Flying with a baby is as good as sewing up your private parts.

By Bronwyn Lewis

31/10/2014

This is a lying bitch and that baby is not real.

One time I got my big toe jammed underneath the front door, squishing it between cold, hard tiles and angry, splintery wood. It is one of the most painful things that has ever happened to me. The kind of pain that makes you feel hot and cold at the same time and where you can’t decide whether to laugh or cry, so you do both in some unhinged, psychopathic kind of way - kind of like Beyonce’s sister acted that one time. In my recent experience of flying from Canberra to Melbourne with my 8-month-old daughter, I have learnt that that door experience was heavenly compared to flying with a baby. I would happily waltz down stairs and swing that mother flipping door onto my bruised and battered big toe every single bloody morning if it meant I didn’t have to fly with a baby ever again.

When Olive was only a couple of months old, she filled me with false ideas about what it meant to fly with a tiny human. I’d nervously get on the plane whilst watching people hold their breath, hoping, wishing and praying for dear life that I would take my bundle of potential mayhem as far away from them as possible. I would find my seat and immediately apologise to the people who sat near me, who would either blatantly ignore me through sheer rage, or would pretend through gritted teeth that it wasn’t a big deal and they were pleased a cute little baby was near them. The fake nice people I will remember forever because I love them. As soon as she started to stir, I would chuck her on my boob and she would drift off to a lovely deep sleep and only wake when we were disembarking. The other passengers would praise her for being such an excellent flyer, which would translate as a direct compliment to me for not having a screaming form of harsh contraception for everyone. I thought I was truly amazing and pitied the poor people who hadn’t figured out how to shut their little turds up. Obviously their babies were broken.

Alas, this honeymoon stage with flying had an expiration date and my baby went from being the ideal travelling accessory to being the baby that made people want to smash their tiny windows and get sucked out into the atmosphere. Hell, on the last flight I definitely considered it. As a crawling 8-month-old, she hates sitting still and is too dumb to be distracted by any form of stationary entertainment.  Bananas in Pyjamas can go fuck themselves for all she cares.  

She fought with all her might against literally being strapped to me with the infant seatbelt, which was not only embarrassing, but quite painful because she has nails sharper than Wolverine and a temper worse than Pat Cash. So once she was strapped in, I wiped my bleeding face and hoped that she would calm down or majestically fall asleep so I could pretend people didn’t hate me for attempting to fly with a tiny monster.

She didn’t sleep. Instead, she climbed all over me like a small monkey and yelled in my face like rabid baby goat. People would glance over at me with either complete disdain or patronising sympathy. Both made me want to reach down my throat and rip my reproductive organs out and throw them down the skinny aisle towards the clown-faced air hostesses. I discovered she would be quiet if I let her shove all of her fingers in my mouth and scratch the skin off underneath my tongue. It hurt like buggery, but if it kept her somewhat still and silent, I would let her pull all of my teeth out. She got sick of that pretty quickly, so my next trick was letting her stand on the pull-down table and suck on the chair in front of us whilst bashing it like a tiny, angry Mr T. The woman in front was the kind of passenger that ignored us, so it was ideal because it let me skull the mini complimentary bottle of cheap red wine out of a plastic cup in one large gulp.

Sucking on the chair was surprisingly successful for about five minutes until she realised that people were starting to look comfortable, so she started her riot again. I decided to give my neighbour a break because Olive’s idea of socialising with her was pinching the plump fatty bits of her bingo arms enough to make her wince. I went to the toilet that had a change table and just stood her in the sink so she could bash her reflection. I don’t know what it is with babies and mirrors, but they go absolutely ape shit when they see themselves. I think Olive was the only one thrilled with her being on the plane. As she punched and slapped the mirror with unbridled glee, I caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror. Not only did I spill my red wine down my front, but I looked like something Pete Doherty coughed up after a week-long bender. I looked fine before I got on the plane, but the stress seemed to have made my hair greasy, my eyes sink into the back of my head and a confusing amount of adult acne had emerged on my face. I realised the experience was destroying me from the inside out.

After ten minutes in the bathroom, I reluctantly returned to my scathing audience. Olive continued to climb on me and yell at everything like Mel Gibson would an innocent Jewish lesbian. When we finally landed, I imagined I could relate to someone who had been taken hostage for years and they were finally landing back on home soil. I could see the light at the end of the sewage filled tunnel.

Seatbelt signs went off and when I stood up, people looked at me differently. Their rage was gone and it had been replaced with worried, lipless smiles that quickly replaced my relief with the feeling of utter inadequacy. Yes, okay, I get it. She was a complete moll and she ruined the taste of your complimentary cheese and cracker thing that had a ridiculously unbalanced ratio of cheese to cracker. But it’s not her fault, is it? It’s mine for taking her on a plane thinking that she was going to be satisfied with staring at the back of the chair without sucking on it. It’s mine for thinking that that lovely little baby would stay tiny and useless forever and even the sound of the plane cabin would put her to sleep. So I got off that flight, with my fidgety baby in one arm and my reproductive organs in the other and hastily made my way away from all my new enemies.

I learnt a lot from that flight. I learnt that I have created a mental monster that not only hates flying but is single-handedly ruining entire plane loads of sex lives for maybe ever. Olive is responsible for stopping the speedy growth of our nation’s population, one plane ride at a time. You’re welcome, Australia. Now, if someone could remind me to never fly again, that would be ace.

The Day Care Waitlist Debacle

The Day Care Waitlist Debacle.

By Bronwyn Lewis

02/10/2014

Maria: the bitch/the gatekeeper/the day care receptionist.

The hideous rumours about day cares are true. Not only are they more expensive than a round trip to Bali each week, but they’re harder to get into than Harvard Law and turn the strongest, most stubborn people into begging and blubbering messes.  What’s more is they seem to be on such high demand that they are bursting at the seams worse than my recycling bin is with wine bottles. The places are a colourful type of evil full of smug bastards that insist on dotting their ‘I’s with love-hearts. Gross.

It may surprise you all, but I am not a helicopter mum, which means I’m not particularly fussy about where Olive goes. Someone, please, just take her, keep her alive and then give her back when I ask for her. I haven’t researched the types of paints they use that she will inevitably drink. I haven’t demanded tours to assess whether the children have enough primary colours blasting each corner of the room, or whether their cots have Laura Ashley linen. Contrastingly, I have been forced to go on tours where I have been chuffed that they actually feed the kids and completely revolted by how much snot is all over all their grubby faces. Olive won’t look like that. She’s banned from snot – it was in the fine print when I agreed to be her mum.

Since learning I was pregnant with Olive, I have had her name down and countless day cares, but I have my heart set on one in particular. It’s directly next door to my house, so I’m planning on catapulting her over the fence each morning before I dart off to work. Time is money, people. I have been told that in order to secure a spot at a day care, you need to be on the dreaded waitlist before your baby is even born then literally harass them until they cannot stand saying no to you any longer. It’s Darwinism at it’s finest.

When I was pregnant a lady at work told me that the only way she got her daughter in anywhere was by turning up numerous times a day and crying hysterically to the apathetic staff. Christ! No thanks, desperado. How fucking embarrassing. Her terrifying anecdote was delivered with such pride that she ‘beat the system’ that I wondered if she was mad before she endured the shit fight of the Day Care Waitlist Debacle, or whether her sanity had fallen victim to it. I decided the latter and hightailed my enormous, swollen and sweaty body to the day care I decided Olive would conquer. 

Today, eleven months after scribbling down my unborn baby’s details onto the waitlist form, I have had this mad woman’s horrifically humiliating story ringing in my head. Would I have to bawl my eyes out? Nope, I just can’t see myself doing it. I’d much rather just plonk her over the fence each morning and hope they don’t notice they have a tiny Polish imposter. In this time, I have taken to casually popping in to see how their waitlist is going. They hate it and it makes me so nervous because if they start to hate me, they can scratch me off the list faster than Lindsay Lohan’s tragic downfall. I feel like the fat girl at school trying so hard to impress the pretty, cool bitches. Please like me, slags!

Countless times I have stood in the foyer with my oblivious baby hanging off my hip stammering and pleading to the cold, vacant stare of Maria, the hardhearted receptionist who spends her entire day pretending to pen important notes, but is most likely sketching pictures of dicks.  

Maria, I know you. I have reluctantly entered your realm of sourness and deliberate disregard of my existence far too many times for me to back out now. We have come too far together and I just need you to give me the nod and I will never talk to you again. Come on, Maria, finish the delicate shading of those pubes at home and give me a fucking answer.

At mothers group, we discuss who got in where and what unbelievable lengths they had to go to to make it happen. I’m convinced at least one mother has sold one of her child’s kidneys to get a spot. They do only need one after all, right? We are all secretly terrified that we will be the only dickhead who didn’t get into one and have to start begging strangers in the depths of suburbia to let our baby sit on their lounge room floor whilst they watch Ellen and cut their toe nails. Please don’t let that be our only option!

Needless to say, I’m still waiting to find out whether Olive has a spot next door. They seem to have hired Nimbin Town Council to help ‘finalise their list’ because this shit is taking forever and if they aren’t stoned off their heads over there then I’ll eat my hat. I guess if they don’t take Olive then I will be bringing her into work every day for show and tell. Luckily she is about as quiet and reasonable as Janice Dickinson after a kilo of MDMA. Work is going to love it.

So we desperate mothers wait with baited, wine tinged breath for that bitch Maria to pick up those dusty waitlist forms and give us a call and say that we can go and have adult conversations again. The system is disgustingly flawed and seems to be designed to eradicate the tiny slither of dignity we parents have left. I seem to feel more confident walking down the street with Olive’s vomit in my hair and one shoe on than I am about Maria’s capabilities of letting me have a part of my pre-baby life back.

Come on you pack of sour Maria’s out there – finalise the fucking lists and while you're at it empty my recycling bin you are solely responsible for me filling. Cheers.

The Beginning of My Renovation Journey: Warts and All

The Beginning of My Renovating Journey: Warts and All.

By Bronwyn Lewis

23/09/2014

All you need is love, right?

I’m about as handy as Tree Man, the poor sod who has been so violently invaded by warts that he literally looks like a tree. And no, not a pretty kind people tie themselves to, the kind people rip out of their rental properties without permission because they know their landlord won’t give a flying fuck.

Worst X-Man ever: Tree Man

Now, I can’t imagine anyone passing a hammer to his fungus-infested hand, that looks seemingly like a bunch of old sticks glued together, and expecting him to build a shed. They wouldn’t do it because it would be insensitive and undoubtedly pretty gross if he actually gave it a red-hot shot. 

I may not have aggressive and gigantic growths attacking my entire face and body, but I can relate to him on a couple of levels. One is that sometimes I feel famous about how downhill my appearance has gone after having a baby, and two, I am pretty useless at building. Needless to say, I’m not afraid at giving it a go, so when my boyfriend and I decided to renovate our modest little home, the fickle feeling of false confidence enveloped me and I was under the impression I was ready. However, my vibrant and over-zealous nature in the old tradie department has since dwindled to a piss hole in the sand after a myriad of brutal knocks to my ego. I soon realised I was approaching this expensive little project with complete and utter cognitive dissonance, which meant I was completely and utterly up shit creek if I didn’t smarten the fuck up.

I attempted to educate myself in this area by visiting the local Mitre10 to peruse the aisles riddled with far too many thunderous fonts and the occasional subdued staff member that speaks and blinks slower than Johnny Depp learnt how to use make-up remover. Apparently this exercise is not the equivalent to doing a three-year apprenticeship. FML. As a harsh consequence of my extensive shortcomings in this terrain, I reluctantly embarked on the terrifying journey of dealing with real-life tradies.

After a few phone calls with gruff, impatient and fucking awful men, I realised I didn’t have the vernacular nor the pleasantries for this shit. I left voicemails to people rambling like a mad, idiotic woman. “Hi Macko, I am trying to renovate my gross 90’s chic bathroom and I need to rip out the useless sink thingo, get rid of some fugly taps and make my shower less shit. If you could call me back, that would be great.” Macko, like many other bastards, did not return my call. I fucking hate Macko.

Chin up molls, I’m pleased to say I have since stumbled upon a few crackers. An electrician mate has been unbelievably kind to us and talks to us like he is explaining what Instagram or turkey slapping is to two demented, incontinent fuckwits. Bless him. We still get all of his instructions completely wrong and he has to fix all the stuff we break, but he does it with such benevolence that I feel like soon he is going to gently tell me I have cancer.

The stonemason who installed our kitchen bench top was the loveliest and most stubborn person I’ve ever met and needless to say, I could completely relate to fifty percent of him. We soon became best friends and if I ever got married, I’d undoubtedly ask him to be my maid of honour. He showed pity on my obvious ignorance and did the job quickly and extremely cheaply. I miss him everyday.

The plumber thus far is as mad as a cut snake, and has an extraordinary laugh that roars through our tiny house and rattles my daughter’s cot. He also laughs at almost everything, which would be awesome if I didn’t have a sleeping daughter in said cot. If I had to do my 21^st speech again, I would want him in the front row because he has not once taken me seriously. I hope he doesn’t tell me I have cancer. Anyway, my inner Tree Man must have been showing because he has agreed to do the bulk of the renovations for a fraction of the cost. I think all I have to do is keep saying random things to fill the gaps in between his outlandish cackle. I can definitely do that.

So, after a pretty ordinary start, it seems we are on track. Sure, we may have so many holes in our kitchen wall I am thinking about throwing out the collider and simply chucking our cooked pasta at it. And yes, maybe I have to make up a few hundred stories to the solitary and ever so eager audience of the good-willed plumber to fuel his fire and diminish our bill, but we are certainly moving forward.

So, get fucked Mitre10 and Macko. All you need for renovations to start happening is the ability to accept one’s inner Tree Man, warts and all.

My Beloved Bitterness Burns On...

My Beloved Bitterness Burns On…

By Bronwyn Lewis

20/09/2014

My life as I know it is about to be turned on it’s head. Again. At the start of this year, I entered into the bewildering warzone of stay-at-home motherhood and in two weeks I shall leave it to return to the sour stench of teenage BO and welcome the self-aggrandising attitudes of our nation’s youth. I’m pumped. So, this leaves me a moment to reflect on how I surprised myself in how much I changed and surprised others in how much I didn’t.

Before you slam your laptop/iPhone/iPad/enormous Samsung thingo down in utter repulsion of yet another ‘mummy blog’, give me a moment. It is definitely not one of those. Or maybe it is.

I would like to think that the birth of my daughter didn’t change me. In fact, my nostrils flare with satisfaction when people suggest it hasn’t. Once that sheer relief that I am in fact still ‘me’ passes, I am left feeling perplexed as to why they thought I probably should have changed more, and wonder what life form they thought I would mutate into. Did they think that when the midwife pulled the slimy and confused little baby out of me that I would lose my sarcastic and somewhat unsavoury demeanour and opt for a more sickly sweet and timid one? Sure, I get that babies are ‘life changing’, but are they really ‘complete personality changers’?

When I stub my toe, there aren’t enough episiotomies in the world to make me say “Darn!” in place of ‘”Fuck-shit-piss-tits!”. I understand that one day I will have to curb my profanities, but for the moment, my chubby, screamy, blonde-haired baby thinks the most outrageous thing I do is perform the dance from Sia’s ‘Chandelier’ film clip whilst she sits in her highchair and rubs yoghurt into her eyebrows. After a good three weeks of this performance, she’s more tired of it than Australia is of Anthony Callea trying to make it big. Like my tolerance of Shania Twain songs, Mr Callea will be forever small, figuratively and physically.

Back to me.

I approached mothers group with the same attitude, and as a result I am the mad, outspoken, painfully honest woman with unbrushed hair who will eventually be ‘accidentally’ left out of invitations to play dates. I’m aware of this risk, but it is worth the sacrifice if I can keep from biting my tongue off until it’s a bloody stump when discussing the shit parts of parenting. In all different reasons parents find themselves gathered - whether it’s day care foyers, nursery rhyme-times, baby friendly cafes - I will be the one who crosses the line into ‘inappropriateness’. I will look openly repulsed when someone challenges the validity of vaccinations, I will call Olive a moll when she is being one, I will call the fat kid fat until he knows what that word means and I will say being a parent is a fucking shit gig when Olive has decided she would like to spend an entire week refusing to eat because she’s too tired and not being able to sleep because she’s hungry. Babies are dumb. Cute, but really fucking dumb.

So in that respect I haven’t changed, but I would be lying if I emerged from my enormous life transition with my pre-baby identity completely intact. I created this tiny person who I can watch sleeping on the baby monitor like a toothless bogan would watch the greyhounds: drunk. Just joking (not joking). Every little change she experiences, I swell with pride because learning how to cough on cue is hands down the fucking smartest thing I’ve ever seen anyone do. Or when she learnt that things look differently when she tilts her head, so she spent an entire afternoon giving herself early onset RSI in her neck I couldn’t have been prouder. Or when she recently clung on to me tighter than a pair of Gina Rinehart’s trousers when someone tried to have a little hold of her, which taught me that she is just as obsessed with me as I am with her. It’s awesome. And yes, I film these moments and insufferably send them as group texts to anyone and everyone I know and expect them to watch it on repeat for days, then discuss every minute detail with me when I see them next. If they don’t, I quickly question their commitment to the friendship seeing as they willingly and actively neglect my offspring. I’m becoming about as popular and palatable as Angelina Jolie when she went through that phase of making out with her brother.

In this self-indulgent moment of self-reflection, I have come to realise my extreme reluctance and sheer terror of morphing into a cookie-cutter mother was in vain because it’s simply not in my make up. Even though my daughter’s gappy-toothed smile makes my heart feel like it’s going to burst and worn down the most cynical part of me, my treasured bitter fire still burns on. So I remain me, just with less lipstick and more things to both swear and smile about.