Dear 11 year old child,
I know you’re really busy saving the world by watching people playing Minecraft on Youtube all day, but I’d like to ask a favour. Could you please catch and keep the following Pokemon people/creature/alien/thingies/whateverthehelltheyare?
Cleandyourbedroom a saurus
Oddishwasher won’t empty itself
Clefairy liquid over the sink and wash the dishes
Remove the Vileplume from your sister’s walk on floor-drobe
Meowth and change the kitty litter while you’re at it
Machop up some veggies for dinner
Rapidash to the bathroom to hang up your sisters’ wet towels
Slowpoke the dunny brush around the toilet
Weedle your way out of whinging about housework no more
Thank you great light of my life
This year I’m starting to feel older. There are signs. Plastic surgeons are now following me on Instagram, looking for business. One day I went to work wearing no make up and three people asked me if I was unwell. My youngest child has also been helpful while looking at family photo albums.
“Look at that photo mummy, you have no crinkles.” Thanks for the reminder about my ageing face honey, I think you caused some of those crinkles.
One night a few months ago she was ill, and I held her over the bath to catch her vomit. When she stopped I swung around to wipe her feverish head and a strange woman stared at me from the mirror; a grumpy, frowning, middle-aged harridan holding a sickly-looking kid. Oh God, it was me. I’m sure I’m still 15 years old checking for pimples, how did the old bag take over my body? Do I exorcise her with Botox and skin peels? Some days I long to be young and dumb and pretty.
My lack of fashion sense doesn’t help. Mostly I am a slovenly mother, which is unfashionable in the current air brushed social media perfection climate. My winter look has been Patty and Selma flannelette pyjamas, stained t-shirts and no bra. I should make more effort with my appearance, my look is either dragged through a bush backwards hair or trying to put on as much make up as a drag queen. But I don’t want to be 49 years old and still dressing to impress a male, which is strange for a woman whose shelves are filled with feminist literature.
I do hope I’ll grow wisdom by the time I’m 50, because I am at an age where it is easy not to give a rats any more. My skin is dry and my arse is sliding down the back of my thighs. I wish I had the energy to care. I may be stating the obvious for those of you in your 50s and 60s but losing our youthful shimmer is challenging.
Some mornings my youngest stares at me then looks in the mirror.
“I want hair like mummy monster,” she says. I look at her, at my mangy head in the mirror, then at her again. Is she taking the piss? Having children is exhausting but my kids have also made me a better person. Youngest has improved my wardrobe. We went into a op shop last week and she said, “This is a nice cougar dress for you mummy.”
People tell me I’m full of it. I think they mean good advice, so in the coming weeks I’m going to dish out advice for my friends who are feeling a little self-helpless. This week’s post is about healthy food for your kids. Actually it’s not, it’s about my gluttony because feeding children year after year is as dull as Donald Trump. I’m going to help you get a summer-ready body. Just joking, as if I care what your body looks like, I’m too busy feeding my face.
What we consume in summer is not that important. What we eat in winter is of great consequence. At the moment eating is my favourite hobby after sleeping and inhaling chocolate. After a cold northern summer sojourn, where I ate croissants every day and drank some kind of alcoholic beverage every night, I’m fading away to a shadow on the waif diet, too much coffee and not enough cake. I must eat more bacon and egg rolls now I’m back home living with my vegan children. Luckily my youngest is still a carnivore, thank the Lord (whoever she is). Last week my two eldest kids were out when I got some groceries home delivered, and I discovered that the supplier had given me a package of extra fatty porky goodness to sample. Spying it, my baby girl said,
“Mum can we eat some bacon because my sisters aren’t home?”
“HELL YES,” I squealed because no matter what they say, Facon or Veg-acon or whatever they call it is not the same. All those products labelled vegetarian sausages or burgers or tofu or whatever other flavourless stuff that gets churned out in a factory is called tastes like cardboard shavings.
My girls have made me watch some harrowing films lately and I hate what the meat industry does to innocent animals. And I really am very sorry little piggies, you are cute, and the way you are farmed is wrong, I just wish you didn’t taste so good.
Once upon a time a lovely hairy mother lived with three not so little tweenage pigs.
Last weekend was a doozy. On Saturday night I went to my oldest friend’s champagne-fuelled party, then on Sunday I took my youngest to a birthday party at an indoor trampoline park so she could go feral and scream with about a million other children. We walked into swarms of kids, mood killer fluorescent lighting, over zealous helicopter mothers, loads of grumpy under-caffeinated dads and a sonic nightmare. The birthday girl was in heaven and her mother and I were certain we’d died and gone to hell.
My friend paid $130 for three kids to jump and climb for two hours. Fork! What happened to jumping off the garage roof?
An assortment of families gathered, made up mainly of these key players:
Mothers who didn’t want their over-sugared kids touching other children or any unsanitary surfaces
Bewildered grandmothers who didn’t understand why they were not just opening a pass the parcel and blowing the candles off a home made cake in the backyard
Toddlers too young to be there being run over by sugar fuelled 12-year-olds on a mission to escape their parents
Dazed grandpas who parked the car, did what they were told, then pretended to be deaf
I was the hungover mother dribbling on the plastic table, absentmindedly dunking my lukewarm chips into my friend’s coffee
Then my girl and her little friends decided they wanted to climb the walls.
There’s nothing I like more on a Sunday than to be greeted by pumping techno music and too cool for school teenage staff who don’t like to explain the workings of the safety harness more than once. In my decrepit state I watched as competitive dads scaled the walls, pushing their kids out of the way. The kind of dads who have their own Instagram inspo-fitness accounts. I closed my eyes as my gal climbed to the ceiling then abseiled down the wall again and again.
One of the day’s highlights was being told off for bringing fresh fruit into the ‘party zone’ by a spotty assistant manager.
As a former children’s party entertainer I despair that our kids are growing up thinking the only place to have fun is a climate-controlled, germ-filled noisy concrete bunker. We could simplify our celebrations and bring back egg and spoon races at daggy parties with our neighbours, a few marshmallows and a homemade cake, in the glorious seasons of Mother Nature, but instead we’re working to pay for experiences our kids don’t really need.
“Going so soon? I wouldn’t hear of it. Why my little party’s just beginning.”
Wicked Witch of the West – The Wizard of Oz
Hi, I’m Sonia, and as well as being a famous ex-dancer, TV wonder girl, motivational guru and gifted Botox devotee, I like to inspire and uplift my fellow mainly white Australians with the love I feel for other fearful Christian human beings. Today I hope we can all:
Dance like Sam Newman is watching
Pop pills like we’re Eddie Maguire
Work like Tony Abbott’s publicist
Love like Michelle Bridges looking in the mirror
Genuflect like Roxy Jacenko
Sing like the Madden brothers mentoring themselves in the shower
Live like we’re in Queensland in 1952
Ponder the deep meaning of our existance like Donald Trump’s wife
Drink like we’re Ben Cousins
Smile like we’ve had dermal fillers
For now you beautiful pale Aussies, Keep Calm and Dance like Sonia
My heart weeps for the children of Syria, Orlando, Baghdad and Nice, I feel powerless to change the hatred and fear gripping parts of our world. What the hell can we do?