A secret confession

I have a secret…

I feel like I really need to get it off my chest, but you have to promise you won’t tell anyone… okay?

Cool. Okay then.

On Thursday Night, my hubby cooked dinner, as he usually does.

The dish he had planned was Pan Fried Chicken Breast, Pumpkin-Potato Mash, Baby Peas and Blackened Mushrooms and Onion.

Not long after he started cooking, he realised we had no butter for the mash potatoes, so he asked me to go down to the local Seven Eleven and pick up a stick of butter.

(Also I might add that the term Seven Eleven is waaaay over generalised, because the corner store in our suburb closes at 9pm.  So does our Bottle-O.  I suppose it might be 11pm somewhere in the world at that moment… Maybe…  Don’t take my word on that because I haven’t checked.)

Anyhow, I jumped in the car and went down to the shop. It is literally a 7 minute walk but I drove because it was dark and cold and I am a sook.

When I got to the shop, I found they only had Dairy Farmers Butter.

When I am at the grocery store, I usually buy the one that comes in the red packet and has a picture of a star on it because that’s the one that my husband prefers to cook with (do you like how technical I am about brands and stuff?).

I stood there, just looking at the fridge for a couple of minutes, willing the red packet to appear before my eyes.

It didn’t appear, so I had to get the Dairy Farmers Butter.

I actually don’t mind supporting Dairy Farmers.  I actively try to buy the Dairy Farmers brand of milk over other brands whenever possible.  I don’t know how their butter compares to the butter in the red packet.  It could be better. It could be worse.  I am not technical in the subtle palates of butter.  The only thing I really know about butter is that the salt reduced one tastes crap. Stay away from that. (You only make that mistake ONCE peeps!).

The Dairy Farmers Butter was $4.50.  For 250 grams. The one in the red packet, is usually about $3.00 for 250 grams.

But I understand. It is a corner store.  I am paying for the convenience of them being right there.  Coles and Woolies are actually still open. If I wanted to, I could drive to Coles or Woolies and get the damn butter there.  But I don’t. Because:

(a) I am lazy and don’t want to drive for an extra 5 minutes and line up at the checkout just for a stick of butter.

(b) I am already at the corner store.

(c) Hubby has already started cooking the dinner so kind of needs me to get home with the butter right now

I get the Dairy Farmers Butter.

But it is not the one in the red packet and its is more than I would like to pay so I am feeling a bit uncomfortable.  I wouldn’t say that I am stressed.  I am feeling like I need comfort.

It just so happens that to get from the dairy fridge to the counter I have to walk through an aisle of lollies and chocolates.

I hesitate, then hover, in this aisle.

So much chocolatey goodness to choose from.

After looking at the range of decadent delights (and not being able to justify the price for a whole block of chocolate) I decide to choose a Chomp Bar.  My plan is to eat it on the way home in the car.

I don’t think I have had a Chomp Bar since I was about 10 years old.  They were allowed to sell chocolates at the school tuckshop in those days and a Chomp Bar used to cost 30 cents.  I guess inflation has been running rampant over the last 26 years. Chomps are now $1.20 each from the corner store.

I get back to the car and note that the Bottle-O is open and we have no alcohol (except for Cointreau) at home.  I am thinking that the weather is cold and if the Bottle-O has Marsala it might be nice to have a bottle of it at home for the occasional warm smooth feeling that it leaves me with.

So I put the butter and the Chomp in the Car and go into the Bottle O.  They don’t have any Marsala.  So I decide to get a bottle of Merlot on special for $6.99 instead.

I drive home and pull up in the driveway and realise I forgot to eat the bloody Chomp!

I didn’t get a bag at the Bottle-O or at the Corner Store and I didnt take my whole handbag just my purse, so I have nothing to hide the chocolate in so that the kids don’t see it.

So I shove the chocolate down my shirt and walk inside with the butter and the wine.

I open the wine so it can ‘breathe’ and then retreat to my bedroom where I wolf the Chomp down with guilty pleasure.

I hid the wrapper in my bedside table drawer (and it is still there… oops).

Then dinner was ready, so I poured the wine and helped my husband dish it up.

Image

And no one knows my guilty little secret.

Ssssshhhhh!

What happened to the tooth fairy?

I won’t be winning the mother of the year award any time soon. I wouldn’t even make it to runner-up.   I have made quite a boo-boo and I don’t quite know what to do about it.

Almost a month ago Mr S got his first wobbly baby tooth. I was so excited about it.  My boy is growing up!  I had plans to keep the tooth fairy magic alive, and put the tooth in a glass of water beside his bed and as you do, tip out the tooth and water and swap it for money.  My plan was 4 fifty cent pieces as well as sprinkling a bit of glitter in and around the glass.

It stayed wobbly for a quite a while and eventually he pulled it out one afternoon at after-school care, after being frustrated at not being able to eat a snack properly.

He gave it to Miss O for safekeeping until I picked them up. Miss O dutifully looked after it and wrapped it up in a little paper envelope, and when we got home, she gave it to me so that we could put it out so the tooth fairy could come.

I put it on my bedside table and promptly forgot about it.

The next morning, Miss O said – “Oh Mum what about the tooth fairy?”

Realising I forgot to put out the tooth, I said, “Oh, she only comes if you put the tooth under your pillow or in a Jar next to your bed.  We will need to put it out tonight”.  So that was that.  The story was acceptable to all and we continued on with our day.

So this morning before we left for school, Mr S gave me one of his big grins.

And then I saw it.

The new tooth beginning to grow through in the spot where the baby tooth had been.

And then I remembered.

I forgot to put his tooth out for the tooth fairy.

It has been at least two or three weeks and it is still wrapped up on my bedside table.

How the heck do I fix this now?

Any Ideas?

Who Am I

Who Am I?

For over a day now I have been thinking about Eden’s post, “Who the Hell are you? “

Eden laid out the challenge to all of us here on the blogosphere…

“Come stage your comeback …. who are you? It’s a really simple question. Hard to answer.

You can go deep or just skim the surface, there’s no right or wrong.”

Eden is right. This is a very hard question to answer. (Well, it’s hard for me anyway). Immediately after reading Eden’s post, my gut feeling was to leave this this comment:

“Do we ever know who we really are?

Life is a journey.

We are travelling on a road where there are potholes and really crappy bits along the way. There’s an emptiness we need to fill.

There’s a better person that we are trying to become. We are constantly growing, changing, evolving.

I look at who I was before I had my kids. I look at who I am now. I am a better person because of them, but I am still not happy with who I am.

I have an emptiness that needs to be filled. I have love inside me but I hold it back from others. Sometimes I feel like I am a robot. Other times I am filled with so much emotion I don’t know what to do with it.

I am work in progress.”

But Who Am I? Ever since then, I have been scouring my heart, my mind and soul. It has been eating at me. Who Am I? Who Am I? Who Am I?

I. Don’t. Know.

I have no idea who I am. I am on a flimsy raft in a somewhere out there in the vastness of ocean, paddling as hard as I can against the waves, trying to find land.

So today I have been thinking a lot about what I believe about myself. Before I had my kids, this is what I was in the habit of believing:

I am a little girl. I am alone in the world. I am worthless. I am unloved. I am lost. Everything is my fault. I must do whatever I can to please everyone around me all the time, or bad things will happen. I must be perfect. I will never succeed. I can’t rely on anyone but myself.

Having kids has changed me for the better. Now what I believe about myself is something like this:

I am a woman. I am strong. I am a fierce lioness that will do anything to protect her cubs. I am surrounded by a family that loves me. Its ok to ask for help sometimes. Its ok to put myself first. I am a survivor. I will succeed.

Many people that think that they know me – even if they have known me for years – don’t really know me at all. How can they know who I am, when I don’t know myself? I have lived for more than 30 years with a heart encased with stone walls. I am slowly breaking down those walls, brick by brick.

Sometimes I still feel emptiness. I may be fragile from time to time. Thats ok though, because I am on a journey. A journey to become the best person that I can be. Not just a better mother, a better wife or better friend, but a better person. A better me.

I am a work in progress.

And like the Queen of the Andes, I am going to bloom before I die, even if it takes me 80 years to get there.

And I will be magnificent.

Edenland's Fresh Horses Brigade

Don’t forget to check out the Eden’s Post, and while you are there, pop on over and visit the rest of the beautiful people that linked up with Edenland’s Fresh Horses Brigade.

Golden

Parenthood is hard.

It’s constant.

It’s emotionally draining.

The whinging.

The whining.

They are too tired.

They are not tired.

They don’t want to go to sleep.

The  crying.

The fighting.

They are hungry.

They are not hungry.

They don’t want that for dinner.

They are bored.

They have nothing to wear.

They don’t want to wear it.

Its not fair because I don’t let them do anything.

They have to do everything around here.

I sometimes think I am insane.  I mean, seriously, what person in their right mind would sign up for this?  I don’t know what type of sane person would put their hand up for 4 years worth of crappy nappies. Not to mention the sleepless nights and the tantrums.

I mean, fair enough, you get caught out once.  The parenting gig is a lot harder than you thought it would be.  But once you know the pot is full of boiling hot water, you don’t put your hand in again do you? And yet, I have willingly put up my hand more than once.  Not too sure what that says about my IQ.

Before you have your first kid, you are all “I am going to be such a cool mum.  I am not going to smack them, and I am not going to yell.  My kids and I are going to be best friends”.

Then reality sets in.  You realise that you can’t be one of the cool kids.  You have a responsibility to make sure that you raise your kids the right way. They need to behave.  You can’t say yes all the time. In fact, you can’t say yes much at all.  They need to learn values.  Respect. Right from Wrong.

You find yourself saying things and doing things you swore black and blue that you would never do and never say.

I can remember being a kid. I can remember going shopping with my parents at the local shopping centre and getting into trouble for being naughty, particularly for running around and playing in the clothes racks. I thought it was pretty unfair at the time.  I was bored and trying to have fun. Running in and out of the clothes racks was fun.

Now I find myself at the same shopping centre with my kids, yelling at them for being naughty, running around and playing in the clothes racks. I find myself wishing that I could die or at least crawl under the nearest rock while the shop assistant gives me the death stare.

… Yes! I know they are naughty, you judgemental cow!   I just want to shop in peace and look at nice things, quietly, and enjoy the background music, but I can’t. I have to tote this little cretins around with me. Just wait until you have kids!  Don’t you DARE give me that stare until you have walked a mile in my shoes.  And F.Y.I the clothes you sell are crap and they don’t fit over my fat …

And don’t get me started about the self serve checkouts!  GRRRR!  Yes, Woollies, Big W and Coles, I am talking about you.

 All of the checkouts are closed except two, and one of those is an express aisle! Both open aisles have a line up of 42 people waiting to be served.  

One kid is whinging because I wouldn’t  buy Cocoa Pops, one kid keeps hovering near the lollies and drinks at the checkout in the hope I won’t notice them try to snarfle a Kinder Surprise, and one kid is busting to do a poo and can’t hold on any longer and needs to go RIGHT NOW!

Then I spy it.

The self serve checkout.

It is almost like a golden light from Heaven is shining down on me.  God himself is talking to me saying, “Look, I have prepared a way for you.  There are four self serve checkouts, they are all empty and one of those is for you.”

And even though I am philosophically opposed to the self serve checkouts, because four checkout operators could be employed, instead of one supervisor, it seems so convenient, just this once. I am very tempted.  In fact, the kids whinging has become so unbearable, that to not take advantage of the self serve checkout would be a travesty.

I take one more look at the kids, notice the excruciating faces of poo pain that is accompanying the whinges of the busting one, and start moving my trolley towards the self serve checkout.

Inwardly, I am admonishing myself.  Another win for the corporations.  Of course people like me with no willpower will use the self serve checkout if supermarkets make it uncomfortable enough for people to line up at the normal registers.

I start scanning through the items. Thats when the trouble starts. One kid decides to start trying to press buttons. One kid decides to start ‘helping’ by taking stuff out of the trolley. One kid starts touching the stuff that I have scanned and put in the bags.  The computer  starts freaking out.  “Unexpected Weight. Call for Supervisor. Removed Item from the Bagging Area. Call for supervisor.  You are an idiot and should not be using the self serve checkout.  Call for supervisor.

I start yelling at the kids and tell them to leave the stuff f#ck alone, with a couple of extra expletives and warnings about death and dismemberment thrown in for good measure just so they know I am serious.  I even lash out to smack the busting one on the hand to keep him away from the bagging area as he tries to take something from the bag and accidentally smack him on the head instead.  Another shopper gives me a dirty look, the look that says “You are a bad mother.”  I feel very trailer-trash right about now.

The supervisor still has to help me another 34 times before I have finally finished scanning through the items and by the time I am finally finished I am so frazzled that I just about need a bourbon and coke right then on the spot.  But we don’t have time for that, as the busting one has announced the poo is starting to come out, so we hotfoot it down to the parents toilets, while I sit and relax in the aroma of nappy bins that haven’t been emptied in four hours.

So its not all sunshine and lollipops, this parenting gig.  Anyone who tries to say that it’s easy, is delusional.  Seriously, check to see if they have had a lobotomy or something.

But there are some moments, some very golden moments that make it all worthwhile.

The kisses. The cuddles. The cuteness.

Mr J has started to become quite a charmer.  In the last couple of weeks, he has told me that my hair looks beautiful, and my shoes look lovely.  In the morning wake up routine, I give all of the kids one on one cuddles. In our morning cuddles, I asked Mr J if he knew that I loved him.  He said “Yes”.  I asked how does he know that I love him. He replied “Because you are Beautiful”.  This morning I asked if he was my Poppet-Boy. He said “Yes”.  I asked, “How do you know you are my poppet-boy?” He replied,”Because you are my precious”.  Awww Melt. Right there.

About 3 o’clock this morning, Miss O (10 years old), had a nightmare and came into my room for comfort.  Too tired to move, but wanting to give comfort, I beckoned her into my bed for a cuddle. There she stayed, snuggled in my arms until the alarm went off this morning.  I felt so glad that even though she is 10 I still get the chance to hold her tight and make her feel loved.  I will treasure that moment.

Even in the midst of their naughtiness, there are moments that just make me laugh. Just this week, Mr S informed me that Mr J was being naughty and had messed up their room. When I pressed him for more information, and asked if it was just Mr J, he informed me that Mr J had started doing it, then he “accidentally joined in”.

Blink and you will miss it, but hidden amongst the mundane, are the moments that are golden.

Look for them, cherish and treasure them, before they are gone.

They are the moments that make it all worthwhile.