Farts are funny. A tale of Pistachios.

I thought it might be time for a post that isn't about my baby.
Or me, as a Mum.

Sometimes I feel like that's all I am. Mummy. Mum. Ma-Muggy.

I'm not sure why people thought we were on drugs?

It's not who I've always been. At one point, before I really considered myself an adult,  I was a crazy, on-campus Uni student. I did very little study and a whole lot of procrastination.
I actually think if they had a course in procrastination, I would have graduated with honours.




The very first University human I met, was my friend Emma. I still have her saved in my phone as Penis. Which is hilarious every time she calls. Every. Single. Time.

I spent SO many hours in Emma's room, up the hall, or with her in my room. She shared my stupid, time wasting, sense of humour. She still does.

We used to leave messages for each other on the internal phones (Only calling when we knew the other wasn't there to answer). We left elaborate stories, spoken in strange, inconsistent accents, from countries that didn't exist. Mostly about noodles, if I remember correctly.

The most memorable moment, while living in the same building as Emma, was the day she bought pistachios.

Not just a couple...
One of those 500g bags, from Aldi.
I think Emma forgot she was eating them. I think her hand kept reaching into the pack, breaking open the nut and then she ate it, without even realising she was doing it. I blame her computer.

I had noticed that Emma was missing that day. She'd been in her room for a really long time.

So, I knocked. She answered.

My nostrils stung. What the hell was that smell!?

Wedding photo hijacker.

Emma giggled. I think she saw my face.

I saw the pistachio shells scattered on her desk.

Next thing, I hear a noise.

Me: Emma? Did you fart?

She giggled again.

Emma: No... Ok, maybe? Your face farted...Shuddup!

I soon found out, she had eaten over half the bag. And the stench was pistachio fart. Pure, concentrated pistachio fart. She could have bottled it and sold it to... No-one. Ever.

From that day forward, I vowed I would never let her forget her pistachio farts! And now, no-one else will either.


Farts are funny.

Please share a pre-motherhood/adult life story in the comments. I don't want to be the only dork in the room!

Linking up with:

Is that...Wait... Is that POO?

I thought I knew what I was in for when I had a baby. I knew how to change a nappy. I knew that you had to feed them boob or bottle. And I knew there wasn't going to be a lot of sleep going on.


I hadn't braced myself for the poo.


  Oh, the poo!



My first major poo moment, was when Eli was only a few months old. I was giving him some much needed pants off time (What I like to call "Hanging out with his wang out" on his waterproof mat. He was giggling away and squealing. It was very cute and funny. I thought I'd sneak off and go to the bathroom.

I should not have.

My son, in the time I was gone, got quite busy there on the floor.

He managed to poo. EVERYWHERE. It was up his arms, in his hair, up his back. And just to add to the fun times for Mummy... well, he decided he'd roll along the floor, just to make sure it was no longer on the waterproof mat. Just when I thought it couldn't get worse, his poo covered hand made its way to his mouth. This is when I SCREAMED! Needless to say, this just made him cry and the whole thing was an ordeal!

We got through that. I laughed about it, once the floor was cleaned, the mat was washed and the baby was bathed. I even sent my husband a text, with a photo of it, saying "Eli has a package for you, but it's pretty shit". He sent back  "You're a sicko". I thought I was pretty funny.

There have been many memorable poo moments since...

But today... today was a corker!
I had just bathed that cheeky, tiny love o' mine and I noticed his bottom was pretty red. So, against my better judgement, I decided to let him crawl around in front of the heater, with his wang free.

Then, I received a phone call from my friend Amy. We were chatting away about Hot lunch Monday  & the hip and happening online Scentsy Party we were about to attend.

Then it happened.

I looked down.

And my son, was fingerpainting the loungeroom rug, with his poo.

HIS POO.

I quickly, yet calmly, told Amy I needed to GO, because my son had done a poo on the floor.

Then I SCREAMED.

He laughed.

I grabbed the nearest towel.

And then, we sorted the situation out.




Being a Mum is so fun.

Lucky he's adorable!







I'm linking up with My Home Truths for I must confess Monday .

No.

My son has been a babbler/talker since about 4 months, when he first uttered 'Mumumumum'. I was thrilled the first time I heard it. And SO excited that Mum beat Dad. (I'm competitive like that)

Over the past 11 & 3/4 months, I have heard many strange drunk-baby-German words come out of his mouth. I've also heard some real ones.

One of those words, is 'No.' It's THE word at the moment.

He has a special serious face for this word. It's his favourite. It serves many purposes.
An example of our conversation this morning:

Me: "Good morning Bubby!!"
Eli: "No."
Me: "I love you too! Oh, I smell a poo! Did you do a poo?"
Eli: "Ma, muggie. No."
*insert horrifying morning nappy change*
Change scene. Loungeroom.
Me: "Are you hungry?"
Eli: "No"
Me: "Ok, well I'll go make your weetbix"
Eli: "No no no no no"
*eats weetbix in record time*

This is my translation of the conversation:

Me: "Good morning Bubby!!"
Eli: "Hi Mum, I love you so!"
Me: "I love you too! Oh, I smell a poo! Did you do a poo?"
Eli: "Actually, yes. And I'm quite uncomfortable. Could you change me please?"
*insert horrifying morning nappy change*
Change scene. Loungeroom.
Me: "Are you hungry?"
Eli: "Yes. My tummy has been grumbling for hours."
Me: "Ok, well I'll go make your weetbix"
Eli: "Excellent. I'll just wait here while you do that."

It appears I am dillusional. But I swear "No" definitely means way more than it should, with this child.

What word did your baby say first? Which is their favourite now? If you have older kids, what's their favourite phrase/question?

Food for thought.

It's no big surprise that my weight and my happiness are connected. Just ask my husband. I NEVER shut up about it.

Following is a sarcastic and terrible account of my feelings right now.

Exhibit A. 2011

I'm the insane one in the black shirt. And that's my sister next to me. (She's also crazy) The fact that we're pretty drunk and dancing to terrible music, has nothing to do with it. When I was this weight (20kg lighter than I currently am), I had ONE less thing to freak out about. My jeans fit, I just ate when I was hungry and I jogged a lot.

Exhibit B. 2013

I don't know if you can see the 'oh gawd, take the camera away' look in my eyes? It's there. Along with my feet killing me, because my shoes are too tight and the gut sucking-in-undies are making my eyes water.

I'm a different person now. Yeah, I have a baby, but in all honesty, it isn't baby weight. I'm just lazy and I eat too much. I managed to lose all of my pregnancy weight and gain it all back in the first year. Do I get an award for that? Got to be some 'First time mum failure' award.

I've come up with an idea.

I think it's pretty good.

I'm going to try several things.

Firstly, I'm going to wear nothing but hessian bags and nighties (for the flash nights out).

Next, I'll stop eating altogether. I'll still buy food, but I'll just sniff it and take photos of it.

Lastly, I'll get rid of all the mirrors and widen the door frames, because the second one definitely won't happen.

All this talk of things is making me hungry.

I'm going to go and have a snack now. Maybe some lettuce? Or some chocolate?

Go ahead, give me all the tips on how to turn things around. That'll make me feel SO awesome.

If depression is the black dog, can anxiety be a purple one?

I hope so, 'cause I rather like purple.

Anxiety and I have been friends for a number of years. She and I... Well, we've been through stuff together. And now we're closer than ever. 'I don't want to shake hands with anyone at church' (Childhood) 'Maths is too hard, so I'll cry' (beginning highschool), 'My Uni assignment is due in 10minutes and I'm not done' (Well duh?!) 'Being a teacher is SO hard'... THEN...

I got up the duff. I was pregant. I was cookin' me a baby, in that oven.

Suddenly, she left. Anxiety just packed her bags, gave me the finger and she was off. It was like a hormonal cocktail of happiness had been injected into my veins. Even though I was spewing into the bin next to my desk at school, I was so calm. Then, we moved 660km away from employment, family and stability, but I was calm. When our lives were uprooted again, only 4 months later, I was effing calm. (A fair bit fatter, but calm!) One more move, a few days of cooking and clucking about the joint, then this sweet little Bubbin arrived. After a calm and (almost) drug free labour. I fell in love. I fed him, I held him and I adored my husband for helping me create him.

BUT I WAS NOT CALM.

And the she was back! She didn't bring me a gift, or send a postcard. She just scampered in and sat at the end of my hospital bed. Bitch. 

My milk didn't come in. Cry cry. My baby didn't gain weight. Cry cry. And then, my baby got sick and sad and well, CRY CRY CRY.

So, it continued. She followed me with every step, like a close friend should. We're almost a year on and she's here. She's here every day and she won't go away. She is sometimes pretty quiet. But let's face it, she's probably sitting in the corner licking her privates or chewing my favourite pair of shoes. She's there. She's just waiting.

Just a little at a time. She works her way into my day. She makes me breathe a little faster, wondering if the next call I get will be horrible news. Makes me shake a little if I am lying in bed and I hear my baby cough. (HE MUST HAVE THE BLACK LUNG!). Makes me feel that everyone I meet, doesn't actually like me. Confrontation, confrontation, oh I hate you, confrontation! Anxiety? Well, she loves you. She thinks you're great fun! 

The worst part?

She makes it all about me. Everything is about me. Everything is related to my problems, my life, my baby. Anxiety needs to be fed. Cause she's a hungry one. 

For the record. I really like dogs.

It's just this purple one I have a problem with.

I'm so fancy.

Look at me walking down the street. I'm a picture of perfection in my motherhood role.

My pants are too tight and I'm hobbling on my very cracked feet. I don't remember the last time I did my hair. I'm probably not wearing deodorant and I may have moisturised part of my face. Fairly certain there's spew on my shoulder, but I'm past caring. I need a bra that fits, so don't look too closely at the sweater cows. The bags under my eyes are dark and full.

My son is swinging his gorgeous legs in the pram. He's happy, pointing to the street lights and gazing up and me with a big grin. He is dressed up cosy and warm in the fresh, cold air.

I have the time. I get enough sleep. I have a happy, independent baby.

They say self love and self care go hand in hand. Perhaps that's my problem. If I can avoid the mirror for long enough, I'll be right. 

Luckily my son and husband love me enough to cover the physical and emotional neglect, I'm so very guilty of.

I'll get to me at some point. One day at a time. For now I'm doing it all, for the tiny love.

It's Groundhog Day!

I am slowly waking up. Everything is still fuzzy. My eyes are too heavy to keep open for very long.

I hear 'do do do weeeeeeeeeee no no no' followed by *bang bang bang* on the adjoining wall to the Bubbin's room. 

I pull on whatever clothes are on the floor, because it's FREEZING in our house. Clean clothes are a waste with a baby who must feed himself weetbix.

As I open his door I get an excited squeal and a "NOOGIE!", which in drunk baby German means
"I love you!", or possibly "I've just shit myself".  Normally I'd be very excited and giggling away with all the cute, but I smell something that makes me not feel so hot. OH GAWD. What does this kid eat, while I'm not looking?

Dealt with that, all clean. 

We wander out of his room, Bubbin bopping away in my arms, excited to give his sleeping Daddy several good slaps across the face. This is also a drunk baby German gesture meaning 'I think you're swell', at least we hope.

And the day has officially begun. Like in the movie Groundhog Day, this is almost exactly what happens each morning. With some other drunk baby German in there somewhere. And most likely some spew.

I've always disliked the idea of routine and ritual. Until I became a mum. Now it's the only thing that gets me by.

It's those face slapping moments. Not the poo though. I could do without that.

   

                               

I am Supermum.

To Whom it may concern,

I am writing to apply for the position of Supermum. I have heard it's this cushy job, which will allow me to be well dressed, groomed and happy all the time. It also means my child will be content at all times, while also looking incredibly fashionable and clean. He will also sleep on schedule.

 
I would like to draw your attention to a few of the valuable  skills I have learned and used in last 350 days.

- Breastfed infant while vacuuming/answering door to posty/texting/eating dinner/using the toilet. (Yes, I went there - only once though!)
- Changed nappy in the dark, while only smearing poo on one of my arms.
- Brought a boot load of groceries into the house in one go. And performed first aid on my hands afterwards.
- Sang the same 3 lines of a baby song for 45 minutes while driving on the highway.
- Forfeited  showering for 52hrs. And then showered in 22seconds.
- Ate an entire main meal in 16 seconds. Over baby's head. While spilling only small amounts in his hair.

Please see attached my Curriculum Vitae. I hope to hear from you soon, regarding this position.

You can contact me via phone between 7:30-8:30pm, which is when the baby is in bed and I am also awake.

Yours sincerely,

Bianca