told her yet – though I’m not sure if it’s to spare her feelings or mine.

For some reason these are the days that always make me feel the worst – when I try too hard to be super – and end up being anything but.