"Hey, that's the mouth she kisses my kids goodnight with!"

 To paraphrase Paul Vitti from Analyze This; "I can't do those things with my wife! That's the mouth she kisses my kids goodnight with! What are you, crazy?!"

 And so, I have reached the sad, ugly point in my pregnancy where I am no longer considered a sex object....
Please don't misunderstand, my Man still calls me beautiful. He kisses my belly, holds me, gives me massages, and does other intimate things like that every day, but it seems that the nights of unbridled, primal, passionate awesomeness are well and truly on hiatus.

I understand the change of course, I am very pregnant now, and no well-placed corset is going to cover (let alone fit) this belly. Luke doesn't see me as a sex kitten at the moment. He sees me as beautiful. He sees the mother of his son. He sees something delicate, maternal and nurturing. Something soft and round.

And this is all lovely...But what about the frustrated deviant who is hiding inside this mummy suit?

To better explain what I'm feeling, I will leave it in the capable hands of Mr. Eddie Murphy;
"When you get in the bedroom, what would you rather hear you partner say? 'I wanna make love to you'
Or would you rather they grab you by the back of your neck and say, 'Imma fuck the shit outta you."

You'd think I would be prepared this time though, wouldn't you?
I mean, I have done this twice before, plus the amount of pain I'm racked with 99% of the time from my SPD is enough to turn anyone off.

...But what about that 1% of the time when I'm halfway functional? What about then?!
Surely we can pretend that I'm not a mummy-to-be for a few hours, and instead pretend I'm someone who just really loves cheeseburgers? Can't we? Can't we?!

It is during these moments that I find myself searching for the mirror. I'm not sure what this is meant to accomplish  - seeing myself trying to suck in my baby bump? Trying out various poses that could be interpreted as attractive? Or maybe I'm just trying to remind myself that under everything I'm still a sexual being?

Imagine my disappointment when I look into the glass and see this staring back at me -

Sweet merciful crap, when did I last shave my legs? ...Can I even reach my legs anymore?


It is upon this discovery that I resign myself to the fact that my Man and I will have to take a break from our normally over-zealous love life, and continue working on our snuggle and smooches routine instead.

So for now I wave goodbye to Naughty-Sex-Kitten-Tara, and welcome back the couch dwelling, constantly eating, rarely moving, tummy-rub-loving, Fat-Kitten-Tara.

 All in all, I guess she's not so bad....                                                                  


                           

Meeting the Mister

People have often asked me how I came to meet my Man.
It must have seemed odd to most; he wasn't from any of the circles of usual suspects, and all my peers knew I was a serial mate-dater. I would rarely venture outside of the extended friend circles of our little clique, as I seemed to only fall for people I already had a solid mate-ship with.
In the past this has, needless to say, got me into endless amounts of trouble.

My search for a companion started, as most of my ventures into a possible relationship do, with vast amounts of alcohol.

At this time of my life, my children and I were living with two of the greatest people I know.
They are a married couple with two little girls of their own. They had lovingly taken us all in, for reasons that I will not go into in this entry, and had moved Heaven and Earth (turned the playroom into a little haven for me, and moved their youngest daughter out of her room and in with her sister, so that my kids could have their own room) just so we would have a safe and caring place to rest while we all found our feet.

On the night in question all four children in the house were sleeping, and Mrs. Great and I were happily perched in the kitchen, pyjama clad with mad hair, watching stupid YouTube videos, whilst swigging straight out of bottles of Spumante - what a classy pair we made!
The idea of dating sites somehow made it's way into the conversation, and before I knew it, I had been convinced that making a dating profile was the best idea ever ("Even if a relationship doesn't work out, you could still find some sexy booty calls!").
The hours passed with us both cackling and chortling, spiralling further into drunken messes, as we composed what we thought to be an absolutely hilarious biography for my profile.
The paraphrased end result read something along the lines of; "Hot young MILF, seeking man! Must have a car, as I do not, and must have a large bank account, as I don't have one of those either. Must be funny, sweet, and well endowed."
The night eventually wound down, and I was left alone at the kitchen counter, re-reading this ridiculous, unflattering description. All of a sudden I felt completely helpless. I was never going to find someone.
Who would want me? I was 24, with two young children, no house, no job, no car, and no savings.
I had a mountain of emotional baggage, and had recently come out of a situation so emotionally, physically and mentally destructive, that I required the kind of acute attention normally reserved for haemophiliac babies.
I opened another bottle of cheap bubbles (which by this stage I most definitely did not need), marched myself outside to the veranda, lit a cigarette, and broke down in heaving sobs.
I stayed there, chain-smoking, guzzling nasty booze, and crying deeply well into the night.


The next morning, I woke with a resolve to re-write this Biography-of-Tara, and attempt to show myself in a favourable light. If not for anyone else, then for me.
I would make myself see that I was worth something.

I wrote that I was a young mother, and that I loved my children above all else. I loved all children, and would be delighted to find a partner who either had some of their own, or who wanted to create a family with myself and mine.
I wanted a companion to share my life with, and I believed I had a lot of love to share. I loved to cook, and could think of nothing better than sharing a bottle of wine, while cooking a meal with my significant other.
I adored hugs and affection, so if you were looking for a highly affectionate partner - I was your girl!
I loved to laugh, to talk, to explore, to learn and to listen.
I was looking for someone to share my life with. I wanted the real thing.

I uploaded a recent photo of myself, and waited.
I will say now, that watching many people 'view' your profile, then choose not to contact you is more than a little discouraging. I mean, they had been matched with me. I clearly had similar interests and values to these men, and yet I didn't seem enough.
It was suggested to me by Mr. Great, that my hair may have put them off.
You see, at this time, in an incredibly cliched act of self-expression/re-birth I had coloured my hair how I used to when I was much younger. It was fire engine red, with extensions trailing down to my elbows, and styled in an Amy Winehouse beehive, with a side fringe.
I thought it looked awesome, Mr. Great thought I looked like a twat.
      <--------- Observe the Arial/Winehouse redhead.


By that evening, after not a single person had messaged, poked, or in any way cyber-contacted me, I decided to find my own match and message him. After scrolling through a few pages of my apparent could-be-soul-mates, I found Luke.

He had a gentle face, with kind, shiny eyes. They were striking and blue, with tiny crows feet decorating their edges - it is no exaggeration to say that I was captivated instantly. He had a cheeky smile that seemed contagious, and he wore it in all his pictures (I stalked them good and proper). He wore band shirts, and loved alternative music. He liked the same comedians and movies that I did. He also loved good food, good drink, hugs, and blessedly, he also wanted a family.
I was sold for sure by his final answer. The question asked to members was, 'What do you wish people knew about you?', and he had answered, in an endearing throw-away manner, "I'm a pirate".
My face broke into a smile, and I messaged him.

There you have it. We had opened Pandora's Box; the messages flew thick and fast, turning to texts, then to phone calls, and finally to the first meet. We met each other for the first time just under a week after I first saw his grinning face on a website.

I was so nervous. I must stress at this point, that I am not normally a giggling school girl, or nervous on date. Although in saying that, I will also point out that I haven't really been on many dates.
While I have had more boyfriends and partners then I care to admit, it is a rare occasion when someone actively tries to woo me.
So, after breaking down like a crazy person when Mr. Great dropped me at the station (he laughed), then shaking as my date and I sent texts back and forth on the train, I finally reached the meeting point.
This was it.
We met under the big clock. He was standing there, dressed in jeans, a band shirt and a black brimmed beanie. I was in jeans, knee-high flat boots, a black tank top, and had my trademark hair bright and flowing. We looked like a pair of angsty 16 year old students, not like a 26 and 24 year old, both with full time jobs (his at a nationwide company, mine as a parent).
We awkwardly approached each other, grinning shyly as were exchanged hellos, then we hugged.
I was overcome at once by how safe it felt. I loved that he was only slightly taller than me, because my head could nestle comfortably in the nook between his shoulder and neck. He smelled amazing. He was warm, and I felt an incredible strength when he held me.
The date proceeded as I imagine most first dates do, he bought the movie tickets, while I insisted he let me pay for popcorn and soda. We exchanged shy glances, laughed too hard at each others jokes, and never once stopped smiling.
Shortly after we reached the cinema, and settled in to watch Batman: The Dark Knight Rises.
We weren't touching at all, and yet I'm quite certain the temperature between us was skyrocketing.
The air seemed thick with a tingling energy.
Half way through the movie, he slowly reached over and clasped my hand. We traced circles on the inside of each others palms, and toyed with one another's fingers. I had butterflies. Butterflies.
The girl who had been known to quite comfortably suggest a blow job as an icebreaker (sorry Mum & Dad, I know you read this), was visibly trembling just because this person was holding her hand.

After the movie, we realized that if I wanted to catch the last train home, I would have to leave then and there. I decided not to. Wild horses could not have dragged me away from this Man.

We made our way back to his place. I remember informing him that if he turned out to be an axe murderer, and happened to chop me up into a million pieces, I was definitely going to come back and haunt him.

At his house we watched a movie. I kid you not, watched a movie. Once the second film was started though, we snuggled up to one another, and invariably shared our first kiss. It was magic.

Everything about that night filled me with a certain knowing, a knowing that everything about this was right.
This must have been the feeling all those people in movies had been jabbering on about.
I felt as though I was being cloaked in a warm, protective blanket. Everything was safe. Everything was beautiful. All was well.

Needless to say, we saw each other many times after that, in fact we became almost inseparable.
So much so that the Great's actually invited him to move into my room, so we could have a trial run, living together as a couple.

And now, living in our own house, with my two children who he has lovingly taken under his wing, and one more more bundle of love on the way, I can honestly say this is the happiest I have ever been.

This relationship, and all aspects involved within it, has inevitably made me a better person.
We have taught each other how to be the best people we can be.
We practice patience, forgiveness, and express love more than either of us ever have before.

But the most amazing thing? The thing that leads me to believe this will stand the tests of time?
When he places his hand on my cheek and kisses me, I still get butterflies. Every. Single. Time.

Love *a late night looksie at my very hippy-like thoughts on the issue*

I have been thinking about love a lot lately.
I have turned the word in all it's forms over and over in my head, and thought long and hard about every aspect that I can to relate to this very loaded, and often miss-used word.

As embarrassing as it is for me to admit, I honestly think Snow Patrol got it right with the lyrics,
"Those three words are said too much, and not enough."

I, like most others, have spent a great deal of time mulling over what it takes to make the love in a relationship strong and long lasting. What ingredients, and what thought patterns must be in place for a long term relationship to last, and for the love to continue growing into the beautiful ball of light that everybody craves?

It occurred to me, that before you look at romantic love, it is best to start with love in it's purest, simplest form.
While I love my family and closest friends fiercely, I am choosing to focus on the love I have for my children for the purpose of this piece.

Children are incredible. They allow you to feel every emotion possible; from that warm, safe feeling of adoration that wraps around you like a blanket, to the gut wrenching pain of seeing them sick or hurt, and not being able to help. From elated joy and pride at any and all their achievements, to utter frustration and exhaustion when they missbehave and simultaneously push all your buttons.

When you think about it, they really are the ultimate mix-bag of feelings.
But we love them. We love them with all that we are. Mother's find the strength to lift cars from off of their toddlers, and fathers that have long forgotten how to emote openly, rediscover the simple joys of tea parties and dress ups.
I love my children so much, that I miss them the second they leave to visit their Dad.
Even when I am exhausted. Even when they have been absolute brats all day, my heart sinks the minute they walk out the door.
I love them as individuals, and as a part of myself. There is nothing they could ever do to lose my love.
Even at their worst, and continuing long into hitting their "I hate you Mum!" teen years, I will never stop loving them.
When they are naughty or disobedient, after everything is discussed and any consequences applied, I forgive them. I always tell them in exactly these words - "I forgive you. I love you."
There is never a part of me that thinks 'this is the last time. You've pushed me too far! I can't do this anymore!' or a part that just gives up and gives out, and ceases to feel that glorious warmth around my heart. I forgive them easily and quickly because I love them.

When it comes to friends, ex-friends and even ex spouses, I have often been told that I forgive too easily, that I am a pushover. But what people don't seem to grasp is that the act of forgiveness is the easiest thing for me to do, because it is the best thing for me to do.
What is the alternative? To remain angry? Jaded? To allow despair or hatred to consume you? Would you rather have thoughts of a negative/hateful/self loathing nature crowding your mind, or instead have those of tolerance/forgiveness/acceptance and experience filling your thoughts?
Forgiveness doesn't mean agreeing with what the person has done to you. It does not mean condoning their actions. It means you allow yourself to let go of any misery, because those types of feelings will not do you any good. Misery and hatred breed more of the same, and this can only attract more people with negative qualities into your life. I don't know about you, but I much prefer to surround myself with caring, incredible, loving beings.

But back to my children. I always forgive them. I forgive them swiftly, and then I let it go. I do not hold onto frustration or resentment. I discuss the issue and come to a conclusion, and then I release it. And then I always reinforce all of this with vocalizing my love for them.
To be honest, I now do the same with my closet friends. Whenever there is a disagreement or a fight, both parties will talk everything through, and then once everything that needs to be discussed has been discussed, I tell them I love them. And I do not use the words lightly  - I mean them.
It is no exaggeration to say that for these people, I would take a bullet. They have shown me nothing but support, kindness and love over the years of our friendships, and I see them more as family then merely friends.

So, this lead me to wonder, if we all (for the purposes of this piece, I am assuming everyone has a mind that works the same as mine) forgive, and then reinforce love with our children and our nearest and dearest, why then do we not offer the same to our lovers?

In my past relationships there have been countless times when I have refused to talk things over after a fight. I have chosen to stew in all my own anger, or even to completely shut my partner out and talk to everybody else about what I should do. I talked to every other person, except the one person who I should have been talking to. I have dragged out fights, and slept on the couch for weeks. I have been intentionally nasty, vindictive and spiteful, just to hurt the other person so they would feel what I felt.
Is it really a surprise that this behavior yielded nothing but more sorrow?

I used to think that romantic love was somehow completely different from other forms of love.
I knew the infatuation stage was only a prelude of course, but I truly thought that everything else that followed was utterly unique.
It isn't. It is exactly the same, and I have come to believe that when you treat it as such, it will continue to grow into a beautiful force that will so envelope you, and all those around you, that you can't even fathom why you had got it so wrong in the beginning.

I used to think that love was finding someone who was perfect. They would have all the incredible qualities that you look for in a partner; they would be respectful and kind, they would laugh at all your jokes, compliment you perfectly in the bedroom, and only see the good in you.
You would never have a real fight, because you both loved each other so much. They knew you were perfect, and you knew they were perfect, so it would never be an issue! You would live in bliss, because you were both just that awesome.
This relationship couldn't possibly fail, because unlike every other partner you'd had in the past, this one wasn't a dickhead. It was simple! It was also, of course, complete bollocks.

I realize now, that love in the romantic sense should be handled with the same patience and care as love for a child. Talk about any problems. Talk openly, freely, and without malice. Be truthful when you are hurting. Be truthful when you are happy! If you feel like telling your partner you love them 20 times a day, just because that's honestly how often you think about them, then tell them. Fix things that are broken, instead of antagonizing the situation just so you can hurt the other. Because why would we ever want to hurt someone we love? Forgive easily, and with grace. Apologize when necessary without needing to be asked.
Every day think of something you can say or do that will bring joy to your partner.
You think about things to do that will bring joy to your children, like painting, going to the park etc, so why not do the same for your lover? Show them love in every way that you can; let them feel it when you give their shoulder a squeeze as you walk past, whisper sweet nothings to them as they drift off to sleep, make their favourite meal just because you know they've had a hard day at work.
Love cultivates love. 
But love isn't just all the mushy stuff. It's not only the recognition of all the good qualities you see in each other, it's also the acceptance, and the understanding of those which are not so favourable.
Humans make mistakes. We all do stupid things. Why would you want to harbor hatred over the mistake of a lover, when instead you can forgive them, love them, and work with them to mend any bridges, and reconcile any issues.

We don't abandon people we truly love, we accept them for all their incredible qualities, and all of their imperfections.
I honestly believe (now that I have reached an age where I can recognize these things), that anytime a person throws their hands in the air and does something deliberately malicious, they do not really love their partner.
They may think they do, may even honestly believe it. But they do not have the capacity as of yet to fully appreciate or process all the things that are involved with such a loaded emotion.

My Man and I fight. We are no different to any other couple in that regard. But I have noticed, upon reflection, that there are fundamental differences in the way we fight, in comparison to any other relationship I have ever been involved in.
When we fight we do not demean each other, or bring up things from the past.
We do not resort to emotional, or physical abuse.
In actual fact, we end up racked with concern for the others well being - even though it is they who have inflicted the pain.

The last fight we had ripped my heart out. I was deeply hurt, and yet in under 2 hours we were hugging, and telling one another how much we loved each other. I had told him I forgave him, and I was actually feeling physically pained at the sight of him being so upset. The realization of how gravely he had hurt me had sent him into a state of total remorse and sorrow - and I hated to see the person I loved so much in so much pain.

The fight previous to that one was a situation where I was most definitely in the wrong. I had hurt him greatly, and once realizing this, I immediately apologized, and told him how much I loved him. He then told me he forgave me and that he loved me. Then we spoke about what had happened, what we could do to fix the situation, and things we could put in place to prevent a similar situation ever happening again.

We love each other for all our faults, and for all the ways in which we have the potential to grow.
We are lucky enough to both want to grow together, and to keep listening and learning from eachother until we are both old and grey.
We accept eachother for everything we are. Good and bad.
Our love is a promise to never give up, to always support, to speak up when one of us is acting like an arsehole, and give gratitude when one of us is acting like an angel.

Love is constantly evolving, and as such, must be nurtured and cared for.
It is only then, in my most humble of late-night-ranty opinions, that we can finally find the truth, contentment, bliss and absolute gratitude, that comes with the wondrous force that is love.

Testing my patience *A short entry about the first and only time my children honestly made me contemplate their demise*

Everybody makes mistakes. This is normal. We start when we are young, and make errors, then correct them, thereby learning as we grow. We push boundaries, and do things just to see what the reaction will be.

Logically, I am aware of this. However this did not stop me from threatening to butcher my small children on the day in question.

As a rule, my kids are well behaved. Yes, they have days where they are obnoxious, rebellious and stroppy little pieces of work - but so do I. I guess as they do have my DNA, I'm at least partially responsible.
But as a rule they understand what they can and cannot do. They know they can make a mess of their toys, they can scatter them from one end of the house to the other. They know they cannot touch things that don't belong to them, especially without an adult there. My work stuff for example (I make bath and beauty products), can be left out on the table, and they have never once touched it.
Although this could be because I threatened to put them on the roof if they did (I honestly use this threat. It's fantastic, I highly recommend it).

On this particular day last November, the kids and I had all had breakfast, and I wanted a shower.
The kids were sat happily in front of the TV, watching yet another replay of the Peppa Pig DVD.
I started up the stairs and shouted out, "You two be nice to each other while Mummy is in the shower. I will be super quick, OK?"
They responded with the obligatory 'Yes Mum's' and I made my way to the shower.

Ten minutes. I was gone ten minutes, when I stepped out and noticed how quiet it was down stairs.
As any parent of a toddler will know, this is a very bad sign. Very. Bad.
They are either dead, or building a bomb.

I, towel wrapped around self, call out for my children. I hear a scampering up the stairs.
They then appear in my bedroom doorway, covered head to toe in dark blue, red and black paint.
I know straight away this isn't water colour paint, this has come straight from my art supplies - this is acrylic paint. My heart freezes, "What have you done?" I manage to choke out.
The joint answer from my offspring of, "We were painting!" almost gives me a stroke.

I slowly make my way downstairs, taking in the damage as I go; the little hand prints on the carpeted staircase, and up the walls, the mess of food at the bottom of the stairs, and then the trail of cornflakes and painted footprints to the massive lake of paint near the backdoor.
There were hand prints over all the clean sheets that were hanging up on the clothes airier, and all over the cushions of our new dining chairs. And I mean new. We had been in the house for under a month, and received the furniture about 3 weeks prior.

Just so the extent of the damage is not in any way exaggerated, I present you with a small collage.


                  


It is safe to say that I could hardly speak.
I'm fairly certain my kids were terrified just by my facial expression at this point.
They were crying, attempting to say sorry, and then, just to try and make it better, wiping their paint-covered bodies over some of the clean towels - you know, so they would be clean.

I was shaking. I grabbed my phone, turned to them and growled, "Get. Up. Stairs. Get. In. The. Shower. NOW!!!", they ran up crying, and I threw them into the shower and turned the water on in one movement.
I demanded they wash themselves so I could go and assess the damage.

I went downstairs, and the reality of the situation really hit me.
I made frantic, hysterical phone calls  - to my Man, "We will have to replace all the carpet! Oh God, what will we do?", to my ex husband, "Pick them up. Pick them up now. Pick them up now. I cant look at them. Pick them up now." to my mum, "*indistinguishable wailing*", and to one of my besties, "Help me! Please! I don't know how to clean this. I don't know how to do anything *wails*".

Within an hour the kids were collected, and my bestie and I had set to work on the mess.
We actually managed to clean almost all of it. The walls had to be repainted, but we managed to save the carpet with a mixture of washing powder and vinegar. The food was cleaned up, and the sheets and towels washed (unfortunately the wash failed at removing any of the stains, and so in the end they were all thrown out). The chair cushions were treated with stain remover, and we managed to reduce the stains by half.
The tiles were mopped, and the grouting cleaned with a mix of baking soda and vinegar.
(On a side note, I honestly think baking soda and vinegar is the single greatest cleaning mixture ever. It removes stuff that even bleach cannot).

After all of this, the kids were returned to me, filled with fevered apologies, and a promise to never touch paint without an adult ever again.
I will never forget how petrified they were when they realized they had not only pushed the boundaries, but smashed straight through them.
Safe to say, they have never done anything like that ever again.

I'm glad I took pictures all that time ago though, because just like any story, given time anything can be funny.... Almost.....Once my eye stops twitching.

Tales of Turds

 As a parent, especially a new parent, you spend a great deal of time talking about poo.
This ranges from the overly descriptive size and colour comparisons between the parents of newborns, to the hilarious and horrifying tales of the dreaded 'number three'.

 We recently hit a milestone with Master 4 and Miss 3 - both toilet trained for day and night, and completely nappy free! Hooray! I am treasuring this time, knowing all to well that upon the arrival of baby son, 70% of my time will be allocated to poo-related duties.

 I think every parent has at least one or two funny stories about their experiences with the bodily functions of their children. Whether its coming from one end or the other, you can normally always get a new mum or dad (preferably on their 3rd glass of wine at a dinner party) recounting the time when their little ones bowels or barf made a situation quite awkward.

 I will take the time now to tell my story. I have enjoyed telling this story many times, mainly because I think I can make up for how utterly mortified and embarrassed I was by making people laugh.
Because it honest to God was the most humiliating moment of my life.
Which of course means it makes excellent comic material.

 This story occurs roughly a year ago, when my son was out of nappies but my daughter was not.
It was a revoltingly hot day and I wanted to take them swimming. However, since I have the kind of the complexion that causes me to burn anytime I open the fridge, I opted for our local indoor pool.
I loaded the kids onto the bus (as I was car-less at this time), and made the short journey to the pool complex.
Once arriving at the change rooms, I discovered my daughter had done yet another giant poo in her nappy - which made it the 6th for the day - for Christ's sake, I had just changed her 30 minutes ago before we left!
I cleaned her up, then had the realization that I had left the swimmer nappies at home.
This caused me to make the catastrophic decision to just slip her into the bather bottoms, and not worry about it. I mean she obviously cant have any poo left, there simply could not be room in her tiny body!

...Figured out where this is heading yet?

 For roughly 20 minutes everything was fine. We splashed about in the toddlers pool, and we had it all to ourselves. The next oldest kids after mine had to be about 10, and so they were all in the other, deeper pools. I thought it was fantastic.

 It was then that I noticed the suspicious brown canoe floating past my elbow.
I look at my daughter, and her face has broken into a massive grin. 'It's ok' I assure myself.
I went straight into damage control, and taking a child under each arm, I rushed to the nearby shower block. Instead of going to the toilets, I made the choice to rush into a shower cubical. I thought I would just wash my daughter off, wash off her bather bottoms, then sneakily make for one of the deeper pools and pretend like nothing happened. Mature, I know.
I turned the shower on, and removed my daughters bather bottoms to find something that, honest to God, in size would rival a chihuahua. I attempted to empty it down the drain, and then to rinse off the bathers.
While I was focused on cleaning the remaining mess from my daughter's backside, I was suddenly met with a terrified scream from my son, "Mummy! The poo! The poo, Mummy!"
Oh. My. Fuck. Just like in a horror movie, complete with staccato violins and a slo-motion monster scene, I witnessed the fountain of turd ooze up from the now-clearly-blocked drain, and begin to sludge its way down the slight slope of the shower cubicles. It slopped under the wall, and continued to slime it's way through every single one. Every. Single. One.
One by one the occupants of the other cubicles began to shriek, adding to the increasingly hysterical wailing from my son, "So yuck Mummy, so yuck! So much poo! The poo! THE POO!"
All the while my daughter grinned broadly, seemingly proud of all the commotion she was causing.

 I wanted to die. I wanted the ground to open up and swallow me whole.
But there was no time to contemplate all the things I would rather be doing (which would be anything not involving a crowed shower block, a squealing son who was giving it all away, a daughter with seemingly endless bodily waste, and a never ending shit stream) I had to think fast.

 I want to tell you that I did the adult thing. That I apologized to the patrons, then went straight to a staff member so a plumber could be called, and the cleaners alerted.
I want to tell you I did that. But I didn't.

 What I did instead was manhandle my kids straight out of the shower block, and out the front exit of the complex, still followed by the sounds of disgust echoing from the showers.

 It was upon my hurried exit that I realized two things. First, that I had lost my bus card and could therefore not rely on public transport, and second, that the staff had already been alerted and between them and the patrons, it had quickly been deduced that it was my brood who were responsible for the brown river.
I guess in retrospect if their ages hadn't given them away, the crazy way I evacuated the building would have probably been a fairly excellent sign.

 I called a friend who, in between snorting laughter, assured me he would be there in 20 minutes to drive us home.
So I sat, waiting on the bench outside the complex. I should also point out that this building has giant glass windows, that are just perfect for staring through. The staff at the front desk, random patrons, and finally a cleaner with a wearied expression and a dirty mop and bucket, all took turns shooting death stares at me through the glass. I pretended not to see. I pretended I was a potato.
My secret spud-identity was only broken whenever my daughter would proudly announce to passers by, "I pooed in the pool. I pooed everywhere!" and I had to force a smile, whilst through gritted teeth threatening to gag her, as I give the passer by a 'Oh, the things these kids come out with!' kind of look.

 By the time my mate arrived I was borderline hysterical, and he did his best to keep his mocking to a reasonable level as he drove us all home.

 Later that night, once the kids were in bed, I promptly inhaled half a cask of wine and finally saw the amusing side. I then drunkenly called a few friends, and told this story. Finally, instead of crying I was laughing with them. I mean, if I had seen that in a movie, I would have laughed my ass off.

 I still haven't returned to that pool though, and I don't know if I will.
But that is my 'poo story'.
And as icky as it may be, and as traumatizing as it was, if I can share at and make others smile, it was well worth it.

It's always different the next time around *coping with depression like it's an uncomfortable visit from an overbearing and cruelly critical mother-in-law*

 Just over two years after my ex husband and I separated, I met my best friend.
I am incredibly blessed to now call him my fiance. He is also the father of my unborn son.

 As this little bundle of joy was very much planned and very much wanted, we had time to consult my trusted GP and work out a plan to manage any depression that could threaten the pregnancy, or effect me shortly there after.
Because of my severe AND and PND history, it was suggested that before my Man and I even started to try for a baby, that I start taking antidepressants.
I was hesitant about this, as I had refused these drugs during both of my previous pregnancies, but I was also aware how much they had helped me once I had accepted them. I had only stayed on the medication for roughly 6 months after the birth of my daughter, as it seemed that it was only during the hormonal instability of pregnancy, and the following few months after, that the levels in my brain reacted so strangely.
The theory was that I would start on the safest possible antidepressant for pregnancy, on the lowest dose, and just see what happened. If, for some amazing reason I didn't spiral into the same dark state, then no harm done (or perhaps that small dose was just enough to keep me level). However, if I started to display any of the signs of a swiftly deteriorating mental state, it would be easy to increase the dose, without putting me through any initial adjustment reactions (which can really knock you about as your body regulates the new medication). It seemed a great idea.

 I had been on the medication for 3 months when we fell pregnant.
For the first trimester I felt just fine, I felt normal. Sad thoughts didn't even enter my head, as I was too busy enjoying the excitement and romantic bliss coming from this little tummy gremlin.
When the second trimester hit, so did the depression.
I have heard depression described as a shadowy villain that creeps up on you, and then proceeds to follow you around, blowing its filthy, thick, black smoke around everything you love, until everything in your life is tainted by its miserable stench. I've always found this quite accurate.
All of a sudden, I had started to become a crazy lady again.
This time was different though. I was straight back to the GP, the meds were increased, and instead of keeping the remaining crazy inside, I wore it proudly.

 I now find myself just crossing into the third trimester.
My head, though at times still slightly unstable, is for the most part a happy place to be.
Now, instead of crying and trying to talk myself out of self-harm, I walk around my house confused because I can't find my phone. Which I have put in the freezer. While I was taking out a roast for dinner. Which I have put in the bathroom. I'm one of those types of pregnant ladies.

 I have greatly enjoyed this pregnancy so far, even with all the physical bollocks that I am racked with. My body doesn't respond physically well to pregnancy either.
You know those amazing, glowing women who react so well to pregnancy? So much so, that they're the happiest and healthiest they have ever been? Yeah, I'm the opposite to that.
If the glowing women were proud lionesses; coats shining in the sun, proudly roaring as they look after their mate and all their cubs, casually multitasking whilst still finding the time to have an afternoon nap and groom themselves, then I am a stray cat.
Body riddled with ailments, puking up everything I eat in inappropriate places, coated in matted fur and crooked whiskers, getting under every bodies feet whilst constantly mewing at them.
Then I get hit by a car.

 I've recently developed a horrible case of SPD, which is short for Symphysis Pubis Dysfunction. Basically my pelvis is separating far more then it should, due to an over load of the hormone Relaxin, amongst other factors. Hips click in and out too. It totally and utterly sucks.
If you have ever suffered with this, I honestly send you all my sympathies.
Cause it really does suck like a Hoover - it's the worst pain I've ever been in.

 And still, this is the happiest I have ever been in pregnancy. I make jokes about getting around resembling an old woman. Try to laugh and call myself a cripple when I scream like a Bieber fan, as I cling to furniture to help me stand up. I try to make other people laugh, telling them how I cried for 10 minutes because I couldn't get up the stairs to get my toothbrush.
It's horribly painful, but Ive found the brighter side. I'm just lucky my Man is so loving and helpful when he gets home from work, waiting on me hand and foot. Even when I am a cripple with a cold.

I do my best to see myself in a positive light, even when in this state.

I imagine my Man stepping into the lounge room to find me gracefully reclining on the couch.
Hands softly caressing my baby bump. Wearing a red, sexy, satin nightie, and having my hair fall in dark curls around my face. My just-got-over-a-cold voice is sexy and husky, and I know when I tell him that I love him, he thinks its the sexiest thing he's ever heard.
This is though, of course, a total fantasy.

In reality, he really walks into the lounge, and finds me straddling miss matched pillows, and partially under a cover-less doona with Vegemite stains on it. I'm dressed in granny panties and an old band shirt with hair dye stains, with my hair forcefully knotted atop my head.
My voice, far from smooth and sexy, instead resembles that of Harvey Fierstein (who plays Robin Williams' gay brother in Mrs. Doubtfire) as I rasp harshly about how fat I feel.
Then I cough, and shoot something that resembles Mike Wazowski from Monsters Inc. straight into my hands, and stick my ungroomed legs out from under Vegemite-doona, which, oddly enough are in fact so hairy they resemble a pair of Sulley's (the big blue guy, also from Monsters Inc.).

Then I tell my Man that I love him, and he holds me, kisses my forehead, tells me I'm still beautiful, then cooks me dinner and does the laundry.

And just like that, reality doesn't seem so bad.

Love the lovely Man <3

The first time I met depression, and why I think it's a total arsehole.

This first entry is a little sad, but is a true account of the first time I was diagnosed with severe depression.
Whilst the remaining entries of this blog will be lighthearted and peppered with my attempted witticisms, this first entry is essential to explain my past experience with the illness, and how I learnt to combat it.
So please read on, and I assure you in future entries the mood of this Blog is most definitely an upbeat one.

The worst thing about pregnancy for me, is the knowledge that with every passing day I become increasingly mental.
Not crying like the somewhat endearing 'cry at how the family on the cereal commercial love each other' type of cry, nor the 'collapse and weep in front of the pantry cause you don't know what you want for dinner' cry, no. I am talking about the bleak, soul crushing, total devaluation of self that is severe antenatal (then leading to postnatal) depression.

 I had my first two children back-to-back, born just under a year apart.
The void my mind pulled me into was so utterly consuming and destructive, I was under home-visits and observation for over a year, with 2 separate nurses.
One was incredible; she was warm and caring, taught me to see the humour in even the darkest of times, and allowed me to see a way through the darkness. She never once stopped reminding me that I was not alone.
The other nurse made me feel like a freak show, "Why are you feeding your son on formula? Are you quite sure that you tried hard enough at breastfeeding? I'd hate to think you were taking the easy way out". I had already informed this woman of the reason why, in fact the details were there for her to read in my file if she wished. I had planned to breastfeed, I wanted to, but my thoughts had deteriorated to such a state that my body refused to work. I couldn't feed my own child.
From his first day I felt like a failure. The choice to formula feed was made for me, when the midwives at the hospital had presented me with the fact that if I didn't feed my baby soon, he would start to starve, and since I couldn't feed naturally, I should strongly consider formula.
Without entering too much into the ridiculous argument of breast or bottle, I shall state that I personally believe that each situation is unique and should be treated as such.
I don't think people have a right to judge. I am fully aware that breast milk has all the antibodies and other amazing properties that formula just cant provide, but that doesn't mean that formula is bad. Being a new mother is hard enough, without hearing the 2 cents of every man and his dog, who cant help but tell me that I'm 'not giving my baby the best start in life' or that I'm 'only using formula because I'm lazy'.
Yeah, that's a great thing to tell the crazy lady who is so racked with depression, that her 2 week old son refuses to even look at her. They can do that you know, some babies born to chronically depressed mothers. They, as tiny helpless infants realise that the mother is in no way equip to care for them. They don't see her as a nurturing figure, as they can literally feel the despair and detachment seeping out from her. So they wont make eye contact - an occurrence that only added to my feelings of worthlessness and failure.
My son first started to make eye contact at roughly 10 weeks of age - it was one of the most incredible moments of my life.

 But even with Amazing Nurse, support from friends and family, and counselling, I felt utterly useless, alone, pathetic and deeply,  overwhelmingly depressed.
During this time in my life, I would flood my then-husband with bleak suicidal-like text messages and phone calls. I'd tell him how much better he and our son would be without me, that we shouldn't be having another baby (who would be our daughter). Remind him that being a mother was the one thing I was always so sure about, and now I was failing.
If I couldn't be a great Mum, what was the point?
I lost count of the number of times he would be forced to leave work and rush home, finding me rocking on the floor and crying.
This depression was completely devastating.

In the end it was the catalyst that destroyed our marriage.
There were other things of course, there always are. Both of us were at fault at times, but we could never really connect after I had been to such a dark place. He was forced to become numb just to deal with the stress of work, household duties, money, new baby boy and myself - the crazy miserable wife. He didn't recognize the person I had become, and neither did I.
Even once I was back to myself (after the birth of our daughter, where I was immediately medicated, to finally restore my serotonin levels) we just didn't have a spark anymore. Any romantic feelings seemed so long ago. We were friends who lived together.
It always amazed me how lonely you could feel even with someone sitting right next to you.

We finally separated just after our daughter turned one.

Even though everything was crumbling and changing around me; marriage dissolving, house being sold, possessions being divided, and the uncertainty that had suddenly become my future - I felt strangely confident.
I realised that no matter what happened next, I would be fine.
I would come out the other end victorious, and nothing anyone could say would stop me.
As far as I was concerned I had already faced the scariest thing that could come into my life.
I had fought it once, and I had won.

I now knew how to beat this nasty monster called depression, should it ever rear its head again.
I had all the tools needed to fight it off; an incredible support network, knowledge that the type of thoughts created by this illness were all untrue and shouldn't be dwelled upon, a GP who was amazing and would help me manage anything on the medication front, and most importantly, I knew how to write. I knew how to express my feelings in a healthy way, and hopefully, just like Amazing Nurse, I would be able to help people in the same situation to see a way through, and find the funny side in the mean time.

And so, faced once again with this horrid thought-polluting illness, I am starting this Blog.
I will be completely honest about all my feelings and thoughts, and finally put my skills of self-deprecating humour to good use.

I will attempt to nurture my childhood dream of someday being a writer, through stories of my past, coupled with the crazy internal dialogue of a more-than-just-a-little-off-centre Mummy.