Starkers raving mad

Devilboy’s latest nocturnal fetish is Sleepnuding.

Nothing as traditional as sleepwalking for my boy, no. Instead he has started stripping in his sleep.

This is the second night in a row I’ve gone to check on him late at night  to find him lolling au naturel across his bed.

I wonder where I can get a toddler size stripper pole to install in his bedroom?

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18 nights ago and unable to sleep, I found myself writing the following epistle to my unborn daughter…

 My darling Trufflette,

It’s been almost nine months since we first met you – a tiny cluster of expanding cells huddling together in absolute blastocystic beauty. I knew in that first moment that it would be you, of all our  embsicles, that would be the one to stay and complete our family -though I dared not say it out loud. I was smugly certain that, as I peed on the little white stick that would become my conduit to life as a mother of two, two little lines would appear.

But after so many disappointments, when my instinct was proved right and that lovely linear duo appeared, I was overcome and I sobbed and sobbed. (Scaring the shit out of your dad who didn’t realize my tears were those of joy but who, on further investigation of said pissy stick, quickly joined in the somewhat damp and salty celebrations.)

Of other things I wasn’t so certain. For example, after your first ultrasound I was convinced you were a boy and your brother convinced you were a shark . This was of great concern. Not that you might be a boy, I would have been cool with that. More that Casa Conception had somehow implanted the wrong embryo and some poor infertile shark somewhere was carrying a human baby. You must admit this would be a somewhat perturbing turn of events.

Nor did I know that you would have so many little surprises for us along the way.

Though I’m sure you were having a simply fab time swimming about in the pink room – beating mummy’s insides black and blue with your little ninja kicks, doing those special baby gymnastic moves that make mummy look like an extra on Alien, swinging on the umbilical cord like a fetal Tarzan (or Jane) and merrily drinking your own pee – you’ve certainly kept me on my very swollen toes.

It started when I was told that there was an extremely high risk of you having chromosonal abnormalities, information that was accompanied by demands that I undergo invasive tests that could risk tiny 12-week-old you coming into the world at all. Mama-bear mode kicked in almost on the spot.  I knew they were wrong and I fought them kicking and screaming all the way. A month and some less intrusive, though still scary, tests later and I was right again, you were just fine.

And, to my great surprise, a little girl.

Thrilled as I was  by this unexpected development, it did kinda fuck up our plans to name you Remy, which both your dad and I had thought was the perfect name for our new baby boy. (Though your nutty brother-to-be wanted the more formal “Blue Remy Rat”). Sadly, that was the last name we saw eye-to-eye on and here we are on the eve of your birth, and your dad and I still haven’t come to any agreement (though Devilboy is still putting a case forward for his preferred rodent prénom) so please  forgive me if you’re lumbered with “Number 2” for a time.

I was also surprised at how much harder it was to carry you in my ageing and weary body than it was to carry your brother and  the scares you’ve given me because of it. But I shouldn’t really have been shocked… I am getting a bit long in the tooth to be playing a game mother-nature designed for women half my age (Note to Mother Nature if you happen to be reading this: You. Are. A. Bitch)

Though this gestating a person malarkey has been a bit tough at times, I have really enjoyed having you along for the ride while you’ve been renting out the pink room. In fact, it’s been a privilege having you aboard. But I will admit that but I am very much looking forward to your disembarking the mother ship and meeting you face to face, so I can have my instincts, this time that you are utterly perfect, confirmed once more. And so, my love, that you can see for yourself just how much your dad, brother and I already love you… ”

I never had the chance to review,  finish or post this nausea inducing pap as, when the clock struck midnight, so did writers block and I put it aside for another day.

And that was my undoing. It turned out that the blockage was actually somewhere around my cervix and it cleared with forceful impact at around 5am the following morning when my waters broke and I went into early labour, yet another curly surprise from that impatient little japester in my belly as she shouted “surprise!” and demanded entry into the world, right bloody now.

And so, just a few hours of unfuckingbelievable  pain, a shed full of drugs, and an emergency caesarian later, a tiny 3kg of deliciousness arrived to validate my belief that my beautiful little girl was, and indeed is, utter perfection.

Perky little Ms. Marlo (her name became clear to us both the minute she was handed over for her first cuddle) and her uterine cohabiting shark (who are we to ruin Devilboys fantastical notions of a sharky sibling sibling?) are both doing well, as is the rest of this very blissful family.

So to my darling daughter… we’ll just have to fill in the blanks of my abandoned epistle as we get to know each other over the next lifetime. But know that it would have been signed off –  with much love,  Mummy. x


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Wow, has it really been two months since my last blog?

It’s not my fault. Seriously, the dog ate it…

Ok, so I don’t have a dog. Would you believe it was a shark? While we were at the beach. I fought to save it, I really did. I managed to tear my laptop out of its toothy jaws only for a cyclone to come and carry what was left of it away. Honest.

All right, would you believe that I’m just a very slack, very pregnant woman who has been far too lazy to put words to blog, which is a shame because there’s been so much to blog about… from holiday adventures in FNQ, to hospital adventures in RNS. And the delicious Devilboy has been on fire of late, his eccentricities escalating exponentially. But alas, my blog/brain co-ordination has short circuited.

And there really was a distraction in the form of shark, a beach and lots and lots of wind. I shit you not.

You see Devilboy’s sibling-to-be has most cheekily decided that it would be a hilarious jape to be due on Devilboy’s birthday. And given that DB has been determinedly planning (and by planning I mean nagging his mother daily) a shark infested birthday celebration for months – and that at the ripe old age of almost three, he is clueless to when his actual birthday is – we decided we would shark it up and celebrate early as opposed to attempting to host a kids party in the labour ward, which is something I think  most obstetricans frown upon. Party poopers.

So four weeks pre-three a party was planned and we chose the perfect weekend. Not only did we manage to select a weekend visited by one of the hottest days on record but one that backed it up with thunderstorms and a fairly fierce southerly change that lasted for the sum total of the duration of the party festivities.

And what better way could a 37 week pregnant woman with ankles swollen up bigger than Kanye West’s ego imagine spending her own 41st birthday than trying to prepare food for 30 adults and 15 children and to create and ice a fucking shark cake for an almost three year old demon in 41.5 degree heat – only for the weather to change and a southerly to create a sandstorm as soon as she pulls said cake out at the beach the following day?

Really does it get any better than that? Yes, I think it probably does. Shit loads.

But Devilboy really wanted his shark cake and his deranged hormonally-hyped mummy really wanted him to have it. There were tears, there was drama (all from me) but a cake was created… eventually.

And from my experience I can now share a happy homemakers tip with you all: Attempting to ice a cake with butter icing in 41.5 degree heat is like trying to ice a frigging sponge with olive oil. Try it, it’s a hoot.

This was the end result.*

And thus, there was much rejoicing. And shark wrestlng. Yay, verily

*Yes, it looks like I iced the fucker with concrete but I swear no children were harmed in the consumption of said fanged cakey confection.


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Festy season

Question of the day:

What sort of arse allows their 2 1/2 year old to lock local themselves in a festy public toilet at a train station?


The kind of arse that is admitting to her maternal failings in this post.

Thank the festive fairies for the very kind (and slim) lady who, upon seeing my bulging belly and clearly understanding a thing or two about physics, shimmied under the privvy door and rescued my dippy Devilboy from an eterntity locked in toilet hell.

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The maladroit mama and the movie star.

Today was all about introducing Devilboy to the world of the theatre at a cleverly irreligious Christmas Baby Proms performance of The Three Kings at the Sydney Opera House.  

 A stage of twinkling stars, an orchestra and singing had Devilboy and his BFF Devilboy 2 but a set of opera glasses away from becoming die-hard theatre buffs.

But the real action wasn’t on the stage. In fact it was seated about two feet away from me in the guise of a twinkling star of a different kind. Well at least she would have twinkled had she been able to move a solitary muscle in her famously frozen face. 

This “completely natural” Oscar winning movie star and her Grammy grabbing (and surprisingly hot) hubby had also decided to bring their genetically blessed tot along for some infant theatrics of the tantyless kind. And that was where it all turned to hell.

You see Devilboy, in classic form, decided to do a runner. And his mummy, in bulging gutted and lumbering form, decided to give chase… navigating a toddler strewn carpet in her attempt to capture her errant offspring.

Devilboy was quickly detained but in my elephantine and inelegant trek back to our celebrity strewn seats I nearly took the head off the superstar progeny with an ill-placed size 9 that came within centimetres of her unsuspecting little face. 

Suitably embarrassed, I apologised to the waxy one and in return was rewarded with an Oscar worthy death stare that, coming from such a freakishly frozen face, was nothing short of terrifying. How the hell you can communicate that much contempt in a face that is literally completely immobile is anyone’s guess. I mean this is a face so devoid of lines, or even pores for that matter, that it’s bordering on the otherworldly, something she puts down to the regular use of sunscreen. That is some pretty fucking impressive sunscreen -perhaps if we slathered some of that shit across the hole in the ozone layer we’d be able to stop global warming!

I’m not blaming the super sunscreened one for  her for her maternal protectiveness. In fact, I’d have reacted exactly the same – except with wrinkles and actual facial movement and a bunch of extremely foul language (muttered carefully under breath so as to not upset the kiddies)  if some clumsy twat nearly beheaded my child.

So Devilboy’s introduction to the performing arts was mostly about his moronic and mortified mummy being a mere centimetre or two away from being dragged off and beaten to death by security… and her newly aquired a-list adversery being a mere botox injection or two away from being put on display as her own doppleganger at Madame Taussaud’s.


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A toast to mummy

Resplendent in an old faded tracksuit, ugg boots, unwashed and uncombed hair and looking like I’d been dragged backward (and forward) through a hedge several times, my darling Devilboy took my grubby face in his hands and offered an unsolicited “Mama, you’re so beautiful”.  Bless him.

Though in fairness, he also said his jam toast was “so beautiful” about ten minutes later and I am fairly sure that too was unsolicited, given that toast is an inanimate object. But hey, beggars can’t be choosers and I’ll take a compliment wherever I can get one – even I do have to compete with breakfast for them.

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Let it snow

 I know it is called the silly season but Devilboy seems to be taking that a bit too literally.

Today, upon receiving a lovely Christmas card from his grandparents and featuring a cartoon snowman, my favourite little lunatic insisted it immediately be placed in the fridge because “He needs to stay cold!” and has been checking on it at regular intervals to ensure it hasn’t melted.

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Santa and the psychic soldiers.

Tonight’s bedtime reading started fairly traditionally for a mid December.

We began with a recitation of ‘Puppy’s Christmas Star’, followed in quick succession by ‘Santa Koala’ and a powerful daddy style re-telling of the classic ‘Night before Christmas’.

All fairly normal bedtime fare… 

But Devilboy and normal really don’t sit all that well together.

When told he could pick one more book before lights out, he insisted on “Daddy’s Book… the goat one” and by insisted I mean, when it was explained he would need to pick another, he cried until he turned purple and ran out of the room in hysterics, tearing apart the house  searching for said book. 

And that is how we found ourselves reading “The Men Who Stare at Goats” to a two and half year old boy as he nodded happily off to sleep.

For those of you not familiar with this particular tome, it is a true but insanely disturbing tale of the Iraq War and a secret Government and Military approved unit that employed paranormal powers, powers alleged to be so strong they could kill a goat just by staring at it, in Bush’s equally insanely disturbing war.

You know… that kind of typical kiddie bedtime stuff!

Top marks to Dad of Devilboy for reinventing the story as a slightly more festive tale of a funny looking goat enjoying a happy holiday. And for carefully leaving out passages like “This torture did not take place in Abu Grahib prison, where naked Iraqi detainees were forced to masturbate and simulate oral sex with each other.”

So what’s on the agenda tomorrow night?  Spot’s First Christmas? Or Rudolph the Red Nosed Reindeer? Knowing Devilboy, probably not, it’s more likely that he’ll want us to start reading him Keith Richard’s Autobiography.

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wee wee wee all the way home…

We’ve just returned from the park where Devilboy instigated the following conversation with a random stranger.

Devilboy:                             Do you have Spiderman undies?

Random stranger:            Mine are Buzz Lightyear.

Devilboy:                             Do you wee in them?

Random stranger:             Umm, no ??

This was strange enough behaviour for the afternoon.  Or so we thought… until Devilboy decided that he would run his own Vox Pop and ask the same of every bipedal life form he happened upon – man, woman and child.

I’m not clear on what he plans on doing with the collected data but what I do know with some certainty is that my son is a lunatic.

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Sh*tstorm in a teacup

We’re all a tad pooped here at Devilboy’s House of Dung.

With a month of training the devilish one in all things toilet under our belts, the topic of poo has become the object of his obsession and, if that actually translated into him fertilizing the potty, life would be perfect.

Toilet training was never going to be one of the highlights of parenting. Having written about and researched the topic at length, I knew before we started on our adventures in infant ablutions that this would be a shit of a time, especially given our little trainee is a male of the species. What I didn’t know was how surreal it would be attempting to toilet train a wild Devilboy.

When it comes to number ones Devilboy is, if you’ll pardon the pun, something of a wizz kid!  That part of the potty training process has, in fact, been piss easy. The seventy three million stickers now wallpapering our bathroom are testament to his skills at urination.  And it doesn’t just stop at homemade wee. No siree, he has quickly mastered peeing outside of the home as well… even in scary public amenities that make his mother squeamish.

His little face flushes with pride at every drop that makes it into any available receptacle.  But when it comes to number two’s things are a little more complicated.

While Devilboy has steadfastly been lecturing every stuffed animal and matchbox car in the house on the art of excreting, he himself has steadfastly refused to poo in anything even remotely resembling a toilet!

I’ve seen an entire packet of baby wipes scattered in screwed up piles on my lounge room floor. Why?

“Because Buzz Lightyear did a poo!”

Of course he did. “My most humble of apologies dear child of mine, have another packet of wipes and don’t give a second though to the forest you’ve already wiped out.” 

I’ve watched on as Buzz has been virtually mummified by a disposable nappy wielding Devilboy.

“Just in case he has an accident, mummy.”

Great thinking son! You can never be too careful with those darned plastic toys and their bowel movements. And as for inanimate intergalactic space rangers… well everyone knows what dirty little buggers they can be when it comes to dropping their space nuggets.

I’ve observed with horrified fascination as he carefully holds his racing cars and diggers over a tea cup and patiently explains to them how they need to defecate in the cup… whilst he casually craps in his own pants.

Merde! Even the cat hasn’t been exempt from his discourse on dumping and has been on the receiving end of his coaching efforts whilst he digs in his cat box and Devilboy shiftily shites himself.

Stumped by his inability to dump we’ve been offered plenty of advice and read all the books on the subject and, if he ever does get his head around this toilet thing, the pages of those should come in handy to wipe his arse, for all the good they’ve been.

To our relief, in the last few days we seem to have stumbled upon a light at the end of the cistern – in the guise of a generous red suited individual of larger girth.

You see, Santa knows when you’ve been bad or good.  And Devilboy knows that Santa has presents.  Ergo, he has come to the devilishly devious conclusion that pooing in the toilet equates to good behaviour in the eyes of the jolly bearded one and so, to maximise his payload, he’s suddenly become a lean mean lav loving machine.

And though we’re hapy with this little breakthrough, even this has been taken to the usual Devilboy extremes of eccentricity. This morning saw him request that I photograph each poo that makes it into the bowl… so we can show Santa what a good boy he’s been. That request has obviously been denied for the sake of good taste… plus I’m fairly sure Santa isn’t into that kind of thing!

We know that this great brown journey is far from over and exhausted, we’re starting question if it would really matter if he’s still in nappies at 32, because the whole shitty business is driving us all completely potty.


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