I had Mummy Guilt…….then I let that shit go

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So Dave is away in Wellington for 11 days completing a project that’s been ongoing for about a year I think, resulting in many trips back and forth. Now is probably NOT the best time to be writing this as we were FB messaging this morning and he was grumbling about work so I called him to make sure everything was ok, turns out he was still in bed and hungover.  What in the actual fuck!  Excuse me while I go and wipe your kids snotty nose, clean chili sauce off the carpet after Nix decided to try his hand at abstract art at 8.15 this morning and try not to cry about the smashed bottle of $140 Murad skincare I discovered after Ethan was finished in the bathroom this morning!  Woe.  Is.  You Me.

Moving on lol.

I was invited to attend the Women’s Wellness in NZ event on Sunday hosted by Makaia Carr and Julia & Libby.  I SO wanted to go but with Dave away and Mum up north I was a bit stuck.  E dislocated and broke his toe in a rugby tourney on Thursday (read, we were at the ER until midnight on Thursday night, sigh) so was a bit hobbly and precious and Nixon, well, usual state of affairs there – chaos.  

So, I did the unthinkable for me.  I asked for help.  I find this so hard to do.  I sat on the texts for ages, willing myself to hit send and when I finally did the first reply was a negative.  Wahhhhh!  I tried again and success.  Nixon was all set to spend the morning with his cousin and Ethan was off to nerd out at a friends house.  

It was a swift morning hustle, the usual morning routine combined with me trying to look presentable and depart the house by 9.15.  On a Sunday.  We did it without any kid/mummy rage and I headed east to dispatch Child #1 and then south to deliver Nixon.

When I finally got on the motorway I was overcome with IT, a sickening case of Mummy Guilt.  Why had I said yes to attending?  Why had I rushed the kids out of the house on a Sunday?  Why had I bothered running in 3 different directions when we could be all together, cozy and relaxing?  Major fretting ensued, then I woke up and gave myself a good mental slap.

I said yes to Mak’s invite because I knew I needed to go.  Catching some fleeting time by yourself when your partner is away is hard.  Even the drive to the event was relaxing without the boys yelling and screaming in the car!  I had rushed the kids out of the house because we all needed to get out of the house – without making the beds, with dirty dishes on the bench and with laundry on the floor.  We/I needed to say, who cares?  I dropped the kids off with two different people because I asked for help.  And that was totally ok.

I know it was ok because when people ask me for help (and they do ALL the time, every day) I say yes.  I don’t think twice I just say yes.  You know that old adage, “it takes a village”?  Well it does, and I need to remember to knock on more doors in my village and say “please, my turn.  Can you help?”.

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The Marmite Fingers Metaphor

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I love Marmite and so do both of my little kiwi-mericans.  The great Marmageddon of 2012 hit particularly hard in our house and I haven’t really looked back since toast turned black again and we could eat Marmite EVERY DAMN DAY.

But I realised something yesterday as I was making my breakfast toast.  I’ve been holding out on Nixon.  He sprinted into the kitchen as soon as he heard the fridge open, as he does about 71 times per day {food, hangry, massive 99th percentile boy-child} and he asked for toast.  His second breakfast to be sure, but that’s not uncommon.

He wanted Marmite toast like me.  My gut instinct said NO!  Marmite toast in the hands of a toddler is like live ammunition in the hands of a toddler.  Never a good idea.  As I thought about it a little more I realised that this whole Marmite should-I-shouldn’t-I conversation I was having in my head was a bit of a metaphor for how I’ve been parenting lately.

And how I’ve been parenting lately is mainly based on one key technique;


Not heard of that one?  No-one’s written a book about avoidance parenting yet?  That’s because it’s what the lazy mama’s do, the sucky parents that don’t bust out the finger paints every day (or realistically once a week as there would be other amaze craft activities planned on the remaining 6 days of course!).  I’ve been avoiding giving Nix Marmite on his toast because Nixon is a Category 5 Hurricane on legs who lives in my house and is destroying it window sill by window sill.  Add Marmite to the mix and all hope is surely lost.

It’s true I’m feeling a little over-wrought by the chaos that is our family life at the moment.  I think in an effort to simplify at least some parts of my day I am totally avoiding the little Marmite-Moments, the sweet, messy pleasures that make us stop, relax and enjoy these fleeting childhood moments.  I’m stressed, tired and overwhelmed to the point of anxiety right now but I’m also frantically in love with my life and my little people.  The dogs, meh, but the boys, Dave, my Mum and our friends are lovely and I’m so lucky to have them helping me along.

We need to make some changes.  The finish of rugby season and my role as team manager will bring an end to some obligations and free up 3 days a week plus we are heading away on holiday soon which couldn’t be more perfectly timed quite frankly.

Does anyone else feel like their head is going to explode daily or is it just me?  Maybe the cure is more Marmite lol.

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How to Have the Best Mother’s Day EVER, Simplified

Preface: I truely hope all the Mama’s, the Step-mums, Foster mums, Nanas, Dads doing it solo, extended family superstars and anyone raising loved and happy little people had a amazing day yesterday however you chose to spend it x

After careful, mostly, scientific analysis- you know how we do it here at The Best Nest! – of the many Mother’s Day facebook posts, tweets, Instagram pics and blog posts it appears that however you were celebrated (or forgotten as the case may be) on your special day of Mothering, there are two definite camps when it comes to Mother’s Day expectations and we will all fit into either one or the other.

This year it seems that there were many successes, many gifts of Chocolate Salty Balls Lindor Sea Salt Caramel Truffles and many happy Mums.  But there were also disappointments, cries of ‘the WORST Mother’s Day EVER’ were heard ringing around the country as husbands failed to meet expectations which had been cumulatively lowered each year anyway.  Kids couldn’t stop bitching for ‘one damned day’ and the breakfast in bed failed to cook itself……again.

So, I’ve thought about this long and hard and come up with an easy dichotomy with which Mum’s and partners can easily identify and avoid future Mother’s Day mishaps at all costs.  It’s best you figure out which kind of mother you are as early on in your blessed parenting journey as possible as this will make for many happy annual celebrations of your uterine prowess.

Type 1.  The Mother-Me-Up-All-Day-Long on Mother’s Day Mother

This mother is the one for whom kindergarten teachers toil long and hard supervising their minions and churning out craft-paper cards year after year.  This mother knows what she wants and she wants a day with the kids and her partner if applicable. She wants celebratory brunches with family, cards with badges saying “#1 MUM”,  she wants special ‘family’ outings and activities, walks on the beach – together!  She wants to cram in as much mothering as she can on this special day that’s just for her.  She’s easy to please so flowers from the neighbor’s garden picked by dimpled wee hands will be perfect.  

There are potential problems though so be warned.  The potential for children to ruin this mother’s perfect Mother’s Day is huge.  Kids get mothered every day of the year, so their natural urge for extra-mothering on Mother’s Day may not coincide with the lunar calendar.  In short, the kids could turn on a dime, refuse to play nice and retreat into the bickering asshole state that simmers below their cherubic exterior.  As the Mother-Me-Up-All-Day-Long Mother’s happiness on Mother’s Day is dependent upon the ‘Happy Family’ experience, bribing the kids is recommended.

This mother is not me.

Type 2.  The Give-me-Peace-and-Quiet-Whilst-Rewarding-Me-From-Afar Mother

This Mum loves you, but does not need you all up in her grill on Mother’s Day.  It’s HER day after all, and she is quite happy to spend it as far away from the sticky, clutching dimpled hands of her gorgeous babes as she sees fit.  This may be just in her room.  With earplugs in.  And the door locked for a few hours.  It’s respite she craves, a break from routine.  She may want to FINISH a book!  Or start one, let’s be real.  This mama doesn’t need a family outing, she would rather have a bath by herself, or a pedicure, let me emphasize this point; no Mum is ever going to be disappointed with a pedicure for a gift.  This mama may seem like a weirdo, but she’s really just like you or me.  Ok she is me, and what she really wants is to be rewarded for her duties to family life by a lack of family life for a day, even half a day would suffice.  Too easy.

The main problem with Type #2 mothers is about half-way though their allotted Mother’s Day exile the guilty pangs will begin to set in.  Hateful little stabbing knives that ruin the peace of child/husband free solitude and threaten to sabotage the illusion of calm.  The guilt expands into full blown hallucinations which culminate in the Type #2 actually thinking that maybe she got it all wrong and she’s really a Type #1 after all and where are her babies, WHERE??????  “Let me MOTHER THEM!!!!!”.

It’s so, so sad.

So basically, you can’t win.  But you can survive Mother’s day.  Find yourself a charming little anecdote with which to bolster your spirits and soldier on until wine o’clock.  I love this little one I received on a gorgeous handmade card from my friends at My Fun Box;

Mums are like buttons…..

They hold everything together!

Hold it together Mamas, there’s always next year xx





Thou shalt not judge my parenting on Mondays

Nix turns two in 2 months and he’s all about the tantrums.  All.  The.  Time.

I can deal with this just fine, however, a grande mal paddy sometimes causes a bit of a time crunch when you are trying to leave the house by 9.30am.  God that sounded like eons of time once in my life – getting on your way and in the car by 9.30?  pfffftttt, nothing to it.  Now I’m on struggle street with such an ‘early’ departure, I hate it.

Anyway, swimming at 10am + a multiple paddy morning = frazzled mama.  I realized about halfway to the class that I had failed to pack Nix any swimming togs.  I had a disposable swim nappy so that would have to suffice.  But the LOOKS!  I was officially deemed ‘that’ mother in the eyes of my peers, the instructor was quite horrified  and every time I launched Nix out of the pool with gay abandon all eyes followed his nappy clothed, swimming trunk-less bottom as if at any time it was going to blow!

We survived the lesson and in the creepy silence of the changing room where no-one talks to each other, the Mum next to me began cursing under her breath.  My swimming togs faux pas was trumped by a forgotten bra!  My worst nightmare.  It was obviously Monday-itis all round.

We emerged from our joyous time in the chlorine and headed to the mall to pick up a few things.  Much like taking Nixon to a restaurant, taking him shopping is also an exercise in speed, distraction and mostly just speed.  He hates being confined to his stroller with a passion.  A very loud and vocal passion.  When I saw there was no line at my $10 eyebrow waxing joint I made an executive decision – we were going in, stroller and all.  I handed Nix my phone {breaking parenting rule #71 right?}, found him some videos of himself to watch and told the beautician it was Go Time – we had a ticking time bomb on our hands.  She was totally the mistress of speedy wax jobs and I headed on my way, ready to brave the mall, with the addition of bright red waxing marks on my face. Such a babe.  

It was then a caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror and learnt a hard lesson; my trackies may be from Country Rd, but this does not make them fit for wearing in public.  One word, pajamas.  

So I was feeling really pumped up as we hit Kmart (not) and there were signs that Nixon was rapidly descending into shit-losing-mode.  I found The Wiggles on Spotify and pumped it up to full volume and handed him my phone again, I know I know!  I skipped the ‘trendy’ homewares section and powered through to the boys clothes department.  Nix needed some winter play clothes so I wasn’t leaving until I had them.  

By the time we left the shoes, it was all over.  Back arched, screams at mega-decibel level, I ran to the check-out only stopping to demonstrate my next display of uber parenting – I grabbed a Kit Kat and a juice bottle and said ‘have at it kiddo’ {Breaking parenting rule #3 I’m pretty sure}.  I had bought myself enough time to pay for the clothes, and power my way through another store to pick up Mum’s Mother’s Day gift.

So yeah.  Monday.  As I said to the bra-less mother at swimming, “it can only get better from here right?”.


These are my people. Even the toddler.

Yesterday I turned 36.

Ok.  I’m cool, just had to let that sink in for a minute.

Having 2 kids with an 8.5 year age gap means that the four of us often go in different directions. If Ethan has a rugby game and it’s pouring with rain, either Dave or I will stay home with Nix. When I depart to deliver E to pool training, battling rush hour traffic on Lincoln Rd, Nixon will stay at home with Mum.  If there are errands to run or events to go to at nap time, one of us hits the road and the other stays home with bubs.  This is how we roll.  But it kinda sucks.  Going places as a family is kinda the point of having, you know, FAMILY.

So yesterday Dave was hounding me all day about what I wanted to do for my birthday dinner.  My lazy-girl inclinations were screaming fush ‘n chips however my birthday girl sensibilities won and I suggested taking Ethan out to eat with Dave and I. I know no-one believes me when I try and explain why taking Nixon to a restaurant doesn’t immediately spring to mind as one of my Top 5 things to do on my birthday, so I won’t even go there.  All I will say is that it is very, V E R Y stressful.

My limited birthday dinner guest list was overruled by Dave and we headed out to eat at The Flying Burrito Brothers with Ethan, my Mum and Nixon in tow.  < I highly recommend TFBB as a kid friendly place to eat, they have high chairs and the food comes out quick! >

Thank goodness!  How wonderful it was to sit down with my favourite people in the world and share great food and appreciate just how lucky we are to have each other.  I’m pretty sure the other diners weren’t all up the good vibes but hey-ho, ’twas ma birthday bitches and I’ll bring my cray-cray 22 month behemoth out to eat if I feel like it!  And, I think I’ll start doing it more often as well.

Dave and I ate out all the time when Ethan was a baby and toddler.  We were living in San Diego at the time and food was cheap plus, Ethan was a very different child to Nixon.  Nix struggles to remain in his high-chair at home for the duration of a meal, so expecting him to do so in the new/exciting environment of a restaurant where there are people to woo, nooks and crannies to explore and food to steal off of every table is laughable.  

But laugh we did.  Our reservation was for 6pm and we were in the car and on the way home by 7pm!  Bam.  I’m not going to lie.  I found it fever pitch stressful, it felt like we were running the amazing race, hurtling towards the next food drop, hoping it would arrive before Nixon lost his shit and rappelled from the high chair.  But we were together on my birthday.  I may not have eaten much of the avocado salsa before Nix commandeered it for his own high chair entree but I enjoyed my shrimp fajitas and my delicious glass of wine and most of all I enjoyed my people.  Being out in public, as a family, with all of my people.  Even the littlest one xx

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Flying by the seat of my pants.

Last week saw the somewhat anticipated beginning of Term 2. After a lovely, lazy two weeks of school holidays E left the house last Monday happy and ready to get stuck in to another school term. Compared to holidays past, the Easter break was chilled and calm. I made no School Holiday Activity Lists as I have done in the past, in fact there were only two days of ‘planned’ excursions over the entire break. Quel horreur!
It was bloody good. And cheap.
The Problem With Last Week began upon Ethan’s return to school. See, I forgot to kick myself out of school holiday mode and spent the rest of the week trying to remove my head from my ass the clouds and get some shit done.  Nixie was very busy getting shit done as he picked up another bout of rotavirus the week before, let the good times roll!  

So it was the kind of week where permission slips and gold coins were scrambled for 5 minutes after E was supposed to leave for school, dinners were freezer-to-microwave affairs – unplanned and unremarkable, I was out two nights, further complicating matters and leaving me even less time to, well, not do Very Important Stuff.  Like be an awesome mum and wife : (


The ‘work’ week ended with Dave and I having a big fight about an outdoor project we were going to be completing over the weekend.  Ridiculous, but the culmination of a very stressful week for Dave and a useless, self-absorbed week for me.  I’ve been focussing on all the wrong things, neglecting the right things and letting my beautiful family slip by the wayside.

This week will be better.  The work week is already a day shorter so I’m winning already.  We had such a great long weekend, Dave and I are totally back on the same page and aside from him smashing his face skateboarding in the weekend and chipping a tooth badly (read: $$$), I’m ready to rock this week!

I hope you guys are on track for an amazing week too xx


The lost art of “getting shit done”

Today I crossed one task off my to-do list and added 4 more.


The tasks on my list are not even that onerous or time consuming.  They simply require my undivided attention for a small period of time.  Therein lies the conflict.

Nixon is also small but requires my undivided attention ALL of the time.  Resisting the yellow-haired dictator results in tantrum after tantrum and much headbanging on floors and walls – I am actually counting the seconds until this precious phase is over, as a legitimate, albeit self-inflicted ‘boo-boo’ drags a tantrum into a whole new level of pain, for both of us!

The confounding truth about parenting a toddler is that change is constant.  What is working perfectly for us on Monday defies all laws of reason on Tuesday.  I had us settled into a great morning routine which allowed me a small window – measured by Peppa & George Pig – to sit down, reply to some emails, edit some photos etc, maybe do some paid work {WTH!} or at the very least attend to some yawny household admin like re-registering my truck, changing electricity providers or just cleaning up the damn place!  This week, Peppa has lost her mojo and she’s taken mine with her.

Everything I do manage to get done has a price.  The vacuuming gets done because the tupperware drawers have been emptied.  I get to brush my hair because Nix is throwing the contents of my bedside drawers out of the window {brushing my hair takes a L O N G time btw}.  The laundry gets hung on the line while the three dog bowls are hidden in the garden.  If you don’t laugh you cry right?

I’ve got to lower my standards a bit otherwise Nix and I never get out of the house, which isn’t healthy for either of us and buying in to the cycle of cleaning constantly with a toddler on the loose is a recipe for madness I’m sure.  We have decided that painting our new skirting boards whilst Nix is still crashing ‘vacuuming’ with his wooden trolley and racing his plastic motorbike through the house is an exercise in futility.  I’m going to try and apply this sort of pragmatic thinking to my days as a SAHM in general.  

Nap time is pretty solid right now, 1-3.30, Ethan gets home at around 2.45pm so I have 1 hour and 45 minutes to sit, think and do.  And by do, I don’t mean housework – that shit never ends and no-one really cares if the laundry is put away on Wednesday or Thursday do they?  So, welcome to my new ‘ME’ time.  So far I have shopped online for a new pair of Nike Roshe, text a friend and I’m going to finish writing this blog post after only beginning it last night!  Miracles occur every day apparently and this, my friends, is one of them.

If you have any tips for finding your daily rhythm, I’m all ears because I feel like I’m floundering in a never-ending groundhog day – or is that just how all mothers feel?

Toddler Baking New Zealand Mum Blogger


Sandpit Rage

So one day toward the end of winter last year, I had this freaking genius idea to turn a corner garden surrounded on two sides by concrete into an in-ground sandpit.  Bordered by railway sleepers, complete with driftwood and spendy, smooth river rocks, over-flowing with just the BEST sandpit toys {or whatever dregs I found in the tupperware drawer}…….are you picturing this?  It will only take an hour or so I told Dave.

Two weekends later……

Hours of fun for Nixon we thought.  Made even better by the child’s obsession with diggers and dump trucks – oh snap we have a large fleet of those!  Into the sandpit they went.  

And it is awesome.

And we do love it, plus I think Nix thinks it’s ok.

There is a dark side to amazing sandpits though, something no-one talks about.  It’s kept under wraps, bringing shame upon the family because society just hasn’t come to grips with it yet.  Let’s just say if Nixon were a foreign tourist, strangers would be taking the keys to his sandpit off of him.

Nixon suffers from Sandpit Rage.

What begins as a fun game of diggers and dump trucks ends in fists raised to the sky, little muscles bulging, curses and expletives disguised as toddler-babble ringing around the neighborhood at max volume and me carrying Nixon under my arm kicking and screaming back into the house where we can hide our Sandpit Rage behind closed doors.

You see, the diggers don’t always dig in just the ‘right’ way.  The dump trucks sometimes miss their mark and aren’t parked in the optimal spot for sand loading to commence and shit, sometimes everything is just way too yellow or sandy……….and the rage ensues.

When I was pregnant with Nix, Dave and I would laugh and say “there’s no way #2 could be worse than #1” and by worse we meant more intense, more stubborn and with a stronger will.  “There’s no way that could happen right?” laugh, laugh, laugh.  Oh yes way.  It happened and it happened good.

So now, instead of the lazy afternoons we imagined, spent outside, playing calmly and quietly in the sandpit, we now count the minutes of relative peace until it all turns to custard and Nix throws his toys.  Just a phase?  Fingers crossed.

So, who’s up for a play date at our house?  Sounds fun right?

 Toddler in Sandpit Tantrum New Zealand Mummy Blog

Toddler Swimming Lessons | The Great Equaliser

In true second child fashion, Nixon began swimming lessons last week at the ‘advanced’ age of 19 months.  Ethan on the other hand, had his swimming debut at 3 months and has never stopped – 10 years of swimming $!$

Dave and I were in complete agreement that the need was not there to subject ourselves Nix to hours upon hours of singing nursery rhymes in the pool while spinning him around like a motorboat.  Child loves the water and has had plenty of swims over his two summers in pools and at the beach, so we decided to wait a bit until he could actually comprehend swimming instruction and potentially benefit from it.

Unfortunately our weekly swimming lesson seems to be the thorn in my schedules side.  I can’t seem to remember the damn date/time.  We completely missed the first lesson, I was at the library, chatting away to another mum about how our lessons were beginning the following day, only to get home, check the calendar and find that I should have been in the pool that morning instead of talking about the pool.  Monday was my chance to redeem myself – I was prepared for the 10.30 lesson, I was packed and ready to go {apart from being actually in my togs, dressed and with my teeth brushed}.  I was almost ready to go!

Then I walked by the damn calendar and 10am leapt out at me like a cattle prod.  10am!!!  It was already 9.40 and…..see above…..

I think I may have been trying to sabotage swimming as the make-up lesson graciously offered to me for being so ditzy the week before was a freaking nightmare.  A terrible, toddler nightmare.

Dave was working from home so decided to come and ‘work’ via the pool.  We thought it would be a great idea for him to take Nixie swimming as you never know when he may be able to attend again right?  Such a bad idea.  Nixon dominated the whole lesson, bossing, yelling, screaming NO NO NO.  You would think he didn’t enjoy it – truth was he was having a great time, as long as he could do what he wanted to do.  Baby boy had zero tolerance for listening to instructions, no time whatsoever for doing what the other bubs were doing and certainly no interest in co-operating with his Dad.  It was almost embarrassing.  There, I said it.  My son’s volume goes up to 13 and he DEMANDS attention.  The only time he stopped yelling at everyone was when he and Dave would ‘swim’ past the seating area when he would raise up a little arm and wave at the spectators with a huge smile on his dictator-like-angel-face.  We left without even getting changed and simply popped a dry nappy on Nix in the car.

I was so scared of a repeat performance.

Luckily we arrived with minutes to spare and Nix was on his best behaviour.  We only had one incident where he climbed out of the pool and ran away from me, laughing of course! This was the moment I realised that when you are in a pool filled with numerous small people and their parents {and who knows what volume of wee mixed with chlorine} you are all equals.  There is no time to visually measure yourself up against the other Mums, to check out mani-pedis and the brand of swimwear each other is wearing – my nana-esque tankini is from Shanton if you were wondering.  There is nary an ounce of grace and beauty to be found in my being whilst I am in the pool with Nixon for his swim lesson.  It feels like helping a blindfolded baby hippo/octopus navigate through Farmers when all of the pensioners are shopping on cardholder day.  Excruciating in other words.

As I was hoisting myself out of the pool after my naughty boy, I caught a glimpse of another mummy blogger waving at me from the seats.  Of all the times in my life to bump into one of the most put-together, 10/10 babein mamas it would be on the day I was running super late, ergo I look like shit, I’m in my togs in public – FML –  and I’m wrestling with Nixon.  Too good I tell you, but you know what?  None of it mattered.  My little guy had so much fun in the pool which was a huge relief and I loved the feeling of his little hands gripping me tight around the neck when we did exercises he wasn’t quite sure of, I loved the joy on his face when it was time to jump off the edge of the pool and how it felt to catch him and pull him close.  I loved the whole damn, wet half hour and I’m kinda looking forward to next Monday to do it all over again.

God, this parenting gig never ceases to amaze.

Toddler Swimming Lesson 



This day. These hours.

I have been selfishly pining for this day all week.

I have;

  • silence
  • light rain
  • an empty house

and holy shit does it feel good.

Dave spent the week working in Wellington and upon his return yesterday, Nixon gave him a cursory glance and a quick high five then resumed following me around, tugging on my shirt, standing on my feet {which I hate more than anything} and yelling “MAMM, MAMM” every five seconds for around 8 hours.  I just sat here holding my head after typing that, feeling like a bit of a failure for complaining about my beautiful little guy, but yesterday was a struggle – on top of a myriad of 10 year old struggles over the past 5 days ::::::shakes fist at Xbox – bane of my life:::::.

When Dave did arrive home at around 10am, he was so busy with work that he spent the day chained to his laptop, no relief in sight.  Except naptime.  The day before, Nix had napped for 3 1/4 hours so my respite expectations were high.  Too high it seemed.  1 hour was all we got plus a screaming wake-up after which it took me about 25 minutes to calm him down.  I ended up popping him in the baby seat on my bike, grabbing E and cruising the streets for a while simply because surely no-one could demand anything from me when I’m on a bike right?

We salvaged the afternoon with some ice cream and a lemonade popsicle for Nix {oh yes I did!} and headed home for the dinner shift.

Keeping me going throughout the day was the promise of an evening run.  Headphones in, Hole, Dinosaur Jr and Nirvana spurring me on as I try not to die from breathing in the hottest, most humid air ever.  Pumped.  Until E decided to run with me.  He normally rides the 5.5km so I was really unsure about how it was going to play out.  I imagined him giving up 1km in and me having to drag him home, totally gutted because I couldn’t get a good workout in.  Kid smashed it.  He power walked when he needed to, told me to go ahead then chased me down, he filled my mama-cup to bursting just when I needed it.

Need it I did as Nixon fought bedtime {something I had also been looking forward to all day} for like, the first time in his life wtf.  9pm was when Dave and I sat down to eat dinner.

Oh day of days.  Nothing totally bad happened, so……so,  gawd, it must have been me.  Me at the end of 5 days of solo-parenting through the last week of the school holidays.  That and I’m still pissed about getting attacked by a rooster.

So, I don’t have a whole day to pull myself back together into the Model of Motherhood perfection that I normally am HA, but I do have about 3 hours until the boys arrive home from their trip to the museum – overtired and overdue for a too short nap no doubt, but ready for a cuddle with a grateful and recharged Mama.

Toddler Life Mummy Blogger NZ