Don't mind the mess...

"Come in" she said, "don't mind the mess", as I step over the threshold to her home, drawing my attention to the suggestingly unkempt surroundings. My eyes flick over every surface as we proceed deeper into the house.

Though I'm not exactly sure what mess she is pertaining too. The haphazardly arranged toys that are within the confines of the baby mat, or the two mugs on the bench next to the kettle - clean & ready for expected company. Even the beds were made in the bedrooms we drifted past.

No piles of washing all over the couch with not-so-fifty-shades underwear & holey socks flauntingly visible, forgotten to be tucked deep into the mountain. Kitchen sink empty of breakfast bowls, no dried weet-bix or puffed up rice bubbles lingering on the table - or under the chairs. Either her children slept in their clothes the night before, or it is their pyjama's I can hear in the washing machine quietly swishing away.

The floors look clean enough to follow the three second rule {for dropped food}, curtains open & windows barely visible - not a smeared hand print or dried up cascading dribble to be seen. 

I think to myself, if this is classed as messy then my house belongs on 'Hoarding - Buried Alive'. Knowing that as I closed the front door to take the minions to school, I was closing the door on pyjama's left on bedroom floors, breakfast bowls un-rinsed & stacked next to the sink, with the dishwasher clean but not yet emptied from the night before. Wet bed sheets & quilts stripped & fermenting in the dirty laundry basket, the washing machine silent. The evidence of packing lunches on the kitchen bench remains & while the dining table is wiped of any solid food matter, cloudy streaks are easily seen & rice bubbles litter Will & Blake's chairs. Our floors, not fit for the three second rule, but clean enough for Clay to escape my hip on.

With that one careless statement, perhaps meant to clear her of any responsibility for a missed mirror streak or mote of dust I may see, but not notice - evaporating from my mind faster than a shopping list. The standard is set. The precedent of expectation which goes both ways.

Weeks later I open our front door to welcome her into our home. With a smile I say "Hi! Come in, don't mind the mess, we've been so busy the last few days I've not had a chance to clean properly." A partial truth. 

We walk down the hallway, past bedrooms & lounge rooms - doors wide open to welcome inspection. Small talk is made while we make our way to the kitchen, where two mugs await next to the kettle & a plate of {store bought} goodies already set out.

What she doesn't know is that I ran around like a blue arsed fly the night before - cleaning toilets, wiping toothpaste off mirrors & polishing windows until I could see my reflection. Washing piles thrown hastily into cupboards, floors swept & quickly mopped. That morning the kids were dropped off at school looking irritated & harassed - because I spent the previous two hours acting like a Drill Sargent. Make your bed! Put your pyjamas in the wash! Whose breakfast bowl is on the table still? Put it in the sink! Rooms tidy! Brush your teeth, make sure you rinse the bathroom sink after! 

Instead of walking each minion to their class, I kiss them good bye & head back to the car before the morning bell has even rung. Eager to gain an extra ten minutes to ensure everything is looking as clean & display home'esque as possible. Not a rice bubble in sight. Super House Wife badge on. 

This became the norm. Doug always knew when I had plans to catch up with someone the next day because the night before instead of sitting next to him on the couch, I would be mopping & folding as much of our Mount Washmore as I could before tiredness set in. 

Then a few months ago I called enough. Our house is our home, not an open door display house. I was sick of the falseness, the illusion, the expectation. I wanted to look forward to catching up with friends, not feeling annoyed that I had to sacrifice my quiet evening to make sure every surface was free of minion prints & milk spots. If a friend knocked unexpectedly on our door I didn't want to chat at the front door to hide the lunch dishes in the sink, the unfolded washing dominating the couch, unmade beds & the dozens of shoes almost certainly to be scattered through various rooms.

I also do not want other women to feel the same way. 

Now I'll still say "come in, don't mind the mess." But you will know see exactly what mess I am excusing. Whether it be the crumbs on the bench, the dining table I'm wiping down before we sit, the glass door opaque with hundreds of hand prints or the baby toys & action figurines that lay abandoned on the floor. The real mess. 

Pop over for a cuppa, come for the company. You're welcome any time, just mind the washing.

Liebster Award : Get to know the voice behind the blog

 

 

Exciting! House of many Minions first award. Thanks Mumma McD for the nomination (head on over & have a read)

If you enjoyed reading my Fifty in two hundred days post then you're likely to read to the bottom of the page on this one too. The Liebster award is all about sharing the details & then sharing the love {of the award} to eleven blogs I visit regularly when I want to escape the chaos of these minions & pretend I'm in someone else's world for a few minutes.  

Mumma McD has thrown eleven questions at me, so here goes...

How did you choose the name of your blog?

Five years ago I went through a sewing craze, making sleepy babies & fabric handbags. I briefly entertained the thought of taking these late night mini masterpieces to the local markets with the branding, 'House of many'. I never made it to the markets, I realised I preferred to read in my spare time more than I wanted to design, cut & sew, sew, sew.
The second part started up when the first 'Despicable Me' movie came out. We {I} love the little minion characters & all the antics they get up to in their efforts to helping Gru. Our own little minions often give us the same entertainment - whether we find it funny at the time or not until much later. I began affectionately calling the kids 'my little minions' - "okay, my little minions, it's time for bed/to get in the car/to get changed".
In June last year when I finally put this little space together, the name was ready & waiting for me. It's long, but it suits my blog.

How much time per week do you spend on your blog?

However much the kids & the housework lets me. Some weeks I might put up two or three posts because the little minions have either
a) one or more of them have given me grief & I need to put it to the keyboard so I can see the lighter side of it,
b) they've been exceptionally sweet, causing me to feel all lovey & warm n fuzzy - which often preludes the "I want another" posts, or,
c) Inspiration hits & the words are going around in circles. Given my goldfish memory I need to get it all written out then & there before it vanishes to the same location as our forks & missing socks. {We seem to have a fast dwindling number of cutlery - forks especially.}
In answer, it could be one or two hours between opening Blogger & hitting 'Publish' each week. Or the kids may find me at the computer desk multiple times during that week over several broken hours. Plus lots of late nights.

When you were a kid, what did you want to be when you grew up?

When I was young enough to be influenced by my parents I wanted to be a lawyer - because a lawyer had to go to University & my parents wanted me to be the first in our family to tick that one off the bucket list. The other reasoning my nine year old self applied was lawyers {are perceived} to make bucket loads of money {to pay off their HECS debt}. I could buy my own pony & my own house. Once that dream evaporated I decided my love of animals should see me wearing a veterinary nurses uniform...Until my year 10 work experience in a veterinary clinic put me off. All that stinky dog smell & pissed off cats wasn't all it was cracked up to be. Ben's arrival in 2004 opened my eyes & I began contemplating Midwifery, & after Rianan's birth in 2006 I knew that was where I wanted to go in the future. Then we had another four little people who would need looking after while I was working odd shift hours & Doug was at work.
These days the plan is looking something like me studying a Bachelor of Education when our youngest is at school. For now that is a minimum five years away, so we'll see what happens, when it happens.

Last piece of clothing you purchased?

For me, or for anyone?
For me the last piece of clothing I purchased was a bra, which didn't fit, because who wants to try on several bra's with several little people in tow? I picked out my size in the very limited maternity section (Clay is still a booby monster) & hoped for the best. I should know by now that hoping is futile when it comes to getting a perfect fit with the first choice the first time. I still need to find a time to go over the shoulder boulder holder shopping without kids.
Otherwise, the last time I purchased an item of clothing was last night - a gorgeous outfit for the imminent arrival of a friend's baby girl. I miss baby girl clothes. Scratch that, I miss baby clothes full stop.

Where in the world do you live?

Limited details here - those who know me know where we live. For those who have never heard my voice, we live in a beautiful small country town with everything we could want nearby. Several photo worthy beaches only a short drive away, the Murray River within a half hours drive, shopping centres are close enough I can visit them frequently (much to the despair of our bank accounts) & Adelaide isn't an impossibly long drive away.
I love where we live & couldn't imagine living anywhere else.

Favourite television show at the moment?

Right now there isn't anything I'm watching. Come April though when the second instalment of 'Outlander' begins, then I can answer properly.
I don't watch a lot of tv, however a good documentary, labor & birth programs, Grey's Anatomy & of course the above mentioned, Outlander, always capture my attention & are usually worthy of putting down the book for.
If this question was 'favourite book I've ever read', then this answer would have been much longer. I've read twice as many books as I've watched tv shows over the last few years.

 

Favourite actor/actress?

Am I boring if I don't have one? My favourite actor or actress is usually whoever is bringing their character to life, that has me completely mesmerised in the character they are immersing themselves in. (Same answer goes for authors too. Self confessed book nerd.)

How do you relax?

Top of the list is eating devouring chocolate chip cookies dipped into a large {very large} mug of steaming hot chocolate. However my jeans don't like when I do this more than once a day, so I read - a lot. Just in case you missed that little memo.
Then you get the stock standard answers, catching up with friends over a meal someone else has cooked, long walks on the beach, that kind of stuff. But that takes time & co-ordination of diaries & baby sitters.

Do you have a nickname? Or did you have one as a child?

The only nickname you can get from Hayley is Hales, or Hayley-Bayley. Both of which I've been called over the last thirty odd years, neither of which has stuck. Thank goodness.
Doug has a nickname for me, as nearly all couples do, which only he calls me (or the kids when they're being cheeky!) & I don't think that counts.

How do you take your coffee?

Usually white with two sugars.
At home I drink either a latte from the coffee machine with only one sugar, or a Nescafe Cappuccino or Latte sachet. Just what I need for the 4pm after school pick up, pick me up.

How many hours sleep do you get each night?

I'm pretty lucky at the moment. Right now I'm averaging between six & eight hours sleep each night. Guaranteed one of the younger three minions will wake me up at least once, either to expel liquid or to ingest liquid. The last ten years have conditioned me to waking up at least once or twice, so it doesn't affect my sleep as much as, say, more than five wake ups a night would.

11 random facts about me...

Now I have to think really hard for something you wouldn't already know.

1. I'm a sucker for any personality quiz. I thank Dolly & Girlfriend magazines for starting this habit back in 1995.

2. I love buttered salt & vinegar crisp sandwiches. Especially with crinkle cut instead of thin crisps.

3. Despite managing to {most of the time} keep on top of the housework & having six children to do almost everything for {not really but it seems like it some days}, I am a sloth at heart & would love nothing better than to lie on the couch all day.

4. My star sign is Virgo

5. My favourite chocolate is Rocky Road, since Cadbury has discontinued 'marble'.

6. I don't wear perfume. I do wear deodorant, don't get confused there.

7. My first kiss was on a summer holiday in Victoria when I was 13.

8. The further away from the city we move the more I love our lifestyle.

9. We found out the genders of five out of our six pregnancies. That one time we didn't find out was torture not knowing (even though we chose not to find out before the birth).

10. I'm a believer in fate & of an afterlife. Specifically what, no idea, but there is something more.

11. If our house was big enough & Doug could keep his hair, I would probably have ten children.


Now the fun part - my nominee's. Here are 11 of my favourite blogs {I'm breaking the rules a little, as each nominee is meant to have less than 200 followers, one or two may have a few more than that}

1. The Laney Files
2. Lime & Mortar
3. An Organised Life
4. Your Kids OT
5. Looking for Mama Me
6. Bombarded Mum
7. Maxabella Loves
8. The Mummy & the Minx
9. Quack + Skip
10. I Love to Op Shop
11. Colour Saturated Life 

Here are my eleven questions for you bloggers:

1. What pushed you over the edge to take your blog from an idea to a reality?
2. Which bloggers inspire you? Why?
3. Vegemite, promite or marmite?
4. Tell us about one of your most cherished memories.
5. Your favourite blogging tip
6. The best life lesson you learnt from high school?
7. Summer or winter?
8. What do you love most about yourself?
9. If you could meet one person, famous or average Susie walking down the street, who would you meet?
10. Spare time? Where can we find you if you get it?
11. Lastly, if you had 48 hours completely to yourself, how would you spend them?

Each nominee has to follow six easy rules:

1. Acknowledge the blog that nominated you & display the Liebster Award on your blog.
2. Answer eleven questions that the blogger gives you.
3. Give eleven random facts about yourself.
4. Nominate eleven blogs that you think are deserving of the award, have less than 200 followers (Go off the number of Facebook and/or Bloglovin' followers if you can tell from the blog).
5. Let those bloggers know you've nominated them.
6. Give them eleven questions to answer

That concludes tonight's post. If you made it to this final paragraph - Go You! Now head on over & have a browse of the blogs I've roped into this little get to know you thing. You'll be glad you did.

 

 

What does a Mum do with forty eight hours of minion free time?

Last week five of the minions went to Grandma's house for a big sleepover. 

Two nights. 

Three days. Almost. 

Oh em gee. 

My hypothetical "What I would do if I had two whole days of no kids" became a reality. I could have wet my pants I was that excited. The only times Doug & I have had more than twenty four hours minus our minions have been when we were welcoming another little one into our tribe & a few years ago when we celebrated our tenth wedding anniversary with a two night get away. Though Will wasn't yet a year old, so our packing list included a porta-cot & a baby.

Back to last week though. 

With a kick in my step & a tear in my eye I kissed Ben, Rianan, Jack, Blake & Will good bye, squeezing little bodies tight enough to last us all until Friday afternoon, before driving Clay & I back home to our quiet, empty house.

I had planned to sap every last minute out of my {mostly} minion free days. The to-do list was nearly as long enough to rival our weekly shopping list. Furniture to sand back & re-paint, toy rooms to set up & bedrooms to change around, endless uninterrupted hours curled up on the couch reading with a hot chocolate in hand, walk in robes to de-clutter & drawers to sort through, cafes to visit & movies to watch during the day.

So what did I do with my first three hours? Be prepared to be vastly disappointed...

Dishes & Facebook.

What is wrong with me. 

Without my little anchors I was lost. Adrift in the sea of freedom. 

Even Clay was misplaced by the stillness of quiet & solitude. No brothers around building wooden block towers for Clay to swipe with his chubby little hands & his doting sister no where to be found despite how extensive he searched & how loud he tried to call out. The one on one time with Clay was precious, but it was not the same playing peek a boo with just Mummy. Kisses goodnight for only two people instead of making our way around the couches to receive seven goodnight kisses. There was no one to chase around the house or to laugh when he flashed his cheeky, toothy grin.

But oh my, the house stayed clean. No need to enter the laundry or hear the chiming end to another load of washing. The dishwasher was run only once.  The broom stood idle & the vacuum gathered cobwebs & dust instead of sucking them up. The mop even had a chance to dry before the next use.

When Doug came home from work we were able to carry through uninterrupted conversations. This is unheard of. We went out to dinner {with Clay} two nights in a row. Two nights. Consecutively. 

Friday morning Clay & I didn't get out of bed until ten in the morning. While it didn't erase the duffel bags under my eyes, rolling out of bed when the sun was already high & shining bright certainly felt luxurious & indulgent.

The old buffet cabinet I planned to re paint is still sitting in the shed awaiting it's restoration, there were no barista made latte's, bedroom doors remained tightly shut, walk in robes looked exactly the same as they had Wednesday morning & no movies were watched, day or night.

However I did manage a few uninterrupted hours of reading before the change of pace kicked back into V8 Supercar speed.

It seems forty eight hours wasn't long enough. Then again, maybe it was. Our lives were never meant to be that quiet.

NaBloPoMo status failed

November saw me committing to posting every day over here at HomM. Over on the right hand side in the blog archives, under November there should be (30) right next to it. I'm only seeing (7). 

Fail.

When I signed up for NaBloPoMo  {National Blog Promotion Month} I thought it would be, well not easy, though maybe not as hard as folding the washing. Folding washing is a tortuous task. As far as I'm concerned it sucks hairy dogs balls. I'd rather clean windows. Hang on, that's not true, especially if you could see the present state of our windows & the height of our clean washing piles. 

I have a better analogy, I figured blogging everyday would be like cooking everyday. While it has to be done, some days you can choose to cook up a three ingredient spaghetti bolognaise (thank you Dolmio jar sauce) other days may find you serving up a roast pork with crackling, golden roast potatoes & crispy edged pumpkin, honey drizzled carrots, peas & beans tossed through melted garlic butter. With sticky date muffins topped with warm caramel sauce to pop that last button on your jeans.

For each day of November I planned to have proper posts where I would ramble about whatever hot topic was going viral, or about our minions as they are a constant source of inspiration & daily exasperation. A full roast dinner affair. Then those 'full bellied posts' would be interspersed with 'photo a day' snippets, or a recipe for muffins & cookies that find their way from the cooling racks to mere crumbs in ten minutes flat. Two minutes if I'm not watching those sneaky little hands. These would have been the 'three ingredient posts'.  

Then life happened & procrastination bit me on the arse, pigs might fly moments of rest found me on the couch instead of at the computer. Plus the kids needed to be fed fifty thousand times a day - not kidding. Doug expected to be able to wear clean clothes & I got sick of stepping on dirt & grit. Our exciting, riveting lives carried on full steam ahead NaBloPoMo or not. 

Unfulfilled plans & fabulous unexecuted ideas are no stranger to me. Failing to deliver on the daily blogging front is not even close to the first time I've planned to do something that never happens. It also will not be the last. The only times I planned to do something & actually followed through, without fail or procrastination, was giving birth to our six little squawkers. Not that there was any choice.

On the fridge there are three To-Do lists - one for the immediate do today/tomorrow, another is the must-get-done-soon cleaning/organising/decluttering list, the last is projects/plans I want to do when I get a spare day or two. You know, sometime before the year 2024. Midnight is also a popular time for inspiration to hit. I'll lie there thinking of everything I want to get done the next morning, freeing me up for the rest of the day - all in between school drop offs & picks ups, cutting crusts of sandwiches for three year olds, slicing fruit into baby friendly fingers, stepping on toys, picking up toys, putting away toys, loading the washing machine, turning on the dryer, mopping little boy urine up off the toilet floor, de-fusing toddler tantrums...where was I? Oh that's right, mentally composing a get-your-shit-together-in-the-morning list at midnight. Then 7am rolls around, & I roll over in bed wishing the kids didn't have to go to school so I didn't have to get up. That midnight inspiration flies out the window at the hands of 9am's procrastination. 

It seems when I decide to commit to something habits from my high school days suddenly plague me, many a night before an essay was due would find me furiously scribbling away trying to make hasty indecipherable notes transform into a 1000 word essay. If there is a deadline sudden onset of last minute-itis & procrastination fever would always strike...oh look a diary filled with poems & frivolous, fleeting declarations of love from 1998, let's waste five hours pouring over every page. 

As for unexecuted ideas, well there is an outfit of a creamy beige dress with purple tights that has never been worn. Though perhaps that is for the better. In store it seemed amuhzing however after getting home it seemed my enthusiasm had been left behind on the change room floor. Unless you count that in store try on, it has never been worn. I blame that purchase on those crazy post natal hormones & the fact my fashion choices were no longer dictated by the beach ball impersonating abdomen I had been sporting two months earlier. 

The list of fruitless intentions is long - 
- Packets of hair rollers used once in an unsuccessful attempt to create voluptuous waves.
- Untouched circular knitting needles & balls of wool to make beanies. Along with several patterns bookmarked or Pinterested. Because it seems easier to relearn how to knit a beanie on circular needles than to quickly crochet another one. Totally makes sense.
- While we're on the topic of Pinterest, my crafty/foodie/kids activities/decorating inspiration folders are bursting with tutorials & recipes I whole heartedly intend to use one day in the near future. Just like the other millions of time poor, inspiration rich Pinterest followers.
- Bottles of japanese rice wine, boxes of pastry mix, packets of lentils & split peas going dusty & out of date in the pantry from a recipe never cooked.   
- Old glassless photo frames sitting behind a cabinet, waiting for the day I wipe them down, paint them pretty & hang them up in an abstract yet totally pulled together look. {That I can never seem to quite pull together on the wall the way I saw in my mind or in someone else's house.}
- A $140 hair curling device I purchased after reading raving reviews, I have only used twice. Because when it comes down to sleep or pretty hair the sleep will win. Every. Single. Time.
     
Seriously I could go on. We're all the same though. There are so many 'things' we want to do - house projects to start or complete, recipes to try, places to see one day both near & far, Christmas shopping to do, friends to catch up with before another year is celebrated out with the new one cheered in. 

I'm not sorry I couldn't keep up with everyone else participating in thirty days of blogging, one month soon I'll commit again with the hopes of being able to stick to it. Maybe I'll be successful next time & you'll get the roast dinner posts along with the simpler posts of photos & food in between. 

Oh, & if the mention of those delicious sticky date muffins had your stomach growling & your taste buds craving that caramel gooey goodness, I promise I'll put the recipe up this week. Pinky promise.

 Then again life may happen.

Post script from Doug, when informed of my intentions to blog every day during November "if you planned to blog everyday we would have all starved to death & I would have been wearing the same undies for ten days straight. I'm glad you didn't."

Well, I didn't think it would have been that bad. Ben knows how to make toast & macaroni.

A moment...Interrupted

After school, once everyone is inside, food has been devoured at an alarming rate, bags have been unpacked & the kids have all excitedly given me a blow by blow account of their school lunch time, I sit down with a coffee & have fifteen minutes of down time. A blast of energy to get me through the next few hours, a subconscious perk.

A moment to press pause, a few minutes to breathe, stop spreading myself rice paper thin between six minions all immediately needing me switched on & present. 

A moment that did not happen easily yesterday.

The kettle was boiled, my mug was ready...& waiting. 

Waiting. 

Waiting.

I guess the first delay was my own doing - I heard the washing machine finish the current load, so I pulled out the two light blankets & set them up on the indoor airer by the window. Inadvertently making an instant cubby house.

Bringing us to the next setback. Once the boys saw their new fortress immediately beds were stripped down to their sheets & four monkeys were haphazardly throwing & placing with precision - depending on their age & reach, blankets, throws, sheets, even a pillowcase was spotted in the mix. Depending on who you asked, the corner of our dining area was now a castle/bunker/spy base/dinosaur.

After successfully ensuring every slither of daylight was blocked without the entire structure collapsing, Clay, who had been happily bashing a Xylophone on his mat nearby, decided it was his turn to waylay any movements made towards the kettle & became cranky. Screaming, wriggling, pinching, grabby hands cranky. So he was bundled up & off to bed he went. 

Back in the kitchen & waiting for the kettle to boil, the remaining five minions descend upon the kitchen like a pack of vultures, taking up floor space looking for something else to eat. During the process of rectifying their pleas of starvation, I notice a spot of mold on the loaf of bread only bought the night before. Out of the four loaves bought not twenty fours ago - one of which is two thirds gone from lunch time earlier, two of them have mold on the first crust. Instantly nausea floods me. I imagine the entire family coming down with food poisoning & immediately begin mentally calculating how many towels & spew bowls we have. I also resolve to go back to baking our own bread. Then we know exactly how fresh it is.  

This drama eats up a further seven minutes. 

Still in the kitchen & just about ready to re boil the kettle I notice Blake has taken his boots off...& emptied half the sandpit from kindy in the middle of the living area. Dammit. I debate whether to sweep it up immediately or can it wait until after my coffee. How urgent is my need to just sit in {relative} peace compared with how much I hate stepping on sand with bare feet & the way it manages to spread everywhere. Like playdough - once you have it in the house you will never get rid of it. In the end my desire not to have sand grit spread through every square inch wins out. Then my neurotic tendencies kick in compelling me to quickly vacuum the whole house too. Fyi I'm blaming the lack of caffeine for the idiotic idea. You all remember the last time I decided to vacuum the house quickly at an inconvenient time. Notably there were no phone calls made or received this time.

Of course it was a Murphy's Law kind of afternoon, because Clay woke up after only thirty minutes. Possibly because of the vacuum. Possibly because babies seem to have an innate sense when Mum is about to do anything that begins with R - repose, recline, rest...relax. Never!

By now it's fast approaching five o'clock. My coffee mug has been sitting, un-touched, for nearly an hour. But I'm determined to get even ten minutes of bubble time*. It's not about the caffeine hit - any hot beverage will do. It's about the suspension of time where there are minimal demands, I can stop spinning in one hundred different directions. Just chill.

Within a few minutes of packing away the sand sucker I spot another miniature sand castle. Stuff it, I think to myself as I flick the kettle back on again, it can stay there for ten minutes. Then I see the boys going up & down the hallway & my despise for feeling gritty sand under my feet wins out. 

Sand gone, kettle on.

Just as I'm about to pour in the hot water, the phone starts to ring. You are kidding me. 
The Gods of NesCafe must be feeling gracious, because it's Doug letting me know he is going to be home a little late - which buys me another half hour before I have to get serious about cooking dinner. Thank you very much. I may just get this cup of hot bliss after all.

Finally the chaos storm seems to have passed & I get to sit my tush down with a hot mug full of all things good. For nearly five whole minutes no one approaches me, no calls of "Muuuuuummmmmm". No shrieking, no pestering, no superhero games that got a little carried away. I lose myself, flicking through Facebook, quietly sipping my much anticipated cuppa. It was all to brief, but it was enough.

It was everything I was hanging for, all that much sweeter for the constant delays that lead up to that precious escape. 

All I wanted was my moment of solitude in the frenzy. Life is cray cray. You take your moments when you can get them. Even if I've got to be as stubborn as getting vomit smell out of a car.


*Bubble time - A brief moment in time where I can sit, mostly minion free, & somewhat shut out the world around me. It feels like a hiatus in time, a moment of respite - without the respite.

Troublesome tresses

At some point point in our life I think we've all experienced a horror hair cut. A tale to tell from the tress tamers. I think I can tick the boxes for just about every hair disaster. Dodgy color jobs, perms that look nothing like I hoped (more than once. I've learnt my lesson now. My hair does not do permanent curls. Or if it does hold the curl I look like a poodle hitting the 80's flashbacks hard), fringes too short, home trims, tresses tangled in styling devices, a styled cut left faaaar to long between upkeep cuts. I think the only box left unchecked is searing my hair off, Literally. (ff to 1:05). 

Several years ago I wiped the slate clean. Literally. I crossed off a 'to do' on the bucket list & shaved my head to raise money for cancer research. 

Since then I have not let a dye or a strand altering chemical within fifty yards. I have also been on a mission to have long hair again. Mission accomplished. I'm not rivaling Rapunzel, but my hair is still short enough that I don't sit on it, but long enough to get tangled up in my bra strap hooks every morning.

It's almost a waste though, because my signature look, & I use that term loosely (more appropriately lazy look) is rolling the mane up in a top bun. Messy if I can pull it off. Whenever I try to do the effortless just flipped my head upside down & 'ta-da' instant gorgeous, chic, messy bun it never, ever looks effortless. It looks like a flock of birds have made a nest on top of my head. So I spend time {I don't have} every morning trying to get it to look semi presentable - if I can reach somewhere between birds nesting & ballerina-bun-face-lift look then I call it safe for public viewing.

If it was four inches shorter (this is a PG rated blog so pick up your minds from that gutter you're rolling in) it may be more manageable but I refuse to cut it. It takes F.O.R.E.V.E.R for my hair to grow, except when I'm pregnant & temporarily turns into Cousin Its', well, cousin. After having no more than 3mm of hair, seven years & three pregnancies later the ample length is back (minds people, pick 'em up) & due for a cut, desperately. The problem, besides having six children that I do not want to take with me so time needs to be juggled precariously. Also, going to the hairdressers for a trim inspires anxiety of epic portions. Watching those scissor wielding, chatty, distracted, snippy hands come closer & closer to my hard won for coiffure & I'm sweating

We all know "just take a centimeter or two off the ends please" is hairdresser speak for hack it all off.  

Lacking the aplomb to bring sharp devices within fifty yards of my person, a top bun works just fine. It also keeps my hair off the dirty plates as I load them into the dishwasher, out of the urine being emptied from Will's potty into the toilet, getting yanked as it gets stuck under my arm or giving myself whip lash whenever I go to turn my head whilst driving. Who else has long hair with a mind of it's own? Tell me I'm not the only one with tomato sauce tainted, urine soaked tresses?

Despite the hassles long hair can bring (because the ick factor of dipping your ends in urine is higher than a sky scraper), regardless that less than half my hair sees the light of day trapped on the top of my noggin, or that my arms fall off whenever I blow dry, straighten or try to get some curls to hold, I refuse to cut it. 

Since seeing the shocking split ends earlier this week, the time has come to find some of that courage that has seen me through six labor's & births & prioritize some time without the minions to get myself within the presence of a scissor wielding, instruction following hair dresser. I'm hoping that getting this all out there is the motivating force I need.

If I have not reported back sans split ends before the first sunrise of 2015, you have permission to inundate me with images of the most heinous & horrifying hair styles you can find.