The Mamas and the Papas [Mamadoo]

As you may know, I recently got a gig writing hilarious posts for the Aussie shopping site Mamadoo (well I think they're hilarious, especially after four hours sleep).

And not only do I get cold hard cash (which is nice, because mostly I just get paid in 'likes' and 'I saw your blog yesterday, pretty funny' sort of thing), I get to write about things would I couldn't - or wouldn't - on Relentless.

Who would have thought there were off-topic topics on Relentless?

But I was recently asked to write a post for Dads, which is funny in itself, since I'm not a Dad. So I asked some friends who were, and not only did I get the beautiful Failure is an Option from my mate Glenn, but I also wrote Tips for First Time Dads which is full of gems from people who actually know what they are talking about. And you don't have to be a first-timer (or a Dad) to get something from it.

And so, in anticipation of Father's Day here in Australia this Sunday and in honour of all the dads in our lives (and in my case, my hubby Phill, father-in-law Terry and father Mike) I say 'here's to you, guys. Love your work!'.

Unwanted Help in the Mornings

For the past eleven weeks I have been getting up at some ungodly hour, turning on the DVD player and throwing myself around the room in an ungainly fashion. Some people call this exercise. I call it painful.

I don’t like getting up early and watching lycra clad Michelle Bridges telling me to ‘suck it up’ as her pumped up assistants drip sweat from their rock hard bodies. But I like what it has done for my health and waist line, so I am persisting.

I get up at the very very very small hours, so I can do it in private, because let’s be honest, most things that make you sweat when it’s dark outside should be done in private. Unfortunately, Baldy Baby (now two and a half) has the nasty habit of also waking at ungodly hours, which means I often have an audience as I wobble and groan my way through burpees and squats.

She is very supportive and as such, likes to get involved.

Often this means climbing on my back when I am doing a plank and yelling ‘giddup’, or when she is feeling more sedate, waiting for me to lie down to do sit ups or stretches and using my tummy as a pillow, her little head going up and down as I huff and puff.

Some days I am lucky and she takes herself off to the playroom to watch Dora. She will regularly come out to check I am still there, cocking her head when she sees me upside down in a downward dog. ‘Orright mum?’ she’ll ask, concerned about the colour of my face.

‘I’m alright, thanks Sweetie,’ I’ll reply.

When the DVD is over and I turn off the TV I will sometimes collapse back onto the floor, watching the fan circle overhead (yes, even in the middle of winter). She will lie down on the carpet next to me and put her head on my arm. We will lie there together in silence (except for my heavy breathing).

Then she will lean over and kiss my sweaty face. ‘I love you mummy’ she will say, before licking her lips and grimacing.

‘Yuk’, she will say, and disappear back into the playroom.

Little Name Big Heart [Review]

There are certain things in life where the name just doesn’t fit the object.

“W” is pronounced ‘double u’ but it’s actually double ‘v’.

We call them a pair of pants, but there is actually only one.

It doesn’t change the value of the object but it isn’t exactly descriptive either.

When I was offered the chance to try out one of the handmade Binky blankets I was expecting something small, for in my mind a Binky is cute and little. I had missed the line on the website indicating that the blanket was the size of a single bed...



To read out what happened next click here to go to my blog post on Mamadoo and for the chance to win one of two Binky Blankets click here.

FAILURE IS AN OPTION

I was recently asked to write a post for first-time dads, and as neither a dad nor a first timer, I felt unqualified. So I asked my male friends for their advice (that article to follow soon on the Mamadoo blog) and one response was so funny and heartfelt I asked if he wanted to write a guest post for Relentless.

Failure IS an Option: by Glenn Dungate

I can remember clearly the emotion and excitement that I felt as I walked through the sliding glass automatic doors of the hospital the day after Maisie was born. I had gone home the night previous and fallen asleep strangely free of burden and worry and, instead,  filled with pride in the strength of my wife and elation for our “bundle of joy”. The need to clean the living hell out of our townhouse and watch as much Foxtel as possible was also strangely thrown into the mix.

I have never felt peace and excitement like I did in those first few days. Overjoyed that I had a daughter. Overwhelmed that I had seen things happening between my wife’s legs that I was sure would scar me for the rest of my life and euphoric that two was now three. A family. My family. Our family.

Then she came home. Free from the support of Midwives and Doctors, Maisie was now alone with us. I laid her down on a play mat and stared at her. What was going to happen now ? How was “it” going to happen and what was “it” exactly ?

For me “it” was the fear of failure.

I failed at three months after I dropped her on her head onto the tiled kitchen floor. This happened on the first day that my wife had left me alone with her. I was in tears and a major panic as I called my wife, crying down the phone that a lump was appearing on her head. Cradling her as her cries subsided we hopped into my bed and I tried to comfort her. She started falling asleep. I panicked again. Sleep after head trauma equals concussion.  I tried to keep her awake, she didn’t like that. Maybe because it was her nap time and her dad was red eyed and bouncing her up and down singing “Wakey wakey Maisie” over and over and over again.

I failed when she was a toddler and  I grabbed her arm in anger. She wasn’t listening, it was bath time and she had better things to do. She was in a typical Maisie mood. I grabbed her right arm as I leaned down to try and reason through clenched teeth and she immediately burst into tears saying “You hurt my arm”. I was heartbroken.  I have always felt that hitting a child in punishment is beyond wrong. The thought that inflicting pain in the belief that it will create reason and understanding is brain dead and pathetic.  Anyone with intelligence knows that there are times that you cannot reason with them. There are times that you cannot make them understand. There are times that you have to think happy thoughts and take deep yoga like breathes. This was one of those times. And yet, I had just hurt her in my attempts to reason with her. More tears from me and a major apology followed.

Then my wife became pregnant. Euphoria soon turned to unbearable sadness when at 12 weeks we had to terminate the pregnancy. The pride in the mental and physical strength of my wife that I had felt with the birth of our first child returned, though in completely different circumstances.  I wanted to take all her pain. I wanted to hold her and not let go. Even though it was nature and even though there was nothing we could have done……. I felt I had uncontrollably failed.

In the months and years that have followed I have experienced the Jane Austin-like highs of love, pride and awe along with the Shakespearean-like battles of sadness, fear, anger and rage that only a child with the combined DNA of two crazies like us can produce. 

Despite my fears I have succeeded many more times than I have either truly or falsely failed. Maisie is now 5 and the “it” has become the realisation that parenting is a glorious burden. Embrace it and every piece of luggage that goes with it.  If you are true to yourself and more importantly to the human in your care, you can’t fail.

Glenn Dungate

Would You Like to Review My Children's Books?

A couple of years ago, stuck in the middle of school holidays with my then-five year old Bombshell, we decided that we would write a book together.

Specifically, I would write it, and she would do the illustrations. I let her choose the most important aspects of the book, such as the name of the main character (Fairy Sparkle Rose), the colour of her dresses, and the 'twist' at the end of the story. It is a story about being yourself and not following the pack.

I enjoyed it so much, I wrote another book 'How the Rainbow Got its Colours' which is a story about sharing.

Then earlier this year, obviously with the 'D' word flapping around the back of my head, I wrote a story called 'My Body My Shape' (yeah, the title is a work in progress) which is a story about loving different shapes and sizes.

I don't know why the image is doing this, but I assure you the books themselves are completely normal

Each story is aimed at 4-6 year olds. They are very simple stories, with painted illustrations by my daughters. I have simply printed them myself on Snapfish, so the production is basic.

But I have a few spare copies, and I will post them to you if you wouldn't mind reading them to your kids, and then emailing me a few lines telling me what you think. Be honest, there's no point telling me they're awesome if you actually think they're crap. If you happen to own a publishing company and you love them, then yes, I am willing to sign a contract.

It's first in, first served, so please email me your name and postal address to frommumtome@hotmail.com (email only please, don't put your personal details on Facebook)*.

Update: thanks to everyone who responded, but I have had more offers to review the books than expected,and unfortunately, there are no more copies available.

I can send packs of two books to the US or Europe (2 on offer) and packs of three books within Australia (up to five on offer). (Sorry about the discrepancy, but it costs a lot to post things across the world).


* I promise not to stalk, harass or sell your personal details to anyone. Just in case you were wondering...

Why I Will Never Use the D Word

‘Mummy,’ my middle daughter said to me a few weeks ago in utter horror. ‘You’re wearing… pants!’ 

She practically spat the last word and it probably matches my own perception of this particular item of clothing.

I have a few body hang ups and I dress in a particular way. I never wear pants, shorts or jeans. I only wear long skirts, preferably to my ankles, sometimes longer, never shorter than calf length. I often wear rather low cut tops, rationalising that if the eyes are drawn upwards, they won’t be looking at my overly ample bottom and legs.

It’s dumb, I know. No one actually gives a crap what I wear or what my body looks like under it. But I had body issues as a teenager and they don’t just disappear because you ‘grow up’, just because you get married, or just because you ‘know better’. Body issues get right to the core of who you are, whether you want to be bigger or smaller or more curvier or curvier in different places. Whether it’s something you obsess over, or something you put in the ‘too hard’ basket and decide to think about it later.

So apparently, it would appear my four year old had never seen me in a pair of pants before when she caught me one morning in a pair of tracksuit bottoms. She studied my legs as though she hadn’t realised I had any.

‘WHY are you wearing pants?’ she wanted to know.

‘I’ve been doing some exercise,’ I told her.

She gave me a good all over glance. ‘Why?’ she asked again.

To her four year old eyes, I look exactly the way I am supposed to look. Mum shaped. Specifically her-mum shaped. She doesn’t yet understand concepts like fat or thin or sexy or unfit or athletic or what is desirable or not. As far as she is concerned, the way I am now, is just the way I am meant to be.

As far as I am concerned, I am in the worst physical shape of my life. I currently weigh the same as I did when I was 9 months pregnant with the Bombshell. Over the past seven years I have put on about 25 kilograms (55 pounds). I can’t run a few metres without getting puffed. My knees protest about everything I do. I eat what I want, when I want. I drink too much alcohol. I can’t sit cross legged on the floor. I have a BMI in the obese range. I don’t feel obese, but I don’t feel good.

It aint pretty.

So, after years of watching my weight balloon, and solving the problem by just buying bigger clothes, I have finally decided to do something about it. I have been wanting to do something for years but there was always a reason, an excuse not to. I am pretty good at making excuses. I was either pregnant or breastfeeding, or wanting to get pregnant, or I had a bad-sleeping baby, or I didn’t want to sacrifice my writing time. Or any time, for that matter.

But six weeks ago I signed up for an online ‘body transformation’ program that I haven’t followed in the slightest, but it didn’t matter. My head was finally in the right space and I have been cutting down on booze, cutting down on snacks, reducing portion size and looking the other way when cakes, chocolate or other temptations are placed in front of me. Mostly anyway. Oh, and the exercise that is beginning to transform me.

I sneak downstairs before 5am every day, and do a different exercise video in the family room. In Perth at the moment, it stays dark until after 7am, so at 5am it’s pretty dark and quiet and lonely. Just the right place I need to get my wobbles out. And there is a lot of wobbling.

When the girls ask me why I am exercising, I say it is to make my body strong.

When they ask why I am eating so many vegetables, I say it is because they are full of goodness.

When they ask me why I’m not eating dessert, I say it is because I am listening to my tummy and it says it is full.

I will never tell them I am on a diet or that I am trying to lose weight.

There are two reasons why I will never use the ‘D’ word in front of my daughters. One, is because I am acutely aware that they will inevitably form their own body issues over time, and be damned if I am going to raise them in a household where mum is constantly dieting and denying herself in the name of numbers of a scale.

Secondly, is because I don’t want to be on a diet for the rest of my life. Nothing could depress me more than the thought of dieting and all the negative connotations that come with that loaded word dictating the way I eat for the rest of my life. However, I can realistically see myself ‘eating healthily’ for the rest of my days, with occasional treats and being able to still enjoy food, but just less of it, and perhaps avoiding certain foods 95% of the time.

I can live with teaching my daughters to ‘eat healthy’. I don’t think I can live with teaching them about the concept of dieting.

Sure, it may seem like semantics to some people, that I am simply choosing a different word to describe the same situation. But I have not discussed this with my kids. I haven’t told them I am changing the way I eat or the fact I now exercise. I haven’t made a song and dance in front of them.

I just do it. Like the advert says.

And it’s working. I can see it and I can feel it. Yes, the numbers are changing but I am trying not to focus on that (but on the flipside I feel proud of those numbers and I can totally understand why people obsess over them).

And even though I don’t think the 5am starts are sustainable in the long term, what I am noticing is that six weeks on I can do so more. I can run up the stairs (well, jog). I don’t need as much food to feel full. I don’t feel the need to eat dessert just because my mouth wants it. I am feeling happier with myself. I am not needing two or three glasses of wine at the end of the day.

I just want my kids to look at me and see a happy mum, to see that she is eating well and is happy with herself. Notice I didn’t say ‘happy with her body’. Happy with the way I am living.

Maybe one day I will even buy a pair of jeans.