Little did I know that making judgements about parenting when you’re not a parent is kinda like packing a parachute when you’ve never been parachuting – you just shouldn’t do it.

The judgement I’m most ashamed of – breastfeeding at the dinner table. I used to think, ‘why wouldn’t she feed her baby before/after dinner? Why doesn’t she sit somewhere discrete?’ Obviously I realise now, babies get hungry. And sometimes they get hungry at inconvenient times (and when I say inconvenient, I mean inconvenient for the mother who now has to have her meal cut into manageable pieces so she can eat it one handed. NOT inconvenient for anyone who might catch a tiny glimpse of breast flesh while they’re carving up their parmigiana). Why should she leave the table – she has a seat, a meal of her own, refreshments perhaps – why must she forfeit these? And mothers of multiple children; what – drag her other children to the toilets too? “Here’s your fish and chips honey – mind the puddle on the floor.”

No. Why are we even having this conversation. Babies get hungry, end of story.

Another judgement of mine – children shouldn’t be bribed or rewarded with food. I remember SAYING OUT-LOUD once, “why would you reward a child with a Freddo Frog for pooping on the toilet? Let them press the flush button – that’s reward enough.”

Ha! Karma really kicked my butt with this one. (I say as K hops off the toilet and says “I’ve done a poo Mum, what yummy surprise can I have?”)

I remember when we were toilet training K; we were having lunch at a local restaurant and she started farting, alerting me to her need to poop. We had been up and down to the toilet three times – each time she’d sat on the toilet and despite dropping some deadly gas, was denying her need to poo. On the fourth trip to the toilets, my lunch was going cold and my patience wearing thin. I had already used every trick in the book to try and convince her to JUST DO THE POO. So I promised her an ice-cream – a nut sundae. With her choice of toppings. And sprinkles if she wanted. Do you want nuts, or no nuts? Chocolate topping? Strawberry perhaps? A wafer? I was making promises left, right and centre – we’ll go to the playground; we’ll buy something special from Coles; we’ll do craft when we get home. I was literally SECONDS from promising her a PONY when she FINALLY did her business.

What a proud moment that was. We strode out of the toilets grinning like the Cheshire Cat. I ordered her sundae which was only just smaller than her head; she ate two spoonfuls and sneezed on it (thus making it inedible for anyone else at the table) before deciding she had brain freeze and a full tum.

But seriously, a fucking PONY. I even briefly gave consideration to where we would house a pony, had I had to follow through with the bribe.

In summary – bribes are a legitimate parenting technique and practically the only way to ever get anything done. I store emergency bribe lollies in the console of my car for this exact reason.

Judgement was so easy; I was such a perfect Pinterest parent, before I was a parent. I would ‘pin’ all sorts of activity ideas, bedroom styling and quotes which summed up my parenting ideals. I remember one quote in particular –

“Listen earnestly to anything [your children] want to tell you, no matter what. If you don’t listen eagerly to the little stuff when they are little, they won’t tell you the big stuff when they are big, because to them all of it has always been big stuff.” – Catherine M. Wallace.

It’s such a lovely quote. But it’s impossible. It is fucking impossible. And anyone that says otherwise has not met my daughter. There is not one second in her day, that she does not fill with chatter. My brain simply cannot compute it all. It hurts.

Don’t get me wrong, K and I have long, in-depth conversations on a regular basis. And we chat about silly things all the time. But I am only human, and sometimes, when she’s telling me for the seven billionth time, that she’s running away from home so that she doesn’t hurt her sister with her ice-magic powers – I give her an automated reply (‘mmmyeahp ok’), because I’m busy trying to use my brain for things. ACTUAL THINGS.

It’s easy to step into someone else’s life for five minutes and pick out everything they’re doing wrong; knowing you can leave five minutes later. But parenting isn’t like that, parenting isn’t an Ikea flat pack – just following the steps in the instruction leaflet. There are so many emotions intertwined and so many variables – the holes don’t line up; there’s not enough screws; the cupboard keeps you awake at night; you love the cupboard unconditionally but it also drives you crazy; you’re trying to raise the cupboard to be the best cupboard it can be; you feel debilitating guilt when you make the cupboard cry (don’t even get me started on ‘mum guilt’). Being a mum is freaken awesome, but it’s also HARD WORK. Harder even, than a flat pack.

And only when I had children of my own, did I realise that I still don’t know how to pack a parachute; and I’ve already jumped out of the plane.

The Mum Bod. Built for endurance. Sustained by coffee and the crusts of her children’s sandwiches. The Mum Bod comes in infinite different shapes and sizes; all of them beautiful. More often than not, it’s carried children [inside and out] for hours/days/months on end. It’s been stretched and pulled on, and it often bears the scars as reminders of what it can endure; what it is built for. It’s soft and sometimes saggy. It’s not what it used to be. But it’s strong. It’s unstoppable. And it’s bloody beautiful.

What I see:

I am my own worst critic. I focus on the saggy bits. The stretched and scarred parts that wobble when I walk. I cover my Mum Bod with Spanx, and spend hours trying to tone it. I impatiently wish away the postpartum weight. I remember what it once was, but forget what it has since achieved. I fight unhealthy habits that sneak in when I pour my time and energy into my children. I unintentionally miss meals, and then hide in the pantry eating cooking chocolate – respite from the tiny dictators.

I forget that my children love me regardless of my shape and size.

What my partner sees:

He watched me waste away while vomiting up my breakfast [lunch and tea] throughout the first trimester. He saw when I waddled around, threatening to drop a watermelon out my fandango every time I sneezed. And then he watched as this amazing Mum Bod birthed those gorgeous [albeit needy] watermelons.

..And speaking of melons:

Boobs. My partner see’s boobs. [Although not as often as I’m sure he’d like to.]

He watched [intently] as my breasts grew during pregnancy/breastfeeding, and also witnessed their steep and steady deflation afterwards. And while I might be struggling to come to terms with the myriad of changes; given the chance [any chance], he’s always willing to demonstrate his loving appreciation of a body that is far sexier than I give it credit for.

What my child sees:

A food source. A safe place. A climbing wall.

My child doesn’t care what shape I am. My child rests her head on my soft stomach; on my empty bosom. My child see’s my scars as the equivalent of a My Little Pony ‘cutie mark’ – something to be proud of, not something to hide away.

The rolls on my stomach and my swinging spaniel ears act as foot holds and harness, as my baby climbs onto my shoulders to embrace me, and cover my face with her dribbly kisses.

I am what she believes she will be. So more than anything else, I need to be confident and proud, regardless of the shape I’m rocking.

So if you’re like me, and currently inhabiting a Mum Bod; bloody own it. It’s the only one you’ll ever get. It’s achieved amazing feats. It’s made people. Give it a break.

Love the [excess] skin you’re in.

There are four [now grown] children in my family, with a nine year age range. I don’t even want to imagine the logistics of organising us all on school morning – long story short: Dad took on the roll of Chief Sandwich maker.

Each morning he would lovingly sandwich our requested fillings between two slices of bread, cut it into the requested shape, and wrap it in white kitchen paper. In the early days, he would initial the sandwiches, so we could identify which one to grab for our lunchbox. It remains unclear whether it was his love of The Far Side comics, or simply his [steep and steady decline into] madness, that inspired the sandwich wrapper hilarity that ensued.

As you can imagine, it wasn’t just my siblings and I who would look forward to seeing what was in store each day – our peers had lunchbox envy, and even our teachers would request to see the daily comics. Each drawing was tailored to it’s intended audience – my younger sisters, in lower primary, received rather ‘tame’ humour. My older brother and I, in upper and middle primary, got the really good [and sometimes questionable] stuff.

So for those of you wondering where I got my twisted sense of humour: here are [but a few of] the hilarious sandwich wrapper comics, drawn by my dad, Graham Daniels.

Enjoy!

(And ‘Happy Birthday Dad!’)

Little Goose; Magazine – today marks the day that you entered our crazy life. You made a smooth entry into the world (although I’m not sure my vagina would agree), and filled us with a false sense of security as you breezed through your first few days without so much as a whimper. You quickly made it known that you are very much a Mummy’s girl; living almost your entire first three months of life, in the space between my boobs. Sleep was/is officially a thing of the past.

You’ve always had eyes for your big sister; and how could you not, when she shows you so much love on the daily? (So long as don’t knock over her block tower.) The way you two communicate in high pitched shrieks, is music to my ears… Just kidding – it’s painful. How is it even humanly possible to reach that octave?!

Painful, but sweet. (I think I just summed up parenthood.)

You have the fiery Dutch temper (nothing to do with me.. ha!), and you were smashing out tantrums by six months old. It’s been an eye opener – your big sis didn’t throw a tantrum until she was three, and even then, she’s never been one to throw herself on the ground and scream.

And here we are at one: if you don’t get your own way, you lay down on the floor and carry on like a pork chop. It’s actually somewhat amusing (but I’m sure that won’t last, so don’t get any ideas).

I’m amazed at how different you and your sister are. You’ve taken everything I thought I knew about parenthood, and turned it upside down (shaken it up; shat on it; and spat it on the new carpet).

But you have also taught me so much. You have taught me to go with my instincts; to do what feels right. You’ve taught me to take things one day at a time – one sleepless night at a time. I am mentally stronger than I had once thought; and I am more resilient that I ever imagined I could be.

More than anything though – since meeting you, I have realised how often I used to silently, internally judge other parents; based on the behaviour of their children. I am ashamed to admit how often I would assume that a child’s ‘poor’ behaviour was a direct result of parenting. But your fiery temper and intense emotions in comparison to your placid, rule abiding sister (at the same age – this threenager/almost fournado business is a whole new ball game); have made it clear to me that a child’s temperament is in-built before they leave the workshop – that there is no such thing as ‘factory standard’. Two girls, with the same parents and upbringing; and yet (in some ways) are like chalk and cheese. I am enternally grateful that you are our second child, as I have been able to accept that we aren’t doing something wrong; that this is just you. You are simply a different person to your sister, and we need to adjust our parenting to suit.

And I am pleased to announce that I am now officially, a ‘judgement free zone.’ When I witness a shopping centre meltdown these days, I feel an overwhelming urge to back the frazzled parent – united we stand – and all that jazz. I’m basically the Dalai Lama’s twin sister (once or twice removed).

Baby girl, as we celebrate your first year Earth side; I could not be more in love with your cheeky sense of humour; your daredevil antics; your fire cracker personality; and your endless affection. You’ve robbed us of our sleep (and a little more of our sanity); but what you’ve given us in turn; our little family of four – is far more than we could ever have dreamed.

Happy Birthday Goosey.

The perky pre-pregnancy, pre-baby breast. Plump; bouncy; and longed for in hindsight. Soft to the touch, with button-like nipples; they earn their owner some serious sex appeal. Whilst not entirely useful at this stage – they are nice to look at and fun to play with.

The ever-growing pregnancy pups. These babies appear to grow overnight; and they continue to get larger as the pregnancy progresses. Big brown areolas surround constantly erect nipples. These girls are exciting, and look like a lot of fun; but if you want to touch them, you will need to woo the owner with chocolate, and a jar of pickled onions (and probably a foot rub).

Breastfeeding jugs. The blue collar, working class tits. This is when the hard work starts. Humongous, rock-hard, red-hot bazookas; often sporting cracked and bleeding nipples. Streaked with blue, pulsating veins and deep red stretch marks; they’re more often than not, completely lopsided; and leaking milk. These ladies are uncomfortable to wear and difficult to dress; but the job they’re doing is incredible, and they earn themselves some serious respect. These cans absolutely ‘can-not’ be touched – they are OUT OF BOUNDS to anyone other than the owner, or the baby feeding from them. (You have been warned.)

The leftovers. The saggy, old spaniel ears. Streaked with silver stretch marks; and long, stretched nipples. The nipples appear to contain lead weights, and always point south. When scooped into lingerie, they leave even a Wonder Bra, wondering where they are – these Sad Sacks leave even the push-up bra cup half empty. A shadow of their former self, they leave their owner grieving for their cleavage  (and reaching for the chicken fillets).

It isn’t wiping boogy noses, or changing dirty bums.

It isn’t selling raffle tickets, or mending broken toys;

not even refereeing fights between small girls and boys.

Mummy doesn’t care much for folding, or searching for lost socks;

she certainly doesn’t enjoy removing ‘whoopsies’ from your jocks.

She doesn’t love hanging washing, or scrubbing dirty loos;

She’s not even that fussed on how fast your new car zooms.

What Mummy really loves, is seeing that toothy grin;

your cheeky laugh, and that dimple on your chin.

Mummy loves to spy on you, and watch you while you play;

The sibling love and cuddles are the things that make her day.

She loves to watch you learn, and master a brand new skill;

it never ceases to bring her pride, so full it often spills.

See, Mummy’s fun stems from the love she has for you;

(and don’t forget that sneaky glass of wine or two).

So remember this coming Mother’s Day; don’t behave badly,

And if you do have a ‘whoopsie’, please – go and tell your Daddy.

Apparently there were a select few who received instruction manuals for this parenting gig!

I mean, it’s obvious that they were handed something extra – they always have ALL the answers.

Don’t get me wrong, I’m glad that SOMEONE knows what the f**k is going on; that we’re not ALL completely winging it.

The issue I have, is that, [in most instances] the instruction manuals were given to the wrong people.

They were given to the snarling women in grocery stores who condemn the parents who cave in to their children’s demands; but then also condemn those parents who refuse to give in, and are subsequently dealing with a meltdown of epic proportions.

They were given to the smug childless couples who claim that if/when they have children; they certainly won’t behave like that.

They were given to those passive aggressive mothers at Mothers Group who suggest [at every possible opportunity] that their way is the only way to raise a successful human being.

They were given to people who love to boast about having all the answers; but don’t give a hoot about sharing them. (Or, in all fairness; perhaps just lack the capacity to convey the messages appropriately.)

So, to those who are in possession of a Parenting Instruction Manual, I say to you; please do us all a favour, and either start photocopying that shit – give the rest of us a chance to read up on all the secrets, so that we can be as perfect as you – or kindly keep your opinions to yourself.

I have two younger sisters; I started babysitting for other families when I was twelve; I’ve worked in childcare; I’ve spent time looking after disabled children – often overnight; I’m trained as a nurse; and I like to think I’ve got a bit of common sense. But I’ve learnt a lot since becoming a mother.

My previous life experience saw me no stranger to changing nappies or crying babies. It taught me how to feed, bathe, and administer medication/medical attention to babies and children; and generally keep them alive and happy.

Motherhood came along and hit me with the obvious things like: sleep deprivation; a mothers instinct; breastfeeding; and all of those EMOTIONS.

So many emotions. (I’m looking right at you Mum-Guilt)

But blah blah blah – there are probably 50 billion articles on the big wide web which discuss all of the little (or extremely freaken’ large) secrets that parenthood is waiting to upper-cut you with when you have kids.

Instead, this is a list of things which I had encountered in my life pre-children, which I can finally make sense of; truly understand; empathise with; and often practice, now that I’m a mother:

The art of pretending to be asleep. I have vivid memories of trying to wake my parents after I’d had a bad dream. My parents have four kids; two of those are younger than me. I could never understand why my parents wouldn’t wake up when [in the early hours of the morning] I would “whisper” in their ears, poke, nudge or shake them.

It makes FAR more sense now.

I have TWO children – half the amount of my parents – and unless the house is on fire, or there are bodily fluids on the new carpet – I’m going to pretend to be asleep until they go back to bed. (Or at least, until they go around to the other side of the bed and try and wake MrJB instead.)

The true meaning of “I’ll think about it”. It means no. It’s always meant no. It’s never going to mean yes. It’s basically “I-really-can’t-deal-with-the-backlash-right-now” or “there’s-a-good-chance-they’ll-forget” or simply: “I’ll-just-say-no-later.”

The fix-it pile – the place toys go to die. The teddy with a ripped seam. The plastic pony who needs her head glued back on. The slinky which needs to be untangled… I’m going to go right ahead and put it in the cupboard and never look at it again.

Of course, it starts with good intentions – I’ll fix it when I get a few spare minutes. HA! Spare minutes are when you finally get to sit on the toilet long enough to poo; or when you brush your teeth; shave your legs; or you know, wink in the general direction of your cuddle-buddy. Spare minutes are far too precious to waste fixing toys.

Adult conversation addiction. Staying home with children is so much fun. Seriously. I feel extremely blessed to be able to stay home with my girls and nurture them while they grow. BUT sometimes I like to remind myself that I am an actual human; with the ability to have actual conversations which don’t involve Elsa, Anna, Ariel or “DONT EAT THAT!!”

Whether that means dragging two loud, uncooperative children to a small, echoing coffee shop to meet a friend. Or trying to spark up a deep and meaningful conversation with the person scanning my groceries. Listening to talkback radio (or my guilty pleasure; listening in on the UHF). Or merely MAKING EYE CONTACT with another parent and exchanging understanding glances.

Hey, if it means that I can then endure another five solid hours of baby/toddler chit-chat; or perform a [very unconvincing] rendition of Elsa’s ‘Let it Go’ for my three year old – I’ll take what I can get.

Stand strong on bedtime. I vividly remember begging to be allowed to stay up just half an hour later than my normal bedtime; more often than not, the answer was no. Because um, HELLO – if it’s good enough for the cartoons to cut off at 7pm, then it’s good enough for my brain too.

Silence is golden. I used to be of the opinion that everything a child says needs to be heard – you know:

“Listen earnestly to anything [your children] want to tell you, no matter what. If you don’t listen eagerly to the little stuff when they are little, they won’t tell you the big stuff when they are big, because to them all of it has always been big stuff.” – Catherine M. Wallace.

But it’s just not possible.

YES, we can have an in depth conversation about Humpty Dumpty’s recent scandalous behaviour. And YES I will repeatedly answer your questions about skeletons and whether or not we have bum-bones. But I really need you to be quiet while I’m reversing out of my park into traffic. Or when I’m making an important phone call. Or talking to the doctor. Or you know; GOING FREAKING INSANE.

Silence is not always golden; sometimes it’s a yellowy shade of brown. Silence is often the time that there are things happening in knickers. Or on lawns. Or basically anywhere but the toilet.

Silence is also the time when toothpaste tubes are emptied; nail polish is applied behind couches; expensive face creams wasted; and little sisters are decorated with stickers.

Diet is all about balance. There are days when I am prepared for parenting; those are the days that I pack lunch-boxes full of a wide variety of home-made, healthy, raw, fresh, colourful foods, cut into fun shapes. (Basically, as soon as the lunch-box is opened the salad starts making come-hither eyes at my 3yo.)

Other days; I will barely have the functioning capacity to navigate the drive-through.

Sleep when the baby sleeps whenever the hell you can. I remember being horribly embarrassed by my own mothers ability to fall asleep while standing in line at KFC. I am no longer embarrassed. I am envious.

Parenthood has taught me to close my eyes in an empty doctor’s waiting room; at the hairdresser; while breastfeeding; and on the toilet. But if my calculations are correct; I am two kids away from being able to fall asleep while standing up, in a fast food restaurant (while still maintain my place in the queue).

Although I could probably go on, there is a glass of wine waiting for me after these kids are in bed, so it’s time to wrap this up and get the tea/bath/bed ball into motion.

But tell me; what has parenthood taught you?

For those unfamiliar with babies being taken to chiropractors – it’s basically a place where exhausted mothers take their unsettled babies, when nothing else seems to be working; praying for a miracle sleep-cure. The verdict is still out on whether or not it’s working (I’ve probably got more chance of a full night’s sleep if I start paying the chiropractor to come and babysit); but what harm can five minutes of gentle massage do?!

It’s five minutes of which someone else is holding my little Barnacle Baby – I can relax my own aching, twisted back; hide in the corner (in a bid to ease any separation anxiety she might will experience once she realizes she’s been removed from my hip) and appreciate the fine arse art of chiropracting.

Sitting in the little waiting room (that is, when we arrive before our appointment, with enough time to actually sit), surrounded by professional adults (or adult professionals), doing professional adulty things. Everyone looks relaxed, like they’ve got it all together. Not a care in the world.

I feel as though I must stick out like a sore thumb; I’m sure I have the word ‘FRAZZLED’ tattooed to my forehead. I simultaneously pray to absorb some professional-adult-ism and to be absorbed into the carpet.

The chiropractor himself is a man of few words – apart from the occasional goo-goo to the babe. The lack of conversation; the amount of times we’ve arrived late or just in time for our appointment; the chaos that we bring into his confined little office; and the amount of exclamation marks I used on the initial questionnaire; make me feel like he probably considers me a bit of a twat.

I mean – we’ve been known to take giant plastic candy canes to our appointment for Christ’s sake.

I consider writing a list of my achievements prior to becoming a mother; handing out copies of my resume to prove that while I may not be able to get my baby to sleep (or arrive at an appointment on time); I am in actual fact a successful, contributing member of society.

The reality however, is that one half of my ‘resume’ is screaming at the top of her lungs for her mother; and the other is playing with the height adjustment pedals on the bed. Fuck.

I think it might be time to change chiropractors.

When you’re looking in the mirror, hating your reflection, please try to remember that I don’t see what you see.

I don’t see those few extra kilos you gained over winter. I don’t see the baby weight that just won’t budge. I don’t see the 20kgs you gained after that messy breakup; or the wrinkles which have taken up residence since you organised a funeral for your loved one.

I don’t see your cellulite or varicose veins. I don’t see acne or grey hair. I don’t see the imperfections that you believe define you.
I also can’t see how much you’ve toned up since joining the gym. Or how tanned you are after your exotic holiday.

Designer clothes, Botox, tummy tuck, eyebrow wax? Nope, sorry, didn’t notice.

I also don’t notice your new haircut, or how much weight you’ve lost since starting your latest diet.

What I DO see is how proud you are after finishing your degree. I see the way you smile at your family; and the way your eyes light up when you talk about your passions.

I see how much you love your children, and how much effort you put into being a positive role model. I notice that you’re volunteering for a local community group and I notice when you help the elderly lady with her groceries. I watch as you go out of your way to help others.
When I look at you, I see YOU.

And you are SO much more than that reflection in the mirror.

SO. MUCH. MORE.
And you’re bloody beautiful.

Just sayin’.