Worry wart

It must be a mother thing. I don’t remember lying in bed worrying half the night when I was childless. That is probably because until I had kids I did not have a sober night to ponder or reflect. I spent my twenties drunk as a back packer, talking shit like a complete tosser until 5am. Now I spend my nights wide awake fretting about important issues:

Are tomato farmers pissed off with Charlie and Lola?
Will my 10 year old drown at her school swimming lessons and no one notices?
Is my face always going to look this tired, cranky and old?
Are we ever going to have political leaders with bravery and vision?
Is a Paddlepop a well-rounded meal on a Friday night when I’m exhausted?

“Any idiot can face a crisis – its day to day living that wears you out”
– Anton Chekov


Startled possum

Plastic surgery? Yes please. I want to look like a Siamese cat in a wind tunnel and kid myself that I have the skin I had when I was nineteen. I don’t want anyone to see my forehead move, I want my teeth to glow in the dark and a double helping of trout pout please. Mr Surgeon I want the Nicole Kidman I haven’t had surgery look. I want rocks on my chest, I don’t want my boobs to move when I jog out of the water at the beach. When you have the mental age of a 15 year old it sucks to have the skin of a 40 something harried mumma. Years of smoking, sun damage, partying and parental sleep deprivation have not been kind to my face. I’ve had a fabulous full life but does every crevice on my forehead have to show that? Banking institutions aren’t that keen to give me a loan to fund my new cougar on heat face so I’ll have to start a crowdfunding, donate to me I’m a worthwhile charitable cause website to procure funds for my new face. Just need to think up a name for my new charity. How about Face it, I’m fabulous?