All posts filed under: Short Stuff

Skinny jeans are a mere good night’s sleep away

Published by

Suggested posts containing helpful tips about post-baby weight loss keep popping up in my newsfeed. Yes, yes, yes, Facebook universe, I get the point that I need to exercise and stop eating family-sized blocks of chocolate (unless I want to remain family-sized myself). My favourite weight-loss top-tip for new mothers is the one that says “get a good sleep every night,” Righto. Sorry, Tilly, but Mummy can’t get up and feed you tonight…she needs a full eight hours so she can fit her skinny jeans in the morning (the ones she bought after a nasty bout of food-poisoning, that, while violently horrifying at the time, was good for a few kilos).

Exercise enthusiasm

Published by

Sportiness has never been my forte. I spent many a high school P.E. class hiding in the toilets. So, when I started feeling excited about the concept of post-pregnancy exercising, it was a disturbingly unfamiliar state. “A yummy mummy fitness course!” I exclaimed. “I’ll run the half marathon in November!” I enthused. I’ve since realised that what I’m visualising is poncing about in Lululemon workout gear, sipping a concoction fresh from the juicer, cracking walnuts on my taut bum as a party trick, and talking about how amazing all the exercise endorphins are making me feel. I don’t want to do the actual exercising bit. Also, I’ve never even been into a Lululemon store, my juicer has been slowly gathering dust since my last foray into fitness (circa ‘08 and ’09, when I started making monthly donations to a gym and stopped eating solids for a while in anticipation of fitting into a slinky wedding dress), I prefer Brazil nuts to walnuts, and I’m quite happy with the endorphin-esque buzz found at the bottom of …

Balsamic on the baby

Published by

Sleeping babies have an innate sense for when their mum is sitting down for dinner. I’m glad that feeding is going well and all, but I’d love to have at least 3 out of 5 meals without feeling like a naturist. On the flip side, you find yourself saying sentences you’d never imagined, such as yesterday evening’s “oh shit! I’ve dripped balsamic on the baby!”

Just Like Giselle

Published by

Early-morning multitasking. This is JUST like the multitasking photo that supermodel Giselle posted. Except that she where she was multitasking breast feeding with having her hair, makeup and nails done for her in preparation for a modelling shoot, I’m multitasking breastfeeding with coaxing Weetbix into a reluctant toddler and managing the emotional needs of a displaced Siamese in preparation for a heady day of hitting the playground and supermarket. Also I’m pretty sure Giselle didn’t have sick on her shoulder in her photo. Other than that, this is JUST the same.

Soup of the day

Published by

Mid-shower this morning, an officious-looking Amy appears at the glass door. “Mummy, I need a spoon” “Uh, Amy, I’m in the shower” *blank stare and blink* “You can get yourself a spoon” “I can’t, mummy, I’m frightened of the lawnmower.” “Amy, there’s no lawnmower, you’ll be fine.” “Mummy, you HAVE to get it, cos….I’m frightened of a dog.” “Amy, there’s no dog here. Why do you want a spoon, anyway?” “I made a bowl of bum-bum soup and need to feed it to Tilly.” *me leaping from the shower to inspect contents of proffered bowl, whilst imagining the worst possible scenario for the “soup” ingredients, and fearing some sort of new low in sibling-jealousy-defense tactics. Palpable relief upon realising the soup was imaginary.* “Good. You finished your shower, so can you get me a spoon?”

Exchange rates

Published by

Amy sold me a piece of her Duplo for $100. Then when I said “here’s your one hundred dollars” she informed me “actually, it’s one hundred pounds, now”. I baulked at the exchange rate gains, but she says if I don’t have enough money I can pay the rest next time. Did she read the business section over her Weet-Bix this morning? Think I might try to negotiate her down to $USD or $AUD.

Dignified motherhood = oxymoron

Published by

Excellent. Have reached the “going out in public unaware that a boob is out” stage of proceedings. Fortunately said boob was encased in a sturdy-yet-feminine bra, and the look of alarm on the face of my neighbouring car-parker alerted me to my plight before I ventured too far. I laugh in the face of dignity. A sort of hysterical, tearful laugh.

Italian genes run deep with my toddler # 267:

Published by

“Mummy! You got blue sunscreen on the WHITE carpet! Daddy is going to be SO sad. He’s…he’s…he’s gonna CRY, and then he’s going to put you in the RUBBISH BIN! And there’ll be NO MORE MUMMY!” If someone could swing by our place with some of that spray the CSI lads use at murder scences for a cursory check before bin night, that’d be great. (Monday night – it’s just too risky taking it out on Tuesday morning in case the rubbish collection guy comes early, although it is pretty funny watching Jeremy do the house-to-curb-wheelie-bin-sprint in his undies when he forgets).