Let's Talk Bad Weekends

Last week was a nightmare, we were all looking forward to the weekend. It got off to a rocky start when my best friend was told that she didn't win the competition I told you all about here. The consolation prize was haircare products. Nice touch when you are fighting cancer and you have lost all your hair. Don't start me.

Sunday was meant to be spent on a morning picnic before I toddled off to one of Retromummy's sewing classes. Instead it was spent with my heart in my mouth as our baby girl was rushed to hospital in an ambulance after going grey, then blue and losing consciousness for about 7 minutes even though it felt like 70. At the hospital all manner of tests were conducted and they found no apparent cause. We have to take her back for an EEG.

This blurry photo taken on my husband's crackberry shows our brave little Tinker listening as the kind nurse sang all of her favourite songs. She was so lovely and quite the jukebox.

Tinker was impressed, she is never that still when I sing. It isn't humanly possible to be still when I sing, I'm so bad that even my dogs get agitated when I belt out a few rounds of Miss Polly.

Who is that hottie on the left cutting a striking pose in the navy and white trench complete with hands on hips? Why that is me of course. What you can't see is that under my trench I wore animal print flannelette pj pants, bed socks and tan loafers. My hair was clipped back with one of Tinker's polka dot ribbon clips and I had no bra, nor had I brushed my teeth.

Oh yes I totally rocked hobo sloth chic this morning. Even I didn't dare ask the ambulance to wait a minute while I changed out of my PJs. What kind of shamefully vain mother even stops and considers such a request? Ok so maybe I did think about it but only for a super quick split second... or two.

For anyone who follows me on Twitter, you'd know I have been on a cooking strike much to my husband's dismay. It came about after a string of failed projects. I thought I might break the strike with some corned beef in the slow cooker. Ok that worked. And a batch of cupcakes. The neverfail variety. You know Nigella's recipe for the food processor? I added 3 punnets of strawberries and some pricey but yummy vanilla beans.

Failed again. The first 12 didn't rise and remained gooey, the last 12 were like rock cakes. So I think I'm going back over the picket line. The strike has resumed people, the strike has resumed.

So tell me, how bad was your weekend? I'm not up for cheesy smiley stories. Give me some ratty grumpy ones so I'm not the only whinger here. Come on, you know you want to...

What is a yummy mummy?

Is it this freak below?



Or this one here?



No. I think a yummy mummy is one that actually eats cake! So if you are like me and you actually bake cakes for your kids and then actually God forbid... eat the yummy cakes afterwards then you might like this cute necklace here:



I found it on Etsy this morning, you can buy it for $65US from a seller called sudlow. I think it might be a really fun Mothers Day gift *hint hint* husband hello?

Here is the link:

http://www.etsy.com/view_listing.php?listing_id=23822831

I do not have a juicy bum

I have an almost large for my frame, dimply flattish bum so no thank you I do not wish to wear anything from Juicy Couture a la fellow mummy of a 1 year old Christina Aguilera but I wonder, is there a great tracksuit/sweatsuit alternative for those of us who don't want to get about the burbs with the word "juicy" written on our posteriors?

Jeans? Yes they used to be my never fail emergency pants. Unfortunately since having my daughter the only pair of jeans that I can get over my thighs are my maternity jeans. Last weekend I made my husband confiscate them and hide them downstairs in the mancave so I wouldn't be able to find them again.

It is not ok to be wearing maternity jeans when you are 15 months post baby. It's just not ok but I refuse to buy a new pair of regular jeans 4 sizes bigger than the 23 pairs I own that are NOW way too small. So what to wear on those cold ratty mornings when you need to whisk the baby off to the supermarket for a grape emergency. (more about my daughter's grape addiction another time) could I really venture out in a pair of trackydacks?

I have always been against them in public unless you are A.)Paris Hilton B.)An athlete (maybe after my 4k run I will qualify as an athlete? or C.)A middle aged housewife who has given up on trying to look presentable.

Please don't let me be C.) already? How did that happen? One day I was in The Maldives on my very luxe honeymoon and the next day I am here searching for a pair of tracksuit pants to wear in public. Oh gosh!

Any other pudgy mamas out there who are struggling to hang onto the old pre baby body and not be tempted to buy a velour leisure suit with juicy on the bum?

Fromage

I was at the supermarket this morning for what I call 'housewife happy hour'. 9.30am -10.30am the aisles are full of mothers getting in early, either with their babies in the trolley or having just dropped their older kids at school & daycare.

I go alone, my little cherub doesn't like shopping. She demands full 1 on 1 attention at all times and will not tolerate her mama looking at anything but her, so she visits Grandma while I get the groceries. Anyway I was gliding up the dairy aisle. Yes, gliding. For a change I didn't have the trolley with the bung wheel and I didn't have the child in the seat so it was quite a light ride really.

Housewife happy hour is great because the deli items are fresh and all the shelves are fully stocked unlike Sunday night shopping which I do in desperation sometimes. Anyway I was in the dairy aisle when I heard someone speaking French to their baby. Baby talk in french is slightly cuter than baby talk in English. Anyway she was asking the child whether she enjoyed sitting in the trolley and then she was telling her the name of each item as she packed the trolley.

"Du beurre" she was saying as she put some butter into the trolley. I turned to see which butter she had chosen since I do like a good quality butter. I was horrified to see she had in fact chosen a dairy blend. Not even real butter? What? How on earth could a French woman choose fake butter. Horrified, I turned back to the yogurts. I was carefully scanning ingredients to find the best one for the little miss when I heard the French mother saying "fromage" to her child. Curious, I looked up. She hadn't chosen a cheese at all. She had chosen a packet of floppy pale yellow plastic.


Kraft Singles. Not cheese. Never ever would I even think to put this rubbish into the cheese category. Fake Cheese. Yes, it can go in the FC box but no sir, it should never ever be called cheese and definitely not fromage said in a sexy french accent. Horrible, how horrible.

That lady had totally ruined the reputation of glam French yummy mummies everywhere. They were not whipping up amazing gourmet yummies for their babies. They were not choosing real food they were buying awful fake plastic cheese. Hmmf.

Suddenly I felt slightly wholesome, slightly superior. Maybe I am a yummy mummy after all. I make food from scratch, I buy good ingredients. Ok so maybe I'm still sporting a massive post baby muffin top 15 months after giving birth but I glide up the aisles and I never ever call Kraft Singles fromage.

Poo Poo Prada

Well we all know that a baby changes everything. You have the sweet little coos and first baby smiles and then the first little words and adorable attempts at walking.
You also have the endless daze of sleep deprivation, post baby fatness and a very desolate social calendar.

Being an inanely organised person, I researched all of this in great detail before my tiny little bundle arrived. I was prepared for the late nights, the spew on the shoudler, the bleary eyed walks at 4am... I was even prepared for the post baby body.

One thing I was not prepared for, one thing I could never have imagined is a concept so gross, so ikky and so awful that I am not sure how to word it...
I was not prepared to carry jars of baby poopoo in my darling Prada cream deerskin bowler bag.

I'm not sure anything could have prepared me for that! Yes, the days of the DINKS wasting ridiculous sums of money on bags, shoes, suits are well and truly over but who could have predicted my old life would get such a slap in the face?!

To subject my stylish little friend to transporting such an horrific item really was cruel on my part and I wonder now if she will ever forgive me. Will all my bags turn on me in support of their deerskinned comrade? If there was a War Crimes Tribunal for gross atrocities towards handbags- am I the new Slobodan?

The most pressing question now is- will I have to become one of those true frumpy mummies who carries either a chunky pleather copy of a Kelly or worse still one of those hideously loud hibiscus print Oi Oi things?

To be honest, I just don't know. I'm going to hold a round table tonight. I am hoping my bags will forgive me. After all, they are all I have left. My post-baby body will never allow me back into my beautiful clothes so I resort to slumming it in the height of frumpiness to cover my post baby belly but all the while I carry my beloved accessories to remind me that under all this one-size-fits-all casual wear is a stylish yummy mummy dying to get out.

*Oh and as for my baby girl, she is ok. She just happened to be very unlucky in 08 and she contracted a hideous bug so we need to keep checking the bacteria levels. Noice, huh?*