Thank You

Do you send thank you notes? I do. I love sending thank you notes. I love receiving thank you notes.

Thank you to each and everyone of you who read and comment on my blog. I am so grateful.
Thanks to everyone who has voted for me in the Kidspot Top 50 Bloggers.
Thanks to my beautiful friend for designing me such a rad new header.
Thank you to my beautiful Mum for spending two weeks with us to help with the smalls while I work and Matt does his prac teaching.
Thanks to my generous Dad for loaning her to us.

An old friend told me once that friend's are reflections of yourselves, and that's a nice way to think of friends.

Since having kids I think some friends have dropped off, but I've picked up some inspiring, wonderful friends along the way. Thank you.

Power To Tha' Inspiration Boards

I have a little inspiration board that I update infrequently. I put cute cards, photos, concert tickets. Whatevs I like, I put up there. Some of my favourite postcards have come from this lady and this lady. Some photos of Matt and I in the early days. Oh and just for good measure there's a photo of me at my 22nd birthday party. Which is now - - - - - eeep - - - - ten years old.

Whatevs. What's inspiring you?

A Sordid Tale

This is a sordid tale. One of woe and yore, and all other old-fashioned sounding words that one does not bother with these days. But one should, shouldn't one?

And that is what leads me to this dastardly tale that will leave you on the edge of your seat. It will leave you with your nails chewed down to the quick. You'll be sitting on the edge of your caboose, spellbound. Gobsmacked.

I have a ribbon drawer. Yes. It is true, dear reader. I do have a ribbon drawer. In which I store... ribbon.

I put the ribbon in the drawer nice and tidy-like, just like any side-saddle horseriding woman would do.

And yet, when I come back out the next day, the ribbon is in a state of dissarray.

It's a true story. Not a long story. It's a perilous story. Not a scary story. But it's a story of truth, and gore, and I just know, you'll be sitting there right now with a dropped jaw, wondering just who unravelled all that ribbon?

PS - please vote for me in the Kidspot Top Fiddy Bloggers. I'll love you long time.

Adventures With Tiny

Matt's doing his prac teaching and is almost a fully-grown teacher.

So while he's been prac teaching, I took some time off to look after my babies. Like I said, I miss being home with them. I miss doing the normal stuff.

I loved adventuring with Tiny after taking the Doctor to school. We looked at flowers, walked down secret laneways, patted black cats, and wore crowns. Upside down. And then broke them. Oops.

I love spending time with that blue eyed creature who loves dressing herself, in layers, and layers, and just a few more layers for good measure.

Class OR Crass?

Kim Kardashian. I've not much clue what you do, except that you have curves, you romp on the beach a lot, you've got sisters - I don't know how many, and now you've got a 20.5 carat diamond ring worth $2 million.

That's a heck of a lot of coal sitting on your hand, sister.

Wah! Wah! The Non-Newborns

I've just had a few days of annual leave. I've relished being back at home. Picking the kids up. Spending more time with the kids. I miss being at home with them. Today I went back to work. It hurt. I missed them like a crazy lady.

Tonight when I finally got home after sitting in the car for what felt like forever, I wrapped them up like newborns.

I love those little kittens.

Post-Party Malaise

You know that anti-climax after all the anticipation. Sunday afternoon and BOOM! I was lying horizontal on the couch, feeling a bit blue that it was all over. Relieved, but a bit sad that it was done and dusted.

The only thing to bolster everyone's spirits is the amount of party food still kicking around here. I may have to secretly dispose of it.

Here are some snaps from the day.

Matt drew the donkey for 'Pin the tail on the donkey'.

The Doctor either feeling sick. Or peeved after 'Pass the Parcel'. Can't figure out which. But cute nonetheless.

My bro-in-law with my cute-to-boot niece walking back to Party Central.

My sister has more shots including 'The Cake'. Will share once I have them in my hot little hands.

Encouraging Children

The Doctor started Kindergarten this year. He likes it, but I'd never go so far to say he loves it. Lately he's been sick, and I'm not stretching the truth when I say we've visited the (medical) doctor five or six times in as many weeks. The Doctor has been sick for this long, missed out on long stretches of school, and in the last three school days, gone to sick bay and I've picked him up by 11:30am, three times.

And before anyone goes gangbusters - the reason I sent him to school is: when he wakes up, he's fine, so I think - great, time for school, and then he goes on that wave of feeling ill again. It's a tricky business deciphering true illness, and the lack of want to go to school.

Last night at dinner the Doctor told us that some kids were laughing at him.

This isn't the first time something's happened that made him feel sad at school. Earlier in the year two year six boys teased him, told him to "get lost" and kicked him. It was quickly nipped in the bud when we raised it with his teacher.

But last night's reluctant conversation about some other Kindy kids laughing. It took me ages to get it out of him, and it's a difficult road to navigate, I don't want to make too much of a big deal about it, but I want to learn the truth so I can help him out of it.

Finally he told me that they laughed at him, called him "Babykins" and so on, and on more than one occasion.

To you and me, this may be nothing much. Maybe a small thing, but remember when you were 5 or 6 and these things stung. And humiliated. I remember being in Kindy and while we were painting our Santa faces, I painted my nails red with the paint. My teacher came over, ripped my Santa up, threw it in the bin and said: "Did I ask you to paint your nails?" - 26 years later I still remember that and can still conjure those awful feelings. I remember going home silently, and my mum asking me what was wrong. I burst into the front door - and promptly burst into tears.

My little man is a sensitive soul. How to bolster that confidence when it comes to these situations? How to empower? How to make him realise - that it's not him - it's them with the problem - whatever that is?

A while ago I won a copy of Ruby Who (by Hailey Bartholomew) from the beautiful Jody at Che & Fidel. As well as being a short film about not wishing for things you don't have, it's also about revelling in who you truly are. It is truly a delightful film that engages the smalls and has a great message.

How do you help your kids assert themselves?

image via I Like To Be Me

LEGO Ninjago: Go! Go! Go!

As we all know, the Doctor digs on LEGO like there's no tomorrow. What topped the Doctor's birthday list this year? LEGO Ninjago. He's a man obsessed. He's been madly building and planning what he's saving up for. You can never have enough LEGO (unless of course it's embedded in the bottom of your foot).

But now I have some good news for you dear reader. As tried and tested by the Doctor - I have one Nintendo DS console and one LEGO Ninjago game to giveaway to one lucky winner. The Doctor can vouch that this is a very good game.

Are you feeling lucky punk?

All you have to do to enter is answer this question in 25 words or less:

If I was a Ninja, my Ninja name would be:

Terms & Conditions:

Open to Australian readers only

Only one entry per person

Entries close Monday 30th May, 2011 at 11:59pm.

All entries must be 25 words or less.

On Bended Knee

Tiny proposed to me today. She said: "Mama, will you marry me?"

I turned around, there she was, gumboots and all, on bended knee.

She's so romantic.

Help Me Win a New Ford Territory For A Year and $5000

Drive. I've given this word much thought over this weekend. Drive. Tossed it around in my head, it echoed a little and then it plummeted down to where I played with it for a while. I kept going back to it.

You see, this weekend was the weekend when we were celebrating the Doctor's 6th birthday with a little party with some of his new Kindy pals.

He wanted a birthday party. I wanted to give him a party. I love the idea of 'making memories', and this weekend, I've made memories. In my freaking muscles from standing up for 12 hours straight baking. I love baking. But not for 12 hours. By myself. While looking after two smalls.

The tension crept up ever so slowly. I started the morning pretty pleased with myself. I made cookie dough. Wrapped it. Refrigerated it. Moved on to the next gig. Cupcakes. Made them. Baked them. Moved on. Birthday cake. Made the first of three. And on it goes. We rushed out to the shops to grab some bits and pieces, came back, and the tension had crept up a little higher, until it finally rested in my shoulders. Aching.

I took stock of myself on more than one occasion. What was driving me to be so batty about this birthday party? Millions of women have successfully held birthday parties. And then it hit me. It hit me just like the sifter did this morning, as it fell out of the pantry. Straight in the back of my head as I was bending down to pick something up. BOOM!

I was worried about what the other mums would think of me. The driving force behind me being more Nigella, was what would the other mums think when they drop their wee darlings off, and I feed them with all manner of sugary goodness.

The telltale sign was the guilt of the packet cake mix. I for one hate packet mixes. But the Women's Weekly told me it was 3 x Buttercake packet mixes, and this time, I was loathe to stuff up my son's birthday cake (unlike his first birthday cake - but that's another story). I dutifully baked the packet mixes. In the back of my head - besides the egg where the sifter whacked me - is someone going to eat this cake and think - my goodness, THIS WOMAN USED PACKET MIX? Outrageous.

And then it got me to thinking about these cakes. These birthday cakes that are like show dogs. Look what my mama made for me! But then again, I remember the cakes that were made lovingly for me, they act as landmarks in my life - and I like to look back and remember those heady days.

The Doctor weighed in on my prowess early in the day with: "Your leaves look good Mum, but not as good as the ones in the book." Yowsers.

I had to slap myself out of it. No one else was around to do it (although I'm sure Tiny would jump at the chance to slap me). I kept thinking of the Doctor instead of the mums. I kept trying to think of 12 eager little children, and how excited they would be! That their drive is completely different to ours. How that innocence is so pure, and trusting, and proud as punch.

Maybe you'd say I reversed out of competing in the Mummy Olympics, and accelerated into trying to create some magical memories. Driven into the happiness, the chaos, the angst, the excitement of parenting. That's what drive is. I have the drive to make memories for my small fry, but sometimes I feel like I don't have enough petrol in the tank.

I can't even remember what I ate at birthday parties when I was small. It was all about that giddy excitement. Seeing your friends, playing games, balloons, and being picked up too early (it's always too early to leave a good party), and driving home with butterflies in your tummy, replaying all the action.

Now We Are Six

This time six years ago I was in pre labour. I walked over a kilometre to the supermarket to buy lemons to make Labouraid. I dropped into the DVD store to hire Sex and the City. I stood next to the rows of DVDs in a contraction and rode out that wave. I walked over a kilometre home, stopping intermittently as the intensity increased. I imagined that small babies head knock-knock-knocking on my cervix. I am the Queen of visualisation, thank you Marie Burrows.

I got home. I squeezed those lemons. I made the Labouraid. I spilt it all over the kitchen floor. Later it would explode over the floor of my sister's car on the ride to the birthing centre. Sorry about that, Choc.

I ate spaghetti bolognaise. I went to bed. I vomited up spaghetti bolognaise. I woke up later. I went into a darkened room. Matt turned the light on. I turned the light off. Matt turned the light on. I turned the light off. I laboured at home. The intensity turned up a notch or two. Matt turned on the light. I turned off the light and screeched "YOU BETTER START ANTICIPATING MY NEEDS!"

Matt called the midwife. The midwife told us to wait. I knew I couldn't wait any longer. Mother's instincts. My sister arrived. We three drove like the clappers at 5am down the highway, to the birthing centre, behind a garbage truck, in half light, into the tunnel, we drove. Every bump I felt as I continued riding those contractions.

We arrived and I tore off my clothes. It was all I could do. I got into that delicious bath. I laboured. We waited. Matt went to sleep. Matt woke up. I got too relaxed and my contractions stopped. I had to get out of the bath. I pushed. Two hours of pushing. I got tired. I screamed "COME ON!" like Lleyton Hewitt. And then I held that wee baby, I held that warm, beautiful, loved baby against my chest. That warmth.

I'd do it all again in a heartbeat for my beautiful soon-to-be six year old. My delightful, talkative, bright six year old.

Witchery White Shirt Day

Supporting the work and research of the Ovarian Cancer Research Foundation (OCRF), selected Witchery stores are launching 2011 White Shirt Campaign - today!

As part of the campaign a specially crafted capsule collection is available in Witchery stores across Australia and New Zealand and online. Not only women's - but men's too! Plus the OCRF Silver Gift Collection is pretty covetable and cool. Click here to check out the collection online.

Ever since I can remember, Witchery has done a great job raising funds and awareness for this worthy cause.

And if I have a chance to wear Pania Rose's shirt AND help a great cause (and squint your eyes really tight and I might look a little like her), then I'm totes there.

100% of the gross proceeds go directly to OCRF.

You can also support the cause through their Facebook page

VIP: Very Important Post.

I'm running a very important survey over on Facebook. Which Wiggle would you snuggle with?

Come on. You have to have a favourite. Will you take the survey?


SHOCKING NEWS: 91.7% of survey respondents said they would like to snuggle up with The Blue Wiggle; a piddly 8.3% of women said they'd prefer to snuggle up with Leo Sayer.

Pimping Your Ride Missoni Stylie

I could probably almost just have a new baby so I could pimp it out in the new Bugaboo and Missoni collab. I mean this thing is so hot I'd like to ride in it. Could there be a sweeter ride? I seriously doubt it peeps. And as if they needed to further seal the deal, this beautiful Bugaboo comes with a matching Missoni blanket. Got to start 'em young peeps.

Functional. Fashionable. Fo' realz. This is no optical illusion, I'm not playing tricks - this is a match made in fashion heaven.

And available in Australia from July 2011 in selected stores.

I never had a Bugaboo. Boo hoo. Are you a Bugaboo mum?

Do We Stay. Or Do We Go?

A couple of weeks ago I was standing in our minute living room and could smell the unmistakeable stench of dead possum.

Given I am a country girl, I can identify the stench of dead animals at 10 paces. My parents taught me well. I know dead possum when I sniff it. And dead fox. And dead dog poo.

This was that gassy smelly of a dead possum. A common dead possum. In our ceiling.

So I called our real estate agent to report the dead animal and request some back-up. She called back and told me the landlord would come over the next day.

Great. Dead possum be gone.

So the next day the landlord came over. I expected him to sniff around the house. Smell gassy dead possum and remove dead possum.

Instead he said: "I have a possum cage, shall I set it?"

Well, not unless you're Bill Murray from Ghostbusters, I don't think you're going to trap this dead possum. I can't imagine it's hungry for anything.

And me being the pushover went, "Oh, oh, ok, yep." And let him set the trap and leave.

Now let's time warp ourselves to today. The now. The right now. And right now, we've got disgusting, and I am talking deee-skust-ing big. Fat. Blowflies. Flying in from the airvent thingie. Seriously. One day they were just loitering there, at the air-vent thingie, and flying in and out. Filth.

Now fast forward to right this very second, and I've just checked my emails and surprise! I've received an email from my real estate agent, my very favourite pen-pal!

Did I receive their correspondence back in March? No. No. No I did not. Well surprise! We've reached our 1 year anniversary, and to celebrate they're putting our rent up. Who wants to blow out the candles on that one?

Now I'm not Bill Gates. Or Steve Jobs. Or even Brynne Edelstein. So where am I going to pull this extra cash out of? Tell me that real estate agent? Selling blow-flies on the backstreets? Hocking possum skins to NZ fashion designers?

What to do? Cough up? Or look for an alternative abode?

Birthdays

It's both of my boys birthdays this week.

One more sleep until Matt's.

Four more sleeps until the Doctor's.

Sixth birthday party in six sleeps. I haven't even researched the cake PEEPS!

I feel woefully unprepared.

I just have to watch Offspring. Then I can start wrapping (not to be confused with rapping - because some of them try to rhyme but they can't rhyme like this, some of them try to rhyme but they can't rhyme like THIS!).

Our Weekend

I drove up to my Mum and Dad's place on Thursday. Just the smalls and myself.

It's only a four and a half hour drive, but I was so tired. I drank two coffees, one cup of tea, and a medium post-mix Coke. Ordinarily I only have one caffeinated drink a day. But I was so weary.

We celebrated our beloved Grandmother's life. We cried. We laughed. We caught up with relatives that we had not seen in too long.

I hated leaving today. I would have liked to have stayed up there longer, but life continues. I always find that such a hard thing to deal with when grieving. Why is everyone oblivious to the waves of grief? You know that feeling? You just want a stand-still, out of respect.

And the drive home was long. The Doctor kept talking for most of it. Tiny screamed for part of it.

I am quietly exhausted. I think I have car-lag. Curled up on the couch thinking about my family. Glad to have had that time to remember some beautiful memories and remember and rejoice in a wonderful and inspiring life.

More Than A Little Psychic

Probably around a year ago, I opened the forum to questions. This was when anyone could comment with a question, and I'd answer it. Big, small - all! I answered all of them. But this time. Things are different.

Well this time, I'm feeling psychic. I'm feeling a bit Athena StarWoman.

I've been over on Facebook doing tailored readings to anyone who's been interested. And basically that's everyone, because let's face it, I'm pretty bloody psychic and in tune with the stars, the moon, glitter, and the gridlines.

So if you'd like a special PottyMouthMama reading, please let me know your star sign, your favourite colour and the name of your first pet, and I'll customise a special PMM psychic reading for you.

Ready? Set. Go!

While I'm waiting for my psychic powers to tune into your frequency, we've been getting ready for birthday season.

Matt's and the Doctor's this week. My Dad's the following week. Then my sisters. And then mine. Nothing beats birthday season.

Another Exciting Episode

I've got the blues and I'm wondering if it's because I haven't found any roadside treasure in such a long, long time.

But that's not why. No friends, it's not.

I have the blues because life can be so damn complicated sometimes. Just when you think you're back on top of that beautiful palamino, and ready to take a jump, the palamino sniffs an apple, and off it runs, tossing you into a big muddle (which is Tiny's version of puddle).

I'm dreaming of a holiday. It's a fantasy holiday. I'm somewhere hanging out with my smalls, and Matt. Meandering through warm days together, burying our feet in the sand. Making big lazy breakfasts together. Playing games and puzzles. Simple things.

What are you dreaming about?

A Shameless Plug

This is where I hide behind a tree, peek out and say something, then go back behind the tree. Or I mumble something to you, and you can't quite make it what it is. Or when you're fast asleep, I whisper to you, repeatedly, until you wake up and it's gone into your big, enormous brain, and you've got no other option. But that would be pretty creepy. But if you're ok with it, I can come over and do that. And stroke your hair. Cough.

Please, won't you vote for a PottyMouthMama in the Kidspot Top Fiddy Bloggers?

It's really simple.

It's not like I'm Obama, but click through and hit VOTE FOR ME.

There, I said it. Now we can continue on with our days.

image via

At It Again: Comic Relief

Remember when Tiny cut her hair a few months ago? She decided on a Newtown assymmetrical 'do.

Yesterday, sometime in the morning, I walked out the front door, but not before noting the golden locks all over the floor. I scooped them up, told her not to do it again, and moved on.

Last night, she refused to go to bed. Kept popping out. And foolishly, I didn't think anything of it. Until she walked out with half-short, half-long hair. Some kind of country inspired mullet. She looked like she'd been bootscooting with the best of them.

This morning her new 'do has settled. And she looks kind of cool - The Sartorialist would like it. She's so hot right now.

Mother's Day & Mars

I feel incredibly blessed to have had such a beautiful grandmother as Mars.

Generous, loving, warm, affectionate, nurturing, talented Mars. She loved being hugged, holding hands, listening, gardening, painting, crafting, cooking, loving.

Yesterday our beloved Mars went to sleep for eternity. I take comfort that she'll be with our Gramps, reunited, on a perfect blue sky Autumn day.

I think of her today, I'm grateful for all the riches she brought to our family - her generous spirit, her love, everything.

Happy Mother's day mamas. I hope everyone has someone as wonderful as Marsy in their lives. And a special happy Mother's Day to my own Mum.

A Cat Lady

After re-locating our rabbit back to its breeder, and ever since our goldfish turned black and learnt how to float, we've been pet-less.

I enjoyed not having to look after another being. Life was simpler. I didn't have a rabbit eating my brand new jeans. Or a goldfish needing its tank to be cleaned.

And then it got a bit sad, and I had a word in Matt's ear about the smalls needing a pet and the fact that by our smalls ages, I had about fifty bazillion pets, inadvertently killed a duck, dug up worms for my mum for Mother's Day, and so much more.

So I emailed to ask if our landlord would let us get a cat.

Let me be upfront.

We're cat people. We like dogs. We love cats. Well I do, anyway.

I waited over a month - no response. Playing hard to get.

So I emailed again. Finally a response. Negative. Apparently our landlord had a bad experience with a previous tenant in another abode. They had cats. In a carpeted apartment that came fully furnished. And it was trashed by a cat lady.

So no. No we could not have a cat. Not now, not never. Not even in ten minutes.

Problem is, our house is our own furniture and we have floorboards.

Real estate agents. You can switch on your brains now.

So for now, we have to make do with going out at night and catching the snails for the smalls. Yep, that is what's in that little plastic container that Tiny holds so excitedly.

We have pet snails.

Puss In Boots

My smalls love trying on my boots.

My husband loves my bootie.

What can I say? Our house is bootylicious.

Just For A Minute

Look at Ricky Gervais with Victoria Beckham!

What? It's not Ricky. Well then. It's Ricky's doppelganger.

MAMA! MAMA! I Got Candy!

Every now and then I have the great joy of passing on some pretty great gifts to some pretty great gals. That's you. Well it could be you.

To celebrate Mother's Day, Travel Candy are giving away a night at The Mansion House Hotel + Spa. Plus a spa treatment. Plus a high tea for two. Gulp.

Oh well, sorry ladies, the winner is Lexi (aka PottyMouthMama). Oh dang. That will never do. Alright, this is what you have to do:

- three cartwheels on the lawn (please ensure you're wearing knickers. And that the postman is driving past as you're into the second)
- Become a member of Travel Candy (no waiting list for friends of PMM - we're VIPs baby)
- Finish this sentence IN 25 words or less. And I am strict, I count those words as though they're my last pennies. (Matt advised I observe a 10% leeway, however I've declined. It's hard and fast around here. 25 words or less or else!)

The last thing I expected about being a mum is/was: (over to you).



Terms & conditions:
- Australian residents only
- Must be over 18
- Must be a member of Travel Candy
- Entries close Friday 6th May at 11:59pm

Three Is

Three is a difficult age. Tiny is really asserting her independence. And her authority. Weeing on everything when she's literally pee'd off with us. I wish I was kidding.

She's Tantytown Superstar. She's over tired. She loves getting her own way, and she loves letting us know about it.

Tonight I was moving the living room around a little, and Matt and I discussed moving some furniture to make some space. I said, ok I think I am ready to get rid of the wardrobe (that is currently in our living room - yeah go figure - but it has a story). So get rid of the wardrobe, or Tiny. Matt's very quick reply: "We can store things in the wardrobe."

We're fatigued with this little assertive three year old.

At the best of times, she is a joyful little being. So full of wonder. Skipping ahead - learning so much, a delight to be with.

At the worst of times she has me screeching at the buckets of water on the bathroom floor that takes me countless rounds of mopping, letting her know I'm not happy about the yoghurt being massaged into the carpet, the drawings on the wall.

And then soon she will be four, and I will miss the mischievous, crazy-fun of a three year old. Yearn for her to be smaller again. I already do that now.

I feel like the grumpiest mother ever to walk this earth. I'll try to screech a little less this week.