The dirty, smelly truth

I find it difficult to form the words that adequately define the smell that accompanies boys. This is something that all mothers with sons can attest to. Waking my boys up is usually a ritual of throwing open any window available, holding your breath until you’re almost at passing out point and even then it takes about 10minutes before it starts smelling like less of a fucking bio-hazard scene. 

I am severely outnumbered. Four to one … that’s some fucked up odds. What it comes down to is that having the toilet seat down is a unimaginable sight. Like getting to see a unicorn in it’s natural habitat, unimaginable . Knowing that if we were to put this to a vote, I’d lose, makes it a little pointless to bitch about taking a midnight dive, ass first, in your own piss.

The reality of having men of all ages and sizes in your house is that it’s a smelly business. Ajay (my four year old) literally pulls his fingers to fart. Xander (my nine year old) keeps his farts in until we get in the car. Then he lets them loose and some days it’s so bad I feel like I’m about to vomit after practically tasting his second hand dinner. 

Once I am accustomed to the smells,  there’s the mess. For some reason the male species has been ill-advised in the general purposes of most household items. For example, pissing in the toilet is optional.. clothing is merely to semi-cover the weird spots but it should under no circumstances fit. Mom’s toothbrush is like a young gay ass in prison’s general population … open to use by any one.  Farting on your brother’s pillow is as manditory as a pillow case. Clothing is meant to be everywhere, from the chairs, to the darkest parts of the unmade beds. From the tops of doors to the bathroom floors..and my personal favorite the corner BEHIND the washing basket. 

I swear if you were to ask my kids (all four of them) if they believed in fairies they would unanimously agree that they do. They believe they live in a house were clothing just magically picks itself up from every fucking corner of the house, decides that it’s in the mood for a bath and a tan in the sun and a folded up nap in the closets. The dishes go on spa trips to the magical land of Samsung and the mop is an enchanted flying machine that mom sometimes uses to fly to her friends, but mostly it lives for eating their spills. We even have magical carpets and countertops that has all filth dissappear during the night. 

I often wish I was a man. 

But then there are these fleeting moments that makes picking up 50 shades of underware worth it. Things like the coffie that Xander so dutifully brings me every morning. Or the compliments Ajay sneaks in when he is knee deep in shit. Or that adorable smile Oscar smiles after he has kept me awake most of the night. Loving your kids.. it’s instinctive. I might not like them all the time but my heart grows more with love every day. 

I have been blessed not only with three beautiful healthy boys but with three clean canvases to create and shape the better generation of men. 

I might not often remember this.. but I am thankful for the life I’ve been granted.

6 0’clock eat in 15 minutes pasta.

Here we go:

Step 1: open fridge and retrieve a chilled Castle Lite

Step 2: boil kettle

Step 3: add mince to blazing hot pan and season with salt and robertson’s chicken spice (also available in bbq and mince flavour, but making due with what I’ve got)

Step 4: add boiled water to pot

Step 5: DON’T LET THE MINCE BURN TO SOMETHING RESEMBLING DRYWOOD

Step 6: when water is seriously bubbly… like the foam in your bear add salt and little bit of oil. Then add the pasta. Any fucking pasta will do

Step 7: cook pasta till almost soft and chuck away any water left over (if you haven’t burnt it by now)

Step 8: add Ina Paarman’s creamy cheese sauce to mince

Step 9: put it all in one pot. Spoon it about and pretend that you’ve made the sauce yourself.

 

PS: this recipe works brilliantly when your done by the time that your husband gets home so that you can brag with your mad sauce cooking skills. Maybe even get a foot rub out of it … if you’re married to a Martian

Monsters on the go…

Born after the famed moonwalk, I never had the profound honour of hearing those famous first words that Neil Armstrong spoke on the moon … “one small step for man.. one giant leap for mankind”… (speaking under correction and lack of sleep)

But a simple trip to the shop kinda feels like a giant excursion to another shitty planet. Shitty with a capital  WTF!

Feed the baby, force your 9 year old into his shoes (for the 100th time), grab the baby, get him in the car seat… and who in HIS right fucking mind decided that regular scrawny armed mommies need to work on their muscles logging around a ton of car seat?!… strap them in, run back for the diaper bag, because we all know the little monsters time their shit according to our driving schedule, picking up my 4 year old at kindergarten, driving to the shop, waiting calmly for the 78year old to get out of the double parking space that her tiny little Getz took up… and parking.

..

 

And then the real fun kicks in. I’ve seen this thing on pinterest. … yes I’m a pinner… that a parent used this huge bright round sticker, stuck it on her car and renamed it.. the “do not move dot”. So basically each kid has to have their claw on the dot at all times. Makes it look a lot easier when getting out a baby. When looking at this innovative idea, only two things came to mind.

  1. Miss, are you perhaps hiding a dent underneath that dot… because I tried it to and nobody is buying that bullshit
  2. Do you stick super strength velcro to your kids hands before or after you’ve done the same with the dot?

Getting them like tiny little ducks in a row is a cute idea…… but so is climbing mount everest in your bikini.

I have to force my boys to hold each others hands while getting my baby out of the seat. Even then it’s a constant “get out of the fucking road, you don’t know if that idiot can see you”!

Then there’s the trollies. … or as my four year old (Ajay) so lovingly named them… tollie… (as in the male version of a brain) that has one chair created for the world’s smallest infant, and a partition for all the shit you need to buy.. which instinctively becomes the joy ride of the other two.

It blows my mind how my husband only end up buying the stuff on the list. ALWAYS! Like that’s his super power.. well that and burping the ABC’s.

I go for dishwashing tablets and pasta and end up blowing a weeks budget on things I’m sort of, kind of, maybe running low on.. and candy… and wine…

Not to trash any super market or anything but could you please … for the love of all things holy… STOP MAKING YOUR MARKETING TOYS! From angry birds to little shop to animals…. SPEND R150.00 ONLY AND GET ONE TOY ONLY AND YOU’LL SEE REAL FUCKING ANIMALS! And picking up your silly little sales pitch everywhere in every room available in my entire fucking house is forcing me to seriously consider torching the place! But thanks ’cause all I’ve ever wanted as a little girl was a tiny little milk jug to shove up my dogs ass! Newsflash! Every one still needs to eat and shit, if you want more parents to shop at your store instead of the competition. …. hand out free shots! Include a nanny! Valet a fucking car!

Anyway, I bought myself a chocolate (aka the 5 seconds of utter joy in my life), stuffed it in my mouth before the kids can finish theirs and look at me with those beedy little feed me eyes and like a good wife, hid hubbies candy in the fridge…. if he doesn’t find it in 10 hours It’s open season.

I’m cooking pasta tonight and I will gladly share my recipe in my next post.

DIY guide to not end up in the nuthouse

Let me start of with saying that I may not be completely sain… I might be thinking that I am completely sain until the point that I get shipped of to a padded white room. Granted, listening to the war that’s curently raging in the kitchen about a leapard print cup, the nuthouse sounds like an awesome get away….

 

 

Welcome to the nuthouse Mrs Smit. Here’s your room. As you can see it’s covered in white because we know that the last time you owned anything white was on your wedding day. As an added bonus we have a lovely view of absolutely no mess. We promise to keep you medicated to the point of passing out, we’ll feed you (for a change), and restrict all visits from your loved ones (aka the offspring)… fuck, if that doesn’t sound beter than a paid trip to Mauritius then thank the holy spirit we are not friends.

 

 

Don’t get me wrong. I love the boys. But sometimes I can’t help but think… Ciska you fucking idiot. Kids will probably outlive you, get a fucking dog!

 

… (there goes the leapard print cup, followed shortly by the “you broke my favorite cup” ((that has been hidden in a cupboard for roughly 5months and no one even noticed)),  and the “it was mine since I was a baby”….. and all I can think is that someone better be cleaning that shit or I might need to go nuclear on their asses)…

 

Well I’m still in my PJ’s, wishing I had some coffie and watching the time knowing that we will be late for school, again. After many wine induced conversations with my friends I’ve decided to start this blog..

 

Parenting is the hardest job in the entire world. It’s messy, it’s noisy, it’s all consuming and for some reason every one is so shit scared to be judged that no one is honest about the struggles we all face. It’s time to lay it all out. To show up.. tits hanging out and ready to stand up for your self. To say it as it is and screw the stupid lady next door. To call out the bitch that destroyed your husband from ever being emotional. To be brave. To admit that you loose a battle with a four year old more often than you whipe your ass after mexican food. To be silly, crazy, emtional.To be at fault. To be real… to be mom.