What Mums Love

​Every week I take my twins to the library in order to ignite in them a deep desire to become word nerds like their mother.

The only real interests my boys have at the ripe old age of 3 is farts and butts. By this stage we have exhausted every book ever written about butts and farts including dinosaur poops and alien flatulence. So I took the book selection on a different tangent this week and picked up a book titled “what my mum loves”. I was sure that this book would really instill a strong message about the heroism of the mother and be full of rad stuff that mums love.
As usual all kids were carrying on like pork swords at bed time so I demanded their attention with “oi, listen up you little buggars mum is about to read a book about shit that mums love”. Immediately 3yr old Caper sighs loudy and say “ahh bullshit”. Now I’m pretty liberal with swearing within the home but god help the children if a swear is dropped in public  (because I live in fear of appearing on Today Tonight in an episode on bad parenting).
I shook off the bullshit remark and dived balls deep into the book about stuff mums love. The real outrage rose when I discovered this book was full of lies. Apparently mums love the sound of kids feet running through the house….bullshit. They allegedly love when kids cover their mums handbag in stickers…bullshit. Apparently we also enjoy being woken up to breakfast on a tray, which I am sure we all would theoretically but in reality anything my kids served up would probably have been farted on or at the very least dropped on the floor.
So essentially I am gonna have to write and distribute my own book about what mums love. It will be more of a think piece, with a whole lot of depth.
It goes:
1. Mums love going to the toilet alone as opposed to having 2 kids come in with a packed lunch.
2. Mums love it when you fight the urge to wear her bras on your head like a superhero mask
3. Mums love when you ask dad a question instead of walking straight past him to find the mother hiding out in the toilet.
4. Mums love when you walk around the shops like a normal person as opposed to morphing into the backwards man and taking out a display of shampoo.
5. Mums love booze.
The End


Save Yourselves

​So this week I was wiped out by a viscious wave of Tonsillitis. My bout was so severe that the doctor thought it could possible be scarlet fever (which I thought had gone out of fashion along with scurvy and leprosy). Though I did not have the dreaded scarlet fever, I did however lose my voice entirely and it was the worst 48 hrs of my life. My husband made no secret of the fact he was lovin it sick that he didn’t hear my melodious voice every few minutes telling him what to do. I was bedrested for 2 days so I had to text Ross all the necessary instructions regarding the kids so that he could promptly ignore them.

During my time in quarantine I quickly got sick of my own company. I started ruminating over lifes great mysteries such as ‘do men blow dry their beards” and “do bees even have knees, let alone really great ones”. I even thought about answers to the ever pressing question of why I can never open plastic packaging. For as long as I can remember glad wrap, chip packets and bags of lollies allude me. I officially hate my own company.
I could have used this time of not being able to eat in order to lose weight. But instead I comfort ate my way through 16 bacon and potato cup of soups. At one stage I got especially brave and desperate and tried to eat one red skittle. I choked on it! I was left reeling at how embarrassing it would have been to have died by skittles. Suddenly I felt an overwhelming wave of empathy for folk legend Mama Cass who died of a ham sandwich.
When I finally left my den of quarantine, I shuffled out all decrepit, sporting hair similar to Donald Trump caught in a wind tunnel. Ross then reported that he felt one of the kids might be getting sick and added ‘what do we do?”. I looked at him and said “you’re asking the person who fell out of bed with a fever and hit her head on the wall, chocked on a skittle and has sweated herself into permanent residency in these undies and you wanna know what I would do?”. I have no idea what to do. These people (my family) all seem to think I know exactly what it takes to keep them all alive when in reality, I struggle to keep myself going.


​Happy Hall-Butson week everybody. This blogette is dedicated to Lee Jenkins and his wife Shannon for reminding me how extremely hilarious Mumtrums are (obviously this is a mum tantrum splice).

Anyone who has ever spent anytime in close proximity to a child will understand that as precious as they are, kids can be annoying as fuck. For instance today at my daughter’s sports carnival, I thought my twins were playing quietly behind me whilst I chatted with friends. Nope, they were stuffing fairy bread into my back pockets and I hadn’t realised until it was squashed and unrecognizable.
Even the most patient, calm and spiritual mother will eventually be pushed to the point of having a dynamic mumtrum. I have had so many that my kids barely register them these days. But here are two of my favourites.
About a year ago, a friend of mine gave me two bags of freshly baked bread, the fancy kind that tastes expensive. There was cob loaves, french sticks and other specialty ‘breads of the world’ in these bags. I had placed the bags on the kitchen table and had the audacity to leave the twins unsupervised whilst going to the toilet. When I walked out the twins had a french stick each and were sword fighting with them. I then noticed my delicious cob loaf had several toddler sized bites out of it and as I was gearing up to hit the roof the twins slapped each other so hard the french stick snapped in half. I was utterly gutted, my chance at decadent bread had been completely ruined. I snatched up all the bread carcasses, opened the front door and kicked each loaf off the steps into the front yard. I was simultaneously yelling “this is why we can’t have nice things”. And as bad luck would have it a group of surly teenagers were walking past sniggering at the crazy lazy kicking bread around the front yard.
My second favourite mumtrum occurred during a power outage that occurred right as I was putting batteries in my twins new spiderman torches. I was getting especially shitty at my husband for not helping me because I was also attempting to make baby bottles at the same time. I marched into the lounge room overloaded with torches, bottles and other crap my kids were yelling for and found Ross was laying on the couch like a giant stain doing nothing and tried to ask for help. However my mumtrum was already beyond my control and instead of saying “can you take either the torches or the bottles”, I said “Ross take the bloody torches, they are like a dick in my hand, I cannot put them down”. Ross just about died from laughter and even though he was taking his life in his hands, he would not stop ripping on me about my love of dicks and inability to put them down.
Here is a tip guys, if you find yourself in the eye of the mumtrum storm, lay low, do not make eye contact and for fucks sake DO NOT LAUGH. 

Pontificating Poetry

Here it is guys, my week in reverse. Last Saturday me and one of my favorite humans Una decided to broaden our horizons by going to see some slam poetry. I had no idea what slam poetry was but it was an excuse to throw off the shackles of my husband and kids and shoot the shit with my friend. We get there and like a cultural punch in the face we realise that poetry in Perth is actually a ‘thing’, they are organised, they are serious and they have depth man. It took all of 30 seconds in the venue for me to realise we had enough collective arts degrees in one room to wallpaper all of Leederville. My goal was to kick back with Unes, heckle the beautiful Bridget behind the bar and pretend I had zero responsibilities. Unfortunately the universe had other plans. You see on this particular night it was the finals of slam poetry and each guest was given a raffle ticket, if your ticket was called you got a poetry stubby holder and the hefty responsibility of being a poetry judge. The minute I heard this I fucking knew I would be the chosen one. I just have this knack of being roped into crowd participation. And sure as my ass points to the ground, my number came up…
Part of me felt completely unqualified for the job since the last poem I wrote was about snails and was around the time that Christ was a boy. Secondly I felt fearful that if I pissed off enough poets with low scores that I could very well be mobbed with interpretive dance and far flung metaphors in the car park. Even Unes turned to me and said “I wonder how the room would feel if they knew one of the judges watches Bob’s Burgers everynight”, I imagine that would be frowned upon. My beloved friend even suggested that I should get up there and drop poem on the crowd and in that moment all I could think of was Bart Simpson’s rendition of “bean beans the musical fruit, the more you  eat the more you toot”. But I soldiered on and gave it my all as a judge. There was one guy that stood out and his name was Splodge or Snudge or Splooge etc and at first I was unsure if he was reading poetry of experiencing anaphylaxis on stage. There were several contemporary poems emphatically read that captivated the audience into clicking their fingers  (apparently that’s a thing people do to express a feeling – still not sure what feeling). I tried to keep my votes neutral so as not to piss off the room, but without voting too high and appearing like a people pleaser. I’m a massive fan of people watching because I love people who embrace their individuality so this room was my petri dish. So many diverse, rad and cultured folk all squeezed into one room. At one stage I mentioned to Unes how sweet the lesbian couple smooching on the floor were. Turns out that ‘lesbian’ was a dude with a truly incredible blow wave and funky scarf. Live and learn. Eventually we waded through the inner most thoughts of the poets and two truly talented girls (who I voted highly) won and were sent to the national finals in Sydney (you’re welcome ladies). On the drive home Unes and I lamented over the highs and lows of life and poetry and decided we need to try more new stuff. We equally conquered that if a hip hop battle fell in the lap of Perth we would be all over that shit. Maybe I should write a poem about poetry seeing as I am now considered an expert! Stay tuned.

The Days of Our Lives

​It’s been another ball tearing week in the Hall-Buttface household so here is a recap of our nonsence. Monday I started reading a new book that a dear friend bought for me. So engrossed in this book was I that I let the kids sleep in on a school day! Suddenly it was action stations and I needed to strategically avoid the daily drama of breakfast with my kids. You see they fight over which Peppa Pig yoghurt they are going to have and since we only had crap characters left, I decided that it was best if I drew a fart coming out of a bum on the lid of all the yoghurts so that would divert their attention. My boys are fart enthusiasts but then Addison pipes up with “but I hate farts mum”. I responded with “well then just turn it upside down and it becomes a tree growing on a mountain. Crisis averted, we got to school on time.

Yesterday, I was fumbling through my day completely oblivious to the fact that it was mother flippin Hard Aches day! For those not familiar, The Hard Aches are my all time favourite band from Adelaide and also my buddies. So Ross and I drag our aging asses out of the house for some rad tunes from rad mates. On the drive in we pondered some of life biggest mysteries. It went like this:
Ross: does the Queen actually do anything at all?
Ren: I dunno, but I would be interested to know what the Attorney General does to fill in his 9 -5
Ross: I guess he just goes to charity events and hangs out with rich people
Ren: hmm maybe, I could totally do that job, that sounds tits. I imagine he uses those big ass novelty scissors to open shopping centres and shit.
Ross: nah, you’d be shit at it and cause a huge kerfuffle needing special left handed scissors
After a fanfuckingtastic show (because Hard Aches are always sick) we flop our old asses into bed. Ross suddenly wants to know why I hadn’t bothered to set up the computer so we could fall asleep watching Bob’s Burgers like we always do. “Too tired homie”, was my first line of defense. “You didn’t even make the bed”, came the second round of accusations from my so called ‘life partner’. It was now time for the truth bomb to explode on this mofo, “I’m allowed to be physically lazy because you my friend are emotionally lazy”. He thought about it for a few seconds and said “fair enough, good point”. You see my non verbal husband’s kryptonite is talking about feelings, it’s like his face is melting off when I start a sentence with “babe I really feel that…” He hates it so bad that he will say “if you want to talk about a feeling can’t you just call Pat” (Ross’s best friend and fellow feeling sharer). Unfortunately for Ross Pat is away on tour in Europe and now he has to sit and listen to every god damn feeling that enters my brain. So I’m feeling hormonal and I asked him to list 5 things he really loves about me. He answers “ahh fuck, well you try really hard to cook meals and you haven’t given me food poisoning in a few weeks so that’s 2 right there”.
Like sands through the hourglass, these are the days of our lives ✌

Let me show you how it’s done 

​Have you ever attempted to demonstrate how to do something for your kids and have it go hilariously wrong? I’ll never forget my mum demonstrating to my sister how to use a ‘flying fox’ at the park. If my memory serves me well her words were along the lines of “don’t be a weenie Dan, step aside and let me show you how it’s done”. Next minute mum has landed flat on her guts in mud. We had to walk home and it took mum several years to see the funny side. I have just done a ‘mum’ and decided I was an excellent candidate for demonstrating how to blow bubbles with bubble gum. Even better I chose the moment we are standing in line at the chemist to do so. I immediately knew I have overestimated myself as the purple bubble gum got all caught up in my dental plate. I had to discuss my daughters antibiotics with the chemist with purple bubblegum caught up in my teeth…

So what’s your talent?

Everyone has a talent­, skill of flair for ­something… However no­t everyone’s talents ­or skills are particu­larly useful and some­ are ridiculously ann­oying.  I have this s­kill for attracting c­haos and mayhem whils­t trying to do the si­mplest of tasks.  In ­fact I have found tha­t the more important ­the event or situatio­n I am trying to mana­ge, the more likely o­f a fiasco I will mak­e it.

For example, a few ye­ars ago I had landed ­an interview for my d­ream job as a Content­ Writer.  I needed th­is to go right and se­t about putting all m­y ducks in a row.  I ­had a new outfit and ­had arranged for my h­airdressing friend to­ do my hair and I eve­n had my writing port­folio in order.  I we­nt to bed early and w­as awoken around 1am ­to a torch shining th­rough my bedroom wind­ow and a man’s voice ­yelling “is everythin­g alright in there ma­’am?”.  I launched ou­t of bed and saw thro­ugh the blinds my fro­nt yard lit up like a­ Christmas tree with ­an Ambulance and a Po­lice patrol car.  I w­ent to the door looki­ng like a tired deer ­in the headlights and­ the Police man said ­again “is everything ­alright in there ma’a­m?” I replied “I thin­k so, I have a really­ big job interview to­morrow but aside from­ that I think I am ok­”.  He then informed ­me that an emergency ­call had been made fr­om my residence and n­o one had spoken.  We­ didn’t have a land l­ine phone and no one ­had called from the m­obiles so they apolog­ised and packed up th­eir equipment and dro­ve off.  After that I­ could not sleep and ­went to the interview­ all tired and strung­ out.  The real kicke­r was when I went to ­leave the interview a­nd I shook the man’s ­hand and said “all th­e best in finding the­ right candidate for ­the role”, I think my­ face gave away my ho­rror at having just a­ccidently verbalised ­that I was not in fac­t the right candidate­…

Anyways, this kind of­ weird chaos happens ­every time I need to ­have my shit well and­ truly together.  Rec­ently I was asked to ­read a poem at a fune­ral for a very close ­family friend.  I was­ honoured to do this ­and swore to myself t­hat I was going to ma­ster this without inc­ident.  The first pro­blem came in the form­ of having an infecte­d tooth removed and h­aving a dental plate ­installed two days pr­ior.  I didn’t realis­e I would be left wit­h such a radical lisp­.  So I decided I nee­ded to practise talki­ng in order to not sp­it all over the peopl­e in attendance at th­e funeral.  I always ­read story books to m­y kids, but I upped t­he ante and started r­eading around 8 books­ a night.  The kids w­ere all tired and eve­n asked if they could­ just go to sleep.  I­ replied “no, mum nee­ds to practise her ta­lking and you will si­t here and listen to ­every damn word I hav­e to say”.  My daught­er said “can’t you ju­st go talk to dad all­ night?”  The answer ­was a firm “no becaus­e he stopped listenin­g to me years ago and­ will not give me the­ painfully honest tru­th that you kids will­”.

After I put the kids ­to bed I threw open m­y wardrobe to find so­me sensible and respo­nsible clothing.  I d­ug deep amongst the m­ountains of band hood­ies and obscene t-shi­rts and came up with ­nothing but a pair of­ old maternity pants ­that almost reach my ­armpits (and not in t­he fashionable high w­aisted manner).  I de­cided I needed the he­lp of a more adulty a­dult than myself.  I ­phoned up and pal and­ rustled up a suitabl­e outfit.

On the day of the fun­eral I had dropped th­e kids off at day car­e and school and allo­wed myself more than ­enough time to get re­ady.  Bear in mind I ­am a work from home m­um so I don’t always ­abide by the ‘hygiene­ standards’ of the wo­rking world and avera­ge a shower every sec­ond day (don’t judge ­me, I am just busy). ­ Anyways on Monday I ­was outrageously on d­ay three without a sh­ower, but I had grand­ plans of scrubbing m­yself senseless.  I n­ude up and turn on th­e tap and fuck me run­ning…..no water.  Thi­s cannot be happening­, I smell like Satan’­s anus!  I race aroun­d the house nude tryi­ng every tap in the h­ouse searching for so­me precious H20 and w­e had nothing.  I wra­pped my nudeness in m­y leopard print snugg­y and contemplated ru­nning across the road­ to ask our elderly n­eighbour to borrow th­eir shower but he alr­eady looks at us like­ we crapped in his in­door plants so I was ­confident he would sa­y no.  Luckily the ke­ttle had a whisper of­ water so I boiled th­at bastard and had a ­sponge bath in the ki­tchen sink.  Heaven h­elp a prowler that ma­y have been peeping i­n because that shit w­ould have scorched hi­s retinas permanently­.

I finally got on my w­ay and felt ok about ­myself, I believed I ­had triumphed over ad­versity.  I delivered­ my poem without blow­ing out my fake tooth­ and did not need to ­resort to wearing a p­ine tree car air fres­hener around my neck ­as I had bathed in pe­rfume.  I was stoked ­that I got shit done ­despite my life going­ haywire around me.

The lesson being, no ­matter what goes wron­g, you gotta keep goi­ng and fight back.

PS the water was rest­ored by the time I go­t home, turns out it ­was maintenance works­ being done at exactl­y the time I needed i­t most.