*peeks around the corner*

Hello!

I've spent the last month in the depths of NaNoWriMo prep and attempting to finish the last novel. It's going well when I can open the damn thing.
Scrivener is an amazing platform, but when it goes rogue, it's frightening.

This new novel in the works is the first time that I've planned it properly. I've thrown myself into Character development, and scene planning, to the point now that I've got the most amazing spreadsheet, chapter by chapter which is SO useful for those moments when I feel like I'm just writing a load of shit and going off on strange tangents that don't make any sense.

Anyway. That's where I am with that.

Teeny came home with a smiley piercing after a sleepover at her friend's house. I know I don't need to say that all sleepovers are banned until the end of time.
Many many tears were shed (Teeny) and a few new grey hairs grew (me). I know this is my Karma. I KNEW that the universe was going to get me back from my teenage rebellion, but I thought I was being punished enough with LM being the naughtiest boy ever.
Clearly, I was worse than I thought.
We made her take it out, which was a drama in itself. The ring she used was too small so trying to take it out without ripping her lip was a chore. In the end, we threatened to take her to ER if she didn't remove it herself.
Worked like a charm.
;)
I hate being that parent, though. I hate saying no to piercings. I love them; I loved mine, and I remember very vividly what it felt like at her age wanting them and not being allowed. Instead of waiting until I was an adult like I was told, I went ahead and did them anyway; my sister pierced my belly button in our room before dinner one night. The popping sound of my skin as the huge safety pin will forever stay in my head. The look of shock on my sister's face was pretty priceless too.

We are really big on consent in our house. We have to be.
With Teeny's life experiences and trauma, we repeatedly tell her that her body is her own. No one can touch it or make her do something that she doesn't want to do. I drum it into her every chance I can, but in our next breath, we're demanding that she take out a piercing that she wanted badly enough to go behind our backs and do anyway. That makes me feel uncomfortable and a little hypocritical.

After all of that drama, I sat her down and explained the risks of what she did. Facial paralysis, infections and damaged teeth. When I said that an infection could move into her blood and put her in the hospital or worse case scenario, kill her, she admitted she had been very stupid.

The chances are, when she's 16, I'll happily take her to a professional, and she can have it back.
Lex and I are pretty laid back.
I'm pierced and have many tattoos. Lex does tattoos for crying out loud. We are not your average family. Our end plan is to eventually open our own studio (Million dollars, where are you?)
If Teeny comes to us wanting to do something or try something, we discuss and either say yes or no. A no ALWAYS comes with a reason, and not a 'just because'. That doesn't work with teenagers. They want to know WHY they can't shove a needle through their face that was only sterilised by hot water. (true story)

We ended our conversation with me turning into my mother.
"If you go ahead and do everything now, what will you have left later on?"

I could practically read her mind.
"More piercings and then tattoos."

Thank you universe, Thank you.

LM is

I'm about three chapters away from finishing my novel which is TERRIFYING.
Obviously, I have a long way to go before presenting it to anyone; I need to go back and edit, edit, edit and then edit again before I hand over to my beta readers, etc.
My only new year resolution last year was that I would FINISH the book, even if it meant chaining myself to the computer until I did.

I've found the closer I get, the slower I go. I find excuses not to write or to go back and fiddle with the middle of the chapter, or re-write a passage just to halt where I am in the book.
I silently rejoiced when I broke my right wrist a few months ago because it meant that I had a break from writing, and I could ignore my looming deadline.
I should have finished by now.

I'm scared that it's terrible.
The self-doubt is suffocating.

I'm sure that every writer has that feeling though right?
My sister and Lex both say it's good, but they HAVE to say that don't they. It's like an unwritten law or something. They can't say "Dude, your book fucking SUCKS. A 13-year-old could write better. Go get a proper job." because they know it would break my heart.
How do I know that they aren't protecting me?
How am I going to hand over something that I've put my entire soul into, to someone else who is going to rip it and me apart with a scathing red pen?

I don't know if I'll be able to take constructive criticism. I've never been good at that. I get defensive, and my first reaction is to tell someone to fuck off. That's not going to be a good look to some nice editor person when they've told me I have the writing skill of a gnat.

There is also the extremely uncomfortable subject of sex scenes.
I like sex (sorry parents), and I'll talk about it until the cows come home with almost anyone, except my parents. That's just...no. No, thank you.
How am I supposed to hand this over to my MOTHER and then not die a million deaths that she's read sex scenes that I wrote?
No. It's not going to happen. I'm just going to have to send her and the rest of my family a heavily edited version that has only hand holding and sweet pecks on the cheek aaaand fade to black.

Surely that's better than my mum reading ANY smut from her daughter... right?

The kids loved it too which was worth the five hundred hours it took me to make the thing.

Now the Birthday is over, and we are two days into the school holidays.  Netflix, DVD's and eating leftover cheesecake is on the agenda today. Man, I wish I was still a kid!

I'm rocking out to Shakey Graves and mopping the floor. #rocknroll

Ahhh 14.
The year of shopping, make-up, hair and boys. (and me growing more grey hairs.)

I think I waited forever for Teeny.

Lex met her first. He had to go in for a meeting with the school one morning with The Kid, and Teeny was waiting at the school gates for him. Furiously berating him for getting into trouble again.
Lex called me the minute he got in the car and said "Babe, wait till you meet her. She's amazing. You're going to fall in love with her instantly."
And it's true. I did.
Her long blonde hair, summer tan and green eyes, she could have been mine.
I used to promise her that everything would be okay, one day. And then one day it was.
Our gotcha day was different to LM's and even The Kid's.
It was quick, unplanned and so stressful, but that night when I went into her bedroom to say goodnight, she put her arms around me and said: "I always knew I was meant to be here with you guys."

I think so too.

The Kid used to make the smallest butterfly origami you've ever seen.
I don't know how he managed to do it, but he'd fold a small scrap of paper into the most beautiful paper butterfly you've ever seen. They were delicate and pretty, such a contrast to the complicated Kid he was.

He hasn't lived with us for over a year now. When he left, it was swift and painful. Like a hot knife going into my heart. I didn't think I would be able to breathe ever again.

Oh, I was angry. I was angry at a lot of people. Angry at myself, angry at The Kid, angry at the system...
In our anger and hurt, we packed everything of his over a weekend. Everything of The Kid was irradicated from our home because it hurt too much to see his jumper hanging on the stairs, or his shoes by the door, or tripping over his scooter for the tenth time in a day.

I cried myself sick in the shower after his things were returned and then I told myself that it would be okay. Little Man needed us to be strong and stable and assure him that he wasn't going anywhere and just because his brother didn't live with us anymore, didn't and doesn't ever mean that we don't love him. Because we do. We do, we do, we do.

The only thing remaining of his time here was the slight scent of him in his room, and a smashed up mirror, and that made me so sad. He was gone, and it felt so empty.

We moved on. We had to.
His bedroom became Teeny's. The bare walls replaced with pretty prints and new pictures.

The other day, as we were ripping the downstairs living areas apart on a re-decoration spree, I was having I was cleaning out the cabinets to make moving them easier.

Sitting in a little cup was a handful of tiny little butterflies that he had made just for me.

Little things, that reminded me that The Kid was always here after all.

When Little Man was a little boy, every day was an adventure.
Mainly because I had no idea what I was doing.

The Kid came to us totally his own person. He knew what he liked, what he hated and with his own personality that was explosive.
Little Man, on the other hand, was so different. I had to teach him how to be a little boy, and he had to teach me how to be a mummy, and I think that's why we have such a strong bond like we do now.

I didn't carry him in my womb, but for a whole year I carried him in my arms, even when it felt like I would break.

He's truly my little man, and although there are times when it can be exhausting having a constant talking, naughty shadow, I'd be a shell of a woman without him.

We started this adventure together, the moment he walked through our doors, stomped into our living room and picked up the playdough.
There isn't a bit that I've forgotten, each little moment I've stored away like a precious jewel, never knowing when we will have our last.

I've made a conscious effort not to take anything for granted when it comes to my little boy, like the last time he held my hand as we crossed the road. We discussed it on our way to school. Him telling me that he's a big boy now and doesn't need to hold my hand. He's 8. The other boys don't hold hands with their mums anymore either.
Me, I bit my lip and tried very hard to stifle my sobs. I wanted to say "But you're my little boy still. I have to hold your hand until you're 30."
But of course, I knew that it was probably time. How lucky that I had that opportunity. How many mothers missed that last hand hold? Do they lie awake in a cold sweat thinking of the things that they don't want to miss too?

We stood on the side of the crossing, waiting for the cars to pass.

"One more time then? So I can remember this always?"
He thought about it for a moment.

"Okay. So we can remember."

We don't have many billboards around here and when I first read the prompt for this 8-minute memoir, I was seriously thinking I'll just skip this one, but I like a challenge and I want to say I'm not a quitter...but we all know that's not the truth. ;)

When we lived in Maidenhead on the way to school there was this billboard advertising B&H Cigarettes. Every morning we would drive past this huge sign advertising cigarettes and I would think, 'Man, I can't wait till I get to school so I can sneak off and have a fag.' 

I've since given up smoking but I still crave them every day and I think that I always will, which is so depressing when I think about it. After a really big meal, long conversations on the phone or hanging out with the bestie, or when I'm seriously upset or stressed out (and let's face it. I'm a foster carer. Something is always stressful) is when I'm most vulnerable to the urge to pick up the habit again. I don't, mainly because of the cost, my god, it's crazy expensive these days, but also because I know how disappointed I would be in myself.
I smoked from the age of 15 and for a long time, that was part of me. Which is a weird thing to say really.
The day my husband was diagnosed with cancer, I stood outside puffing away while he told me his diagnoses.
The day we buried my pop we stood around smoking, talking about how fucking awful cancer was.
What idiots.
I tried quitting many many times, and every time I'd pick it back up again, smoking behind Lex's back because he hated it. We had so many arguments over it. Him demanding I quit and me digging my heels in refusing.
The only thing that really stopped me in my tracks was when I was standing outside and LM opened the back door and I yelled at him to stay inside because I was smoking and I didn't want him to come near me when I had a cigarette. His little face crumpled up and he started to cry. "I just wanted to give you a hug mum."

I quit that day.

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I'm trying to plan Teeny's Birthday plans for this weekend, and it's giving me major anxiety.

Turning 14 is hard y'all.

With a birthday list that includes an Apple Watch (Not likely kid, especially after spending a small fortune on The Moo the other week) a pair of high waisted white jeans (I'm NOT jealous of my 14-year-old daughter that she can rock the white jean look and not look like a sausage stuffed into white tubes) a white watch (if she can't have the Apple Watch), a pair of Nike SB's, swimmers, make up (and we're talking Kylie Jenner lipstick FFS) and a million other things that quite frankly I want too.

Is it wrong that I want the same stuff that my 14-year-old daughter wants?
Lie to me and tell me it's fine.

Everything on her list is haaaarrrrd. The shoes are apparently super popular, and no one has them, so I've ordered them online. As for the Jeans, I've also had to order them online from some terrifying website in a size four because she's a child and you can't get fucking high waisted white jeans with slashes in the knees for children. DUH.

So, she's got the jeans, the shoes, the new swimmers, the watch and she's got a few extra bits and pieces that she'll hopefully love, but I refuse to buy the Kylie Jenner lipstick. Not because I hate everything that the Kardashian Brand do...because I fucking LOVE the vapid Kardash girls and their little sisters. But because I want it for myself (#selfishmummy) and I will not be one of those mums that steal makeup from their children. It should be the other way around.

Anyway.
If that's not enough to bankrupt us, at one point we agreed to take her and her BFF to Dreamworld.
I must have been on some serious drugs that day because what a stupid idea.
But I promised and off to Dreamworld, we will go.
*hold me*
I figure Husband, and I can let the girls go and do their own thing while we take LM to the little kid stuff because he's a sooky la-la and refuses to go on any rides. Heh.
The last time we went was when Husband and I were on a holiday on the Gold Coast to celebrate him going into remission. I had my period, and I wanted to die the entire time. I went on one ride, stood and watched the Tigers for a minute and then cried the rest of the day because my uterus was trying to murder me.

So, it's going to be awfully wonderful, and I'm a little excited.
This will be her first birthday with us, and I want it to be special. Kids in care get a shitty deal sometimes. We want Teeny to have an awesome birthday weekend, and I can't wait to give that to her.
Her actual Birthday is on Sunday, so we'll go out for lunch, I'll make a cake and promise Husband that on Monday we will start Keto again. It's what I do.

**I'm skipping today's 8-minute memoir because, well, it's my blog and you can't tell me what to do.**

Too many things.
Sometimes my mind is like a sieve. (just stir it, Una)

It's one of the recurring arguments that Husband and I seem to have. I'll have something that needs to be done, and I'll be all over it. I'll write it in my diary, I'll put it on the fridge, I'll write it on my hand, and I'll walk away going "Yes. I will do that thing that is very important..." and by dinner time that night as we are all sitting around the table, talking about our day; Husband will look over and say "Hey Sass, did you do that very important thing today?"  and I'll freeze like a deer caught in headlights, because No. No, I did not do that thing that I promised sixteen billion times that I was going to do.

I think he thinks I'm being careless or deliberately not doing it and I promise on everything, it isn't that at all.
My attention span is minimal, and oh look, a pretty kitchen on Pinterest over here.

The kids needed to see a dentist the other week. Teeny's teeth were hurting, and LM needed to have a check up. Husband reminded me at least 20 times and every single time I'd forget. Which is awful. My child was in pain, and I forgot to call someone to take that pain away for her.
In the end, he took care of the whole thing and arranged appointments for the kids, and I was left feeling guilty. I'm their mum. That's my job to do that stuff.

Perhaps there is something missing in my brain?
Important forms, meetings, paying bills, sometimes even fun social things get forgotten about, but ask me what I was wearing on September 3rd, 2012 and I would probably be able to tell you.
I've NEVER forgotten an argument that the husband and I have had, and I could tell you word for word what he said. (Hint: He was wrong, I was right, he apologised and everything was alright in the world.)

I've taken to setting little alarms on my phone for everything... including the 2.45pm alarm that reminds me to collect my child from school.....

I'd be lying if I said I didn't need that.

I remember when it was just the two of us. (And Moo. We mustn't forget Moo)
when weekends were for lying around in bed all morning, long breakfasts with the paper if we could be bothered to go and get one and then settling in for a movie marathon, or a leisurely stroll around the shops or a little drive somewhere.
Sometimes, a weekend was an excuse to just close ourselves off from the world and just "be". It was the best. I would always find myself looking forward to the weekend, knowing that it was our time.

Now, though, it's totally different. Weekends mean having to get up and do all the things. There is always something that needs to be done, washing that should be on, chores that have been neglected during the week that need attention, social things that have us screaming at the children to put their shoes on for the sixth time in 20 minutes and no matter how hard we try, we are always always going to be late. I hate it when we're late, and I know that mostly it's MY fault that we are.
I'm the one responsible for getting everyone out that door.
Half the time I'm the one running around looking for MY shoe.
I'm 31, and I don't feel like I'm adult enough for this parenting thing half the time.
Do other parents feel that way?

Weekends are not what they used to be. I still feel that collective sigh of relief when Friday afternoon rolls around, but it's more of a "thank God I don't have to make another school lunch for two days", and our routine relaxes slightly which is always a welcome event in our house.

We don't read the paper anymore at breakfast. In fact, I can't remember the last time we bought one. I'm too busy making pancakes or french toast or porridge and then trying to bribe a child to pack the dishwasher.
We don't have movie marathons all day (unless watching countless hours of Pokemon or Adventure Time count).

Sundays were my favourite day, and now I dread the Sunday "school starts again tomorrow" feeling. It's always a Sunday night that Teeny will announce she has an assignment due Monday morning, and she needs help...even though the week before we asked her many times if she had any homework.
There is always a "will you sign this form that I've had sitting in my bag all week and can I have $7 for this thing that was due last week, and I forgot to tell you about"  from LM and without fail there will be the panicked "I don't have any clean clothes for school tomorrow" dance from both.

Saying that though, I wouldn't go back. Not for all the coffee and pancakes in the world.

Guys, I have a confession to make.

Is blogging still a thing?

I started LOTB something like nine years ago...How old do I feel now. How old do YOU feel if you're still reading the tat I type out into the cyber world?

Things sure have changed since then. I've changed massively.

When we became parents, I found it so hard to etch out time to sit down and write. Especially with a very naughty inquisitive Little Man that needed ALL of my time and attention and The Kid... Ahh, The Kid. He made me a Mummy and broke my heart a million times over and over.

Life is SO different now.

Little Man is still here. He'll be with us forever and ever and ever (in his words), and we now have his sister Teeny. She's 13 going on 18, and she makes me feel old and so very uncool it's not funny.
LM had me believing I was a cool mum.
Teeny has me KNOWING I'm not! I came to that realisation when I was trying to convince her that Lex and I are cool. Guys, a heads up. If you're trying to convince someone you're way cool, you're way NOT.
She laughed at my Birkenstocks the other day. I was all "Whatever. These are so cool. Famous people wear these. Models wear these. Look..." and I showed her stylish pictures on Pinterest of stick thin women rocking their birks with skinny jeans, perfect balayage hair and not a wrinkle in sight.
She rolled her eyes and said "Yeah, but you're not cool."

Clearly, Little Man is my favourite.


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