Tonight I put on my Christmas martyr pants, stood on my Christmas martyr soap box and let it rip.
“I am doing EVERYTHING around here to get ready for Christmas and no-one else is doing ANYTHING!!”
“Like what?” came the reply from my rather shell shocked family.
So I listed all the stuff I have been doing or will do in the lead up to 25 December:
My martyr list
Buy four presents and cards for friends of my children who selfishly decided to be born in December.
Buy 50 chocolates Santas and 50 small Christmas cards for my children’s classmates.
Buy a Christmas present for the kids’ tennis coach.
Buy Christmas gift bags to carry all the Christmas stuff to school.
Make over 60 brownies as presents for teachers, school crossing supervisors, after school care carers, workmates, family and friends.
Write 40 Christmas cards to family and friends.
Source and buy Christmas presents for my children. Track down the one doll my daughter wants that has sold out everywhere, so I’m forced to buy it online. Then the wrong one is delivered. Then I panic that the correct one won’t arrive on time so I ask my lovely workmates to keep an eye out for it in the stores. Then I really panic and decide to buy another one just in case. Then the store sends me the correct one plus the second one I bought; and my workmate buys me one too. So I now have three dolls.
Book my children in to school holiday program for January that needs to be booked and paid for in December.
Buy a Kris Kringle gift.
Buy new Christmas lights for the Christmas tree because the cats ate the lights last year.
Buy the cats a Christmas present.
Get up at sparrow’s fart to line up to have photos of the kids taken with Santa.
Book in for a spray tan, manicure, pedicure and hair cut before Christmas.
Book kids in for a hair cut before Christmas.
Make sure the kids have nice outfits to wear for Christmas Day.
Would you believe it’s taken me about three weeks and at least 12 failed attempts to actually sit down and write on my blog? I’m not even sure I can call it my blog anymore, as it’s probably disowned me due to terrible neglect.
I imagine my blog sitting on the top of my computer monitor, swinging its legs and waving its arms around at me each time I’m sitting down bashing away at the keyboard, doing anything but blogging.
“Shhh!” I say. “I’ve got nothing meaningful to say to you yet.”
“Shhh! You’re a reminder of when I had time to sit down and gather my thoughts in such a way that they were worthy of sharing.”
“Shhh! Everyone is writing really articulate blogs and I just..can’t..put..words..good..together.”
But today I have found a sliver of time to sit down and check in.
Today I have raced out of the office to pick up my son from school because he was looking very green and complaining of a headache and sore tummy. And for once, I didn’t grab some work to bring home with me.
So here I am. He’s tucked up in bed asleep and I have a house to myself – for a bit.
As many of you may know I’ve been studying for the last 12 months. And now it’s over. Woohoo!
For the past four (ish) months I decided to let go of my diet and exercise routine so I could concentrate on getting my studies done while working full time and being a Mum.
And for someone who has always struggled with her weight, it was actually fun to give myself permission to not wake up early and go to the gym or for a run; to not count calories; and to not weigh myself.
But now the studies are over and I have to deal with what I’ve done to myself.
There have been three signs that have made me think “Hmm… I may have gone a tad too far..”
I was at Coles waiting for the checkout chick to put my items in to the bag. I went to put my hand on my hip and realised I was resting it on my muffin top! It now sticks out so much, it’s like a ledge!
I was getting dressed for work and tried to tuck in what I thought was my shirt puffing out under my jumper – and realised, yep once again, it was my muffin top. Can’t tuck that baby in, let me tell you!
Today we were out for a drive and we saw a large lady. My daughter called her ‘fat’ and I said that we don’t call people that. Then my son said, “She’s not fat. She looks like you, Mum!”
Woah! The blinkers are off, peoples! TIme to get busy getting healthy!
Do any of you have any ‘signs’ that tell you that you may have gone too far with the whole eating lots and exercising not much routine?
I danced in the streets of Edinburgh, kissed drunken Scottish boys and policemen (they were sober) and saw many a kilt lifted high and proud. Sure, I contracted whooping cough on 1 January and cracked a rib from coughing so much – but it was worth it, baby!
I’ve watched the sun come up and brought in the New Year with lots of hoots and hollers.
I held my breath at the dawn of the Millennium and waited for planes to fall from the sky and elevators to suddenly stop working. When nothing happened, I danced till dawn and chugged champagne.
So what will I be doing this year?
I will be making homemade pizzas and watching a movie with my children until about 8.30pm. Then I will put them to bed.
I will watch the fireworks telecast – feeling guilty that I like the Sydney fireworks more than the Melbourne ones – and trying to keep my eyes open.
Then I will wake the kids up just before midnight, count down the seconds to 2015 and clap and cheer.
Then everyone will toddle off to bed.
May you all be partying as hard as I am tomorrow night!
Happy New Year and I hope 2015 is an absolute cracker!
To the stay-at-home Mums in my suburb (warning: contains bitterness borne out of jealousy):
I’m jealous that you seem to have all the time in the world in the morning to get yourself dressed and your little cherubs ready for school. You don’t know that the house you all walk past with the white car in the driveway contains a woman who is only just stepping in to the shower, after having a miserable morning dealing with tired children, when she should be heading to the school drop off.
I’m jealous that you get to walk your children to school in the morning sunshine, sharing lovely jokes and enjoying some special bonding moments. I see you all as I am driving past, cursing the 40km/h speed zone because I am once again running late to get my children to school and then to get myself to work on time.
I’m jealous that you al seem to have the time to chat to each other once school starts, keeping yourselves up to date with all the latest school events. Meanwhile, I am the one who arrives at school with the only children who are not dressed up in yellow for some fundraising event; causing us all to hop back in the car, race in to the house, get changed and race back to school. Of course, then I have to walk the hall of shame to the School Office to sign my children in, as they are so late and have missed the roll.
I’m jealous because I assume you always have the house running smoothly, and there are always freshly made healthy snacks for the children to eat when they get home and a nutritious dinner on the boil, ready to be served at the sensible time of 5.30pm – leaving plenty of time for some family togetherness. I think of you as I walk in the door at 6.15pm and head straight to the kitchen to whip up a meal that only takes 10 minutes to cook so we can fit in bath time and a book before bed.
I’m also thankful that you answer my panicked texts at 8.15am when I need to know if today is the day the children are heading off to the excursion; or to check if it is Nude Food Day, and therefore whether I need to un-Glad Wrap their lunches.
I’m thankful for your sweet smiles of understanding as I arrive at school in a mad flap because I have dropped one of the many balls I try to keep up in the air.
Please forgive my steely looks as I see you walk past my house in the morning, assuming (wrongly) that you haven’t a care in the world, while I feel like the world is on my shoulders. It’s only because I am jealous…and tired.
Dinner time at my house. We are all sitting down together at the dining table, sharing the highlights of our day.
Now I know this sounds very Brady Bunchesque, but believe me, most nights I can be found in the kitchen frantically cooking up three different meals – one for me (FODMAPS-friendly); one for the kids (tasteless and without any ‘weird green bits’); and one for my husband (big and meaty – the food; not hubby). And by the time each meal is ready, there is not much time for chatter.
So one the rare evenings when we are all eating THE SAME THING, it’s nice to enjoy the time to catch up.
So back to the conversation.
My son, who has just started school this year (he is 6), was regaling us with a list of girls at his school that are in love with him.
“Kate* loves me, but I don’t love her.”
“Sarah* loves me, but I don’t love her.”
“Emma* loves me. She always wants to hug me when I fall down and cry.”
I asked: “Do you sometimes fall down and pretend to cry for hugs?”
And my son answered: “Nah, I cry for love.”
Romantic or playboy? I’ll have wait to wait a few years to find out!
*Names have been changed to protect the sweetly innocent.
Warning: this post is about Easter and chocolate eggs, and does not really touch on the real meaning of Easter at all – not one little bit, actually.
I’m going to come right out and say it: I am over Easter.
Well, to be more specific, I am over chocolate. And that goes hand in hand with Easter.
And for those of you who know me, will realise this is a big statement because I am a bona fide chocoholic.
Don’t you agree that something weird has happened to Easter this year?
It seems to have been here since the start of April. In fact, I think I recall seeing hot cross buns and Easter eggs in the shops in February.
I hold school holidays to blame.
They started a few weeks before Easter, so of course I had to race out and buy Easter eggs to hand out to my childrens’ friends; teachers; after school care leaders; and school crossing supervisors on the last day of school (4 April). And it all went downhill from there!
We have already had two Easter egg hunts and have seen the Easter bunny loitering around shopping centres and other outdoor events. So now we have bags of chocolate Easter eggs and it is not even Easter Sunday yet!
Tomorrow at 4.30am I am going to have to wake up, creep outside and hide eggs so my kids can wake up at 6am, race outside and then probably stop short and bemoan “Oh noooo. Not MORE Easter eggs!” Because the surprise and build up has gone. They have been eating eggs for weeks now, so what’s the big deal?
I remember the Easters of my youth when it would be so exciting to wake up on Easter Sunday, knowing that I could finally get my hands on some chocolate Easter eggs. There was no way that I would have had any chocolate eggs before then. Oh no.
And for those of you that say ‘Well, you should have hidden or put away all the gets they collected at those Easter eggs hunts so they wouldn’t eat any chocolate eggs until Sunday,” I say: ‘You’re probably right.”
My struggles have just begun. We had my family Easter get together yesterday for Good Friday and we all exchanged eggs. Now as I type I can see THREE bags full of chocolate Easter eggs that are calling my name like Sirens.
And they won’t suddenly go away on Sunday. Judging by the ridiculous amount of chocolate we have in the house, they will be here for the rest of the year!
It’s all too much. It’s like being a junkie and having someone lay out drugs in front you and then saying “Don’t touch.”
Because of course I am going to touch! And unwrap! And eat! And eat!
Maybe this is a good thing? Maybe it is the catalyst for me to stare my sugar/chocolate addiction in the eye and say enough is enough!
And it got me thinking what my typical Sunday involves and how different it would be to hers.
Rebecca Judd’s ideal Sunday involves:
8am: Head to Balmain’s in Brighton (Melbourne) with my husband Chris, son Oscar (2) and newborn daughter Billie, before coming home for a play.
10am: I lock myself away to work on the week’s ideas, materials and curated design for Melbourne property developer R. Corp.
12pm: Time to stock up on fresh produce at Prahran Market (if it’s footy season, you’ll find us at the ‘G watching my husband play!).
3pm: My kids wake from their nap, then we head to the St Kilda Sea Baths for a splash. The hot spa is the best!
6pm: We go to the early session at Fazio’s or La Svolta in Hampton Street for yummy pizza done the Italian way.
My typical Sunday (today) in comparison:
7am: Get out of bed to give my son his morning carrot (don’t ask) and my daughter her oats.
7.15am: Go back to bed
8am: Head to the fridge in Warranwood, with my husband, six-year-old son and seven-year-old daughter. Go to 9am Body Combat class while husband looks after the kids.
9am to 10am: Try to avoid looking in the wall to wall mirror during my Body Combat class so I am not a witness to how unfit I have let myself become.
10.15am: Time to stock up on fresh produce at Coles. Look like I’ve been dragged through a bush backwards and then drenched with a hose (if it’s footy season, you’ll find me at the exact same place).
10.35am: Arrive home. Husband heads off for a swim. I think we say hello and goodbye to each other.
11.15am: After shower, take kids for a quick walk in the sunshine.
12:30pm: Head into the kitchen for some yummy leftover pizza lunch done the Dominos’ way
3pm: My kids come in to the house after eating an ice cream outside, then we head to the bathroom for a splash, but not before they wipe their faces on their clothes. The hot water on the facewasher is the best!
4pm: I make cookies for the kids’ play lunches. Then I make some minestrone soup for later in the week.
6pm: We go the early session at the dining table for a meal the kids won’t eat. So they get some of the minestrone soup.