A perfect afternoon with PMS.

Step 1: Make the perfect mug of tea. Too much coffee (already had FOUR today) makes you jumpier than usual. Tea. Tea is good. Traditional Afternoon with two sugars and milk. The right temperature, the right amount of brewing time... aaaahhhh.

Step 2: Put Munchkin down for a nap while Squirtle is napping. Ahhh, the serenity. With tea. Doesn't get any better.

Step 3: Put on a good episode of Dr Phil, decide to do something productive and fold laundry. Dr Phil, tea, peace, smug sense of accomplishment. Aaaahhhhh :D

Step 4: Turn kids' clothes right-side-out, forgetting that feet on trackpants are always full of sand, and perfect cup of tea is sitting on the floor, waiting to catch expelled sand.

Step 5: Burst into tears. Boil kettle.



:(

Bad Habit (Pt II)

Dear Allen Carr,
Get to the fucking point already.
At this rate, I'll be diagnosed with terminal lung cancer before I manage to get through this book and stop feeling like I've been reading the same three pages over and over again for almost a week.
Christ. I get it. I understand. Next point, please. Bring me closer to the end so I can throw out these darbs and 'get free'! One can only read a sentence rephrased so many times before one loses her temper and hits the Longbeaches (yup, that 'last pack'? I'm on my THIRD 'last pack'. Thanks for dragging it out, Mr Carr).

Regards,
Glamourcide.

Bad Habit

Wanna know what I spend $8000 a year on?



That's right. A dirty, dirty habit that I am finally about to break.
For good this time.


I can still vividly recall the first time I ever smoked. I was 12 years old, in the first few months of high school. Standing near the wash-basins in the O Block toilets (yeah, really smart in hindsight when the Special Ed teachers' staffroom was within sniffing distance) with about eight other girls. Passing around a limp Winfield Red, taking turns at bum-puffing and sneering at any who dared cough or splutter.

I was hooked right from that first moment. Neither of my parents smoke, and my grumbly old chain-smoking gran had passed away the previous year. So I enlisted friends with nicotine-addicted parents to smuggle away the odd cigarette here and there in exchange for shrapnel, a lip gloss they'd coveted, a lend of my favourite Spice Girls CD.
We'd sneak off to the toilets, hide in a cubicle and exchange goods. The precious cigarette or two would be zipped into the hood pocket of my navy-and-white school-issue spray jacket, where I knew my mother would never dream of looking. I'd treat my synthetic jacket like it was made of mink until I could get home and transfer the illicit ciggies to my favourite hiding-place - a drawer in my wardrobe where my underwear was housed.
I was always a pretty responsible kid. My mum had no problems leaving me at home alone for a couple of hours at a time so she could do the grocery shopping or run some other errand after she finished work.

And as soon as she pulled out of the drive-way, I'd get out that cigarette and a box of matches, climb a tree in the yard so the stench wouldn't invade the house (and no nosy neighbours could bust me among the foliage), and savour every last bum-puff, right down to the filter.
Then I'd dispose of the evidence, run upstairs and shower, shampoo my hair and scrub my teeth to remove any and all traces before my parents came home.


It wasn't long before I worked out that I could scrape up enough spare change to buy a pack of Longbeach Mild (now known as 'Original') 20's, and if I sat outside the corner store long enough, eventually I'd come across someone who was willing to walk inside and add those cigarettes to their milk, newspaper and chocolate bar.

And so it went. I was 15 and a complete slave to Big Tobacco.
Of course I thought I was cool. The taste was disgusting, the smell absolutely vile, but I just. didn't. want. to. stop.

My Dad found out when I was 16. He was dropping me at a friend's house for a party, and seeing as I was dolled up in all my finery, I figured I could get away with buying my own cigarettes for a change. I went into the store, got my darbs, and tried to hide the small pack against the back of my thigh as I got back into the car. Dad gave me a lecture, I told him they were for my friend and she'd asked me to pick some up on my way over, he rolled his eyes and let it go - by then, I was already half-way off the rails and smoking was one more battle my parents couldn't be arsed dealing with when they had so many other things to worry about in their own lives.
They were right in a way, though - they could lecture, punish and carry on all they wanted, I was going to smoke. So they started buying me packs of cigarettes themselves and figured it saved them the headache of arguing with me.

I got suspended from school at least three times for smoking - once I did it right in front of a teacher. I was beyond caring. You all know we're sitting down here smoking, why bother hiding it? Suspensions got me three days to sit at home in my pyjamas and smoke as much as I fucking wanted. As a rebellious 17-year-old, that was a good thing.


Now I'm 24 years old and have been a pack-a-day smoker for about 6 years. Tailors started costing me too much when I was 20, so I started smoking rollies. Even with the cheaper option, I'm spending $150 a WEEK on the filthy things.


'You could be buying me a shitload of gourmet cat food with that money.'

I've tried to quit. Numerous times. Probably eight or nine by now? And I've never managed to go a full 24 hours without a cigarette. Even when I was pregnant. Even when I was going into surgery under general anaesthetic and told smoking before the op could mean I don't wake up. About an hour after the birth of my second child, I was out in the carpark holding my stomach and chaffing away as though my life depended on it - and I'd been whingeing at the nurses to let me to out for a cigarette since the cord was cut.
I just can't kick the habit, and it makes no sense to me. I smoked pot for 4 years and then just quit one day. No turning back. Okay, except for that one weekend on the Gold Coast with old friends when the Boss and I got blind rotten drunk and easily influenced - but that was one cone in 3 years of being clean and while it felt great at the time, I don't miss it and I don't even think about it.

I've tried patches. I've tried lozenges and gum. I've tried distraction. I've tried reading the books, joining the websites and calling the Quitline. Tried cold turkey, cutting down, even went on Champix and it was no bloody wonder I just kept smoking, what with feeling sick as a dog and having horrific nightmares all the time.
And I still have that big old biscuit tin full of empty tobacco pouches and papers sitting right outside my front door.
I'm writing this with a cigarette between my fingers right now.


But enough is enough.
It's time to kick the habit. This dirty, filthy habit that has endangered the life of my children and put my own health and safety on the line. This grotty, stinking habit that literally burns any spare cash I have and denies me small pleasure in life like new handbags, good skin and tickets to Paramore concerts.

The Boss and I are in agreement. Today, I am going to Chemist Warehouse to stock up on Nicabate lozenges (and hair dye), charging up my Kindle so I can purchase this Alan Carr book everyone's recommended, buying a pack of tailor-mades to wean myself off properly, and when those 30 Longbeach Originals are gone... so is my dirty habit.
My addiction, on the other hand... will be worked on.

Wish me luck. This is going to be a tough one. I'm a creature of habit, and this particular one has been my favourite for far too long.

Karma.

I don't usually like to add, 'is a bitch', but she sure must be PMSing today!

Scenario:
You've lost a few kilos, bought some new clothes for summer. The Boss is working extra hours, meaning earlier starts, so you have extra time in the mornings for small pleasures you'd almost forgotten, like applying makeup and making your hair look like you've done something to it. (And, may I just add here, a big thank-you to Britney Spears for making scruffy, scraped-back thirty-second hair look good - works a charm for me when I cbf waiting for my straightener to heat up!)

You drop the Munchkin at daycare and head for the shops with Squirtle in tow. Upon arrival, you exit your car and out of the corner of your eye, notice two exceptionally attractive boys heading for their car.
You do the whole pretending-to-ignore-them-even-though-they're-making-you-a-little-sweaty thing, and realise that not only are they copping a perve, they're exchanging comments on your admirable presentation on this rainy day.

Yeah. Rainy day. Here's where it all goes to shit.

You pretend you haven't heard or seen them, throw a bit more swagger into your step, and BAM - slip in a puddle and send your car keys flying and nearly drop your baby.

Well. Fucking. Done. Moron!

So this is what I get for making an effort... knew there was a reason I never bothered! I think I prefer looking like a schlub so I don't have to feel uncomfortable at the slightest bit of male attention.


Oh well. At least there's one bloke in the world who can still find me attractive even though I have the gross motor skills of a 10-month-old sometimes :/

Broken back, whole baby.

My 16-month-old co-sleeps. And I. Don't. Care!

I never knew about 'gentle' or 'attachment' parenting with my first daughter. We cried it out, we used our Baby Bjorn for about two weeks until my back got so sore I cried at the mere thought of strapping it on, we smacked her butt when she misbehaved and we, shamefully, didn't know any better.
I trusted my mother's advice because she raised two kids and at least one of us turned out okay. (That would be me... I'm not even going to start on my brother...)
Munchkin's birth was traumatic. Devastating. Nearly killed me, and that's no exaggeration. The adjustment to becoming a mother and caring for a newborn who depended on me for everything but breathing, was overwhelming. My body was broken, and my spirit almost followed. So I asked for help, and took the advice of those I trusted, and at the time, it worked for me.

But after stumbling across a parenting forum that is dedicated to gentle parenting and provides massive amounts of resources to help parents who 'don't know any better', I decided to do things differently second time around.
And it worked! My pregnancy was wonderful despite incredible family stress and the hard work of running around after an almost-two-year-old while heavily pregnant. Squirtle's birth was about as close to a positive experience as possible in a clinical setting with strangers assisting (or, walking out of the room and leaving me labour practically alone and terrified when I needed assistance), baby's position being posterior and me panicking that something was very, very wrong. We established a beautiful nursing relationship before her cord was cut and continued to nurse exclusively for almost 6 months (I wish we'd gone longer but circumstances prevented it - I tried my goddamn best and I'm proud that I managed to get that far). I did all the 'right' things with my little velcro baby, bought a sling (in leopard-print!), co-slept part-time, I did my homework and decided that she needed comfort and reassurance, not 'training'.
And now, at 16 months, my tiny velcro baby has grown into a big velcro toddler, and I don't mind at all.

Sure, it's frustrating when I'm busy or just want some time to sit on the couch and paint my toenails, and she wants to be cradled in my arms and snuggle against my chest. Sure, it can get annoying when she's overtired or overstimulated and just cries and cries and cries unless I sit quietly with her and hold her until she settles. Yeah, my chiropractor LOVES that I still climb into a tiny port-a-cot with a strapping toddler to give her a bottle and get her to sleep at night. My neck hates me, but whaddaya gonna do? She wants her mummy, she can have her mummy.

The Boss gave me the lecture a few nights ago. I'm 'doing it wrong'. The evidence that I'm a failure as a mother? The fact that I'm the first and only person my youngest daughter turns to when she needs anything - encouragement, praise, food, cuddles, a band-aid. Yep, she must hate me for the way I've raised her.
Despite my retort that all the scientific research I've found, and the vast majority of anecdotal evidence, supports gentle parenting, co-sleeping and other aspects of raising babies to become well-adjusted, happy and secure children, teens and adults - I'm doing a poor job and I must lay. down. the. law already! For Christ's sake, she's going to be two soon and she *still* has to have me lay down with her at night to get her to sleep?

Yeah. And the problem is...?

So I decided I'd give the Boss's advice a shot. I'll try self-settling (I hate the term 'cry it out') and we'll see how it goes. If it works, then great - it's probably about time she learned to put herself to sleep at night, and if it doesn't, then no stress - I think my poor neck can take a while longer of being twisted up for fifteen minutes a night. No biggie.

Thursday night, I put Squirtle to bed, in her cot, with a bottle, and lay with her until she'd finished it. I climbed out of the cot, said my goodnight and went back to my beloved Facebook. She stood up in her cot, whinged for a minute or two, then - silence.
That's usually how it happens, anyway.
Last night, I put her to bed, and she stood up and cried before I'd left the room. The Boss said, 'No.'
So I waited. 'But she's not whingeing. She's CRYING. She isn't going to sleep.'
'You left her last night and look what happened - asleep in two minutes.'
'Yes, but that was a whinge, not a cry. Tonight she's practically already hysterical.'
'Just wait.'

So I waited. I sat on the couch bouncing my knees up and down and tapping my fist against my thigh. She wasn't going to settle, I knew this, I just needed to make it look like I was trying to give the Boss what he wanted.
I didn't look at the clock, I just waited until I couldn't stand the crying any more and got up to soothe her. I lay in bed with her, she settled, I stood up and she followed suit, screaming.
I tried it again - lay her down, say goodnight, leave the room.
Less than two minutes later I was back in there as Squirtle sounded like she was about to pop an artery. She was bright red, her face wet with tears, her cries the distressed and panicked type that no parent should ever force upon their baby.

I took Squirtle out to the lounge room again and smirked at the Boss. Yeah, I'm a terrible mother. I know I am when I make my child cry for no reason.

I understand that this isn't going to work for everyone. I know that when I had Munchkin, my emotional state was so fragile that a clinging, crying and unsettled baby would probably have led to one of us getting hurt - very badly. I understand that not all parents are able to brush off the constant neediness of a small child and find self-settling better for their circumstances.
I just can't do it, and I don't see a need.
I'm perfectly happy to cuddle my baby when she wants me. It's no inconvenience for me to lie on the couch with her snuggled up to my chest, and watch TV until she falls asleep. It's not a rod for my back, and I wish my mother and my husband would just leave it alone instead of criticising me every step.

My daughter loves and needs me, and I am here to provide her with that comfort, security and reassurance. I am confident that she will grow out of it in her own time, and she may be a better person as an adult if I give her what she craves now.

It's instinct. Instinct I ignored with my first child, and I'm not an idiot - I learn from my mistakes and try to improve next time.

My philosophy is this: these precious early years disappear too fast. Looking back, the 'struggle' with a clingy child will seem like it lasted minutes, not years. If I'm not having any more babies, I'm not going to waste this time with selfishness and 'routine'. I'm going to let her be a baby, and enjoy it, even the hard parts. I won't have this time back ever again, and it will be such a tiny period in the long run, I don't care about losing free time, losing sleep, or losing the ability to leave my kids with anybody while I go off and have 'me time'. I can work around my children's needs so that everybody's happy.

And I proved a point. Gotta love it when I'm right!

Deadly Thin.

I know it's wrong.

I know it's sick.


But watching episodes of Dr Phil featuring guests who are suffering such severe cases of anorexia that they are literally about to keel over and die, makes me absurdly happy.

Because maybe one day, I might be that thin.

One day.

Maybe.

Judge, jury and executioner.

And we're all guilty.

Guilty as charged.

But don't ever admit it, or someone may judge you.


As a stiletto-wearing, mascara-obsessed, non-career-oriented feminist, it offends me to see us women being our own worst enemies. We'd all be only mildly less threatening to each other if we went around pointing semi-automatic weapons in each other's faces while wearing combat boots.

We're all fond of a gossip, this is true. But today, let's call it by its real name: condemnation. We get together over coffee, we bump into each other in public toilets or at the shops, we call each other up when we've got some free time and talk about mutual friends and acquaintances, air our grievances, and get feedback on whether we're 'right' in our judgments and momentarily feel better about ourselves.

What is it with women and our inherent ability to sneer at those around us, judge their words and actions and label them 'less than'?

Don't get me wrong. I'm just as guilty as you are. Maybe even more. I'm not sitting here on my high horse pretending I'm perfect, I know I'm just as much of a bitch as the next female. But I'm learning to hold my tongue, reserve my judgment and stop pigeon-holing everyone into neat little boxes that enable me to feel good about myself by taking others down a notch or two.

We have a bloody long way to go in our society. For a community that claims to be free- and forward-thinking, we are sometimes still as mired in the mentality of our Victorian forebears as the 'conservatives' we denounce.

We don't like working mothers. (Why bother having any if you're just going to dump them in daycare and let someone else raise them while you chase a promotion?)

We don't like stay-at-home mothers. (Way to destroy everything we've worked for for fifty years, throw away your potential and sit around in your pyjamas all day refusing to contribute to society!)

We don't like young mothers. (Keep yer bloody legs shut, you're too dumb to raise a family.)

We don't like old mothers. (You selfish cow, why didn't you marry off at 21 and have kids when you should have?)

We don't like promiscuous women. (Dirty whore. 'Nuff said.)

We don't like chaste women. (Uppity bitch, who does she think she is, carrying on like she's better than us?)

We don't like social butterflies. (Too vain is her problem, why can't she stay at home and look after her man/kids instead of flashing it around all over town like she's special?)

We don't like homebodies. (Uppity bitch, who does she think she is refusing invitations to come out with us like she's better than us?)

We don't like childless mothers. (You won't know what you're missing out on until it's too late - mark my words!)

We don't like potential mothers. (Would you just give up on this IVF nonsense already and face facts? What about adoption? Maybe you just need a holiday and to stop thinking about it so much, it'll happen when you're not expecting it.)

We don't like married women. (This isn't the 1950's, you don't need a piece of paper to prove your commitment to someone.)

We don't like single women. (What are you, commitment-phobic? Just set the date already!)

We don't like militant idealists. (How dare you make me feel bad about my own choices? Just shut up already!)

We don't like passive 'don't fix what ain't broke' types. (God, would you get a clue? You can't just float through life not caring about anything outside your own private bubble.)

We don't like subservient women. (Too much under the thumb, is her problem. Needs to stand up for herself and tell that man she ain't making any more sandwiches.)

We don't like them to be in positions of power, either. (Ugh, what's she got, concrete balls? Tell her to get back in the kitchen where she belongs.)


The list goes on for days, and no matter what you do, no matter what you say, someone, somewhere, is pointing the finger and saying, 'She's doing it wrong'. And chances are, that person is a woman. A woman who should, if not understand, then at least put herself in your shoes for a moment and say, 'What if?'



The truth of the matter is, there is a weight on my shoulders and I'm relating everything back to it right now. I'm still not ready to talk about it, but I'm tired of keeping things to myself for fear of being judged by those I trust to support me. It's unfair, it's unnecessary, and you're just as flawed as I am.
Be kind to each other.