Cut My Milk

Last week, I received an email from my friend over at 40YrOldDad inviting me to join in a blog hop about my writing process. This is how the conversation went:

40YrOldDad: Hey Lisa, I'd love for you join in a blog hop about writing because I think you're so hilarious and I want to the world to recognise your immense blogging talent.

Me: You are awesome.

40YrOldDad: No, you are awesomer.

Me: Ok. True. I'll do it.

That may not have been the exact words, but the answer remained the same. My answer was "I'll do it."  A week later, and I'm still struggling to think of what to tell you about my 'writing process'. What the hell is my writing process? Do I even have a writing process? I think you may now suspect that I don't. I'm not a writer. Never have been and never will be. I just like to blog. And whilst blogging and writing are kinda intertwined (because they're like, words and shit) I see them as kissing cousins of the literature family. And it's because of definitions like this that I will never be seen as a writer.

                          Flickr: Scott Beale

What am I working on?

At this very minute? I'm working on a very smooth bottle of Moscato, with its slight musk aromas and fruity flavours of peach, pear and apple and finishes with a light fizz. Now that's writing. In terms of writing/blogging, I'm not working on very much (read 'nothing') except this. I'd love to be working on something - anything - but having nearly-five-if-they're-lucky twins, a clingy two year old and socially busy teenagers,  I don't get much time to work on even having a shower.  Having said that, I work on my Facebook page Cut My Milk more than I probably should. How does my writing differ from others in my genre? This is a tough one. I'm not sure if it does differ from others of a similar category. Maybe it's the imperfection and disfunction of my family, the swearing, the creative wordmakiness, the taking the piss out of myself - I don't know. I don't try to teach or preach. I may be one of the few people who write from the mouth, rather than the heart or the brain. It's quicker and stupider. Why do I write what I do?

For many years, I saw many therapists. Psychiatrists, psychologists, counsellors, cognitive behavioural therapists, all to help me with depression, psychosis, anxiety & panic. I'd come out of these sessions worse off emotionally and financially. So, I turned to blogging about my experiences for the world to see. I try to be as honest and candid as possible in the hope that someone with similar experiences, who may be silently reading my blog, can feel less alone. And it has certainly helped me to realise I'm far from alone. And if I can make you giggle or snort wine out your nose at the same time, that's a bonus.

Oh, that and attention seeking. Exhibitionism at its finest. How Does Your Writing Process Work?

I rely on my kids being idiots and doing stupid stuff as inspiration. 

When I get the urge, I just write. I'm not a planner. I don't write rough drafts. I just go for it. It's very hit-and-miss. But to do this I need the all-important time thingy. When I start to write, it must be finished and published the same night. My post box is filled with draft versions awaiting completion. Like that's gonna happen.

I like to write as though I'm having a conversation with someone. I find it easier to write as I would speak. Evidently, I'm not great with the talking words shit either.

But I need to want to write something. I need to feel passionate about something, or to vent. Maybe my blogging has slowed down because I'm actually feeling… well… feeling good at the moment. One thing I have learned about my writing process through joining in this little blog hop event is that I can't seem to write if I'm asked to write. Bloody hell, this was harder than I thought. Visions of being underprepared for my Year 12 English exam… going to my happy place now, happy place. And now my empty bottle of wine signifies the end of my so-called writing process. But before I swill the last dregs from my glass, I'll introduce you to three of my bloggy friends who will hop along to the next blog hop (sorry, that was the wine talking, it's such a dumbass).

Tegan

Musings of the Misguided

Tegan blogs at Musings of the Misguided where she writes about parenting, mental illness and everything in between.  She started her blog as a place to put on her comfy ranty pants but it's turned into a place to share her experiences with the mental health system and how she copes with a child who loves to avoid sleep.  When she's not faffing around on the internet she can be found spending time with the two main men in her life, her 4 year old and a partner with the patience of a 1000 saints.

Beck

This Is Beck

Well, the name of my blog kind of explains it really. It's about me, muddling through each day with my handyman hubs, 2 adorable little munchkins, two super spoiled dogs, a crazy kitten and an assortment of farm animals… My brain runs on caffeine, my kids' cuddles, love, wine, giggles and books. I make mistakes. I swear too much. I bake awesome cupcakes. I can't stand dishonesty. I love animals. I piss people off sometimes. I try to be the kind of person I want my kids to grow up to be. Most days I fail miserably, but I'm working on it.

Lauren

Gold Coast Mum

Just over 4 years ago I was rubbing shoulders with celebs on a day-to-day basis (shared a building with the studio of an Aussie TV show & would often be crammed in the lift with some Aussie stars) & had my finger on the pulse as an award-winning-journalist in the big smoke. Now living on the Gold Coast with 4 children under 4 (8-month-old twin girls, a 2yo boy & 4yo girl) at home, I'm a social media (& chocolate) addict & enjoy reading/sharing anything & everything from celeb goss/baby news to pregnancy/parenting topics & trends, general news or trashy TV. I blog (when I get a chance) at Gold Coast Mum & enjoy being social on my Gold Coast Mum Facebook page. I love getting out & about enjoying everything the Gold Coast has to offer (& maybe even to avoid dealing with the bottomless pile of laundry that needs putting away at home).

The Mother's Day celebration/acknowledgement/momentary interruption to daily motherly chores, is sort of hit-&-miss here at Chez CutMyMilk. A couple of years may pass (including the one immediately proceeding the birth of #5 but I'm not one to dwell) with nada on the Mother's Day front but a pile of smelly school uniforms on the laundry floor. Last year, however, I was spoilt with an Endota Spa voucher from the kids & an oo laa laa lingerie voucher to a *ahem* busty broads bra shop.  I took Scarlett on a journey into her big breasted future. Beautiful boulder holders as far as the eye could see. I had been putting this shopping experience off for long enough. I only had a day left on this voucher, and stupid me had forgotten about the 6 month expiry date on the Spa treatment voucher. Doi.

www.huffingtonpost.co.uk

The thought of being professionally fitted for a bra makes my nipples pucker. The last time I bought a bra was when I was pregnant with the Wondertwins some 5 years ago. I was fitted then, but I wasn't as tortured with my body's shape back then, especially while pregnant. I loved being pregnant and loved my growing belly. It had a reason to grow. It had a purpose. I would proudly show my stomach and all it's glorious tiger stripes to the world. Look at this bitches! I can grow two at the same time! Look.At.My.Belly! I also loved to torment curious dickheadish kids who asked me in whiny voices, "Why are you so fat?" I lifted my top up to one of these kids at my children's primary school and said, "Because I ate the last kid who asked me why I was so fat." But that's another story. The sales girl with a waist as skinny as my arm brought out the only four bras of my, hmmm, what to call it? Voluptuous? Fullsome? Fucking humungous? rather large bewbies. I shit you not, I could have easily rocked my two year old and her big Peppa Pig doll to sleep in it. It couldn't possibly fit me. It bloody fit me. But it was horrid. It did actually look like I was wearing a harness to rock a baby in. This was made for women who had given up. There was nothing remotely attractive about this bra. Its solid and practical design would certainly stop Black Eye Syndrome when running, but nothing more. The other three bras turned out to be the same bra but in different colours, so essentially the store only stocked bras of this magnitude in two styles: unsexy and less unsexy. So I took a less unsexy bra in size enormous in this year's pretty jadey-tealy-turquoisey-bluey colour. Scarlett had seen enough by this stage and was avoiding eye contact with me now.

forums.familyfriendpoems.com

I'm at a point in my mediocre parenting that I'm starting to question things I know that I know, and second guessing every move I make, when it comes to raising my kids. You'd think that when it comes to the fifth kid I'd be pretty much on top of things - milestones, language development, potty training, yadda, yadda, yadda. The books tell you, in one long-winded breath, that there's no 'one-size-fits-all' rule to raising a child, yet you must follow these steps and these steps only or risk being branded an incompetent and neglectful parent.

The Feral Five. Campbell, Ella, Grace, Lily & Scarlett. All at 19 months.

As my daughter is now 12, I know it is getting closer to the time we have that 'little chat'. I didn't really get the 'little chat' from my mum. I learned everything I thought I needed to know from Dolly magazines in the early 80s. I was in year 8 when Aunt Flo came to knock on my door. She took her bloody time. I knew something was happening to me. I ached. I cried. I thought everyone around me were morons. Some of them were. I remember when I came home from school one day, shitty with the world as usual, and went to the toilet. My undies had a mark on them. My first thought was 'I'm going to die,' and then I thought back to Dolly Doctor telling some poor idiot that she 'wasn't going to die, it was just her first period' or some such advice. Don't quote my quote, though. I threw away five pairs of undies that week.  On day three, I was in PE class and I suddenly felt wet. Wet like wee wet. I ran to the gymnasium toilets and in a scene not quite as award winning as Sissy Spacek's shower scene in Carrie, I sat on the loo shaking and crying. With nearly an entire roll of toilet paper down there, I dressed and waited for the bell to go. Leaving the cubicle, I was positive everyone knew, just from looking at me, I had the painter's in for the very first time. I stormed into the house in my usual pleasant mood, looked at my mum and ran to my room crying. She followed, the look on her face told me she didn't know what was happening. Oh, sure. That's just bloody typical. How can you not know? I'm bleeding. I'm dying. You don't care. You don't know what it's like.  My mum was calm. As she always was. How I always remember her. I think she was more nervous about all of this than me. I don't remember much of a conversation, only of her drawing me a bath, leaving to go to the supermarket, and returning with various boxes and new underwear. So, darling daughter, I want to tell you everything you need to know and everything you want to know. I want to tell you that for a while you may believe everyone knows when you have your period. Boys - bless their ignorant dickheadery - will sneer at your poise, confidence, assertiveness and will say over their shoulders to their mates, "What's up her arse? She must be on her rag" and if you are, at that exact period (pardon the pun) having your period you will think your secret identity has been exposed. I want to tell you that your boobies will get sore and achy and heavy and feel like they have been punched a few days before your (whispers) monthly visitor pops by. I want to tell you that, if you are anything like me, you will feel as though someone has taken a long hot needle and suddenly and swiftly pierced your ovaries each month.

I decided, in my day-before-my-kid's-birthday stupidity, to cave to my soon-to-be 12 year old daughter's birthday request of making something for her to share with her classmates. All 55 of them. No problemo, I had said, and told her about these awesome Oreo cookie pops I had found while doing 'Mummy's Important Facebook Research' earlier that day. I had only studied a picture of one, not looked at the source of the photo or at the instructions of how to make them. Couldn't be that hard! Look at them. Biscuits with a stick shoved up it's arse, covered in chocolate and dipped in fairy sprinkles. Piece.Of.Piss.

These are the final result. Not as glamorous as Pinterest (or any of the Oreo Pops pics out there for that matter), but for someone who's impatient & not fond of all things kitchen-y, these turned out ok, or for the best part - edible.

Here's how to do it the 'Lisa' way: 1. To make 55 Oreo Pops, you will need 10 pkts of Oreo cookies. There's 12 in a pack, but while separating those mofo's you will lose 50-60%. Have your preschoolers around to eat the broken pieces of Oreo that you throw in a hissy fit across the room. 2. Use a knife to carefully separate the sides of cookie. That twisting action kids do on TV is bullshit. Best not start that 'swear jar' today, or have a shitload of coins nearby. 3. Melt white chocolate in a bowl. Dip one end of icy pole stick in melted chocolate & sandwich between cookie sides. Dip finger in melted chocolate & lick. 4. Spoon melted chocolate over cookie-on-a-stick. Dip other finger in melted chocolate & lick. 5. Lay cookie-on-a-stick-covered-in-melted-white-chocolate on 100s & 1000s, make sure it is well covered in that fairy crap. Dip another finger in melted chocolate & lick. 6. Let harden on baking paper. Hide from children.

Now, since making them, I have read the instructions on Kidspot.com.au & can tell you there is a better way! Yes!

Nuke the Oreo cookies for a few seconds to soften the inner cream. Then gently pull apart. 

Sonofabitch.

Oh Lordy. Don't get me started. Sorry. Too late. Couldn't hear you. I'm on a rolling ranty thunderstorm and I'm going to shake up a few of you, I'm sure.

I recently took the Wondertwins and Baby Scarlett for their immunisations. I have never thought twice about doing so. To me, it is just a painful part of growing up and of being part of the human race. But it has brought up many memories of other people's ranty public rants on the very public forums, such as Facebook (I'd say Twitter, but I'm too busy to use that - read: Stupid and Facebook Obsessed) where, with one click of a button, your inappropriate, unvalidated and fearful comments are shared like an epidemic (see what I did there?)

I understand that you may have a fear of the toxic cocktail that may be part of a vaccination. That's understandable. There are many undesirable poisons in each jab of the needle. Who really wants to have aluminium injected in their young child's body? So, I completely understand and respect your decision to not breastfeed (40 micrograms per litre) or to bottle-feed (225 micrograms per litre), and to not eat or drink (more aluminium in what we shove in our mouths than in any vaccine). Good luck if you ever need dialysis. And formaldehyde? No thanks! I want my baby to get all the formaldehyde she needs from her natural metabolism while eating her mashed apples. Just don't let her get at embalming fluid. Embalming fluid + Baby = Bad. Yep. There be some yucky crap in them there needles. And there be some nasty side effects from having these immunisations, too. Fever, pain, irritability, etc, plus the possibility of a severe allergic reaction. Oh, and the latest side effects of autism, multiple sclerosis and diabetes. One of my five kids is a lazy smart-arse. He wasn't before he was immunised. Fact.

Polio. www.kpbs.org

Diphtheria (Small Pox) www.asylumeclectica.com   

I am in no way diminishing the reality that you may have a child with these conditions. In no way. MS and Diabetes were here long before worldwide immunisation programs. As was Polio. And Small Pox. I'm gonna take my chances. I can't say much about the link between immunisations and autism - the medical profession and pharmaceutical companies say there's no correlation, but a court of law says there is. People in the law vs people in the medical trade regarding immunisations? The court won. Sure. Why not? Maybe have a peek-a-boo at a Forbes article about it.

This chart from The Science of Immunisation: Questions and Answers, Australian Academy of Science, shows the common diseases and their number of deaths before and after immunisations were introduced. The red arrow shows when the immunisation was introduced in Australia. Despite the decline in deaths before immunisations began, the amount of death since then have decreased dramatically. Source: Doctor's Bag

My generation, and younger, are a lucky ignorant bunch. We have been raised in a world where we haven't seen the devastating effects of Polio, or Meningitis, or Rubella to their fullest. Why? I'll give you a hint. Because of a prick. A tiny and achy injection at certain periods in our lives have decreased, or in Diphtheria's case - been eliminated, from our lives. And because we are a lucky ignorant bunch, we now look at the potential problems these immunisations might cause and reject vaccination just in case. Just in case my child develops MS. Just in case my child gets autism. Just in case my child feels pain from the needle, and just in case my darling gets an unwelcome side effect. But I have an idea. How about we all just immunise our spawn so that we don't bring German Measles back in all it's glory. Gone are the days when the biggest dork at school contracted Chicken Pox and instantly became the most popular kid for a week, as mums from far and wide would arrange playdates and encourage you to touch his blisters. But we will be staring down the barrel of a loaded disease ridden gun in only a matter of years if we reject the tiny band-aid covered boo boo. I sincerely hope you or your children will never know the despair of watching their infant suffer from Whooping Cough, or the anguish of knowing you were in contact with Mumps in your first trimester of pregnancy.  Meanwhile, stay away from me. I don't want your unvaccinated cooties.

"Ahh, you must be Campbell's mum." I'm not sure if that's a good thing to be instantly recognised as your child's mother when you've just entered a room to hear all about the expectations of Year 8 students. I have a simple expectation that my son does not have a criminal record by the end of Year 9. High school has an expectation that you are toilet trained and can sit still for 6 hours. Or at least close to. But to be instantly recognised as your son's mother, well -  is it an insult to you that you have the face of a 13 year old boy, or an insult to your son that he looks like his overweight 42 year old mother. Either way, that's messed up. The closest Campbell has looked like me was when he was in kindergarten and had a massive mop of hair on top of his already massive head. I had the standard 1970's big doll-like hair on the top of my massive head. Our eyes, our smiles and our massive boofy heads identify us as mother and son. Back then. Certainly not now.  "You must be Campbell's mum."

Like mother like son? Appearance is where it stops.

What had my cackleberry done this time? Do I look like the parent of a slack smart arse? Did I smell like the parent of a slack smart arse? How did this teacher know that I was the parent of a slack smart arse?  Genetically, Campbell should have been an overachieving nerd. Both Tim & I were teacher pleasers, suck holes, perfectionists. Sometimes, it hard to understand how Cam is the way he is - lazy, unmotivated, near-enough-is-good-enough schlemiel. I did not take drugs or drink when he was wombing it, so the chemical excuse can't apply here.  But I don't think Campbell is alone. I think our generation has spawned a generation of I-really-don't-give-a-shitters. I agree there are still many kids out there who try hard, do well and are ambitious, but so many of our youngsters are...well...dickheads. And it's not entirely their fault. To a degree, our generation has fucked them up and have let them down. Some of our little cotton wool kiddies are finding out that near enough is just not cutting it as good enough.  As some kids thrive on enquiry learning and exploring their own learning needs independently, others - and by others, I mean Campbell - see independent learning as a time for a nanna nap or an opportunity to destroy his school shoes with some liquid paper and some tacks. While others are keen to complete their assignments to the best of their ability, my lad is thinking of ways he could do the least possible work in the shortest amount of time and still hand it in two months late. His Couldn't Give A Rat's Fat Arse chromosome kicks into underdrive. Zzzzzzz. Before you ask, yes he has seen an educational psychologist, an auditory processing specialist, a visual processing specialist, a speech pathologist, school guidance officers and a kinesiologist. He is a smart kid. He's just a fucking lazy one. And he's not just smart in brains smart. He's smart enough to recognise the lack of consequences for being lazy. He knows that if you don't hand in work on time, you are told to bring it in the next day. And then the next day. And the next day. Detentions are not like they were in my day. Teachers dished them out daily. No parent permission required. You stayed in. And nothing scared you more than knowing your mum was outside waiting in the car while you were in detention. But these days, notes need to be sent home asking for permission to keep your child in for half an hour after school. Lunch time detention is for ten minutes only, and only after they have eaten and had some fresh air.  And it's not like all his marks at school are bad. He received a brilliant mark on an assignment that was handed in almost two weeks late. Coz he knew he could. He knows he will succeed whether he performs now or when he feels like it. A control game? Possibly. Fucking lazy? That's a given. In primary school it was much the same. Towards the end of Grade 5, the kids were able to apply for a school leadership position. Sounds like work, doesn't it? Needless to say, he didn't apply. He didn't want a position. But he was given one anyway. School Leadership hierarchy is this: Boy and girl School Captains, a boy and girl Captain for each of the four Houses, then Peer Support, Community, Media and ICT roles are shared across the students. No one is left out. This way everyone feels needed and loved and self esteem is elevated. Ahhhhh. Ok for primary school maybe, but in secondary school I'd like my son to be shaped into a driven man. Someone who knows that with effort comes reward, and consequences - good or bad - follow actions. The 'near enough is good enough' attitude will not float in adulthood and the workplace. 

"Dr Campbell, did you remove all of the tumour?""Sure. Maybe. Near enough. Now where'd I leave that scalpel? I'll look for it later."

This isn't every child. This isn't even every child of mine. But we need to start grow strong, resilient, and responsible kids or the real world is gonna give them one hell of a kick in the nuts. Mind you, there might be a job for them at Microsoft...

Awww....

I'm not too sure my husband would think of saying anything like that to me. His brain is made up of work, tennis, football, work, work, expenses, work, career (there's a difference) and family. He knows I'm here today. He knows I'll be here tomorrow. He told me he loved me by marrying me. He's not that romantic. No. But he's pretty bloody awesome despite the lack of romance and I love him.

Tim is far far far from perfect. Faaaarrrrrrrr from perfect. He snores. Fuck me does he snore. He snores so bad that we can't share a room, and some nights I really don't want to share the same house. He makes smells as regularly as clockwork. He leaves for work by 6am and comes home anywhere between 7pm and 8pm. He sometimes comes home a grumpy sonofabitch, growls at the kids, eats, gets into his Homer Simpson-esque groove on the couch, surfs the channels, settling on the same ol' same ol' of tennis or AFL replays, and falls asleep. Rarely do we have a conversation in the evenings. There is one recurring chitchat - my excessive use of Facebook & blogging. So there you have it. The longest bloody excuse of why you haven't been reading many blogs of mine lately. I've been trying to spend some time with him, next to him, on the couch while he snores.

Like I said, he works too bloody long, but it really could be worse. He is one of the few solicitors who actually goes home before the morning sun rises to start another asshat of a day. He always goes in to check on the kids - all five of them, including the smelly one - before he curls up on the couch for a broken sleep of 6 hours. If he's lucky.

Some days, I resent him. Some days I hate him. Some days I wonder why the hell I'm still here. I'm jealous that he gets to go away from this shitsville of ours for 7 hours a day and sometimes more. I see how far far far from perfect he is. And it irritates me and grinds on me and makes me feel all stabby. And then I realise this...

I am far far far far from perfect. Faaaarrrrrr from perfect.

And in Tim's imperfection, I see just how perfect he is. Awww. 

So, as it is Father's Day here in Australia, I want to share my appreciation of the father of my five ferals.

Tim, you get up at stupid o'clock to get on a train that takes you to work with other overtired, hard working city people an hour away. You sit in an office dealing with idiots-with-money and idiots-with-power and thank Jebus for the couple of friends there that make the day tolerable. You eat lunch at your desk. If you're lucky, you might go for a walk around the block. You get on a crowded train packed with overtired, irritable hard working city people, and travel the hour back home while standing beneath the underdeodorised armpits of death.

You walk in the door to an explosion of filth, toys, tears, screams and profanity, and a dinner that is cold. I tell you how fucked up my day was with those shits of kids of ours. You see bills, school fundraising requests, excursions to be paid, more bills, appointments, things that need fixing, things that need replacing and things that we bought with the dollars you earn. Syphoned of energy and money, you play with Baby Scarlett for a few minutes, ask the big kids about their day, read a story or sing a song to the Wondertwins, feed the cats and dog, and fall asleep on the couch. On Saturdays, you play tennis all afternoon, come home and sleep in front of the tennis, AFL replays or music videos of the 80s. There you will snore and snore loudly. And because you don't want to keep me, or Scarlett, awake you don't sleep in our room. It's been two years on the couch. Happy anniversary for that, by the way.

Without you doing this day in and day out, we would not have this house. We would not have the cars. We would not have food on the table or the clothes that we wear. We would not have the little luxuries that keep all of us entertained. We would not have me staying at home raising our five kids. Five kids. Five. At home. Dammit.

You have seen me at my worst. You've seen me cry in pain and cry in anguish. Seen me deteriorate mentally. Seen me taken to hospital too many times. Seen me double in size. And yet here you are.

Today, on Father's Day, you spent time with your kids, and you wanted to. You gave me a break. I'm not complaining...    

There's a baby being born, and no doubt will be born by the time I click 'publish' for this blog post, who will grace the pages of every magazine (ok, maybe not the wrapped in plastic kind) for a long time.

With around 370,000 babies born in the world every day, this eagerly awaited bub will steal the limelight. Betting agencies are going mad with punters waging big bucks on every detail of Kate and William's baby. What day? What time? Size? Length? Colour hair? Boy or girl? Twins? And the name? 

The name. 

Thanks Two Drunk Ladies!

Could it be Diana? Isabella? Alexandria? Maybe Charlotte?

Or maybe George? Or James? Or Henry?

Perhaps Shakira? Or Dewayne? Probably not.

It's tricky business coming up with an appropriate name for a baby. At least, I thought so. I wanted names for my kids that weren't just cutesie pie names for babies that translated to porn stars when they were older. I needed to think of how it sounded with my surname, how it could be abbreviated, what it rhymed with, how common it was, and most importantly both of us parents-to-be really loved it. How did it sound when we said it with love? How did it sound when we screamed it with obscenities from one end of the house to the other? How would it sound as the CEO of a company or as a toilet brush inspector? These things were important to us.

There are some God awful names out there. I'm not just talking boring or stupid names. I'm talking about child abuse cruel names.

Take, for example, poor Merle in Spain. I'm sure Mr and Mrs Lester had thought long and hard about what to name their darling baby boy. Maybe they also had dreams of him becoming a teacher. Or a doctor. I wonder what opportunities did open for young Merle Lester? I guess he could have followed in Jeffrey Wilchske's footsteps and have his name legally changed to a more suitable name. Beezow Doo-Doo Zopittybop-Bop-Bop is much better. How's that working out for you, Beezow?

When I was pregnant, I had lists upon lists of girls and boys names for my babies. Actually, I had lists of names before I was pregnant. Before I even thought about becoming pregnant. My only requirement was that it was not a name of a kid I had taught. Every name my husband suggested reminded me of a nose-picker or a pants-pooper or a shitty little nark. Never the good kids.

We knew the sexes of each of our babies. Thank Jeebus they were on the money each time. We never really had back-up names.

Campbell when he was little Campbell

My list of names for the kid who became Campbell Jack

Ethan, Hayden, Kieran, Jack, Lachlan, Liam, Darcy, Bailey

Tim's list

Daniel, Joshua, Campbell, Flynn, Hudson, Thomas

Little Ella Bella

My list of names for the kid who became Ella May

Isabella, Hayley, Sienna, Niamh

Tim's list

Breanna, Samantha, Rebecca, Danielle

*Ella was chosen by Campbell. Cam and I were lying in bed and he was patting my tummy and saying "Yellow" (I was in a yellow top). In his 17 month old speech he was saying "Ella". I told him to leave the "Ella" alone. And then it hit me. Perfect.

My list of names for the Wondertwins who became Grace Molly and Lily Madison

Darcie, Gracie, Ava, Mia, Sadie

Tim's list

Breanna, Samantha, Rebecca (I wonder if these were old girlfriends?), Ivy, Lily,  Grace

I broke my rule of no-past-student-names and have Molly as a middle name.                        

      Baby Gracie Moo

Baby Lily Pilly

Awww... Baby Scarlett as a... umm...baby

My list of names for the kid who became Scarlett Esther

Scarlett, Esther, Darcie, Isabella, Ava

Tim's names

Scarlett, Esther, Ivy

In both of our families, middle names begin with M for girls and J for boys. It just does. So we wanted to follow that pattern. Until Scarlett Esther came along. She was either going to be Esther Scarlett or Scarlett Esther. We decided on Scarlett when we saw her for the first time.

I'm not going to criticise anybody's choices for baby names. Ok, I am. If you want to go calling your kid Kyd (as David Duchovny and Tea Leoni did) or Pilot Inspektor (I'm sorry Jason Lee. I love you an' all. But really?) or Buddy Bear, Poppy Honey, Daisy Boo and Blossom Rainbow (what have you really been cooking in that kitchen of yours Jaime Oliver?) you're gonna have some naysayers.

What's the strangest name you've heard in the real world? Forget the celebs - what 'normal' people do you know have named their babies 'abnormal' names? 

Visit me on Facebook and let me know!

Yes. I have twins.  Yes. I am crazy. But I was crazier before I had twins. I found out I was having twins when I was seven weeks pregnant. I took my (then) 7 year old daughter and 8 year old son to the ultrasound. They didn't know I was pregnant and thought I was going to have a special x-ray on my tummy to see what it looks like in there. Being young and stupid, they went with that.

The sonographer dimmed the lights, gelled her wand, and with the kids edging closer to me while I lay there, she counted out the sacs... "There's the first embryo. There's the second embryo. And here's the - could you please excuse me?" What? Here's the fucking what? Hang on. Did she just say "second embryo?" The sonographer returned to the room with someone more senior. She took a look at the screen and said to the younger sonographer, "That's her cervix." Then to me, "Don't worry, you're not having three!" Three what? "Mum," said Ella. "Are you having a baby?" "I think so," I said. "No. You're having twins." said the ultrasound chick. "I'm having what?" "Twins, Mum," said Campbell. "We're gonna need a bigger car." I was having twins. Identical twins. At seven weeks, they were sharing a placenta. Twins. At three months pregnant, I looked six months. At six months pregnant, I looked nine months. At eight months pregnant, I measured 56 weeks pregnant. I felt sorry for elephants. I remember the unsolicited advice I would get from people, mainly strangers, about having twins, and one particular comment still haunts me..."You're having twins? Oh you poor love."  I also had, "I was pregnant with twins until your stage. Then they both died. So you're not out of the woods yet." Cheers for that. Very helpful.

An hour or two before the Wondertwins were born.

My healthy 6lb and 6lb 1oz girls were delivered by caesarean at 36 weeks.

Grace

Lily

One thing I noticed pretty quickly is that the novelty of having twins wears off a great deal quicker with their parents than with the random people you meet in Woolworths. People will stop, stare, question, goo and gaa and fluff around twins, particularly newborns because they are so damn cute. Even the ugly ones. Fuck me, there are ugly ones. People are curious. People are fascinated. And there are people who are just plain rude. It does get frustrating when you just want to get in and out of the supermarket without having a ten minute conversation down every aisle about simultaneously breastfeeding twins or how old Aunt Ida, rest her soul, didn't know she was having twins until they came out and then ended up with the most terrible flatulence you'd ever smell for the rest of her days.

  There is no one-size-fits-all pregnancy, delivery or parenting of twins (or any baby for that matter). Go with what works for you, your family and your lifestyle. The one bit of advice I want to give people who are currently pregnant with twins is this: Listen to people's advice. You don't need to do anything with it. It will be quicker and relatively less painful to say, "Thank you. That's great." You will be asked some of the stupidest questions about your twins and about your most intimate experiences. Smile. Nod. Go to your happy place. Here are some treasures I have been asked, told, advised, instructed, interrogated and condemned... Are they twins? Fair enough question. They don't look alike. They don't even look related.  Are they identical? I began answering this question with a simple "Yes." This was often followed by "No they're not. They don't look a like." I found myself defending my answer with some empirical research in epigenetics, but now I can't be fucked and just answer "No. They're not." Are they paternal? I'm fairly sure they have the same dad, thanks for asking. Which one is the evil twin? Come on. That's not nice. Lily. Do you have a favourite? Yes. Absolutely. The one that is asleep. If I were to hurt one of your twins, could the other feel it? I don't know but let's find out. Hey, here's a twist on this experiment - I'll kick you in one of your balls and you tell me if the other feels it. K? Do twins run in your family? Nope. These babies are self-inflicted and chemically induced. Are they natural? Well, they're human.  Did you conceive them naturally? You're really asking if there was some sexy time involved here aren't you, you dirty old whore. Did you have some rumpy pumpy to score your spawn? Oh, you don't like that? Too personal? Are they IVF babies? Apart from being none of your Goddamn business, does it really make a difference if they are? Yes, they are. Are they 3 months apart? Yes, I was seriously asked this. One of my girls looks older, despite being a whole minute younger, and I was asked if they were 3 months apart. Did you breastfeed? Nope, but my husband tried. Did you have them naturally? As opposed to them being pulled out from my throat? Or explode from my stomach like an alien? That is how it felt though. What's it like being a mum of twins? What's it like being a fucking idiot?

Some days it will feel like you have this many kids. That's ok. That's what alcohol is for. 

Did you try for twins?  I could never have twins. I wanted twins. How do you feed them? What do you do if they cry? What do you do if they poop at the same time? Do they think the same? Twice as nice? Or double the trouble? I'm guilty of peeking into a double pram and ooohing and aaahing at someone else's twinnies. I'm allowed to. I've got twins. It is now my right. But for those of you about to have twins, know this: They will be fun. They will be hard. You will be crazy busy. You will be sanely routine. They will make you cry hysterically. They will make you laugh until you pee. It will be noisy. It will be cuddly. You will experience mess like no other. You will experience smells like no other. Plant yourself a money tree. Now.  You'll love every minute of it. Twice.

The Wondertwins went to their first birthday party a couple of days ago. They had been to a couple of parties before, but I'm not convinced that they really understood that they were there to celebrate someone else's special day and not just there to stuff their faces full of cake and lollies and run around mental like a granny on Bath Salts. Funny to watch but still a train wreck in the making. They were acutely aware, this time, that you buy a present to give to the birthday kid who was being 'promoted' from 3 to 4. In return, you get food that Mum doesn't feed you every day and a lolly bag if you say, "Thank you for inviting me" when it's time to go.  This party was for their turning-four-year-old friend from childcare. This party had been the behaviour carrot for me for more than a week. I'm a big fan of behaviour carrots. Dangling a behaviour carrot in front of my little asses works a treat. And for more than a week, my little asses asked several times daily if the party was 'today'.  Getting two 3 year old girls ready for a birthday party is just as exciting as being at the party itself. Both of them wanted to wear fairy dresses. I can't remember how many times I said "No." I also can't remember how many times they changed their clothes. Finally we were ready. Heading out to the car, Scarlett released an all-too-familiar smell that sent us all back inside to change her nappy.  Me: Right. Are we ready? Anyone else need to go to the toilet? No? You sure? OK. In the car. Get in the car. Seltbelts on. Start engine. Lily: I need to go toilet. Me: Are you serious?  Engine off. Grace: I need to go toilet, too. Back into the car, seltbelts on, engine started. Let's go. I look back at Lily. Something's different. Something's missing. Me: Lily, have you got shoes on? Lily: No. Me: Where are they? Lily: In the kitchen. Me: Why are they in the kitchen? Lily: Because I needed to go toilet. Back home. Get shoes. Back into the car, seat belts on, engine started. Again. Let's go. I look at my bag. Where do we have to go? Where's the fucking invitation? Back home. We arrived at the party twenty minutes late, and just as the 'Fairy' was getting out of her car. She saw us and ducked quickly back into her seat. Professional. I like that in a fairy. As we walked into the birthday girl's house, we were greeted by pirates and fairies waving swords and wands and staring at these sad kids of mine who were neither pirates or fairies. If looks could kill, Lily would not have just taken me out but every single fairy at that party.  Their underdressedness was quickly forgotten as the fairy worked her magic with her...well, magic... and Pass The Parcel, Musical Statues, Face painting and Pin the Tail on the Dragon. This must have been the first time most of those kids had been introduced to the concept of Pass The Parcel. As painful as pulling teeth, the children slowly passed the prized parcel to the next child on their left. No, your other left. Slowly. Slowly. The music...may stop...for...meeeeee...noooooowww. The surrounding mums (me included) called for our children to keep the parcel going. We sounded like mums at a rugby match. "That's it! THAT'S IT! Pass it to Lily! PASS IT TO LILY! Don't hold it! Pass it along! PASS IT ALOOOONNNGGG!!!"

I've just won the lottery! Ha! I wish! Would it change me?  Nah... But I probably wouldn't have time for you anymore. After locking up my modest suburban house and changing my phone number, I would slink out of this little town called Melbourne and hide from all of you wanting a slice of my pie.  MY pie. Some of you need money way more than I do, and for some of you a little bit of my fortune would change your life forever. But I wouldn't want to play favourites. So it's probably for the best that I don't start sharing. And what have the charities done for me except call me while I'm scoffing my hot meal in my warm and comfortable home? So, with my loose change I would make small modifications to my current lifestyle.

I'd go from this:

...that somedays feels like this:

...and downsize it to this:

The Bugatti Veyron. The second most expensive car money can buy. I don't want to show off. And the best thing? Only seats two.

I'd move from this:

...to this:

I'd trade this:

...and get me one of these:

I'd go from this:

...to this:

I've hidden her identity as I don't want people to know it's Mila Kunis.

Take my kids from government schools:

...and stick dump throw hide enrol them in a 

brilliant Boarding School far, far away, like this one:

Institut auf dem Rosenberg, Switzerland

Instead of holidaying like this:

...I'd go here:

Canada

...or here:

Tahiti

And instead of having these:

winetimes.com

...I'd have a couple of these:

mtviewestate.com.au

I was reading a parenting magazine recently and an article in there made me feel like a rotten mum. It was about how television might not actually be that bad for your kids. It suggested that by the time 4pm rolls around and your four year old's micro-nap is over, a program or two is certainly ok, providing it is an educationally based program with the learning objectives clearly described. I've always thought my children's education through TV has been quite thorough and well rounded. From about 7:30am, the girls have their lessons in Spanish (Dora, The Explorer), mathematics (Team Umizoomi), social skills and listening (Max and Ruby), time management (Tickety Toc), social studies (Bubble Guppies), animal welfare and environmental studies (Go Diego, Go), music (Hi5) and patience and tolerance (having to watch Teletubbies because Baby Scarlett likes it). Then it's bed time. Meals are somewhere in between. But I can tell you they're not organic. Or should even be called 'meals'. They get exercise going to the cupboard for snacks and through fighting each other.

Actually, it wasn't just one article. Everywhere I turn, I feel as though I have, or am in the process of, letting my kids down in the parenting stakes. Too much sugar, not enough water, too much television, not enough exploration of nature. Not fully toilet trained at 3 and a half? What the? Still has a dummy? Are you kidding me? Bad. Bad Mummy.

I know I'm not the only mum, or dad for that matter, who often feels quite inadequate as a parent. Unrealistic expectations are placed on all of us at some point during our parenting journey. Those who are doing it alone, those who put their kids in full-time childcare, those who put their kids in too many extracurricular activities. Hell - even those without kids are being judged about why they don't/won't/can't go down the parenting path. No one can win and there will always be someone who will question what you do as a parent. However, we can only do what we can do. It's time we stopped judging and rating each other on our ability to raise our kids. Are you with me??

I would have loved this piece back when I became a first time mum. And a second time mum. Even a third and fourth time mum. I'm glad I have come across this gem now though, with my fifth child, to reassure me that I am, in fact, a good mum after all.

I wish I knew who wrote this. I would love to give him or her the recognition they deserve. 

I was recently nominated for The Liebster Award by the lovely Frammitz. No shit! The Liebster Award highlights small bloggers and their blogs. I thought this must be in recognition of the 10 kilograms I have lost in the last few months but in reality it probably means that I am relatively new to the blogging world (I'm only about 7 months old) and this would be a great way to gain some exposure without getting naked. Yeah, I heard that sigh of relief.

The Rules…

1. List 11 facts about yourself. Check.

2. Answer the 11 questions given to you. Check.

3. Ask 11 new questions to the bloggers you nominate. Check.

4. Choose 11 bloggers (with 200 or less followers) to nominate. Check.

5. Visit each bloggers page and tell them about the award. Check.

6. Thank the person who nominated you and link back to them. Check. Thank you Frammitz!

7. No track backs. I think...check.

11 Facts About Me

1. I live along the Port Phillip Bay in Melbourne.

2. I have a piercing in my tragus.

3. I am a Leo.

4. I hate clowns. I'm scared of robots and cyborgs. I'm grossed out by slugs.

5. When I was in Grade One, I was reading Beatrix Potter's 'Peter Rabbit' to my entire class. My teacher wouldn't let me go to the toilet. I don't need to tell you the damage pissing myself in a blue plastic bucket chair in front of 27 other 6 year olds has done. Enough damage that I remember the name of the book and the colour of the chair. I still can't read Beatrix Potter books without crying.

6. I want to get a tattoo. But I don't know what and I don't know where.

7. I had otoplasty when I was 16 after years of never wearing my hair back and being frightened about gusts of wind exposing my enormous elephant ears. It's amazing how one bitch's taunt at primary school can end up costing thousands of dollars in vanity payments.

8. I like sewing and crafts, although lately I haven't had the opportunity. Or the motivation.

9. I'm a recovering over-eater, but an emerging over-drinker.

10. I like teapots. I hate the taste of tea. But I like teapots. 11. I think feet are fuggly. Not just regular ugly. Fucking ugly. 

I can't believe people spend money on them to make them smooth & pretty. My money's better spent on Moscato.

11 Answers to Frammitz’s 11 Questions

1. How old am I?

At last count, I was 41 years old. I'll be 42 in August. Wii Fit tells me I'm 48.

2. If I had twice the time and money that I have now, how many children would I have? If I had twice the money I would most definitely have another two children. At least. There are some top notch nannies out there who are worth their weight in gold. 3. What am I wearing? An all too sexy oversized men's black and purple tartan pyjama pants and a sleep t-shirt that says 'Wild At Night'. Grrr... 4. Where's the peck of pickled peppers Peter Piper picked? Well, as I'm not the fig plucker, nor the fig plucker's son, I'll pluck figs until the fig plucker comes. In short...I don't know. 5. Would I please send Frammitz some money? Depends. If I had twice the money I'd send Frammitz some, but as I don't have that, or the time, the answer is 'maybe'. 6. What did I have for breakfast? I had mixed berry porridge - the superfood of champions. 7. Do I prefer mixed flower bouquets or a bunch of the same flower? I'm not fussy. I rarely get flowers, so beggars can't be choosers. 8. How much time do I spend on Pinterest a week? Obviously not enough. I only have 11 followers, 16 boards, 191 pins, 10 'likes' and am following 56 other Pinteresting People. However, if you asked "How much time do I spend on Facebook"? Well...that's a different story. 9. What's my favourite blog to follow? Why? I've been laughing until tear roll down my legs reading The 40 Year old Dad. Absolutely hilarious! It's refreshing to get a dad's perspective on life.      10. Would I smoke cigarettes if they didn't cause cancer? Nope. I still wouldn't. Something about inhaling a chemical cocktail does nothing for me. I'd rather inhale the smoke of a thousand Justin Beiber albums on fire. 11. Why do I blog? I crave attention and this is another way of getting that. But I mainly started my blog to diarise my days with five kids and depression. It has helped much more than my many years in various therapies and has been thousands of dollars cheaper.

11 Awesome Bloggers I Nominate

and Urge You to Stalk

These bloggers have less than 200 followers (Facebook may tell a different story). Go check them out!

Sew n Sow

Marmalade Event Stationary

A Woman of Many Roles; Full Time Mamma, 

House Wife & Living With Depression

Pass The Wine, Mommy's Out Of Sedatives

Bitchin' Barefoot

The Zoo Keeper's Wife

Phenomenal Woman Shawna in Wonderland This Uncomplicated Journey Mommy Massacre In the House of JMarts

OK fellow bloggers above, let the interview begin...

My 11 Interview Questions

1. What piece of advice would you give to your 18 year old self?

2. What would you change about yourself?

3. What is your favourite smell?

4. What is your earliest memory?

5. What is the best thing about where you live?

6. If you could go back in time, where & when would you go?

7. What is the one thing you couldn't live without?

8. Why do you blog?

9. What are you frightened of?

10. What is your favourite movie?