Because That Was Such a Great Idea

Who made the suggestion to move Tiny into a big girl's bed? Who? Raise your hand. Put your hand up and tell me who.

Oh. It was... me.

Whoa nelly. What kind of a weekend has this been?

It's been the kind of weekend when Tiny gets her big girl's bed. And subsequently climbs out of it. Fifty million times.

Saturday heralded a new beginning. The beginning of the end of my sanity, given she was awake until 12:30am getting in and out of her bed, wheeling a trolley around in her bedroom, in half darkness. Until finally I could take it no more. I told her gently it was bed time and she must stay in there. I played with her hair until she fell asleep.

Then she woke up at 3:30am crying. 'What the heck? Where am I? What is this?? A big girl's bed?!' And then woke again at 6:30am which for me is equally as rude as being woken at 3:30am.

Sunday night I hoped for better things to come. She was tired after her night out and about. But as my sister Choc has mentioned before, the girl has stamina.

She was awake again until 12:30am. And even then I think she was playing possum. She came pitter-pattering into our room at 1:30am. I was up and down, up and down like a jack-in-the-box. I tried hard to coax her back into her bed to no avail. She finally settled in our bed, and throughout the night I found her in different positions, including sitting on my head. If I so much as moved, she'd throw a huge spac attack.

I don't so much need a life buoy now as I need a nanny and a really good nap. Without small feet pattering in to see me and sit on my head every ten minutes.

Is it wrong, that right now I'd swap a little siesta with this little donkey for my cheeky mouse of a daughter?

Image found when googling images of a sleeping baby. Et voila - the image I never knew I wanted. A sleeping donkey and a baby. Google, you really are so good to me.

Sleep? What Sleep?

Last night was a little different. Matt and I had planned an early night. Ever since a middle of the night attempted break in last year, I've hated going to bed. I put it off until I fear I may turn into a pumpkin.

So we bunkered down in bed and I was watching Stephen Fry on QI. I love that show. It's silly how much I adore it.

And then Tiny struck up. Not singing, screeching. Crap!

I convinced Matt that he should definitely get up since we had just turned off the light and it was an extra opportunity for Tiny cuddles. After a few minutes of faux arguing, he got out of bed.

Mandatory cuddle and put Tiny back into bed.

Screeching ensued.

CRAP!

Time crept by. Tiny kept screeching. We took turns. Was she pretending to be a newborn? Who knows?

By 11:50pm I had gotten up for the third or fourth time, and all the mad racket had roused the Doctor, who had coincidentally wet the bed. And then Tiny decided she wanted something to eat.

Are you freaking kidding me?

So there we are at midnight - the Doctor talking to me about swimming, Tiny sitting at her tiny table eating a banana and having a glass of milk.

I imagined if someone was looking in at us, it would make a curious picture. And all the while Matt was trying to convince me that the wee patch in the Doctor's bed wasn't that big (no it's just soaked through three layers of mattress protectors, not much at all - here sleep on this).

And then the Doctor came to sleep with us. With his hands and legs stuck underneath me. And me wedged on a thin slither of bed.

Sleep, where for art thou?

Awkward family photos courtesy of Awkward Family Photos

Nerdy Pursuits

I am a great believer in the thought that there's a bit of dork in all of us.

I am in touch with my inner-dork. In fact, so in touch, I have my inner-dork on speed dial.

Last night Matt and I sat down together and did a puzzle. We're tight like that. We can be dorky together. We embrace the dork.

PottyMouthMama: Bin-Raider

Last night I set off at 8:30pm. I left it late so that all the neighbours would be tucked up in their little houses doing what all neighbours do. Eating dinner, watching re-runs of Wheel of Fortune and listening to their children crying on and off until they finally succumb to sleep. Oh that's just me that does that, well hmph!

I drove up again, just in case it was another large stash and I needed the boot space (amidst some prams, green bags and a smattering of sand toys) to hide the haul. I got out of my car. Firstly, here's my mistake. I didn't check to see who was around. When I hopped out, I was holding a torch. I was wearing a hoodie. There was a man, 60 or so putting his bins out, who stopped to watch me. Checking out what this hoodlum was doing. I was like some crazed deer stuck in the headlights. What could I do to meld with the 'hood? I looked at my mobile. Hindsight tells me this probably looked even dodgier. I then popped the boot - I was freaking out because he was standing there watching me (I hadn't even gotten close to my bin yet), touched a few things in the boot and popped my torch in there. I don't need to explain that right then, my brain stopped working. I then walked down the road, away from the bin, away from my car, and away from the staring man. What was I going to do? Who knows. I waited 'til he walked up his driveway then I returned to the car and drove off home. My heart was pounding a little too hard.

Matt was surprised I came home so quickly. So empty-handed. I recounted the story. I watched the end of my movie (watch it, but the book is brilliant, and you'll read it in half a day and never, ever forget it, I've read it a number of times, and it's amazing each read) and then went back out at 10:10pm.

I figured by this time the driveaway dude would be tucked up in bed watching his stocks plummet while his wife ironed his socks.

I decided to make a quick kill. Bin number 1 - paper recycling - full, but my friends, I just couldn't be bothered. If the treasures hadn't floated to the top, I just wasn't going to get into it. Call it tiredness, call it laziness, or call it lack of mojo, whatever - I seem to be losing my will to dive. Bin number 2 - glass/metal/plastic recycling - some cut glass...in amidst poison bottles. There was no way my un-gloved hands were going that-a-way.

And then there was the cherry. Another gleaming white skip in the driveaway. A big 'un. I stood in the street wondering if I should chance it. It's now that I realise I have forgotten to tell you one important point. There was a light on in the kitchen. A booby trap? Were they peering out from their windows just waiting for me? I figure that because it's just the kitchen light, that perhaps it was accidentally left on. I sidle down the driveaway a wee bit, comfortable that my mother-in-law (who recently received honours in law) has told me it's not trespassing until you get to the front door (I may have that wrong - so don't blame me if you get busted). Peer into the bin. It was dark outside. Oh so dark. But with a full moon rising, I could see the skip was completely empty.

I might tell you now that this was a relief. I know. You're probably shaking your head at me. Relief that there was nothing? Yes, it's true. How much excitement can one take? Not much more! The adventures of me and my bin are adrenaline pumping, but is my wee heart going to give out one day because I find... vintage tea towels, pillowcases, costume jewellery, oversized Jackie O style sunglasses still in their box and a yellow bedside table (these are on my wish list to find, ok??), who knows. I'm not sure how much longer I can keep this up.

To be honest, I am more than a little peeved with these people. How many people have had enjoyment from reading about my escapades, me with my torch riding into the sunset? Lotsa lotsa. My family ring me the next day to find out what I found. It's a given. But these people, emptying this house, a room at a time - well they could have given all this stuff to charity stores and as well as making some collectors very happy, they could have helped a charity along the way. But instead - they've tossed everything in a massive skip and sent it to landfill.

Don't get me wrong. I am very grateful. But all that crockery that they've tossed, someone would have loved it. Me, probably.

Hearing me?

Anyway, in the event that I didn't find anything, I went op shopping* beforehand. I will have to photograph a few more things, but here are two (albeit crummy photos) for tonight.

This crazy looking sugar bowl that Matt finds mildly disturbing.

And this pink creamer. That funny little vase in the background was another thing that the bin provided me in an earlier loot.

* Op shops = opportunity shops - charity shops - money you spend goes to the charity.

The Night Hunter Skips

Will you bail me out? Pitch black. Skip bin. Full. Delights. Tins. Crockery. Suitcases. Stuff. Things. Cushions. Placemats. In. Their Yard.

Trespassing?

Someone Was Already There - Chronicles of a Garbage Bin

stool stylist's own

So when I arrived to see my beloved bin last night, I had come ill-prepared. I had forgotten my torch. I had a quick look at the bin but couldn't see anything by the dim moonlight, so I drove home and decided to wait an hour or so to darken up the night sky and go a little more incognito, and also to be a little more prepared. I jumped back in the car and drove* home.

When I got home my husband was surprised to see me empty-handed. I quickly explained that I did have to go back out, the deed was not yet done. I think he was secretly relieved when I returned empty-handed, those thoughts were quickly turned on their head.

At around 8:08pm I set out. Please note it's here that I feel all CSI-like, you have no idea how much this thrills me. Being a little more prepared I had packed some gloves and my torch. I could have taken a brush to take some prints off that bin and look for any epithelials. Get the feeling now I watch Grissom a little too closely? Hmm, if you knew that I called Sunday evening CSI Sunday you may be a little concerned. But you don't know that, so you don't have to worry.

When I got back to the bin - someone else was already there. I had just flipped open the lid and removed one black plastic garbage bag full of loot. I was about to reach in and retrieve a most fantastic 'Air India' suitcase when I saw him. I was more than a little startled. It was pitch dark. I had nothing more than my torch, a pair of latex gloves and my mobile in a pocket. For a moment I contemplated calling my husband. He was only two minutes away. I was feeling really, really anxious. I actually think I can say, that is a complete understatement. It was dark, there was just me, the garbage bin and him.

The biggest, fattest, hairiest huntsman ever. And then some. Eight hairy legs. Two beady eyes. Oh it just sends chills down my spine. And he wouldn't move.

If you're a long time reader of pottymouthmama you might already know that I am a little more than afraid of these. This week, we've already had one in our bedroom that Matt failed to evict, only for me to find hiding in the curtains the next day. Deeee-lightful.

Anyway. Fat huntsman. Me. Garbage bin. Suitcase. Metal things. Darkness. Can't see properly. I try and flick the huntsman off. Nope. Not budging. He was fat, seriously fat (probably a female). I really should be presented with a very large, very shiny bravery award. There was just no way I was leaving that suitcase for a spider. No way. So I flicked it a bit more* and then it finally retreated. To the other side of the suitcase. I grabbed the handle and threw the suitcase onto the footpath. I was about to pick up the suitcase and pop it into the car - when who should I spy right next to it? Yes, you guessed it - the fat hunstman.

By this stage I already had the garbage bag in the boot. I had torn it open to ensure I wasn't taking home someone's dentures, enema kits etc, and to my great surprise I found this cute little eggcup. Not that I use eggcups, but he's definitely cute - and has a very old David Jones sticker on his derriere. And the little pup with chipped off ears - dogfight anyone?


Once in the safety and light of my own home, I tore into the bag. I found this old cat clock - his eyes move - so cute. This little shelf that I've cleaned up, along with some vials of sand, an old Indian, this creepy little dolly in the bag - Laura Palmer?!
This little tribal doll. With real fur. Hmm. Must be pretty old the fur is disintegrating. Tasty.
If you fancy that little doll in the zip bag (a keyring!) please let me know. It's yours.

Who knew a bin could make someone so happy? Will it continue to rain gifts on me? Will the relationship with the bin last? Or is it just a fling? And just why did the people tossing all this stuff out ignore pottymouthmama's note she left in the mailbox? Find out next week when you tune into pottymouthmama.


* No spiders were harmed during the looting of this bin.