Crack Baby

Toddlers are just like adults....who’ve been smoking crack for three days and haven’t slept.

They’re unpredictable, they don’t eat, they have wild mood swings and loads of nervous energy. They have the attention span of a flea. You will go out for a meal with them and they won’t be able to sit in a chair for more than 30 seconds, yet they could watch an ant cross the footpath with a crumb for twenty minutes when you have to get them to child care and make it to work by nine.

Here are some tips on wrangling an amazing and completely feral toddler.

1.       Never say you’ll be anywhere at a certain time. Even if a toddler wakes you up at 5.30, you will never make it to work by nine. There is a black hole that you both get sucked into while trying to get ready for anything and by the time you have been spat out the other side, you’ve lost two hours and achieved nothing. Unless you count tipping a bowl of Rice Bubbles all over the rug and getting toothpaste all over your ironed shirt.

2.       Never attempt to get anything done while you are looking after said toddler.  If you try to achieve even a simple goal, you will be frustrated and resentful. If you go with the mess and chaos, you will have fun. Throw caution to the wind. If you get half a fingernail painted and the toilet paper on the toilet roll holder, consider it a victory.

3.       Don’t get hung up over food wastage. A tough one. A hungry toddler will need at least five selections to choose from at any given meal and will probably eat half a grape and throw the rest at the grateful dog. Don’t eat the leftovers to combat guilt over starving African children. Half chewed peanut butter sandwiches with milk spilled on them will just get you down.

4.       It will take at least an hour and three pieces of luggage to pack for even a simple trip to the park around the corner. You will need snacks (see tip 3.), beverages, nappies, nappy bags, toys, spare clothes, bibs, wipes, cuddle rugs, hats (at least 3), sunscreen, the pram, the doll pram, the doll, umbrellas, swimming costumes, towels, bandaids and a picnic blanket. Whatever you forget will be the only thing you actually need.
5.   The more money and effort you put into something, the more disappointing it will be. If you plan a trip to the zoo and spend a hundred bucks on tickets, your excitement and enthusiasm will be thrown in your face. Your toddler will inevitably scream all the  way there, fall asleep for the entire zoo experience, vomit up the delicious and expensive zoo snacks and scream the whole way home.
      If your car breaks down and you have to entertain a toddler on a median strip with half a bottle of warm water and a box of crayons, you will both have the time of your lives.

6.       Chill the fuck out. You’re going to get jam all over you. The kid is going to chew on an old cigarette butt they dig up near the swing.  They are going to fall over and cry. They are going to get ice cream all over the car and, you will probably get pooh on you at some point.  

But you will also laugh at stupid things, like a dog chewing its tail or a goldfish nibbling your finger. You’ll see stuff through their eyes that you never look at any more. How amazing are spider webs?  And if you’re lucky, you’ll get a sloppy, biscuity kiss at the end of a long day.

And a huge glass of wine.

Guilty as charged

Women excel in the art of guilt. We can knock ourselves around about anything. Especially if we are having a good time. Inevitably we will find something to feel guilty about to bring us back down to earth.


Since having a baby, I have found new and exciting ways to feel even guiltier. My day is peppered with shameful moments, which looking back, are utterly ridiculous.

Why do we torture ourselves? If you have the same guilt issues as I do, I hope this daily guilt count will make you realise how absurd these thoughts are.

6am - I can hear Violet yapping away to herself in her cot, but can’t seem to get up. I roll over for five more minutes. I feel guilty for neglecting my child – she may have lifelong feelings of abandonment.

6.30 - Make Violet a bottle
I feel guilty for no longer breastfeeding. I tried very hard to keep going, but obviously not hard enough. Bad mummy.

7.30 – Violet is back in bed. I was planning on doing some writing, but on the way to the computer, I see bed and it looks so lovely, I get back in.
Lazy. Must be more disciplined. Achieve more! Quick!

8.30 – Read newspaper, but only the gossip section.
I feel guilty for being shallow and uninformed.

10.00 – Sing row, row, row your boat 27 times with Violet. Lots of attention for her, but not enough for Morris the dog. I spend half an hour trying to clean kitchen whilst singing ‘Good girl, Violet! Good boy, Morris!’ so they both feel loved. I break glasses. I feel guilty for not having 6 arms.

11am – I change Violet into a disposable nappy and feel bad about landfill. Then I put her in a cloth nappy and feel bad about water wastage.

12pm – Make lunch. Was going to have a salad, but decide last minute to have gooey cheese on thick toast. I then feel repulsively guilty for not striving to regain pre baby body

1pm – Work from home. Violet plays nearby.
I feel crappy for not entertaining Violet enough, as well as not working hard enough.

3pm – Leave Violet at home and go for a swim.
I feel anxious that things are not going well at home, even though V is asleep and husband is more than capable. I feel guilty because I am having a good time. Guilt sure sees to the end of that!


3.15 – I rush the laps and jump into the car dripping wet.
I should have walked; don’t I care about the planet?


5pm – I feed Violet from a jar.
I should have made the food myself.


5.30 – Husband and I rush through Violets bath and bottle so we can have a glass of wine.
Then I feel mean as she loves her bath and food.

6.00 – Sing Violet to sleep as pour wine

6.30 - Second glass of wine

7pm – Third glass of wine
I Feel guilty and wonder if I am an alcoholic. You can’t have three glasses of wine on a Wednesday. Thursday is ok.

7.30 – Make and eat dinner
I should have half the portion size and make my own pasta sauce, and probably shouldn't even eat pasta!

8pm – Drink lots of water to cancel out the wine. Eat a piece of fruit to cancel out the chocolate.

8.30 – Watch crap TV. I should be doing something productive such as studying, knitting or volunteering.

9.30 – I lie in bed thinking of all the things I didn’t get done. I have to call Michael’s Nanna, she is 96 and could die tomorrow. I need to buy loo paper, I forgot to donate to flood relief, I didn’t thank mum for the bread, I neglected to return my best friend’s phone call.....

Christmas babies suck

I am a Christmas hopeless. I dream of tinsel, twinkly lights, gift shopping, mince pies and breakfast champagne all year round. December is so stressful and exciting, with all the anticipation of what to cook, what to buy and how to coordinate all the arrangements.


But alas I am married to Scrooge. He hates Carols by Candlelight and thinks that our Christmas tree is a waste of time and wants to throw it out. He says Christmas is for kids and its all hard work for grownups. Apparently he will be into when we have kids who are into it.Until then, I am a long suffering Christmas tragic, flying solo.

I have been waiting for so long to have babies to share Christmas with. I want to leave out biscuits and beer for Santa and carrots for the reindeers. I want that so-excited-you-pee-your-pants feeling on Christmas Eve and the frantic tearing of wrapping paper at six o’clock on Christmas morning. I have so many fun ideas about making reindeer tracks, and our own tree decorations.

But all Violet wants to do is suck her fist.

When does Christmas become fun for kids? I really can’t wait three years. Can you accelerate babies Christmas awareness so they can share your excitement? I want Violet to look out the window and say, ‘Mummy!! I think I saw Santa’s sleigh!’, but I guess that’s pretty far off. She has only just mastered ‘Grrrrr’.

I am trying to rush her into growing up in some ways. I have thrown her into a freezing cold swimming pool a few times. As I chant ‘Aren’t we having fun! Aren’t we having fun!’, her lips are turning blue and she frantically looks around for someone to save her from crazy torture lady. But I want a water baby! A summer loving, beachy, ocean baby.

I am also force feeding her music I like, rather than selling out to ‘The wheels on the bus go round and round’, even though she loves that so much more. But I want her to be a little rocker! I want her to shimmy along to Brown Sugar and mournfully recite Interpol lyrics, not the Wiggles.

And no way will she be into stuff I don’t like. Computer games come to mind, so does hunting. And I try to minimise the pastels and soft pinks. I don’t want her to love Barbie. I want her to love trucks! And play the drums!

Maybe I should back off and let her be who she wants to be. Hmm. That’s going to be tough.

Anyway, right now she is a gorgeous little blob who smiles, dribbles and poohs and until she grows up a bit I shall spend another thankless year fantasising about hot summer nights singing Christmas carols and baking tree shaped biscuits. (Even though I have never baked anything in my life.)

But I do have a furry baby sized Santa suit that I am going to squeeze her into and take lots of humiliating pictures...

Ch...Ch...Changes.

Motherhood has changed me profoundly, and I am surprised by some of these changes. I also thought it would make me more mature, but sadly, that hasn’t happened.
I guess the biggest change is how aware I am of my own mortality, and how fragile we all are. I am suddenly aware of how dangerous the world is. It's full of metal, glass, idiots, chemicals, hot things, spiky things, slippery paths and psychopaths. If I think about it all too much, I lay awake terrified, which is a new and unusual feeling for the happy-go-lucky gal I used to be.

Here is a list of some of my other new personality changes.



I love baby wipes.
I have no idea how I lived without them before. I use them constantly, and not always for wiping up baby grossness. I use them for everything and I love them dearly. That 'If you could only take one thing to a desert island, what would it be?' question has always stumped me. Now I know. BABY WIPES. They rock my world. It’s sad.



I am completely comfortable with my baby’s pooh.
Whether it’s squirting out the side of a nappy, running down my shirt or all over the clean towels, I never gag and am always interested in its texture and colour. I am happy with pooh. Pooh is my friend. Other babies pooh, however, is not my friend.



Babies are a great excuse.
Sometimes I don’t like staying places for very long, and it used to be hard to slip away from events without seeming rude. I have a short attention span and now, I have a temperamental creature with an even shorter attention span who wants to sleep, eat and have a whinge pretty often, and being polite doesn’t come into it. It’s the old ‘Love to stay, but the baby, you know...’ I am going to train her to sook on cue so we can get the hell out of dull engagements even faster.



I can’t stand my baby’s cry.
Oh god, it rips my heart out. I hear it so often, you would think it gets easier, but the more I hear it, the more a little piece of me dies. In a recent marathon afternoon crying session, I exited the bedroom for the 5th time trying to settle Violet, and literally tore my dress off. It was in pieces. So was I.



I still love my dog very much.
When I was pregnant, lots of kind hearted busy bodies asked whether I would be getting rid of my dog, or leaving him outside for the rest of his life when the baby came. I was horrified. There was a tiny bit of me that feared that maybe I would lose my love for that big, smelly guy, but thankfully it didn’t happen. I now have two babies. One is my hairy, easy baby, and one is my delicious, difficult baby.



Time is very fast.
Argh! My life is flashing before my eyes! Soon I will be back at work and Violet will have to spend the day with someone else. Soon she will be walking and talking. Soon she will need a school uniform. And then suddenly she will be yelling that she hates my guts as she slams her bedroom door. And any day now I will have boobs dangling at my knees and Michael will have a colostomy bag. EEK!
So every day needs to be a bit special.

And lastly, I now have my own family unit.
This may sound odd, but it still feels weird to think there are now three of us, and we need to put our happiness before anyone else. I am so used to trying to keep everyone else happy, and fitting in with our wonderful and complicated family arrangements, that I sometimes still forget that my new little family comes first. My husband and I come from two sets of split up parents, so weekends, holidays and Christmas are always a logistical nightmare.

But when I do remember that it’s us three against the world, it warms my belly. Well I guess it's four of us against the world, if I count the well behaved, stinky baby too...

Smell the vomit

I am starting to emerge from the fog of the first few weeks of being a mother. (I still can’t get my head around actually being a proper real life, grown up mother yet though.) Not only have I managed to keep her alive for ten weeks, but the shock, the sleep deprivation and the sheer terror of having another human being completely relying on me are starting to ease off. I am left with an overwhelming sense of gratitude. I feel so lucky.

At 4am this morning Violet was freshly changed, fed and we were off to bed. She has been really hungry this week and wanting to feed a lot more, which meant being ripped out of sleep more often. I had only just nodded off when she was ready to feed again.

As I picked her up she simultaneously vomited and poohed. While I was impressed, I also felt a bit broken. I started to go through the motions of cleaning vomit off hers and my chest, then set to work on the nasty business downstairs. I was tired and a bit over it until I looked up and saw the most beautiful smile I have ever seen. It was then I realised that nothing else matters. Who cares if I get a bit less sleep?

I still pinch myself when I look at her, remembering when I wanted her so badly and she felt so far away. After the loss of a pregnancy and what felt like an eternity trying (but was really only twelve months), I finally fell pregnant again. But I didn’t trust that it would work out for us, right until the very end. Our story is common and many people have it so much harder than we did.

My husband and I talked about the reality of a baby very little, feeling as though we might jinx it somehow and needed to guard our hearts along the way. We barely bought anything and didn’t set up the baby’s room until we absolutely had to.
And then she came along, healthy, perfect and beautiful.

No baby is without its challenges, and there are times we have been in tears, trying to figure out what she wanted, why she wouldn’t stop crying and what we were doing wrong. And breastfeeding is the hardest thing I have ever done. Violet and I still go into battle daily. I don’t know if I will ever master it.

But what a magnificent creature. And I made her! (With a little bit of help.)

So when things get a bit tough I remind myself how incredibly lucky we are. These little challenges are nothing. I also have to remind myself to really absorb every moment and enjoy this amazing little girl, whose smile, to us, lights up the world. I need to stop cramming things into my day and just hang out with Violet, because people say that it all passes so quickly. In no time we will be arguing over her short skirt and she will think I am the lamest person in the world.

So today I will slow down and smell the vomit.

Birth flashbacks

It’s taken 8 long weeks, but I can finally relive the birth of beautiful little Violet.


I am not going to mention the gory placenta, loss of bodily functions or stiches and tearing, so if you have a weak stomach, rest assured, we will stay above board.

There I was with a week and a half to go. I voted and ate a whole pineapple.

I knew she wouldn’t come, as it was my first and they never come early. I settled in for a night of crap TV and spicy lentil soup and Michael went to a buck’s night on the promise that I wouldn’t pop.

At about ten o’clock I got a weird pain. Oh no. Too many lentils. I shuffled into the bathroom and felt like something nasty was going to happen. Nothing did. Then the pain came again.

I decided to have a little lie down on the bath mat. While I was down there, I spotted a bit of mould under the shower door and had a bit of a scrub. It came off.  It was then I knew. I was in labour.

Me: Hey...it’s me....what’s that noise?
Him:Heeeeyyy bbbaabbee!! We're at a strip club. How are you?
Me: I think I am in labour
Him: Are you serious?
Me: Yep
Him: HOLY &%$#@*)!!!!!

My mum came over and timed my contractions and Michael rushed through the door with some fruit salad and a half drunk bottle of water for me. He had the most terrified face. We packed off to the hospital and I was 4cms dilated. It was really happening!
In the labour ward, I got straight in the bath and sucked hard on the gas. I had decided I didn’t want an epidural, but was starting to rethink. The sharp stabbing pains came in waves and I crushed Michael’s hand as I growled like a dog with rabies.
Me: Get me some f&%king morphine.
Him: Ok
Me: NOW



Morphine is weird. It doesn’t cut through the pain, but in between contractions it makes you have silly thoughts. I was a bit disappointed really but it did make the time go faster. Three hours passed.

Me: I can’t f*&king take it anymore!
Him: Yes you can baby, not long to go now
Me: NO. I CAN’T F^*KING TAKE IT. GET THE MIFWIFE. I WANT AN EPIDURAL
Him: Ok
10 minutes passed.

Me: Where’s the F$%king midwife?

She sauntered in with a smug look and asked how I was going. I was on all fours in the shower howling like a beast.
Me: Really good thanks, HOW DO YOU THINK I AM F&^KING GOING?

It is now 5am and incredibly I was 10cms dilated and ready to push, so no time for an epidural. Eek. I jumped up on the table and pushed with all my might. It was so hard, but such a relief to finally be able to get that bloody baby out.

Michael and I made a deal long before labour day that he would stay ‘above the sheet’ and therefore witness the miracle of birth, but not all the gore and gushy stuff. Someone once told us that getting too close was like watching your favourite pub burn down, so we both agreed he should keep a slight distance. Above the sheet seemed perfect.

Well my good friends let me break something to you: there is no sheet. Not even a towel or a wash cloth. When it was crunch time, they just threw me up on the table, wrenched my knees apart and off we went. Poor Michael was white as a ghost.

There was lots of gore. And I don’t even want to imagine what the placenta looked like. Luckily I had the most beautiful creature in the world in my arms to distract me, but Michael copped an eyeful. Enough to scar him for life.

When the midwife told him to announce the sex he looked at me sheepishly and whispered; ‘Um...I don’t know’. He later told me there were so many cords, swelling and gunk smeared over the poor little thing, it was hard to tell.

It was a girl.

We were in love. Lots of cuddles and congratulations followed.

We were very happy, and very much needing to rest. We figured our job was done and it was time for a big snooze. Until they wheeled Violet back in and the penny dropped. We now had a child, and there would never be snooze time again...

Time is not on my side...

I have finally put the baby to sleep. Ok, quick! Do something! Instead of washing pooh off all our stuff,  sterilising bottles or pumping milk, I decide to treat myself to a bath and a bit of beauty upkeep. I have this precious little window, and want to make the most of it. First stop, a bit of defuzzing. The wax is hot; I’m in a compromising position and suddenly, ‘Waaaaaaaahhhh!!!!!!!!!!!’


Shit. I have done one side of my lady lawn, and decide to plough on, hoping it’s just a restless grizzle. No suck luck.

I start furiously ripping away and before I know it, I have ripped half my skin off and there is blood and wax everywhere. I run out with a towel on and give Violet a cuddle, chuck her dummy in and wait until she’s asleep. I sneak away and jump in the bath, trying to ignore the searing pain downstairs. Ahh. Lovely. ‘waaaaaaaahhhhhh....waaaa....waaa....you’re a... waaa... bad mummy....waaaa.’

I get out of the bath, dripping water all over the floor, do a nudey dash down the hall, and comfort her. I then gingerly tip toe back to the bath. Just as I get in, it happens again.

Five minutes later, Violet is in her rocker next to the bath and I have one arm bent in an unnatural pozzy holding in her dummy, while the other eighty percent of me tries to enjoy the tepid water. Just like being at a day spa!

I am constantly wondering what I used to do with my time. I remember thinking; ‘There are not enough hours in the day.’ What crap! I had so many hours in the day to play with, and I took every minute for granted!

My little girl is now six weeks old, and is just gorgeous. She has actually started sleeping for more than an hour at a time (sometimes), which is blowing my mind. It’s funny though, because even when she is asleep I am waiting for her cry, and often imagine hearing it. Violet is healthy, alert and lots of fun. I wouldn’t say she is the happiest baby, but I am hoping it’s a phase and nothing personal.


But time is my enemy. Sometimes it seems like I am feeding Violet at 5am and suddenly, a bit of sterilising, pumping, washing, nappy changing and Lifestyle Channel watching later, it’s time for bed.

I had these fabulous plans before she came. I had decided to start a degree in journalism maybe on week two, and then start painting the house, room by room after that. Then I would landscape the backyard.
I have since realised that having a newborn is a full time, 24 hour job, and when you surrender to it, it’s a wonderful job. Not all of it is fun, and pretty much all of it is hard, but having those amazing moments when we are making eye contact, she responds to a silly song, or she is fascinated by a leaf, a toy or my husband’s face are worth any free hour before she came along.

Instead of being frustrated by lack of time, I have now started to embrace it, as I know I will look back on this time and miss it when it’s over. Painting can wait.

But I do miss long hot baths with a book, and walking like a cow boy due to my waxing injury is not how I wanna roll....