Circus

My house has morphed into a circus. I cannot recollect when it happened that our space went from chaos with sometimes-listeners, to complete and utter loss of all control. Perhaps I was hoping it was just a phase.


But, like all “phases”, the kids get you in the end. It begins with what you surmise is teething, at the ripe old age of somewhere around 4 months. Lots of sudden whingeing and crying from your little poppet, who was previously very happy about life, can only be the nasty business of teething. However, 6 months on and still no teeth, you start thinking that perhaps it was something else…like a mini temper or frustration developing, or separation anxiety, or any of those other delights no one really tells you about.

But the big guns are pulled out somewhere around the age of 18 months, when your little baby discovers his yelling voice and stomping feet. From here it is a never ending upward surge (by the kids) and catch up (by the parents) as the formerly placid child pushes into new territory. What you thought, at age 2 ½, was a sudden onset of exhaustion due to a growth spurt – displayed as the extreme sports of whingeing and throwing themselves at the kitchen cupboards – has become the norm while you were giving them some slack. What you thought, at age 4, was frustration at not being able to keep up with big brother, shown as sibling bickering, has turned into a major way to get your attention, CONSTANTLY. Suddenly, you realise: The little …. they’ve got one up on me again! The behaviour you were excusing is now the norm.

Anyway, I think our circus started about 6 months ago. At least that’s how long I believe they’ve been subversively introducing their new scheme into our house. The show begins at 6.30am: We have trapeze, from Master 4, who likes to swing from staircase to bed, to brother to sister. Riding the backs of dangerous animals we also have – as Master 4 lurches from here to never never on the back of Master 6, who roars in complaint. Speaking of roaring – well, that’s me of course. All the time it seems. All three children, meanwhile, provide the background music, at 500 decibels.

Little Miss 2 takes part in all of this. In fact, she is the most fearless circus performer in the house. And the LOUDEST (sorry to shout.) She is the cheeky monkey who silently steals the library books from her brother’s school bag, making the audience (her other brother) giggle. She is good with twirling crockery plates and half full cups of tea, and brilliant at walking the high rope, masquerading as the dining room table. She also rides the wild animals, two at a time, and provides many a slippery surface for the clowns (me) to trip up in. In fact, now that I think about it, somewhere along their plan, Little Miss 2 has subversively taken over my role as ringleader, and I have become the poor old clown!

All this before 8.30am. My head explodes, what to do with them all?

Might as well sell tickets - Roll up Roll up, to the greatest show on the Northern Beaches....

Great (Yet Frivolous) News For Mums

I've just read some brilliant news for us 'Slightly Glamorous But Never Mutton-esque Women With Kids Old Enough To Be At School'...  I think I need to shorten this; let's call us GNM's (Glamorous, Never Mutton-esque), because I think it's become trendy to write in daggy old engineer-favoured acronyms. 
Anyway, fellow GNM's, natural hair and make up is IN at the NewYork and Milan runway shows, which are running away as we speak.  Hallelujah! 
As we know, this NEVER means we just bump on out of bed, throw together a sandwich and step onto the school bitumen a la birdsnest bedhead and sleep encrusted eyeballs. Nooooo.
The hallelujah part of this news, is that natural is what suits our GNM style of face (with perhaps a few of those personality lines and other distinguishing bits and bobs about it).  Heavy eye colour just exaggerates our black rings due to all night partying of children, and dark lipstick unfortunately finds it's way down the estuaries of our upper lip.  So, light on, all the way.  
What we must take particular care with, and on which we can err on the side of darkness, is eyebrows. Very important. In fact, THE MOST important.



Me, turning up at school.  On time.

My beautiful friend recently told me that my face disappeared into nothing because of my paltry eyebrows.  (She'd had champagne). So I popped into her beauty palouuurrrr to remedy my lack of face.  The reaction when I stepped out knocked me off my flat-soled sandshoes. "You look like you've got a full face of makeup on!"... "Wow, look at you, so glamorous!" etc etc.  
Even - now listen up to this one - MY HUSBAND NOTICED!  This is the man who didn't realise til a friends husband (yes, a man, and a heterosexual one at that) said, "Nice new hair Felicity", after I'd had it cut short and dyed dark.  From long and nearly white blond. This man, my husband, noticed my new eyebrows.  
So, you get the picture - impact impact impact.  If you want my eyebrows you need the magic of Christina at Little Luxuries 0414 990 317, enquiries@littleluxuries.net.au. 
The other thing that was important on those running along the runway - not planes - was skin.  Flawless, a little bit shiney sheeny, a pop of blush on the cheeks, and smatter of translucent powder to stitch it all up.  Now this takes time to achieve properly, and I know I get it wrong all the time, primarily because my other friend is always 'blending' for me in the playground.  (She's not had champagne, she's just bold like that).
I also reinvested in an eyelash curler because I think it might help to open up eyes that look a little droopy some days, thanks to all night partying of children.
So here we are:  GNM's - we're in!  We're fashionable, we are the HOT things of the moment. Lap it up ladies. 
Don't think I'll grace a runway though, I'm likely to fall clean off the end in anything higher than my flat soled sandshoes.  

   

Travel with Fascinator: Part 2

So, how did my Travel with Fascinator plans stand up?


I spent this morning, my first morning back, blow drying my hair between wiping a bottom and icing a bruised head, with three little people hanging off my legs who sounded like a virgin violin playing troupe.

The only thing that interrupted my hair drying in Melbourne was, “Champagne’s ready!”

I went to get everyone dressed this morning and realised it was Chinese dress up day at school, so spent the morning RACING to make a Sensei outfit, all before 8.15am. All the while (1.5 hours of ‘while’) I was YELLING for someone else to get himself dressed (which he has proved he can do in a flat 2 minutes), and trying to keep an eye on that wee wee getting itself in the potty rather than the lounge crevices.

In Melbourne I only got myself dressed. Quietly. With a champagne.

This morning I went to make 2 lunch boxes and opened the fridge to NO BREAD. Yes, NO BREAD. Then there was outcry – loud and long, when I said there was NO MILK left to have the routine glass of milk after breakfast.

In Melbourne I had coffee, after Panini, after coffee, after glass of wine in the middle of shopping in Myers, after dumplings, after pub meal, after cocktail, and then some more coffee. And of course, some champagne. All of which someone else made for me. They had bread. And milk. And gin.

On Melbourne Cup day, I got ready with my gaggle of beautiful girlfriends. We fluffed hair for each other, drew on glamour-making makeup, slipped on stockings, laughed at how silly we were to wear such high heels to an all day event whilst packing our foldable Party Feet into our handbags – handbags which were all, incidentally, too small to fit a single nappy or drink bottle. We popped on our outfits and fascinators which had been under construction for the few days of shopping beforehand, and made sure the champagne didn’t ruin our lipstick.

And off we went, without strapping anyone in, wiping anyone’s toothpaste off their face, or dealing with a last minute poo, chattering about the horses, fascinators, frocks and champagne ahead of us.

Packing? The Right Outfit? Really, it doesn’t matter when you have gorgeous friends and can indulge in a little ‘no kids’ time out. Not to mention champagne.

Travel with a Fascinator.

This mummy duck is currently preparing to go on a travel adventure by herself, for the first time in about, ooo, 8 years. Will I remember what to do?
In the preparation for the trip I have definitely not remembered what to do, it has not being like riding a bicycle where it all comes flooding back. I used to be known as the queen of packing – able to stuff a backpack in half an hour, for six months of travel, across 20 different countries, with only two outfits and a toilet roll. Now, give me three days in the same country - in a city no less - with clothes shops and toilets you sit on, and it’s taken me all week and about 15 squillion clothes fashion parades for my mum and sister. And shoes! Don’t get me started on the shoes.

The other difference is my confidence. Once upon a time I whipped up a silver lamé mini skirt and threw it over my ‘billiard table legs’ to go out dancing that night without a care. This trip, with my best girlies from school, is going to require a bit of flash – nice restaurants, smart shopping precincts, a cocktail crawl, and the Melbourne Cup, no less! My work uniform of trackies and 10 year old Supre singlet tops will not suffice.

So I have been labouring over sewing a lace frock and constructing a fascinator for the last few weeks for the Race Day itself, between nappies, a teething baby, work, school pick ups, sickness and swimming lessons. I've gone with my gut instinct on what the trend is, but let's face it, my gut is no longer what it used to be, post children. 

After all this trend turmoil and neglecting my children due to myself, my bag is packed. With another FOUR dresses to wear besides the one I made. I used to be so confident in a bit of wacky dress sense, how is it that now I feel I’ve got it so wrong? I don’t want to do Mutton, but I no longer feel I can do Interesting.

Hmm, interesting.

So, let’s watch this space. And see if my spark comes back when there are no kids to fill my heart and head. Just ME to think about…. I don’t know how that feels anymore! Let you know next week.

A lesson in beauty for women like me.

“How do you care for a spray tan?" I ask, "Not wash?”


It was a genuine question but everyone thought it was hilarious and consequently I was still none the wiser. Made me realise I need to do a bit of research in current beauty for mummy’s of my, err, Genre. (That Genre being the Slightly Glamorous But Never Mutton-esque Woman With Kids Old Enough To Be At School. As opposed to telling you how old we are).

I can’t quite marry the fact that I used to be a beauty editor, advising people on what makeup colours were hot on the catwalks and which one was the best body shimmer, to the work I do now which involves the best texta remover from a two-year-old’s cheek bones, and the benefits of scrubbing Bolognese off your face properly with a damp washer as opposed to my trousers.

It was easy back in those days though: The concerns of my greater masses were getting the right amount of shimmer in your blue eye shadow (yes, it was crazily called eye shadow then, as opposed to eye mousse, shadow stick or -deep breath- “Impact 3D Illuminating 5 Colours for Sculpted Eyes”), or, my personal mission, how to get the BIGGEST hair. Yeah yeah.

So, what are the current concerns of a mummy duck in the Slightly Glamorous But Never Mutton-esque Woman With Kids Old Enough To Be At School Genre?

Obviously a spray tan to begin with. The Google Beauty Bible tells me you look after it by moisturising. Great, I do that already because I have a genuine fear of the saggy knee syndrome, so I’ll be ok on that front. Tick, spray tan knowledge up to date.

The next concern for our Genre is the face: Personality lines (because we don’t say wrinkles, Daddies), and those strange blobby brown marks we’ll call Genre (not Age) Spots. Now this I do know about. My best advice from personal experience here mummy’s is NOT BOTOX, and not a whitening product (it’s BLEACH!), and yes to a really moisturising moisturiser. You need one that makes your skin feel soft and supple all day long. (I should do infomercials). Moisturiser is like a high gloss laquer for the face - the gleam deflects the eye from the timber grain underneath. And the drier your skin, the more obvious the grain. I use Dermalogica Intense Moisture Balance right now but I’m a moisturiser whore, sharing myself across the brands.

Botox is an horrendously bad idea. Not only is it a mad cow disease thing you’re injecting into your face, but also at some point in your life you’ll have to give it up and the personality lines will come smashing into your face making it look like a cranial earthquake just cracked it all up. Best it happens gradually, that way no one will notice, I promise.

Other issues for our Genre are obviously working out what to do with the body decimated by childbirth. It’s just not a good design/concept/functional idea, never has been. Men should do it - their below bits already stick out - ours are inny's and they should be allowed to stay that way.  And manboobs look like they've done years of breastfeeding regardless of if they have or not. Anyway, on this topic I throw my hands in the air (making sure the chook wings don’t knock over my six year-old). I’m still waiting on that manual called How to Put Everything Back IN That Now Sticks Out, Post Pregnancy and Birth.

Found a good thing, sticking to it

Can you hear the whingeing in my house? 
It's teeth. Their growing generates a sound very much like fingernails down a chalkboard. Yes, yes, some experts have said teeth don't hurt when they come through.  Well, 3 kids down - that's 60 baby teeth breaking gums, causing bleeding and not to mention what it does to the nether regions - makes me an expert too, and I say it hurts.  Them and me.
So what to do...
I have tried all the recommended tricks and I have to say, not many work.  Sometimes not even the hardcore drugs. But today I came across a wee miracle.  It's a piece of rubber shaped like a pimply fish, and known by little Miss Screechypants Soreteeth as "Pishie" (pimply fishie = pishie. So advanced).

For a baby who's been seriously ill in her little life I am now ridiculously fanatical about what goes in her mouth. So big tick for the Natural Rubber Teether, aka Pishie, for being made of completely natural rubber from rubber trees - not a petro-chemical or BPA in sight (why has the rest of the world banned this and NOT Australia?). Chew the living daylights out of it Beautiful.  And it's all one piece so I know she's not going to swallow and choke if one part comes away like some of those poor little bubba's in the news.
To begin with Miss Screechypants cuddled it. Having never been a baby who automatically inspects things with her mouth, it did not occur to her to chew Pishie, especially as I'm always telling her not to chew her brothers. So I showed her what to do, to the hilarity of my sons.
But she copied, and I could see the relief on her face as little Miss PeacefulwithPishie knawed away. Ahh, the serenity.
Serenity for sale at http://www.makeuwell.com/.

Mothers Group

My Mothers Group is the epitome of the saying 'it's like putting on an old pair of shoes'.
Our first born's are the ripe old age of 6 now, and half way through a successful first year at school, so they no longer get to see their little pals every week. Yet the mummy's and siblings still meet up, even if it's a little less regular than years past.  Now we find the need to do dinner, as well as a once a month park date. 
I have an image of that first Mothers Group meeting that will never leave me: In the small stuffy clinic room, all of us nervous, sitting there willing the most amazing thing we've ever achieved, to not scream. Everyone introduced themselves, and first impressions were fairly correct - a bunch of honest, fun girls who would turn out to be a pretty amazing support group for each one of us. 
Some breastfed, some co-slept with their babies, some started food before the clinic's allotted age. At the time they were huge issues for us all; we talked, we coached, we listened and provided a shoulder to cry on, or a funny story to lighten the atmosphere. Now that our babies have taken that first big step toward independence in going to school, the conversation is all about homework, how we survived their first day, and how amazing it is to watch them learn.
Second babies came along.  Another time I won't forget is the day one mother announced her second pregnacy, and bit by bit much of the rest of the mothers group said they were pregnant too, all due around the same time.  We had twins in the group, and learnt all about how two little beings grow in one space, and very recently what seems to be our last little baby has been born, much longed for and a true miracle - a great celebration for us all.  
Having a baby is possibly the most miraculous thing an ordinary person will do. But longer lasting than those first fraught and joyful years, is the blessing of friends to share the experience and the memories with.