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Failing motherhood and a penis in the meat department.

31 Jan D Man and Kiki
So sweet and innocent looking....

So sweet and innocent looking….

Sometimes I see these beautifully compliant children standing nicely beside their parents at the supermarket and I wonder if they’ve been doped.

Their parent is often casually blipping their groceries through the self-service check out, taking their time as though they’re not harbouring a child-sized time bomb in their trolley, and these lovely children are waiting patiently, maybe they’re even helping and smiling and chatting cutely.

My kids don’t do that.

Ever, that I can recall.

I guess it may have happened once or twice but the other mortifying experiences are burnt into my brain.

Sometimes I see child in a cafe and they sit nicely on their butts and drink their drinks happily without blowing bubbles, spilling it, digging their hands in it, or fighting over whose glass is whose. They dexterously dip their chip into a little tomato sauce and politely eat it.

My kids don’t do that either.

Recently in the supermarket my two were screaming at each other in the meat department.

They were loud. Really loud.

Not having an argument per se, more like screaming like two cavemen over the final dinosaur drumstick before the apocalypse set in and everyone died horrible deaths from acid rain and starvation. Know what I mean?

Using my public mothering voice I asked them to please be quiet as the other customers did not want to hear their screams, growls or blood curdling war cries.

 D Man was laughing manically between screams, tormenting his sister who was trapped in the pram, darting out of her reach before she could tear a clump of hair from his scalp, and Kiki was busting it up a notch from Feral to Foul.

I asked firmly for it to end.

Nada.

I whisper-growled with the quiet death tone for them to stop.

Nada.

There was a grey-haired, bespectacled lady perusing the lamb cutlets who was trying to pretend we did not exist. Fair play. I could seriously have walked out and left them there, hopping a cab to the airport and diving onto a plane to Puerto Rico.

When the final screech made my ears bleed I hissed at D Man to quit it and he proceeded to pull down his pants and waggle his penis at the pork cutlets.

Madame Grey Hair could no longer resist and she gave me a withering glare coupled with a tut.

Little terrors

Little terrors

‘I know, they’re foul and should never be allowed out. Their mother should be ashamed.’ I said in complete exasperation.

Lately I feel whenever I ask them to do anything they do the exact opposite. Even if it endangers them ; running on the road, wildly swinging sticks or sporting equipment, or just slapping each other upside UFC style.

Trying to get D Man to get dressed is unbelievable.

I ask him politely 10 times to get dressed and it’s not until I lose my shit, threaten violence and walk half way out to the car that he takes any notice….. and don’t get me started on bedtime.

Or teeth cleaning.

Or,

Or,

Or…..

Lately, I’ve been feeling like I’m failing motherhood.

I regularly lose library books, children’s socks and my cool.

I always forget the nappy bag, and 9 out of 10 times it doesn’t matter, but that other time?? Yep, at the mercy of kind strangers in the midst of a poonami.

I thought I’d be a Madonna-esque mother. Not pointy bra and crotch grabbing Madonna, but more like a gently smiling, blue swathed virgin, without the virgin bit.

I doubt Joseph ever walked in from a day hammering wooden nails and Mary thrust a whining, squalling, grubby faced Jesus in his hands as she hissed was going for a run before she killed someone.

I also doubt her sandals would have coped well cross-country.

There’s definitely a couple of minutes a day where they’re delightful, sometimes it’s even at the same time as each other. I love them dearly, don’t get me wrong, but I am struggling.

I’m not afraid to admit it to you for a few reasons.

One is that you’ve already seen my many lumps and bumps both literal and figurative, but also because if I’m struggling then surely, amongst all of those with it, onto it, composed, groomed mothers, there’s a couple of stragglers limping through to bed time daily wondering when the relentlessness will ease.

Since I started writing this I’ve had a mega breakthrough with D Man by taking away TV privileges. Do something the first time I ask, or that’s it for the day.

It’s working!!

One small win for Mama Bear and I feel like I can cope for another week.

It’s all about the little victories when the battle seems never ending, innit?

Me. All. Over.

Me. All. Over.

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If your desk reflects your brain, your car reflects your….?

16 Jan *source*
DISCLAIMER : Not actually going to ever firebomb my car, nor do I suggest you do.
*source* DISCLAIMER : Not actually going to ever firebomb my car, nor do I suggest you do.

*source*
DISCLAIMER : Not actually going to ever firebomb my car, nor do I suggest you do.

I’ve heard it said that your desk, and the clutter or lack thereof may reflect the way you work and the way you think.

As I currently sit here typing I’m looking at a soft toy dog, a Quad Copter, boxing wrist straps, a cloth wine gift bag from my book launch 2 MONTHS AGO, a silk scarf, two note pads, 5 million Woolworths animal cards that I never put into an album, various pieces of unopened mail probably not containing love letters, a parking fine and some paw paw cream…. and an empty coffee cup.

Sometimes people ask me how I manage to do everything I do.

The answer is simple.

When most stay at home parents clean, I do more fun stuff.

The result is this blog, and a less than pristine house.

I’m fairly ok with the concept that the inside of my head is a tad on the unruly end of the spectrum and I’ll never suffer from obsessive compulsive disorder.

 I actually tidied my desk today….. Well, technically, it’s the dining table.

I do have a tidy desk in a tidy office but the second I sit in said office my offspring take it as a sign to pull everything out of the kitchen drawers, chase each other with crab crackers and metal skewers and go hand skating on my CD collection.

BS, Before Sproglets, I was never fanatical about my car interior, but I never had extraneous stuff or rubbish in my car either.

That said, I also NEVER had dried yoghurt sprays up interior car doors, seats or windows, fossilised apple cores, sand enough to bank up New Orleans should they require again, odd socks, random toys missing limbs and petrified rice crackers.

What if the state of your car interior is indicative of your soul?

I’m stuffed. Frankly.

Let’s just face it.

In my defence, my little driver’s area is actually really rather neat.

Perhaps there’s an area of my soul that’s not in danger of immortal peril.

My personal space in the car has small amount of sand. A dried up, vaguely cheesy wet wipe in the console (I tried to sort that yoghurt problem but I was driving), an eaten pear core (not mine, handed to me whilst driving yesterday and on exiting the car my hands were already full), otherwise not too bad, in the grand scheme of car filth. I’ve seen way worse.

But, really, what if it is representative of a part of my psyche???

Shudder to think.

While I’m on the subject, I may as well confess to the state of the children’s seats.

Do you allow your children to eat in the car?

Don’t.

Ever.

I do, and when my children are finished with those chairs I will not be putting them on eBay. I will be giving them to the science department of the university to run tests on.

There is a microcosmos going down in the cracks of those chairs that consists largely of crumbs, squashed sultanas and bum sweat.

I wish I could find the ideal car food for them but I’m still searching.

It’s not banana. No way.

That gack gets squished everywhere and by the time the mercury hits 35C my car reeks like a gorilla’s yawn.

It’s also certainly not muffins, crackers, sandwiches, or anything that may crumb because by the time my tiny beasts are done with it the morsels left in the chair cracks are enough to feed a sponsor child.

I regularly think about cleaning the car out.

I think about it hard…. but when it comes to getting the extension cord and the vacuum cleaner and, and, and….. the thought makes me need to have a cup of tea.

Or bottle of wine.

I know you’re thinking why not a car wash?

Love, love, love the idea but then I’m stuck sitting there with toddlers while they detail my car for a million dollars.

Maybe I should simply start driving Mister H’s nice tidy car more often because no matter how hot it gets it never smells like cheesy banana.

In fact, it’s so beautifully clean that sometimes I just want to sit in there in the late afternoon, lock the doors, turn up Triple J and leave the kids to the witching hour.

To be honest, a large part of me thinks perhaps it would be easier if I just firebomb the family wagon, get myself a cheeky car loan and buy that Mustang I’ve always fancied myself driving.

Can you get baby seats in a ‘Stang?

*** THIS IS A SPONSORED POST. ALL THOUGHTS ARE MY OWN***

Cook Once, Feed All COVER_lr

Cook Once, Feed All is about making your life easier whilst preparing nutritious and quick food for your family. Hailed by Mouths of Mums as the ‘must have recipe book for all families’, this book is a collection of family friendly recipes, all accompanied by stories from my life.

If you subscribe now to the Keeping Up With The Holsbys mailing list you will automatically receive my new mini-eBook ‘A Bit On The Side’  - A collection of fabulous summer salads and side dishes.

To order your hardcopy of Cook Once, Feed All ($35) head to the Holsby Shop right now.

If you like what you’re reading why not like my Facebook page now or subscribe via email, to be sure to always keep up with the Holsbys.

The joy of giving.

19 Dec guilt free truffles (2 of 1)

guilt free truffles (1 of 1)I recently popped over to Woolies Babies and Toddlers for a little chat about giving, and Christmas, and I dropped off a couple of recipes for some homemade truffles.

I usually really love Christmas.

This year I’m struggling to get in the swing a little, it seems like Christmas has kinda snuck up on me and I’m not quite ready. I need another month, please.

I’m going to officially wrap presents today and stick them under the tree in hope of getting with the vibe.

Remember that feeling you’d get in your tummy on Christmas Eve as a child?

You’ve laid out some biscuits and milk for Santa, and a carrot or two for Rudolph. You get packed off to bed with wishes of sweet dreams, but you know full well that you are not going to sleep tonight.

No way.

You’re going to wait up to see Santa.

You don’t care about tradition, or religion. You care not for the family lunch your mother has been preparing for days. You’re not fussed about carols or cards, because all you can think about are those shiny, colourful packages under the tree with your name on them.

To check out the rest of this post pop over to Woolworths Babies and Toddlers here

guilt free truffles (4 of 1)

Cook Once, Feed All COVER_lr

Cook Once, Feed All is about making your life easier whilst preparing nutritious and quick food for your family. Hailed by Mouths of Mums as the ‘must have recipe book for all families’, this book is a collection of family friendly recipes, all accompanied by stories from my life.

If you subscribe now to the Keeping Up With The Holsbys mailing list you will automatically receive my new mini-eBook ‘A Bit On The Side’  - A collection of fabulous summer salads and side dishes.

I’m extending my freebie offer to keep up the Christmas spirit.

To order your hardcopy of Cook Once, Feed All ($35) head to the Holsby Shop right now. You will also receive the Cook Once Feed All eBook (worth $15), plus the new eBook ‘A Bit on the Side’ (worth $5) as a bonus gift in your inbox today.

Three for the price of one, and you save $20.

If you like what you’re reading why not like my Facebook page now or subscribe via email, to be sure to always keep up with the Holsbys.

10 Survival Tips to Get Through Toddler Mealtime

24 Nov
Toddler mealtimes made easy

How’s D Man’s NCIS haircut?? That was the day Mister H decided he would be on hair cut duty.
His privileges were revoked.

It’s enough to instil fear in the most hardened of hearts. Toddler meal times can be a battle of the wills but if you have a little patience, and a little wine you can get through anything!

I popped together a survival guide over at My Little Sunshine House to help you get through the danger zone.

 

 It’s the end of the day, you’re tired, your edges are frayed and you will love your children just a little bit more once they’re asleep in bed.

You can see the light at the end of the tunnel but you have the final hurdle to go….

Arsenic Hour.

I’ve long referred to the dinner/bath/bed routine as the Vortex and sometimes an hour can feel like a week.

Or a month.

Don’t get me wrong I love my kids, and generally speaking they’re pretty good feeders but dinner can be the camel that breaks the squaw’s back.

No wonder I love wine so much, right?

I’ve popped together a few survival tactics to help you make to bedtime without losing your cool, doing your block, and yelling until the neighbours close their windows (hypothetically speaking, not an actual eventuality).

To read the rest of this post, pop over to My Little Sunshine House here.

I am launching my new book on the 28th November. The countdown is on!

Cook Once, Feed All COVER_lr

Cook Once, Feed All is about making your life easier whilst preparing nutritious and quick food for your family. This book is a collection of family friendly recipes, all accompanied by stories from my life.

If you subscribe now to the Keeping Up With The Holsbys mailing list you will automatically receive my new mini-eBook ‘A Bit On The Side’  - A collection of fabulous summer salads and side dishes.

To pre-order your hardcopy of Cook Once, Feed All ($35) head to the Holsby Shop right now and you will be the first to receive the hard copy book after it launches on the 28th. You will also receive the Cook Once Feed All eBook (worth $15), plus the new eBook ‘A Bit on the Side’ (worth $5) as a bonus gift in your inbox today.

Three for the price of one, and you save $20.

Winning :-)

If you like what you’re reading why not like my Facebook page now or subscribe via email, to be sure to always keep up with the Holsbys.

 

The garden fairies.

9 Oct Holsbys garden fairy

I couldn’t even tell you the last time I sat in a patch of clover and a made a daisy chain without a care in the world.

Something so tiny, so meaningless, became a magic moment in time. I let all my worries seep into the grass beneath my bum and I was just present with my babies.

We just sat in the garden before we began our day and we made daisy chains and laughed and cuddled, and broke the chains and made new ones.

It wasn’t expensive, it wasn’t fancy, it wasn’t messy or educational.

It was just time.

Moments in time.

Holsbys garden fairyHolsbys garden fairyHolsbys garden fairyHolsbys garden fairyHolsbys garden fairyHolsbys garden fairy

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Hooking up with the Wordless Wednesday crew at My Little Drummer Boys, andTwinkle in the Eye

Are you teaching human qualities with words?

26 Sep

show a little compassionWhen I lived in Bondi there was this dude who lived on my street. Literally.

He wore an oversized suit, no matter what time of year it was, and he had sparse stringy hair and sported a long, grey beard. When he got his annual beard trim and haircut, and he looked kind of strange; like something was missing.

Like a furry dog that’s been shorn.

His shoulders were incredibly bony and rounded and I saw him about for years. He spent his days cruising up and down Bondi Road and he spent his nights in various bus shelters or under trees. For a time, he took to sheltering under the balcony at the front of our first floor apartment. This fact came to light as he was quite the mutterer. Sometimes shouty muttering and sometimes whispered, but lots and lots of chats went down in this guy’s head.

He had good days and bad days. Sometimes he smiled with his thin lips, showing his dirty, grey teeth and other times he just stared at the ground for hours upon hours, hand absently stroking his beard.

Muttering.

He had no belongings except a couple of plastic bags full of folded papers and other plastic bags, at least, that’s what they looked like to me. To him, they were his wordly treasures.

I always used to smile at him and say hi, but he never answered me back. He rarely made eye contact. He did start to stare at me, after months of me smiling a smile at him, so I took this as a form of welcome. One day I went over the road to our local IGA and I bought him a little bag of groceries. Baked beans, bread, fruit and yoghurt, nothing amazing, just a few things.

I went and gave him the bag as he sat under our balcony but he refused to take it from my hand. I gently left it at his feet and said -

This is for you, my friend

-and I walked upstairs. When I came out the following morning, the bag was still there, untouched, and my friend was nowhere to be seen.

I didn’t take it personally.

I’ve always been a ‘bring a stray home’ type, but my Mama was always a very compassionate person, and I learnt by observing her. My career started with kittens, and progressed to a kid from school having a hard time.

Mum let me keep them. Bless her.

If my Mama turned them away, or said rude things about foreigners (not the ‘I Want To Know What Love Is’ ones, real ones) or homeless people, I’d probably have learned that.

Thank God my Mother has a great capacity for compassion.

I recently saw a friend display the most stunning compassion I think I’ve ever seen. She befriended a young single mum in a council flat that was riddled with mould and was causing devastating illness to this mum and her four year old daughter.
I watched my friend fight tooth and nail to get this story heard when the Department of Housing wasn’t listening. The government didn’t seem to care. After months of struggle, and a tox report 280,000 times higher than safe, now people are paying attention. I believe the 7.30 Report will be airing a story on Friday night.

When we were chatting about it she asked -how do you eat an elephant

My friend was tenacious, and she didn’t give in. She inspired others to help. At the cost of her own family’s time with her, she did not give in…… it’s still going on.

I don’t want to be all Captain Preachy Pants, but it’s really not rocket science. If we’re trying to teach our children these lovely human qualities like empathy, and sharing… monkey see, monkey do. Action is worth a gazillion words.

One of the biggest things we can teach our children about compassion is it doesn’t have to be a grand gesture. I’d love to foster all the kids that need it, help all of the displaced and scared people and bring every single one of the Syrian orphans home to my house, but I can’t.

Thankfully, there are organisations like UNICEF to help on the big jobs (if you would like to know more about donating to Syria, click here. Their need is not over, although they are no longer a headline), and I can work on the small jobs in my own backyard.

A smile, a coffee or a meal for someone in need. A kind word, a small donation, some hand me downs. Acknowledgment. Not just walking past someone on the street, but saying hi. They were once like you, but things didn’t work out.

An elephant is indeed very difficult to eat, but with small bites, determination and a good bottle of wine, it is possible.

If you liked this post be sure to like my Facebook page or follow my twit twaddle @theholsbys to ensure you can always keep up with the Holsbys.

Flogging it on Friday with my homegirl, Mama G over sat With Some Grace for FYBF.

Raising Girls Who Don’t Use Drugs

20 Sep
I found this apt quote on Edenland's facebook page.

I found this apt quote on Edenland’s facebook page.

I just finished reading Steve Biddulph‘s Raising Girls.

I remember a year or so ago writing how his first book, Raising Boys, had affected me, and I’m surprised, yet equally unsurprised to see how different the upbringing of the two sexes of the human species needs to be.

Obviously, both sexes need individual attention, to be heard and to feel valued within the family unit, but the way in which both children achieve this feeling is a bit different.

With my son, my biggest concern is about raising a good man. A kind, considerate man, who has compassion and quiet strength. He’s not showy or flashy, and can laugh at himself. Confident but not arrogant, and of course, nice to kittens. Mustn’t forget the kittens.

Finding the exact recipe for a good man is a little ambiguous, and I imagine it can be hit and miss, as there are so many variables throughout life. Like other stinking kids, for instance.

With my daughter, I want her to love herself.

Not in her thirties, like I have. I wasted so much time hating my body, or wishing I was like someone else. So much energy went into hating my body. Not to mention money spent on food that never got digested.

I want her to be confident in her teens and twenties, to feel valuable and beautiful on the inside and to feel worthy of love. I want her to feel cool because she is kind, not because she has the latest gear. I want her to be bold, not afraid, and to stand for what she believes in, even if no one will stand with her.

I want her to be strong and soft simultaneously, and to always see humour in life.

I wish them both to have -

Integrity.

Compassion.

Courage.

One of the chapters that resonated so strongly for me was about self-esteem, and drugs and alcohol and eating disorders. I’ve really been mulling it all over in my head.
I’ve made no secret that I partook in a buttload of drugs in my time, and I’m neither ashamed nor embarrassed of the fact. I liked to see just how far I could push it, and I was a creature of excess. I had fun.

I hope to God that neither of my children ever try to have fun like that. The very thought fills me with dread.

According to Steve Biddulf, “Girls with an involved Dad have been found in many studies to have higher self-esteem, get better school marks, and are less likely to get pregnant early, or have problems with drugs and alcohol”.

In short, Dads are good, m’kay?

My parents are amazing people. They are both interesting, and intelligent, and good people. Although my mama did an outstanding job of raising two kids on her own, I had neither a strong family unit, nor was my father a role model in my life.

Is there a correlation? Shit, dunno. Maybe.

I don’t blame my Dad for my shit for one second. We have a wonderful relationship now, but it wasn’t always the case.

At the age of 21, I entered a room where my parents were having a discussion about their breakup. It was late, large amounts of wine may have been consumed and they were having a long over due heart to heart.

I sat quietly and listened as they discussed what went on for them emotionally and physically during their break up some 12 years prior.
There was a great catharsis for both of them, and I had a massive epiphany.

My parents, they are just people.

I wasn’t from a broken home or a failed marriage. I was born, from love, to two people who grew apart.

Two people with hopes, dreams, different personalities and upbringings and seperate histories.

Two people who were doing the best they could to get through the day, carrying the shit that their parents bestowed upon them, no doubt.

Anyway, I’ve been thinking about this stuff that Steve is saying and I’ve cast my mind back through the crowd I partied with. I don’t mean going out for a big night, these kids and I would not sleep for days at a time. Every week. For longer than I care to mention.

Of the ones whose stories I can remember clearly, I don’t believe any of them had strong family units. Single mums, absent fathers, living with grandparents, living out of home very young…. all sorts of instability. I’m not drawing any conclusions, not all single parent kids turn into raving pill-popping drug fiends. I’m just making an observation because I’ve been casting my memory back to a different time, with a different cast of players.

Not all marriages are meant to survive, certainly not the detriment to people’s happiness. Not all fathers will be present.

Life is not always a tidy affair.

Perhaps if we put this piece of information about young girl’s Dads being such a major part of a daughter’s development in a little pocket somewhere in our brains we can remember that our girls without good, strong, male influences in their lives may need a little extra support and love. That they may be more vulnerable to self-esteem issues, and in danger of pushing limits because they don’t realise that they are worthy and wonderful.

If you liked this post be sure to like my Facebook page or follow my twit twaddle @theholsbys to ensure you can always keep up with the Holsbys.

Hooking up with the ever gracious With Some Grace so I can flog it on Friday with the best of them.

Wassup, Mama G! xxx

One small step for girlkind.

1 Sep

All children do things in their own time. We all know that. I’ve read the books and listened to the experts. There is no real correct time for anything as all children develop at slightly different paces. We have only vague guidelines to follow that suggest that around this time, a milestone ought to occur, give or take a month or two or three…… or more.

Comparisons are pointless and will only cause heartache, unless your child is a prodigious over-acheiver in which case it may cause unbearable parental gloaty pants.

The thing is, although we know this, when your child appears to be late at a milestone, you can’t help but notice how kids months younger are mastering something whilst yours is taking their time.

Kiki has had a terrible cough for months now. I started to wonder if a cough could be the cause of late walking? Her body was busy hacking up lungs, or trying to repair itself, so maybe her limbs didn’t have time to concentrate properly. Seems legit.

I started to wonder what the latest child in the world ever was, so I turned to google, as one does in times of deep pondering.

Paediatricians don’t consider children to be late walkers until 15 months.

Um, check.

Many normal babies don’t walk until 17 or 18 months, and you need to look at other milestones. Late to crawl will often be late to walk.

Um, check.

D Man was walking at 12 months to the day. For some reason I imagined that my second child would walk sooner, partly because I assumed siblings do everything sooner and partly because I thought she’d want to run early in effort to get away from him.

Sometimes I want to break into a sprint.

With Kiki, we’ve called her Ferdinand the Bull a few times. She doesn’t seem to want to run around madly. She just like to sit and chill and play quietly with the grass, or with some blocks.

A keen walker whilst gripping fingers for balance with her pudgy little hands, but she really hasn’t seemed that keen to strike out on her own.

Until now.

September the 1st. The first day of Spring.

Father’s Day.

Today, she walks.

20130901-160342.jpg

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Daddy’s Day Hero Worship

27 Aug

How is that that even though I do all the grunt work, like wiping endless butt, snot and tears, Daddy is the one who gets the true hero status in the kid’s eyes?

Thankfully, Mister H is a bit of alright, otherwise this Daddy Worship business would probs get right up my nose!

In honor of the impending Daddy’s Day this weekend, I hopped on over to Woolworths Baby and Toddler Club to talk up Daddy’s and make a little special brunch to show him that we appreciate him.

Brunch Pikelets with Goats Cheese and Bacon

 

 

I don’t know how it is in your house, but in my house, Daddy is a bit of a hero.

Even though I change a gazillion nappies, wipe endless snotty noses, and kiss grazed knees and bruised elbows aplenty, as soon as Daddy walks in the door, he’s Number One.

Lucky for my hubby, I think he’s pretty cool too, and more often than not I’m so relieved that the reinforcements have arrived that I feel like giving him a hero’s welcome.

My three-year-old son and I have a little game whereby we hear Daddy’s key in the door and my toddler quickly hides. I must admit, he’s not a very sophisticated hide-and-seeker, but in the name of good parenting we never let on that he’s as obvious as an elephant in a phone box.

To see the rest of this post click here, make sure you follow the links through to the uber yummy Brunch Pikelets with Bacon and Goats Cheese.

Leave a little comment love on the Woolies site if you’d like to see me feature there more often!

 

Hooking up with the IBOT gang over with the essentially wonderful EssentiallyJess.

 

If you dig this post, be sure to like my Facebook page, or follow me on twitter @theholsbys, so you can be sure to always keep up with the Holsbys.

Pelvic Flawed

16 Aug
Typical kegels face

Typical kegels face

If you see me in a bank queue, supermarket line or horse riding (????) and my eyebrows are raised, one eye is squinting like a pirate, my lips are pursed and my face appears to be spasming, that’s because I’m probably doing Kegels, or pelvic floor exercises.

After two natural labours, I thought I was doing ok in this department. I can laugh, or sneeze confidently (Most of the time. If I brace.) I can even run or jump rope without cause for concern. That said, when I recently attended a super-dooper, high-intensity cardio class at the gym, I was in all sorts of trouble and the further into the class we went the worse it got.

The main culprit was star jumps. High speed, flailing arms, puffed out, trying to clench my nethers for all my might and still…. the shame.

I. Peed. My. Pants.

We’re not talking about Niagara, more like a tap washer that needs changing, but anything more than nothing is too much wee in public, no?

Naturally, I told Mister H immediately, as all husband’s are dying to know secret lady wee-wee business, and he was very understanding of my plight. Not so much as a smirk. He sent me an article he’d seen recently, regarding Cross Fit and peeing your pants which said boldly -

Peeing during exercise is not normal.

I am no doctor, nor am I a physiotherapist that specialises in ladies pelvic floor parts, but I beg to differ.

I did some highly scientific research (talked to my friends) and it would seem that it may not be preferred, nor supposed to happen, but it’s pretty damned common. Everyone I asked had had some form of urinary mishap (read : wet knicks) at some time in their life. In fact, the design flaw of the pelvic floor is so tragic that it appears that regardless of whether you have a natural labour or not, it seems gravity can take it’s toll eventually and you may need a crotch sling by the time you have a pension card. I did write a letter of complaint to the manufacturers of the female anatomy, but I’m yet to have a response.

The article I read points out the symptoms of pelvic floor dysfunction, in case peeing your pants isn’t obvious enough. Allow me to share.

Signs and symptoms of pelvic floor dysfunction:

  • accidentally leaking urine (or faeces) when you exercise, laugh, cough or sneeze
  • needing to get to the toilet in a hurry or not making it there in time
  • constantly needing to go to the toilet
  • finding it difficult to empty your bladder or bowel
  • accidentally losing control of your bladder or bowel
  • accidentally passing wind
  • a prolapse
    • in women, this may be felt as a bulge in the vagina or a feeling of heaviness, discomfort, pulling, dragging or dropping
    • in men, this may be felt as a bulge in the rectum or a feeling of needing to use their bowels but not actually needing to go
    • pain in your pelvic area, or
    • painful sex

If any of you, my darlings, leak faeces when you sneeze, I must recommend you go swiftly (maybe don’t run though, just brisk walk) to a physiotherapist that specializes in lady business, because you don’t win friends with leaky poo. As for accidentally farting, that’s not a biggie provided you have a small child or dog nearby to blame.

Need to do a lot of fanny crunches, or Frunches, as they're known in the business.

Need to do a lot of fanny crunches, or Frunches, as they’re known in the business.

A weakened pelvic floor is totally normal after childbirth, and unlike other saggy, baggy, droopy body parts, you can in many cases actually retrain it back to it’s former glory. It’s not rocket science, and it’s not even difficult but it appears than the biggest hurdle preventing ladies from getting their fanny crunches on is simply -

We forget.

I’m flat out remembering to brush my hair (I never, ever forget to eat. I totally don’t get those people), so remembering to clench and hold for ten seconds ten times, 100 times a day just seems to elude.

At least, it did, before THE INCIDENT.

I could quite happily never do another star jump in my entire life, but I don’t want to slowly, embarrassingly become totally incontinent. Screw that. Have you seen the size of some of those pads? You can’t fit those thingies in your Bonds hipster g-strings. No, siree, the only leaking I will abide is sweat, thank you very much for asking….oh, and a strong pelvic floor can also equal better orgasms.

Win/win.

Anyway, I can’t do them in public because I cannot keep a fricken’ poker face to save my life, but I’m trying to remember to do them in the car.

If you see me at the lights, and I look like I’m having some kind of conniption, don’t call the paramedics, I’m just doing Kegels.

Kegels face

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Having a blog flog this fine Friday with the gorgeous Flog Your Blog Friday crew over at With Some Grace

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