So You Quit Parenting?

Some days you don’t think you should have the honour of being called a ‘mother’.

Some days it all just feels too hard.

Some days you whine like a bitch and cry like a baby. You cry more than your own baby.

Some days it takes every ounce of energy not to say ‘fuck off’ to your children for every second, every look, every breath that they take, especially for when you’re hiding out in the toilet.

Some days you hate the role of “mother”. It’s unpaid and unappreciated and you’d rather bury yourself in your ten-foot high dirty washing pile even though you’re scared of germs and goobies. And by germs and goobies you mean stinking-arse-crack-and-sweaty-ball-jock goobies. Bonus, at least, you know they’d never look for you there.

Some days when they say, for the hundredth time prior to 9am, that they’re hungry you just want to grab them by those shitty jocks, lift them so high in the air it’s no longer a wedgie they’re wearing but dental floss for their back molars. Here’s hoping they can taste their own ball sweat.

Some days your patience is as thin as the air we breathe but not as thin as the air that’s coming out of their little lungs coz that air is heavy and loud and you hate that whole breathing sound thing they do some days!

Some days you’d just love some fucking silence!

Some days you just want to unleash the wrath of brain cell killing by giving them their iPads and 24 hours of screen time and high-fat, artery-hardening junk food for breakfast, lunch and dinner and a padded cell (actually, that’s for you) just so you don’t have to hear them or see them or talk to them for one whole glorious day.

Some days you feel so wild at the lack of gratitude your kids have that there’s a little ball inside your belly that wants to explode and bounce shit-fuck-shit off every single wall but you don’t because of the guilt and mess. But mainly the mess. But that doesn’t matter anyway because your clean-two-minutes-ago home is, thanks to them, now-a-fucken-pig-sty.

Some days you can only manage to eat popcorn for lunch because there’s nothing left to eat and there’s no way you are dumb enough to tackle the supermarket with this fucked up attitude and those demons kids.

Some days you let that popcorn get the better of you and you beat yourself up because you only started your new weight loss diet two hours ago.

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Some days you want to throw a two-day-old-shitty-nappy with your fiery resignation letter tucked inside at the bosses face, defiantly stick your middle finger out and scream “Fuck you, I QUIT!”

Except there is no boss.

The only boss here is you.

And that wasn’t a two-day old shitty nappy if you’re honest – it was three.

So now you have three-day-old-shit in your eye.

And possibly some in your mouth.

Some days you can blame PMS for your behaviour.

Somedays you can’t.

Some days you’re not a nice Mummy, hell you’d lucky to be classed as a nice person some days.

Some days it’s ok too.

One Love

DRK xxx

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Life Advice. Mass Confusion.

I’ve just read an article by Elizabeth Gilbert which I found via Mamamia. While reading the article, entitled “Life Advice“, I found myself nodding, a lot. I was deep in the context of the read, I was jotting down notes like a mo-fo and I was feeling what she was putting out there. It made me feel excited and I was hopeful that I may be able to finally find the answer to my never-ending question, “What am I doing with my life?” A question, I believe, a lot of stay-at-homes Mums ask themselves.

We are all on limited time here so let me break the article down for you as it is a pretty long read. I’ll do my best to get some nods rolling from your gorgeous heads and then let’s discuss the mass confusion it has made me feel and if you felt it too. To read the full, blessed article, click here. To read the bits and bobs I jotted down – which are her words not my own – then keep reading…

Her “life advice” comes simplified (and then hugely expanded) into four everyday words: Hobby; Job; Career; Vocation. These “life advice” words completely surprised me! They were not the words I had predicted prior to clicking on the link. Perhaps this goes to show how life-advice-smart I am! Just don’t take advice from me in future – ok! Let’s expand and find your four…

  • Hobby: This is something you do for pleasure, relaxation, distraction or mild curiosity. Hobbies are mellow. Everyone needs to have a hobby.
  • Job: A job is something you do to financially support yourself – lol if you didn’t know that then you may need more help than what this page offers! What’s important to know is your job does not define you. A job is vital but don’t make it YOUR LIFE – it’s just a job. You need to have a job – even if you are completely financially supported…. I am not sure if this applies to SAHM…. Anyhooooo….
  • Career: This is something that you build up over the years with energy, passion and commitment. A career is best done with excitement, it requires ambition, strategy and hustle. A career is a choice. Care about it if you have one – but not everyone needs to have a career.
  • Vocation: This is your calling! While a career is about relationships between you and the world, your vocation is about the relationship between you and God (or the Universe as I prefer to say). A career is dependent on others while vocation belongs only to you. Your vocation can be anything that brings you to life and makes you feel like your soul is animated by purpose. A vocation is a private vow, it is sacred and it is a must!

So with this wonderful information jotted down in my diary, I began to wonder what were my four? Seriously, what are my four? My pen tapped the page over and over but nothing, nothing legible came out. Even when I joined the dots there was nothing there to read into. I wear many hats in life this I do know but I’m not sure what fits where. I don’t know what is my sacred vocation. Is it my dabbling in writing, my love of all things home with Interior Styling, or is it something I haven’t even discovered yet. What I would class as my job when 90% of my life commitment is motherhood but hang on a sec we don’t get paid for that?! My hobby, my distraction …

I don’t know what is my vocation, my scared and private vow with the Universe?! Is it my dabbling in writing, my love of all things to do with homes and my Interior Styling, or is it something I haven’t even discovered yet, something deeper. And what would I class as my job when 90% of my life commitment is motherhood but hang on a sec we don’t get paid for that? Where’s the SAHM union, put her on the phone!! My hobby, my distraction … ummm…. hello Facebook you distract me it must be you! Or is this where my writing belongs because I can while away hours at a time tapping at the keyboard… Or perhaps my obsession with house plans, yes house plans, drawing them by hand, drawing them with instruments, drawing them on the computer and then redrawing other people’s coz I think I can do it better…. What about my career? Is this my Interior Styling or will it one day be my writing  – I get excited about both! Hell, I get excited spending hours drawing house plans too…. Do you see my confusion?!

Who knows their four? Impress me with it!

One love,

DRK xxx

Marriage, sex & a genie

** WARNING **
DO NOT READ THIS POST IF YOU ARE MY FATHER, OR ONE OF MY KIDS (you’ll be scarred! Scarred I tell ya!), OR RELATED TO ME IN ANYWAY LEAVE THIS PAGE NOW IF YOU ARE AN IN-LAW (please don’t do this to me or yourself). SHUT DOWN YOUR COMPUTER AT ONCE IF YOU ARE EASILY EMBARRASSED, SENSITIVE, SQUEAMISH, UNABLE TO LOOK ME IN THE EYE AFTER READING JUICY DETAILS ABOUT SEX AND ESPECIALLY IF YOU DON’T LIKE THE WORDS WET, FUCK or PUSSY. SO PLEASE IF YOU DON’T HAVE A SENSE OF HUMOR … LEAVE. NOW!

 GET IT? GOT IT? GOOD!

Let’s break it down …. Sex, boffing, nookie, quickies, porking and poking, to a married woman, sometimes feels like a chore, a task, another domestic duty. It’s just something else a monogamous woman has to add to her mental, emotional and physical list of ‘pleasing’ others. It’s neither fun nor painful but just .. well .. just plain annoying, kinda like having to feed the kids. Every. Single. Damn. Night.

Rumpy-pumpy with an eager-to-please partner can be considered much like an internal examination, except it’s not happening every 2 years, it’s expected daily, twice daily for some! The type of internal I am discussing here is where a doctor, regardless of gender, shoves their hand ‘up there’ and cops a good feel for their own (medical) satisfaction. The only difference between doctor and your hubbies style is that the doctor is looking for anomalies, concerned for your health and wellbeing while the husband is frantically searching for the exclusive G-Spot, concerned for his sexual prowess and masterful carnal abilities… Nope, that’s not it sweetie, you’ve gone too far and now you’re scratching the back of my tonsils. It’s during these ‘internals’ with your man that you are likely to be flat on your back thinking “Are you done yet?” Or disapproving your sharp unmanicured fingernails or even after a few long minutes of thrusting you begin the desperate and silent prayer for one of the kids to wake up so he will have to hurry the fuck up and finish off.

Sex can sometimes mean your lady bits get rubbed like your man is polishing silverware. Really tarnished silverware. A really tarnished silver lamp. A really tarnished silver Genie lamp. Furiously rubbing that special lamp to make a magical Genie appear … From your vagina. Sometimes you wish that vulva Genie would indeed appear so you could make three wishes – the first wish being that he stops rubbing  before he chafes your pubic bone. Sometimes sex involves lots of kissing – like they do in the movies …. Except it’s actually reality and it’s morning and your breath smells like someone’s laid a turdy in your mouth. Second wish – breath mints and a cold shower – for him! Sometimes in the lead up to sex, your husband’s version of foreplay (which goes on all day) is a slap on the arse, a grope of the tits, a few rotatory swings of his dick and a suggestively asked question “So, how ‘bout it?” Wish three – limp dick!

For the majority of women that I know and have intimate discussions with, this all seems relatively normal. Normal to rate sex and chores on the same level – sometimes – especially during a long term relationship with more than one kid. But I don’t dare speak for all women because I happen to personally know a few exceptions to this and they are real life, everyday women who are just absolutely crazy for a bit of horizontal hula. They’d be balls deep all day with their husbands if they didn’t have to work or eat or feed the fruit of their pounding loins. They’re like rabbits on viagra, they can’t get enough of the salami feeding the kitty! God bless their raging salami loving … ahh … umm … meows! For me, though, sometimes I’d rather just go ahead and poke myself… In the eye… With an actual salami.

Hey while we are talking poking here’s a good tip to all men out there – when a woman says “make it quick” – mate you need to move that broomstick like a lightning bolt alright?! In-out, in-out, roasted? Good now get off us we’ve got stuff to do.

Sex isn’t like in the movies and the only time it is remotely close to that passionate and consensual ecstasy is in your dreams… with Channing Tatum… and sometimes his wife. Sex is an avoidance. It’s women sneaking into bed, usually unsuccessfully, because even though he doesn’t hear the kids cry at night he can certainly hear the non-existent purr of your pussy. So many men whine about their wives not ‘putting out’ enough but hey princess, put out the washing, put the kids to bed, put your swinging dick back in your pants and maybe we might consider putting out more often but hey, probs not.

Disclaimer: I love my husband and in Australia he’d be known as a “decent shag”. He’s not selfish in the bedroom and likes to please which is sometimes his downfall coz when you’re not in the mood and he wants you to be in the mood things can really drag on. My husband hangs out the washing and he always puts the little kids to bed when he’s home. If only he could learn that slapping his willy on the end of the bed isn’t considered foreplay and as a reminder to all men dicks arent pretty no matter which angle you look at them. I actually have a great sex life with my husband whom I’m still very much attracted too.

UPDATE: This is a story. Not a true story. This is not a narration of my sex life. This is an accumulation of stories told by many women, over many years, over many coffees, wines, tears, laughter and sometimes all of these things at once. It’s ok. I’m ok. He’s ok. We’re ok. Oh and before you comment or send me crazy arse threatening emails have a read of Part 2 and if you still feel inclined to freak out let me tell you right now …. I don’t care.

Shit Resolution

This story starts with a diet. As a serial dieter it is something I almost forgot to mention since I am ALWAYS on a diet or an anti-diet making it kind of normal life for me. This diet is different because I finally succeeded. In fact, I kicked its butt losing 6kg in the first 3 weeks. As a reward to myself, and with a confidence boost from losing weight, I bought myself some denim shorts. Yes shorts and this is exciting because I don’t wear shorts normally. Why? Well, I believe I’m so hideously white and overweight that people would surely call the RSPCA to let them know an albino whale was walking down the main street in shorts. Then, I guess, the RSPCA would have to pass the call on to the circus coz the RSPCA will likely have never heard of a walking albino whale in denim! Oh, and then considering animal circus’s are pretty well extinct these days the chances are the circus crew would have to forward the call on to Nobody-Gives-A-Fuck because seriously I am wearing shorts and not a mankini made from chimp testicles. Nobody cares!

This story is on a Wednesday which of course means it’s WILD . My favourite day of the week. The day of my girly catch up. I’m kitted out in my new light blue denim shorts and a hot pink singlet top which is worth mentioning seeing as I normally I live in black clothing, universally known as a slimming colour. It is also associated with death and grieving – grieving my once hot and unappreciated body, post kids. This hot pink top is also worth mentioning because if you see me in colour it means I’ve probably lost weight so mention it, ok? Let it be known there’s nothing women love to hear more than “Have you lost weight?” So with 6kg gone and the first part of my diet finished this particular Wednesday was the day I was able to slowly introduce new foods back into my life. The critical part that I missed was the word ‘slowly’. After living on bland boiled protein and broccoli (I’m dramatising but it’s pretty much on point) I’d been super excited to eat my new flavours at breakfast … Fried mushrooms with a scrambled egg and when there’s WILD there is always at least one full cream latte! After missing out on my normal latte for 3 whole weeks I’d hopped into my creamy coffee with immense amounts of love, gratitude and skulling this special Wednesday morning! I’m also at this time, which is important to mention for the re-enactment of my story, recovering from knee surgery. Being my left knee and owning a manual car I’ve been picked up on this momentous day by my WILD friends who were also dropping me home once we were done at the park.

The Story….

It is a beautiful morning. The sun is out, the kids are happily playing and I am with some of my favourite girls. The two hours we spend together come and go too fast as per usual making it time to pack up and head home for our kids to go to sleep. It is around then that my tummy starts to make some special kinds of noises. It isn’t worrying me initially since we are planning on leaving soon(ish) AND live in a City that is more like a country town meaning everything is literally 5 minutes away – including my house and my toilet. On the walk to my girlfriends car I begin noticing the stomach noises start to resemble that of an angry bear, on a hot day and you’re an unwelcome visitor in his woods. An angry bear that you have just poked in the eye with a fiery marshmallow on a stick. It also happens to be his stick. I am also becoming aware of tiny beads of sweat forming above my lip. I start to feel a sense of caution that I may actually be in trouble here.

Buckling my son into my friends car, I weigh up my options…

  • A) Go to the toilet before we leave – even though I am a grown up and should realistically last the 5-minute journey home or;
  • B) Possibly shit myself. Shit myself in front of my friend, in my new denim shorts and her lovely clean car.

The next gurgle urgently chooses the safest option for me. It is most definitely A)! I tell my friend, in the calmest manner possible, that I’m not going to make it all the way home and will have to ‘go’ before we leave… Five kids and a flea-sized bladder is always an unspoken excuse for random pit-stops. I’ve begun backing away from my son who was securely buckled into his carseat and now crying because he’d heard me say I was going somewhere. I’ve looked at him with a desperate and pleading look. “I’ll be back”,  I’ve gritted unconvincingly through my teeth. Unconvincingly because depending on the outcome I may not come back as the same Mummy he knew before!

With every step comes a more urgent gurgle. The 80m to the toilet begins to look like a marathon of miles away and with a new surgically repaired knee running isn’t going to be an option. OMG! This news hits me like a tonne of anxiety-ridden-bricks … Running is NOT an option!!! The pain is beginning to feel unbearable and it takes every ounce of concentration to walk and squeeze my butt cheeks together at the same time. At my most critical moment, I’ve stopped at one of the cafes tables. I’ve gripped the round aluminium top with both my hands. I’m slightly bent over clamping my arse cheeks together tighter than a ducks arse which is waterproof! I’m hanging there stooped over only for a few moments, talking quietly to myself about how the outcome of this situation could consequently change my life forever. I’m sucking back a few deep breaths, I have to. I look up and realise there’s an older gentleman sitting directly in front of me. He and his dogs are looking at me. Concern? Fear? I’m not fucking sure. It’s in that millisecond it sinks in that I may not make it and that I could possibly shit myself right here and now. Shit myself in front of the man with two dogs whose sitting there judging me. Shit myself in front of the three ladies innocently serving coffee in the coffee shop and who will never look at me the same when they hand me my latte on a Wednesday. Shit myself in front of all the little children in the playground. Actually, that is slightly comforting considering they’re all probably walking around with a nuggy or two in their nappies anyway.

Eyeing off the loo which is now about 20m away, I’ve sucked in the deepest breath I can so all my concentration over the next 20 steps or so could go on clenching my bum instead of breathing. I’ve stood up straight, or as straight as my excruciating bowel pains will allow. It is now or it is never. I limp as fast as my dodgy knee can take me. 10m from the door I’ve started to unbuckled my shorts not caring if anyone can see me inappropriately prematurely undressing. The sweat is now on my forehead and dripping in my eyes. The waves of pain have become a constant churning of pure torture and it would only take one fleeting moment of relaxation of my clenching to spell disaster … And disaster would be spelt S-H-I-T-E-V-E-R-Y-W-H-E-R-E! Momentarily a new panic sets in as thoughts flash through my mind of an occupied toilet. If the little sign on the door handle is red I’m screwed. Everyone. Is. Screwed…. What seems like an eternity later, my hands and eyes finally reach the door knob and with relief my pounding heart cries that the little sign is green! THE LITTLE SIGN IS GREEN…. THE TOILET IS VACANT! THANK YOU UNIVERSE!

I don’t know how long I spent in there. I don’t know how noisy I was. All I know was that at that time I did not give one fuck. I had made it. I HAD MADE IT! The relief was joyous! The next person’s public toilet experience maybe not so joyous!

So let this be a Happy New Year and a resolution to you all – let go of the shit that holds you back from what you want in life! The fear may still be there but if you let it, it will consume you and stop you from what it is you really want in life but if you ride the fear like a hardcore-bull-riding-superwoman you will get where you need to go – maybe not in style but you’ll get there none-the-less!

One Love

DRK xxx