Ohhhhh the guilt!!!

Being a mum (for me) seems to be riddled with guilt!  I can't get away from it...

I'm constantly feeling guilty for... well, everything!  Here are some examples of things I tend to feel guilty about:

1. Not playing with my boys enough (but seriously, I suck at Lego and I hate trains - anyone wanna learn how to French Plait?  I'm up for that!)

2. Not cooking healthy enough dinners (or even planning for dinner particularly well... it's not uncommon for me to run in the door at 5pm thinking "Oh bugger, bugger, bugger I've got nothing out of the freezer!")

3. Not having enough money to send my kids to all the art classes, acting classes, Karate classes they want to go to (we do 'soccer' so there is some consolation in that)

4. Not having enough money to buy them the fancy-shmancy, zingy-pingy, twisting-twirling, brightly coloured toys they see on TV every morning (and actually doubting they would even play with them after the first 'twing-shwing-light explosion' but not being able to convince them of that)

5. Not being able to go away on the 'snow holiday' that they keep asking for (and apparently all of Mr 7's friends are going on)

6. To combat the lack of finances that causes this guilt, I would have to get another job, which would mean working more hours, which means more guilt due to the lack of time to play and to cook healthy dinners (see points 1 and 2) so therefore feels like a double-guilted situation!

7. Oh yeah... and then there's the biggie... the heaviest burden... when I 'lose the plot' and have a huge raging hissy fit at the kids.  Yep.  There are times that I yell and scream and pull what I imagine are extremely unattractive faces.  And then I stop and see their wide eyed little faces and feel bad (but also I relish that moments silence... ooops I didn't say that...).

But we have had a family meeting and decided that as a family we will ALL have a 'No Yelling' rule.  And it works really well... mostly.  But then the guilt and the busyness and the housework and the 'work-work' and kids arguing and constant demands on my time and the five million things running around in my head that are on my 'to-do' list that haven't been done - all comes tumbling down on top of me and then one of the kids argues with me about something... and the no yelling rule gets promptly hurled out the window.  And... hello guilt, my old friend, there you are again!

Baking with kids...

Is it wrong that my desire for perfect baking sometimes outweighs my desire to not leave permanent emotional scars on my children...?

I love baking with my kids... well, in my ‘Mother-of-the-Year’ fantasy I do.  There, safe in my fantasy world, I’m happily whipping, beating, creaming and folding (I’m wearing a gorgeous frilly pinny, and I’m a real hotty... about a size 8, but still with boobs and hips... you know, only a smidgen from reality...). 

In this dream-land my kids are expert bakers: understanding the necessity of measuring ingredients and not dumping an entire bag of flour into the creamed butter and sugar; never sneezing into the cake mix; they wouldn’t dream of grabbing the butter and biting out a large chunk; it simply would not occur to them to shove a mouthful of the mixed dry ingredients into their mouth - and on finding it ‘not to their liking‘ spitting it back into the mixture (although, who does like to eat flour and baking powder?)  

Nope, my fantasies are NOT reality, not even close. 

In reality, I tend to get a wee bit stressed, I seem to be constantly saying “don’t put the spoon theret!”, “don’t tip the whole bag in!”, “please don’t pick your nose while we’re baking”.  I end up feeling like the kids are trying to sabotage MY baking efforts.  My baking, which must be moist and light, pretty and tasty!  It must not contain boogies, spit particles, egg shells or excessive amounts of baking powder (*note: one cup of baking powder is ALWAYS excessive).  

Perhaps I'm just expecting too much... I think we'll just stick to baking with play doh.

Poos, poos, everywhere...

Ohhhh I’m sooo sick of poos!!!  When will it end?  And now I have to think about whether the horrible word has an apostrophe or not!?!  And right now I’m so over poo that I don’t even care. 

Before I was a mother, I heard horror stories of the odd child (odd as in rare, not like, weird or anything) who had ‘painted’ with their own poo’s (if it belongs to them, it does have an apostrophe... right?).  How repulsive!  My child would NEVER do that!  Clearly it was all in the parenting, and I was going to be a great parent, therefore that problem would not be one that I’d be having.  And I think that was the moment that my fate was sealed.  See, I’ve pretty much figured out that whatever you think will never happen to you... will definitely happen.  Especially if that thing involves you thinking that you’re better than someone else.  If only I could go back in time and tape my foolish, opinionated (young) mouth shut.     

My second-born child has been obsessed with playing with his poo since he was old enough to take off his own nappy.  I have cleaned poo from walls, clothes, toys, carpet, beds, baths and tonight... the shower.  Even Iggle Piggle wasn’t safe.  One Christmas Eve while I was busy baking, Iggle Piggle got dealt to.  Poor fella.  Most toys I throw away when they’ve become poo scoopers or diggers or objects to squish poos with.  But Iggle Piggle was really expensive!  So he got the daylights scrubbed and disinfected out of him.  And then he sat the airing cupboard while he recovered from his ordeal.  And while I got brave enough to handle him again.

I’ve become very good at noticing ‘silence’ these days... and usually I can jump in fast enough to halt the poo artwork before it begins.  And toilet training is going really well, so I pretty much thought we were coming out of the poo phase.  I got smug.  I thought I had it sorted.  So tonight, Mr Three was in the shower when I hear the call I dread “I got poooooooooooooo’s Muuuuuummy!”  And the smell hit me.  Poo and steam.  NOT good.  Not even manageable.  Just bad.  All kinds of bad.  

I am no longer smug.  I will not get smug again.  

I'm NOT ready for this!!!

I always thought I would have no problem when it came to discussing the facts of life with my kids.  My mum was incredibly open... probably sharing a weeny bit more than I really cared to know... actually a whole truck load more than I could ever have wanted or needed to know!

But this morning as my six and a half year old was eating his cornflakes, he casually asked, "So... how DO babies actually get out of the mums tummy?"  I froze.  My insides tensed, convulsed, quivered and contracted - yep, even a little bit of vomit came up into my throat (see that sharing-too-much thing is hereditary sometimes...).

On the outside I was cool as a cucumber - staring straight ahead, out the window, completely intrigued by what I saw... grass.  So I went for a swift change of subject: "Man, that grass is GREEEEEN today?  Isn't it?  Look at that grass, would you?  Good stuff grass.  You should really look at the grass more mate.  Anyway, how are your cornflakes going?  Eating them up?  Yep?  Good boy.  Gosh is that the time, I better go and... do something... in my room... I'll be awhile... you, ah, just finish up your cornies.  Good boy."

I hastily retreated to my room.  He's six.  The worst thing about six year old boys is their short attention span.  For the first time in my life, I was soooo grateful for that lacking attention span.  Crisis averted, all was good in the world, he would forget this conversation and we could wait to have it at a more appropriate time.  Like, when he's... married.  His wife can tell him.

I walked back into the kitchen where Mr Six was putting his plate in the sink (very well trained - I take FULL credit).  "Good boy!  Now quickly go and get your school bag and let's get organized for school."  Then it happened.  He eyeballed me in a way that he never has before and my toes went cold with fear... I knew it was coming.  "But Mum, you still didn't tell me how the baby gets out of the mums tummy - and I need to know."  AAARRRRRGGGGHHHH!!!  I'm not ready for this!!!!!!  (I thought this, I didn't scream it at him - although I felt like it.)

I did manage to look grumpy and impatient enough to put him off though (I know, I'm a meanie - my three year old tells me that daily).

I rang the hubby.  "He wants to know HOW the babies get out." I said. "Hahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahaha!!!" Said hubby.  NOT the right response.

A discussion ensued where we agreed that it's better he hears it from people he loves and who can tell him the real facts, before he hears it from someone at school blah, blah, blah.   So we figure my mum is the best person... just kidding.  Kind of.

I dropped him off at school and then immediately went and bought a book.  It frightens me.  It has a picture (a vague pencil sketch in pastel colors) of a baby emerging from between a ladies legs - you can't see the ACTUAL, well, you know... 'it'.  But you can tell it's coming out from between her legs.  It talks all about love and all that stuff, but I just can't get past the picture.  My child will KNOW.  As much as we tell him not too, he's bound to tell other kids (I remember going to school armed with similar information - I had kids coming from other schools to glean from my seemingly infinite 'sexing' wisdom).  So I'm responsible for someone else's child too!!  It's endless!!!

Ohhhh, I feel sick.  I need cake.

Soooo, I did it...

And here I am... blogging.  I've thought about this a lot, but never actually got around to doing it!  


I don't actually have anything particularly interesting to say right now - I'm actually sitting in the dark hallway with my laptop on my lap (ahhhh that's where the name came from!  How about the 'top' part then...? )  waiting for my 3 year old to go to sleep.  If I move, he'll get out of bed.   But I'm starving.  And busting to pee.  And my wine is juuuuust out of arms reach.  So yeah, great to time to start my blog!


I can hear the sound of something yummy being unwrapped in the lounge by either my hubby or 6 year old... how cruel!  Don't they know I'm starving?!  Not in the literal sense of the word, I could go for months without food with not even the slightest whisper of actual starvation.. but in the sense of "I've got smoked salmon, capers, pasta and mascarpone waiting for me" (hence the 'no risk of starving').


Okay, the breathing sounds deep and there's been no movement for a good 4 minutes... I think he's sleeping... yay!!  Now it's decision time - pee, food, wine - I'm pretty sure that's the best order... actually - wine, pee, food, wine.  Perfect.