“Can you just not be here?” were the words launched out of my almost 15 year old daughter’s mouth as she requested a “friend” come over in the school holidays. (And when I write “friend”, yes the boy variety friend).
“Don’t talk rot” I said. “I’m not embarrassing, and I promise I will never do anything to embarrass you.”
The 18 year old, who has only just got his keys back on a part time basis due to being, well, an 18 year old, chimes in with “YOU… not embarrassing? YEAH RIGHT! You have a blog and now a podcast. My friends torture me with it and play it to me. They’ve single handedly upped your listener ratings.”
Thanks Fellas. We’ll be sure to give you a special mention on the next episode. 😜
It seems that it doesn’t matter what you do, what you wear or say, what car you drive, what job you have or how much money you have in the bank, it’s a right of passage that you embarrass your children just by sharing the same air as them, their peers, or anyone they are trying to impress. Even the coolest Hollywood stars have cringing teens at home.
I get where they are coming from because I have vivid memories of pretending that I didn’t have parents because “everyone else’s parents were cool and my parents were cringey”. Ugh, why did my mother wear peach coloured pants and dad wore long socks with shorts. Why was my dad so loud and talked too much. Why couldn’t mum just, I dunno, not be so mumsy. These were all questions whirling around in my head as a young girl, longing to be like my hair twin, orphan Annie. I gotta say, who doesn’t want their own millionaire Daddy Warbucks and Punjab?
One day, I have no doubt that the kids won’t find me so embarrassing. They might even look back and smile as they read these words or listen to the recordings of The 40’s Project . It’ll happen. But in the mean time, I’ll keep being the most embarrassing mother in the entire world, because that’s how much I love them.
It’s funny, growing up I don’t remember there ever being too much of a ta-doo about Mother’s Day. My mum wasn’t much for making a ta-doo about anything really. Understated and modest, she was the kind of woman that on reflection, did herself an injustice – sometimes a ta-doo is needed.
So why, since her death so many years ago, do I find Mother’s Day unsettling? I’m definitely not alone, many people do – there are those like me, whose mothers have died, or those who wish their mothers were dead. There are those who long to be a mother as well as those who have lost children.
Maybe it’s because Mother’s Day falls at seeding time on the farm, when it’s all systems go and Mr Hooch is nary to be seen, let alone help the kids coordinate a ta-doo?
Maybe it’s Covid that reared it’s ugly head and left me rendered useless for the best part of this week?
Maybe it’s the expectation of a harmonious, sunshiny, love filled day where the children magically morph into intuitive little cherub-like angels who want nothing more than to pamper and glorify their giver of life?
Maybe it’s the Mother’s Day hype that’s splashed around the online and offline world?
Maybe it’s nothing? Maybe it’s everything?
Never-the-less, I’m not able to to spend the day with my mum, send her a card or give her a call, but what I can do, is thank the women who have filled the gaps and have been the mother-figures and friends I’ve needed.
So thank you to the listeners – the ones who debriefed, picked apart and overanalysed with me; the ones who have “kept shit real” and made me laugh when times were tough; the fixer-uppers; the crazy ones; the thoughtful ones; the dependable “always there” ones; the ride and die ones; the older ones who have trekked the path of life ahead of me and shown me where the pot-holes are; the younger ones who keep me on my toes: the wise ones; the ones who have challenged me; the ones who make me a better me. A special mention must go to my mother-in-law – a generous spirit with gold standard Grannying and even better sausage rolls.
I want to especially thank the ones who every year, without fail, acknowledge my mum on Mother’s Day. The ones who still speak her name, who check in, call and remind me that they know being a motherless mother on Mother’s Day can sometimes be a bitter-sweet pill to swallow.
So thank you to my “mums” for filling the void in the most beautiful ways.
My husband and I became parents almost 18 years ago. We have an emerging adult in our house. In a week and a half, our eldest child can legally drink a beer, vote, and essentially tell us to rack off. Will he? I doubt it, because he is still in school and doesn’t have a job. So Ner.
But, here’s the clincher. I think he wants to break up with me. Mia Freedman wrote a beautiful piece about the long and slow breakup she experienced with her firstborn son. It’s a tear-jerker and rings true for so many of us as we watch our children grow, change and break away from the mother-bond that brought them to adulthood. She points out some similarities from an emotional speech by Jay Pritchett, the ‘dad’ played by Ed O’Neill on Modern Family.
He tells us how we are gifted a beautiful baby and we fall in love them, and then before we know it, that baby is gone – but it’s ok because in its place is a toddler – a little person with the greatest laugh on earth. Then one day the toddler is gone, and in its place is a little kid who asks all sorts of questions as they navigate the world around them. And this continues on and on, but you never get the chance to miss them because there is always a new kid to take the place of the old. That is, until they grow up. Then in what seems like one single moment, all of those kids you fell in love with, walk out of the door at the same time.
Oh for the love of God, make me stop crying. Damn you Jay and Mia with your heart-wrenching rendition of the gloriously bittersweet moments that parenting brings us as we launch our offspring into the big wide world.
Essentially, our job is now done. We have become redundant. As kids grow up, we have less and less influence on them which means we have to cram a lot of shit into their heads by the time they’re about 10 or we’re all screwed – no pressure but.
The studies prove that peer groups for teenagers are much more important than anyone else in their lives. How’s that for a thought? Your sons boof head mate has more influence on him than you do. Awesome. No wonder teenage kids get themselves into all sorts of trouble.
As sad as all of this sounds, it’s just part of our human experience isn’t it? Our kids need to break away and grow because who wants a useless lump of a human who can’t look after themselves and needs care from their parents until they’re 45? Not me!
*Note to the young readers – DO NOT fall in love and marry one of these people.
Speaking of love… one day your baby will find it and you will no longer be the epicentre of their world. There’s a theory that when a group of people laugh, you search for the eyes of the person you feel closest to. So when your child finds love, sorry to break it to you, but you will no longer be the one that their eyes search for. You won’t be the centre of their world anymore. How fucked up is that? NO ONE EVER TELLS YOU THIS WHEN YOU HAVE A BABY.
In consolation, you’ll be the head cheerleader on the sidelines of their life, hoping like hell that you didn’t screw them up with your dubious parenting skills and that they have remembered the fun holiday in Queensland and not the time you got so mad at them that you slammed the door and broke the glass.
So here’s cheers to being a parent of an adult. I hope my nearly adult son knows how much he’s loved. I hope he knows how much he was wanted and I hope he knows that my eyes will always be there for him when he laughs.
I’m sitting on our couch on Sunday night, which is now the early hours of Monday morning. I’m watching my little boy sleep, in between hurling his ringer up and wriggling around with the pain that comes with gastro. I’m poised with a bucket, tissues, Powerade, Spray & Wipe and hand gel. I’m contemplating a hazmat suit.
It’s gonna be a long night.
I apologise in advance for the fact that Mr Spewmanti was at basketball, two birthday parties and bingo over the weekend. He likes to get around. 🥴
I read a quote once that said having a child means you now watch your heart walk around outside of your body.
It’s corny but true.
In between wiping up spew and rubbing Elliot’s forehead, I’m reminded of all the women I know who are riding or have ridden the wave of motherhood when mothering is brutal, and I’m not talking about a sleepless night with a case of gastro.
Brutal is when your heart can be tearing apart and you wonder how the hell you’re going to get through what lies ahead. Somehow we muster up a kind of “super mother power”. We’re like Wonder Woman spinning into all of her glory while we chant “we ain’t got no time for that shit.”
Tonight I’m thinking of my beautiful friend who is currently sitting a bedside vigil in ICU with her son who was in a horrific car accident.
Tonight I’m thinking of a local mum who is preparing a memorial service for her son who was tragically taken in an accident on the way home from school.
Tonight I’m thinking of the mums I know whose children have been diagnosed with chronic illness.
Tonight I’m thinking of a friend whose teenager is trying to find himself and his identity.
Tonight I’m thinking of the mums I know who have lost children to cancer and the mum who has only recently found out.
Tonight I’m thinking of a friend who helped her child navigate his way through addiction.
Tonight I’m thinking of another whose child has been diagnosed with Autism.
Tonight I’m thinking of the mum whose daughter cries herself to sleep because she doesn’t think her body is the right shape.
I’m also thinking of the mums who are just having a crappy time for no other reason than that life can just suck giant turds sometimes.
Motherhood isn’t for the faint hearted. It also takes a tribe to keep us sane.
I’m lucky to have a circle of amazing women in my world. They’re the ones who have lifted me up when things in my world get a little sketchy. They check in, send a message, call for a quick chat that turns into hours of world problem solving. They lend a hand, make me laugh and have my back. They’re real, they’re raw and they don’t pretend to be anything but who they are. They’re all fabulous for many different reasons. They accept me and my foibles and teach me a lot.
So to all of the mums out there who are catching spew in buckets, researching teen behaviour, driving kids to appointments, wiping away tears, sitting by a hospital bed praying or simply managing to get the kids off to school on time without losing your mind….
You’re amazing.
Mums are incredible.
Don’t let anyone tell you anything else.
Disclaimer *Yes, dads are incredible too, but this blog is called Hoochiemumma not Hoochiepapa 😉.
If there is a word to describe our break away, it would be blue. Blue sky, blue ocean, blue beaches….every shade of blue you can imagine….from turquoise to navy.
There is definitely something to be said about the beaches along the Eyre Peninsula. There is also something to be said about their sand dunes too. I had mainly swear words to say and prayers of a quick death as I dug deep to haul my ample self over them.
Now we are experiencing a different kind of blue….the “Holiday Blues”.
It’s a real thing. I saw it with my own eyes as I farewelled our friends from our coastal oasis as they headed back to the drudgery of responsibility and life in the “real world”.
Now it’s our turn.
I’m not a fan of this. I am quite attune to the holiday vibe.
The whole concept of caravan and camping still boggles me a bit though. I don’t know why I like it because essentially we pick up our family, scrunch them into the car to drive 6 hours while they moan about having sore bums. We plonk them down to live in a space no larger than an average lounge room, tell them all to HAVE FUN AND LOVE EACH OTHER BECAUSE WE ARE ON HOLIDAYS AND “MAKING MEMORIES”, GODDAMMIT.
Added to this is that we have neighbours in a caravan park and “parenting quietly”, without a garnish of word parsley is preferable.
Sometimes a tough ask.
It’s also a lot of effort to set up a teeny tiny house on wheels. There is still cooking and washing to do, with the added bonus of having to walk the trail to the ablution block to share the ritual of sitting on a toot next to complete strangers while listening to each other take a poo.
Ah…. the serenity.
Despite this, we, and many others love to getaway in a caravan.
Everyone has settled into their “caravan set up jobs” too. I’m plumbing/electrical, tables and chairs. Trent is anything to do with spatial awareness, knots/ropes, tent construction and lifting heavy shit. The kids become the apprentices and like a well oiled machine we are sitting in a deck chair before we know it.
However this doesn’t happen before the most important job is done.
Backing. In. The. Caravan.
Trent is the backer.
I am the finger pointer and yeller of “whoa”.
I don’t like this job. I don’t like it at all.
Usually Trent and I are on the same page when it comes to lots of things.
Hand signals is NOT one of them.
I secretly love watching couples “help” each other back into caravan blocks. I’m certain there are divorce proceedings happening right now which states “irreconcilable differences mainly due to backing caravans and erecting annexes”.
These tasks are not for the faint hearted or the shakey marriage. These tasks can make you question what you ever saw in your partner in the first place.
Luckily for this trip our friends were already there so I made myself scarce and magically the men just made the van backing happen with hardly a word spoken. There must be a secret man code of hand signals that I know nothing about.
So now that we are home, the reality of life has bestowed itself upon our sad hearts and given us a case of the holiday blues.
We’ve picked up the list of all the things we stacked into the “stuff it, we’ll do it when we get back” file. The mental load is repacking itself into the recesses of our brains and life will ramp back up to “as per usual” before we know it.
But I guess this is what makes us want more. This is the magic of the holiday getaway. We press pause on the day to day drudgery and give ourselves permission to relax and do things we wouldn’t normally do. If our whole life was like this, what would we have to look forward to?
Happy Holidays to you all, and may the Blues be quick and painless.
For those of you who don’t get an opportunity to go on a holiday at all…..even to a caravan park to poo with strangers, I’m sorry. I hope you can sneak in some moments of holiday-ness and at least find some time to read a book in the sun or take an afternoon nap. On the plus side, day drinking isn’t frowned upon either when on holiday, so pour a gin with your cornflakes and call it a trip 👍🏻
Tomorrow is D DAY. Its a fundraiser for the Cure4CF Foundation. Yes, I’m at it again…. Yes, it’s probably annoying. I know how I feel when I see people over share the same thing. I eye-roll a bit and think “yeah yeah we get it”.
When you’re on the other side though, and there is a cause that you’re passionate about, especially one that involves your child, there seems to be motivation to be annoying and speak out.
Sometimes sharing too much can come across as attention-seeking perhaps? I have always struggled with this balance. There are plenty of people out there branding their existence with having a child with an illness. Usually, these people are giant pains in the arses and sometimes their kids are too.
I would give anything to not have this as a topic to write about. But here are.
We all have struggles through, a hurdle, or some kind of challenge that life throws at us. Every one of us. I’m sure you’re thinking of yours right now. When I think of my family and friends I can easily identify something going on in their lives that is, or has been stressful, hard, or sad. It’s called life I suppose.
Most often, struggles have some kind of silver lining. One of the positive things that having a child with a chronic illness has brought me, is being able to put things into perspective. It’s really easy to get hung up on the small stuff and I certainly do my fair share of that at times. Like this afternoon when Scarlett dobbed on Elliot for being a bit of a dick on the bus.
Did I speak to him about it.. yes.
Did he deny that he did anything wrong…of course.
Did he run away to his room while I was mid sentence, yelling “you just don’t get it mum, stop going on about it”… yes.
Did I see red and turn into psycho Sally and tell him that I will ban him from the bus myself and also used the “f” word twice in one sentence. Also yes.
So OK, sometimes I do sweat the small stuff.
Anyway… I digress.
I have often wondered what kind of parent I would have been if not for the experience of having Macauley. I have also wondered how different he would be too. Those early years were tough and I was fairly intense and controlling when it came to trying to keep him well. It was the only coping mechanism I had to make it feel like I had some kind of handle over something so uncontrollable. I was pretty much kidding myself, but it made me feel better at the time. Because his health was my number one priority, everything else kind of took a back seat and priorities shifted a little. I think I definitely had it in me to be competitive and compare. What a joy sucker that is. (Just a tip for new mums too….you soon forget the age they start crawling, or if they walked before they were one. Plus, once you have more than two kids you get them all mixed up and refer to those early years as “well one of you stated walking a bit late… I dunno which one of you it was now?”)
So by the time he turned 5 and started school, I didn’t really care that he couldn’t hold a pencil and write his name yet. Was he meant to? Besides sending me bat shit crazy, I didn’t worry too much that he was stuck on level 3 reader for what seemed a 100 months of Sunday’s. And who knew that being able to tie a shoelace by a certain age was a milestone to be aiming for? Just buy the velcro shoes people. They’ll get it one day. All of these things are important to a certain degree, but I kept thinking how lucky we were that he was at school, that he was born in the new millennium. If he were living in the 60’s I could have well been preparing his funeral, not his first day of school.
Which brings me to my point of being an over sharer. It’s due to people making more noise and fighting for funding and raising awareness that has led to some amazing medicines and research being done in science land. Sure, big pharma is probably all the horrible things that people say it is….to what degree I wouldn’t know. All I know is that without “Big Pharma” my big kid wouldn’t be here. As evil and horrible as people make them out to be, big pharma develop and provide my child with medication he literally cannot live without.
Organisations like Cure4CF Foundation raise money to provide funds for exciting developments and research focused on a CURE. I see it like a giant jigsaw puzzle where all of the new bits of research from around the world get tacked onto the older bits and are pieced together to solve the puzzle. I am hopeful that the puzzle of CF will be solved so that Macauley and many others can breathe a little easier.
Literally.
M
PS….As always, if you can give, please do or simply share to make aware. 🌹
As much as I am an absolute supporter and cheer squad for women who achieve brilliance in their lives, excel in their chosen pursuits and smash some ceilings, I wonder sometimes, who is cheering for the other kinds of amazing women?
I was stuck in a room with my 15 year old son for 4 days. He was beyond thrilled to say the least.
CF has landed him back in hospital for a bit. Topped off nicely, was the fact he developed a cold so a Covid test was needed….Then lockdown hit so we weren’t going anywhere. Mr Lucky had me within arms reach for a longer stint than we planned.
During our iso situation, he made a comment after I hung the phone up from speaking with the ward clerk.
“You’re weird” he said.
After he got told to get stuffed, I dug a bit deeper…
“Weird how?… like scary weird or quirky weird or what?” I asked.
“Or is it just because I’m your mum and every kid thinks their parents are weird.” I added.
“Na… you ask any of my friends and they all rekon you’re a bit weird”.
This was also confirmed by my almost teen daughter when she looked at me, screwed her nose up a little and sympathetically replied to my inquisition with “well… yeah, you kinda are”.
Excellent. That’s what everyone wants to hear.
I would have happily settled for any other description than weird.
Clearly I’m not the cool mum, the laid back mum, the strict mum, the mum with the best pantry snacks mum, the handy mum, the smart mum, the chatty mum, the quiet mum, the funny mum, the friendly mum, the kind mum, the cranky mum, the “insert any other adjective you can think of” mum. Nope….I’m the WEIRD mum.
But look, if teenagers think I’m weird then I’m pretty ok with that because there’s some seriously weird shit going on in the land of the teen.
Weird is taking photos of a quarter of your head, writing “streaks” across it then sending it to all of your friends on Snapchat as a form of entertainment and connection.
Weird is not using a phone to TALK. Alexander Graham Bell would be quite miffed.
Weird is wearing socks and slides.
Weird is the ability to text at 300 wpm but the inability to get clothes INTO the laundry basket.
Weird is the resurgence of the 80’s mullet and somehow making it even uglier. Just stop it.
Weird is knowing every AFL player trade but not knowing how long to heat something up in the microwave. Like ever.
Weird is doing the SAME ANNOYING CRAP EVERY SINGLE DAY and then acting completely shocked when I lose my ever loving mind.
Weird is having a tanty after being asked to empty the dishwasher after a hard morning of sleeping until lunch time.
Weird is not being able to see something that is straight in front of your face.
Puh-lease. Spare me the lecture.
So me and my weirdness will just be over here living my best weird life being Mrs Weird of Weirdsville.
I would really love to hear what word your teens use to describe you as a mum? And if it’s “loving and kind” you can quietly go and live on Liar Island with the pizza guy.
Come at me fellow Weird mums. I can’t be living in Weirdsville alone?
For those who live under the rock next to mine, there has been a 10-day challenge doing the rounds on the Book of Faces. It was a challenge to post a picture every day for 10 days representing a day in the life of being a mum. The photos were to be posted without a single explanation and then you had to nominate somebody to take the challenge with you.
It has been a lovely little stroll down memory lane seeing what some of my Facebook friends shared of their life as a mum. What I noticed though, was that my visual representation of being a mum conjured up something else besides those I was viewing. Sure, I visualised the little squishy baby shots and the family moments, happy holiday snaps, along with the youthful selfies I took with my babies when I was wrinkle-free and had a lot less Hooch in my Mumma.
But because I’m a notorious whinger and like to share an alternative viewpoint, I’ve been trawling the archives and I’ve also collected a few recent images that represent my experience of motherhood.
I can’t stick to the “no explanation” either. There will be commentary.
There may also be poo.
You have been warned…
Here are my top 10 pictures of a day in the life of being a mum.
Ah.. this is where it all begins. A most treasured photo. Also a treasured time when they didn’t answer back or complain about what I gave them for dinner.
Then this happened…. a LOT.
*photo cred – Catherine Leo Photography*
Then it would stop by doing this. I did nine years of this. NINE. I deserve some kind of boob medal surely?
WARNING… POO SHOT.
Dealing with your offspring’s poo doesn’t stop once they are out of nappies.
Laundry. Always odd socks. Boring. Never ending. Enough said.
This is the time our 8 year old rises in the morning to sneak out to the lounge room and watch Netflix. He used to sing and play the piano, so things are looking up.
Total disregard for toothpaste extraction techniques.
It wouldn’t be motherhood without witnessing some WWE action. These are still shots from a video I took. I like to make them re-watch their fights and workshop some ideas for the next round. Good times.
These three spunk rats made me a mum. They have also made me equally bonkers and happy. I’ve cried with pride and cried with frustration. They’ve worried me, worn me out, made me laugh and feel ecstatic all within the same day.
Like a lot of people in January, we ventured off on a family holiday. We loaded up Roxy Roadstar and off we set to be beside the seaside.
It’s only been our third venture in the Roxy beast and I’ve learnt a few things about caravanning.. and also have some questions.
Firstly… I’ve learnt that if all five of us are inside the caravan, only two people can be in motion at any one given moment. The other three people must be seated, laying on a bed or inside the cupboard like appendages of the toot or shower. And god help the idiot standing in the doorway. GET OUT OF THE DAMN DOORWAY.
Secondly… according to Mr Hooch I apparently have a “voice that carries”. Funnily enough it rarely “carries” itself to his eardrums but it can induce a half naked grumpy old prick to raise from his slumber to greet us with his man boobs flailing to tell us to STFU “because the park rules say quiet at 10pm”. It was 10:15pm. What a haemorrhoid on the butt of life that guy is.
And put a shirt on next time Mister.
Thirdly… washing. Why does it halve when we are away? Why is my family happy to wear the same outfit more than twice, but at home they adorn themselves in multiple changes for morning, noon and night. Things gonna change in the laundry dept at Hooch-Manor.
Fourthly…. why is it acceptable to serve sausages in bread multiple times as a meal and feel no guilt?
Fifthly… dishes. Why do they halve when we’re away? Maybe it has something to do with Fourthly… and UberEats. God bless you UberEats. You bring an immense amount of joy to the designated cookers of the world.
Sixthly… If you want a frothy at 2pm on a Wednesday and you are in a caravan park, then go forth and prosper. You do that shit on Wednesday in your own house, week 4 of term 2 then we’ll be booking your arse in to some AA meetings and praying for your soul.
Seventhly…. why does “Mummy” have to explain to “Daddy” that “Mummy and Daddy time” in a caravan with kids a cats whisker away will result with two of them possibly vomiting and the third demanding to know what the hell is going on. If the van is a rockin’, then mental health issues for our children will come a knockin’.
Eighthly…. it takes Mr Hooch two days before it’s due for us to leave before he chills out and stops bitching and whingeing that we aren’t all up and dressed and ready to do something before 9am. Sleeping is doing something. How bout you try that?
Ninethly…. 7 year olds are THE BEST at making friends. All it takes is some random playground chats, (some including President Trump weirdly enough!?) a couple of back flips on the jumping pillow, a climb up a tree and WHAMO.. got ma-self a new friend. Repeat this daily and a whole new posse of glorious boyhood fun ensues.
Tenthly…there is nothing more soothing and enjoyable than time spent with family and friends mixed with the sea air. Nothing.
Eleventhly… holidays away in Roxy Roadstar are never long enough and holiday blues are a genuine thing.
Twelfthly… with all of the devastation we have ingested over the past few weeks and months I hope you have also had some special time with those you love.
