As a general rule, camping is not my favourite. There are bugs, it’s dirty in the tent, if you’re having sex then it’s sort of impossible, if there’s kids then they fuck around in the tent; all that good stuff. Backyard camping, however, means the kids sleep in a tent and I slip into the house, or I wake up stupidly early after sliding around in the sleeping bag making noises like a shopping bag every five seconds so I continuously wake myself up, then slip into the house in the morning. This episode of That Camping Life involves the latter scenario. I woke up at 5.20. What. The. Fuck.

It was lovely to hear the myriad birds outside the nylon, but it was also lovely to shut the heavy wooden door of my house against their melodic warbles and reheat my forgotten tea from yesterday – black as my camper’s heart because I left the bag in – in the modern, non-camping miracle AKA the microwave, and contemplate where to find another modern miracle, the ibuprofen. I feel pretty good, all things considered, but the camp beds sort of suck, probably because they were made to support 200lbs of camo-encased huntin’, fishin’ and fuckin’ man, after a long day in the undergrowth, gun in hand, before he slakes his hunger for meat and thirst for Pabst Blue Ribbon, or etc, whereas I am a more modest 150lbs, and drank white wine and pinot noir, and spilled peppered pork ribs on my dress. In hindsight, it sounds like I should eat and drink more so I pass out, or just sleep on the ground. Or sleep in my own bed, where Husband has slunk off to, now. 

I’m surprised the boys were still asleep. There were up pretty late, but the sun is up pretty early, these days, and the nylon doesn’t do much to keep out those golden rays.

I also heard an animal sniffing around this morning, before I pulled the tag on the zipper of my sleeping bag, tooth by torturously loud tooth, trying to be quiet even though I knew I would have to clamber over Husband’s face to get out of the tent (not as romantic as it sounds) because he positioned the camp beds against the zip and himself the gatekeeper of it. But there was no sign of our friends’ dog when Husband magnanimously rolled out of the way after I mutterred “fuck it” and tore down the last few inches of that damn zip. Perhaps it was a raccoon, and now it is ripping the nylon to shreds and terrorizing my children while I sip my cooling tea and recross my legs on my plush armchair. Or an opossum, coyote, or even a fucking cougar. 

When I opened my eyes to the tent ceiling, I pictured a bloody jacket hanging there and a T-Rex head nosing about. My getaway would have been short-lived because the zip would keep getting caught on the inside of the sleeping bag, and the camp beds are the wrong way. I would have been crunched up and eaten, and Husband would have slept through it. Or it would eat the dog. Either way, I’m in the house, now, and that’s all that matters.

Work In Progress

This is a short, true story, true crime you might say.

Out to dinner with the kids and I managed it not to be a big deal that 6yo was ready to cry his eyes out becase we didn’t go to his preferred restaurant, and also that we didn’t have any meltdowns even though we waited 30 actual minutes for our food. 

We had a nice dinner with mostly good manners and mostly polite conversation. I paid. We were leaving. The child I was sitting next to at the table cocked his leg as we were about to walk away from the table and farts. For fuck sake. I hardly even picked up on it because  (it’s hardly rare) I was saying something to the other two, but these two older ladies at the adjacent table started laughing, one of them actually laying her head on the fucking table, she was laughing so hard. I looked at the perpetrater and became irate. If it wasn’t at the end of an otherwise exemplorary example of my parenting outside of our house, I would have joined in and even rapped on the table and nudged the other in the ribs, ey, get a load of this one, haha etc.

No. Couldn’t do that because he proved me wrong in my own estimation. If only he could have waited until we were home, or even until we were locked tight in the car and smothering. 

This is my lesson and let it be yours: the fun never stops and so, too, neither should the gentle reminders about farting at the table.

My Baby Shower

Well, I suppose that a good conversation goes back and forth, like other good things, including tennis and, haha, got ya there. Anyhoo in this conversation, with myself, I will talk about my own baby shower.

First of all, as an aussie and as the first in my circle to have a baby, there were no baby showers. Showerings of presents was not a constant thing that I was aware of, basically my whole life until coming to America ten years ago, and now there will be 4 baby showers in 8 fucking months in my office alone. Cheese and rice.

We decided to have a baby shower as an excuse for a party or soiree, if you will. We were often doing those things when we were (thin) hip and living in the city. But our baby came early, so the “baby shower” started without me because I was at the hospital with our son. I don’t remember when we had scheduled the shindig, but he was born 5.5weeks early.

Fine and healthy, just fucking early

I don’t know that we had a theme for the do, I assume I had sent some (thin) super cute invitations hand made by yours truly, because I had so much time to buy individual papers from an expensive and trendy stationery shop in Sydney and hand-address every fucking one of them.

People had brought us thoughtful gifts and we still have and even still use some of them. 10yo still has his dog that he was given for his birthday, the day of his actual birth, which was undertaken without pain meds except for some happy gas which didn’t make me as happy as the guy who got to have a free sample as part of the hospital tour for our parenting class, thank you very much. The dog is a bit dreary-coloured now, but still very much loved. Not sure if Spot appeared at the baby shower or afterwards, but he is among a handful of things from those early days.

Needless to say, I was tired and hormonal and a mother without her child at the “baby shower”, so I was probably not as much fun to be around as I think I was before then. 

What would I do now if I were to have a baby shower? Maybe the diapers would be for me, I’ll definitely take the bottles – but make sure they’re not empty! Nipple cream I can probably do without, butt paste I similarly have no use for, but thanks for thinking of me! You can never have too many wipes but I tend to use only the washable kind, these days. If  you want to get me a bag, make it small and trendy as fuck, rather than roomy and with lots of pockets for poo bags and the like. Lastly, I can always use a change of clothes, especially for surprise spills and messes, though they tend to be over my chest rather than the back of my pants, these days, and make it vintage, if you can manage it. A onesie isn’t my style so much, but anything with a ruffle will be gorgeous in photos, and I’ll be sure to send one of myself smashing up a cake.

Photo/Glass Challenge

I did the photo after each glass of wine challenge. Okay, it’s not even a challege, whatevs.

First pic. It was still daylight and the kids were lighting shit on fire.

Husband made me laugh, I was not actually this happy after a second (small) glass of wine. 

This was after I went inside for the good (ish) lighting and more wine.

Yes, I’m this happy but I was texting my friend about getting high, so.
Going to bed, now, perchance to dream or passout.

Actually no, Husband said NUMBER FOUR so here we are. Stay tuned…
I don’t feel like accepting a fourth glass was necessary (also pics at night w the flash, whatever), but a good thing to come of this course of events is that the electric blanket has been on for that much longer…

Kung Fu Shiss

Always says hope for the best, prepare for the worst. Today we are hoping that friends turn up, but we are prepared to rock out on our own if necessary.

It’s still snow central here in the Willamette Valley and the temp is laying low.

6yo decided on a Kung Fu birthday party since we watched the first series on disc from the library and as usual, I’m pretty pleased with what I’ve managed to deliver.

Paper lanterns, reminiscent of a Chinese village and the Shaolin Temple nearby. We have candles set out but I forgot the incense. Luckily, 6yo is not incensed. 

I looked up some sweet moves REX KWON-DO style on you tube and found some vids for the animal movements of Kung Fu, and I’m sure husband will be fab instructing the “pupils” when he is wearing his Kung Fu Master hat.

Note my sweet king fu tatt? I even found a large pot for the kids who make it to test themselves and earn their very own, Kung Fu style.

Cupcake holders. 

There are even some with actual cupcakes in them. I found some cool dragon rings from a party store and bought some diy temporary tattoo paper from amazon. It totally works!

I decided against shipping large quantities of sand into the playroom to make a desert, like 6yo wanted, deciding instead, to buy more wine in case we can’t get out of the driveway later.

And there you have it, in a nutshell, a Kung Fu birthday party.  Caine would be hsppy to attend if he hadn’t been cut down by Uma Thurman. Rest in pieces Bill.

Make Vaginas Not War

And drink wine while you do it.

Twat a fun night haha!

Etsy shops have fabulous vagina-themed everything, and after celebrating the work that my vagina did 8 years ago a couple of months back by eating leftover cake after middle child’s birthday, I kept the joke rolling by googling vagina stuff. 

And then the idea of a  vagina xmas decorations craft night, or #vajornaments, as one of my #vagcrew coined the term, was born, and it was a bruiser!

Cue the same in two weeks when the littlest turns six, post Kung Fu party, it will be time to celebrate my old girl again. 

May your jangle jingle, this entire holiday season.