Realistic Toddler Craft Roadtest – Cloud Dough

So today we made a mistake cloud dough.

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My understanding of the recipe that I neglected to check before starting was half corn flour, half shaving cream. Easy. Ease of recipe is a sure way to get me to try shit. Those proportions  produced this crumbling mess but I kept at it. We added hands in the hope that it might be better than the spoon.

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???

Nope

What would you do? Me, I’d say fuck it and empty in a can.

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This is absolutely nothing like a cloud. This should be renamed solid clag dough to redistribute people’s very excited expectations. It was thick and gross and I’m thinking fuck me I don’t want this shit to exist let alone be in my washing machine.

We did have fun in the end. It was shit and absolutely nothing like I expected but it kept a 2 year old and a 25 year old entertained for a good hour.

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It was really annoying to keep having to wipe my hands so that I could take pictures. And my kid doesn’t even smile. Too busy.

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Mish got involved without really wanting to. (Without me really wanting him to.

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The best part, really, was the clean up.

So was it worth it? Probably. If only because it kept us busy for a whole morning. Would I do it again? Probably not. It was nothing like I expected and wasn’t really all that fun for Eliza. I mean she played with it but she would have played with shaving cream and corn flour separately and would have made less of a mess while having the same amount of fun.

Was it worth getting it on my Bugaboo pram and Chuck and Taz liner? Nah.

2/5 stars. Would recommend to dickheads that I hate.

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The Day My Son Almost Killed Me

Hamish is teething, and Hamish bites. As in bites my nipples when I feed him. If you don’t know what that feels like, have someone bite your nipple. Someone without morals or comprehension of what is and is not appropriate.

Go now. I’ll wait.

Anyway, being the multitasking mum that I am, I was feeding Hamish while getting ready to go out this morning. I used to dream of the day Eliza would have enough hair to put in a ponytail. Now it’s a pain and a chore. Something seemingly frivolous, but she looks like a homeless orphan when it’s down.

So I’m feeding Hamish while brushing Eliza’s hair and I have a hair tie between my teeth. One of those plastic rubbery ones which, in hindsight, is just a bad idea.

Hamish bites me. Sharp intake of breath. Rubber band in my throat.

Gag. Panic. Choke.

Long story short I almost died and Eliza is getting new hair ties.

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New Years Resolution

I made a new years resolution this year, which is stupid, but I did it with the full knowledge that no one ever keeps new years resolutions.

Here I am, a living fucking statistic.

My resolution was to create. Simply that. I used to paint and draw and make every day, but not since having kids.

I’m the kind of person who can’t create in a dirty space. So I have to clean up first. By the time I’ve done that, I’m either filling children requests or making just feels like work because I’ll only have to clean up again after.

Reading books makes me simultaneously happy and sad. I’m happy because I feel like I’m expanding my world and knowledge, but sad because people my age are creating on a deeper and more successful level.

It’s the 14th of January. I’m 25 years old. There’s still time.

My mantra: there’s still time  (to be Lena Dunham)

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Dear Obama,

Or any other nominated person in charge.

First of all, how dare you. I thought you people were supposed to fix things. If that were the case, I wouldn’t be laying here, close to death, trying my very best not to hack up a lung onto my newborn son.

How dare you not think this is the most important issue on your list of agendas.

How is it still legal to be sick when you are the primary parent of young children?

Fix this immediately or I will not be voting for you to be king of Australia once you’re finished with the USA.

Fuck the reef, buddy, I am dying.

Half-hearted regards,

Maddi

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My Racist Rant

I have a problem with Irish people.

I can’t refuse anything they ask of me. Whether it be money or favours, I’m a quivering school girl with wandering hands and wandering eyes, swooning at the sound of their precious accents.

This regards any Irish person. You could look like the arse end of an African elephant and I’ll still want a piece of you. Ask me for money, it’s yours. Ask me for sexual favours, why not? Just keep talking. Tell me about potatoes.

The real problem is that marketing companies somehow know this and they are using it to their advantage.

You know the people? They stand in the middle of shopping centres and try to sell you crap. How are they ALL Irish? Is there a training program??

Home fruit and veg delivery. Let me tell you, I am a domestic fucking goddess, but I don’t cook. I am so shit when it comes to the time of day when people cook a meal for their family. I’m so done by 5 o’clock. So why would someone like me sign up for home fruit and veg delivery?

Irish man told me to.

Now I’ve got all this rotting produce in my fridge reminding me of what a horrible person I am.

I have a problem with Irish people.

Maternal Instinct

Getting vomited on is the quickest and easiest way to make you lose all maternal instinct.

I was sitting in two lots of big spew, waiting for my husband to get me a towel and to get the culprit off of me.

“Are you okay little buddy?” He cooed at the little chunder machine.

Oh yeah… I thought to myself.  Vomit means they’re sick…

I took it as a personal affront.

Maybe that’s because I only fit into 3 outfits, and his gut juice just gave me more washing to do.

I’ll love him again when we’re both clean.