Stay Connected.

Dear T,

Good morning – rise and shine. Hope you had a good night. What’s that – your baby sleeps through the night? Good, good… that’s good. You do know that babies need to feed every 6 hours to get sufficient nutrition, though? Good, good… just don’t let him wake too many times, if so, he’s manipulating you, and you need to let him cry.

Let’s get him dressed. I prefer organic clothing, ethically made – I don’t condone sweat shops. But don’t spend a fortune on clothing, kids aren’t there for your fashion pleasure; let kids be kids, buy cheap clothes that they can get dirty. What’s that? You’re taking him to the park? Good, good.

Did you hear what’s going on in the Middle East? What’s that? NO?? Tsk, tsk, mumma – it’s important to know that’s happening in the world – if you stay in your little bubble, you’ll get depressed. Stay connected.

NO, NO, NO! Stop staring down on your phone. Tsk. Fakebook. People these days forget to live, as they live on social media. Look, now you missed the baby take his first steps. Also, someone may take him whilst you’re in the park, staring down on your phone. Let me show you a video of a dad getting caught out whilst Facebooking in the park…

What’s that? You are a stay at home mum? How do you stay FULFILLED? What will you do once your kids go to school? You got to stay RELEVANT.

Say WHAT –you work full time? Don’t you miss spending time with your kids? They are only little for so long. You work part time? Part time workers are always overlooked; you may as well not bother, your career is basically on hold.

You look tired – are you still working out? You need to think of starting to lose that baby weight, otherwise it’ll stay forever. You go to the G-Y-M? Where do you leave your baby? Doesn’t it bother you that someone else is looking after your bundle of joy whilst you are having your “me”-time?

Are you breastfeeding? Are you sure you have enough milk? Many children don’t get enough nutrition off just breastmilk. What did you say? Your baby has FORMULA? You, should breastfeed – breast is best. What do you mean “you’ve got no more milk”? Did you try HARD ENOUGH?!

Keep breastfeeding (but not too long; breastfeeding toddlers are gross) – The kg’s will just roll off you… what do you mean “it doesn’t”? You’re hungry? Have a few handful of nuts to snack on whilst you’re feeding. What do you mean “it’s not enough?” You need exactly 3000 calories to breastfeed – it’s science. Everything else is in your head.

Is your baby on solids? He likes fruit, you say… don’t give him that. It’s bad for his teeth. Make your own baby food. Make it macrobiotic. You are what you eat.

There- you missed another moment. Take a picture – but not too many; don’t be one of THOSE mothers who only talks about her baby and snaps a thousand pictures.

Don’t upload it on Facebook though – there are predators out there. But do stay connected. Don’t isolate yourself.

Oh, it’s night time. Don’t let the baby stay up too late. Read him a book. But don’t over stimulate him. But him to bed when drowsy, but not asleep. FOR THE LOVE OF GOD, DON’T FEED HIM TO SLEEP!!!!!

Spend some quality time with your partner. After all, you were a partner before you were a parent. But sleep when the baby sleeps. Everything else can wait. What’s that? Your house doesn’t look like it’s out of a home decorating magazine? You must be depressed. Do you sleep enough?

Off you go to bed.

But remember to Stay relevant. Stay beautiful. STAY CONNECTED.

Oh. And don’t forget to drink water.

In confusion,


A hypothetical Mother.

Dear T,

Imagine a mother, one day – daring to dream big.

Seeing a job ad, THE job ad. The job she has always wanted.

Imagine this mother thinks “We can manage. It’ll take a little bit of juggling, but we can make it work”. So she puts in her application, enclosed her hopes and dreams of a life full of potential.

For days, weeks, this hypothetical mother lives on the dream of this alternative timeline that would represent her in this job: a working mum – sure with a messy house, but with days full of interesting events – bone tired, but at least RELEVANT.

Until she gets THE CALL.

She feels calm. Prepared. In control, answering confidently and HONESTLY, almost surprised on how well her skillset and expertise would suit this role – babe, you’ve got this!

And then. Somehow, it comes up.

And she doesn’t want to lie.

Because, she DOES have a family. And she IS a mother.

So she is honest. As she has been the entire conversation. Yet, the conversation flows well, and our hypothetical mother is so convinced that she will get an interview (after all, she nailed every. Single. Question!) that she, for the first time in donkeys-years goes to get her eyebrows done. Gets a few office type outfits in her post-partum size. And waits.

And waits.

And waits.

Until finally, instead of that anticipated call, she gets an email

“Dear such-and-such,

Thank you for your application with Organisation X. Whilst we were very impressed with your application, we regret to inform you that your application was unsuccessful at this point in time. We will however retain your details…..”

And so, our hypothetical mother sinks, like Icarus with his sizzled wings, to the bottomless abyss that is her everyday life: all of a sudden she is back in her everyday existence of cleaning pet fur off the couches, wiping snot off noses, doing grocery shopping…the fall is high and mighty and the mother feels… irrelevant. Like a ghost from the past. An anachronism, a failure.

Our hypothetical mother sheds a tear, takes a deep sigh and locks her sorrow in that small compartment in her chest called I’ll Deal With That Later, as she needs to go do her other job – the one which is relentless, with no rest nor mercy.

Our mother is The Builder of Lego, The Wiper of Noses, The Cooker of Foods Going Straight to The Bin as They are Yuck/The Wrong Colour/In the Incorrect Plate, The Comforter, The One Who Listen to Endless Stories of Nothing, Nothing At All.

Or simply put:

The mum;

Less dignified of dignified work than Applications That Were Stronger For The Role On This Occasion.

In shambles,



Being foreign.

Hi T,

In a nowadays defunct blog I once wrote about my lifeling trauma, growing up being a bit different. This was mostly owing to the fact that my parents were immigrants and mostly had no clue/couldn’t care less about “mainstream” – which, as you know, is super important to kids nowadays.

So, you can imagine how amusing it must be to the higher powers of “f*ck-you-this-is-karma”

that I now myself am in a position of being a clueless expat down under.

Oh, the countless amounts of cultural faux-pas I’ve done in Fs short life are astounding! From not knowing the words of mainstream nursery rhymes at rhyme time (lip sync battle, anyone?) to not even knowing what type of goals they utilise at AFL games (apparently, large H formed goals are American football. Oops. Who knew?) and not liking christmas pudding (sorry. But it tastes like booze infused glue).

I have an accent when I speak English.

I teach my son to use Swenglish words like “hot sandwich” (I had no idea that I was using a literal translation of “varma mackor”. Besides, “grilled cheese sandwiches” sounds stupid anyway).

I watch Donald Duck on Christmas Eve. Alone.

I avoid social media on the day of the Eurovision song contest due to time difference.

I eat picked herring.

I observe the holy tradition of “fika”.

All these things point to one inevitable truth:

F and T have a strange, foreign mother, who will embarrass them throughout their lives doing strange, foreign things.

History repeats itself.

And karma is a bitch.

Put together.

Hey T,

Ew – the spewnamis are just as bad as poonamis! You, my friend, have been baptised into the holiness of motherhood.

Ah, the mental load.

T, I could speak about this until the cows come home.

Before I am really awake, my mind starts to plan my next move, sort of like a pouncing ninja.

I will need to go and clean the (literal) crap off the floor, as my nervous and slightly mentally unstable cat has stared taking dumps on the floor ever since we had children. Failure to do so first thing may result in a house that smells like a cat’s butt and possibly (horribly) children who accidentally walk in cat crap. That’s the very first thing I do. By then, my toddler has walked into the room and gone “mummy, I want milkies… mummy? Mummy? Mummy? I want MILKIES! I WANT MILKIES!!”… so of course. In anticipation of this, I have already gone to fetch his milk whilst cleaning cat crap.

My now, the baby is awake and needs to feed, which I do whilst the toddler is watching PJ Masks on TV. After he has had his “milkies” his nappy is bloated like a Hollywood housewife on botox, which means that I need to change 2 x nappies quick smart. Everything from then on is a juggle between trying to tidy, arrange and dress/clean/feed two kids and myself before everyone just goes completely APESHIT because they want to go on an “adventure” (usually somewhere wildly exciting, like the supermarket).

During this time, my husband (bless his cotton socks) is lying there, pretending to be asleep with his useless, non-lactating nipples. He’s tired from late night watching Netflix, poor bastard. He rolls out of bed (cannot make it for the life of him), showers (more clothes off the floor for me to pick up), makes coffees (he DOES make a mean coffee) and begrudgingly takes the toddler to daycare (on the 3 days he goes to daycare. Other days he just fecks off to work to have grown up conversations and more hot coffee!). If I ask him to hold the baby whilst I pee I get a an “OMG I AM LATE FOR WORK” lecture. So it’s pretty much me on weekdays. Holy shizzlesticks, is it EVER!!

To answer your question on how you survive. YOU PRETTY MUCH JUST DO. The days turn into months, months to years. I harbour no ambitions of being interesting nor hot and have resigned to my current fate of being a slightly overweight mum who works part time, rants full time, likes wine and talks about her snotty kids non stop.

Which brings me to my next topic.

I am standing on the train on my way to work, in awe of people. HOW DO PEOPLE LOOK SO PUT TOGETHER? I woke up early to get the cat crap etc. out of the way and have time to look somewhat decent. I look like something that crawled out of a dumpster.

I was glancing at your Instagram account. You look put together. Fashionable. Like… not wearing daggy, stained mum clothes and crazy ass prison hair. How?

My non-nursing outfits are from the time when Kylie Minogue still wore gold shorts and couldn’t get (him?) out of her head. They would also fit a 10 year old. I would look like a stuffed 2000’s sausage, ready to go clubbing. So nursing wear is a less cray-cray alternative to that. Today’s fashion is too bold, too tight, too YOUNG for a slightly fat 30’s something mum of two like me.

So here I am, looking like a bad cliché mum rag, who has somehow infiltrated the army of the young and childless fashionistas, riding this train to the metropolitan area. HOW DO YOU DO IT? How do you look go goddamn put together?

In dagginess,


The center of attention

Hi E, yes indeed do I know that feeling, all though my baby so far has been good to me and spared me from gooey poop accidents, he decided the other day to wake me up by vomiting all over himself, me and our bed.

Reading your post about the management of two kids I cant help but dread if I would get another one, the thought has crossed my mind as I would really like my baby to have a sibling, but..and here is the big but, will I manage?

I mean of course you do make it somehow, but don’t you ever miss those days where you could just do things, without planning or managing 10 different things in order for it to happen?

As a first time parent with only one kid, I am realizing that if my family is doing fine; my baby is clean, fed and happy and my partner is still smiling by the end of the day, it is all because of my administration skills. Maybe this is different from couple to couple, but I often find that if I have a bad day or just don’t feel like being a parent there is not a plan B. I’m the plan A and thats it!  The conclusion of this is that I’m always managing things and thereby always the center of attention, but not in a good way like it used to be, you know, as the hot woman with an interesting life that your partner was still surprised that he got his hands on, but rather the micromanaging boss who you need to check all decisions with out of fear that things will go wrong.

With some self reflection I acknowledge that I need to let go of the control a bit. But E, tell me do you have any advice How you actually do that?


Party pooper

Hi T,

Do you know those times when you, on the occasion of your baby’s first birthday snuggle up with him and, with your nose pressed against his hair, nostalgically whisper “never grow up”…

…and then suddenly, he wakes up, strains a bit and makes the MOTHER of all poonamis, where the poop literally garden sprinklers out the sides of the nappy (who never even stood a chance) and you sit there, COVERED from head to toe in mustard coloured baby poop and think “nope, nevermind. Carry on”.

You you know those times?

Yeah. Happened today.

In poop covered nostalgia,


Herding Cats.

Dear T,

What is it it like to be the mother of two?

What’s it like?

Like trying to herd cats. Or setting water on fire. It’s continuously being one step behind where you ought to be, and also having needed to pee for an hour but not having had time to do so.

It’s being someone’s project manager, party planner, chauffeur, PA (“did we schedule a play date for next Monday, Paula?”) chef, personal assistant, life coach (“well done on making poo-poos in the toilet like a BIG BOY”), groomer and playmate at the same time. Times two. Just to name a few roles,

It’s grinning in disbelief every time you look at yourself in the mirror and everything is hanging in different places, waaay closer to the ground than it used to, all while muttering “I used to be cool” whilst inserting your disposable nursing pads into your bra.

It’s having 100,000 pictures of your LO’s in your mobile phone gallery (“ooh – look: this is one of him sleeping”) and going from being a versatile conversation partner to some crazy ass hag who will only talk and live vicariously through her kids.

It’s rocking the same outfits every day for the past 4 years as that’s how long you’ve been breastfeeding – and meanwhile, the rest of your wardrobe went out of style around the same time Kylie Minogue was singing “I just can’t get you out of my head”. Which is just as well, as your post 2 x 4.5kg gigantor babies bod wouldn’t be even close to squeezing itself in them ever again.

It’s being married, but somehow your relationship has merged from a couple to allies in the battlefield, constantly shouting strategies at each other (“take cover – INCOMING!!”)

It’s wondering what the everloving fuck you did with your time before your munchkins came into your life, but still somehow being incredibly pleased with how it all turned out. Because, holy cats, didn’t we make cute and awesome children?

So, to answer your question. Being the mum of two is a state of insanity. And herding cats.

In love and solidarity,

E xoxo

Finally arrived

So, E I never thought I was specifically uncoordinated, but after fidgeting with this page, for  what felt like hours, I finally arrived. So here we go, my first blogpost!

Yes we are, as mentioned, two moms ranting about life. It hit me as I sat down to write these lines, that life has changed so much for the two of us the last couple of years, but we have not been part of each others changes, which is contradictory to how it use to be in our youth. Then we shared everything, from the smallest thing, like the change of a Hanson brothers haircut, to our fear of our parents splitting up from fighting. There was such a comfort in that friendship, knowing I was not alone in my worries or in any odd thoughts arising.

So this blog might be just as much about this; sharing what we always did, but I guess in a more grown-up fashion, or not, lol:)

Tell me mama, what is the biggest challenge for you being a mom of two?


Hi T,

Welcome to the wonderful world (snort!) of being a mum. As you are reading this, you are most likely being dribbled on, spewed on or pee-peed on (yes, you will not be able to use adult words to define pee and poo in a very long time from now on).

Tell me. How are you going?