Life lately

It was a good meal week this week (this was crispy skin salmon with brussel sprouts and pomegranate) // fun at kinder // early rising = napping in the car // he struggles to join in but loves Auskick so much // much needed home pedi // some rare brotherly love // exploring Grandma’s garden // all the cousins blowing out Grandma’s candles

So grateful for school holidays starting tomorrow.  I think we are all going to appreciate the change of pace.  Life has been a little manic lately.


What do YOU call IT?

Four boys live in my house. Four boys who make noise, create mess, have selective hearing, and who have penises. Oh, and don’t they know it – but that’s another subject for another post…

I have no issues at all about calling things their correct names. I studied anatomy for four years; I know the correct name for pretty much every part of my body. I can tell my abductors from my adductors, and my masticator from my mandible.

But I still call it a willy.

Along the way, the boys will learn it’s anatomically correct name. Along with all the bits that go along with it, and their functions. They’ll learn that girls are different. Girls don’t have the same bits that they do. Us girls are missing something, but have a whole lot of other complicated bits. And they’ll learn what they need to know about those. The rest they can figure out for themselves sometime way in the future. Good luck with that, boys.

So for now, we call it a willy. And a giney. Because they call me mum, not mother. We say brekky and bubby. We like to have cute names for things. Including our bits.

Meanwhile, it took me years to get over my mum calling ours ‘front bottom’ and ‘back bottom’. I don’t recommend THAT.

What do you call it in your house?

Wordless Wednesday {My Little Knight}

‘I’m a knight and I saved the princess from the mountain and there was a locked door and I chopped the head off the dragon so he couldn’t see any more’.

My middlest is my story teller. Either that or he watches way too much ‘Mike the Knight’ on ABC2.  Maybe.

Linking up with My Little Drummer Boys for Wordless Wednesday.

Do you yell in front of your kids?

The hubs and I had a bit of a disagreement last night.   It was more than a petty argument. Although it probably started off that way, it ended with exposing some feelings of mine that left me feeling raw and exhausted.

It started at the end of dinner time, which meant it unfolded in front of the kids. We argued well; there was no swearing or belittling. No name calling or nastiness. But there was some yelling (me) and some crying (also me).

I don’t remember my parents doing much arguing. I remember the fall-out; the looks and the silence, but not the exchange of words.   Maybe they did and I’ve blocked it out, but whatever the case, I don’t recall much shouting.

It has only been recently that I’ve gotten better at vocalising my feelings rather than bottling them up. I’m still learning, which explains the yelling; it’s sometimes such a struggle to get things out that it all explodes out at once.

I want my kids to know that it’s ok to tell people how you’re feeling. I don’t want them to know the anguish of holding fear and anger and sadness inside. I want them to know that sometimes grownups disagree, that they sometimes yell and cry, that marriage is hard and involves working through a whole lot of stuff.

I want them to see us argue, and I want them to see that at the end of it we can hug, and find common ground, and move forward.

I want them to know that mummy and daddy aren’t perfect.  We have faults, we fall down, we get up and try again.  We get hurt, we hurt each other, we say sorry, we make up.

Do you argue in front of your kids?  Do you think it’s ok, or is it better left behind a closed bedroom door?  

Linking up with Jess at Diary of a SAHM for I Blog on Tuesday.

Don’t forget the Groupon giveaway – closing Friday!


As teenagers, my BFFs and I were passionate, melodramatic feminists.  Our catch cry was ‘Towanda’ (you have seen Fried Green Tomatoes, right?), we petitioned the principal of our very-traditional private school to allow girls to wear pants (and failed), there was much eye-rolling and loud protesting at the ‘sexist’ boys, and plenty of talk about never getting married (or even becoming a nun for one of us who will remain nameless), or if we did, keeping our own surnames.  We were women, hear us roar.

circa 1997

Now, in my thirties, with my teens far enough behind me for me to laugh at myself, I have mellowed.  And I have also realised that it’s not what a woman wears or what she’s called that makes her strong.  It’s not about her job or her marital status.

A woman’s strength comes from her soul.  That nurturing, gentle-fierce, fiery centre that has the ability to bring life and light into the world.  The mummy-lion heart that will rip to shreds any predator that comes between her and those she loves.

Her strength comes from her convictions.  Her morals and her ethics.  She doesn’t have to dominate the world, a room or even a conversation.  She just has to stand firm on the rock of her beliefs.  She just has to stand for something.

You know, I think the world still gets it wrong.  The strong ones aren’t the ones making all the noise, all the drama.  The strong ones are raising future leaders, or changing their corner of the world unnoticed, or writing blog posts at midnight.

I don’t need to burn my bra to be strong.  My strength comes from my character, and no outward display of rebellion is going to prove that.  But over all, my strength comes from my God who made me in His image.

So be proud of your gentleness, woman.  Don’t be ashamed of your nurturing spirit.  These are the things that make us strong.

Happy International Women’s Day.