Taking a turn for the positive

A great big THANK YOU THANK YOU THANK YOU!!!!!! To a little messed up who has bestowed this lovely Splash award upon my humble (um..yeah) blog which is normally given to "alluring, amusing, bewitching, impressive, and inspiring blogs." You have indeed turned around what was turning into a right ol' pity party of a day!

"(sob, choke!) I'd like to thank (sniffle, gasp) the academy... and my (SOB) f..f..f...f...family for all of their (snort, slurp) love and....(sniff) love...and support....(sob) and... and... INSPIRATIONNNNNN WAAAAHHHHHH (cue complete emotional breakdown as I fall to the floor in a tearful, snotty, drooly heap and am carted off by large men wearing suits and ear pieces. )

Now for the fun part, where I in turn get to hand this award onto some other deserving blogs and hopefully bring a smile to their day.

Firstly we have Artyfeminist who's kind of pissed off today because some scumbag tried to steal her car.

Next up is claire at diaryofamadmammy who is having a rough go of it at the moment.

Thirdly is the ever lovely Jen at Jensrantings who is currently dealing with the tears of a toddler with a badly bruised toe (looooooove alliteration, it's like a hot oil massage for my soul!)

and finally, to mzbehavin at positivelyneuroticme who's humour makes me wet myself, strength makes me shake my head in wonder and whose story makes me grateful for all the blessings in my life.

I hope this brings a little sunshine to all of your days as you've brought so much to mine. x

Hello?

I'm having one of those days. You know the kind. The days where you wake up and realize that all of the things that have always bothered you are still there. That no matter how much you "talk things over," apparently, no one is listening. Because if they were, things would be different.

I know that I am a very lucky woman.

I know that overall I am happy with my life and that so many people have it so much worse and that in the grand scheme of things, I've really nothing to complain about.

But it's kind of like when you were a kid and your parents told you to stop your whining and eat all of your liver because there were kids starving in Africa.

I still didn't want to eat my liver.

And I'm still having a shitty morning.

Home on the Range...

My baby is under the extractor fan.

No, I have not lost the plot completely. I do have SOME nerves left, frayed as they may be...

After spending the last hour bouncing, jiggling, rocking, feeding, changing and winding the tiny princess to no avail, a small voice in my head reminded me of this neat trick which had been passed on to me via my own personal, "mam's network."

The logic behind this seemingly odd tip is that the hum of the fan works as "white noise" and helps to settle your baby to sleep.

So at the start of this post, I whupped the baby up onto the range. On went the extractor fan. (For all of you swooning at the recklessness of the phrase "baby on the range," I did not leave her unattended at any point. Mom, you can put down the phone.)

By the time I typed "mam's network," she was down for the count.

I am such a pro...

Do you have any "odd" tips that work for you?

The Business of Being Born

I have to see this film. Okay, so when I heard that Ricki lake was the executive producer, I was more then a little skeptical. I mean, seriously... Come on! When I think Ricki Lake, I think "Tranvestite Beauty Pageant" or " I used to be fat, but now I'm all that!" I don't think "serious documentary film maker on issues regarding birth choice."

Then I saw this trailer. (for those of you who are technologically challenged, click here)

I'm still crying.

Ransacked

Please help. My house has been ransacked. The Playroom was hardest hit. Apparently, the thieves love cheerios...

In the kitchen, we found evidence of vandals...

Judging by garments found at the scene, the thieves are believed to be female and around 2 and a half feet tall.

This, I cannot explain.

One of the thieves was spotted leaving the scene of the crime.

Happy Wednesday!

Great Weight Update

WAHOOOO!!!!!! We have lift off! And by that I mean that in the last week, 2.7 pounds of manky ol' fat has been lifted off my oh-so-fine bod! On top of that, I have shaved an inch off of my magnificent bosom (Seriously, I resemble the prow of a ship) another inch off of my waist and my total body fat has dropped from 27.5 to 26.7!!!

Having always been a fan of the "Drop it like it's hot, shed 10lbs in 10 minutes so long as you're willing to; drink nothing but this cayenne pepper and maple syrup concoction/live on cabbage soup/eat everything with chopsticks whilst simultanaeously doing jumpjacks" school of diet success ( Despite never losing a single pound I might add, apparently, nachos and cheese don't figure highly in these weight loss programs) I was more then a little leery of this whole "slow and steady wins the race" approach.

I am definitely a product of my times when it comes to getting in shape. I want results and I want them NOW tends to be my way of thinking. If I could put myself in the microwave and melt off the pounds, I would. However, seeing as how I can't fit my arse into the thing, let alone the rest of my lovely, ten week post baby self, I am giving the old sensible diet and exercise plan a try, and GUESS WHAT?!?!?

It works! Apparently. if you eat less and move more, you really do lose weight! Genius!

Whoddathunkit?

2 down, 18 to go...

Typing in a Pub Whilst half in the bag...

The sign outside said live music.

I was in.

I was one footloose and fancy free mama who'd left the kids and my inhibitions at home...

He was one man with a synthesizer, a drum machine and a yen for American country and western music...

We never spoke. I never even saw the bastard (he was on the other side of the pub.) But he gave me the finest 60 minutes of uninterrupted musical joy I've experienced in a long time.

He played the hits, one after the other and I sang them. Oh how I sang them! Garth Brooks, Kenny Rogers and a particularly memorable version of Neil Diamond's "Forever in Blue Jeans."
I got a few funny looks from the bartender but hey! In the words of Bob Marley (and as sung by my magical, silver tongued synthesizer/drum machine man) "Don't Worry! Every little thing is gonna be alright!"

It's amazing how fast a glass of wine hits you when you've spent the better part of the last 2 years pregnant, breastfeeding and sober.

I think I need to get out more.

Night Weaning

It was the recipe for the perfect blog. Take one long term breastfed toddler, add a healthy dose of teething and one daddy bear who is decidedly NOT Mr.sunshine and Roses when woken from his beauty sleep in the middle of the night. Now, minus one momma bear to the spare room and watch the proverbial hit the fan.

At this point, you may be shaking your heads and going, "huh?" Well, allow me to fill you in. We have decided to night wean the snot queen. For reasons of health (mine) and sanity (also mine) not to mention the current economic climate, "Mama's All Night Dairy Bar" is reducing it's night time clientele. From here on out, I shall be servicing but one tiny patron between the hours of 8pm and 8am.

This patron is not the Snot Queen.

For the last two nights, myself and the tiny one have retired to the spare room whilst daddy bear and herself have spent the nights alone and milkless together.

We expected mutiny.

We expected fire and brimstone raining down upon us.

We expected a calibre of tantrums this world has never seen.

Instead, for the first time in ages, we got a good night's sleep. Twice.

Now, I'm not complaining, but I can't help but wonder, WTF?!?!? The first and only other time we tried to withhold her night time feed and "wait out" her tantrumming, we waited for over two hours. Do you know what two hours of unrelenting screaming by an eighteen month child can do to your psyche? Do you know what sort of heinous acts you can almost be driven to? Seriously! Tranquillizer darts start to seem like a reasonable option.

So you can understand our fear and trepidation when we decided to cut her off cold turkey. How would she react to this sudden removal of her... I mean my breasts? What would she DO?!?!?

Well, nothing really.

The first night, she woke up two or three times, but instead of inciting world war three, she simply crawled over to where I'd usually be, looked around for a minute, cuddled up with her dad, and went back to sleep.

The second night (last night,) started out ominously enough with a ten minute screaming session where she held on to her poor mouth (she's teething) and cried to break your heart. Mine did. It was all I could do not to rip off my bra, run in and hold her in my arms. Her daddy did great though and she went back to sleep. For. The. Rest. Of. The. Night.

Not a peep. Not a whimper. Nada. Apparently, it's a case of "out of sight, out of mind" (and mouth!)

I can't stay away forever though. It won't be long before myself and the small one return to the family sleeping grounds and that my friends, will be the real test.

That being said, the spare bed is REALLLLY comfy. I might wait just a teensy bit longer...

Will Sell Soul for Sugar: Part 2

The nicest thing just happened to me. I was sitting here, about to have a lazy look through some of my favourite bloggers when I heard something come through the mail slot. Something distinctly non letter like. Something bigger. More solid.

Something sweet.

Something Oaty.

Something to enjoy.

Guilt free.

I love my friends. Thank you lovely, you made my day:) (Please read last post to fully understand just how happy this has made me.)

Will Sell Soul for Sugar...

Oh God... Need biscuits... Must. Have. Sugar. NOW!!!

It is day 4 of my "Lose Weight, Get Fit, NO MORE EXCUSES!!!" diet and excersize plan and I am DYING for biscuits. I'm not talking about a simple "mmm... I could really go for a biscuit right about now" sort of craving. I am talking about a full blown, oh my god, have to have it, would rip your head off for a thick, soft, buttery flapjack filled with loads of sweet, oaty goodness.

Damn you tinygreenmama. Damn you and your oh so divine flapjacks that you just HAD to bring into my house yesterday and that I just HAD to have a taste of. OH. MY. GOD!!!!! We are talking heaven in your mouth. I actually spent all of the girls' precious nap time yesterday scouring the internet in search of her secret recipe. Did I find it? No.

I found every other flapjack recipe on the planet, but nowhere could I find the one that she swears by. I was sickened. But, I figured, oh well! Maybe it's for the best, I won't be able to make the flapjacks and I'll go to bed and by tomorrow the craving will be gone. Right?

WRONG!!!!

I woke up this morning with a yen for flapjacks. By midday, the "Yen" was an all out craving. It was back to the internet to continue my quest for the magic "guilt free, diet friendly, nothing bad for you, super good for you, eat as many as humanly possible and still lose weight" flapjack.

Apparently, it doesn't exist.

Sigh...

Of course, I am breastfeeding... And they do say you need to up your calories for that. And considering the fact that I'm breastfeeding not one, but BOTH of my babies... Well! I'd say that a few flapjacks wouldn't go astray. In fact, flapjacks are filled with oats which are great for milk production (Can somebody say Moooooo...) so really, by denying myself the flapjacks, I'm putting the old milk factory in PERIL and that is a risk I am NOT willing to take, even if it does mean making myself a GINORMOUS pan of flapjacks and inhaling every last one of them before J gets home.

After all, he's trying to get fit too but he's not breastfeeding and I really wouldn't want to put temptation in his path.

Sigh.

The things I do for love.

A rose by any other name...

My brain is on strike. Somewhere, on a hot tropical island, it is sitting at one of those umbrella tables with a nice, cool summery drink. A daiquiri maybe? Or a Margheurita (without the salt. Blech) Or maybe it's on a cruise. A Disney Cruise or something, having it's picture taken with Mickey and Minnie whilst deciding between shuffle board on the upper deck or salsa lessons in the main lounge.

Either way, the result is the same. I am blogless. Dustbowls are blowing through my mind. There is nothing, not a single scrap for me to write about that won't get me a) Beaten up b) Arrested or c) Divorced.

Speaking of... Can you get divorced if you're not married? It's just that once you have two kids together and a joint bank account, "breaking up" just doesn't sound serious enough. It's the same with labelling each other. Boyfriend and Girlfriend is what we were before the kids, the house, the arguments over damp towels left on the bedroom floor (Seriously, it takes 5 seconds to hang it up) and all the rest of the stuff that goes with being madly in love parents of two who plan on spending the rest of our lives together and just so happen to not be married.

"Partner" sounds a bit too cold and clinical. Partners have stainless steel kitchens, live in converted wearhouses and wear funky rimmed glasses. Everything they read or listen to is "Independant" and everything they own is fairly traded. They travel. A lot. In a nutshell, they are cool.

We are not that cool.

We are also not married, so "husband" and "wife" are therefore out.

What does that leave? Not much really. Friends? Well we are, but I'm friends with a lot of people that I don't have kids with. Lovers? Um... did I mention the two kids? Besides which, it just sounds so trashy. Imagine introducing someone as your lover. Lovers are like mashed potatoes or onion rings, they are something served on the side. They are not the main dish.

You know, considering the fact that 1 in 3 children born in Ireland last year were born to unmarried couples (Gasp! Shock! Horror!) I think it's time we were given a Noun of our own.

Any suggestions?

(Hey! Looks like I did have a blog after all...)

Super me...

I feel like a spy. In my imagination, I am one half of a top secret crime solving duo. By day, I'm a mild mannered mammy whose greatest daily thrill involves catching the half off specials at the local supermarket. By night though, I am a sleek, sexy, seeker of justice who does NOT, I repeat NOT smell of baby vomit.

Our 92' Omega becomes a high powered vehicle somewhat reminiscent of the batmobile but without all the batty paraphernalia. Like me (well, my midnight persona anyway) it is fast and fierce. It does not have a backseat (gasp!) There are NO childlocks (double gasp!) There are NO CARSEATS (Oh my sweet mother of god!)

In this fantasy, I am slim and trim with an AMAZING gravity defying rack which no nursing bra could EVER contain. I am zipped into a black, vinyl catsuit and there is not even the slightest hint of jiggle in the belly area. I maintain my figure chasing criminals and using my incredible martial arts skills to take them down.

I do not know the meaning of the word "Stretchmarks."

For now though, it's bucketing down rain and I am merely a mom with an overactive imagination and two sleeping babies in the backseat who is way too impressed with mobile broadband and being able to blog while on the road home from nanny and granda's.

I wonder if that catsuit's waterproof?

The Price of Freedom

I have a day off! I have a day off!

Don't get me wrong, I love my terrible twosome (the big one is currently giving the leather couches a milk wash, thank you love) but a full afternoon to myself? Golddust.

And what, you may ask, will I do with myself during my 5 blissfull hours of freedom? What scintillating activities do I have planned?

A manicure? Pedicure? Full body hot oil massage ?

Nah!

I'm thinking maybe an eye appointment followed up with a root canal.

Let the good times roll...

Recessionary Fun

Who says a recession can't be fun? Tinygreenmama from tinygreenpeople ( love, love, love this site!) has thrown down the "No More Stuff" challenge and I for one have decided to take part. Here's the deal...

Basically, Tinygreenmama (tgm for short, too long to keep typing out) is this mad (as in crazy. She doesn't have rage issues or anything), eco - friendly Irishwoman I know. She's like some sort of pioneer/feminist/supermama all rolled into one except that she's not intimidating in the least (Mad, yes. Intimidating, no.)

For starters, she readily admits to being a shitty housekeeper. Secondly, unlike a lot of other green beans out there, SHE DOESN'T RUB IT IN YOUR FACE!!!!! Even though I have probably filled several landfills with all the disposable nappies the Snot Queen has gone through (I'm trying cloth on the tiny one) and that I have a deep fear of my compost bin (blech!), we remain friends and she has yet to call the eco police on me.

Anyhoo.... For the next three months, tgm has forsaken the cult of consumerism and thrown off the shackles of shopping. Basically, anything she needs, she will either make, buy second hand or swap for something she no longer needs.

Anything new that she buys must be the most eco friendly version available.

She will then blog all about her experiences here and maybe here too.

I have decided to join her.

Right after I get my new contact lenses that is.

How about you? Anyone else want to take up the challenge?

Oh crap. Snot Queen's eating crayons again... Bye for now!

Mammy's Wild Kingdom...

OMG!!!!! YUCK! YUCK! YUCK! YUCK! YUCK! I want to scrub the skin off of my body. Just for the record, I now HATE peaceful early morning earth mother time. BLECH!!! I was up early this morning (7:30! A.M!) and thought that I'd try and be useful, a proper earth mother sort hanging the laundry out to dry, barefoot in the backyard (well, wearing sandals actually, morning dew is rather cold and wet...) whilst the tiny one snoozed on the picnic table and the snot queen played earth child in the dirt (or pushed her imitation graco around the garden, whatever)

Being the big, brave girl I now am (I caught and released a wasp yesterday! Round of applause please. It only took fifteen minutes, one small panic attack and no more then three bloodcurdling screams of pure terror.) I swiftly ran the broom over the line to remove cobwebs and then set about hanging the clothes.

That's when I saw them.

They coated the line for about an inch and a half or so, several hundred, tiny, round, SPIDER EGGS!!!! BLECH!!!! AAAGGGGGGGHHHHHHHH!!!!!!

Once I finished my obligatory "dance of disgust" (For the uninitiated, this involves a lot of hopping about and waving of arms with loads of creative sound effects to signify disgust) I considered my options.

1. Get tissue from the bathroom, wipe off eggs and flush them down the toilet.

2. Leave the backyard immediately. Lock the door and never step foot out there again. Consider clothes a sacrifice to the spider god.

3. Move.

Well, as tempting as numbers 2 and 3 were, I unfortunately love my house and the backyard is our amazing "No Cry/Anti Tantrum" Zone. Any tantrum, no matter how big, can be stopped by throwing the snot queen out back. It's like magic. Only better.

After a slightly longer and more involved "Dance of Disgust" I managed to rid the clothes line of the little unhatched beasties (eeeeeeeewwwww) my skin is actually crawling at the memory.

Patting myself on the back, I returned to the scene only to find the Snot Queen about to pick up what had to be the world's largest slug.

Right.

Whisking her under one arm, I grabbed the tiny one with the other and retreated to the inside.

Backyard time officially over for the morning.

P.S did I mention that our landlord paid a visit yesterday? While he was here, he rid the house of yet another MASSIVE spider and regalled me with tales of the SUPER COLONY of ants which used to reside outside our Utility Room Window and had to be BLASTED out. A veritable city of them, stretching waaaaaay underground.

I'm feeling weak.


Where the F@£k am I living?

Sometimes, I really miss the city.

Take it all off baby...

The snot queen has hit yet another developmental milestone. She can now take her nappy off ALL BY HERSELF. After much experimentation involving pulling of the velcro tabs and picking at the nappy itself, she has finally mastered the art of its full removal and like with every other new skill she develops, she is insisting on doing it again and again and again...

As she has long since had a deep fascination with foraging in this area, you can imagine how thrilled she is to finally be able to get a visual of the contents. Almost as thrilled as I was to find her examining said contents on the sitting room floor this morning.

I'll give you a moment to let that visual sink in.

Toilet training just got a whole lot closer...

My name is...

Oh God. I. Am. Mortified. Well, I was anyway. I've kind of gotten over it now so I suppose that for the sake of grammatical, political and all other types of correctness, I should really change that to " I WAS mortified."

A bit of background. About 6 months ago, myself and 3 other cash strapped mamas decided to split the extortionate cost of a year's membership to the local wildlife preserve. Now, while it clearly states on their website that this sort of behaviour is against the rules, they don't actually do much to enforce it. They don't put your pic on the card or anything and and when you go there, all you do is sign a clipboard and BOOM! you're in. To quote just about every teenager who ever walked the planet, "Everybody's doin' it"

And to quote my mother, "You're not everybody."

And therein lies the problem...

You see, I couldn't remember whether or not I was one of the official cardholders. HOWEVER, I did know that my friend "C" was, so on the off chance we were stopped at the gate, I'd just say that I was her. Not that it would come to that of course, after all no one EVER gets stopped at the gate...

We got stopped at the gate.

There were two checkpoints. One of them was being manned by your average, run of the mill "I'm not paid enough to care" employee. This line up was moving at a rapid pace as one by one, customers either paid the equivalent of a week's groceries for their family's animal viewing pleasure or else flashed their cards, signed the clipboard and waltzed off happily to watch cheetahs maul a poor dead rabbit before grabbing a bite to eat.

Meanwhile, over at border patrol... I mean, the other checkpoint, things were moving considerably slower as one by one, would be patrons were interrogated by a grim faced guard who I'm pretty sure was sourced directly from immigration and who, from the looks of things, took her job very seriously.

Guess which checkpoint we ended up at...

I flashed my card and my brightest "Just another Yummy Mummy out for the day with the family! Nothing illegal going on here!" smile and looked hopefully at the clipboard.

She narrowed her eyes.

"Last Name?"

Dammit. I took a deep breath and looked her straight in the eye as I gave her my fake last name.

She looked me up and down and then past me to himself who had refused to wear his summer jacket on the grounds that the sleeve was dirty and instead had insisted on wearing his winter coat, complete with fur lining despite the temperature being in the high teens. ummm... yeah. Not dodgy at all.

"Spell it." WHAT?!?!?

I rattled off the letters of my new last name with what I hoped was the boredom of someone who had been spelling the name for years. I again looked expectantly towards the clipboard.

"First Initial?"

A hint of indignation entered my voice. How DARE she question my identity! How did she know I wasn't who I said I was? I wasn't of course, but she didn't know that! Well, not for certain anyways, she apparently had very strong suspicions.

"C!"

"Full name as written on card?"

I gave my fake name and tried to keep the panic from showing in my voice. SURELY this was it! The people behind us were growing restless and you could almost see their ears straining forwards to hear what was going on. Would she not just grab the damn clip board already?!?!?!?
What else did she want to know? My date of Birth? My PPS Number? My favourite freakin' colour?

"And your address? "

Shit. My address.

"ummm.... I um... "

Desperately, I racked my brain, trying to remember "C"'s address.

"You see, it's just that we only just moved in..."

Oh my god! Were we about to get turfed from the park? Were they going to revoke our card?!?!?

THINK WOMAN!!!! THINK!!!! Wait! Wasn't there something about a bird? A crow or a.. a RAVEN! Yes that's it! Something about a raven!

"Raven something or other!" I exclaimed wildly, not sounding crazy in the slightest, " Yes that's it! Isn't it? Raven something! It's the first roundabout after the petrol station you see, you take a left and..."

She cut me off before I could give her explicit directions to "C's" front door and invite her in for tea. Her voice was patronizing as she explained the terms and conditions of using the season's pass and how only the cardholders "C" and Miss M....

WAIT A SECOND!!!!! Miss. M! THAT'S ME!!!!!! OH MY GOD!!! I AM ON THE CARD AFTER ALL!!!!!!

I adopted my best "between us girls" voice and leaned forward into the opening in the glass partition. My voice, I hoped, was suitably apologetic as I explained the situation and how I was only pretending to be "C" as I couldn't remember if I was on the card or not. I then proceeded to give my own address (the wrong one it turns out as we had in fact moved since getting the card) and various other unasked for and possibly too personal, details of my life.

Somewhere during my mindless rantings, right, I believe after volunteering to show her my id, the clipboard was placed in front of me. I signed my name and shamefacedly ushered my sorry looking crew through the gates.

Thankfully, she hadn't taken me up on my offer to show her my id. As it turns out, I'd left my wallet at home.

An Oldie But Goodie...

Whilst procrastinating doing any "real" work the other day, I came across this essay I wrote many, many moons ago at the tender age of fifteen. I was wise beyond my years...

Forever and Ever, A-Man

God is a man. After years of careful study and musch observation, I have come to believe that yes, our maker is indeed a member of that braindead, incoherant, ignorant species which has deemed itself superior. Why, you may ask? I'll give you three reasons: Pantyhose, PMS and Underwires.

Honestly, would any sane, self respecting woman, if given a choice,inflict such pain and emotional turmoil on her own species as PMS? I think not. IF men were subjected to just one gut wrenching, stomach bursting, excrutiatingly painful cramp, it wouldn't be long before menstrual leave days were put into place and made law.

How about pantyhose? I would love to meet the genious who thought those up. Sheer pieces of nylon used to slim, trim and shape every inch of the female anatomy, all for the visual pleasure of males. Siskel and Ebert give them two thumbs up. Thelma and Louise? Don't even go there. In my humble opinion, pantyhose are the number one cause of female stress. One small hitch and bang! Ladders up the leg! Do men have to worry about htis phenomenom? I don't think so.

For my final point, I'm dragging out the heavy artillery; the brassiere. When Christ said “My cups runneth over,” he didn't know what he was talking about! To me it makes no sense whatsoever. Why is it that the most sensitive area of the female body has been pushed, pulled, prodded, injected with silicon, deflated and to my chagrin, surrounded with wire? Please! The day that men walk around in jocks lined with barbed wire is the day I will think about offering debate as to the sex of the lord on high. A-Man.