I keep forgetting to blog. It is most odd. In this case there are a couple of factors to blame.

Factor one: Pelvis

I got some sort of bizarre hysterical urge to exercise last week. I got all inspired and decided that I would take action.

Action about my pelvis and action about the extra large arse and thighs that I have been lugging around since Grub was born. I experienced a dramatic improvement in the state of my pelvis once I was able to start exercising post Pudding. Whilst I am still not there in terms of my day to day pelvic stability I decided I could wait no longer. I called a couple of gyms and went straight out and exercised, quite hard – that same day.

Hah!

Eeeediot!

The trial run at the gym triggered a major episode which has left me contemplating a visit to the doctor. Let me just clarify that in order for me to even consider a trip to the quack I need to be in a very sorry state indeed. The pelvis is not behaving, not at all.

Factor two: The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo by Stieg Larsson.

Some time ago Katyboo recommended this book. Her praise was so high that I got myself straight down to my local library and tried to get a copy. Apparently this is a much sought after novel. There were NINE people ahead of me in the queue for the four copies of the book that the library holds. I reserved this book seven weeks ago, I believe. I was beginning to think that I would never lay my eyes on the book when I got a text from the library to say that my copy was waiting two days ago.

I have been alternating between lying flat on my back and moaning and devouring the book.

I have been unable to force myself to even open my laptop as the thought of interaction with the world made me feel all weepy and woeful.

I must be feeling a touch better I suppose as I feel tonight like saying hello to the internet.

I told Beefcake yesterday that I didn’t want to blog because I didn’t want to just get on and have a whinge about my pelvis

Yet AGAIN.

So, this may be a bit of a whinge about my pelvis but let us pretend that I have posted something hilarious about Rhubarb’s fear of pooping in the school toilets or Pudding’s current obsession with using the term “bumhole” every 2.4 seconds courtesy of one very annoying 13yo brother who introduced it to his vocab without a second thought.

Pretend I posted those things and comment accordingly.

I will  get my act together soon, I swear.

I would like to be able to say that today was a brownie free day.

I would, truly I would.

I can’t lie though. Today was not entirely brownie free. I had just one brownie although I am planning that tonight will not be entirely custard free if Beefcake drags himself away from his most demanding mistress (his laptop) and gets his bum into the kitchen to make it for me.

I have reasons, I have reasons.

Poor little Grub develped a fever yesterday evening. My children are very good at spiking bizarre and unexplained temparatures that appear while you have your back turned and then disappear with as much mystery.  Unfortunately poor Grub still has a fever. She has no other obvious symptoms, she is perhaps slightly snotty, her eyes are a bit swollen but there is really nothing  obviously wrong with her apart from a fever and the fact that she will not allow me to put her down. At all. Even to go to the toilet. She has suffered a cuddle from Beefcake a couple of times throughout the day but only for a few minutes. She is not a happy little possum.

In addition to poor Grub’s clinginess and constant breastfeeding (which incidentally meant that I had an eleven month old sleeping ON me all night) Pudding made a late night visit to our bed and insisted on staying. I won’t pretend this is unusual, particularly at the moment, ever since we told him that we were moving he has been making regular trips to our bed and staying. Last night was particularly nice though because he had a little accident in our bed. He hasn’t wet the bed in some time but naturally the perfect time would be in our bed when we already have a sick baby situation.

Now, if you will, imagine that there had been a leaky nappy incident the previous night and you had been too lazy rushed off your feet to wash the resulting dirty linen and what you have is a sheet load (ba doom boom) of uriney washing. The laundry was hip deep with pissy linen and p.j’s. And the nappies were already in the washing machine. Then, for good measure, just throw in the fact that Pudding did not go back to sleep immediately after the peeing incident this morning but instead lay awake in our bed muttering and singing softly to himself while I held Grub and listened to the dulcet tones of the garbage truck trawling down our street and you will see.

You will see that I have been in a shitful mood all day and have had to plaster a grin on my face and pretend to thrill in preparing lunch and caring for the preschooler with a very grumpy and sooky baby welded to my hip because Beefcake has lots of very important and urgent work to do and cannot be interrupted.

This is the downside of having him here all of the time, I fear. I feel like he should be at my beck and call and similarly, his employers feel that he should complete some of the tasks they have allotted to him. Quite the dillemna. Given that we have just bought a new mortgage it seems that the worky things will have to win for the time being. Nevermind, he goes on leave for more than a week as of next Wednesday so I will be sure to get my money’s worth during that period.

Where was I?

Oh yes, brownies and custard. I am deserving, yes?

Oh dear. I have been a bad blogger lately. In my defense, life has been very busy and tirey in recent days.

Beefcake’s father and his partner arrived from London on Staurday. We have spent the entire weekend (including today) enjoying gorgeous meals in restaurants paid for by them! Yay! The children were also thrilled to see them as the older two were gifted with foreign currency and Pudding recieved a spider which drops dramatcially from it’s string, like a web, when you shriek in it’s vicinity. Just ideal for him really. Grub recieved friggin’ DKNY baby clothes which are stunningly beautiful but I will be too afraid to ever put on her.

I can’t quite believe that I am tired of eating out but it really is an exhausting business. On the first day I was fine, merrily tucking in to posh fish and chips and oysters and things. Yesterday we visited another family member’s beautiful property in the Adelaide hills we ate way too much gorogeous food, we fed their horse and donkey, there was a tractor ride (rather ill-fated for the more “happy” of the adult partygoers) and we picked about six kilograms of crisp, juicy red apples from the trees that grow there (strictly on the neighbouring property but we needn’t yell too loudly about that). Today we had breakfast, lunch and dinner in different restaurants. All of our meals were excellent. I had scrambled eggs, bacon and mushrooms for breakfast (note to self: You don’t drink coffee, two cups in quick succession, no matter how delicious, will give you the shakes), all sorts of Greek dips and calamari and fried cheese for lunch and then a way too large portion of divine seafood pasta for dinner. I am slightly ashamed to say that I capped off dinner with a slice of toblerone mousse tart because OMFG toblerone mousse tart! Anyway, with each meal I have had a little bit more trouble heaving myself off of the chair. I have established a sizeable paunch in just these three days. It is very lucky that they live so far away these days. I had forgotten how they enjoy their food. Crazy.

I had one of those surreal parenting moments in the carpark when we arrived for dinner tonight, one of our favourite restaurants by the sea. It is a little pricey and we never get to go any more because we can never justify it and it is not really a family type restaurant. I was giving Grub a quick feed in the car before we went in and the kids were cavorting in amongst the parked cars and dodging the  moving cars singing “Can we do and Irish jig? Irish jig, Irish jig”. Beefcake and I were chatting away about the mortgage or kitchen cupboards or something. It occurred to me then that we have become so tolerant of the crazy, we don’t even notice it. A survival mechanism of some sort I suppose. I guess I would rather be desensitised than be the parent that is bright red in the face trying to control the unruly brood.  The next thing you know, Beefcake’s Dad turns up with a large cowboy style rifle, complete with targets etc for Pudding. Pudding spent the rest of the evening walking around saying “I have a really big gun!” to anyone who he could pin down for a moment. My children are not the loud and horrible children by any means but they certainly are free-spirited and independent minded.

In the wake of all of that eating I am now retiring to my bed with a book. Oh the exciting life I lead.

As I hulaed (Wii fit) my great big arse off this afternoon, I was reminded of how cruel and tactless children can be.

Rhubarb: “Hah! Wow mum, you have a really funny looking bum!”

Me: “Ah, really?”

Rhubarb: “Yeah, it’s like you’ve got four bum cheeks or something. It’s like a bum four-pack.”

Poss: “Hahaha. Yeah, you do Mum, it’s really funny.”

Me: “Yeah, thanks guys, that’s great.”

Beefcake: (obviously hadn’t been listening properly) “Surely you want a four pack?”

Me: “Not on my arse!”

Beefcake (trying to defend my arse’s honour): “Oh, look kids, (adjusts my clothing so they can see better) that’s top bit is just swelling from Mum’s dodgy pelvis*.”

Rhubarb: “Oh, right, well, it still looks funny**.”

Yeah, charming. I wonder does anyone else have such charming children??

* I am well aware that Wii hulaing is perhaps ill advised when my pelvis is misbehaving and swollen, to the point of causing my children to fall about on the floor in fits of hysterics. I am not terribly good at accepting my limitations in this area.

**When Rhubarb realised I had been a touch offended, this evening, I got an apology. I suppose he may not be completely evil and heartless.

Has anyone used the Wii Fit?

OH. FUCK.

I knew I was a touch unfit but I feel like I might die.

They trick you with the pretty colours and the fun so that you think it’s not real exercise (yes, I know, the name suggests that it is, indeed, real exercise).

I think it’s a fair bet that I won’t be able to walk tomorrow.

Oh dear.