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….




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

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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