Monday, February 25, 2013

The F Bomb






The boy has been known to let a few unauthorized words fly from his precious little mouth at times.
Once, it was slipping a ‘dickhead’ in at the grocery store. At his father. Yep, a good old “Dad you’re a dickhead” does great things to my husbands temper. Which is not helped at all by me, pissing myself laughing, not able to get a word out, almost rolling on the floor in the toilet paper aisle (appropriately as I swear I almost pee’d a little, damn you pelvic floor), and getting in more trouble than the boy did because I should know better and my behaviour isnt teaching him anything!


*NOTE* My husband is the one who taught the boy this word in the first place. Which just added to the humour! Nothing like a little Karma Darling Husband.
This however is mild. Compared to recent standards.


If you aren’t familiar with swear words, or are offended by them, or you are my grandmother, I do advise you turn off your computer right now. Redirect yourself from this post by clicking here where you will be taken to a warmer, happier, friendly place that doesn’t drop the F-Bomb.



The boy, last week, was sitting on the step putting on his boots, happy, ‘Oh mum, it’s a beautiful day, something something Fucking Mice’! (yes we are in the middle of a ‘fucking mouse plague’).
!!!!!!!!!! was about all I could manage. When I thought that maybe I misheard him he kindly repeated it for me. I heard correctly the first time.

Fast Forward a few hours, and a few hundred km’s, to a small country town that I grew up in, and that the hillbilly side of the family still live in.

I ducked off the nearest airport another few hundred km’s, whilst the kids stayed with the family, awaiting the arrival of their dad. Apon his arrival, he thought a trip to the local watering hole to catch up with long-lost gossip friends, was in order. Again the kids stayed with said hillbilly family.
My lovely aunt, bless her soul, took one for the team and looked after the kids for a few hours, and as the ‘men’ walked out the gate, at about 4.30pm, she clapped her hands, looked at the kids, and said ‘Right, it’s time for bed’.
The boy, astonished at such a statement, turned to her and replied ‘ it’s not time for bed, it’s not even fucking dark yet’!

Oh My. Yep. Twice in one day.

I’m unsure how to parent this behaviour. He gets in trouble when he tells one of the girls he hates them and that we don’t even love her anyway, because he is outrightly being mean, and rude, and he knows it. But this. This dropping of the F-bomb, while used in context, he doesn’t quite understand the meaning behind it.

I simply told him it wasn’t a nice word for nice boys to say and he will make people sad. In my nicest mum voice.




What I was really thinking was, You fucking little shit, I am going to fucking strangle you if I hear that come from your mouth one more fucking time! Fucking fucking.



unfortunately this blog does not come with a ‘bleep’ sound. Just add where you feel it is needed. I suggest over the word Hillbilly. :)




Have your children let some ‘unauthorized’ words go? Or did you raise them correctly.

Sunday, February 24, 2013

Helicopter Parenting





This is why I am a Helicopter Parent

 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
Im noticing a distinct lack of ground under the wheels of this motorbike!
 
 
The boy thinks he is Uber clever, and I am quietly having heart attacks.
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 

Wednesday, February 20, 2013

How do you know your a working mother?

You know your a working mum when...

 
 
 

* You realise you have no clothes left before they are all over your bathroom floor, unwashed.

 

*Coffee is a perfectly acceptable meal replacement.

 

*Beautiful meals that you used to really enjoyed cooking and eating are replaced with the quickest meals you can think of, a roast is unheard of, salad is no longer a side dish but a meal itself and you haven't baked a cake in months.

 

*You don't even know how much you earn anymore because you haven't had to go to the bank since your last pay rise so every purchase has been made on Eftpos.

 

*You start to become jealous of SAHM's.

 
 

*A pony tail is a perfectly acceptable hairstyle, but on the bright side your hair super healthy due to the lack of time for heat styling!

 
 

*Sex and the City is the closest thing you have to a social life.

 
 

*You begin see the benefit of a nanny. Not because she can nurture your darling CrotchFruit, but because she can mop.

 

 

Are you a working mother?

How the hell do you keep it together??

 

 

SALE!!!!!!!

 

Stuff I love...

Thats also on sale!!!

 


 

 
 
 
 
 
 
 
These gorgeous Zombiewood shoes were last seen out on my best friend, and I am IN LOVE!!
They look absolutley ah-ma-zing and I am so sad that I didn't find them first.
 
You can grab yourself a pair here  right now, on sale for $29.95!!!!!!
Reverie boutique also has super fast postage so there is a chance you could have them on your feet by the weekend!
 
 
 
 
 
 
The gorgeous little Goldie top from Cotton On is so super cute, that I just bought one for each of my girls. I love the cute little hippy cut, and best of all, its on SALE right now for $12.50 in sizes 1-8.
 

I know this image is tiny, but trust me you really want to click here amd check out the full size images, because this cute little crop jacket is to die for.
I adore the pop of colur and the cut and have so many outfits that are screaming out to be teamed with it!
On sale for $39.95 and orders over $50 get free shipping.
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
I am yet to wear a peplum dress, but I would be lying if I said I wasn't in love with every other person that I have seen in one! Seed currently has this one on sale for $49.97.  
 

Monday, February 18, 2013

Happy Birthday {Dance floor injuries}

 
 
It was my birthday last week.
On Valentines day to be exact. I am a child of love.
 
 
This year was going to be the last birthday I ever have. Turning 29 has made me feel all kinds of old, knowing that turning 30 next year will make me all kinds of old and its a place I don't really want to go. I figure that if I remove my birthday from facebook, people won't even realise that I am skipping thirty and going back to 25. It hasn't happened until its facebook official, after all. Right?
 
 
 
So, the last ever birthday was going along fabulously. Sadly The Farmer was away, so I spent the day between work and friends.
Flowers were delivered to work, a unicorn cake was baked and scoffed, dinner was eaten and wine was drank.
 
 
Plans were in place for the weekend. A babysitter was hired, a sparkly dress was hanging waiting to be worn and the giant bright red heels were ready for dancing.
 
It was a night that had been talked about for weeks. Friends all coming together to drink copious amounts of booze and dance the night away.
 
 
All started well, and was going to plan.
 
There was a local race meet on that day, so my tiny little town was buzzing with random people, including a giant man on the dance floor.
 
 
Cue teeny tiny lady also on the dance floor.
 
 
What happened next required more sympathy than anyone was going to give me.
 
The hoof of the Giant Man and the petite little foot of the Teeny Tiny Lady met.
 
There was a shriek. There was a slight vague apology. There was a seeking of sympathy.
 
 
There was also lots of vodka.
 
So much so, that whilst it hurt, I was unaware of just how much.
 
There was some swelling, some bruising, and still no sympathy.
 
 
I continued on my merry way that night, drinking more and dancing more. I even walked home.
 
 
All was well until 7.15am when I was awoken to an intense throbbing in my foot.
 
'Geez, my foot is so dirty, I better go wash it'.
 
It wasn't dirt, it was a massive bruise on my now massive foot.
 
 
 
My hospital admission form (filled out by a nurse I am friends with) reads
"trod on by a giant man"
 
 
I laughed.
 
 
 
 
 
I am so pleased this has been my last birthday ever, because I have ended up with tendon damage, fractured bones and a whole lot of whining.
 
 
 
 
 

 

 

 

Happy Freaking Birthday.

 

Have you got a good injury story? 

Wednesday, February 6, 2013

Why motorbike helmets should be part of the school uniform

I had a baby five years ago. Last week he started school. How this happened I have no idea!

You see, I don't have babies so they can grow up. I have babies to have babies. Yet somewhere along the line two of them have found their way into school and one really isn't far off going with them. I am dreading that day.


I am the parent who doesn't want to send my kids to school. I think the idea of homeschooling is a great one, where they can spend their days me, the person who knows how to look after them like they should be looked after.

When Elliot  started school I was a wreck. I was certain right up to the last second that I would keep her home. In fact, I kept her home a year longer than her friends. But still, she went.

The night of fletcher starting I was in his bed, dreading the morning.

I attempted to buy him a mobile phone to take in his bag in case there was an emergency so then he could at least text me. The farmer said no.

I cried sending him. He didn't know what all the fuss was about. He was fine. He didn't even want to hold my hand while I walked him into school for the very first time.

I was gutted.

Three days into school and he comes home, gives me a big cheeky smile, and there was a tooth missing. MISSING.  gone.  No longer there.  A huge gap.

Apparently he fell and hit a table.

" oh he lost his first tooth!"

Yeah, he did. The only problem is it wasn't even loose!

I send my baby to school and I get duped out of his first ever loose tooth.

The farmer declared $50 was too much from the tooth fairy for a knocked out tooth.
I declared he wasn't going back to school without a mobile and a motorbike helmet.


Do you have first week of school shocker?