Ooops - I Did It Again

I want to preface today's confession by making it clear that I love being a parent because my son has taught me to appreciate the beauty in the simple parts of life, because he is a source of endless joy (& seemingly, tanturms!), because playing and being with him is really the most wonderful way to spend a day... yada yada... you get the picture.

I have wanted children for as long as I can remember.
I think childhood is the most magical time and love that we boring big people get to relive it through being with children.

Buuuuut...


I also really like dressing my child.
Always have.
Not the actually act of hanging clothes on a sometimes resistant, squirming, flailing or flat-out-refusing small person.
No. I mean the choosing of clothing.
The coordination of an outfit.
The styling of one's child, if you like!!


Yep. I know it's not an important part of this role I play and that it's a tad superficial and pathetic. That it is vain, unnecessary and a waste of time.
I. Don't. Care.


Ever since I fell pregnant (and before, if I'm truthful)  teeny, tiny clothes have captivated me.
I'm not into designer pretty much anything.
Cute, adorable, funky  -  it doesn't have to come with a breathtaking price tag.
Especially not if cute,adorable and funky will be spending some serious time with messy, creative and dirty.


Magoo has been a gorgeous, mostly compliant little clothes horse since he was born.
(This window of opportunity will surely close one of these days.)
I have loved choosing his outfits with care.
I am no wardrobe nazi though.
Magoo gets to make choices. 
Usually between two hand selected items that will coordinate with the rest of his outfit!!
Jocks and socks don't even escape the meticulous planning and colour coordinating.
Ditching nappies was a joy - because now underwear adds a whole nother element to our outfits!
I'm not kidding.

Hubby is a little frightened to tackle the task of dressing Magoo for fear of disappointment on my part.
I've even taken to laying Magoo's clothes out the night before if I won't be there to dress him.
Anybody say control freak?
In my defence, this has come to pass because I've returned from running group on many a Saturday morning to be greeted by a little man who looks as though someone threw his entire wardrobe at him and went with whatever stuck.


Magoo's grandparents have nicknamed him 'Imelda' thanks to his impressive selection of shoes. I'm sorry, but the shoes maketh the outfit.
Recently, I was filled with pride (or a sick feeling) when Magoo piped up with "look Mummy, your shoes would go with my pants too."
It's safe to say the boys knows his colours (complimentary & contrasting).


All this child styling is a bit of fun (or could go as far as being called a fixation hobby!) until this happens.

Muuum. Not again.
This morning - gym bound.
Blue & white stripes were the order of the day.

I very regularly and COMPLETELY subconsciously dress Magoo and I in similar clothing, styles or colours.
(Family photo shoots excepted. That's deliberate all the way. I have vivd memories of the family pic from my childhood in which my two siblings, my parents and myself all wore a selection of colours, stripes,checks and patterns in the one photo. That pic literally hurts your eyes.)

I have been doing this for almsot three years now.
I wasn't even aware of my unfortunate 'habit' until Hubby brought it to my attention a couple of months into this Mummy thing.

Magoo and I have had matching red tracksuit days, denim & colour combos, similar printed tees, complimentary hoodies and jackets, colour coordinated bathers and even strangely similar shoes!

I'm abhorred by those child beauty pageants and the botox Mum had me fuming -
but I'm definitely guilty of a little 'child jooshing' myself.

Anyone else get a kick out of playing dress ups with a real, live doll?

Just me, then?
Ok.

Shar :-)

The Colours of Today

Flourescent green
- the colour of those little numbers confirming that Hubby is a nut.
4.45am  - just to paddle?!

Grey
- the colour of the ominous clouds rolling in.
Boo hiss.

Pink
- the colour of our cheeks after outwalking those clouds.
Ha!

Purple
- the colour of my newly glamorised eye region.
Beauty product allergy alert!


Yellow
- the colour of eating my weight in cheese with gorgeous girlfriends and our beautiful boys.
Should be a full chapter in my yet to be released 'The Contented Mummy' book.

Blue
- the colour of another secret squirrel purchase for a special Daddy.
Ssssh Magoo.

Black
- the colour of a text message informing me of the committee meeting cancellation tonight.
Woo hoo - Rafters - I'll see you tonight, after all.

Green
- the colour of the gorgeous little peepers that followed my every move during 'rest time'.
"I see woo" too, Magoo!

A smeary version of clear
- the colour of my freshly 'cleaned' windows.
Housewifey fail.

Pumpkin
- the colour of my kitchen thanks to this. 
Housewifey pass with honours. (If I may say so.)

Donna Hay's Roast Pumpkin & Chickpea Soup

 

Hubby's sweet version of Donna Hay's Roast Pumpkin & Chickpea Soup



Magoo likes his with a garnish of cheese - and a spot of karaoke

White
- the colour of the wine sipped/slurped with neighbours while our kids played "Mummies & Daddies' in Magoo's bed.
 Parental supervision may have to be stepped up a notch in years to come.
- also the colour of the furniture on the cover of the much coveted Ikea catalogue which arrived today.
I'm getting to you precious little plastic wrapped baby, I am.

Red
- the colour of almost everything for Magoo's fire engine party on the weekend.
Nee-naw. Nee-naw.

A party just waiting to happen

- also the colour of my face while cringing at the X Factor auditions.
Why do their families let them commit social suicide on a national forum??

Gold
- the colour of goodnight snuggles at the end of the rainbow.
Aaaaaahhhh.

Hope you have had a colourful day too.

Shar :-)

Point + Shoot : Bunnings Boys

Sunday  - 12:00pm

A trip to Bunnings is Magoo's idea of bliss - and my idea of a fab family day out.
The little man can spot a Bunnings from miles away and peruses their catalogues for pleasure.

Rocking the Bunnings look

What's not to love?
Lowest prices are just the beginning!
From the cute little trolleys, to the aisles and aisles of handy fare, to the caged fenced playgrounds, to the ready made lunch literally on their doorstep.
 

Hot dog lunch in the back of the ute in a Bunnings carpark.
Does it get any better?

 I'm also a big fan of what usually follows a trip to Bunnings (no, not the credit card statement) - a sunny afternoon working around the garden and spending time as a family.


Yesterday after a gorgeous morning at a birthday party (where Magoo did not, under any circumstances, ride that pony!), we stopped off at the father/son playcentre Bunnings for some much needed beauty products for the garden.

The rest of the afternoon was spent putting our purchases to good use before heading to dinner with friends. The sun did it's beautiful thing while we did ours. Neighbours and friends came by and I snooped at the 'home open' two doors down - in my gardening finest. A Bunning great day, really.

It's always been just a matter of time until I fulfil my life's ambition of appearing on a Bunnings advert. Now I'm one step closer to that green apron. I think I just wrote my poxy script.

Shar :-)

Point + Shoot with Lou over @ Sunny + Scout

Honey Pot

Don't they say 'you catch more flies with honey'?

 Princess Melody from Kinda Dance knows her stuff then.
(Irish friends: this is pronounced kind-aahh dance - rhymes with Linda. Not kind of dance.)
This is the 'moneys overdue' note she sent home in Magoo's daycare bag last week.

It reads:

A Friendly Reminder

Kinda Dance fees for

August

were due today and

I did not receive them.

(sad :-( )

Please can you pay

$17.00

by next week.

Lots of love

Melody

Attached, no less, to a birthday certificate for the soon to be birthday boy.

Nice moves, Princess.
Your approach is far superior to a massive, bald dude with an attitude and a bat at my front door.
The $ are on their merry way through cyber banking space as we speak, or type, or read, or whatever.
Your manners and cuteness are much appreciated young spritely lady with the glittery face.

Princess Melody and her sad faces might make some people want to throw up.
Not I.

In my teaching life, I am a parental suck-up-artist too.
(I said suck-up.)
I write flowery notes in student diaries, smile excessively out the classroom door, go to silly lengths for families and want every single parent to love my arse work.


Actually, in all my other lives I'm a huge sucker too.
(Dangerous ground here!)
You don't get to be secretary-of-almost-everything with a backbone.
I don't do conflict.
(Maybe when I'm a grown up, I'll be better equipped.)
In social terms, I'm as weak as your Nanna's cordial.

I NEVER want to offend people, so I get into some ridiculous situations.

I sprinted with flaming cheeks through a shopping centre recently, pushing a Magoo laden trolley, back to a store as all the shops were closing because I looked into the trolley to see a pair of shoes that a little someone had swiped off the rack. (They were a size too big for me, anyway honey!) 

I nod and give half baked smiles because I don't have the guts or tact to speak my mind effectively.

I have difficulty sending a text without a smile or a kiss.

I put little 'I Love You's in Magoo's lunchbox. 

I accept poor service.

I send emails and write blog posts with disclaimers, in case anyone gets cross. 

I'm a tad hurt by terse messages in my own inbox. By terse I mean no nice, fluffy stuff!

I let people push in.

Asking for money is right up there with dental work.

I appreciate 'pay up' reminders disguised as sweet love notes.

I like you, Princess Melody.
Even if everyone else says you're a giant sparkly suckhole.


Shar :-)

The disclaimer:
I don't make a habit of having outstanding accounts.
If I'm truthful, admitting to having even one has made me feel a little queasy.
We paid for the previous month but were away overseas.
I thought maybe Princess Melody or somebody at the palace might have graciously 'paid it forward' - but obviously not.
In arrears I am was. Ugh.

Grateful For.. Being 'Over The Top'

We're in party prep mode here.

7 days and counting until Magoo's 3rd birthday party.

The boy is obsessed with all things fire engine, so we are too.

For a couple of weeks anyway.

I like to party.
Always have.
The venues, beverages and themes have changed over the years, but the recipe is still the same.
Lots of great friends + copious food/drink + corny touches = a good ol time.
I like to plan parties.
I love me a theme - and boy, do I run with it.

At times, I've been ashamed and almost apologetic of my tendency to go a little overboard, but there are worse ways to offend people. (Surely?!)

I love my little man more than words (or a big ol' party) will ever be able to convey to him.
Hubby and I, we wished, prayed, cried (and paid!) him into being.
If we choose to celebrate the anniversary of the greatest day in our lives with a big bash - so be it. There's plenty of time to be serious, sensible and boring.

I'm grateful for the opportunity to go a little nuts, make a thousand lists and nearly as many invitations, immerse myself in red and yellow, clean myself into a frenzy, play fire Chief for a spell, celebrate my beautiful boy...

Yes, party poopers - if we had more children we may hate throwing parties (doubt it, but!).
Yes, it's an expense/effort that isn't easily justified to some people.
Yes, I may feel more 'over it' rather than 'over the top' in a few years time.

But's let's roll with the punches fire engines for now.

Party on @ Maxabella's place this weekend with Grateful For...


Shar :-)

A Love Letter

To
My most fabulous haridresser
From
Your most appreciative client

My dearest L,

Today, as I sat in the beautiful space that you have created just for us in your new home I was overcome with emotion - and all those gorgeous hair product fumes. I sense we are nearing our five year anniversary and I just wanted to let you know how appreciated you are.

They say that in life a woman should look for someone who makes them feel special and beautiful. Someone that makes them feel good about themselves, who gives them confidence and security. Someone who understands their needs and what makes them truly happy.

You do all of those things for me.

You have stood by me - even when pregnancy and hormones have changed what we have between us. You understand my need to be low maintainence. You know how important my Magoo is to me and are flexible when I have to put him first. You are so easy to be with, really listen and make a sweet cup of tea. Your perfectionism, the way every last little bit has to be just so, it warms my heart.

I look forward to seeing you each time and would be devastated if you cancelled on me. Little tuft like excuses for ponytails would have to be worn. Baby powder would have to be liberally applied and extra make up enlisted. Don't do that to me, will you?
Falling pregnant or taking an extended holiday would also fall into this category of desertion.

Remember when we used to see each other in your parent's laundry while you and M were building your new home? I didn't care. Although the massage chair we have now hasn't gone astray, has it?! We've experimented with styles and pored the gossip mags together. We've tamed a nasty, persistent cow lick and finally decided where my true part is.

I've seen you with other women - your husband warned me about that when he introduced us. I have seen evidence of them in 'our place'. Particularly when you haven't swept the floor properly. But I can understand. You're a find. A class act - and the most fabulous colourist I've ever met.

Eternally yours to cut, colour and blow.
Shar  :-)



Check out little nosy parker
in the bottom corner!


(Names have been supressed by the author purely for selfish and territorial reasons.)

Sssshhh.

Hubby don't read any further please.
Yes, I know you're reading the blog.
At work. :-)

Got a seclet?
Best to keep it to yourself around here.

Lately Hubby has taken to calling Magoo his "little sock monkey". When we were birthday gift shopping the other day, we espyed a cute little sock monkey. With Father's Day looming, said sock monkey now resides in a bag in the nether regions of my wardrobe.

Magoo is such a wonderful secret keeper.
The very evening of our purchase he greeted Hubby at the door with ramblings about "de sock monkey pwesent for woo".

After I closed the door and whisper hissed another reminder that the present was a secret until Daddy's special day, Magoo solemnly agreed and proceeded to tell Hubby all about "de secwet sock monkey" that he's "not going to tell woo".

A couple of years back with Mother's Day impending I made (what I thought was) an over-the-baby's-head remark about really earning those massive diamond flavoured gifts for my special day. A not yet coherent Magoo tugged, grunted, pointed and dragged me to our laundry cupboard, urging me to open it. No prizes for guessing where my (quite honsetly unexpected - but very deserved) Mother's Day gifts were hidden.

The poor little sock monkey can't even play hide and seek without giggling and yelling out "Here I am!!" before I can finish the counting part.

He jumps in the car and immediately tells me the number of "tantums" he's subjected Nanna & Grandad to while I was at work and the (unreasonable) reasons for each one.

Every single person we meet is now invited to blabbermouth Magoo's "sire truck birthday party".
Except "Danel from daycare".
"Danel from daycare" is not a popular man round these parts anymore - and the reason for this is the single untold secret of Magoo's life. All we can extract is that yes "Danel" still goes to daycare but no "Danel not my fwend".
Maybe "Danel" doesn't like people who talk too much!

Unfortunately my son appears to have inherited a genetic condition commonly known as 'big mouth (often with foot in it) syndrome', which I'm fairly confident, came from the 'x' chromosone.

Are you a vault?
Or an open book - with the accompanying CD - like Magoo and I?

Shar :-)

Point + Shoot : Return Run

Point + Shoot : Saturday 6:50am

 This pic was snapped as I pulled up to (re)join

my Saturday morning running group.

Surprisingly, the paps weren't out to document my comeback run,

so I did the honours.

Obviously I'm no Miranda Kerr.

(Or photographer for that matter.)

Plus, I haven't been sidelined by an amazing birth

and even more amazing breastfeeding campaign, have I?

Plus plus, I'm not one thousand times gorgeous.

(Especially before 7am on a Saturday morn.)

Anyway, after a few months of life getting in the way it was just brilliant to be enjoying a social run that involved chatting to someone other than myself.

And so much more interesting!

If you pan right of this photo in your mind's eye you would see about thirty of the most beautiful people, in various states of running attire and wakefulness, chatting, stretching or yawning in anticipation.

It's a privilege to run amongst them.

Maybe Miranda will make it down next week.
Lord knows, she could do with the exercise.

Shar :-)

Come Point + Shoot @ Lou's place - Sunny + Scout.

Handsaw Massacre

I should've known Hubby was in that sort of mood this weekend.
On Friday night I had to convince him not to shave his head to a number one - because it would look like number twos.

Then Saturday the sun shone.
It was glorious. Divine. Euphoric.
But it was also illuminating.
As in - shining light on just how neglected our poor 'great outdoors' were.

I was tempted to ring the bank and complain.
I mean, they own a great proportion of this property and where are they when there's maintainence and gardening to be done?
The only interest they take in their investment is the one debited from our account on a monthly basis.

So, we discussed the day's tasks - pruning, weeding, sweeping...
Then I turned my back to indulge in a little wild laundry action and returned to this :

 

I'm no gardening guru but I'm pretty sure there's an art to pruning.

This isn't indicative of any style I've ever been exposed to.

Hubby likes to title these pieces 'The Bare Essentials'.

I prefer 'What The Hell Have You Done?'

The man went on a rampage. Edward Scissorhands style.
Nothing was safe.
(Slightly reminiscent of me (over) decorating cakes, if I'm honest.)
We provided large cuttings for two different neighbours, a neighbour's friend, Hubby's parents and still filled a trailer to capacity.

I'll be lucky to have survive the weekend without a Sinead O'Connor-esque do myself.

On the upside, Hubby did inadvertently remind me to make that beautician appointment that has been slipping my mind all week.

Shar :-)

Grateful For...Health Wealth

Health is wealth.

This ditty really resonates this month.

Health is wealth.
With my Mum and aunty seriously unwell at the moment and a friend's beautiful, young, vibrant daughter taken far too early by cancer - it rings oh so true.

Health is wealth.
Walk into any children's hospital and ask a parent what they wouldn't give (or haven't already) for their child's life or health.

Health is wealth.
I have seen firsthand the disgrace that is another first world country's health system and I wouldn't want to be depending on it. Yet another reason we are the 'lucky country'.

Health is wealth.
And I'm feeling pretty cashed up right now.

Healthy, 'wealthy' & grateful with Maxabella Loves.
Pop over and enjoy some weekend gratitude.


Shar :-)

Did Not Finish

For every little thing that divides Hubby and I, there are far bigger things that unite us.
Like our common fears.

Apart from the valid ones about our family, Hubby and I both fear the

D.N.F. (Did Not Finish.)

Each year, Hubby competes in the Avon Descent and other paddling/ surf events around the place.
If you do not complete the race due to injury, damage to your craft or just sheer lack of guts, beside your name and race number appears a DNF.
He has never acquired one of these in the years I have known him.
Standing on the side of a river or on a beach finish line, I can absolutely guarantee that if my man started the race he will cross that line.
Sometime today.
If we owned a greater proportion of our home than the bank does, I would happily bet our house on it.

Unlike Hubby, I loathe the DNF in all areas of life, not just my sport.
I can't handle a mental DNF next to my name - even in terms of doing the dishes!
Mental being the operative word here.
I really didn't fancy having to take maternity leave halfway through a school term - a bit too similar to a DNF for my liking.

When it comes to running, I would (stupidly) rather drag my sorry self over the line and pay the physical price than suffer the personal humiliation of a DNF. I can feel my cheeks burning at the thought of it happening. In the lead up to the marathon, the notion plagued me.

On that morning, before I had crossed the start line, let alone the finish line I knew I was, without a doubt, completing a marathon that day.
Stubborn trumps pain. Every time.



Must. Not. Stop.
What's this? Yet another damn marathon reference?!

 This year, I have not entered the Perth City to Surf.
Not so much because I don't believe I'll finish it, but because I wouldn't finish it with pride.
A DNFWP, I guess!

I am running at the moment. I'm loving running at the moment.
But I'm not training.
Q :What sort of 'runner' doesn't run their own city's City To Surf when they're
    perfectly capable of doing so?
A : A runner who's head is not there.
I'm not committed. Not focussed. Not particularly interested.

Right now, I'm running for pleasure.
After all the pressure and intensity of training for the marathon a couple of months ago, I'm hitting the road happily, listening to tunes, accidentally singing out loud and enjoying the feeling. No analysing my run, no setting goals, no overthinking - just running. I've been forgetting to start my lil Baby G. Because my time doesn't matter.

Bewteen our recent travels, getting back on top of work commitments, attending to a neglected homestead, manic birthday party season and pulling my little family back to the happy place we were in six months ago, I've got other priorities right now.

Yes, the sentence above bears a striking resemblance to a list of excuses.
Here's another.

I feel that I've had my quota of 'selfish' time for the year and have been hard core lucky enough to achieve some of my personal goals. It's family time now.

And that's ok.
Mostly.
I will feel a twinge of something on the morning of the City to Surf.

Buuut, I'll run my own run early and be back to take Magoo to a friend's birthday party.
Where I'll try to look ambivelent while trying to gently cajole and coerce him into having a ride on that damn pony they're having!

Shar :-)

Finisher...Finally

Lookey what finally arrived in the mail while I was away...

Please don't squint.

It's my finisher's medal and certificate for completing the Perth Marathon.
Official time - 3hrs 27mins & 40secs.

Is two months after the fact a bit late to be wearing my medal -
down the shops, to playgroup, up to school, out for dinner???

Is there an expiry date on achievement pride?

I think so.

Three days post event - max.

I'll just have to be content showing it off here and now.

Shar :-)

They're Watching

Boy, do I  have some flaws and bad habits.
Too numerous (and downright boring) to list here.
Some of my downfalls don't bother me and others I'm acutely aware of.
Most wouldn't matter or even register -
were it not for the prying eyes of children!!

Once I began my teaching degree and practices, the reality of being a 'role model' sank in.
Language to be watched, enunciated and filtered.
Values to be upheld in actual real life not just lip service.
Legs to shave before mat time.

Now as a part time teacher and full time parent the pressure is near overwhelming.
My child keeps me accountable.
These kids  - they have b.s. detectors and moral meters built in, they revere us mere mortal Mummies and they're on the ball.
Magoo makes me live up to the (often unrealistic) expectations I have of him.

Raising an all seeing, all questioning, sometimes tantruming toddler...

I wash my hands more regularly than ever before in my life.
I cowardly hide behind the pantry door sneaking a forbidden snack before dinner.
I drink cordial/Diet Coke from an opaque mug like an addict to avoid detection. It's my brown paper bag.
I get the 'swear guilts' on a regular basis.
I fasten my seatbelt every. single. time. And mentally repeat the randomly acquired 'fact' that a high proportion of accidents occur within 10km of home!
I tut tut at inappropriate morning radio in the car and switch to the Christian channel.
I try really hard not to use my phone in the car. Hey, the intention's there.
I don't speed or tailgate as much and shake my head at those who do.
I bite my tongue and count backwards from 10 more than I'd like to admit.
I save particular phone conversations for nap time.
I express my surprise, disappontment or frustration with an array of interesting adjectives to avoid the obvious ones.
I censor television content and avoid most of it.
I am far more sensitive to violence - and rudeness.
I am the manners police.
I share my stuff far more than I want to.
I put coins in donation tins.
I judge and label less - verbally anyway.
I send myself to my room.

How about you? Can you feel their eyes on you?

Shar :-)

C c c...calories

Excuse me, Irish confectioners.

I love a Kit Kat treat.

In my opinion, it's the perfect combination of tastes and textures.

When I decide to indulge in a Kit Kat treat (or ten) I don't want to be confonted by the  c word -  'calories'.

Even if the intention is to amaze me with how few calories are to be consumed in such yumminess -  I don't want to see the word 'calories'.

It took me a good number of years to erase the entire contents of 'The Calorie Counter' which was the bible I lived by
(or existed by, 'cause that ain't living)
for a couple of years there.

I'm all for the nutritional value of a product being explicit
but the calorie content on the front of every piece in a share pack?

Imagine a world where everything you put into your mouth was labelled with it's caloric value (totally made up term)?

No thank you very much.

Sometimes ignorance is bliss.

(In moderation though.
10 x 107 = 1070
and my long term memory is sending me a signal that can't be good.)

Shar :-)

Point + Shoot : Weekend Wind Up



Saturday 12:00pm

 Our weekend flew by in a whirl of -

Running my local beaten tracks again.

"Samily walks" (in Magoo speak).


Getting reacquainted with Mr Dyson, my vacuum inspiration.
After our seperation it was lovely (and oh so necessary) to spend some quality time together over the weekend.


A couple of hours of honest-to-goodness sunshine.
Warm enough to kiss the skin and give me a taste of what's to come.

A home picnic in the sun - because we could.

We can't make hay when it shines round these parts, but we can bask in it.

Baking perfectly good cupcakes and ruining them with ridiculous decorating.

(Why can't I just leave well enough alone?! I do it every time.)

Having friends (aka the family we choose) to eat, drink and play each afternoon away.

Some much needed snooze time.

A slooow Sunday breakfast over the previous day's papers.

Birthday party planning and shopping.
("Sire truck" planning, in Magoo speak.
 'F' sounds are a problem obviously. At least it keeps his language clean!)

Sunday sish and chips & a bubbly treat or two or three.

How was your weekend?

Shar :-)

Come Point + Shoot with Lou @ Sunny + Scout

Mum on the Run - Merchandising

My uber talented all singing, all dancing, all dramatics, karaoke queen sister - she dreams of her name up in lights one day.

(I just wish she'd hurry up 'cause with each passing year

the notion of me pulling off red carpet sister glam @ the Oscars

without surgical intervention is becoming less and less achievable.)

Me?

 Seeing my nerd name printed on the spine of my bound thesis

or on Magoo's birth certificate is as good as it gets.

But this is up there -

Shar ;-)

Grateful For... House Hubby

I flew in on my Emirates broomstick from Ireland on Wednesday.
Taught 32 very kind young souls Thursday and Friday.
(They didn't mention my excess undereye luggage once, bless em.)

I am currently nocturnal - without the sleeping in the day part.
Probably more zombie-like than owl-like, I guess.
[Yes, I do know this is a grateful post. I'm getting to that!]

This evening I came home to this :

Seafood Platter For Two & A Half, anyone?

Hoorah Hubby!
Not at all bad for someone who does. not. do. domesticated.
I have no idea how he knew where to find the platter!

Having a temporary house hubby for three days has meant that I could leave Magoo to catch some much needed morning zzzzzzzs while I headed out to work.
No need to sound the alarm and lovingly push a toddler around the house and out the door to care in the wee hours.
It has also meant a Friday night home cooked seafood platter, thank-you-very-much-if-you-don't mind.

Could you be anything but grateful?

Joining Maxabella in gratitude @ Maxabella Loves


Shar :-)

Mine, Mine, Mine!!!

Today I get to unleash my inner toddler.

After being overseas for a few weeks, as fantastic as those few weeks were... I'm home.

To MY home.
To MY bed (eventually!)
To MY shower, MY towels, MY hairdryer, MY whole wardrobe, MY heater, MY kitchen, MY glass of wine...
MY husband, MY dog.

MINE, MINE, beautiful, comfortable, familiar MINE!!

Don't worry. I'm not all bad ass toddler - I'm more than happy to share.

Oh MY!!

I'll share MY washing, MY unpacking, MY cleaning, MY dishes, MY gardening, MY work prep, MY bills, MY to-do lists with anyone who wants some.

One straight line please, people. Plenty for everyone.

Shar :-)