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


Feeding time and losing marbles

I’m guessing most of you know that old golf balls in the jar analogy, amiright? It has nothing do with controlling significant others, cos if you’re me, that’s not even a pipe dream. It’s the old ‘room for the important things in life’ philosophy, where the totally made up professor asks his awestruck class about whether his jar is full after stuffing it full of golf balls. They say yes. He then astounds them, by filtering little pebbles in to fill the jar further and fill all the gaps, so the jar we thought was full is now, in fact, heavy as all crap.

For the purposes of my story today though, we’re replacing pebbles with marbles. Bear with me. I’ll get to the point. See… The jar is my brain, and my body, and my heart. Just when it looks like the pretend professor in the pretend story has truly shocked his class, he pours sand in (to my brain) and fills all the remaining spaces, until no light remains. The class nods. Yes. That brain is bursting.

‘MWAH HA HA” roars the professor. ‘I’m not done yet’. And proceeds to pour a glass of vodka in to soak and confuddle any dry bits of sand. The point of the professor’s story is to say that “no matter how full your life is, there’s always room for the important things in your life”.

Ahhhhh. That’s better, says the jar. A kid then runs in to the room and grabs the marbles out, rolling them around on the floor. A man walks in, casually tossing a couple of the golf balls around, fancy juggler style, while he chats to the jar about his day at work and how the world of production is falling apart. A puppy runs up to the jar, squats, and pees on the sand. When the professor is telling my story, he says “you’re doing it wrong, and you’re a GREAT BIG FUCKING MESS”.

Oooh look Little A! Mummy's brains are falling out again!

Oooh look Little A! Mummy’s brains are falling out again!

The jar (my brain, remember? full of vodka, sand, golf balls, and lost marbles by this point) knows about making time for the important things in her life. But by this time, so many of her bits are rolling around on the floor, being juggled or peed on that she’s not actually sure how much room is actually inside the jar at any given point. So she says yes to a few more bits… Just a couple of seashells, like a social outing, to pretty things up a bit inside the jar.

Sometimes there’s a cleanup, and with everything brushed back inside, the jar overflows. The brains spill out onto the table, causing a tidal wave.

After that happens, I’m just a jar, depleted of contents. I need filling back up.

More in, less out. I need feeding. I need food (I am skinny, and not in an ‘ooh you’re so lucky you eat all the chocolate’ way). I need books. I need sleep. I need quiet. I need music, I need my family. I need less stress. I NEED A GODDAMN NANNY. That’s my self-assigned job this year. So far, I’m failing. One more win for the Falling Face First blog, one more fail for me personally. I’m starting to feel that we’re not in this together, this blog and me.

OOOOOOOOH WEEEeeeee!! That was a fun one! Hope you enjoyed it dear readers! I’m on the road to reality. Apologies in advance. xxx

Word Vomit from a woman on the edge

I have no time to write blogs. I have no time to write Facebook updates. I have no headspace to do anything other than everything, but I need to vomit some words at you, so if you’re here, reading, please forgive me. I’m cleansing. wHERE THE HELL is the Poppins person who is going to stop me from losing my shit completely?

In classic time-poor lazy girl style, I’m going to bullet point this post. You can leave now if you want.

  • I am working all the time
  • When not working, I’m feeding or washing or doing kid’s homework (my Mathis us getting good) or stopping my kids from tearing each other apart with their vicious 5 year old girl words. They may not let each other use the purple texta or play with the unicorn tomorrow, and I couldn’t bear that.
  • I went camping on the weekend. It was not glamping. There was a toilet but it was so far away I had to pee in a bush at 2am.
  • Don’t tell anyone I peed in a bush
  • Suspect others peed in the bush cos it smelt like wee.
  • Like I said, not glamping, but beautiful, beautiful view of Lake Macquarie from our site.
  • Despite tranquil spot, I have no clue how to relax.
  • Storm came through that was so mental it blew our steaks off the table.
  • Found steak the next morning in a box, next to a mug of red wine. Wept over the loss.
  • Not really about the weeping, but the rest is ALL TRUE.
  • Campsite told me to develop ‘shower tips’. I’ll give you 4 minute shower tips. Go in one shower for 4 mins, then the next shower, then the next shower. Make friends in the process if you really have to. Showers are my LIFE.


  • This morning I put a dirty school uniform through the dryer to ‘iron it’ and ‘freshen it up’ because my house and life is such a mess.
  • I am going to FIJI in 4 sleeps.
  • There is a swim up bar, where I plan to sleep.
  • I will buy bikinis everywhere with gay abandon, saying ‘ooh this one will match my Mai tai perfectly’, and ‘the colours in this bikini will really set off my frozen margherita’.
  • Am denying reality that kids will be with me with sunscreen in their eyes and sand in their mouths.
  • I am still drinking green smoothies and they taste GOOD so shuttup.

Woof says Herbie. This is not Fiji.


THIS is Fiji.Look out, Fiji bar person.

THIS is Fiji.Look out, Fiji bar person.


Food of the Future – what’s on your plate in 2025?

Welcome Loungers! Happy not-quite-Friday.

Have I mentioned I love food? I feel ripped off anytime someone suggests ‘brunch’. They stole a meal right from under me! Give it back, now! Today I’m planning my meals 10 years into the future (as well as thinking about my lunch).  I’m a progressive little Vegemite.

So, what’s on the menu? You’ll need to promise not to hold me to this, because even visionaries can get it wrong occasionally. Back to the Future told us we were meant to have our hoverboards by last year, and it’s looking like we may in fact have a couple more years still to wait. Disappointing.

Anyway, without further ado I present my top 5 predictions for the food of the future:

1. Meat – from the printer, not the butcher

Did you know they can print 3D guns now that actually fire? Did you also know they can print replacement organs for the body? It’s only sensible, then, that they should leave Betsy the cow to graze in the paddock her udders un-muddled (umm.. though printing milk could prove messy. We may hang on to those udders) instead of sending her to the handbag factory. Instead, they can print my eye fillet. It’s all the rage on the latest season of Gray’s Anatomy, don’t you know. The docs are all fighting over whether the printing of a new hand or a new liver should take priority. (Tough call, that one. Hand needed to lift the wine glass… but liver needed to process the alcohol. Glad it’s not my decision.) Clearly an eye fillet will beat printing over the gravy beef, however, and we’ll all have champagne beef tastes on a printing budget, while the forests grow and Betsy moos a long and happy life. Everyone’s happy, except the unemployed butchers.

2. Insect sticks

Mmmm a bug barbie. Grasshopper kebabs at the night markets, washed down with a little grass juice. We’re health conscious MOFOs these days (no, silly, the 2025 days), and insects pack an energy and nutrient punch. And the crunch when char-grilled with a little soy, ginger and chilli? Delish.

I guess that will stop them getting away. Chilli sauce or BBQ?

I guess that will stop them getting away. Chilli sauce or BBQ?

3. Chocolate tubes 

Remember sweetened condensed milk in a tube? Our mums would catch us sneaking it and snatch it from our mouths? Well, the health conscious future will make chocolate in a tube, but it will come from cacao nibs. Silken tofu and various other binders will give it a velvety texture, and it will somehow taste great, and be good for you. Not at all like the dairy-free gluten-free friand I ate the other day that tasted like glue. This stuff is actually yum-good as well as good-good. Remember kids, a squirt of chocolate a day keeps the doctor away!

4. Avocado milkshakes

Ewwwwww. I know. That’s what I say too. Ewwwwwww. But, as our gullets circumnavigate the globe, from China, to Thailand, then to Japan, India, Korea, Vietnam, Spain, authentic Mexican, and we’ve ‘conquered’ all of these cuisines, we’ll be looking for our next big flavour adventure. We’ve been doing the mole and agave tequila drinks for a little while now… I suspect the next unexplored culinary frontier will be Africa. And in Africa, they LOVE their avocado milkshakes. I know, I know. But hey, who would have thought balls of tapioca would taste so good swimming around in tea?

Gah. Savoury to sweet is like mixing my metaphors. I can't do it.

Gah. Savoury to sweet is like mixing my metaphors. I can’t do it.

5. 100 year old Peat Bog eggs

You’ve heard how the Chinese eat their 100 year-old-eggs as a delicacy, I suspect? While not ACTUALLY 100 years old, they are some seriously BADDASSLY-preserved eggs. Think about how well the Peat Bogs of Scotland preserve things, like dead men. Remember the Peat Bog man? If a bit of good peat can keep a man who’s ?? years old looking this good, just think about the health benefits of preserving your food in a good bit of peat. Before you know it, everybody will have a nice sunken Peat pit in their back garden, and will be inviting each other around for Peat Pit Pickling Parties on the weekend.

I can’t wait. xx

Zemanta Related Posts Thumbnail

Add your link!

 Loading InLinkz ...

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.

Goddamn green smoothie bandwagons

I hate a bandwagon. If you need to know something about me, it’s that I’ll climb onto a bandwagon very reluctantly, only when my feet are blistered and bleeding and I can’t physically walk the remaining 5 miles home without help from a donkey. (Do donkeys even pull bandwagons?)

If cocktails in a bar are being served in cocunuts with straws, I’ll probably order a wine. In a pint glass.

But, dammit, my health needs to be taken in hand, like, with handcuffs. I’m drinking goddamn green smoothies. I throw in enough berries on top of the spinach to turn them poo brown so they can’t be called green. Shhhh. Don’t tell anyone I actually like the taste either. And you will NEVER catch these abominations on Instagram with a caption saying ‘oooh I feel green and clean’. Promise.

Here's a frigging green (reddish brownish) smoothie for ya, to wash down my daily handful of au natural pharmaceuticals.

Here’s a frigging green (reddish brownish) smoothie for ya, to wash down my daily handful of au natural pharmaceuticals.

I am doing the things I laugh at people for doing. I know what chia is. I know how to say keen- wah. I’m getting freaky with freekeh. I put Stevia in my tea. (Aka tea with Steve. That Man is well jealous.)

The thing is, no migraine in 4 weeks. Less headaches. Face looking more like skin, less like pepperoni. And I am no fun anymore. What a frigging conundrum.

I read the well-holy wellness green food sites with two fingers at the ready, to make the gagging noises. I hate that shit.  I should clarify. I like the food. I like to eat healthily, and I always have. What I don’t like is a supercilious attitude towards food and eating, and the   prosyletising of health like a religion. Do what works for you, I say. I don’t need to see your hemp seed whale glue tree bark smoothie in a jam jar with a stripey paper straw to know you’re healthy. If you say you feel good, then great. I believe you. Pictorial evidence not required.

Work lunch. Will put hairs on your chest and spinach in your teeth. Grossly hypocritical gloating pic of healthy eating. First and last ever.

Work lunch. Will put hairs on your chest and spinach in your teeth. Grossly hypocritical gloating pic of healthy eating. First and last ever.

Unfortunately, I love healthy food, but I LOVE ALL THE FOOD. Including cheese. I want to be moderate and healthy, but I can’t even manage that right now. And this stupid ‘un-diet’ is working for me in a head-being-less-explosive guts not speaking in exclamation marks kind of way. I’m smiling spinach at people on the train to brighten their mornings too, as an added bonus. Damn you, bandwagon body. Climbing on without asking if I wanted to come.  I want to drink the wine and eat figs and goats cheese and prosciutto until I’m a dairy nitrite headache acne filled cretin. But body says no. Too tired. Too sore.

No fun Kim. Pleased to meet you. Let’s see how we go.

Are any of you doing this ‘green’ thing? Are you out and proud or are you in the closet like me?

The female midlife crisis – a year on

It’s getting better, this midlife crisis business. I guess the definition of crisis means it has to peak somewhere, then you come down the other side. Yesterday was my 36th birthday, so I pulled on my big girl boots and hit the shops for my Botox, my dermal filler, a good nail shellacking and a waxing to take my womanhood back to girl-land. Did I WHAT.

In actual fact, I hit the shops with my tired face, in my tired denim skirt and old singlet, to buy a SPARKLY spangly sequinned shift dress for my friends’ wedding next month, on sale, with birthday money. A free dress! That makes me feel a million bucks! And has room for dancing AND 2 helpings of dessert! Bite me, Botox. Then I had lunch and a glass of champagne with my mum. Who has time to sit in a stinky nail bar?

I feel like I have a purpose again. Last year I felt in the middle of nothing. Adrift. Half of many things, but a whole of nothing. Apparently I wasn’t alone, as it’s still one of the most clicked-on posts on this blog. I’m still probably in the middle of this crisis, but I think this is the fun part now, where I’ve stopped the sorrowful naval gazing and can get on with doing all the fun and age-inappropriate things, while embarrassing those around me.

I haven’t lost any of my flexibility, which is a blessing and a curse. Yoga teachers love me. Yoga students hate me cos I wander in sporadically then go all bendy benderson on their arses. But stuff also just pops out when it feels like it, and is starting to get quite achy when it’s not in the right place, now I’m older. Still makes for a good time killer to amuse the other team members when the team meeting takes a while to start. Oh – and a lovely photo for That Man to have on his phone of his wife on her birthday.



Now I’ve hit a new age demographic and the next tick-box on the form, I’m going to try a more subtle and veiled look in photos, to obscure the fine lines creeping in. Glasses and hair aren’t quite cutting it anymore. I need to incorporate a few props, and use the beauty of nature to my advantage. Kind of like this.

Looking so hot right now, ASOS girl. I'm taking notes.

Looking so hot right now, ASOS girl with your plant hat. I’m taking notes.

I got a skateboard for my birthday, and an awesome hoodie, cos my husband is sick of me stealing his. (The hoodie- not the board). Wanna see? It’s SO pretty. I think I’ll carry it around some places before I have to look stupid trying to ride it. In your FACE, birthday.

Very pretty skateboard. Still undecided if I'll ride it or just walk around carrying it.

Very pretty skateboard. Still undecided if I’ll ride it or just walk around carrying it.

Since the 35th birthday loomed large, MANY THINGS HAVE HAPPENED. But I made them happen instead of them just happening, which has helped with the disconnected feeling.  I’ve been interviewed on the radio (about this blog), done trapeze, put my kid in jumper pants when she had no spare undies, got a full-time job, ran away to Melbourne to a very rainy concert in the Yarra with my girls from high school, was waxed to look like an upside down Bruce Willis, swore off being waxed ever again, been inappropriate more times than I can count, visited Rachel from The Very Inappropriate Blog and Sarah from Slapdash Mama (my blogging Kindred Spirits) in Brisbane, and sung karaoke not once, but twice (if you count what I did on Saturday night singing…)

I feel much more in control, being so out of control. It’s a controlled, middle-aged lack of control. You have to book and plan these activities. Plan babysitters. Not drink during the week.  I have no porsche yet, but I’ve been driving That Man’s Hilux any chance I get, which is much more fun that the silver mumsmobile (Sir Forrest the Forrester). Clearly I’m not quite out the other side yet… thank God. I have a lot more irresponsible-making planned for the year ahead.

If you have any particular ideas for me, shoot them through, ok? I’m up for a challenge. Is anyone else living in midlife crisis land?




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.


Keeping up with the Blogdashians – Sloppy roundup

Holy mother of pearl it’s hard work keeping up a blog these days! How do people do it?

Other people must have magical unicorn families that don’t have children turning 5 even though they were only just ejected from their loins all of 30 seconds ago. Or bottles of wine that accidentally open themselves and thrust their contents into their mouths night after night, as mine do, preventing anything much useful from happening other than the investigation of whether that blonde guy in Downton Abbey really IS losing his jowls as the seasons go by. Or have jobs that require working, or putting on work clothes, or other inconvenient intrusions like turning up to that office place, over and over, all the stupid time. I have a blog to write, dammit!

How did this puffin turn 5? I just pushed her out yesterday!

How did this little puffin turn 5? I just pushed her out yesterday!

Two things I recently mastered. Being the BEST sloppy parent I can be, and buying CHEAP matching earrings in 3 minutes that match my outfit perfectly, and still being only marginally later than I was already. It’s a tough call, really. Already late, without earrings, or 3 minutes later, but INFINITELY more fabulous, wearing earrings that match my outfit. I’d make the same choice again.

So I may be a crap blogger but I’m almost cutting it as a person. Sloppy parenting 101 looks like this.

Filthy tantrums and a foul mood you can’t crack with cajoling, kindness, or threats? Throw a slurpee at it. They come in sugar-free now, so that almost counts as responsible parenting. Birthday party? It’s a teddy bear’s picnic. Get the kids to sit and stuff their own bears for the picnic. It will occupy them for a whole hour of the party. They all sit in the one spot. Can’t be arsed filling lolly bags? Do a bear hunt. Make them find their own. Feed them some tiny teddies (oooh look! Premade! Winning).

I don't trust you, strange lady doing things to my feet.

I don’t trust you, strange lady doing things to my feet. Pretend she’s not there. Pretend she’s not there. 

Kids behaving like small demons? Give them a fairy door. Very cute. Very sweet. The ‘fairies’ can deliver subliminal messages on improving their behaviour, (like ‘now you’re 5, we hope you’ll share your toys with your sister as nicely as you’ve shared them with us!’) all while making it seem like a good idea by sprinkling them with pixie dust (that looks very much like purple glitter. Note to self – remove all traces before catching train).


A fairy door in a fairy wall.

A fairy door in a fairy wall.

I’m almost a high achiever at sliding by.

What else has been happening? Oh yeah. I have been sleeping. Preparing for Australia Day, I am sleeping for Australia, in case it’s one day a national sport. I eat lamb, I drink beer, and I can do our country proud at the Sleep Olympics.

I slept through my alarm this morning. I slept through That Man ringing to check I hadn’t slept through the alarm. I mostly got dressed (GOD BLESS you dry shampoo gods!) but forgot my ears. I am naked without my ears. I bought some that perfectly matched my dress for $12, and was still only 10 minutes late. And then I was asked if I work out and what do I eat to be so healthy and ended up discussing my age, and NO WAY am I REALLY older than 26??? Yeah, OK, it was my barista and that’s part of his job description, but I’m sure it was the earrings taking years off my face.

That’s all. Just stuff. So much for blogging better. I’m sloppy as ever and crushed under the weight of January, that heavy mother-trucker. But AUSTRALIA DAY! YAY! Tattooed flags will be on my face because I’m immature!

Also, THE LOUNGE will be returning to the top of this Faraway Tree after an extended absence THIS THURSDAY!!! Come and link up. It’s books. Booky, booky wooks. Or Russell Brand, and his loose connection to books, if you prefer.







Survivor: The Australian Playground

The drive to be alpha female starts early. The playground of a 6-year-old girl, based on my non-scientific observations, looks much like Survivor Island, but with better food. Forming alliances is key to survival in the game, and immunity can be granted by receiving the status of ‘Best Friend’ for the day. That girl will NOT be voted off.

Girls at 6 are tricky. They’re battling it out, without knowing what ‘it’ is. It’s like a biological imperative kicks in once a girl goes to school, and realises just how many of HER there are. It’s a time of incredible transition, negotiating interpersonal relationships and playground politics, without mum or dad to retreat to if things turn bad. Meanwhile, their brains are not yet sufficiently developed to be able to emotionally process much of the behaviour they just DO or the emotions they just FEEL.

Sux to be six.


I’d be intrigued to read William Golding’s Lord of the Flies written about girls instead of boys. Instead of killing the pig and throwing rocks, they’d probably send girls off one by one crying alone until there were two or three of them left huddled around their pile of berries, fighting over who deserved more and telling each other they were unicorns and would be best unicorn friends forever.

Imagine this book rewritten… WITH GIRLS.

Imagine this book rewritten… WITH GIRLS.

Replace all the boys with girls, and add more berries.

Replace all the boys with girls, and add more berries.




Little L’s quest for a boyfriend this year, in KINDERGARTEN, surprised me at first. She’s now had three. One moved back to England telling my mum he had serious intentions to marry her since they were in love. Shame. He was sweet. I think she’s actually just looking to form an alliance in her playground Survivor Island, and boys are straightforward. They say crappy stupid things and laugh at you, but they do it to your face so you have the chance to do it right back, then punch each other and go and play again. Safe friendship.

Funnily, biology came into play even in Little L’s next choice of mate. She thought she’d marry the next one purely ‘because he looks strong. He looks like he could lift beds’. Cos lifting beds is… um… very important in a life partner. Good decision sweetheart.

Sorry Little L, I looked everywhere, but could NOT find any man lifting a bed. It may be impossible. Men can lift lots of things. Even pillows, as shown. Just maybe not beds.

Sorry Little L, I looked everywhere, but could NOT find any man lifting a bed. It may be impossible. Men can lift lots of things. Even pillows, as shown. Just maybe not beds.

My heart is heavier about this playground crap than my words suggest. Little L has had a rough 6 months. She’s come home sad, excluded, yelled at, and with nobody to play with. She has differences, for sure, with her diabetes and wearing glasses, but I don’t like to think this is responsible. Her two beautiful best friends – one who now lives in Coffs Harbour, and another in San Francisco, see through that and love her properly. She’s missing their closeness and unconditional acceptance. No wonder she’s turning to boys. They accept quickly because there is the important business of playing to get on with.

I don’t want to scare any of you sending your baby girls off to kindy this year for the first time. This stuff only happens later in the year, and not to everyone, and only once they’ve got everything else (like getting to school on time (*cough cough*) down pat. If you can though, prep those little velcro-strapped munchkins as best you can, and encourage your little girls to be kind, strong, and above all, INCLUSIVE of everyone who wants to play.

I hope 2014 is a better year for Little L. I’m going to teach her that being a Beta girl or any kind of girl (or even a unicorn, if that’s what she wants to be) is pretty awesome, because then you can do whatever you want, without worrying about what anyone thinks.

Has anyone come out into the land of 7-year-olds yet? Does it get better or worse?