FOMO is Killing Our Kids

I wish, god I wish, that I wasn’t parenting in the age of the online era. This shit is out of control and if you think it isn’t you are blind to the damage this is causing. We hate to see our kids missing out and we don’t want to isolate them from their peers but why has this “missing out” become about unrealistic “things” and by unrealistic I mean unreal, not real, made up, created, manufactured, pretend. But not in a healthy pretend play kind of way. This is a messy screwed up virtual world that I’m talking about.

FOMO by simplified definition: Fear Of  Missing Out

There are some kids who have access to smartphones, iPads, laptops, social media, internet (or as us realistic parents call it – PORN) as often as they like. That is frightening.  Truly fucking frightening. I know all kids are different and some can be completely trusted? Ok partially trusted? NO! Fuck that! They are kids! Kids are curious by nature. They are going to explore the online world and if you totally leave that exploration up to them they will find their way to things their young minds cannot process. So there is no trust! But it’s not even about trust. You are the parent – so monitor, assess, be vigilant and PARENT!

We have the right as adults, parenting adults, to join forces together and stop saying yes to every damn request our kids ask for! Start looking at the bigger picture, clear those rose coloured glasses and finally “adult” by using the N-word… NO. NO you can’t have a smartphone. NO you don’t need Snapchat. NO you cannot sit in your room with the door closed on your laptop. NO you cannot sleep with your device in your room. Be the bigger person – aka the ADULT!

This virtual world they live in is going to have huge future consequences to their lives. We know this already as cyber bullying, sexting and teen suicides have increased exponentially. It is children exposing children. This virtual world is addictive, we know that because we as adults are addicted to it! They are exposed way too young to understand how it affects their sleep, their thoughts, their reality, their mental health. It is a virtual world. It is not real. None of it.

We need to start encouraging our kids to pick up the phone and call their mates, hear their voice, understand their reactions. Encourage our kids friends to come hang at your house, kick the footy, go for a bike ride, build a cubby house. Encourage our kids to get outside, to get amongst it, in the real world, the fresh air, hang with the real people with real thoughts and feelings. Real smiles, real tears, no emoticons or abbreviated words they had to google initially to know what they meant.

Technology has its place but there is no place more important than the well being of our children. Stand up. Take notice. Our kids are the future.

One love

DRK xxx

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The ‘Sometimes’ Thoughts of a Parent

Sometimes I feel like I am missing out. I’m sorry to say it but I do. It’s so normal to feel this way yet we aren’t allowed to say it out loud as we are deemed ungrateful, spoilt, jealous. I had kids young and then I continued having kids until I felt old. And one day, before I know it and probably before my youngest has left home I will be a grandparent which is wonderful and all but then I’ll still be here. Doing what it feels like I have always done.

Not much.

A stay at home mum.

A taxi driver.

A cleaner.

A cook.

None of which I excel at. Or so it feels. It’s fucking ruthless though.

And I sound ungrateful. Yet it’s real. I’ve just watched my newsfeed tell me how wonderful other peoples lives are. They’re living the dream. Living abroad. Travelling the world and only now settling down to have babies. People I went to school with who were smarter and more committed to their future than I ever was. I wanted things now. Like a baby. Like a marriage. The first one didn’t work so why not do it again. The furtherest I have travelled is Bali when I was 11, hardly self-sufficient. Then Melbourne a couple of times. I am not worldly. I’m not even sure if this is what bothers me. I’m not convinced that I want ‘worldly’ in my nature.

I haven’t set myself up financially. My husband did that. Don’t get me wrong I worked. I worked my butt off in many jobs while being a single mother. And when I finally got myself secure in a permanent job selling real estate, and doing quite well, my hubby came along, swept me off my feet and asked me for two more kids. Which I gave him for love. But I also gave up what I’d hoped to be a forging career. But maybe I am not cut out for that. Maybe a career is not my thing. Parenting is. And of course I am going to tell you that I would never take it back. And I mean it. My kids drive me bonkers and make me question everything there is in this life but they also give meaning to my life … But somedays I have to first peel back a few layers. And somedays I worry – do they even like me? Do they wish they had a better/funner/more organised Mum? The stress of raising little humans into big humans is fucking scary. What if I fuck up? What if I have already fucked up and there is nothing I can do to change it?

When I go to my school reunion late this year – who am I? Who have I become? Where are all my great stories? There is only so much kid-talking you can do before yawning begins and they find someone far more interesting … And less drunk. Is this an achievement? The fact I have had five kids? Is this the biggest achievement I have made in my life? Again, I know this sounds ungrateful. I know to people without children this sounds like fingernails down a very ugly and very selfish chalkboard. But I am asking it anyway.

My responsibilities lie at home. My house. My husband. My kids. That is my job. My career. Somehow this doesn’t satisfy the burning for something more. The desire to be doing something else. But then I remember that even if I do something else this will always be here – but harder. There will be just as much to do except with less time to do it if I devote my time elsewhere, to me. To something I want to do.

I am a Mum forever. I know how lucky I am to say that. But what else am I? It’s a rhetorical question. Just a thought after a relentless day.

One love

DRK xxx

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Mother of All Meltdowns

Today I had the mother of all meltdowns.

Today I had the mother of all meltdowns and kicked my beloved vacuum cleaner for getting caught on a chair. Yes. That’s right. I kicked it because it got caught and I had to walk a whole three steps backwards to release it from that said chair. I swear my kick hurt his feelings and I made his motor skip a beat. He is afterall my favourite household appliance.

Today I woke up knowing a meltdown was imminent. It was brewing before I had even opened my eyes. Brewing hotter and faster than any instant cup of coffee that I once was too snobby to drink but on a day like today I’d drink piss out of a toilet bowl if I knew it would give me energy and a happy face.

Today I woke up with a meltdown in full sight of sleep deprived vision. Sleep deprived due to the woman version of the man flu – just a cold – and a thunderous killer period to boot (me in the vagina) on top of that. So not only did my head and face hurt but so did my belly and my vaj. All parts throbbing like a motherfucker. Merry fucking Mothers Day Eve.

Today I woke up to a little face that was another reason for my poor nights sleep. A little face screaming at me to let him get the budgie out. Fuck the budgie, I wanted to say. But I didn’t. Well not to his face.

Today I yelled like a soccer mum to my young impressionable household, of who I’m pretty sure were not actually listening. I screamed out my standard mum-type lecture… “How would you feel if everyday I rubbed out all your school work and made you do it again.. And then when you rewrote it I rubbed it again… And again. That’s how I feel when I clean up this pig sty over and over again!” Today I tried to make my kids see housework and school work on the same level. Who am I kidding.

Today I attempted a food shop with four energetic boys who I’d spent the morning yelling at. I attempted a food shop with a throbbing head, a pounding vaj, a billion other cranky shoppers and four energetic boys. I should have known better but I needed bread, butter and tampons. The epic meltdown kicked in before I even made it to the first aisle. My meltdown that is. Today a woman stopped me and said; “Don’t worry all of us mums feel like this sometimes. Sometimes we don’t feel like being mothers.” At which point I smiled and replied honestly; “really don’t feel like being a mother today.” An encouraging smile came my way.

Today I flipped my hamburger over crumbs on the floor, toys under my feet, a stubborn three year old, “I’m hungry” every five fucking minutes, the argument between the 6 and 14 year old about whether it was light pink or pink, the banana mushed into the couch, the not-good-kind-of-throbbing, the heavy eyes and the no escape. Today I just wanted to get everything done so then I could enjoy Mother’s Day tomorrow in a clean house. That’s my present to myself. A clean house for a whole 24 hours. Today I learnt that a clean house for 24 hours and kids is un-fucking-realistic. Today I learnt we shouldn’t even aim for 24 seconds.

Then later today my three year old woke up early from his nap. Too early. Today he screamed blue murder when he woke up. Today I finally gave up yelling. I waved my white flag, surrendered and laid with him. I laid with him to console him, to give myself some time to rest and to hopefully get another hours peace from the stubborn threenager. Today instead of the threenager fighting it he rolled over to face me and wrapped his arms around my neck. Not in a choke hold. In a cuddle. A real life, nice cuddle. And he drifted off to sleep. Today while he slept and we cuddled he patted me on the back.

Today I needed that. Damn I can’t tell you how much I needed that.

Today I’m trying to convince myself that I am a good mother I’m just having a bad day. Today I had the mother of all meltdowns and we all survived. Today I’m lucky that they’ll still love me tomorrow.

NOW REPEAT AFTER ME:

I am NOT a bad mum.

I am a GOOD mum having a bad day.

One love,
DRK xxx

Now for a bit lighthearted autocorrect text mum fun….




The Eight “Mistakes” Parents Make… Here’s a tip: there are no mistakes!

Just as teenagers awkwardly navigate through their pubescent lives so too will adults fumble through a time called parenthood. These so called adults going through parenthood will undoubtedly cross unpleasant times, have to frequently learn the same lessons time and time again and they will undeniably shed many tears from the injustice and confusion of this alien life that didn’t come with a satelittle navigation system.  It’s a tough journey on some rough terrain but some of us have to do it.

Parenting five times over certainly hasn’t made me an expert, in fact, it’s probably made me go backward more often than I have ever come forward. I can honestly say I’m still not even close to being an awesome parent and I don’t say this so my friends can tell me that I am. I’m here to blog not play that “I’m-just-saying-it-so-you-will-say-that-I-am” game. Having five kids doesn’t make me smarter, wiser or braver than any other fallen soldier, ahem, I mean parent. Some people would actually call me crazy and/or stupid for having so many kids – well, the ‘Don’t you have a TV?’ type of people definitely do. Often.

It makes no difference whether you have one child or eighteen children there are always hazards and obstacles involved in parenting and there is no technician to call to help with the troubleshooting. The fruit of our loins are not cardboard cut-outs designed to be easily pliable and shaped around our dreams and ideals. They are actually real life mini humans with thoughts and feeling and wants of their own. Plenty of wants. Making mistakes as a parent is usually not life or death, well at least these aren’t the types of mistakes I am referring to. To me, mistakes are just lessons yet to be learnt and I personally seem to have a lot of lessons I’m learning over and over again. It’s like being back in highschool but I’m actually taking every subject there is on offer and I’ve failed them all twice before I finally, on my third attempt, get a D and pass. I am just scraping by with this parenting gig too. D minus all the way. The key here is that I’ll never give in. No matter how hard the wall my head is hitting feels I will continue to try to be better.

Let it be known that when we discuss ‘mistakes’ here we are not judging so let us not get all defensive or hurt and keep those knickers from knotting. Mistakes can be fun. I made three definite ones but they turned out to be pretty awesome kids 😉 Haha I’m kidding. Or am I.

8 MISTAKES YOU SHOULDN’T MAKE AS A PARENT …

‘Shouldn’t’ because this is me giving YOU the heads up! So buckle down, pay attention and be a good student! Oh and don’t take any of my advice too seriously!

  1. SELF-DOUBT. It is a well known fact in the parental kingdom that kids can smell fear and doubt a mile off. It’s as potent as a packet of double coated Tim Tams being opened in the laundry linen cupboard by the real life ‘parent’. Give fear (or a Tim Tam) a mile they’ll still smell it, hear it and feel it. When you tell them “NO” make sure there isn’t any trace of a quiver in your tone and ensure that you are firm and 100% certain because when you tell them “No.. I said no.. Not right now… Maybe later… Oh ok…. Whatever then! Have it!” You’re actually telling them you’re a push over, a sucker and that you are the parent they need to go to whenever they want something because you’re guaranteed to be an easy crack. For the record, I’m the push-over parent. I don’t want to be but I don’t know how to take all the “umms-and-ahhs-ok-fucken-have-it’s” back. It’s gone too far. Don’t be me.
  2. CONSISTENCY. This is kind of like mistake 1^^ except we are making the assured NO consistent. If you fail at being consistent even if it’s just one time you are doomed for all parternity…. See what I did there? Parent? Eternity? No? Oh, well, nevermind. If you consistently suck at being Mum (or Dad) and consistently let them, the child, win you really are screwing yourself over. You have just turned yourself into the inexperienced undergraduate law student whose way out of their jurisdiction and the child has now been supremely promoted to senior associate. You are going to be objected, overruled and begging for a plea bargain the rest of the way through parenthood. Inconsistency is an epic mistake! Be consistent no matter how hungover you are. If there’s consistently been no icy poles for breakfast then it’s never ever any icy poles for breakfast. And for the record, it was only once and now he asks for one every fucking morning.
  3. CLEANING. Ok so basic hygiene is fairly important and we all know that a tidy house feels good but if you invest all your energy into a tidy house and perfect looking kids you will be left a quivering ball of pyschotic mess curled up in the foetal position on the twice mopped floor that is now covered in wet grass and sucked’n’soggy naked Tim Tams. If you plan, as a parent, to have a spotless display type home and TV advertisement children you might as well pack up your uterus right now, hang up your French Maid outfit and drive yourself to the nearest pyschiatric unit. Especially on school holidays. It’s not plausible. It’s not fun for child nor parent and it’s not worth the frustrations. It’s also not worth the crazy cleaning spree you do before a childs birthday party. Seriously you are going to have five hundred dirty little feet, five thousand sticky stubby fingers and a bunch of five year olds who don’t give one fuck. You’re doing it to impress the other mummies – I get it, I’ve been there too – but all it does is make those mummies go home and feel insecure about their parenting and cleanliness. Hang up the facades they’re detrimental to all of our wellbeings.
  4. DREAMS. Before becoming a parent you will have had dreams of the type of parent you were going to be and the kind of child you were going to deliver. Please, honey bunny sugar plum pudding pie, lay those dreams to rest. Right. Now. I’m not trying to blow up your dreams with a motherfucking truth laden stick of dynamite but I am going to say that high expectations may lead to big disappointment. And big disappointments lead to many other things that aren’t nice. Adapt your dreams instead. Take an attitude of seizing every parenting day as it comes. Take each moment as a unique moment in your parenting life and roll with it. Stop, drop and roll. It’s a survival technicque. Use it.
  5. ORGANIC-PALEO-LOW-GI-GLUTEN-DAIRY-SUGAR-YEAST-AND-TASTE-FREE HOMEMADE FOOD.  **Allergy kids not included – der obviously** Nutritious food is paramount to a child’s health and development. It’s not rocket science we all know that. But if you are going to lay claim that you will never, ever give your child a plastic-wrapped piece of what some of us may call ‘food’ then you are setting yourself and your child up for failure. You don’t want to put this pressure on yourself because there may be a day when you’re stuck at the hospital with your sick child who is now screaming for food and your only option is a white bread, butter and vegemite sandwich from the canteen. Give it to her. She’s fucken hungry. But don’t, I repeat, DO NOT give yourself a hard time over it. 100% healthy food only intentions are well meaning but totally glorified and sometimes unrealistic, well for us average parents anyway. Look, I know there are some hybrid parents out there who have and are pulling this 100% free range meat, organic fruit and vege only diets off and kudos to you guys… Ahem Curtis Stone Ahem…. But it’s not going to happen that way for a lot of us. Eventually there will be a day that you’re child is invited to a birthday party. Don’t let him/her be the only kid there that isn’t allowed to eat any of the party food because it isn’t healthy. Don’t be that parent. Don’t be that jackass.
  6. GIVING UP YOUR LIFE. Mummy guilt is a real thing so it is understandable that so many parents give themselves up in order to be parents. Don’t let your children grow up to believe that you only have one identity – as their arse wiper! You are a human with needs, wants and desires of your own. Not fulfilling them will leave you a little empty, slightly confused and probably just a smidge resentful. Honour yourself as a woman (man or dog) and take up a hobby or give yourself the space and a place to go to be you – authentically grown up adult version you. You will be a better parent and they will resepct you more. Lol ok just kidding. You’ll still be an average parent and your kids will still disrespect you. Big girl knickers up and enjoy that ‘you’ time while you can!
  7. PEDESTALS. These fuckers are dangerous. Seriously. Worshipping the ground your children walk on is very different to loving them unconditionally. When you worship them you see them as a glorified version of who they truly are and you expect others to see what you see. Rolling out the red carpet for your children instills an entitled belief system that is going to set them up for failure. Essentially you are lifting them up and placing them on a golden revolving pedestal like they are an object to be admire and adored. Let me warn you there are no rails on those motherfuckers and those objects you call your children will quite possibly fall once they grow up and meet the real world. Be a champ and don’t do that to them. Love them. Nurture them. Ground them. Yes. Yes. Yes! But don’t kiss the air you make them walk on. Not even Jesus walked on air. Remember that.
  8. COMPETITIVE PARENTING. Argh. I hate this. This is what those child worshippers do. I believe children should be allowed to be children, after all it is what they authentically are. It’s like cats. We let them purring pussies be who they are. We don’t dress them up as dolphins and throw them in the ocean just because we ordered an olympic swimmer. Parents shouldn’t be allowed to live their dreams through their children. Sure, teach your kid to swim and to be water safe by what’s the point in making them a bronze medallion swimmer by the age of 3. By all means teach them how to play and be a part of a team sport or a solo game like tennis but why enrol them in strenuous daily sessions, going on for hours at a time just to make them elite athletes by kindygarten. Let them play outside. Let them relax inside. We are breeding a bunch of over achievers instead of fun loving children who should be naturally developing thoughts and feelings and experiences of a child. Over-achievers are arseholes and people generally don’t like them so while they might have many trophies on their mantles they may not have much substance in their souls. So many parents push their kids into being things they didn’t get a chance to be and take control of their ‘talents’ instead of letting them find their joy in what they want to do. Like a little girl who wants to get all rough and tumble while playing football but is made to pull her hair back tight, put on a tutu and dance all because her mother wanted to be a dancing star. It’s selfish and it’s unfair. Give them encouragement and give them an extra little push where needed – especially to all those lazy little sods – but don’t force them to be the 2.0 version of what you wanted to be. That’s just being an a-hole.

Parenting is a full-time position complete with exorbitant amounts of uncertainty, no pay and a few headaches here and there. It’s a job based around other peoples needs and feelings while your own are generally left on the back burner. It’s a tough gig yet somewhere in there it’s an absolute joy and a pleasure. It’s a nightmare rolled in hot chocolate and coated in 100’s and 1000’s (or cacao and chia seeds for the health conscious). Parenting kicks your arse and hugs your heart all at the same time. I’ve been doing it for over 18 years now and I still suck but one thing is for certain and totally not sucky – I love all my little offspring and there’s nobody in this world that could love them more than me. Which is lucky coz that, and the fact they’re all pretty cute, keeps them alive each and every day 😉

Kudos to all adults doing parenthood. We got this.

One love,

DRK xxx

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And finally.. Just b’coz it’s funny…

 

Ever Had One of THOSE Days?

I’ve had one of “those days”!

I know you get what I mean when I say that because I bet your bottom dollar you’ve had at least one of those days this year too.

It’s the kind of day where you’re dropping your child at school and you’re totally high fiving yourself coz you’re there right on time for once… And then you see every other student in free-dress. It’s the kind of day where your child cries relentlessly because he is the only one in his uniform and you feel like the worst Mother in the world because you didn’t read the memo! So you drive home, you change him into free-dress and you take him back – which by now, of course, he’s late.

It’s the kind of day when you have so much to do but you have an almost-three-year-old who won’t let you do any of it without a fight. Fuck the terrible a twos these fucked up threes are a nightmare! A tantrum down every aisle, bargaining like a mother fucker just to keep him quiet, a shit in his pants in the Bunnings car park, shoes off/shoes on argument every single stop we make, a Houdini in the seatbelt and a bite on the behind in Spotlight. And just to be clear he bit me! Not from anger just pure enjoyment.

It’s the kind of day where you get granted 1 hour alone time without that Houdini biting child just to finish what you started because it was simply impossible to do it with him and stay sane. You get to the supermarket but you can’t remember how you got there and you start to wonder whether silence in the car is actually more distracting than a noisy and demanding toddler. You arrive safely, thank god, and park in the furtherest spot from the shops because it’s the only car bay where someone has actually parked in their lines. You suit up, smack that “I got this shit” smile on and head in. Locating all your items in the “new look” supermarket is tough and you seem to get caught behind every single granny who has recently had a hip operation. They’re clocking their Zimmer-frames at minus 40km/hour while swerving dangerously all over the aisle. You can’t go around them, ones coming up the rear and their too deaf to hear your polite excuse me’s. It’s snail pace on horse tranquillizers… and there is seriously a billion of them.

It’s the kind of day where you’re “late” for appointments that you actually secretly forgot and your kid forgot to hand in a permission slips for an excursion so you have to do an emergency dash to the school otherwise they can’t go. And if there’s something worse than a three-year-old tantrum it’s a moody fourteen-year-old boy. Ergh, fast forward to a happy well adjusted adult please.

It’s the kind of day when you’re about to sit down, finally, only to realise you have two kids still ‘out there’ awaiting your pick up some time soon. So you fold up your PJ’s and put them back on the bed for later… Much later. Oh well, what’s two more trips to the fourteen hundred already clocked up today.

It’s the kind of day when you’ve finally sent out your child’s three-year-old birthday party invitations only to find out apparently he’s turning one coz one rhymes with fun and three doesn’t and you probably should have known that when you bought the cute little invites.

It’s the kind of day when it seems everyone has decided to drive on the roads at the exact same time as you, but super cautiously…. Must be those hip replacement Grannies from the shops! Like 20km-below-the-speed-limit-cautious. And you want to scream and yell and be one of those psycho road ragers that you see on YouTube coz you’re in a hurry but you’re way too cool and kind for that so you sit behind them muttering obscenities under your breath because if you say them out loud the almost-three-year-old will repeat it in front of his Speech Therapist who wants to hear his ‘new’ words.

It’s the kind of day you need I.V coffee just to get you through.

It’s the kind of day where I may whinge a lot, I know, I seriously do, but I can also find the joy. I’ve high-fived myself on numerous occasions because even though I’ve been late, I’ve been frustrated, I’ve been bitten by my almost-three-year-old … I’m alive. I made it. The kids made it. We managed to laugh and talk and tickle. We’ve managed to shower and eat and fall asleep peacefully. And those slow drivers probably saved me a speeding ticket, maybe even saved me from having an accident. 

Nobody’s going to shake my hand or pat me on the back tonight to tell me what an awesome fucken game of survival I played today. Nobody’s going to give me a pay cheque for being an event planner, a taxi driver, a personal shopper, an au pair, a negotiator or a teething ring for someone who already has a mouthful of teeth. Nobody really cares.

But it’s the kind of day that when I finally crawl into bed at midnight that I can count my blessings. Of which I have many and whinging, freely, in my blog is one. Because I get to say it, unleash it, vent it and let it go while you get to relate or hate or whatever tickles your fancy and we all get on with our day after that. And so my venting here is done and my blessings have been counted. 

How about yours?

One love,

DRK xxx

How not to say sorry

No more sorry’s….


I won’t say sorry for a messy house anymore. I’m doing my best trying to keep it clean but then it gets undone. Every. Fucking. Time… Three. Times. A. Day… #sorrynotsorry

I won’t say sorry for my body when you fake tan me, see me in a bikini or give me a Pap smear. My body is my temple and sometimes that temple eats cake and fries… #loveroffries #sorrynotsorry

Saying sorry for my creased up clothes is a thing of the past. My iron was faulty – faulty as in I didn’t have fucking time this morning to care about my outfit but the kids are done. #ironingsucksballs #sorrynopenotsorry

I won’t say sorry for being a little bit cranky this morning. My smile and my charm was smashed through the window during one of the eightieth times I got up to my child. I can hardly see through the sandpaper in my eyes let alone care about making sure a fake smile is plastered on my face. Plus I haven’t had my coffee yet. #gothefucktosleepsorrynotsorry #coffeestat

I won’t say sorry for being on my phone while my child plays in the sandpit. He’s happy. I’m happy. What more do you fucking want. #stopjudging #sorrynotsorry

I won’t say sorry when we are in each other’s way at the supermarket. Stay left dickhead! #roadrulesapply #stopsayingsorry

You won’t be hearing me say sorry for saying how challenging things feel at times. It’s called venting. It’s called getting it off your chest. It’s called getting over it and moving on. I know that things could be worse. Trust me I know. I’ll pull my big girl panties up once I’ve unloaded. #whinger #sorrynotsorry

Sorry. Nope not sorry at all.

One love

DRK xxx

Parenting Like a Bitch

Becoming a Mummy is one of the most exciting and scary things to do in the world. Exciting because you are combining magic beans with magic cuddles and creating a magic mini human – with many other exciting ways to become a mummy too I know. And it’s scary because well, because you’ve seen it go pear shaped for many – especially those irresponsible mummies with their uncontrollable children in the supermarket. Right? 

Wrong….

Shall we take off our rose coloured glasses and get real here…. Yes, let’s do that.

Parenting is going to suck big time some days!

We’ve all had visions of the type of Mum we would be. We’ve also thought long and hard about how cute and agreeable our children would be and then … Well, then we actually become real life parents.

What we all need to know on those days where it sucks harder than a baby on a cracked nipple is that we are ok and it is ok to feel like we suck at this.

This post is for the days when being a Mum feels like it’s the hardest, most unrewarding and frustrating thing in the world to do. This is your virtual hug from one mumma to another.

SOME DAYS

Some days your mini-human will sleep for a total of 5 hours in a 24 hour period and it is not in one block of blissful sleep but broken into many much smaller-sized portions and always when you have shit to do.

Some days you will be puked on, peed on and pooped on a million times before you have even walked out the door and it’ll be the first time since your bundle arrived that you’re actually out of your PJ’S before lunchtime and you’ve even managed to do your hair and make-up… Sort of… It’s just not until later you realise you didn’t wash the conditioner out of your hair and you only put mascara on your left eye. Just rock it. Own it.

Some days you will post a cute pic of your baby on Facebook with hashtags like: #havenofuckstogive #luckythiskidiscute and you will mean it …. In an endearing way of course.

Some days the mini human is going to tear apart your soul while tearing up the supermarket aisle and you will be the poor mummy copping the stares from the very judgemental supermarket people. Supermarket people really are judgemental bastards aren’t they?! While we are talking supermarkets let me have a word with their marketing teams on behalf of all parents – why must you put everything we don’t want our children to have or eat at their eye level?! Why not hide that shit elsewhere and let everyone keep their sanity and shop in peace!

THE IDEAL

You may have in your mind a perfect picture but please know perfection is an expectation that you should wipe off your list right now – along with the perfect birth plan, the perfect sleep routine, the perfect child. You are giving birth to a human. A human who comes with their own needs, wants, personality and sometimes they’re even upgraded and come with devil horns… Doesn’t matter if you asked for the upgrade or not there are no refunds here! There is also no manual and the sooner you realise perfection is not in your control the sooner you will really enjoy parenthood… And it should be enjoyed. Imperfections and all.

“Perfection is an expectation that you should wipe off your list right now…” ~ Superwoman & Her Dirty Red Knickers

SCRAP IT

If you’ve pictured bliss – scrap it.

If you’ve pictured perfect Mummy, perfect Baby – scrap it. Delete it out of your mind now and forever.

If you’ve pictured only homemade organic food – scrap it. There will be days where preparation of organic food will be as hard and as overrated as the first crap you dared to push out after delivering that organic baby and tearing from one end to the other. 

If you’ve pictures breast feeding bliss and naturalness – some of us need to scrap it. There will be cracked nipples for many new mummies and as natural as breastfeeding is it is still not the easiest thing in the world to do for a lot of women. Totally ok. You are not a failure.

PARENTING LIKE A BITCH

Parenting like a bitch means that you ask for help when you need it. There is nothing weak about asking others for help.

Parenting like a bitch means before you go to bed in the evening when you’ve had one of those days look in the mirror and deep into your bloodshot eyeballs and say to yourself out loud like a crazy bitch “IT’S OK. I. AM. OK!”

Parenting like a bitch means you offer support to all those other mums doing it tough. Give them a hand when you are capable of giving it.

Parenting like a bitch means that after offering support which will be politely declined coz we are all so stubborn that you open your arms and your hearts to the troubles and tribulations of every other parent out there. You don’t have to take on their shit and you don’t have to save the world but being a good listener is heart healing. Trust me.

Parenting like a bitch means dropping the judgement. Dropping the anger, dropping the comparisons and choosing to just be real. Understand that every child and every child-parent relationship is different. Heck, I have five kids but only three of them toe the line most of the time! All five of them have been brought up the same. Same morals, same values and protocols for surviving. Yet two of them live by their own rules. It is what it is.

Parenting like a bitch means there will be moments in your life when you just want to pack up and walk the fuck out. Hell, you don’t even care for packing up – you’re done with that too! But generally once you’re at breaking point magic happens. The baby rolls over for the first time. Or the teenager randomly does the dishes. Or the non-verbal two-year-old drops his toy and clearly says his first word “Fuck.” It’s moments like these you look away, your once tense shoulders start shaking violently while you try to restrain yourself from wetting your pants in laughter … Oops pelvic floors. Wetting your pants is optional… Sometimes… Ok its not optional. You are a grown woman wetting her pants while laughing at her two-year-old son swearing.

From one Mummy to another – are you doing ok?

One Love,

DRK xxx

If you or anyone you know is suffering from Post-Natal Depression please contact your local GP, or someone you trust to talk with and get help. You can also visit PANDA.

Here’s some information from their website on PND:

The signs and symptoms of postnatal anxiety and depression can vary and may include:

  • Panic attacks (a racing heart, palpitations, shortness of breath, shaking or feeling physically detached from your surroundings)
  • Persistent, generalised worry, often focused on fears for the health or wellbeing of baby
  • The development of obsessive or compulsive behaviours
  • Increased sensitivity to noise or touch
  • Changes in appetite: under or overeating
  • Sleep problems unrelated to the baby’s needs
  • Extreme lethargy: a feeling of being physically or emotionally overwhelmed and unable to cope with the demands of chores and looking after baby

The Definition of Anxiety

Anxiety.

It’s not a medical illness nor a physical disability but it can feel deathly sickening and is often physically as well as mentally disabling.

Anxiety can stop you from doing normal things. It rides you and keeps you scared. It is fear on steroids. It tingles your insides but not in a good way. It makes your heart feel as if it is about to exlode from your chest and run away with the 20 cans of Red Bull that it feels like it has drunk.

Anxiety is not always obvious to outsiders. It’s not often a physical attritubte you can see with your own eyes. It doesn’t advertise itself on a billboard across your forehead. Anxiety is hidden within. Sometimes very well so.

Anxiety is a series of deep breaths, a lot of inner talking … Stay calm, deep breath, you’re ok. But anxiety usually yells louder … You’re going to fuck up, you’re not worthy, everyone is looking at you.

Anxiety causes you to over analyse situations, to obsess over the worst possible scenarios and can lead to compulsive behaviours.

Anxiety can feel like a heart attack. Then the anxiety increases because you begin thinking you are actually having a heart attack.

“Calm down.” These are not two words that will cure anxiety. Don’t say it to an anxious person. “Don’t worry. Be happy.” Another four words that will not cure anxiety.

Anxiety feels heavy and attacking. Heavy enough to weigh you down and brutal enough to make you feel like all of the nonense it tells you is true.

Anxiety lies to you. About everything. Anxiety is not a friend you want in your corner. Anxiety will not alter your future for the better but it will alter your present for the worse.

Breathing helps. Deep breathing. In 2, 3, 4 and out 2, 3, 4. In 2, 3, 4 and out 2, 3, 4.

Move. Fast. Controlled. Deliberate. Then breathe. In 2, 3, 4 and out 2, 3, 4. In 2, 3, 4 and out 2, 3, 4.

Speak. To someone you trust. A professional. A friend. And then breathe. In 2, 3, 4 and out 2, 3, 4. In 2, 3, 4 and out 2, 3, 4.

Courage is not the first step. The first step is courageous. 

One love,

DRK xxx

If you or a loved one is experiencing severe anxiety or depression get help! Talk to someone you trust or find a professional who can help you.

Call Beyond Blue 1300 22 4636

Burn Those Mo-Fo Scales

A few years ago my weight made my day, literally.

If my weight was up my mood was down and by down I mean down in the fiery pits of sooky-la-la-hell. Picture hyperventilating, tragic tears, snot everywhere, kicking stuff like a tempered two-year-old and eventually a hurt toe or two, it’s a pretty sight huh?!

On the other end of the scale (pun intended) if my weight was down I was up. Up in the clouds, high on happiness and full of confidence. Seriously though the only difference between a good and bad weigh day was a cheat meal and a decent shit.

One particular down day, of which there were many as it seemed just breathing my own farts could make me gain, my husband threatened the life of my scales. So when my tears didn’t dry up after the umpteenth time of him describing how he saw me and that the scales couldn’t rate sexy or awesome he honoured that threat by taking it to the next level.

He kidnapped my scales!

Yep, kidnapped that silver-tongued weighing machine without so much as a ransom note and he threw it powerfully over his head and directly at the driveway beneath our first floor balcony. He then pulled out his keys, threw himself frustratedly into his car, turned the ignition and proceeded to drive over them. Not satisfied with the crunch he ripped it into reverse, drive, reverse – you get what I’m saying? And then when he felt sure the scales were unusable he parked his ute on it as a final triumphant winning move.

I was devastated. Silly I know but I really was! How was I going to judge my day from now on if I didn’t know how fat or not-too-fat I was? Did I really have to wake up and just be happy? Is that what the rest of the world did?

I’ve told this husband-car-smashing-scales story before but now I’m out the other side, not completely cured but living better than I have before, I see this story differently. I also see it as a must for all women, everywhere, who choose their mood in a negative way because they listened to this mean girl machine! She is a mean girl compacted, digitalised and she doesn’t even have to speak to make you feel shit about yourself. Who are you giving your power away to?!!! If you must give your wonderful womanly power away at least make them living breathing humans! And by ‘if you must give away your power” I mean DON’T FUCKING GIVE ANYONE YOUR POWER EVER! Living, breathing or machining.

It does not matter how much you paid for those scales. It does not matter what excuses you come up with. If you weigh yourself every day or as in my case back then three times a day then you go NOW and you get that mother-fucking number thingy and throw them at the driveway and reverse, drive, reserve, drive, repeat and park on them! And no I won’t pay for your punctured tyres be smart about it ladies cover it in cardboard if you have to. If you don’t have a car, get a hammer, don’t have a hammer, get a bat – but not the perfection bat because that’s imaginary. Throw them in a bonfire if you can’t beat them to death and stand there triumphantly watching them burn! DO something significant to those little gravity defining mofos!

Was my pep talk not enough? What are you still doing here? Can’t let go? You want more?

Well, here’s ten reasons why you should amputate those fuckers from your life:

1. The scales WILL NOT tell you who you really are! That bitch will never give you the answers you are looking for! No. NOT. EVER.

2. The scales will not tell you how your genetics influence your weight/height/body shape. They will not tell you whether you are a petite dainty babe or a complete glamazon or some beautiful specimen in between. It only gives you a number. JUST A NUMBER! Like this – 67 – or this – 84 – or this – 72.47567296 – …. Numbers! NOT genetic make-up. You’ve got your Dad’s legs, your Mums waistline and apparently your Great-Aunties nose … A scale can’t calculate that whole bundle of gloriousness!

3. The scales will not tell you how funny/smart/creative you are. They can’t tell you that you have a killer backhand in tennis, that your kids/husband/dogs think your laugh is the one of the best sounds to hear ever in this world or that, if there was such a thing, you would have earned a Masters Degree in parenting/kicking arse by now.

4. The scales just stress you the fuck out … Don’t they? Then why do it to yourself? We are smarter than that. We are worth more than that! Life CANNOT be defined by that!

5. The scales cannot tell you your ‘correct’ or your ‘ideal’ weight. Why? Because it’s a stupid fucking machine! A stupid fucking machine that someone invented to make you feel bad about yourself! And they continue to do so and they win! Why let them win?!

6. The scales tell you nothing about your actual state of health. Nothing! It may give you your body fat percentage or your hydration level but can it really? It doesn’t take your blood and then calculate your cholesterol. It doesn’t evaluate the arteries in your heart, your pancreas function or tell you that you have a fatty liver. Other machines do that. Let them make you feel bad – but only to make you do something positive about it!

7. The scales can actually hinder your efforts! How? Well, I’m sure you’ve heard the statement, and probably, like me, scoffed at it too, that “muscle weighs more than fat”…. It actually really does! So if you are exercising and eating well and your weight is not shifting (or it is going up) then could it be possible your shifting fat and building muscle? Could it!?! But no you see you’re weight has gone in the wrong direction and you throw in the towel, sit on the couch, crying into a bag of caramel popcorn and chocolate. Don’t worry I’ve done that too a billion times over!

8. The scales can’t and won’t tell you that you’re due for your period, if you ate a cheat meal last night or if you haven’t been to the toilet in a few days. It cannot tell you that you are retaining fluid or if you’ve lost centimetres off your waistline. A tape measure can, your clothes can but not that mean girl machine.

9. Weight is your gravitational pull. Your mass is your matter. But none of it matters if you’re healthy and balanced in life. Your scales will only tell you your physical earthly mass. Not the depth, the intensity or the worthiness of your mass. It cannot tell you that your laughter is contagious, your smile lights up the room like sunshine or that you look totally fucken hot right now even though the scale says a number that isn’t socially acceptable to you.

10. The scales will only confuse you, haunt you and give you reasons to whip out your perfection bat. It’s a mean girl disguised as a helpful health machine and it will take away your power – if you let it.

Who’s the one in charge of your health? 

Who’s the one in control of your body? 

Who is the only one who can change who tells who what to do?

I’ll give you a clue: it’s not the scales!

Wear it. Own it. Be it….. And by ‘it’ I mean YOU!

One love,
DRK xxx

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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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