6 months

My little boy is 6 months old today. SIX MONTHS! Half of an Earth year! Wow!

People say it goes fast and it really does, but at the same time it’s like I can’t remember him not being around.

He seems so much younger than his sister was at the same age. He still barely eats people food but that’s really my own laziness and apathy towards creating yet another fucking mess.

He still very much does not sleep through the night. I couldn’t tell you how often he wakes because honestly I don’t know. We cosleep for my own convenience but also because we live in a house design for a single man and his pet budgie.

He kinda sits. He’s more likely to cry than roll. The main thing I’m chuffed about in getting to the 6 month milestone is breastfeeding.


I didn’t think we’d get this far. I set myself the optimistic  goal of 6 months without really believing I could do it. But I have, and I can’t imagine doing it any other way. I can honestly see myself doing extended feeding because it seems like my parenting style has gone from “sometimes I care” to “if it’s not broken I ain’t fixing it”.

I find it so easy. I have tons of milk and Hamish is a good feeder. I pop boobs wherever we go without having to consider crap like formula and bottles. I know he comfort feeds but this kid won’t take a dummy. I’m his mum. I should comfort him.

With Eliza it scared me to be her only source of nourishment. I hated being the only one who could calm her. With Hamish I feel needed and it doesn’t break me. I kinda like it.

A year from now I’ll be writing a post begging for help to wean the little shit but for now I am content with my little Gryffindor.


Still can’t believe I was scared I couldn’t love a boy. The genders of my kids are so irrelevant.


I Have A Joke

What’s pink and blue and sore all over?

My nipples.

This morning at around 2am I was yelling at Hamish. I was told that if you yell at them it scares them and they stop biting. Not this psycho. To be fair, it must be pretty funny to hear your mum simultaneously trying to scold you without engaging with you enough to wake you up. Fucking paradox. Hilarious.

This morning at 5am I was smacking a baby. Through a blanket and a nappy  and it was half hearted, so I honestly don’t even feel bad. I feel like I might have had an emotional breakdown if he  was my first but I don’t care. I don’t know what my plan was exactly. I think I just wanted to shock him out of the death grip he had on my well used nipples. Maybe give him a taste of his own abusive medicine. He liked it. You’d think I’d said something real funny. Maybe I did. Maybe “oh, my god, Hamish. Fucking stop.” Is the funniest thing there is?

This morning at 6am I was seriously thinking about punching a 5 month old. In the face. I wanted to punch a baby. In the face. It was a real thought that went into my head. I’d like to say I stopped thinking it immediately but I’d be lying. I wanted to punch his little button nose for a good 10 minutes.

I’ve heard old people suggest flicking their nose and I wanted to go one better to ensure this shit stops immediately.

I stopped thinking it when I told my husband and he laughed. The cackling of reason. The chuckle of no lady.

So without physical or emotional violence I’m stuck with the option of weaning and I honestly don’t have the energy. Mouth guard? Nipple guard? Send him off to be raised with the wolves where he clearly belongs because he is a vicious fucking creature?

All viable options to be considered as my caffeine consumption accumulates through the day. I’ll let you know.

posted on the go; ignore mistakes

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.

posted on the go; ignore mistakes

Dear Delivery Man,

If you thought you were met with a blank stare this morning, it’s because I was trying really hard not to cry.

In the beginning, you knocked. It was an eager, insistent kind of knocking. The aggressiveness was always enough to make me jump.

Very quickly, knocking didn’t satisfy you. You discovered our doorbell. I don’t know if you know how a doorbell works, but generally, one push will do it. Several bursts is too much, even for a button happy toddler.

Also, you should never combine knocking and the doorbell. There is no reason.

Today you have sinned beyond that.

Not only did you knock on my door like you were trying to break it. Not only did you finger my doorbell like you were trying to satisfy it.

You frantically started yelling “IS ANYONE THERE?!”

I just don’t know if I can continue this relationship, delivery man. The urgency in your voice convinced me that it had to be more important than a parcel. I thought it must be the police, coming to evacuate us because of the incoming zombie apocalypse.

With a now screaming newborn I bolted down the stairs. I barely managed to put my boobs away.

So if you thought I was less than pleased by seeing you this morning, that’s because I was trying to bring my keyboard warriorism into real life. I was trying to find the confidence to tell you that your job isn’t so important that you need to molest my mornings the way you do.

Hell, even if you delivered organs you’d be too keen!

Cease. Desist. Or I might end up crying at you and you’ll feel really bad.


Day 5

I’m so glad to be part of this generation. Late night feedings would be a bitch if we didn’t have a giant tv which hooks up to a specially made computer, which has a VPN so that we can connect via an American IP, so that I can binge watch Gilmore Girls on Netflix.

I’m also thankful that I can tell a bunch of ladies in a similar situation about this via my smartphone.

I mean really, what the hell did my mum do? Watch infomercials?