The Six Eggs Lady…

I am the six eggs lady.


I knew this to be true already but it became blindingly obvious this morning as I struggled to get out the front door with 3 lunatic children and 45 bags. I was attempting to get to a gym class (yes, that’s another story) and as I stood on our front step with Hendrix tucked under my arm like a giant, gorgeous, wriggling football; bags hanging off every other part of me, keys in my mouth, yelling at the other two to stand by the goddamn car and, “No! You can’t eat the snacks yet; they’re for the creche…..” I realised. I am the six eggs lady. From the facial expression to the children hanging off her, it’s me. Ahhhh, wouldn’t it be nice to not find every moment of life manic? Let me clarify that. Wouldn’t it be nice to not find every moment of public life with kids manic? We are currently in the if it ain’t fenced, designed for kids or in any way involves life threatening implements we’re out stage. The supermarket is the worst. The post office a close second. I strategically planned a recent visit to the PO. I mean, I actually sat and planned it out in my head. I was so stressed about it I had to have a cup of tea and google Zac Efron pictures for a bit. In the end I bit the bullet, drove up there; strapped Hendo onto me, Phoebo got locked up tight in the pram and Addison was dragged along next to me. We speed entered the post office; dodging displays and annoyed old people to get to the counter where I basically yelled what I wanted, paid (after struggling to extract my wallet from one of the 20 bags I had) and got the fuck outta there. See? Six eggs lady.

I honestly believe most of the appeal of having a child free outing is the lack of stuff you have to take though apparently we don’t all carry enough supplies to last through the apocalypse. I recently came across a spirited conversation on a parenting page whereby several expert parents lambasted anyone who left the house with what they deemed ‘baggage.’ These Mums exit their houses on a wing and a prayer, firmly stating anything needed can be purchased and children need nothing bar a drink bottle and quiet confidence. Mind you, over here in the provincial world of us six egg ladies, I prefer not to remortgage the house every time we leave it and like reaching into my ‘baggage’ for a nappy when someone has exploded out of it rather than searching the zoo for an overpriced single Huggies. In all honesty, I’m envious of those who can carry light. I just find that every time I’ve tried it someone has either vomited, deemed themselves dying of thirst/hunger or run off into a sprinkler and returned saturated. So I salute those of you who have espoused the pack-horse life; carry on with your minimalist living you fabulous people.

Some days leaving the house is shithouse hard. In fact, it’s every time. I recently saw a meme about ‘kids aren’t just being kids; they just have bad parents’ or something to that effect. All these people agreeing and you know; there are less than stellar parents out there but there’s also people like Spouse and I, and our friends who are doing our damned best to raise non assholes who are decent, kind and respectful human beings. But here’s the thing; kids ARE kids. They behave on occasion, like assholes. They are developmentally unable to do certain things at certain ages and like to test boundaries. They are not designed to sit and be still, hence why I try my best to avoid situations and places that are not conducive to the sort of fuckery that a bunch of under 5 year olds bring with them. And that is why I am so goddamn flustered. Because in order to leave the house I have to be the six eggs lady. I have to be ready to shut shit down at once whilst still remembering to buy milk and bread.  However for everyone’s sanity it’s important to cross over into the outside world at least once daily. The 4 walls close in very quickly and though the struggle is very real and I mostly appear to be a screeching mess, getting out that door is a relief.

Even if I am the six eggs lady.

In active wear.


{Yes, and No}



I woke up this morning to my 2 year old rubbing the insides of an Anticol up and down my arm. You know the weirdly spicy stuff they put in them? Yep that. Spouse had left them by his bed and Phoenix had procured them, bitten each one open and then made some sort of spicy eucalyptus soup to paint with. You would think that after 3 kids I would wake up early effortlessly and start my day. This is not the case. No, instead I wake up every morning like Rick Grimes emerging from his coma; dazed and confused. (Also, exceptionally thirsty.) I wish I was a morning person. I really do. But Hendrix wakes multiple times to feed and the other two like to wake up to discuss why toothpaste belongs in the bathroom only and request scrambled eggs at 4am. I’m pretty tired hey? Hence why I wasn’t surprised that I hadn’t been woken sooner by Phoenix and his eucalyptus soup palaver.

Anyway I have to drag myself out of bed as Phoenix goes to kindy one day a week on a Monday and Spouse drops him. If I get him dressed quickly he’s out the door before he can wake the baby up with his exceptionally loud voice. We succeed with shoes on but there is jacket refusal and he decides to lie on the kitchen floor in some sort of weird starfish fetal position mix yelling about jackets. Freeze then kid, its cool. Baby wakes up. Addison is demanding she has weetbix with rice milk. The day has begun people.

Today was different though. Today I enrolled Addison in school for next year. School. Proper school. Big school. Down we trotted to the school, forms in hand, her excited, me puzzled. Puzzled as to how this came around so quickly, how she grew so quickly, how I am to flip the coin and become the parent; no longer the teacher. I am not sad about this new stage of our journey, maybe just a little shell shocked. The truth is, ever since Hendrix was born last year I have been in transition. Pregnancy is over for me, I am done with growing and birthing babies. The newborn stage is over and with each month that passes, a new piece of my littlest love emerges. Our toddler, Phoenix, is fiercely independent and gets amongst it. That kid loves life man. And Addison; our lively, funny and kind daughter, is about to enter into a very different stage of her life; one that will take her further out into the world than she’s ever been. Is she ready? Absolutely. She is desperate to step beyond the world she knows. Am I? Yes and no. I’m not really sure how to elaborate on that for you. It’s just…yes and no.

Our family is complete and the next stage awaits. What that looks like, remains to be seen.


PS It’s been a while; but I’m back and here to stay.


Bitch, eat some crackers…


It’s been a while between drinks, literally. I’m 30 weeks pregnant with our third child and it’s…well, it’s shithouse. Let me clarify before I get people calling me ungrateful; it’s fantastic that I’m pregnant and we are so excited for another little squishy. What’s shithouse is my pregnancy. It’s a fucking relentless comedy of errors. The error being me. I had to come on here tonight, to my poor neglected little blog, to write all this down because I can’t talk about it face to face without crying ugly, ugly tears. I can’t elaborate on social media too much because the truth about non glowy pregnancies tends to make people very, very uncomfortable. People label you negative and precious. They back away slowly, horrified with the answer you’ve just given them to their question of how your pregnancy is. (Really fucking shithouse and I pretty much vomited so hard this morning I wee’d all over the goddamn laundry floor and then slipped over in it but thanks for asking!) They have no idea. Why aren’t you a pregnancy unicorn? Has this bitch tried crackers they muse. She’s past 12 weeks! It’s all in her head. She should just man up and be grateful, it’s just vomit! Ha.

I have Hyperemesis Gravidarum. I vomit a lot. The nausea is completely untouchable at this point; even with the strongest meds they can give me; the meds they give to chemo patients. They don’t even touch the sides anymore. I pulled up at the lights the other day and was heaving so badly, trying to hold it in and I look over to see two young girls in a car staring at me in horror. I vomited in a flower pot at Masters, the pot had holes in the bottom, we bought the pot. I have completely lost control over my body. HG is vomiting blood because you’ve torn your throat lining. It’s briefly losing sight whilst vomiting. It’s losing control of your bladder whilst vomiting. It’s opening the dishwasher and vomiting in it from the smell that only you can smell, several times. HG is spending weeks in hospital with a PICC line threaded through your chest because your veins have packed up and left. HG is not morning sickness. Ginger, crackers, sea bands, acupuncture; it does not work. No, it didn’t stop at 12, 14, 16 weeks. At this point the only thing that will work is birthing this baby. And I’ve heard of women who’ve continued vomiting even after that.

I am at greater risk of premature birth thanks to HG and a previous premmie. I also have GDM and am desperately struggling to stabilise my BSL thanks to a range of food aversions and a tendency to skip meals. I don’t know how to eat a normal diet at the best of times, but right now, if I could live off Diet Coke and anti nausea meds I would. I’m just really tired and desperate. I pull myself together most days because I want the kids to not know what’s going on. Smushy is somewhat aware and she likes to mimic my sounds sometimes, but mostly this is so part of our narrative right now that she just accepts what’s going on.

But the worst? Its my mental state. Having HG takes you to a really dark, lonely place. It’s like a cage. You’re trapped and you know you can’t get out. I have lost my essence and my dignity these past 7 months. I am not really me and I won’t be again until I am. HG robs you of your life, your body and any semblance of control you might have in this world. A friend told me it was like a part of her died and it took many months to come back to life. I understand that. I feel the same.

I’m not sure when this little guy will be born, whether I’ll make my due date or we’ll meet him early. Some days I feel like it’ll never happen. I can’t wait to have him in my arms. To bring him home to my beautiful family. I am grateful, I am so grateful; I’m just really sick of wee’ing on the floor.