Hoochiemumma

Personal Blog

Tag: motherhood

You’re so embarrassing!

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“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.

M

She’s at it again.

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Today is Cystic Fibrosis awareness day and I just can’t seem to let it pass without writing or sharing or giving it some recognition because for years I thought this stupid disease would change our family forever. I thought it would take our son away. I thought that he might not reach adulthood. Crazy thoughts? In hindsight yes, but at the time it was very real.

18 years ago, life for kids with CF looked a lot different than it does now. Being born in 2005 with CF certainly held more hope than previous years, and the prognosis was definitely getting better and better as time went on, but for new parents it was hard to see any light at the end of the tunnel.

I vividly remember carting my precious baby around the Women’s and Children’s Hospital, side-eyeing the skinny young teenagers I’d see who were muffling coughs with hunched shoulders. During those early years, there were some familiar teenage faces who would be strolling the hallways and riding the elevators. I never knew them by name, but I knew that these were “CF’ers” and I was staring at my baby’s future.

We continually hoped that he would be one of the “lucky ones”, the ones who hardly went to hospital and barely caught a cold. There doesn’t seem to be much rhyme or reason as to who gets chosen to be a “lucky one”. It’s pot luck in a pretty shitty competition.

As I clutched my son, literally and figuratively, through the early months, I honestly thought that our life, especially my son’s life would be dictated by this disease in the most horrible ways. I also thought that I would never be able to leave him or be away from him, that I could never go back to work, have a hobby, an anything. So overwhelming was the prospect of what this disease could do, I was crippled with fear of the future.

But as it does, time marched on, and my deluded thoughts and anxiety for the future settled, while we rode the roller coaster of CF. We navigated our way through some pretty hectic kid juggling phases and at times, some worrying moments but amongst that, life trotted along beautifully. In the background though, there was a cloud – a cloud that hovered without us ever knowing when it was going to rain. It was unpredictable – sometimes it was a brief sprinking shower and other times a lightning storm. A lot of the time it caught us by surprise.

Fast forward to 2022 – A magic little pill called Trikafta finally became available for people living with CF in Australia. I was cautious in my excitement and didn’t want to pin all of my hopes on it, while I simultaneously pinned all of my hopes on it.

Luckily for us, this little pill turned out to be pretty magic. It’s been just over 12 months since Mac started Trikafta and it’s been just over 12 months since he’s needed antibiotics. The cloud seems to have lifted a bit. It’s still there, but it seems to be a fair weather cloud these days and the future looks very different than it did before.

In saying all of this, Trikafta isn’t a cure for CF. Mac has definitely drawn the long straw when it comes to having such a fabulous improvement taking this medication. Some people with CF don’t have the right genotype to take Trikafta and some can’t take it due to rare side effects. For others, it’s simply a case of it just not working as well for them.

So until a cure for CF is found, I’ll continue to do my annual awareness shout-outs. I’ll keep wishing for the same thing each year as I blow out my birthday candles as well as cross my fingers that CF will one day mean Cure Found.

M

Happy Mother’s Day

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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.

Happy Mother’s Day, you deserve a ta-doo.

M

It’s a dick punchy kind of day.

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I am furious. Filled with rage and ready to punch some dicks.


Fuck you selfish bastard men with your stupid big dick energy and the backing of other bastard men. You wanna know why women get so angry and are then hated even more? There are a million reasons, mainly starting with you. Men. Yeah, that’s right. But not all men. Let me explain.


There was once a girl who fell in love. It was a beautiful love story until it wasn’t. Like almost half of the marriages in Australia, it ended.


And here is where the story gets ugly because here is where money talks. Power, money, and big dick energy. The patriarchy at its best, throwing around the idea that women who have taken on a more traditional role in the family aren’t worth much money, so when it comes to a settlement, don’t you be thinking you’re getting much, cause it’s not yours it’s HIS. He does all the work after all, who do you think you are?


Here’s where it gets tricky right?


The unpaid labour of raising multiple children, therefore having the capacity to only work part-time is just, well, according to some, tough tits … you chose it. And how about the role of supporting said husband who works full time – plus some, essentially tipping the parenting tasks 80-20 her way? According to some, that’s what you signed up for. You knew what you were getting into when you got married – tough tits love. What about taking a role within the business? Well that’s just simply being supportive of your husband and you SHOULD do something to be part of what keeps the food on the table, otherwise, you’re just a selfish bitch. Doesn’t matter if the business isn’t of interest to you though. Tough tits love. You knew the gig. Don’t be thinking you can just change your mind either. Suck it up.


You may wonder who I am referring to as I write this. I am referring to me, you, and EVERY WOMAN who finds herself, either by choice or not, in a position where they are financially disadvantaged because they took on a role HER HUSBAND NEEDED AND WAS HAPPY FOR HER TO HAVE because it served his purpose and his own gain.


So what’s the answer? It’s been a question on everyone’s lips for decades.


How do women gain more currency and value in our society? Sure, we’ve come a long way since being burnt at the stake, but some days, in rural Australia, it doesn’t feel all that long ago.


As usual, the responsibility is thrown back in women’s faces. How many times have we read about “raising good men”? I agree with this statement, but again, the majority of children’s main carers are mothers which means it’s another job we have on the list filed under ‘unpaid tasks’. Sure, just pop down “smash the patriarchy” on the note pad darl – I’ll sort it out in between the grocery shopping and dropping the kids at sports practice.


Until there is a major shift in valuing the role that women have in holding this whole shit show together, we will forever be belting our heads against a brick wall. I’d love to point out to some men who just don’t get it, that most of us worked full-time and had jobs, careers, and a life before we married and took on the role of raising a family, supporting a partner, and doing all the ‘unpaid’ tasks that we have gifted our partners to not even have to THINK about, let alone do. So let me tell you something, going to work every day, working full time, working overtime and weekends, is far easier than doing the unpaid tasks that keep the world turning. Most women agree that the most challenging role in their life has been mothering. Mothering YOUR children, mothering YOUR future, mothering THE WHOLE FUCKING WORLD’S FUTURE.


So how do you put a monetary value on something that means the world? It’s a difficult task. Any figure is quite frankly an insult. We all know the world would fall apart if it wasn’t for the unpaid labour of women. I balk at the idea that we need to infiltrate “the man’s world and show them we are just as good”. We’ve been fucking glorious forever. We don’t need to change who we are or pressure ourselves or our daughters to be something ‘other’ so that we can be equal. We need all the same opportunities and choices that men have but what we NEED is to have those choices valued if they happen to fall into a more traditional role.


On that note, I’ll just be over here holding the world together… what do you do?


M



	


	





	

		
A case of gastro and mother love.
		

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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 😉. 





M 

	


	





	

		
The Glue to the Shit Show
		

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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?


Continue Reading"The Glue to the Shit Show"
	


	





	

		
Mrs Weird of Weirdsville
		

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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? 





Yours forever in the gloriousness of weird. 






M 






	


	





	

		
A day in the life…
		

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The social media world has been at it again.


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.


Ah motherhood….‘Tis not for the faint hearted.


Cheers mums.




 


 


 


 


 


 


 


M